Aminta

I do not, however, come here unarmed,
For this, which appears to be a rod, is my torch.
Thus I have transformed it, and it breathes entirely
With invisible flames; and this dart,
Even though it does not have a golden tip,
Is of divine temper, and imprints love
Wherever it strikes. I wish today with this
To make a deep and incurable wound
In the hard breast of the most cruel Nymph
Who ever followed the Chorus of Diana.
Nor shall the wound of Silvia be less
(For this is the name of the mountain Nymph)
Than that which I myself once made
In the soft breast of Aminta, many years ago now,
When she was tender and he was tender,
And he followed her in the hunts and in the pastimes:
And, so that my blow may strike deeper within her,
I will wait until pity softens
That hard ice, which the rigor of modesty
And of virginal pride has drawn around her heart;
And at that point, when she is softest, I shall launch the dart;
And, to perform such a beautiful work at my great leisure,
I go to mingle among the crowd
Of the festive and garlanded shepherds,
Who have already made their way here, where for sport
They stay during these solemn days, pretending to be
One of their ranks, and in this place