Rosader so pained, and therefore stepped hastily to the bottle, and
filling out some wine in a mazer,[1] she spiced it with such
comfortable drugs as she had about her, and gave it him, which did
comfort Rosader, that rising, with the help of his brother, he took
his leave of them, and went to his lodge. Ganymede, as soon as they
were out of sight, led his flocks down to a vale, and there under the
shadow of a beech tree sate down, and began to mourn the misfortunes
of her sweetheart.
[Footnote 1: wooden mug.]
And Aliena, as a woman passing discontent, severing herself from her
Ganymede, sitting under a limon tree, began to sigh out the passions
of her new love, and to meditate with herself in this manner:
ALIENA'S MEDITATION
"Ay me! now I see, and sorrowing sigh to see, that Diana's laurels are
harbors for Venus' doves; that there trace as well through the lawns
wantons as chaste ones; that Calisto, be she never so chary, will cast
one amorous eye at courting Jove; that Diana herself will change her
shape, but she will honor Love in a shadow; that maidens' eyes be they
as hard as diamonds, yet Cupid hath drugs to make them more pliable
than wax. See, Alinda, how Fortune and Love have interleagued
themselves to be thy foes, and to make thee their subject, or else an
abject, have inveigled thy sight with a most beautiful object. A-late
thou didst hold Venus for a giglot, not a goddess, and now thou shalt
be forced to sue suppliant to her deity. Cupid was a boy and blind;
but, alas, his eye had aim enough to pierce thee to the heart. While I
lived in the court I held love in contempt, and in high seats I had
small desires. I knew not affection while I lived in dignity, nor
could Venus countercheck me, as long as my fortune was majesty, and my
thoughts honor; and shall I now be high in desires, when I am made low
by destiny? I have heard them say, that Love looks not at low
cottages, that Venus jets[1] in robes not in rags, that Cupid flies so
high, that he scorns to touch poverty with his heel. Tush, Alinda,
these are but old wives' tales, and neither authentical precepts, nor
infallible principles; for experience tells thee, that peasants have
their passions as well as princes, that swains as they have their
labors, so they have their amours, and Love lurks as soon about a
sheepcote as a palace.
[Footnote 1: struts.]
"Ah, Alinda, this day in avoiding a prejudice thou art fallen into a
deeper mischief; being rescued from the robbers, thou art become
captive to Saladyne: and what then? Women must love, or they must
cease to live; and therefore did nature frame them fair, that they
might be subjects to fancy. But perhaps Saladyne's eye is levelled
upon a more seemlier saint. If it be so, bear thy passions with
patience; say Love hath wronged thee, that hath not wrung him; and if
he be proud in contempt, be thou rich in content, and rather die than
discover any desire: for there is nothing more precious in a woman
than to conceal love and to die modest. He is the son and heir of Sir
John of Bordeaux, a youth comely enough: O Alinda, too comely, else
hadst not thou been thus discontent; valiant, and that fettered thine
eye; wise, else hadst thou not been now won; but for all these virtues
banished by thy father, and therefore if he know thy parentage, he
will hate the fruit for the tree, and condemn the young scion for the
old stock. Well, howsoever, I must love, and whomsoever, I will; and,
whatsoever betide, Aliena will think well of Saladyne, suppose he of
me as he please."
And with that fetching a deep sigh, she rise up, and went to Ganymede,
who all this while sate in a great dump,[1] fearing the imminent
danger of her friend Rosader; but now Aliena began to comfort her,
herself being overgrown with sorrows, and to recall her from her
melancholy with many pleasant persuasions. Ganymede took all in the
best part, and so they went home together after they had folded their
flocks, supping with old Corydon, who had provided their cates. He,
after supper, to pass away the night while[2] bedtime, began a long
discourse, how Montanus, the young shepherd that was in love with
Phoebe, could by no means obtain any favor at her hands, but, still
pained in restless passions, remained a hopeless and perplexed lover.
[Footnote 1: mood of sadness.]
[Footnote 2: until.]
"I would I might," quoth Aliena, "once see that Phoebe. Is she so fair
that she thinks no shepherd worthy of her beauty? or so froward that
no love nor loyalty will content her? or so coy that she requires a
long time to be wooed? or so foolish that she forgets that like a fop
she must have a large harvest for a little corn?"
"I cannot distinguish," quoth Corydon, "of these nice qualities; but
one of these days I'll bring Montanus and her down, that you may both
see their persons, and note their passions; and then where the blame
is, there let it rest. But this I am sure," quoth Corydon, "if all
maidens were of her mind, the world would grow to a mad pass; for
there would be great store of wooing and little wedding, many words
and little worship, much folly and no faith."
