your insight into affection by experience? Howsoever, you are a great
philosopher in Venus' principles, else could you not discover her
secret aphorisms. But, sir, our country amours are not like your
courtly fancies, nor is our wooing like your suing; for poor shepherds
never plain them till love pain them, where the courtier's eyes is
full of passions, when his heart is most free from affection; they
court to discover their eloquence, we woo to ease our sorrows; every
fair face with them must have a new fancy sealed with a forefinger
kiss and a far-fetched sigh, we here love one and live to that one so
long as life can maintain love, using few ceremonies because we know
few subtleties, and little eloquence for that we lightly account of
flattery; only faith and troth, that's shepherd's wooing; and, sir,
how like you of this?"
"So," quoth Saladyne, "as I could tie myself to such love."
"What, and look so low as a shepherdess, being the son of Sir John of
Bordeaux? Such desires were a disgrace to your honors." And with that
surveying exquisitely every part of him, as uttering all these words
in a deep passion, she espied the paper in his bosom; whereupon
growing jealous that it was some amorous sonnet, she suddenly snatched
it out of his bosom and asked if it were any secret. She was bashful,
and Saladyne blushed, which she perceiving, said:
"Nay then, sir, if you wax red, my life for yours 'tis some
love-matter: I will see your mistress' name, her praises, and your
passions." And with that she looked on it, which was written to this
effect:
_Saladyne's Sonnet_
If it be true that heaven's eternal course
With restless sway and ceaseless turning glides;
If air inconstant be, and swelling source
Turn and returns with many fluent tides;
If earth in winter summer's pride estrange,
And nature seemeth only fair in change;
If it be true that our immortal spright,
Derived from heavenly pure, in wand'ring still,
In novelty and strangeness doth delight,
And by discoverent power discerneth ill;
And if the body for to work his best
Doth with the seasons change his place of rest;
Whence comes it that, enforced by furious skies,
I change both place and soil, but not my heart,
Yet salve not in this change my maladies?
Whence grows it that each object works my smart?
Alas, I see my faith procures my miss,
And change in love against my nature is.
_Et florida pungunt._
Aliena having read over his sonnet, began thus pleasantly to descant
upon it:
"I see, Saladyne," quoth she, "that as the sun is no sun without his
brightness, nor the diamond accounted for precious unless it be hard,
so men are not men unless they be in love; and their honors are
measured by their amours, not their labors, counting it more
commendable for a gentleman to be full of fancy, than full of virtue.
I had thought
Otia si tollas, periere Cupidinis arcus,
Contemptaeque jacent et sine luce faces;
but I see Ovid's axiom is not authentical, for even labor hath her
loves, and extremity is no pumice-stone to rase out fancy. Yourself
exiled from your wealth, friends, and country by Torismond, sorrows
enough to suppress affections, yet amidst the depth of these
extremities, love will be lord, and show his power to be more
predominant than fortune. But I pray you, sir, if without offence I
may crave it, are they some new thoughts, or some old desires?"
Saladyne, that now saw opportunity pleasant, thought to strike while
the iron was hot, and therefore taking Aliena by the hand, sate down
by her; and Ganymede, to give them leave to their loves, found herself
busy about the folds, whilst Saladyne fell into this prattle with
Aliena:
"Fair mistress, if I be blunt in discovering my affections, and use
little eloquence in levelling out my loves, I appeal for pardon to
your own principles, that say, shepherds use few ceremonies, for that
they acquaint themselves with few subtleties: to frame myself,
therefore, to your country fashion with much faith and little
flattery, know, beautiful shepherdess, that whilst I lived in the
court I knew not love's cumber, but I held affection as a toy, not as
a malady; using fancy as the Hyperborei do their flowers, which they
wear in their bosom all day, and cast them in the fire for fuel at
night. I liked all, because I loved none, and who was most fair, on
her I fed mine eye, but as charily as the bee, that as soon as she
hath sucked honey from the rose, flies straight to the next marigold.
Living thus at mine own list, I wondered at such as were in love, and
when I read their passions, I took them only for poems that flowed
from the quickness of the wit, not the sorrows of the heart. But now,
fair nymph, since I became a forester, Love hath taught me such a
lesson that I must confess his deity and dignity, and say as there is
nothing so precious as beauty, so there is nothing more piercing than
fancy. For since first I arrived at this place, and mine eye took a
curious survey of your excellence, I have been so fettered with your
beauty and virtue, as, sweet Aliena, Saladyne without further
circumstance loves Aliena. I could paint out my desires with long
ambages[1]; but seeing in many words lies mistrust, and that truth is
ever naked, let this suffice for a country wooing, Saladyne loves
Aliena, and none but Aliena."
