and told Phoebe that Ganymede was at the door. This word "Ganymede,"
sounding in the ears of Phoebe, drave her into such an ecstasy for
joy, that rising up in her bed, she was half revived, and her wan
color began to wax red; and with that came Ganymede in, who saluted
Phoebe with such a courteous look, that it was half a salve to her
sorrows. Sitting him down by her bedside, he questioned about her
disease, and where the pain chiefly held her? Phoebe looking as lovely
as Venus in her night-gear, tainting her face with as ruddy a blush
as Clytia did when she bewrayed her loves to Phoebus, taking Ganymede
by the hand began thus:
"Fair shepherd, if love were not more strong than nature, or fancy the
sharpest extreme, my immodesty were the more, and my virtues the less;
for nature hath framed women's eyes bashful, their hearts full of
fear, and their tongues full of silence; but love, that imperious
love, where his power is predominant, then he perverts all, and
wresteth the wealth of nature to his own will: an instance in myself,
fair Ganymede, for such a fire hath he kindled in my thoughts, that to
find ease for the flame, I was forced to pass the bounds of modesty,
and seek a salve at thy hands for my harms. Blame me not if I be
overbold for it is thy beauty, and if I be too forward it is fancy,
and the deep insight into thy virtues that makes me thus fond. For let
me say in a word what may be contained in a volume, Phoebe loves
Ganymede."
At this she held down her head and wept, and Ganymede rose as one that
would suffer no fish to hang on his fingers, made this reply:
"Water not thy plants, Phoebe, for I do pity thy plaints, nor seek not
to discover thy loves in tears, for I conjecture thy truth by thy
passions: sorrow is no salve for loves, nor sighs no remedy for
affection. Therefore frolic, Phoebe; for if Ganymede can cure thee,
doubt not of recovery. Yet this let me say without offence, that it
grieves me to thwart Montanus in his fancies, seeing his desires have
been so resolute, and his thoughts so loyal. But thou allegest that
thou art forced from him by fate: so I tell thee, Phoebe, either some
star or else some destiny fits my mind, rather with Adonis to die in
chase than be counted a wanton in Venus' knee. Although I pity thy
martyrdom, yet I can grant no marriage; for though I held thee fair,
yet mine eye is not fettered: love grows not, like the herb Spattana,
to his perfection in one night, but creeps with the snail, and yet at
last attains to the top. _Festina lente_, especially in love, for
momentary fancies are oft-times the fruits of follies. If, Phoebe, I
should like thee as the Hyperborei do their dates, which banquet with
them in the morning and throw them away at night, my folly should be
great, and thy repentance more. Therefore I will have time to turn my
thoughts, and my loves shall grow up as the watercresses, slowly, but
with a deep root. Thus, Phoebe, thou mayest see I disdain not, though
I desire not; remaining indifferent till time and love makes me
resolute. Therefore, Phoebe, seek not to suppress affection, and with
the love of Montanus quench the remembrance of Ganymede; strive thou
to hate me as I seek to like of thee, and ever have the duties of
Montanus in thy mind, for I promise thee thou mayest have one more
wealthy, but not more loyal." These words were corrosives to the
perplexed Phoebe, but sobbing out sighs, and straining out tears, she
blubbered out these words:
"And shall I then have no salve of Ganymede but suspense, no hope but
a doubtful hazard, no comfort, but be posted off to the will of time?
Justly have the gods balanced my fortunes, who, being cruel to
Montanus, found Ganymede as unkind to myself; so in forcing him perish
for love, I shall die myself with overmuch love."
"I am glad," quoth Ganymede, "you look into your own faults, and see
where your shoe wrings you, measuring now the pains of Montanus by
your own passions."
"Truth," quoth Phoebe, "and so deeply I repent me of my frowardness
toward the shepherd, that could I cease to love Ganymede, I would
resolve to like Montanus."
"What, if I can with reason persuade Phoebe to mislike of Ganymede,
will she then favor Montanus?"
"When reason," quoth she, "doth quench that love I owe to thee, then
will I fancy him; conditionally, that if my love can be suppressed
with no reason, as being without reason Ganymede will only wed himself
to Phoebe."
"I grant it, fair shepherdess," quoth he; "and to feed thee with the
sweetness of hope, this resolve on: I will never marry myself to woman
but unto thyself."