At this sad sentence of Corydon, so solemnly brought forth, Aliena
smiled, and because it waxed late, she and her page went to bed, both
of them having fleas in their ears to keep them awake; Ganymede for
the hurt of her Rosader, and Aliena for the affection she bore to
Saladyne. In this discontented humor they passed away the time, till
falling on sleep, their senses at rest, Love left them to their quiet
slumbers, which were not long. For as soon as Phoebus rose from his
Aurora, and began to mount him in the sky, summoning plough-swains to
their handy labor, Aliena arose, and going to the couch where Ganymede
lay, awakened her page, and said the morning was far spent, the dew
small, and time called them away to their folds.
"Ah, ah!" quoth Ganymede, "is the wind in that door? then in faith I
perceive that there is no diamond so hard but will yield to the file,
no cedar so strong but the wind will shake, nor any mind so chaste but
love will change. Well, Aliena, must Saladyne be the man, and will it
be a match? Trust me, he is fair and valiant, the son of a worthy
knight, whom if he imitate in perfection, as he represents him in
proportion, he is worthy of no less than Aliena. But he is an exile:
what then? I hope my mistress respects the virtues not the wealth, and
measures the qualities not the substance. Those dames that are like
Danaë, that like love in no shape but in a shower of gold, I wish them
husbands with much wealth and little wit, that the want of the one may
blemish the abundance of the other. It should, my Aliena, stain the
honor of a shepherd's life to set the end of passions upon pelf.
Love's eyes looks not so low as gold; there is no fees to be paid in
Cupid's courts; and in elder time, as Corydon hath told me, the
shepherds' love-gifts were apples and chestnuts, and then their
desires were loyal, and their thoughts constant. But now
Quaerenda pecunia primum, post nummos virtus.
And the time is grown to that which Horace in his Satires wrote on:
omnis enim res
Virtus fama decus divina humanaque pulchris
Divitiis parent: quas qui construxerit ille
Clarus erit, fortis, justus. Sapiensne? Etiam et rex
Et quicquid volet--
But, Aliena, let it not be so with thee in thy fancies, but respect
his faith and there an end."
Aliena, hearing Ganymede thus forward to further Saladyne in his
affections, thought she kissed the child for the nurse's sake, and
wooed for him that she might please Rosader, made this reply:
"Why, Ganymede, whereof grows this persuasion? Hast thou seen love in
my looks, or are mine eyes grown so amorous, that they discover some
new-entertained fancies? If thou measurest my thoughts by my
countenance, thou mayest prove as ill a physiognomer, as the lapidary
that aims at the secret virtues of the topaz by the exterior shadow of
the stone. The operation of the agate is not known by the strakes, nor
the diamond prized by his brightness, but by his hardness. The
carbuncle that shineth most is not ever the most precious; and the
apothecaries choose not flowers for their colors, but for their
virtues. Women's faces are not always calendars of fancy, nor do their
thoughts and their looks ever agree; for when their eyes are fullest
of favors, then are they oft most empty of desire; and when they seem
to frown at disdain, then are they most forward to affection. If I be
melancholy, then, Ganymede, 'tis not a consequence that I am entangled
with the perfection of Saladyne. But seeing fire cannot be hid in the
straw, nor love kept so covert but it will be spied, what[1] should
friends conceal fancies? Know, my Ganymede, the beauty and valor, the
wit and prowess of Saladyne hath fettered Aliena so far, as there is
no object pleasing to her eyes but the sight of Saladyne; and if Love
have done me justice to wrap his thoughts in the folds of my face, and
that he be as deeply enamored as I am passionate, I tell thee,
Ganymede, there shall not be much wooing, for she is already won, and
what needs a longer battery."
[Footnote 1: why.]
"I am glad," quoth Ganymede, "that it shall be thus proportioned, you
to match with Saladyne, and I with Rosader: thus have the Destinies
favored us with some pleasing aspect, that have made us as private in
our loves, as familiar in our fortunes."
With this Ganymede start up, made her ready, and went into the fields
with Aliena, where unfolding their flocks, they sate them down under
an olive tree, both of them amorous, and yet diversely affected;
Aliena joying in the excellence of Saladyne, and Ganymede sorrowing
for the wounds of her Rosader, not quiet in thought till she might
hear of his health. As thus both of them sate in their dumps, they
might espy where Corydon came running towards them, almost out of
breath with his haste.