[Footnote 1: indirect modes of speech.]
Although these words were most heavenly harmony in the ears of the
shepherdess, yet to seem coy at the first courting, and to disdain
love howsoever she desired love, she made this reply:
"Ah, Saladyne, though I seem simple, yet I am more subtle than to
swallow the hook because it hath a painted bait: as men are wily so
women are wary, especially if they have that wit by others' harms to
beware. Do we not know, Saladyne, men's tongues are like Mercury's
pipe, that can enchant Argus with an hundred eyes, and their words as
prejudicial as the charms of Circes, that transform men into monsters.
If such Sirens sing, we poor women had need stop our ears, lest in
hearing we prove so foolish hardy as to believe them, and so perish in
trusting much and suspecting little. Saladyne, _piscator ictus sapit_,
he that hath been once poisoned and afterwards fears not to bowse[1]
of every potion, is worthy to suffer double penance. Give me leave
then to mistrust, though I do not condemn. Saladyne is now in love
with Aliena, he a gentleman of great parentage, she a shepherdess of
mean parents; he honorable and she poor? Can love consist of
contrarieties? Will the falcon perch with the kestrel[2], the lion
harbor with the wolf? Will Venus join robes and rags together, or can
there be a sympathy between a king and a beggar? Then, Saladyne, how
can I believe thee that love should unite our thoughts, when fortune
hath set such a difference between our degrees? But suppose thou
likest Aliena's beauty: men in their fancy resemble the wasp, which
scorns that flower from which she hath fetched her wax; playing like
the inhabitants of the island Tenerifa, who, when they have gathered
the sweet spices, use the trees for fuel; so men, when they have
glutted themselves with the fair of women's faces, hold them for
necessary evils, and wearied with that which they seemed so much to
love, cast away fancy as children do their rattles, and loathing that
which so deeply before they liked; especially such as take love in a
minute and have their eyes attractive, like jet, apt to entertain any
object, are as ready to let it slip again."
[Footnote 1: drink.]
[Footnote 2: hawk.]
Saladyne, hearing how Aliena harped still upon one string, which was
the doubt of men's constancy, he broke off her sharp invective thus:
"I grant, Aliena," quoth he, "many men have done amiss in proving soon
ripe and soon rotten; but particular instances infer no general
conclusions, and therefore I hope what others have faulted in shall
not prejudice my favors. I will not use sophistry to confirm my love,
for that is subtlety; nor long discourses lest my words might be
thought more than my faith: but if this will suffice, that by the
honor of a gentleman I love Aliena, and woo Aliena, not to crop the
blossoms and reject the tree, but to consummate my faithful desires in
the honorable end of marriage."
At the word marriage Aliena stood in a maze what to answer, fearing
that if she were too coy, to drive him away with her disdain, and if
she were too courteous, to discover the heat of her desires. In a
dilemma thus what to do, at last this she said:
"Saladyne, ever since I saw thee, I favored thee; I cannot dissemble
my desires, because I see thou dost faithfully manifest thy thoughts,
and in liking thee I love thee so far as mine honor holds fancy still
in suspense; but if I knew thee as virtuous as thy father, or as well
qualified as thy brother Rosader, the doubt should be quickly decided:
but for this time to give thee an answer, assure thyself this, I will
either marry with Saladyne, or still live a virgin."
And with this they strained one another's hand; which Ganymede
espying, thinking he had had his mistress long enough at shrift, said:
"What, a match or no?"
"A match," quoth Aliena, "or else it were an ill market."
"I am glad," quoth Ganymede. "I would Rosader were well here to make
up a mess."
"Well remembered," quoth Saladyne; "I forgot I left my brother Rosader
alone, and therefore lest being solitary he should increase his
sorrows, I will haste me to him. May it please you, then, to command
me any service to him, I am ready to be a dutiful messenger."
"Only at this time commend me to him," quoth Aliena, "and tell him,
though we cannot pleasure him we pray for him."
"And forget not," quoth Ganymede, "my commendations; but say to him
that Rosalynde sheds as many tears from her heart as he drops of blood
from his wounds, for the sorrow of his misfortunes, feathering all her
thoughts with disquiet, till his welfare procure her content: say
thus, good Saladyne, and so farewell."
