Rosalynde Part 13

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 s.h.i.+neth 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 pa.s.sionate, 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 Monta.n.u.s loves; so now if you please, you and Ganymede, but to walk with me to yonder thicket, there shall you see Monta.n.u.s 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 Monta.n.u.s. 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 compa.s.sionate. 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.]

_Monta.n.u.s' 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 sh.o.r.e 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, Monta.n.u.s felt his pa.s.sions so extreme, that he fell into this exclamation against the injustice of Love:

Helas, tyran, plein de rigueur, Modere un peu ta violence: Que te sert si grande depense?

C'est trop de flammes pour un coeur.

epargnez en une etincelle, Puis fais ton effort d'emouvoir, La fiere qui ne veut point voir, En quel feu je brule pour elle.

Execute, Amour, ce dessein, Et rabaisse un peu son audace: Son coeur ne doit etre de glace, Bien qu'elle ait de neige le sein.

Monta.n.u.s 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 pa.s.sions 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 Monta.n.u.s' Pa.s.sion_

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 G.o.ds 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 G.o.ds 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.]

Monta.n.u.s, hearing the cruel resolution of Phoebe, was so overgrown with pa.s.sions, 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 pa.s.sions 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 Monta.n.u.s hath no salve for his sorrows, nor any hope of recompense for the hazard of his perplexed pa.s.sions. 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, Monta.n.u.s' thoughts have been sealed in the sweet of Phoebe's excellence, as far from change as she from love: if outward pa.s.sions 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 pa.s.sions, 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 Monta.n.u.s, 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 Monta.n.u.s 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 Monta.n.u.s 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 pa.s.sions 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, Monta.n.u.s, 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, Monta.n.u.s: 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, Monta.n.u.s, 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 pa.s.sions of Monta.n.u.s, 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; blus.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.sionate 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 Monta.n.u.s; 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 Monta.n.u.s 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 G.o.ddess 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 pa.s.sionate 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 Monta.n.u.s, wis.h.i.+ng 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 Monta.n.u.s 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 Monta.n.u.s 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."