"What news with you," quoth Aliena, "that you come in such post?"
"Oh, mistress," quoth Corydon, "you have a long time desired to see
Phoebe, the fair shepherdess whom Montanus loves; so now if you
please, you and Ganymede, but to walk with me to yonder thicket, there
shall you see Montanus and her sitting by a fountain, he courting with
his country ditties, and she as coy as if she held love in disdain."
The news were so welcome to the two lovers, that up they rose, and
went with Corydon. As soon as they drew nigh the thicket, they might
espy where Phoebe sate, the fairest shepherdess in all Arden, and he
the frolickest swain in the whole forest, she in a petticoat of
scarlet, covered with a green mantle, and to shroud her from the sun,
a chaplet of roses, from under which appeared a face full of nature's
excellence, and two such eyes as might have amated[1] a greater man
than Montanus. At gaze upon the gorgeous nymph sat the shepherd,
feeding his eyes with her favors, wooing with such piteous looks; and
courting with such deep-strained sighs, as would have made Diana
herself to have been compassionate. At last, fixing his looks on the
riches of her face, his head on his hand, and his elbow on his knee,
he sung this mournful ditty:
[Footnote 1: dismayed.]
_Montanus' Sonnet_
A turtle sate upon a leaveless tree,
Mourning her absent fere[1]
With sad and sorry cheer:
About her wondering stood
The citizens of wood,
And whilst her plumes she rents
And for her love laments,
The stately trees complain them,
The birds with sorrow pain them.
Each one that doth her view
Her pain and sorrows rue;
But were the sorrows known
That me hath overthrown,
Oh how would Phoebe sigh if she did look on me!
The lovesick Polypheme, that could not see,
Who on the barren shore
His fortunes doth deplore,
And melteth all in moan
For Galatea gone,
And with his piteous cries
Afflicts both earth and skies,
And to his woe betook
Doth break both pipe and hook,
For whom complains the morn,
For whom the sea-nymphs mourn,
Alas, his pain is nought;
For were my woe but thought,
Oh how would Phoebe sigh if she did look on me!
Beyond compare my pain;
Yet glad am I,
If gentle Phoebe deign
To see her Montan die.
[Footnote 1: companion.]
After this, Montanus felt his passions so extreme, that he fell into
this exclamation against the injustice of Love:
Hélas, tyran, plein de rigueur,
Modère un peu ta violence:
Que te sert si grande dépense?
C'est trop de flammes pour un coeur.
Épargnez en une étincelle,
Puis fais ton effort d'émouvoir,
La fière qui ne veut point voir,
En quel feu je brûle pour elle.
Exécute, Amour, ce dessein,
Et rabaisse un peu son audace:
Son coeur ne doit être de glace,
Bien qu'elle ait de neige le sein.
Montanus ended his sonnet with such a volley of sighs, and such a
stream of tears, as might have moved any but Phoebe to have granted
him favor. But she, measuring all his passions with a coy disdain, and
triumphing in the poor shepherd's pathetical humors, smiling at his
martyrdom as though love had been no malady, scornfully warbled out
this sonnet:
_Phoebe's Sonnet, a Reply to Montanus' Passion_
Down a down,
Thus Phyllis sung,
By fancy once distressed;
Whoso by foolish love are stung
Are worthily oppressed.
And so sing I. With a down, down, &c.
When Love was first begot,
And by the mover's will
Did fall to human lot
His solace to fulfil,
Devoid of all deceit,
A chaste and holy fire
Did quicken man's conceit,
And women's breast inspire.
The gods that saw the good
That mortals did approve,
With kind and holy mood
Began to talk of Love.
Down a down,
Thus Phyllis sung
By fancy once distressed, &c.
But during this accord,
A wonder strange to hear,
Whilst Love in deed and word
Most faithful did appear,
False-semblance came in place,
By Jealousy attended,
And with a double face
Both love and fancy blended;
Which made the gods forsake,
And men from fancy fly,
And maidens scorn a make,[1]
Forsooth, and so will I.
Down a down,
Thus Phyllis sung,
By fancy once distressed;
Who so by foolish love are stung
Are worthily oppressed.
And so sing I.
With down a down, a down down, a down a.
[Footnote 1: mate.]