He having his message, gave a courteous adieu to them both, especially
to Aliena, and so playing loath to depart, went to his brother. But
Aliena, she perplexed and yet joyful, passed away the day pleasantly,
still praising the perfection of Saladyne, not ceasing to chat of her
new love till evening drew on; and then they, folding their sheep,
went home to bed. Where we leave them and return to Phoebe.
Phoebe, fired with the uncouth[1] flame of love, returned to her
father's house, so galled with restless passions, as now she began to
acknowledge, that as there was no flower so fresh but might be parched
with the sun, no tree so strong but might be shaken with a storm, so
there was no thought so chaste, but time armed with love could make
amorous; for she that held Diana for the goddess of her devotion, was
now fain to fly to the altar of Venus, as suppliant now with prayers,
as she was forward before with disdain. As she lay in her bed, she
called to mind the several beauties of young Ganymede; first his
locks, which being amber-hued, passeth the wreath that Phoebus puts on
to make his front glorious; his brow of ivory was like the seat where
love and majesty sits enthroned to enchain fancy; his eyes as bright
as the burnishing of the heaven, darting forth frowns with disdain and
smiles with favor, lightning such looks as would inflame desire, were
she wrapped in the circle of the frozen zone; in his cheeks the
vermilion teinture of the rose flourished upon natural alabaster, the
blush of the morn and Luna's silver show were so lively portrayed,
that the Troyan that fills out wine to Jupiter was not half so
beautiful; his face was full of pleasance, and all the rest of his
lineaments proportioned with such excellence, as Phoebe was fettered
in the sweetness of his feature. The idea of these perfections
tumbling in her mind made the poor shepherdess so perplexed, as
feeling a pleasure tempered with intolerable pains, and yet a disquiet
mixed with a content, she rather wished to die than to live in this
amorous anguish. But wishing is little worth in such extremes, and
therefore was she forced to pine in her malady, without any salve for
her sorrows. Reveal it she durst not, as daring in such matters to
make none her secretary;[2] and to conceal it, why, it doubled her
grief; for as fire suppressed grows to the greater flame, and the
current stopped to the more violent stream, so love smothered wrings
the heart with the deeper passions.
[Footnote 1: unknown, unaccustomed.]
[Footnote 2: confidante.]
Perplexed thus with sundry agonies, her food began to fail, and the
disquiet of her mind began to work a distemperature of her body, that,
to be short, Phoebe fell extreme sick, and so sick as there was
almost left no recovery of health. Her father, seeing his fair Phoebe
thus distressed, sent for his friends, who sought by medicine to cure,
and by counsel to pacify, but all in vain; for although her body was
feeble through long fasting, yet she did _magis aegrotare animo quam
corpore_. Which her friends perceived and sorrowed at, but salve it
they could not.
The news of her sickness was bruited abroad through all the forest,
which no sooner came to Montanus' ear, but he, like a madman, came to
visit Phoebe. Where sitting by her bedside he began his exordium with
so many tears and sighs, that she, perceiving the extremity of his
sorrows, began now as a lover to pity them, although Ganymede held her
from redressing them. Montanus craved to know the cause of her
sickness, tempered with secret plaints, but she answered him, as the
rest, with silence, having still the form of Ganymede in her mind, and
conjecturing how she might reveal her loves. To utter it in words she
found herself too bashful; to discourse by any friend she would not
trust any in her amours; to remain thus perplexed still and conceal
all, it was a double death. Whereupon, for her last refuge, she
resolved to write unto Ganymede, and therefore desired Montanus to
absent himself a while, but not to depart, for she would see if she
could steal a nap. He was no sooner gone out of the chamber, but
reaching to her standish,[1] she took pen and paper, and wrote a
letter to this effect:
[Footnote 1: a stand or case for pen and ink.]
"Phoebe to Ganymede wisheth what she wants herself.
Fair shepherd--and therefore is Phoebe infortunate, because thou art
so fair--although hitherto mine eyes were adamants to resist love, yet
I no sooner saw thy face, but they became amorous to entertain love;
more devoted to fancy than before they were repugnant to affection,
addicted to the one by nature and drawn to the other by beauty: which,
being rare and made the more excellent by many virtues, hath so
snared the freedom of Phoebe, as she rests at thy mercy, either to be
made the most fortunate of all maidens, or the most miserable of all
women. Measure not, Ganymede, my loves by my wealth, nor my desires by
my degrees; but think my thoughts as full of faith, as thy face of
amiable favors. Then, as thou knowest thyself most beautiful, suppose
me most constant. If thou deemest me hard-hearted because I hated
Montanus, think I was forced to it by fate; if thou sayest I am
kind-hearted because so lightly I love thee at the first look, think I
was driven to it by destiny, whose influence, as it is mighty, so is
it not to be resisted. If my fortunes were anything but infortunate
love, I would strive with fortune: but he that wrests[1] against the
will of Venus, seeks to quench fire with oil, and to thrust out one
thorn by putting in another. If then, Ganymede, love enters at the
eye, harbors in the heart, and will neither be driven out with physic
nor reason, pity me, as one whose malady hath no salve but from thy
sweet self, whose grief hath no ease but through thy grant; and think
I am a virgin who is deeply wronged when I am forced to woo, and
conjecture love to be strong, that is more forcible than nature. Thus
distressed unless by thee eased, I expect either to live fortunate by
thy favor, or die miserable by thy denial. Living in hope. Farewell.
