by Anonymous / Unidentified Author
Torna, vezzosa Fillide
Language: Italian (Italiano)
Available translation(s): ENG
Torna, vezzosa Fillide,
al caro tuo pastore;
lungi da tue pupille
pace non trova il cor.
Al caro tuo soggiorno
io sempre volgo il piè
e grido notte e giorno:
Fillide mia dov'è?
Domando a quella sponda:
Fillide mia che fa?
E par che mi risponda:
Piange lontan da te.
Domando a quello rio:
Fillide mia dov'è?
Con rauco mormorio
dice: Piangendo sta.
Il caro tuo sembiante,
fonte d'ogni piacere,
il miro ad ogni istante
impresso nel pensier.
Ma rimirando allora
ch'egli non è con me,
grido piangendo ognora:
Fillide mia dov'e?
Son fatte le mie pene
un tempestoso mare;
non trovo, amato bene,
chi le potrà calmar.
Che fa la morte, oh Dio,
che non mi chiama a sé?
Gridar più non poss'io:
Fillide mia dov'è?
Authorship:
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive):
Available translations, adaptations, and transliterations (if applicable):
- ENG English (Christopher Swanson) , title 1: "Return, charming Fillide", copyright © 2004, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [
Administrator]
This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 32
Word count: 127
Return, charming Fillide
Language: English  after the Italian (Italiano)
Return, charming Fillide,
to your dear shepherd;
Far from your eyes
My heart finds no peace.
To your dear abode
I always turn my steps
And I cry night and day:
Where is my Fillide?
I ask the shore:
What is my Fillide doing?
And it seems to answer:
Weeping far from you!
I ask to river:
Where is my Fillide?
With a hoarse murmur
It says: she is weeping.
Your dear face,
Fountain of every desire,
I see it at every moment
Impressed in my mind.
But seeing more clearly
that it is not with me,
I cry, weeping always:
Where is my Fillide?
I have made in my pain
A tempestuous sea;
I do not find one, beloved,
Who can relieve it.
What is Death doing, God,
That it does not call me?
I cannot cry out any more:
Where is my Fillide?
Authorship:
Based on:
This text was added to the website: 2004-11-16
Line count: 32
Word count: 145