thee unhappy: for when Fortune hath done her worst, then Love comes in
to begin a new tragedy: she seeks to lodge her son in thine eyes, and
to kindle her fires in thy bosom. Beware, fond girl, he is an unruly
guest to harbor; for cutting in by entreats, he will not be thrust out
by force, and her fires are fed with such fuel, as no water is able to
quench. Seest thou not how Venus seeks to wrap thee in her labyrinth,
wherein is pleasure at the entrance, but within, sorrows, cares, and
discontent? She is a Siren, stop thine ears to her melody; she is a
basilisk, shut thy eyes and gaze not at her lest thou perish. Thou art
now placed in the country content, where are heavenly thoughts and
mean desires: in those lawns where thy flocks feed, Diana haunts: be
as her nymphs chaste, and enemy to love, for there is no greater honor
to a maid, than to account of fancy as a mortal foe to their sex.
Daphne, that bonny wench, was not turned into a bay tree, as the
poets feign: but for her chastity her fame was immortal, resembling
the laurel that is ever green. Follow thou her steps, Rosalynde, and
the rather, for that thou art an exile, and banished from the court;
whose distress, and it is appeased with patience, so it would be
renewed with amorous passions. Have mind on thy forepassed fortunes;
fear the worst, and entangle not thyself with present fancies, lest
loving in haste, thou repent thee at leisure. Ah, but yet, Rosalynde,
it is Rosader that courts thee; one who as he is beautiful, so he is
virtuous, and harboreth in his mind as many good qualities as his face
is shadowed with gracious favors; and therefore, Rosalynde, stoop to
love, lest, being either too coy or too cruel, Venus wax wroth, and
plague thee with the reward of disdain."
Rosalynde, thus passionate, was wakened from her dumps[1] by Aliena,
who said it was time to go to bed. Corydon swore that was true, for
Charles' Wain was risen in the north. Whereupon each taking leave of
other, went to their rest, all but the poor Rosalynde, who was so full
of passions, that she could not possess any content. Well, leaving her
to her broken slumbers, expect what was performed by them the next
morning.
[Footnote 1: meditation.]
The sun was no sooner stepped from the bed of Aurora, but Aliena was
wakened by Ganymede, who, restless all night, had tossed in her
passions, saying it was then time to go to the field to unfold their
sheep. Aliena, that spied where the hare was by the hounds, and could
see day at a little hole, thought to be pleasant with her Ganymede,
and therefore replied thus:
"What, wanton! the sun is but new up, and as yet Iris' riches lie
folded in the bosom of Flora: Phoebus hath not dried up the pearled
dew, and so long Corydon hath taught me, it is not fit to lead the
sheep abroad, lest, the dew being unwholesome, they get the rot: but
now see I the old proverb true, he is in haste whom the devil drives,
and where love pricks forward, there is no worse death than delay. Ah,
my good page, is there fancy in thine eye, and passions in thy heart?
What, hast thou wrapt love in thy looks, and set all thy thoughts on
fire by affection? I tell thee, it is a flame as hard to be quenched
as that of Aetna. But nature must have her course: women's eyes have
faculty attractive like the jet, and retentive like the diamond: they
dally in the delight of fair objects, till gazing on the panther's
beautiful skin, repenting experience tell them he hath a devouring
paunch."
"Come on," quoth Ganymede, "this sermon of yours is but a subtlety to
lie still a-bed, because either you think the morning cold, or else I
being gone, you would steal a nap: this shift carries no palm, and
therefore up and away. And for Love, let me alone; I'll whip him away
with nettles, and set disdain as a charm to withstand his forces: and
therefore look you to yourself; be not too bold, for Venus can make
you bend, nor too coy, for Cupid hath a piercing dart, that will make
you cry _Peccavi_."
"And that is it," quoth Aliena, "that hath raised you so early this
morning." And with that she slipped on her petticoat, and start up;
and as soon as she had made her ready, and taken her breakfast, away
go these two with their bag and bottles to the field, in more pleasant
content of mind than ever they were in the court of Torismond.