She that must be thine,
or not be at all,
Phoebe."
[Footnote 1: wrestles.]
To this letter she annexed this sonnet:
_Sonetto_
My boat doth pass the straits
of seas incensed with fire,
Filled with forgetfulness;
amidst the winter's night,
A blind and careless boy,
brought up by fond desire,
Doth guide me in the sea
of sorrow and despite.
For every oar he sets
a rank of foolish thoughts,
And cuts, instead of wave,
a hope without distress;
The winds of my deep sighs,
that thunder still for noughts,
Have split my sails with fear,
with care and heaviness.
A mighty storm of tears,
a black and hideous cloud,
A thousand fierce disdains
do slack the halyards oft;
Till ignorance do pull,
and error hale the shrouds,
No star for safety shines,
no Phoebe from aloft.
Time hath subdued art,
and joy is slave to woe:
Alas, Love's guide, be kind!
what, shall I perish so?
This letter and the sonnet being ended, she could find no fit
messenger to send it by, and therefore she called in Montanus, and
entreated him to carry it to Ganymede. Although poor Montanus saw day
at a little hole, and did perceive what passion pinched her, yet, that
he might seem dutiful to his mistress in all service, he dissembled
the matter, and became a willing messenger of his own martyrdom. And
so, taking the letter, went the next morn very early to the plains
where Aliena fed her flocks, and there he found Ganymede, sitting
under a pomegranate tree, sorrowing for the hard fortunes of her
Rosader. Montanus saluted him, and according to his charge delivered
Ganymede the letters, which, he said, came from Phoebe. At this the
wanton blushed, as being abashed to think what news should come from
an unknown shepherdess; but taking the letters, unripped the seals,
and read over the discourse of Phoebe's fancies. When she had read and
over-read them Ganymede began to smile, and looking on Montanus, fell
into a great laughter, and with that called Aliena, to whom she showed
the writings. Who, having perused them, conceited them very
pleasantly, and smiled to see how love had yoked her, who before would
not stoop to the lure; Aliena whispering Ganymede in the ear, and
saying, "Knew Phoebe what want there were in thee to perform her will,
and how unfit thy kind is to be kind to her, she would be more wise,
and less enamored; but leaving that, I pray thee let us sport with
this swain." At that word Ganymede, turning to Montanus, began to
glance at him[1] thus:
[Footnote 1: tease.]
"I pray thee, tell me, shepherd, by those sweet thoughts and pleasing
sighs that grow from my mistress' favors, art thou in love with
Phoebe?"
"Oh, my youth," quoth Montanus, "were Phoebe so far in love with me,
my flocks would be more fat and their master more quiet; for through
the sorrows of my discontent grows the leanness of my sheep."
"Alas, poor swain," quoth Ganymede, "are thy passions so extreme or
thy fancy so resolute, that no reason will blemish the pride of thy
affection, and rase out that which thou strivest for without hope?"
"Nothing can make me forget Phoebe, while Montanus forget himself; for
those characters which true love hath stamped, neither the envy of
time nor fortune can wipe away."
"Why but, Montanus," quoth Ganymede, "enter with a deep insight into
the despair of thy fancies, and thou shalt see the depth of thine own
follies; for, poor man, thy progress in love is a regress to loss,
swimming against the stream with the crab, and flying with Apis Indica
against wind and weather. Thou seekest with Phoebus to win Daphne, and
she flies faster than thou canst follow: thy desires soar with the
hobby,[1] but her disdain reacheth higher than thou canst make wing. I
tell thee, Montanus, in courting Phoebe, thou barkest with the wolves
of Syria against the moon, and rovest at such a mark, with thy
thoughts, as is beyond the pitch[2] of thy bow, praying to Love, when
Love is pitiless, and thy malady remediless. For proof, Montanus, read
these letters, wherein thou shalt see thy great follies and little
hope."