And with that Ganymede gave Phoebe a fruitless kiss, and such words of
comfort, that before Ganymede departed she arose out of her bed, and
made him and Montanus such cheer, as could be found in such a country
cottage; Ganymede in the midst of their banquet rehearsing the
promises of either in Montanus' favor, which highly pleased the
shepherd. Thus, all three content, and soothed up in hope, Ganymede
took his leave of his Phoebe and departed, leaving her a contented
woman, and Montanus highly pleased. But poor Ganymede, who had her
thoughts on her Rosader, when she called to remembrance his wounds,
filled her eyes full of tears, and her heart full of sorrows, plodded
to find Aliena at the folds, thinking with her presence to drive away
her passions. As she came on the plains she might espy where Rosader
and Saladyne sate with Aliena under the shade; which sight was a salve
to her grief, and such a cordial unto her heart, that she tripped
alongst the lawns full of joy.
At last Corydon, who was with them, spied Ganymede, and with that the
clown rose, and, running to meet him, cried:
"O sirrah, a match, a match! our mistress shall be married on Sunday."
Thus the poor peasant frolicked it before Ganymede, who coming to the
crew saluted them all, and especially Rosader, saying that he was glad
to see him so well recovered of his wounds.
"I had not gone abroad so soon," quoth Rosader, "but that I am bidden
to a marriage, which, on Sunday next, must be solemnized between my
brother and Aliena. I see well where love leads delay is loathsome,
and that small wooing serves where both the parties are willing."
"Truth," quoth Ganymede; "but a happy day should it be, if Rosader
that day might be married to Rosalynde."
"Ah, good Ganymede," quoth he, "by naming Rosalynde, renew not my
sorrows; for the thought of her perfections is the thrall of my
miseries."
"Tush, be of good cheer, man," quoth Ganymede: "I have a friend that
is deeply experienced in negromancy and magic; what art can do shall
be acted for thine advantage: I will cause him to bring in Rosalynde,
if either France or any bordering nation harbor her; and upon that
take the faith of a young shepherd."
Aliena smiled to see how Rosader frowned, thinking that Ganymede had
jested with him. But, breaking off from those matters, the page,
somewhat pleasant, began to discourse unto them what had passed
between him and Phoebe; which, as they laughed, so they wondered at,
all confessing that there is none so chaste but love will change. Thus
they passed away the day in chat, and when the sun began to set they
took their leaves and departed; Aliena providing for their marriage
day such solemn cheer and handsome robes as fitted their country
estate, and yet somewhat the better, in that Rosader had promised to
bring Gerismond thither as a guest. Ganymede, who then meant to
discover herself before her father, had made her a gown of green, and
a kirtle of the finest sendal,[1] in such sort that she seemed some
heavenly nymph harbored in country attire.
[Footnote 1: a thin silk.]
Saladyne was not behind in care to set out the nuptials, nor Rosader
unmindful to bid guests, who invited Gerismond and all his followers
to the feast, who willingly granted, so that there was nothing but the
day wanting to this marriage.
In the meanwhile, Phoebe being a bidden guest made herself as gorgeous
as might be to please the eye of Ganymede; and Montanus suited
himself with the cost of many of his flocks to be gallant against the
day, for then was Ganymede to give Phoebe an answer of her loves, and
Montanus either to hear the doom of his misery, or the censure of his
happiness. But while this gear was a-brewing, Phoebe passed not one
day without visiting her Ganymede, so far was she wrapped in the
beauties of this lovely swain. Much prattle they had, and the
discourse of many passions, Phoebe wishing for the day, as she
thought, of her welfare, and Ganymede smiling to think what unexpected
events would fall out at the wedding. In these humors the week went
away, that at last Sunday came.
No sooner did Phoebus' henchman appear in the sky, to give warning
that his master's horses should be trapped in his glorious coach, but
Corydon, in his holiday suit, marvellous seemly, in a russet jacket,
welted with the same and faced with red worsted, having a pair of blue
chamlet sleeves, bound at the wrists with four yellow laces, closed
before very richly with a dozen of pewter buttons; his hose was of
grey kersey, with a large slop[1] barred overthwart the pocket-holes
with three fair guards, stitched of either side with red thread; his
stock was of the own, sewed close to his breech, and for to beautify
his hose, he had trussed himself round with a dozen of new-threaden
points[2] of medley color: his bonnet was green, whereon stood a
copper brooch with the picture of Saint Denis; and to want nothing
that might make him amorous in his old days, he had a fair shirt-band
of fine lockram,[3] whipped over with Coventry blue of no small cost.
Thus attired, Corydon bestirred himself as chief stickler[4] in these
actions, and had strowed all the house with flowers, that it seemed
rather some of Flora's choice bowers than any country cottage.
[Footnote 1: a smock-frock, or possibly trousers.]
[Footnote 2: laces.]
[Footnote 3: linen.]