They came no sooner nigh the folds, but they might see where their
discontented forester was walking in his melancholy. As soon as Aliena
saw him, she smiled and said to Ganymede:
"Wipe your eyes, sweeting, for yonder is your sweetheart this morning
in deep prayers, no doubt, to Venus, that she may make you as pitiful
as he is passionate. Come on, Ganymede, I pray thee, let's have a
little sport with him."
"Content," quoth Ganymede, and with that, to waken him out of his deep
_memento_,[1] he began thus:
[Footnote 1: revery.]
"Forester, good fortune to thy thoughts, and ease to thy passions.
What makes you so early abroad this morn? in contemplation, no doubt,
of your Rosalynde. Take heed, forester; step not too far, the ford may
be deep, and you slip over the shoes: I tell thee, flies have their
spleen, the ants choler, the least hairs shadows, and the smallest
loves great desires. 'Tis good, forester, to love, but not to
overlove, lest in loving her that likes not thee, thou fold thyself in
an endless labyrinth."
Rosader, seeing the fair shepherdess and her pretty swain in whose
company he felt the greatest ease of his care, he returned them a
salute on this manner:
"Gentle shepherds, all hail, and as healthful be your flocks as you
happy in content. Love is restless, and my bed is but the cell of my
bane, in that there I find busy thoughts and broken slumbers: here
(although everywhere passionate) yet I brook love with more patience,
in that every object feeds mine eye with variety of fancies. When I
look on Flora's beauteous tapestry, checked with the pride of all her
treasure, I call to mind the fair face of Rosalynde, whose heavenly
hue exceeds the rose and the lily in their highest excellence: the
brightness of Phoebus' shine puts me in mind to think of the sparkling
flames that flew from her eyes, and set my heart first on fire: the
sweet harmony of the birds, puts me in remembrance of the rare melody
of her voice, which like the Siren enchanteth the ears of the hearer.
Thus in contemplation I salve my sorrows, with applying the perfection
of every object to the excellence of her qualities."
"She is much beholding unto you," quoth Aliena, "and so much, that I
have oft wished with myself, that if I should ever prove as amorous
as Oenone, I might find as faithful a Paris as yourself."
"How say you by this item, forester?" quoth Ganymede, "the fair
shepherdess favors you, who is mistress of so many flocks. Leave off,
man, the supposition of Rosalynde's love, whenas watching at her you
rove beyond the moon, and cast your looks upon my mistress, who no
doubt is as fair though not so royal; one bird in the hand is worth
two in the wood: better possess the love of Aliena than catch
furiously at the shadow of Rosalynde."
"I'll tell thee boy," quoth Rosader, "so is my fancy fixed on my
Rosalynde, that were thy mistress as fair as Leda or Danaë, whom Jove
courted in transformed shapes, mine eyes would not vouch to entertain
their beauties; and so hath love locked me in her perfections, that I
had rather only contemplate in her beauties, than absolutely possess
the excellence of any other."
"Venus is to blame, forester, if having so true a servant of you, she
reward you not with Rosalynde, if Rosalynde were more fairer than
herself. But leaving this prattle, now I'll put you in mind of your
promise about those sonnets, which you said were at home in your
lodge."
"I have them about me," quoth Rosader, "let us sit down, and then you
shall hear what a poetical fury love will infuse into a man." With
that they sate down upon a green bank, shadowed with fig trees, and
Rosader, fetching a deep sigh, read them this sonnet:
_Rosader's Sonnet_
In sorrow's cell I laid me down to sleep,
But waking woes were jealous of mine eyes,
They made them watch, and bend themselves to weep,
But weeping tears their want could not suffice:
Yet since for her they wept who guides my heart,
They weeping smile, and triumph in their smart.
Of these my tears a fountain fiercely springs,
Where Venus bains[1] herself incensed with love,
Where Cupid bowseth[2] his fair feathered wings;
But I behold what pains I must approve.
Care drinks it dry; but when on her I think,
Love makes me weep it full unto the brink.