[Footnote 1: falcon.]
[Footnote 2: range.]
With that Montanus took them and perused them, but with such sorrow in
his looks, as they betrayed a source of confused passions in his
heart; at every line his color changed, and every sentence was ended
with a period of sighs.
At last, noting Phoebe's extreme desire toward Ganymede and her
disdain towards him, giving Ganymede the letter, the shepherd stood as
though he had neither won nor lost. Which Ganymede perceiving wakened
him out of his dream thus:
"Now, Montanus, dost thou see thou vowest great service and obtainest
but little reward; but in lieu of thy loyalty, she maketh thee, as
Bellerophon, carry thine own bane. Then drink not willingly of that
potion wherein thou knowest is poison; creep not to her that cares not
for thee. What, Montanus, there are many as fair as Phoebe, but most
of all more courteous than Phoebe. I tell thee, shepherd, favor is
love's fuel; then since thou canst not get that, let the flame vanish
into smoke, and rather sorrow for a while than repent thee for ever."
"I tell thee, Ganymede," quoth Montanus, "as they which are stung with
the scorpion, cannot be recovered but by the scorpion, nor he that was
wounded with Achilles' lance be cured but with the same truncheon,[1]
so Apollo was fain to cry out that love was only eased with love, and
fancy healed by no medicine but favor. Phoebus had herbs to heal all
hurts but this passion; Circes had charms for all chances but for
affection, and Mercury subtle reasons to refel all griefs but love.
Persuasions are bootless, reason lends no remedy, counsel no comfort,
to such whom fancy hath made resolute; and therefore though Phoebe
loves Ganymede, yet Montanus must honor none but Phoebe."
[Footnote 1: spear.]
"Then," quoth Ganymede, "may I rightly term thee a despairing lover,
that livest without joy, and lovest without hope: but what shall I do,
Montanus, to pleasure thee? Shall I despise Phoebe, as she disdains
thee?"
"Oh," quoth Montanus, "that were to renew my griefs, and double my
sorrows; for the sight of her discontent were the censure[1] of my
death. Alas, Ganymede! though I perish in my thoughts, let not her die
in her desires. Of all passions, love is most impatient: then let not
so fair a creature as Phoebe sink under the burden of so deep a
distress. Being lovesick, she is proved heartsick, and all for the
beauty of Ganymede. Thy proportion hath entangled her affection, and
she is snared in the beauty of thy excellence. Then, sith she loves
thee so dear, mislike not her deadly. Be thou paramour to such a
paragon: she hath beauty to content thine eye, and flocks to enrich
thy store. Thou canst not wish for more than thou shalt win by her;
for she is beautiful, virtuous and wealthy, three deep persuasions to
make love frolic."
[Footnote 1: sentence.]
Aliena seeing Montanus cut it against the hair, and plead that
Ganymede ought to love Phoebe, when his only life was the love of
Phoebe, answered him thus:
"Why, Montanus, dost thou further this motion, seeing if Ganymede
marry Phoebe thy market is clean marred?"
"Ah, mistress," quoth he, "so hath love taught me to honor Phoebe,
that I would prejudice my life to pleasure her, and die in despair
rather than she should perish for want. It shall suffice me to see her
contented, and to feed mine eye on her favor. If she marry, though it
be my martyrdom, yet if she be pleased I will brook it with patience,
and triumph in mine own stars to see her desires satisfied. Therefore,
if Ganymede be as courteous as he is beautiful, let him show his
virtues in redressing Phoebe's miseries." And this Montanus pronounced
with such an assured countenance, that it amazed both Aliena and
Ganymede to see the resolution of his loves; so that they pitied his
passions and commended his patience, devising how they might by any
subtlety get Montanus the favor of Phoebe. Straight (as women's heads
are full of wiles) Ganymede had a fetch[1] to force Phoebe to fancy
the shepherd, malgrado[2] the resolution of her mind: he prosecuted
his policy thus:
[Footnote 1: device.]
[Footnote 2: in spite of.]
"Montanus," quoth he, "seeing Phoebe is so forlorn, lest I might be
counted unkind in not salving so fair a creature, I will go with thee
to Phoebe, and there hear herself in word utter that which she hath
discoursed with her pen; and then, as love wills me, I will set down
my censure.[1] I will home by our house, and send Corydon to accompany
Aliena."
[Footnote 1: decision.]
Montanus seemed glad of this determination and away they go towards
the house of Phoebe.