Montanus, hearing the cruel resolution of Phoebe, was so overgrown
with passions, that from amorous ditties he fell flat into these
terms:
"Ah, Phoebe," quoth he, "whereof art thou made, that thou regardest
not my malady? Am I so hateful an object that thine eyes condemn me
for an abject? or so base, that thy desires cannot stoop so low as to
lend me a gracious look? My passions are many, my loves more, my
thoughts loyalty, and my fancy faith: all devoted in humble devoir[1]
to the service of Phoebe; and shall I reap no reward for such
fealties? The swain's daily labors is quit with the evening's hire,
the ploughman's toil is eased with the hope of corn, what the ox
sweats out at the plough he fatteneth at the crib; but infortunate
Montanus hath no salve for his sorrows, nor any hope of recompense for
the hazard of his perplexed passions. If, Phoebe, time may plead the
proof of my truth, twice seven winters have I loved fair Phoebe: if
constancy be a cause to farther my suit, Montanus' thoughts have been
sealed in the sweet of Phoebe's excellence, as far from change as she
from love: if outward passions may discover inward affections, the
furrows in my face may decipher the sorrows of my heart, and the map
of my looks the griefs of my mind. Thou seest, Phoebe, the tears of
despair have made my cheeks full of wrinkles, and my scalding sighs
have made the air echo her pity conceived in my plaints: Philomele
hearing my passions, hath left her mournful tunes to listen to the
discourse of my miseries. I have portrayed in every tree the beauty of
my mistress, and the despair of my loves. What is it in the woods
cannot witness my woes? and who is it would not pity my plaints? Only
Phoebe. And why? Because I am Montanus, and she Phoebe: I a worthless
swain, and she the most excellent of all fairies. Beautiful Phoebe!
oh, might I say pitiful, then happy were I, though I tasted but one
minute of that good hap. Measure Montanus not by his fortunes but by
his loves, and balance not his wealth but his desires, and lend but
one gracious look to cure a heap of disquieted cares: if not, ah! if
Phoebe cannot love, let a storm of frowns end the discontent of my
thoughts, and so let me perish in my desires, because they are above
my deserts: only at my death this favor cannot be denied me, that all
shall say Montanus died for love of hard-hearted Phoebe."
[Footnote 1: duty.]
At these words she filled her face full of frowns, and made him this
short and sharp reply:
"Importunate shepherd, whose loves are lawless, because restless, are
thy passions so extreme that thou canst not conceal them with
patience? or art thou so folly-sick, that thou must needs be
fancy-sick, and in thy affection tied to such an exigent,[1] as none
serves but Phoebe? Well, sir, if your market may be made no where
else, home again, for your mart is at the fairest. Phoebe is no
lettuce for your lips, and her grapes hangs so high, that gaze at them
you may, but touch them you cannot. Yet, Montanus, I speak not this in
pride, but in disdain; not that I scorn thee, but that I hate love;
for I count it as great honor to triumph over fancy as over fortune.
Rest thee content therefore, Montanus: cease from thy loves, and
bridle thy looks, quench the sparkles before they grow to a further
flame; for in loving me thou shall live by loss, and what thou
utterest in words are all written in the wind. Wert thou, Montanus, as
fair as Paris, as hardy as Hector, as constant as Troilus, as loving
as Leander, Phoebe could not love, because she cannot love at all: and
therefore if thou pursue me with Phoebus, I must fly with Daphne."
[Footnote 1: necessity.]
Ganymede, overhearing all these passions of Montanus, could not brook
the cruelty of Phoebe, but starting from behind the bush said:
"And if, damsel, you fled from me, I would transform you as Daphne to
a bay, and then in contempt trample your branches under my feet."
Phoebe at this sudden reply was amazed, especially when she saw so
fair a swain as Ganymede; blushing therefore, she would have been
gone, but that he held her by the hand, and prosecuted his reply thus:
"What, shepherdess, so fair and so cruel? Disdain beseems not
cottages, nor coyness maids; for either they be condemned to be too
proud, or too froward. Take heed, fair nymph, that in despising love,
you be not overreached with love, and in shaking off all, shape
yourself to your own shadow, and so with Narcissus prove passionate
and yet unpitied. Oft have I heard, and sometimes have I seen, high
disdain turned to hot desires. Because thou art beautiful be not so
coy: as there is nothing more fair, so there is nothing more fading;
as momentary as the shadows which grows from a cloudy sun. Such, my
fair shepherdess, as disdain in youth desire in age, and then are they
hated in the winter, that might have been loved in the prime. A
wrinkled maid is like to a parched rose, that is cast up in coffers to
please the smell, not worn in the hand to content the eye. There is no
folly in love to _had I wist_, and therefore be ruled by me. Love
while thou art young, least thou be disdained when thou art old.