[Footnote 4: manager.]
Thither repaired Phoebe with all the maids of the forest, to set out
the bride in the most seemliest sort that might be; but howsoever she
helped to prank out Aliena, yet her eye was still on Ganymede, who was
so neat in a suit of grey, that he seemed Endymion when he won Luna
with his looks, or Paris when he played the swain to get the beauty of
the nymph Oenone. Ganymede, like a pretty page, waited on his mistress
Aliena, and overlooked that all was in a readiness against the
bridegroom should come; who, attired in a forester's suit, came
accompanied with Gerismond and his brother Rosader early in the
morning; where arrived, they were solemnly entertained by Aliena and
the rest of the country swains; Gerismond very highly commending the
fortunate choice of Saladyne, in that he had chosen a shepherdess,
whose virtues appeared in her outward beauties, being no less fair
than seeming modest. Ganymede coming in, and seeing her father, began
to blush, nature working affects[1] by her secret effects: scarce
could she abstain from tears to see her father in so low fortunes, he
that was wont to sit in his royal palace, attended on by twelve noble
peers, now to be contented with a simple cottage, and a troop of
revelling woodmen for his train. The consideration of his fall made
Ganymede full of sorrows; yet, that she might triumph over fortune
with patience, and not any way dash that merry day with her dumps, she
smothered her melancholy with a shadow of mirth, and very reverently
welcomed the king, not according to his former degree, but to his
present estate, with such diligence as Gerismond began to commend the
page for his exquisite person and excellent qualities.
[Footnote 1: affections.]
As thus the king with his foresters frolicked it among the shepherds,
Corydon came in with a fair mazer[1] full of cider, and presented it
to Gerismond with such a clownish salute that he began to smile, and
took it of the old shepherd very kindly, drinking to Aliena and the
rest of her fair maids, amongst whom Phoebe was the foremost. Aliena
pledged the king, and drunk to Rosader; so the carouse went round
from him to Phoebe, &c. As they were thus drinking and ready to go to
church, came in Montanus, apparelled all in tawny, to signify that he
was forsaken; on his head he wore a garland of willow, his bottle
hanged by his side, whereon was painted despair, and on his sheep-hook
hung two sonnets, as labels of his loves and fortunes.
[Footnote 1: mug.]
Thus attired came Montanus in, with his face as full of grief as his
heart was of sorrows, showing in his countenance the map of
extremities. As soon as the shepherds saw him, they did him all the
honor they could, as being the flower of all the swains in Arden; for
a bonnier boy was there not seen since that wanton wag of Troy that
kept sheep in Ida. He, seeing the king, and guessing it to be
Gerismond, did him all the reverence his country courtesy could
afford; insomuch that the king, wondering at his attire, began to
question what he was. Montanus overhearing him, made this reply:
"I am, sir," quoth he, "Love's swain, as full of inward discontents as
I seem fraught with outward follies. Mine eyes like bees delight in
sweet flowers, but sucking their full on the fair of beauty, they
carry home to the hive of my heart far more gall than honey, and for
one drop of pure dew, a ton full of deadly Aconiton. I hunt with the
fly to pursue the eagle, that flying too nigh the sun, I perish with
the sun; my thoughts are above my reach, and my desires more than my
fortunes, yet neither greater than my loves. But daring with Phaëthon,
I fall with Icarus, and seeking to pass the mean, I die for being so
mean; my night-sleeps are waking slumbers, as full of sorrows as they
be far from rest; and my days' labors are fruitless amours, staring at
a star and stumbling at a straw, leaving reason to follow after
repentance; yet every passion is a pleasure though it pinch, because
love hides his wormseed[1] in figs, his poisons in sweet potions, and
shadows prejudice with the mask of pleasure. The wisest counsellors
are my deep discontents, and I hate that which should salve my harm,
like the patient which stung with the Tarantula loathes music, and yet
the disease incurable but by melody. Thus, sir, restless I hold myself
remediless, as loving without either reward or regard, and yet loving
because there is none worthy to be loved but the mistress of my
thoughts. And that I am as full of passions as I have discoursed in my
plaints, sir, if you please, see my sonnets, and by them censure of my
sorrows."
[Footnote 1: wormwood = bitterness.]
These words of Montanus brought the king into a great wonder, amazed
as much at his wit as his attire, insomuch that he took the papers off
his hook, and read them to this effect:
_Montanus' first Sonnet_
Alas! how wander I amidst these woods
Whereas no day-bright shine doth find access;
But where the melancholy fleeting floods,
Dark as the night, my night of woes express.