Meanwhile my sighs yield truce unto my tears,
By them the winds increased and fiercely blow:
Yet when I sigh the flame more plain appears,
And by their force with greater power doth glow:
Amid these pains, all phoenix-like I thrive
Since love, that yields me death, may life revive.[3]
_Rosader en esperance._
[Footnote 1: bathes.]
[Footnote 2: dips.]
[Footnote 3: This song is said to be an imitation of Desportes's
sonnet beginning,
Si je me siez à l'ombre aussi soudainement.]
"Now, surely, forester," quoth Aliena, "when thou madest this sonnet,
thou wert in some amorous quandary, neither too fearful as despairing
of thy mistress' favors, nor too gleesome as hoping in thy fortunes."
"I can smile," quoth Ganymede, "at the sonettos, canzones, madrigals,
rounds and roundelays, that these pensive patients pour out when their
eyes are more full of wantonness, than their hearts of passions. Then,
as the fishers put the sweetest bait to the fairest fish, so these
Ovidians, holding _amo_ in their tongues, when their thoughts come at
haphazard, write that they be rapt in an endless labyrinth of sorrow,
when walking in the large lease of liberty, they only have their
humors in their inkpot. If they find women so fond, that they will
with such painted lures come to their lust, then they triumph till
they be full-gorged with pleasures; and then fly they away, like
ramage[1] kites, to their own content, leaving the tame fool, their
mistress, full of fancy, yet without even a feather. If they miss, as
dealing with some wary wanton, that wants not such a one as
themselves, but spies their subtlety, they end their amours with a few
feigned sighs; and so their excuse is, their mistress is cruel, and
they smother passions with patience. Such, gentle forester, we may
deem you to be, that rather pass away the time here in these woods
with writing amorets, than to be deeply enamored (as you say) of your
Rosalynde. If you be such a one, then I pray God, when you think your
fortunes at the highest, and your desires to be most excellent, then
that you may with Ixion embrace Juno in a cloud, and have nothing but
a marble mistress to release your martyrdom; but if you be true and
trusty, eye-pained and heart-sick, then accursed be Rosalynde if she
prove cruel: for, forester (I flatter not) thou art worthy of as fair
as she." Aliena, spying the storm by the wind, smiled to see how
Ganymede flew to the fist without any call; but Rosader, who took him
flat for a shepherd's swain, made him this answer:
[Footnote 1: wild.]
"Trust me, swain," quoth Rosader, "but my canzon was written in no
such humor; for mine eye and my heart are relatives, the one drawing
fancy by sight, the other entertaining her by sorrow. If thou sawest
my Rosalynde, with what beauties nature hath favored her, with what
perfection the heavens hath graced her, with what qualities the gods
have endued her, then wouldst thou say, there is none so fickle that
could be fleeting unto her. If she had been Aeneas' Dido, had Venus
and Juno both scolded him from Carthage, yet her excellence, despite
of them, would have detained him at Tyre. If Phyllis had been as
beauteous, or Ariadne as virtuous, or both as honorable and excellent
as she, neither had the filbert tree sorrowed in the death of
despairing Phyllis, nor the stars been graced with Ariadne, but
Demophoon and Theseus had been trusty to their paragons. I will tell
thee, swain, if with a deep insight thou couldst pierce into the
secret of my loves, and see what deep impressions of her idea
affection hath made in my heart, then wouldst thou confess I were
passing passionate, and no less endued with admirable patience."
"Why," quoth Aliena, "needs there patience in love?"
"Or else in nothing," quoth Rosader; "for it is a restless sore that
hath no ease, a canker that still frets, a disease that taketh away
all hope of sleep. If then so many sorrows, sudden joys, momentary
pleasures, continual fears, daily griefs, and nightly woes be found in
love, then is not he to be accounted patient that smothers all these
passions with silence?"
"Thou speakest by experience," quoth Ganymede, "and therefore we hold
all thy words for axioms. But is love such a lingering malady?"