Beauty nor time cannot be recalled, and if thou love, like of
Montanus; for if his desires are many, so his deserts are great."
Phoebe all this while gazed on the perfection of Ganymede, as deeply
enamored on his perfection as Montanus inveigled with hers; for her
eye made survey of his excellent feature, which she found so rare,
that she thought the ghost of Adonis had been leaped from Elysium in
the shape of a swain. When she blushed at her own folly to look so
long on a stranger, she mildly made answer to Ganymede thus:
"I cannot deny, sir, but I have heard of Love, though I never felt
love; and have read of such a goddess as Venus, though I never saw any
but her picture; and, perhaps"--and with that she waxed red and
bashful, and withal silent; which Ganymede perceiving, commended in
herself the bashfulness of the maid, and desired her to go forward.
"And perhaps, sir," quoth she, "mine eye hath been more prodigal
to-day than ever before"--and with that she stayed again, as one
greatly passionate and perplexed.
Aliena seeing the hare through the maze, bade her forward with her
prattle, but in vain; for at this abrupt period she broke off, and
with her eyes full of tears, and her face covered with a vermilion
dye, she sate down and sighed. Whereupon Aliena and Ganymede, seeing
the shepherdess in such a strange plight, left Phoebe with her
Montanus, wishing her friendly that she would be more pliant to Love,
lest in penance Venus joined her to some sharp repentance. Phoebe made
no reply, but fetched such a sigh, that Echo made relation of her
plaint, giving Ganymede such an adieu with a piercing glance, that the
amorous girl-boy perceived Phoebe was pinched by the heel.
But leaving Phoebe to the follies of her new fancy, and Montanus to
attend upon her, to Saladyne, who all this last night could not rest
for the remembrance of Aliena; insomuch that he framed a sweet
conceited sonnet to content his humor, which he put in his bosom,
being requested by his brother Rosader to go to Aliena and Ganymede,
to signify unto them that his wounds were not dangerous. A more happy
message could not happen to Saladyne, that taking his forest bill on
his neck, he trudgeth in all haste towards the plains where Aliena's
flocks did feed, coming just to the place when they returned from
Montanus and Phoebe. Fortune so conducted this jolly forester, that
he encountered them and Corydon, whom he presently saluted in this
manner:
"Fair shepherdess, and too fair, unless your beauty be tempered with
courtesy, and the lineaments of the face graced with the lowliness of
mind, as many good fortunes to you and your page, as yourselves can
desire or I imagine. My brother Rosader, in the grief of his green
wounds still mindful of his friends, hath sent me to you with a kind
salute, to show that he brooks his pains with the more patience, in
that he holds the parties precious in whose defence he received the
prejudice. The report of your welfare will be a great comfort to his
distempered body and distressed thoughts, and therefore he sent me
with a strict charge to visit you."
"And you," quoth Aliena, "are the more welcome in that you are
messenger from so kind a gentleman, whose pains we compassionate with
as great sorrow as he brooks them with grief; and his wounds breeds in
us as many passions as in him extremities, so that what disquiet he
feels in body we partake in heart, wishing, if we might, that our
mishap might salve his malady. But seeing our wills yields him little
ease, our orisons[1] are never idle to the gods for his recovery."
[Footnote 1: prayers.]
"I pray, youth," quoth Ganymede with tears in his eyes, "when the
surgeon searched him, held he his wounds dangerous?"
"Dangerous," quoth Saladyne, "but, not mortal; and the sooner to be
cured, in that his patient is not impatient of any pains: whereupon my
brother hopes within these ten days to walk abroad and visit you
himself."
"In the meantime," quoth Ganymede, "say his Rosalynde commends her to
him, and bids him be of good cheer."
"I know not," quoth Saladyne, "who that Rosalynde is, but whatsoever
she is, her name is never out of his mouth, but amidst the deepest of
his passions he useth Rosalynde as a charm to appease all sorrows with
patience. Insomuch that I conjecture my brother is in love, and she
some paragon that holds his heart perplexed, whose name he oft records
with sighs, sometimes with tears, straight with joy, then with smiles;
as if in one person love had lodged a Chaos of confused passions.
Wherein I have noted the variable disposition of fancy, that like the
polype in colors, so it changeth into sundry humors, being, as it
should seem, a combat mixed with disquiet and a bitter pleasure
wrapped in a sweet prejudice, like to the Sinople tree, whose blossoms
delight the smell, and whose fruit infects the taste."