Disarmed of reason, spoiled of nature's goods,
Without redress to salve my heaviness
I walk, whilst thought, too cruel to my harms,
With endless grief my heedless judgment charms.
My silent tongue assailed by secret fear,
My traitorous eyes imprisoned in their joy,
My fatal peace devoured in feignèd cheer,
My heart enforced to harbor in annoy,
My reason robbed of power by yielding ear,
My fond opinions slave to every toy.
O Love! thou guide in my uncertain way,
Woe to thy bow, thy fire, the cause of my decay.
_Et florida pungunt._
When the king had read this sonnet he highly commended the device of
the shepherd, that could so wittily wrap his passions in a shadow, and
so covertly conceal that which bred his chiefest discontent;
affirming, that as the least shrubs have their tops, the smallest
hairs their shadows, so the meanest swains had their fancies, and in
their kind were as chary of love as a king. Whetted on with this
device, he took the second and read it: the effects were these:
_Montanus' second Sonnet_
When the Dog[1]
Full of rage,
With his ireful eyes
Frowns amidst the skies,
The shepherd, to assuage
The fury of the heat,
Himself doth safely seat
By a fount
Full of fair,
Where a gentle breath,
Mounting from beneath,
Tempereth the air.
There his flocks
Drink their fill,
And with ease repose,
Whilst sweet sleep doth close
Eyes from toilsome ill.
But I burn
Without rest,
No defensive power
Shields from Phoebe's lour;
Sorrow is my best.
Gentle Love,
Lour no more;
If thou wilt invade
In the secret shade,
Labor not so sore.
I myself
And my flocks,
They their love to please,
I myself to ease,
Both leave the shady oaks;
Content to burn in fire,
Sith Love doth so desire.
_Et florida pungunt._
[Footnote 1: Sirius, the dog star.]
Gerismond, seeing the pithy vein of those sonnets, began to make
further inquiry what he was. Whereupon Rosader discoursed unto him the
love of Montanus to Phoebe, his great loyalty and her deep cruelty,
and how in revenge the gods had made the curious nymph amorous of
young Ganymede. Upon this discourse the king was desirous to see
Phoebe, who being brought before Gerismond by Rosader, shadowed the
beauty of her face with such a vermilion teinture, that the king's
eyes began to dazzle at the purity of her excellence. After Gerismond
had fed his looks awhile upon her fair, he questioned with her why she
rewarded Montanus' love with so little regard, seeing his deserts were
many, and his passions extreme. Phoebe, to make reply to the king's
demand, answered thus:
"Love, sir, is charity in his laws, and whatsoever he sets down for
justice, be it never so unjust, the sentence cannot be reversed;
women's fancies lend favors not ever by desert, but as they are
enforced by their desires; for fancy is tied to the wings of fate, and
what the stars decree, stands for an infallible doom. I know Montanus
is wise, and women's ears are greatly delighted with wit, as hardly
escaping the charm of a pleasant tongue, as Ulysses the melody of the
Sirens. Montanus is beautiful, and women's eyes are snared in the
excellence of objects, as desirous to feed their looks with a fair
face, as the bee to suck on a sweet flower. Montanus is wealthy, and
an ounce of _give me_ persuades a woman more than a pound of _hear
me_. Danaë was won with a golden shower, when she could not be gotten
with all the entreaties of Jupiter: I tell you, sir, the string of a
woman's heart reacheth to the pulse of her hand; and let a man rub
that with gold, and 't is hard but she will prove his heart's gold.
Montanus is young, a great clause in fancy's court; Montanus is
virtuous, the richest argument that love yields; and yet knowing all
these perfections, I praise them and wonder at them, loving the
qualities, but not affecting the person, because the destinies have
set down a contrary censure. Yet Venus, to add revenge, hath given me
wine of the same grape, a sip of the same sauce, and firing me with
the like passion, hath crossed me with as ill a penance; for I am in
love with a shepherd's swain, as coy to me as I am cruel to Montanus,
as peremptory in disdain as I was perverse in desire; and that is,"
quoth she, "Aliena's page, young Ganymede."
Gerismond, desirous to prosecute the end of these passions, called in
Ganymede, who, knowing the case, came in graced with such a blush, as
beautified the crystal of his face with a ruddy brightness. The king
noting well the physnomy of Ganymede, began by his favors to call to
mind the face of his Rosalynde, and with that fetched a deep sigh.
Rosader, that was passing familiar with Gerismond, demanded of him why
he sighed so sore.
"Because Rosader," quoth he, "the favor of Ganymede puts me in mind of
Rosalynde."
At this word Rosader sighed so deeply, as though his heart would have
burst.