"It is," quoth he, "either extreme or mean, according to the mind of
the party that entertains it; for, as the weeds grow longer untouched
than the pretty flowers, and the flint lies safe in the quarry when
the emerald is suffering the lapidary's tool, so mean men are freed
from Venus' injuries, when kings are environed with a labyrinth of her
cares. The whiter the lawn is, the deeper is the mole[1]; the more
purer the chrysolite, the sooner stained; and such as have their
hearts full of honor, have their loves full of the greatest sorrows.
But in whomsoever," quoth Rosader, "he fixeth his dart, he never
leaveth to assault him, till either he hath won him to folly or fancy;
for as the moon never goes without the star Lunisequa, so a lover
never goeth without the unrest of his thoughts. For proof you shall
hear another fancy of my making."
[Footnote 1: stain.]
"Now do, gentle forester," quoth Ganymede; and with that he read over
this sonetto:
_Rosader's second Sonetto_
Turn I my looks unto the skies,
Love with his arrows wounds mine eyes;
If so I gaze upon the ground,
Love then in every flower is found.
Search I the shade to fly my pain,
He meets me in the shade again;
Wend I to walk in secret grove,
Even there I meet with sacred Love.
If so I bain[1] me in the spring,
Even on the brink I hear him sing:
If so I meditate alone,
He will be partner of my moan.
If so I mourn, he weeps with me,
And where I am there will he be.
Whenas I talk of Rosalynde
The god from coyness waxeth kind,
And seems in selfsame flames to fry
Because he loves as well as I.
Sweet Rosalynde, for pity rue;
For why, than Love I am more true:
He, if he speed, will quickly fly,
But in thy love I live and die.
[Footnote 1: bathe.]
"How like you this sonnet?" quoth Rosader.
"Marry," quoth Ganymede, "for the pen well, for the passion ill; for
as I praise the one, I pity the other, in that thou shouldst hunt
after a cloud, and love either without reward or regard."
"'Tis not her frowardness," quoth Rosader, "but my hard fortunes,
whose destinies have crossed me with her absence; for did she feel my
loves, she would not let me linger in these sorrows. Women, as they
are fair, so they respect faith, and estimate more, if they be
honorable, the will than the wealth, having loyalty the object whereat
they aim their fancies. But leaving off these interparleys,[1] you
shall hear my last sonetto, and then you have heard all my poetry."
And with that he sighed out this:
[Footnote 1: discussions.]
_Rosader's third Sonnet_
Of virtuous love myself may boast alone,
Since no suspect my service may attaint:
For perfect fair she is the only one,
Whom I esteem for my belovèd saint.
Thus, for my faith I only bear the bell,
And for her fair she only doth excel.
Then let fond Petrarch shroud his Laura's praise,
And Tasso cease to publish his affect,
Since mine the faith confirmed at all assays,
And hers the fair, which all men do respect.
My lines her fair, her fair my faith assures;
Thus I by love, and love by me endures.
"Thus," quoth Rosader, "here is an end of my poems, but for all this
no release of my passions; so that I resemble him that in the depth of
his distress hath none but the echo to answer him."
Ganymede, pitying her Rosader, thinking to drive him out of this
amorous melancholy, said that now the sun was in his meridional heat
and that it was high noon, "therefore we shepherds say, 'tis time to
go to dinner; for the sun and our stomachs are shepherds' dials.
Therefore, forester, if thou wilt take such fare as comes out of our
homely scrips, welcome shall answer whatsoever thou wantest in
delicates."
Aliena took the entertainment by the end, and told Rosader he should
be her guest. He thanked them heartily, and sate with them down to
dinner, where they had such cates as country state did allow them,
sauced with such content, and such sweet prattle, as it seemed far
more sweet than all their courtly junkets.
As soon as they had taken their repast, Rosader, giving them thanks
for his good cheer, would have been gone; but Ganymede, that was loath
to let him pass out of her presence, began thus:
"Nay, forester," quoth he, "if thy business be not the greater, seeing
thou sayest thou art so deeply in love, let me see how thou canst woo:
I will represent Rosalynde, and thou shalt be as thou art, Rosader.
