Ride Armida a quel dir: ma non che cesse Dal vagheggiarsi, o da' suoi bei lavori. Poichè intrecciò le chiome, e che ripresse Con ordin vago i lor las… - Torquato Tasso

L'arte, che tutto fa, nulla si scopre.

And on the flowers
The plenteous spring a thousand streams down pours.

About the hill lay other islands small,
Where other rocks, crags, cliffs, and mountains stood,
The Isles Fortunate these elder time did call,
To which high Heaven they reigned so kind and good,
And of his blessings rich so liberal,
That without tillage earth gives corn for food,
And grapes that swell with sweet and precious wine
There without pruning yields the fertile vine. The olive fat there ever buds and flowers,
The honey-drops from hollow oaks distil,
The falling brook her silver streams downpours
With gentle murmur from their native hill,
The western blast tempereth with dews and showers
The sunny rays, lest heat the blossoms kill,
The fields Elysian, as fond heathen sain,
Were there, where souls of men in bliss remain.