"And what's the matter," quoth Gerismond, "that you quite me with such
a sigh?"
"Pardon me, sir," quoth Rosader, "because I love none but Rosalynde."
"And upon that condition," quoth Gerismond, "that Rosalynde were here,
I would this day make up a marriage betwixt her and thee."
At this Aliena turned her head and smiled upon Ganymede, and she could
scarce keep countenance. Yet she salved all with secrecy; and
Gerismond, to drive away his dumps, questioned with Ganymede, what the
reason was he regarded not Phoebe's love, seeing she was as fair as
the wanton that brought Troy to ruin. Ganymede mildly answered:
"If I should affect the fair Phoebe, I should offer poor Montanus
great wrong to win that from him in a moment, that he hath labored for
so many months. Yet have I promised to the beautiful shepherdess to
wed myself never to woman except unto her; but with this promise, that
if I can by reason suppress Phoebe's love towards me, she shall like
of none but of Montanus."
"To that," quoth Phoebe, "I stand; for my love is so far beyond
reason, as will admit no persuasion of reason."
"For justice," quoth he, "I appeal to Gerismond."
"And to his censure will I stand," quoth Phoebe.
"And in your victory," quoth Montanus, "stands the hazard of my
fortunes; for if Ganymede go away with conquest, Montanus is in
conceit love's monarch; if Phoebe win, then am I in effect most
miserable."
"We will see this controversy," quoth Gerismond, "and then we will to
church. Therefore, Ganymede, let us hear your argument."
"Nay, pardon my absence a while," quoth she, "and you shall see one in
store."
In went Ganymede and dressed herself in woman's attire, having on a
gown of green, with kirtle of rich sendal,[1] so quaint, that she
seemed Diana triumphing in the forest; upon her head she wore a
chaplet of roses, which gave her such a grace that she looked like
Flora perked in the pride of all her flowers. Thus attired came
Rosalynde in, and presented herself at her father's feet, with her
eyes full of tears, craving his blessing, and discoursing unto him all
her fortunes, how she was banished by Torismond, and how ever since
she lived in that country disguised.
[Footnote 1: a thin silk.]
Gerismond, seeing his daughter, rose from his seat and fell upon her
neck, uttering the passions of his joy in watery plaints, driven into
such an ecstasy of content, that he could not utter one word. At this
sight, if Rosader was both amazed and joyful, I refer myself to the
judgment of such as have experience in love, seeing his Rosalynde
before his face whom so long and deeply he had affected. At last
Gerismond recovered his spirits, and in most fatherly terms
entertained his daughter Rosalynde, after many questions demanding of
her what had passed between her and Rosader?
"So much, sir," quoth she, "as there wants nothing but your grace to
make up the marriage."
"Why, then," quoth Gerismond, "Rosader take her: she is thine, and let
this day solemnize both thy brother's and thy nuptials." Rosader
beyond measure content, humbly thanked the king, and embraced his
Rosalynde, who turning to Phoebe, demanded if she had shown sufficient
reason to suppress the force of her loves.
"Yea," quoth Phoebe, "and so great a persuasive, that if it please
you, madame, and Aliena to give us leave, Montanus and I will make
this day the third couple in marriage."
She had no sooner spake this word, but Montanus threw away his garland
of willow, his bottle, where was painted despair, and cast his sonnets
in the fire, showing himself as frolic as Paris when he handselled[1]
his love with Helena. At this Gerismond and the rest smiled, and
concluded that Montanus and Phoebe should keep their wedding with the
two brethren. Aliena seeing Saladyne stand in a dump,[2] to wake him
from his dream began thus:
[Footnote 1: began.]
[Footnote 2: revery.]
"Why how now, my Saladyne, all amort?[1] what melancholy, man, at the
day of marriage? Perchance thou art sorrowful to think on thy
brother's high fortunes, and thine own base desires to choose so mean
a shepherdess. Cheer up thy heart, man; for this day thou shalt be
married to the daughter of a king; for know, Saladyne, I am not
Aliena, but Alinda, the daughter of thy mortal enemy Torismond."
[Footnote 1: dead.]
At this all the company was amazed, especially Gerismond, who rising
up, took Alinda in his arms, and said to Rosalynde: "Is this that fair
Alinda famous for so many virtues, that forsook her father's court to
live with thee exiled in the country?"
"The same," quoth Rosalynde.
"Then," quoth Gerismond, turning to Saladyne, "jolly forester be
frolic, for thy fortunes are great, and thy desires excellent; thou
hast got a princess as famous for her perfection, as exceeding in
proportion."