See in some amorous eclogue, how if Rosalynde were present, how thou
couldst court her; and while we sing of love, Aliena shall tune her
pipe and play us melody."
"Content," quoth Rosader, and Aliena, she, to show her willingness,
drew forth a recorder,[1] and began to wind it. Then the loving
forester began thus:
[Footnote 1: an old instrument, resembling the flageolet.]
_The wooing Eclogue betwixt Rosalynde and Rosader_
ROSADER
I pray thee, nymph, by all the working words,
By all the tears and sighs that lovers know,
Or what or thoughts or faltering tongue affords,
I crave for mine in ripping up my woe.
Sweet Rosalynde, my love (would God, my love)
My life (would God, my life) aye, pity me!
Thy lips are kind, and humble like the dove,
And but with beauty, pity will not be.
Look on mine eyes, made red with rueful tears,
From whence the rain of true remorse descendeth,
All pale in looks am I though young in years,
And nought but love or death my days befriendeth.
Oh let no stormy rigor knit thy brows,
Which love appointed for his mercy seat:
The tallest tree by Boreas' breath it bows;
The iron yields with hammer, and to heat.
O Rosalynde, then be thou pitiful,
For Rosalynde is only beautiful.
ROSALYNDE
Love's wantons arm their trait'rous suits with tears,
With vows, with oaths, with looks, with showers of gold;
But when the fruit of their affects appears,
The simple heart by subtle sleights is sold.
Thus sucks the yielding ear the poisoned bait,
Thus feeds the heart upon his endless harms,
Thus glut the thoughts themselves on self-deceit,
Thus blind the eyes their sight by subtle charms.
The lovely looks, the sighs that storm so sore,
The dew of deep-dissembled doubleness,
These may attempt, but are of power no more
Where beauty leans to wit and soothfastness.
O Rosader, then be thou wittiful,
For Rosalynde scorns foolish pitiful.
ROSADER
I pray thee, Rosalynde, by those sweet eyes
That stain the sun in shine, the morn in clear,
By those sweet cheeks where Love encampèd lies
To kiss the roses of the springing year.
I tempt thee, Rosalynde, by ruthful plaints,
Not seasoned with deceit or fraudful guile,
But firm in pain, far more than tongue depaints,
Sweet nymph, be kind, and grace me with a smile.
So may the heavens preserve from hurtful food
Thy harmless flocks; so may the summer yield
The pride of all her riches and her good,
To fat thy sheep, the citizens of field.
Oh, leave to arm thy lovely brows with scorn:
The birds their beak, the lion hath his tail,
And lovers nought but sighs and bitter mourn,
The spotless fort of fancy to assail.
O Rosalynde, then be thou pitiful,
For Rosalynde is only beautiful.
ROSALYNDE
The hardened steel by fire is brought in frame:
ROSADER
And Rosalynde, my love, than any wool more softer;
And shall not sighs her tender heart inflame?
ROSALYNDE
Were lovers true, maids would believe them ofter.
ROSADER
Truth, and regard, and honor, guide my love.
ROSALYNDE
Fain would I trust, but yet I dare not try.
ROSADER
O pity me, sweet nymph, and do but prove.
ROSALYNDE
I would resist, but yet I know not why.
ROSADER
O Rosalynde, be kind, for times will change,
Thy looks ay nill be fair as now they be;
Thine age from beauty may thy looks estrange:
Ah, yield in time, sweet nymph, and pity me.
ROSALYNDE
O Rosalynde, thou must be pitiful,
For Rosader is young and beautiful.
ROSADER
Oh, gain more great than kingdoms or a crown!
ROSALYNDE
Oh, trust betrayed if Rosader abuse me.
ROSADER
First let the heavens conspire to pull me down
And heaven and earth as abject quite refuse me.
Let sorrows stream about my hateful bower,
And restless horror hatch within my breast:
Let beauty's eye afflict me with a lour,
Let deep despair pursue me without rest,
Ere Rosalynde my loyalty disprove,
Ere Rosalynde accuse me for unkind.
ROSALYNDE
Then Rosalynde will grace thee with her love
Then Rosalynde will have thee still in mind.
ROSADER
Then let me triumph more than Tithon's dear,
Since Rosalynde will Rosader respect:
Then let my face exile his sorry cheer,
And frolic in the comfort of affect;
And say that Rosalynde is only pitiful,
Since Rosalynde is only beautiful.
When thus they had finished their courting eclogue in such a familiar
clause, Ganymede, as augur of some good fortunes to light upon their
affections, began to be thus pleasant:
"How now, forester, have I not fitted your turn? have I not played the
woman handsomely, and showed myself as coy in grants as courteous in
desires, and been as full of suspicion as men of flattery? and yet to
salve all, jumped[1] I not all up with the sweet union of love? Did
not Rosalynde content her Rosader?"
[Footnote 1: ended.]
The forester at this smiling, shook his head, and folding his arms
made this merry reply:
"Truth, gentle swain, Rosader hath his Rosalynde; but as Ixion had
Juno, who, thinking to possess a goddess, only embraced a cloud: in
these imaginary fruitions of fancy I resemble the birds that fed
themselves with Zeuxis' painted grapes; but they grew so lean with
pecking at shadows, that they were glad, with Aesop's cock, to scrape
for a barley cornel.[1] So fareth it with me, who to feed myself with
the hope of my mistress's favors, sooth myself in thy suits, and only
in conceit reap a wished-for content; but if my food be no better than
such amorous dreams, Venus at the year's end shall find me but a lean
lover. Yet do I take these follies for high fortunes, and hope these
feigned affections do divine some unfeigned end of ensuing fancies."
[Footnote 1: kernel.]
"And thereupon," quoth Aliena, "I'll play the priest: from this day
forth Ganymede shall call thee husband, and thou shall call Ganymede
wife, and so we'll have a marriage."
"Content," quoth Rosader, and laughed.
"Content," quoth Ganymede, and changed as red as a rose: and so with a
smile and a blush, they made up this jesting match, that after proved
to a marriage in earnest, Rosader full little thinking he had wooed
and won his Rosalynde.
But all was well; hope is a sweet string to harp on, and therefore
let the forester awhile shape himself to his shadow, and tarry
fortune's leisure, till she may make a metamorphosis fit for his
purpose. I digress; and therefore to Aliena, who said, the wedding was
not worth a pin, unless there were some cheer, nor that bargain well
made that was not stricken up with a cup of wine: and therefore she
willed Ganymede to set out such cates as they had, and to draw out her
bottle, charging the forester, as he had imagined his loves, so to
conceit these cates to be a most sumptuous banquet, and to take a
mazer[1] of wine and to drink to his Rosalynde; which Rosader did, and
so they passed away the day in many pleasant devices. Till at last
Aliena perceived time would tarry no man, and that the sun waxed very
low, ready to set, which made her shorten their amorous prattle, and
end the banquet with a fresh carouse: which done, they all three
arose, and Aliena broke off thus:
[Footnote 1: mug.]
"Now, forester, Phoebus that all this while hath been partaker of our
sports, seeing every woodman more fortunate in his loves than he in
his fancies, seeing thou hast won Rosalynde when he could not woo
Daphne, hides his head for shame and bids us adieu in a cloud. Our
sheep, they poor wantons, wander towards their folds, as taught by
nature their due times of rest, which tells us, forester, we must
depart. Marry, though there were a marriage, yet I must carry this
night the bride with me, and to-morrow morning if you meet us here,
I'll promise to deliver you her as good a maid as I find her."
"Content," quoth Rosader, "'tis enough for me in the night to dream on
love, that in the day am so fond to doat on love: and so till
to-morrow you to your folds, and I will to my lodge." And thus the
forester and they parted.
He was no sooner gone, but Aliena and Ganymede went and folded their
flocks, and taking up their hooks, their bags, and their bottles,
hied homeward. By the way Aliena, to make the time seem short, began
to prattle with Ganymede thus: