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DIANA OF GEORGE OF MONTEMAYOR: Translated out of Spanish into English by BARTHOLOMEW YOUNG of the Middle Temple Gentleman.  
At London, Printed by Edm. Bollifant, Impensis G. B. 1598.   

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE and my very good Lady the Lady RICH.  
RIGHT HONOURABLE, such are the apparent defects of art and judgement in this new portrayed DIANA, that their discovery must needs make me blush and abase the work, unless with undeserved favour erected upon the high and shining pillar of your Honourable protection, they may seem to the beholder less, or none at all. The glory whereof as with reason it can no ways be thought worthy, but by boldly adventuring upon the apparent demonstration of your magnificent mind, wherein all noble virtues have their proper seat, and on that singular desire, knowledge and delight, wherewith your Ladyship entertaineth, embraceth and affecteth honest endeavours, learned languages, and this particular subject of DIANA, warranted by all virtue and modesty, as COLLEN in his French dedicatory to the Illustrious Prince LEWIS of LORRAINE at large setteth down and commendeth: so now presenting it to so sovereign a light, and relying on a gracious acceptance, what can be added more to the full content, desire and perfection of DIANA, and of her unworthy Interpreter (that hath in English attire exposed her to the view of strangers) then for their comfort and defence to be armed with the Honourable titles and countenance of so high and excellent a Patroness? But as certain years past (my Honourable good Lady) in a public show at the Middle Temple, where your Honourable presence with many noble Lords and fair Ladies graced and beautified those sports, it befell to my lot in that worthy assembly, unworthily to perform the part of a French Orator by a deducted speech in the same tongue, and that amongst so many good conceits and such general skill in tongues, all the while I was rehearsing it, there was not any, whose mature judgement and censure in that language I feared and suspected more than your Ladyships, whose attentive ear and eye daunted my imagination with the apprehension of my disability, and your ladyships perfect knowledge in the same: Now once again in this translation out of Spanish (which language also with the present matter being so well known to your Ladyship) whose reprehension and severe sentence of all others may I more justly fear, then that which (Honourable Madame) at election you may herein duly give, or with favour take away. But as then by your gracious aspect and mild countenance I flattered myself with your favourable applause of the first; So now to prevent the second, I have no other means, than the humble insinuation of it to your most Honourable name & clemency, most humbly beseeching the same to pardon all those faults, which to your learned and judicious view shall occur. Since then for pledge of the dutiful and zealous desire I have to serve your Ladyship, the great disproportion of your most noble estate to the quality of my poor condition, can afford nothing else but this small present, my prayer shall always importune the heavens for the happy increase of your high and worthy degree, and for the full accomplishment of your most Honourable and virtuous desires.  
From High Onger in Essex the 28. of novemb. 1598. Your honours most humbly devoted, BARTHOL. YOUNG.   

The Preface to divers learned Gentlemen, and other my loving friends.  
ABout nineteen years passed (courteous Gentlemen) coming out of Spain into my native country, and having spent welny three years in some serious studies and certain affairs, with no means or occasion to exercise the Spanish tongue (by discontinuance whereof it had almost shaken hands with me) it was my good hap to fall into the company and acquaintance of my especial good friend Edward Banister of Idesworth in the County of Southampton Esquire; who perceiving my remissness in the said language, persuaded & encouraged me earnestly, by some good translation to recall it to her former place: And to that intent he gave me the first and second Part of Diana of Montemayor in Spanish, which Book (although I had been two years in Spain) till than I never saw nor heard of; whose friendly care and desire to prevent so great a loss, and to preserve such an ornament in me, I confess was the chief and principal cause (and therefore the only credit) of this translation, whereby I recovered that tongue again that lay (as it were) smothered in the cinders of oblivion. The second cause of this my labour, was the delight I passed in discurring most of those towns and places in it with a pleasant recordation of my pen, which mine eyes so often with joy and sorrow had beheld. The third, the resolved then intent I had never (howsoever now it hath escaped my hands) to put it in Print, in proof whereof it hath lain by me finished Horace's ten and six years more. For till then I never tried my unproper vain in making an English verse: how well or ill than the hard and strange kind of Spanish is turned, I leave to your favourable censure and pardon: The low and pastoral stile hereof, Montemayor in his Epistle to the L. of Villanova excuseth, entreating of Shepherds, though indeed they were but shadows of great and honourable personages, and of their marriages, that not many years ago lived in the Court of Spain, whose posterity to this day live in noble estate. But touching the Books following, you must understand that George of Montemayor a Gentleman sprung out of the noble house of Montemayor in Portugal, after he had ended his first Part of Diana, which he distributed into seven Books, intending to set forth the second Part, and before his departure into Italy (where I heard he died) imparted his purpose, and the subject of his intended second Part, to Alonso Perez, who answering his intent, wrote the second Part of Diana, containing eight Books, promising in the end thereof to continue it with a third Part, which yet he hath not done, although I hear he hath a purpose to do it. But Gaspar Gil Polo a Valentian Gentleman, who in my opinion excelleth for fine conceit (whether before or after that Alonso Perez second Part came forth) made another Part of Diana, naming it the first Part of Enamoured Diana; the which being divided into five Books, he entituleth to follow in due sequence the first seven Books of Diana of George of Montemayor. And in the end of that first Part of Enamoured Diana, he likewise maketh a reference to another Part which he promised to set forth; the which and that of Alonso Perez, if ever they come to light, I leave to some finer wit and better judgement to English, myself having done too much by launching so far into the main, unless (happily) in your favourable judgements it may find a friendly and temperate construction. Having compared the French copies with the Spanish original, I judge the first Part to be exquisite; the other two corruptly done with a confusion of verse into Prose, and leaving out in many places divers hard sentences, and some leaves in the end of the third Part, wherefore they are but blind guides by any to be imitated. Well might I have excused these pains, if only Edward Paston Esquire (who here and there for his own pleasure (as I understand) hath aptly turned out of Spanish into English some leaves that liked him best) had also made an absolute and complete translation of all the Parts of Diana; the which, for his travel in that Country, and great knowledge in that language, accompanied with other learned and good parts in him, had of all others, that ever yet I heard translate these Books, proved the rarest and worthiest to be embraced. The faults escaped in the Printing, the copy being very dark and interlined, and I loath to write it out again, I pray you Gentlemen pardon, since all the last Term that it was in the Press (having matters of greater consequence in charge) I could not intend the correction: advertising you by the way that the greatest faults are at the end of the Book set down, the less being of no moment purposely omitted. Far ye well and continue me in your wonted love and favours.  
Yours in all friendly offices, B. Y.  
  

THE EPISTLE To the Illustrious and noble Lord Don ivan de Castilia de Villa Nova, Baron of Bicorb and Quesa, of GEORGE of Montemayor.  
ALthough this custom were not very ancient, most noble L. for Authors to dedicate their works to personages of honour and renown, by whom they were protected and defended; notwithstanding your rare and high deserts (as well for your noble and ancient house from whence you are descended, as also for the resplendent valour and virtue of your person) might with greater reason than I can express, incite me to perform more than this obliged duty. And admit the base stile of the work, and the Authors small worth, in reason ought not so far extend as to dedicate it to your Lordship: yet excluded from all other remedies, I presumed only on this, that it was somewhat accounted of. For precious stones are not so highly valued for the name they have (for they may be false and counterfeit) as for his estimate in whose hands they are: I humbly beseech your good Lordship to entertain this book under your Hon. ampare and correction, as to the Author hereof (being but a stranger) you have done no less, since his poor ability is not able to serve your Lordship in any other thing: whose wished life and noble estate our Lord increase for many years.   

To the same Lord.  

Moecenae was to Maro of great fame  
A singular good Lord and loving friend,  
And Alexander did enjoy that same  
Rare wit of Homer, death though him did end:  
And so the Villanovas' generous name  
The Lusitan poor Author doth defend,  
Making a base and wanting wit t'aspire  
Unto the clouds, and yet a great deal higher.    

Don Gaspar Romani to the Author.  

If Lady LAURAS' memory unstained  
PETRARC in endless verse hath left renowned:  
And if with Laurel HOMER hath been crowned  
For writing of the wars the Greeks obtained:  
If King's t'advance the glory they have gained  
In life time, when fierce MARS in battle frowned,  
Procure it should not be in LETHE drowned,  
But after death by history maintained:  
More justly than shouldst thou be celebrated  
(O excellent DIANA) for the fairest  
Of all the fair ones, that the world hath brought forth:  
Since all those wits, whose pens were estimated  
To write the best, in glory thou impairest,  
And from them all the Laurel crown hast sought forth.    

Don Hieronymo Sant-Perez, to George of Montemayor.  

Parnasse, O sacred mount and full of glory,  
The Poet's muse, delight of their desires:  
methinks thou art too comfortless and sorry,  
Compared with this, whose famous name aspires.   

In deed I am, since that the Muses left me,  
And with their gracious Choir from hence descended  
To mount this Hill, whose Greatness hath bereft me  
Of all my fame, and glory that is ended.   

Thrice happy his Diana, since her flower  
In top of this High Hill was set so lately,  
That all the world might view it every hour,  
Where she doth live most sovereign and stately:   

In all the world most celebrate and graced,  
Being no less excels, then highly placed.    


The Argument of the first Seven Books.  
IN the fields of the ancient and principal city of Leon in Spain, lying along the banks of the river Ezla, lived a Shepherdess called Diana, whose beauty was most sovereign above all others in her time. She loved, and was dearly beloved again of a Shepherd called Syrenus, in whose mutual love was as great chastity and virtue as might be. At the same time another Shepherd called sylvanus loved her also more than himself, but so abhorred of the Shepherdess, that there was not any thing in the world, which she hated more. But it fell out, that as Syrenus was constrained to be out of the kingdom about certain affairs, which could by no means be excused, nor left undone, and the Shepherdess remaining at home very sad for his absence, time, and Diana's hart with time were changed, who then was married to another Shepherd called Delius, burying him, whom she had but of late so greatly loved, in unjust oblivion. Who, after a whole year of his absence coming home again with great affection and desire to see his beloved Shepherdess, knew before he came, that she was already married. And from hence the first book gins: and in the others following, they shall find divers histories of accidents, that have truly happened, though they go muffled under pastoral names and style.   

The first Book of Diana of George of Montemayor.  
Down from the hills of Leon came forgotten Syrenus, whom love, fortune, and time did so entreat, that by the least grief, that he suffered in his sorrowful life, he looked for no less then to lose the same. The unfortunate Shepherd did not now bewail the harm, which her absence did threaten him, and the fear of her forgetfulness did not greatly trouble his mind, because he saw all the prophecies of his suspicion so greatly to his prejudice accomplished, that now he thought he had no more misfortunes to menace him. But the Shepherd coming to those green and pleasant meads, which the great river Ezla watereth with his crystalline streams, the great felicity and content came to his wandering thoughts, which sometimes he had enjoyed there, being then so absolute a Lord of his own liberty, as now subject to one, who had wrongfully interred him in dark oblivion. He went musing of that happy time, when in those meadows, and on those fair banks he fed his flocks, applying then his mind in the only care and interest he had to feed them well: and spending the rest of his hours in the only delight, that he took in the sweet smell of those golden flowers, at that time especially, when cheerful springtide (the merry messenger of summer) is spread over the face of the whole earth: sometimes taking his rebecke, which he ever carried very neat in a scrip, and sometimes his bagpipe, to the tune of which he made most sweet ditties, which of all the Shepherdesses of those hamlets thereabouts made him most highly commended. The Shepherd busied not his thoughts in the consideration of the prosperous and preposterous success of fortune, nor in the mutability and course of times, neither did the painful diligence and aspiring mind of the ambitious Courtier trouble his quiet rest: nor the presumption and coy disdain of the proud and nice Lady (celebrated only by the appassionate vows and opinions of her amorous sutours) once occur to his imaginations. And as little did the swelling pride, and small care of the haughty private man offend his quiet mind. In the field was he borne, bred, and brought up: in the field he fed his flocks, and so out of the limits of the field his thoughts did never range, until cruel love took possession of his liberty, which to those he is commonly wont to do, who think themselves freest from his tyranny. The sad Shepherd therefore came softly on his pace, his eyes turned into fountains, the fresh hue of his face changed, and his hart so tempered to suffer Fortunes unworthy disgraces, that if she would have given him any content, she must have sought him a new hart to receive it. The weeds that he did wear, was a long grey coat, as rugged as his haps, carrying a sheephooj in his right hand, and a scrip hanging on his left arm. He laid himself down at the foot of a thick hedge, and began to cast forth his eyes along those fair river banks, until their beams came to that place, where first they beheld the beauty, grace, and rare virtues of the Shepherdesle Diana, she, in whom skilful nature had consummated all perfections, which in every part of her dainty body she had equally bestowed. Then did his hart imagine that, which before it divined of, That sometimes he should find himself put amongst sorrowful memories. And then could not the woeful Shepherd stop his tears from gushing out, nor smother his sighs which came smoking out of his breast, but lifting up his eyes to heaven began thus to lament. Ah memory (cruel enemy to my quiet rest) were not thou better occupied to make me forget present corsies, then to put before mine eyes passed contents? What sayest thou memory? That in this meadow I beheld my Lady Diana, that in the same I began to feel that, which I shall never leave of to lament, That near to that clear fountain (set about with high and green Sycamores) with many tears she solemnly swore to me, that there was not the dearest thing in the world, no, not the will of her parents, the persuasion of her brethren, nor the importunities of her allies, that were able to remove her from her settled thoughts? And when she spoke these words, there fell out of those fair eyes tears like oriental pearls, which seemed to testify that, which remained in her secret hart, commanding me, upon pain to be accounted of her a man but of a base and abject mind, if I did not believe that, which so often times she had told me. But stay yet a little Memory, since now thou hast put before me the foundations of my mishap (and such they were, that the joy, which I then passed, was but the beginning of the grief which now I suffer) forget not to tune me this jarring string, to put before mine eyes by one and one, the troubles, the turmoils, the fears, the suspects, the jealousies, the mistrusts, and cares, which leave not him, that most truly loves. Ah memory, memory, how sure am I of this answer at thy hands, that the greatest pain, that I passed in these considerations, was but little in respect of that content, which in am of them I received. Thou hast great reason memory, and the worse for me that it is so great: and lying and lamenting in this sort, he took a paper out of his bosom, wherein he had a few green silken strings and hair tied up together, and laying them open before him upon the green grass, with abundance of tears he took out his Rebecke, not half so jocund as it was wont to be, at what time he was in Diana's favour, and began to sing that which followeth.  

Hair in change what liberty,  
Since I saw you, have I seen?  
How unseemly hath this green  
Been a sign of hope to me?  
Once I thought no Shepherd might  
In these fields be found (O hair)  
(Though I did it with some fear)  
Worthy to come near your sight.  
Hair, how many times and tides  
Did my fair Diana spy,  
If I ware or left you by  
And a thousand toys besides.  
And how oft in weeping sort  
(Of deceitful tears O springs)  
Was she jealous of the things,  
Which I spoke or did in sport?  
Those fair eyes which wrought my woe,  
(Golden hair) tell me what fault  
In believing them I caught,  
When they did assure me so?  
Saw you not how she did grieve,  
Spilling daily many a tear,  
Unto her till I did swear,  
That I did her words believe?  
Who more beauty ever knew  
In a subject of such change,  
Or more sorrows or more strange  
In a love so perfect true?  
On the sand her did I see  
Sitting by you river bright,  
Where her finger this did wright  
Rather dead than changed be.  
See how love bears us in hand,  
Making us believe the words,  
That a woman's wit affords,  
And recorded in the sand.   
Syrenus had not so soon made an end of his sorrowful song, if that his tears had not been at hand, for such an one was he, from whom fortune had cut off all the ways and means of his remedy. Sorrowing thus, his Rebecke fell out of his hand, and taking up the golden hair he put them in their place again, saying, O pledges of the fairest and most disloyal Shepherdess that human eyes may behold, how with your own safety have you beguiled me? Woe is me, that I cannot choose but see you, my whole grief consisting in having seen you. And pulling his hand out of his scrip, he found a letter, that Diana in time of his prosperity had sent him, which when he beheld, with a burning sigh, that came from his very hart, he said. O letter, letter burned mayst thou be by his hands, who may best do what he list: and woe be to him that now shall read thee: But who may do it? And opening it, he saw that it said thus.  
Diana's letter to Syrenus.  
HOw ill I should brook thy words (my Syrenus) who would not think, but that love made thee utter them? Thou sayest I love thee not so much as I ought to do, I know not whereby thou perceivest it, and conceive not, how I should love thee more. Behold, it is now no time not to believe me, because thou seest, that the love, which I bear thee, compels me to believe that, which from thy very thoughts and affection thou dost tell me. I imagine oftentimes, that as thou supposest, that I love thee not (by loving thee more than myself) so must thou think, that thou lovest me by hating me. Behold Syrenus, how time hath dealt better with thee than thou didst imagine at the beginning of our loves (with safety yet of mine honour) which owes thee all that it may: wherein is not any thing, that I would not do for thy sake, beseeching thee, as much as I may, not to trouble thy mind with jealousy and suspicions, because thou knowest, how few escape out of their hands with safety of life, which God give thee with all the content that I wish thee.  
Is this a letter said Syrenus, sighing, to make one think, that oblivion could enter into that hart, from whence such words came forth? And are these words to be passed so slightly out of memory? And that she then spoke them, and now forget me? O sorrowful man, with what great content did I read this letter when my Mistress had sent it me, and how many times in the same hour did I read it over again? But for every pleasure then, with seven fold pain I am now apaid: and fortune could do no less with me, then to make me fall from one extreme to another: For it had ill beseemed her with partial hand to exempt me from that, which to all others she is commonly wont to do.  
About this time from the hill beneath, that led from the village to the green meadow, Syrenus might perceive a Shepherd coming down pace by pace, and staying awhile at every step, sometimes looking up to heaven, and sometimes casting his eyes upon the green meadow and fair river banks, which from aloft he might easily view and discover (the thing which more augmented his sorrow) seeing the place, where the beginning and root of his mishap did first grow. Syrenus knew him by and by, and looking towards the place from whence he came, said. Unfortunate Shepherd (though not half so much as I am) that art a corrival with me in Diana's love, to what end have thy bootless suits served thee, and the disdain that this cruel Shepherdess hath done thee, but to put them all on my score? But if thou hadst known that the final sum of all thy pains should have been like to mine, what greater favour hadst thou found at fortunes hands, by preserving thee still in this hapless estate of life, then by throwing me headlong down from it, when I did lest suspect it? But now despised sylvanus took out his bagpipe, and playing on it a little, with great sorrow and grief did sing these verses following.  


I Am a lover, but was never loved,  
Well have I loved, and will though hated ever,  
Troubles I pass, but never any moved,  
Sighs have I given, and yet she heard me never:  
I would complain, and she would never hear me,  
And fly from love, but it is ever near me:  
Oblivion only blameless doth beset me,  
For that remembreth never to forget me.   

For every ill one semblant I do bear still,  
To day not sad, nor yesterday contented,  
To look behind, or go before I fear still,  
All things to pass alike I have consented:  
I am besides myself like him that danceth,  
And moves his feet at every sound that chanceth:  
And so all like a senseless fool disdains me,  
But this is nothing to the grief that pains me.   

The night to certain lovers is a trouble,  
When in the day some good they are attending:  
And other some do hope to gain some double  
Pleasure by night, and wish the day were ending:  
With that, that grieveth some, some others ease them,  
And all do follow that, that best doth please them:  
But for the day with tears I am a crying,  
Which being come, for night I am a dying.   

Of Cupid to complain who ever crave it,  
In waves he writes and to the winds he crieth:  
Or seeketh help of him, that never gave it:  
For he at last thy pains and thee defieth.  
Come but to him some good advise to lend thee,  
To thousand odd conceits he will commend thee.  
What thing is then this love? It is a science,  
That sets both proof and study at defiance.   

My Mistress loved her Syrenus dearly,  
And scorned me, whose loves yet I avouched,  
Left to my grief, for good I held it clearly,  
Though narrowly my life and soul it touched:  
Had I but had a heaven as he once shining,  
Love would I blame, if it had been declining.  
But love did take no good from me he sent me,  
For how can love take that he never lent me.   

love's not a thing, that any may procure it,  
love's not a thing, that may be bought for treasure;  
love's not a thing, that comes when any lure it,  
love's not a thing, that may be found at p●…re:  
For if it be not borne with thee, refrain it  
To think, thou must be borne anew to gain it:  
Then since that love shuns force, and doth disclaim it,  
The scorned lover hath no cause to blame it.    
Syrenus was not idle when sylvanus was singing these verses, for with his sighs he answered the last accents of his words, and with his tears did solemnize that, which he conceived by them. The disdained Shepherd after he had ended his song, began to revolve in his mind the small regard he had of himself, and how for the love of his cruel Mistress Diana, he had neglected all his business and flocks: and yet he reckoned all this but small. He considered, that his service was without hope of recompense, a great occasion to make him, that hath but small firmness, easily cut off the way of his love. But his constancy was so great, that being put in the mids of all the causes, which he had to forget her, who never thought of him, with his own safety he came so easily out of them, and so clearly without prejudice to the sincere love, which he bore his Shepherdess, that (without any fear) he never committed any ignorance, that might turn to the hurt or hindrance of his faith. But when he saw Syrenus at the fountain, he wondered to see him so sad, not that he was ignorant of the cause of his sorrow, but because he thought that if he had tasted but the lest favour, that Syrenus had sometimes received at Diana's hands, such a contentment had been enough for him all his life time. He came unto him and embraced him, and with many tears on both sides they sat them down upon the green grass, sylvanus beginning to speak in this sort. God forbidden (Syrenus) that for the cause of my mishap, or at the lest for the small remedy thereof, I should take delight or revenge in thine, which though at mine own pleasure I might well do, yet the great love which I bear to my Mistress Diana, would never consent thereunto, nor suffer me to go against that, which with such good will and liking she had sometimes favoured: if thy sorrows grieve me not, let me never have end of mine; and in such sort, that as soon as Diana was about to marry, if it killed not my hart with thinking, that her marriage and thy death should have been both at one time, let me never enjoy any other estate and condition of life then now I do. Canst thou then think (Syrenus) that I would wish thee ill, because Diana loved thee? And that the favours that she did thee, were the occasions to make me hate thee? What man, my faith was never so basely poised, but that it was ever so serviceable to my Mistress humour, not only in loving thee, but in loving and honouring all that ever she loved. And yet thou hast no cause to thank me for this care and compassion of thy grief, for I am so dissolved into cares, that for mine own good I would be sorry, how much more than for other men's harms. This strange kind of the Shepherd sylvanus his greeting caused no small admiration in Syrenus, and made him for a while in suspense with himself, wondering at his great sufferance, and at the strange quality of his love, that he did bear to his Shepherdess. But remembering himself at last, he said. Hast thou (sylvanus) happily, been borne for an example of patience to those, who know not how to suffer the adversities, that fortune puts before their eyes? Or may it be, that nature hath given thee so strong a mind, that it is not enough for thee to suffer thine own, but thou wilt needs help others to support theirs? I see thee so conformable to the hard condition of thy fortune, that, promising thee no help of remedy, thou dost ask no other, then that it hath already given thee. I tell thee (sylvanus) that time shows well by thee, how every day it discovers novelties and strange conceits beyond the compass of man's imagination. O how much more than ought this unfortunate Shepherd to emulate thee, by seeing thee suffer thy griefs with such content, which thou mightest rather have done to him, when thou sawest him so happily enjoy his merry times. Hast thou not seen how greatly she favoured me, and with what sweet and gracious words she manifested her love unto me? Didst thou not see, how she could never go with her flocks to the river, or take her lambs out of the fold, or in the heat of the day drive her sheep into the shades of these Sycamores without my company? But for all this, I wish I may never see the remedy of my grief, if I ever expected or desired any thing at Diana's hands that was repugnant to her honour, or if any such thing did ever pass my thought. For such was her beauty, her brave mind, her virtue, and such unspotted purity in her love to me again, that they admitted no thought into my mind, which in prejudice of her goodness and chastity I might have imagined. I believe it well (said sylvanus sighing) for I can say as much by myself, and think moreover that there was never any, that casting his eyes on Diana's peerless beauty, durst desire any other thing, then to see her, and to converse with her. Although I know not, whether such rare and excellent beauty might in some men's thoughts (not subject to such a continent affection as ours) cause an excessive desire: and especially, if they had seen her, as I did one day sitting with thee near to you little brook, when she was kembing her golden hair, and thou holding the glass unto her, wherein now and then she beheld her divine figure, though neither of you both did (perhaps) know that I espied you from those high bushes, near to the two great oaks, keeping (yet) in mind the verses, that thou sungest upon the holding of the glass, whiles she was addressing her resplendent tresses. How came they to thy hands, said Syrenus? The next day following (said sylvanus) in that very place I found the paper wherein they were written, and reading them, committed them to memory: And then came Diana thither weeping for the loss of them, and ask me, if I had found them, which was no small joy and contentment to me, to see my Mistress power forth those tears, which I might speedily remedy. And this I remember was the first hour, that ever I had a gentle and courteous word of her mouth (how greatly in the mean time stood I need of favours) when she said unto me, that I might highly pleasure her, to help her to that, which so earnestly she sought for: which words, like holy relics, I kept in my mind; for in a whole year after I took no regard of all the woes and griefs that I passed, for joy of that one only word, which had in it but a small appearance of joy and happiness. Now as thou lovest thy life (said Syrenus) rehearse those verses, which, thou saidst, I did sing, since thou hast them so well by hart. I am content, said sylvanus: and these they were.  


FOr a favour of such worth  
In no doubt I do remain,  
Since with self same coin again  
(Mistress) thou art paid right forth.  
For if I enjoy with free  
Pleasure, seeing before me  
Face and eyes, where Cupid stands:  
So thou seeing in my hands,  
That which in thine eyes I see.   

Let not this to thee seem ill,  
That of thy beauty divine  
Thou see'st but the figure shine,  
And I natures perfect skill:  
Yet a thought, that's free and set  
Never yet in Cupid's net,  
Better than the bond beholds,  
Though the one the lively moulds,  
Th'other but the counterfeit.    
When Syrenus had heard the song out, he said to sylvanus. I wish that love, gentle Shepherd, with hope of impossible felicity may remedy my griefs, if there be any thing in the world, that I would sooner choose to pass away my sorrowful life with, then in thy sweet and gracious company, and if it grieves me not now to the hart, that Diana is so cruel unto thee, that she hath not (which well she might have done) once thanked thee, nor shown thee a favourable and grateful countenance for all thy long and loyal service, and for so true love that thou hast showed therein. I could with a little content me (said sylvanus sighing) if my angry fortune would persuade Diana to give me some hope, which she might well afford without stain to her honour, or breach of faith to thee. But so hard hearted is she, that not only when I crave it, she denies it me, and flies from me when I come in her sight, but to comfort me with any small sign or token, whereby I might imagine or hope hereafter to enjoy it, she would never yet consent. Whereupon I said many times to myself. It may fall out that this stony hearted and fierce Tigress may one day conceive some displeasure against Syrenus, for revenge whereof, and to despite him, she will perhaps show me some feigned favour; for so disgraced and comfortless a man as I am would be glad but with feigned favours to content him, and to embrace them as true ones. And when thou went'st out of this country, than I infallibly persuaded myself, that the remedy of my grief was knockin (as it were) at my door, and that oblivion was the certainest thing to be expected after absence, and especially in a woman's hart. But after when I saw her tears, her little rest and staying in the village, her delight in seeking out solitary places, and her continual sighs, when I say I beheld all these things, God knows with what impatience and grief of mind I felt them. For though I knew, that time was an approved physician of sorrow, which absence is commonly wont to procure, yet I desired not, that my Mistress might pass one hour of grief, although I hoped to get thereby two thousand of content. A few days after thy departure I saw her at the foot of yonder hill, leaning against an oak, and staying her tender breast upon her sheephooj, where she stood in that sort a good while before she espied me, who, though afterwards she lifted up her eyes, yet her tears that issued out so fast, did also hinder her (I think) that she could not well perceive me. She should then be musing on her solitary and sorrowful life, and on the grief that by thy absence she conceived: But a little after that, not without many tears (accompanied with as many painful sighs) she took out her bagpipe which she carried in a fine scrip, and began to play on it so sweetly, that the hills, and dales, the rivers, the enamoured birds, and the rocky mountains of that thick wood were amazed and ravished with her sweet music. And leaving her bagpipe, to the tune that she had played, she began to sing this song following.  


O Eyes, that see not him, who looked on you  
When that they were the mirrors of his sight,  
What can you now behold to your content?  
Green flowery mead where often I did view,  
And stayed for my sweet friend with great delight,  
The ill, which I do feel with me lament.  
Here did he tell me how his thoughts were bend,  
And (wretch) I lent an ear;  
But angry more than whelplesse Bear  
Presumptuous him I called, and undiscreet:  
And he laid at my feet,  
Where yet (poor man) me thinks I see him lie:  
And now I wish that I  
Might see him so, as than I did: O happy time were this,  
Sweet shadowed river banks tell me where my Syrenus is.   

Yond is the river bank, this is the mead,  
From thence the hedge appears and shadowed lay,  
Wherein my flocks did feed the savoury grass:  
Behold the sweet noised spring, where I did lead  
My sheep to drink in heat of all the day,  
When here my sweetest friend the time did pass:  
Under that hedge of lively green he was;  
And there behold the place,  
Where first I saw his sweetest face  
And where he saw me, happy was that day,  
Had not my ill haps way  
To end such happy times, O spring,  
O hedge, and every thing  
Is here, but he, for whom I pain continually, and miss,  
Sweet shadowed river banks tell me where my Syrenus is.   

here have I yet his picture that deceives me,  
Since that I see my Shepherd when I view it,  
(Though it were better from my soul absented)  
When I desire to see the man, that leaves me  
(Which fond deceit time shows and makes me rue it)  
To yonder spring I go, where I consented  
To hang it on yond Sallow, then contented  
I sit by it, and after  
(Fond love) I look into the water,  
And see us both, then am I so content here,  
As when his life he spent here:  
This bare devise a while my life sustaineth;  
But when no more it feigneth,  
My hart surcharged with anguish, and cries out, but yet amiss,  
Sweet shadowed river banks tell me where my Syrenus is.   

Speaking to it no words it is replying,  
And then (me thinks) revenge of me it taketh,  
Because sometime an answer I despised.  
But (woeful soul) I say unto it crying,  
Syrenus speak, since now thy presence maketh  
Abode, where never once my thoughts surmised:  
Say, in my soul art thou not only prized?  
But not a word it saith,  
And as before me there it stayeth,  
To speak, my soul doth pray it (in conclusion)  
O what a brave delusion,  
To ask a simple picture tongue or senses?  
O time, in what offences  
Of vainest hope is my poor soul so subject unto his?  
Sweet shadowed river banks tell me where my Syrenus is.   

I never can go homeward with my sheep,  
When to the west the sun gins to gyre,  
Nor to the folds return from our town,  
But every where I see, and (seeing) weep  
The sheep cote of my joy and sweet desire  
Broken, decayed, and thrown unto the ground:  
Careless of lambs and sheep, there sit I down  
A little while, until  
The herdesmen feeding on the hill,  
Cry out to me, saying, O Shepherdess  
What do thy thoughts possess,  
And let thy sheep go feeding in the grain?  
Our eyes do see it plain:  
For them the tender grass in pleasant vales doth grow iwis,  
Sweet shadowed river banks tell me where my Syrenus is.   

Yet in thine own opinion greater reason  
(Syrenus) it had been, thus to have started  
With more constraint, and force then I did see yet,  
But whom do I accuse of guiltless treason?  
For what could make him stay and not have parted,  
If fate and fortune thereto did agree yet?  
No fault of thine it was, nor could it be yet  
In my belief, have ended  
Thou wouldst in aught, or have offended  
Our love so plain and simple, as to leave it  
Nor will I once conceive it,  
Though many shows and signs thereof there were yet:  
O no, the fates did swear it,  
With clouds of sorrow to obscure my heaven of joy and bliss,  
Sweet shadowed river banks tell me where my Syrenus is.   

My song take heed thou goest where I betake thee,  
Yet shalt thou not forsake me:  
For it may be that fortune will with such a humour place thee,  
That may term thee importunate and by that means disgrace thee.    
After sylvanus had made an end of Diana's amorous song, he said to Syrenus, who in hearing the loving verses that his Shepherdess had sung after his departure, was almost besides his wits. When fair Diana was singing this song, it was seen by my tears if I felt not those at my hart, which for thy sake she powered out: but making as though I had not heard, nor seen any thing, by dissembling the matter the best I could, (which I could scarce do) I came to the place where she was. Syrenus interrupting him at these words, said. Stay a little sylvanus, (I pray thee) and tell me what hart was able to change, that ●elt such passions? O constancy, O firmness, how seldom and how small a time do you sojourn in a woman's hart? That the more subject she is to love and to embrace you, the more ready she is to leave and forget you. And surely I was of this opinion, that this imperfection was incident to all women, but to my Mistress Diana, in whom I ever thought that nature had not omitted to frame every good and perfect thing. But sylvanus after this prosecuting his history, said unto him. When I came near to the place where Diana was, I saw her fixing her fair eyes in the clear fountain, where using her accustomed manner, she began to say. O woeful eyes, how sooner shall you want tears to water my cheeks, then continual occasions to power you out? O my Syrenus, I would to God, before the winter with his blustering storms despoyles the green meadow of fresh and fragrant flowers, the pleasant valleys of fine and tender grass, and the shadowed trees of their green leaves, that these eyes may behold again thy presence so much desired of my loving soul, as mine is eschewed and (perhaps) hated of thine: With this she lifted up her divine countenance, and by chance espied me, and going about to dissemble her sorrowful complaint, she could not so cunningly do it, but that her tears made it too manifest, by stopping the passage of her dissimulation. She rose up at my coming, and said. Sat down here sylvanus, and see how thou art now (to mine own cost) sufficiently revenged of me. Now doth this miserable woman pay thee home again those pains, which thou didst suffer (as thou saidst) for her sake, if it be true, that she was ever, or yet is the cause of them. Is it possible Diana (said I again) that these ears may hear these words? In the end, I perceive, I am not deceived by saying, that I was borne to discover every day new kinds of torments for thy sake, and thou to requite them with the greatest rigour in the world. Dost thou now therefore doubt, that thou art the cause of my grief? If thou art not, who (dost thou imagine) can deserve so great love as this: or what hart in the world (but thine) had not before this been mollified and made pitiful by so many tears? And to these I added many other words, which now I do not so well remember. But the cruel enemy of my rest cut off my words, saying. If thy tongue, sylvanus, fond presumeth to speak to me again of these matters, and not to entertain the time with talk of my Syrenus, I will (at thine own pleasure) leave thee to enjoy the delight of this fair fountain, where we now sit. For knowest thou not, that every thing that entreats not of the goodness of my Shepherd is both hateful and hurtful to my ears? And that she, that loveth well, thinketh that time but ill employed, which is not spent in hearing of her love? Whereupon, fearing lest my words might have been an occasion to have made me lose that great content and happiness, that I had by her sweet sight and presence, I sealed them up with silence, and was a good while without speaking a word, only delighting myself with the felicity I had, by contemplating her sovereign beauty, until night with greater haste than I desired, came on, when both of us than were constrained to go homewards with our flocks to our village. Then Syrenus giving a great sigh, said. Thou hast told me strange things, sylvanus, and all (wretched man) for the increase of my harms, since I have tried too soon the small constancy that is in a woman's hart, which for the love that I bear to them all (for her sake) in very truth grieves me not a little. For I would not, Shepherd, hereafter hear it spoken, that in a mould, where nature hath conjoined such store of peregrine beauty, and mature discretion, there should be a mixture of such unworthy inconstancy as she hath used towards me. And that, which comes nearest to my hart, is, that time shall make her understand, how ill she hath dealt with me, which cannot be, but to the prejudice of her own content and rest. But how lives she, and with what contentment after her marriage? Some tell me, said sylvanus, that she brooks it but ill, and no marvel, for that Delius her husband though he be (as thou knowest) enriched with fortunes gifts, is but poor in those of nature and good education: For, thou knowest, how loutish of spirit and body he is, and namely for those things, which we Shepherds take a pride in, as in piping, singing, wrestling, darting of our sheepehookes, and dancing with the wenches on Sunday, it seems that Delius was borne for no more, but only to behold them. But now good Shepherd, said Syrenus, take out thy Kit, and I will take my Bagpipe, for there is no grief that is not with music relented and passed away, and no sorrow, which is not with the same again increased. And so both the shepherds tuning, and playing on their instruments with great grace and sweetness began to sing that which followeth.  

sylvanus. 
SYrenus, what thought'st thou when I was viewing thee  
From yonder hedge, and in great grief suspending me  
To see with what affliction thou wert ruing thee?  
There do I leave my flock, that is attending me:  
For while the clearest sun goeth not declining it,  
Well may I be with thee, by recommending me  
Thine ill (my Shepherd) for that (by defining it)  
Is passed with less cost, then by concealing it:  
And sorrow (in the end) departs resigning it.  
My grief I would recount thee, but revealing it,  
It doth increase, and more, by thus recording me  
How in most vain laments I am appealing it:  
My life I see (O grief) long time's affording me  
With dying hart, and have not to revive me it,  
And an unwonted ill I see aboarding me,  
From whom I hoped a mean, she doth deprive me it:  
But (sooth) I hoped it never, for bewraying it,  
With reason she might gain say to contrive me it.  
My passions did solicit her, essaying yet  
With no importune means, but seemly grounding them,  
And cruel love went hindering and dismaying it.  
My pensive thoughts were carefully rebounding them  
On every side, to fly the worst, restraining them,  
And in unlawful motions not confounding them.  
They prayed Diane, in ills, that were not feigning them,  
To give a mean (but never to repel it thee)  
And that a wretch might so be entertaining them.  
But if to give it me, I should refel it thee,  
What wouldst thou do (O grief) that thus adjuring it,  
Feign would I hide mine ill, and never tell it thee.  
But after (my Syrenus) thus procuring it,  
A Shepherdess I do invoke (the fairest one)  
And th'end goes thus, unto my cost enduring it.   
Syrenus. 
sylvanus mine, a love, of all the rarest one,  
A beauty, blinding presently disclosing it,  
A wit, and in discretion the waryest one,  
A sweet discourse, that to the ear opposing it,  
The hardest rocks entendereth in subduing them.  
What shall a hapless lover feel in losing it?  
My little sheep I see, and think in viewing them,  
How often times I have beheld her feeding them,  
And with her own to fold them, not eschewing them.  
How often have I met her drive, and speeding them  
Unto the river, in the heat, where resting her  
With great care she was telling yet, and heeding them.  
After, if that she was alone, divesting her,  
Thou shouldst have seen the bright sun beams envying her  
Resplendent hair, to comb them manifesting her.  
But on the sudden meeting, and espying her,  
(My dearest friend Sylvan) how oft incended was  
Her fairest face, with orient blushing dying her?  
And with what grace, how mildly reprehended was  
My staying long, which she did ask, correcting me?  
Which if I grieved, with blandishments amended was.  
How many days have I found her expecting me  
At this clear fountain, when that I was seeking her  
Along that thickest hedge, to grief subjecting me?  
All pains and troubles what so ere (in meeting her)  
Of sheep, or lambs, we strait way were forgetting them,  
When she saw me, or when that I was greeting her.  
Some other times (Sylvan) we tuned (in setting them)  
Our Bagpipe and the Rebeck, which we played on,  
And then my verses sung we, nothing letting them.  
After with bow and arrows we estraied on,  
Sometimes with nets, and she never refraining me,  
And came not home without some chase we prayed on.  
Thus fortune went by these means entertaining me:  
Reserving for some greater ill, and tendering me,  
Which hath no end, but by deaths end restraining me.   
sylvanus. 
Syrenus, that most cruel love, engendering me  
Such grief, stints not, nor hindereth the persuading me  
Of so much ill: I die therein remembering me.  
Diane I saw, but strait my joy was failing me,  
When to my only sight she was opposing her:  
And (to my grief) I saw long lift invading me.  
How many times have I found her, in losing her,  
How often lost, in finding and espying her?  
And I my death and service not disclosing her.  
My life I lost, when meeting I was eyeing her  
Fair lovely eyes, which, full of anger, cruelly  
She turned to me, when that my speech was plying her:  
But her fair hair, where Cupid's in their f●…ll lie,  
When she undid and combed, unseen, then leaving me,  
My ills returned most sensibly, which rue well I.  
But pitiless Diana then perceiving me,  
Turned like a cruel serpent, that in winding it,  
Assails the lion: th●… my life be reaving me.  
One time false hope (deceitfully but blinding it)  
My hart maintained, ewen for my comfort choosing it,  
But afterwards in such an error finding it,  
It mocked hope, and then it vanished losing it.    
Not long after that the shepherds had made an end of their sorrowful songs, they espied a shepherdess coming out of the thicket near to the river, playing on a Bagpipe, and singing with as sweet a grace and delicate voice, as with no less sorrow and grief, which by her countenance and gesture she so lively expressed, that it darkened a great part of her excellent beauty: Whereupon Syrenus, who had not of a long time fed in those valleys, asked sylvanus what she was, who answered: This is a fair Shepherdess, that hath said but a few days since in these meadows, complaining greatly of love, and (as some say) with good cause, though others say, that she hath been a long time mocked by the discovery of a deceit: Why, said Syrenus, lies it then in her to perceive it, and to deliver herself from it? It doth, said sylvanus, for I think there is no woman, though never so much in love, whose wits and senses the force and passion of love can so much blind, that may not perceive whether she be beloved again or not. I am of a contrary opinion, said Syrenus. Of a contrary, said sylvanus? Why, thou shalt not flatter thyself so much, for, the affiance which thou hadst in Dianus words, hath cost thee dear, and yet I blame thee not, considering that as there is none, whom her beauty overcomes not, so is there not any, whom her words deceive not. How knowest thou that, since she never deceived thee by word nor deed. It is true, said sylvanus, that I was ever (if so I may term it) undeceived by her, but I durst (by that which hath hitherto fallen out) that she never meant any deceit to me, but only to deceive thee. But let us leave this, and hearken to this Shepherdess, that is a great friend to Diana, who is well worthy for the commendable report of her wisdom and good graces to be hearkened unto. But now was the fair Shepherdess coming towards the fountain, and began to sing this Sonnet following.  

A Sonnet.  
MIne eyes, once have I seen you more contented,  
And my poor hart, more joyful I have known thee:  
Woe to the cause, whose griefs have over grown thee,  
And yet whose sight your comforts once presented.  
But as this cruel fortune hath invented  
(Sweet joy) to root thee up, where she had sown thee,  
So now (Seluagia) she hath over thrown thee:  
Thy pleasures scarce begun, she hath tormented.  
Let me to time or to his changing take me,  
Let me with motions out of order lead me,  
Than I shall see how free my hart is to me.  
Then will I trust in hopes that not forsake me,  
When I have staid her wheels that overtread me,  
And beaten down the fates that do undo me.   
After that the Shepherdess had made an end of her song, she came directly to the fountain where the shepherds were, and while she was a coming, sylvanus, smiling, said. Mark but those wo●…, and the burning sigh wherewith she ended her song, what witnesses they are of her inward love and grief. Thereof I have no doubt, said Syrenns, for I would to God I could so speedily remedy her sorrow, as I believe (to my great grief) all that she hath by doleful song uttered. And talking thus together, Seluagia was by this time come, and knowing the Shepherds, courteously saluted them, saying. What do you in this green and pleasant meadow, despised Shepherds? Thou sayest not amiss, fair Seluagia, by ask us what we do, said sylvanus, for we do so little in respect of that we should do, that we can never conclude and bring any thing to pass, that in our loves we desire to have. Marvel not thereat, said Seluagia, for there are certain things, that before they end, they that desire them, are ended. True, said sylvanus, if a man puts his rest in a woman's disposition, for she will first end his life, before she will end or determine to give him any favour, that he is still hoping to receive at her hands. Unhappy women are these, said Seluagia, that are so ill entreated by your words: But more unfortunate are those men, said sylvanus, that are worse handled by your deeds. Can there be a thing more base and of less account, then that you are so ready for the lightest thing in the world to forget them, to whom you have borne the greatest love? For, absent yourselves but a day from him whom you love well, and then shall he need to commence his suit new again. Two things I gather, said Seluagia, by thy speech, which make me wonder not a little. The one, to see thy tongue go so much awry, and contrary to that which I ever conjectured, and knew by thy behaviour and conditions. For I thought, when I heard thee talk of thy love, that in the same thou wert a Phoenix, and that none of the best lovers to this day came ever near to the extreme that thou hadst, by loving a Shepherdess, whom I know, a cause sufficient enough not to speak ill of women, if thy malice were not greater than thy love. The second, that thou speakest of a thing thou understandest not; for to blame forgetfulness, who never had any trial thereof, must rather be attributed to folly and want of discretion, then to any thing else. For if Diana did never remember thee, how canst thou complain of her oblivion? I think to answer, said sylvanus, both these points, if I shall not weary thine ears with hearing me. To the first, saying, That I wish I may never enjoy any more content than now I have, if any (by the greatest example that he is able to allege me) can with words set down the force and power, that this thankless and disloyal Shepherdess, whom thou knowest, and I would I knew not, hath over my subjecteth soul. But the greater the love is I bear her, the more it grieves me, that there is any thing in her that may be reprehended. For here is Syrenus, who was favoured more of Diana, than any lover in the world of his Mistress, and yet she hath now forgotten him, as thou fair Shepherdess, and all we do know. To the other point, where thou sayest, that I have no reason to speak ill of that, whereof I never had experience, I say, that the Physician may judge of that grief, which he himself never had: and will further satisfy thee, Seluagia, with this opinion of me, that I bear no hate to women, nor (in very truth) wish them ill, for there is nothing in the world, which I would desire to serve with more reverence and affection. But in requital of my zealous love, I am but ill entreated, and with such intolerable disdain, which made me speak so much by her, who takes a pride and a glory in giving me such cause of grief, Syrenus, who had held his peace all this while, said to Seluaggia: If thou wouldst but listen to me, fair Shepherdess, blameless thou wouldst hold my rival, or (to speak more properly) my dear friend sylvanus. But tell me, what is the reason, that you are so inconstant, that in a moment you throw a Shepherd down from the top of his good hap, to the deepest bottom of misery: knowest thou whereunto I attribute it? To nothing else but to your own simplicity: because you have no perfect understanding to conceive the good, nor know the value of that, you have in your hands. You meddle with love and are uncapable to judge what it means; how do you, then, know to behave yourselves in it. I tell thee, Syrenus, said Seluagia, that the cause why Shepherdesses forget their lovers, is no other, but because they are forgotten of them again. These are things, which love doth make and undo, things which time and place altars and buries in silence, but not for the want of women's due knowledge in them, of whom there have been an infinite number in the world, who might have taught men to live, and to love, if love were a thing that might be taught or learned: But yet for all this, there is not (I think) any base estate of life then a woman's; for if they speak you fair, you think them by and by to die for your love; if they speak not to you, you think them proud and fantastical; if their behaviour be not to your liking, you think them hypocrites. They have no kind of pastance, which you think not to exceed: if they hold their peace, you say they are fools: if they speak, you say they are so troublesome, that none will abide to hear them: if they love you the most in the world, you think they go about to deceive you: if they forget you, and fly the occasions of bringing their good names in question, you say they are inconstant, and never firm in one mind and purpose: So that the good or ill woman can do no more to please your minds, than never to exceed the limits of your desires and dispositions. If every one fair Seluagia, said Syrenus, were endued with this fineness of wit and grave understanding as thou art, they would never give us occasions to make us complain of their small regard in their love. But because we may know what reason thou hast to find thyself so much aggrieved with it, so may God give thee comfort needful for such an ill, as thou wouldst vouchsafe to tell us the substance of thy love, and all the occurrents which have hitherto befallen thee therein. For (it seems) thou canst tell us more of ours, than we are able to inform thee, to see, if his effects, which thou hast passed, will give thee leave to speak so freely as thou dost: for by thy words thou seemest to have more experience in them, than any woman that ever I knew. If I were not the most tried woman in them, said Seluagia, I am (at the ) the worst entreated by them, as any ever was, and such an one, who with greater reason than the rest may complain of loves frantic effects (a thing sufficient to make one speak enough in it.) And because by that which is past, thou mayest know that which I now suffer, to be a devilish kind of passion, commit your misfortunes a while to silence, and I will tell you greater than ever you heard before.  
IN the mighty and invincible kingdom of Portugal run two great rivers, which wearied with watering the greater part of our Spain, not far from one another enter into the main Ocean. Between both which are situated many old and ancient towns, by reason of the great fertility of the soil, which hath not the like in the whole world. The inhabitants lives of this province are so much sequestered and estranged from things, that may disturb the mind, that there is not any (but when Venus by the mighty hands of her blind son means to show her power) who troubles his mind more, then to sustain a quiet life, by maintaining a mean and competent living with those things, which for their poor estates are requisite. The men's endeavours are naturally disposed to spend their life time in sufficient content, & the women's beauties to take it from him, who liveth most assured of his liberty. There are many houses in the shadowed forests, and pleasant vales, the which being nourished by the silver dew of sovereign heaven, & tilled by their inhabitants, favourable summer forgetteth not to offer up into their hands the fruits of their own travels, and provision for the necessity of their lives. I lived in a village near to great Duerus one of these two rivers, where Minerva hath a most stately temple built unto her, the which in certain times of the year is visited of all, or most of the Shepherdesses, that live in that province: who, with the fair Nymphs thereabouts, begin, a day before the holy feast, with sweet songs and hymns to celebrate it, and the shepherds likewise to solemnize the same with challenges of running, leaping, wrestling, and pitching the bar, appointing several rewards and gifts for them, that bear the bell away, sometimes a garland of green ivy, sometimes a fine Bagpipe, Flute, or Sheephooj of knotty Ash, and other guerdons which shepherds make most account of. But the festival time being come, I with other Shepherdesses my friends and acquaintance, leaving of our servile and workday apparel, and putting on the best we had, went the day before to that place, determining to watch all that night in the temple, as other years before we were wont to do. Being therefore in company of my friends, we saw coming in at the door a Bevie of fair Shepherdesses, attended on by jolly shepherds, who leaving them within, and having done their due orisons, went out again to the pleasant valley: for the order of that province was, that no Shepherd might enter into the temple, but to do his devotion, and then presently to go forth again, until the next day, when all came in together to participate the ceremonies and sacrifices, which were made there. The reason was, because the Shepherdesses and Nymphs might sit alone, and without trouble or occasion to think of any other matter, then devoutly to celebrate the feast, and to make merry with one another, according to the ancient accustomed manner. And the shepherds to remain amongst themselves without the temple in a fair green mead hard by, where by the brightness of nocturnal Diana they might disport themselves. But the foresaid Shepherdesses being come into the sumptuous temple (after they had said a few prayers, and presented their offerings upon the altar) they placed themselves down by us. And it was my ill hap, that one of them sat next unto me, to make me infortunate as long as her memory did importune me. The Shepherdesses came in muffled, for their faces were covered with white veils tied up above their hats, which were artificially made of fine straw, and so curiously wrought with many works of the same, that it excelled the glittering gold in show. But as I was eyeing her, that sat next unto me, I perceived how she did seldom cast off her eyes from beholding me again; and when I looked on her, I might see her cast them down, feigning as though she would see me, but in such sort, that I might not perceive it. I did not meanly desire to know what she was, because, if she had spoken to me, I might not upon ignorance have made a fault by not knowing her again, who all the while that I sat thinking of some other matter, did never cast her eyes off me, but viewed me so much, that a thousand times I was about to speak unto her, being suddenly enamoured of those fair eyes, which of all her face were only discovered and open. But she seeing me sitting in this perplexity, pulled out the fairest, and most dainty hand, that ever I did see, and taking mine into it, did with a sweet and amorous eye a little while behold me: whereupon being now so stricken in love, as tongue cannot express, I said unto her. It is not only this hand, most fair and gracious Shepherdess, that is always ready to serve thee, but also her hart and thoughts, to whom it appertaineth. Ismenia (for so she was called, that was the cause of my disquiet and molested thoughts) having now complotted in her mind to mock me (as you shall hear) answered me softly, that none might hear her, in this manner, saying. I am so much thine, sweet Shepherdess, that, as such an one, I boldly presumed to do that which I did, praying thee not to be offended with me, for no sooner I viewed thy fair and amiable face, but presently I lost the power of my conquered soul: I was so glad to hear these words, that coming nearer unto her, with a smile I answered her thus. How can it be, gentle Shepherdess, that thyself being so passing fair, shouldest fall in love with her, who wants it so much, to make her have the name of such an one, and more, with a woman as I am. It is that love (fair Shepherdess) said she again, that seldom ends, surviving all destinies, and which is neither subject to change of time, nor fortune. If the condition of my estate (said I again) could prompt me so fit an answer, as thy wise and discreet words do enforce, the desire which I have to serve thee, should not let me from manifesting the same by most loving terms, but in these few ones believe me (fair Shepherdess) that the resolution which I have to be thine, not death itself can determine, nor take away. After these words, our mutual embracings were so many, and our loving speeches to one another so often redoubled, and of my part so true and unfeigned, that we regarded not the Shepherdess' songs, nor beheld the dances, nor other sports that were made in the temple. And now by this time was I earnest with Ismenia to tell me her name, and to put off her muffler, both which not only she cunningly excused, but very suttly turned her talk to another matter. But midnight being now past, and I having the greatest desire in the world to see her face, and to know her name, and of what village she was, began to complain of her, and to tell her, that it was not possible that the love, which by her words she protested to bear me, was so great, since having told her my name, she concealed hers from me: and that loving her as I did, it was impossible for me to live, unless I knew whom I loved, or from whence I might hear news from my love again, and many other things I told her in so good earnest, that the same, and my tears helped to move false Ismenias hart: who rising up and taking me by the hand, to carry me aside into some secret place, where none might hear her, began to say these words unto me, making as though they came out from the bottom of her hart. Fair Shepherdess, borne only for the unrest and torment of a soul, that hitherto hath lived as exempt and free as possible might be, who can choose, but tell thee that thou requirest at my hands, having now made thee the sole Mistress of my liberty? Unhappy me, that the change of my habit hath deceived thee, although the deceit redounds to mine own harm: The muffler, which thou intreatest me to pull off, behold, to please thee, I take away, but to tell thee my name makes not much to thy purpose, when as hereafter (though I would not) thou shalt see me oftener than thou mayest well suffer. And speaking these words, and pulling off her muffler, mine eyes beheld a face, whose countenance, though it was somewhat manlike, yet was the favour and beauty of it so singular, that it made me to wonder. But Ismenia prosecuting her speech, said. And because thou mayst know (fair Shepherdess) the sum of this pain which thy beauty hath made me feel, and that the words which have passed between us but in sport, are true, know, that I am a man, and not a woman, as thou takest me to be: These Shepherdesses, which thou seest here in my company (my kinswomen and familiar acquaintance) to make some sport and to laugh, appareled me in this sort; for otherwise I could not have stayed in the temple, by reason of the old custom so strictly observed here. When I heard these words, and perceived as I said before, not those effeminate looks in her face, nor that demure modesty in her eyes, which maidens for the most part are wont to have, I verily believed that all was true that she told me, and then was so far besides myself, that I knew not what to answer her. Yet mine eyes did still contemplate that most perfect beauty, and marked those words, which with so great dissimulation she had told me: for never could any make a false and feigned tale seem more apparent and true as that crafty and cruel Shepherdess did. Then I felt myself so entangled in her love, and so well content to hear that she was enamoured of me again, as (gentle shepherds) I am not able to declare. And though I had not till then any experience of love passions (a cause sufficient not to make me express them) yet forcing myself the best I could, in this sort I said unto her. Fair Shepherdess, that hast (to make me live without liberty, or for some other respect, which fortune best knows) taken upon thee the habit of her, who for thy love hath entirely vowed her affections to thee, thine own had sufficed to overcome me, without making me yield with mine own weapons. But who can fly from that, which fortune hath allotted her? Thrice happy might I have thought myself, if on purpose thou hadst done that, which by chance, and only for merriment thou hast devised. For, if by changing thy natural habit, it had been only to have seen me, and to unfold to me thy amorous desires, I would then have attributed it to mine own deserts, and (no doubt) to thy great affection, but seeing that the intent was of an other consequence, although the effect hath resulted to this thou seest, it contents me not so greatly (I must needs confess) being done in such sort as I have said. And let not this desire amaze nor grieve thee; for there is no greater sign of a perfect lover, then to desire to be beloved of him, to whom she hath wholly offered up her liberty. Whereupon by that thou hast heard me utter, thou mayest gather, how thy sight hath blinded my understanding, and made me become such an one as I am, beseeching thee to use the power thou hast over me, in such sort, that I may entertain this opinion, to think myself happy and fortunate to the end of our love, the which for my part (while life doth last) shall not die in my faithful and loving breast. Deceitful Ismenia was so skilful to frame a subtle answer to my simple words, and to feign speeches so fit for the subject of our talk, that none could escape the cunning deceit, whereinto I fell, unless fortune by the thread of wisdom had unwound her out of so intricate a labyrinth. And in this sort we were together until morning came on, talking of that, which she may imagine, that hath passed the like disordered occurrents in love. She told me her name was Alanius, her country village Gallia, three miles from our town, where we appointed to meet, and see one another many times together. But now 'gan the dusky welkin to wax clear, and hasty morning was come, when both of us with many embracings, tears, and sighs were constrained to departed from one another. She went from me, and I, turning my head back to behold her, and to see if she looked back at me again, perceived how she went away smiling to herself, whereof (thinking that mine eyes did but deceive me) I made no regard at all. Away she went with the company that came with her, and I with more than I brought, since in my troubled mind I carried back with me the eyes and Idea of feigned Alanius, the words, by the which she had opened to me her malicious and ridiculous love, the embracings, that I received of her, and the cruel grief, which until that time I had never proved before. And now you must know (good shepherds) that this false and subtle Ismenia had a cousin called Alanius, whom she loved more than herself, for in countenance and eyes, and in every other part and lineaments, she resembled him so much, that if they had not been of different sex, none could have judged the one from the other. And the love which she did bear him, was so great, that when I asked her her name in the temple, and seeing that she must needs tell me some shepherds name or other, the first that came to her mind and mouth, was that of Alanius. For there is no greater certainty, then that the tongue in a sudden matter doth ever concur with the hart. And her the Shepherd loved well, but yet not so much as she did him. But now when the Shepherdesses were come out of the temple, to go home to their villages, Ismenia went to her kinsman Alanius, who, to show her all the courtesy, that in so great and mutual love was requisite, leaving the youngsters company of his town, accompanied her all alone: whereat Ismenia was not a little proud and joyful: who to entertain the time with some talk by the way, told him all that had passed between us, not omitting any thing, and not without great sport and laughter of them both, telling him also, that I went away with firm belief, that she was a man, and greatly enamoured of her. When Alanius heard these novelties, he dissembled the matter the best he could, saying, that it was a pleasant and pretty jest. And picking all out of her, that had passed between us, so that (he thought) there was nothing left untold, they came to their town. But eight days after (which I thought were eight thousand years) the traitor Alanius (for so I may with greater reason call him, than he had afterward to cast me off) came to our town, and stood attending me in such a place, where I could not choose but see him, as I was going with other maids to the fountain not far from the town: whom when I espied, I was rapt out of mind for extreme and sudden joy, thinking he was the very same, that in the habit of a Shepherdess had spoken to me in the temple; whereupon I made him some secret signs to come to the fountain, whither I was going, who knowing my meaning, performed forthwith my mind. Thither he came, and there we were talking together as long as time would give us leave, and the love (of my side at the ) was so strongly confirmed between us, that though the deceit had been discovered (as not many days after it was known) it was yet of so great force and virtue, that it could never make me alienate my mind and affection from him. And I also believed, that Alanius loved me well, and that especially from that time he was greatly enamoured of me, though afterwards in effect he did not so well declare it: so that for certain days together our love happily continued, and was handled with the greatest secrecy that might be, which was not yet so great, but that subtle Ismenia in the end perceived it: who (seeing herself to be the only cause thereof, and most in fault) not only by deceiving me, but by ministering occasion to Alanius of discovering himself, and by that which passed, to fall in love with me, and to forget her (as indeed he did) for very grief was almost out of her wits, but that with this poor hope she comforted herself again, that, if I knew the truth, I would immediately forget and cast him off, wherein she was not a little deceived: for as he afterwards loved me more and more, so by his several beauties and singular deserts, I was more obliged to love and honour him. But Ismenia purposing to open the deceit, which by her own folly and subtlety she had framed, wrote me this letter following.  
Ismenias letter to Seluagia.  
IF we are bound to love those well (Seluagia) that love us, there is nothing in the world, which I ought to esteem dearer than thyself; but if to hate them that are the cause, why we are forgotten and despised, I leave it to thine own discretion. I would put thee in some fault, for casting thine eyes upon my Alanius, but (wretched woman) what shall I do, that am the organ of mine own mishap. O Seluagia, to my grief I saw thee, and well could I excuse that which I passed with thee, but in the end such fond pranks have seldom good success. For laughing but one little hour with my Alanius, and telling him what had passed between us, I must now weep and lament all my life time, if my grief (at the ) may not move thee to some remorse of pity. I beseech thee (by all I may) that the discovery of this deceit may suffice, and so work with thee, to make thee forget my Alanius, and restore this hapless Shepherdess to that, which (being not a little) thou art able to do, if love will permit thee to grant me this favour, which I request at thy hands.  
When I had read this letter, and imparted it to Alanius, he then at large unfolded unto me the manner of her deceit, but not one word of the love, that was between them both, whereof I made no great reckoning; for I was so assured of that which he seemed to bear me, that I would never believe that any passed or future thoughts might have been an occasion to have made him afterwards forget me. But because Ismenia might not by my silence think me discourteous, I answered her letter thus.  
Seluagias letter to Ismenia.  
I Know not fair Ismenia, whether I may justly accuse thee, or give thee thanks for disposing my mind and affection in this sort, nor can resolve with myself whether of these two I should do, until the success of my love do counsel me herein. On the one side I am sorry for thy ill hap; on the other, I see that thou went'st forth (as it were) to meet and embrace it. Seluagia was free when thou didst delude her in the temple, and is now subject to his will, into whose hands thou wouldst needs deliver her. Thou prayest me to leave off the love, that I bear Alanius, with that which thou thyself wouldst do in this behalf, I may easily answer thee. Yet one thing makes me very sad, that thou art grieved for that, for which thou hast no just cause of complaint, which to the patiented thereof giveth the greatest pain in the world. I do often consider & think of those fair eyes, with which thou didst behold me, and of that sweet face, which (after many importunate requestestes) thou didst show me, and it grieves me Ismenia, that such fair things, and so like to my Alanius, should suffer any sorrow and discontentment at all. Behold then what remedy is left for thy grief: that for the bounty, which thou hast used towards me, by giving me the most precious gem thou hadst, I kiss thy fair and dainty hands; which courtesy of thine being so great, God grant that by some means or other I may be able to requite. If thou seest my Alanius there, tell him (I pray thee) what reason he hath to love me, for he knoweth already, how much he hath to forget thee. And God glue thee the content thou desirest, which may not be to the cost of that which I have, by seeing my affection so happily and well employed.  
Ismenia could not read this letter to the end, for in the midst of it her sighs and tears, which she powered out, were so many, that she thought at that very time to have lost her life. She laboured (as much as she could) to make Alanius forsake me, and devised so many means for the same purpose, as he, to shun those places and occasions, whereby he thought he might see her. Not that he meant her any harm thereby, but because he thought (by doing so) in some part he requited the great love that I bore him. All the days that he lived in this mind, there escaped not any, wherein I saw him not; for he passed evermore that way, feeding his flocks, which from our town did lead to his. He accounted no travels nor troubles too great, which he did for my sake, and especially, if he thought I regarded them. Day by day Ismenia inquired after him, and never ceased to seek him out, who being sometimes told by others, and sometimes knowing herself, that he was in our town, had no patience at all to suffer such a corsive at her hart. And yet for all this, there was not anything, that contented and pacified her troubled mind more, than when she could get some little time to speak with him. But as necessity is so ingenious and politic, that it seeks out remedies, where man's wit can scarce imagine any, despised Ismenia adventured to help herself by one, which I would to God had never entered into her thought, by feigning that she extremely loved another Shepherd called Montanus, who a long time had loved and served her before. And as she purposed, so she put it in practice, to try if by this sudden change she might draw Alanius to that which so much she desired. For there is not any thing, which a man thinks he hath most sure, though making but a small account thereof, but that the loss of it (if on a sudden he lose it) doth not a little grieve him. But now when Montanus perceived that fair Ismenia his love and Mistress had at last mollified her long obdurate hart, and now thought good to requite the great love that he had so long time borne her, shepherds, you may well imagine, what content he felt. For so great was his joy, so obsequious his services to her, and so many troubles that he passed for her sake, that they were an occasion (with the disfavours and contempt that Alanius had shown her) to make that feigned love prove true, which but in jest she began to bear him. So that Ismenia yielded her hart wholly to Montanus with such firmness, that there was not any in the world, whom she loved more than him, nor whom she desired less to see then my Alanius: the which (as soon as she could) she gave him to understand, thinking that as by these means she was sufficiently revenged of his for getfulnesse, she had likewise busied my head with the cruel thought thereof. The love that Alanius did bear me (although it grieved him to the hart to see Ismenia love that Shepherd, whom in all his life time he could never abide) was yet so great, that he never seemed to make any show of his secret grief. But certain days passing on, and thinking with himself, that he only was the cause of his enemies good hap, and of those singular favours, that Ismenia showed him, and that the Shepherdess did now shun his sight (who not long since before died for the want thereof) despite, wroth, and jealousy at once so fiercely assailed him, that his impatience had almost bereft him of his wits, if presently he had not determined to hinder Montanus his good fortune, or in the pursuit thereof to have lost his dearest life. For performance whereof, he began to look on Ismenia again, and not to come so openly in my sight, as he was wont to do, nor to be so often out of his town, lest Ismenia might have known it. The love between her and Montanus went not on so forwards, as that between me and my Alanius backwards, though not of my part (when nothing, but death, was able to divorce my mind from him) but of his, in whom I never thought to see such a sudden change: For so extremely he bumed with choler and rancour against Montanus, and so deeply envied his good fortune, that (he thought) he could not execute nor assuage that anger, but by renewing the old love, that he bore to Ismenia; for furtherance whereof, his coming to out town was a great impediment, whose absence from me as it engendered forgetfulness in him, so the presence of his Ismenia, rekindled his hart with a stranger kind of love then before: whereupon he returned again to his fust thoughts: And I (poor soul) remained all alone deceived and scorned in mine own affection. But all the service that he bestowed on Ismenia, the tokens and letters that he sent her, and the pitiful complaints that he made unto her, or any thing else that he was able to do, could never move her fettled mind, nor make her forget the  part of that love, which she bare Montanus. I being therefore lost for the love of Alanius, Alanius dying for Ismenia, and Ismenia for Montanus, it fell out, that my father had a certame occasion of business about the buttals of certain pastures with Phylenus father to Montanus, by reason whereof both of them came often to our town, and in such a time, that Mont anus (whether it was for the superfluous favours, that Ismenia bestowed on him (which to men of a base mind is a cloying) or whether he was too jealous of the renewed and earnest suits of Alanius) waxed very cold in his love to Ismenia. In the end when he espied me driving my sheep to the fold, and with a curious eye looking on me, he began presently to be enamoured of me, so that (by the effects which he daily showed) it was not possible for me to bear greater affection to Alanius, nor Alanius to Ismenia, nor Ismenia to Montanus, nor Montanus to love me more, then in very truth he did. Behold what a strange cozenage of love: If Ismenia went by chance to the field, Alanius went after her; if Montanus went to his flocks, Ismenia after him; if I went to the hills with my sheep, Montanus after me; if I knew that Alanius was in the wood, where he was wont to seed his flocks, thither I hied me after him. And it was the strangest thing in the world to heart how Alanius sighing said, Ah my Ismenia; and how Ismenia said, Ah my Montanus; and how Montanus said, Ah my Seluagia; and how Seluagia said, Ah my Alanius. It fell out afterwards on a day, that we four met together in a forest that lay between all our towns, and the reason was, because Ismenia went to visit certain Shepherdesses of her acquaintance, which dwelled thereabouts, which when Alanius knew, being forced, and driven on by his fleeting thoughts, he went after to seek her out, and found her near to a fine spring kembing her golden hair. I being told by a certain Shepherd (my neighbout) that Alanius was gone to the forest of the valley (for so it was called) took out before me a few goats, that were shut up in a little yard near to our house, (because I would not go without some errant) and went after him, where my desire guided me; whom by chance I found weeping and complaining of his ill fortune, and the Shepherdess laughing and jesting at his bootless tears, and sighs. When Ismenia espied me, she was not a little glad of my company, and began to be merry with me, although I had no cause to be so with her, to whom I rather objected the small reason, and less regard of modesty and discretion she had, to grieve my hart with that uncivil part and bad deceit; whereof she so wisely excused herself, that whereas I thought she would have made me some amends for all my grief and sorrow, by her wise and well ordered reasons, she gave me to understand, that I was rather bound to her, in that if she had mocked me, I had (said she) satisfied myself as well, and requited her again, not only by taking Alanius her cousin from her, whom she loved more than herself, but also by enticing Montanus to my love, from that he was wont to show her. By this time came Montanus, who was told by a Shepherdess (a friend of mine) called Solisa, that I was gone to the forest of the valley with my goats. And when all the four discontented and discordant lovers met there together, it cannot be imagined what we all felt: for every one looked upon another that would not have been viewed of those eyes again. I asked my Alanius the cause of his forgetfulness, he sued for mercy at crafty Ismenias hands; she accused and complained of the cold love of Montanus; he of Seluagias cruelty. Being therefore in this sort (as you have heard) every one tormented for them, who loved them not again, Alanius to the tune of his Fiddle by this doleful song began to complain of Ismenias cruelty.  


NO more (O cruel Nymph) now hast thou prayed  
Enough in thy revenge, prove not thine ire  
On him that yields, the fault is now apaid  
Vntomy cost: now mollify thy dire,  
Hardness and breast of thine so much obdured:  
And now raise up (though lately it hath erred)  
A poor repenting soul, that in the obscured  
Darkness of thy oblivion lies interred.  
For it falls not in that, that doth commend thee,  
That such a Swain as I may once offend thee.   

If that the little sheep with speed is flying  
From angry Shepherd (with his words affrayed)  
And runneth here and there with fearful crying,  
And with great grief is from the flock estraied:  
But when it now perceives that none doth follow,  
And all alone, so far estraying, mourneth,  
Knowing what danger it is in, with hollow  
And fainting bleats, then fearful it returneth  
Unto the flock, meaning no more to leave it,  
Should it not be a just thing to receive it?   

Lift up these eyes (Ismenia) which so stately  
To view me, thou hast lifted up before me  
That liberty, which was mine own but lately,  
Give me again, and to the same restore me:  
And that mild hart, so full of love and pity,  
Which thou didst yield to me, and ever own me.  
Behold (my Nymph) I was not then so witty  
To know that sincere love, that thou didst show me:  
Now woeful man full well I know and rue it,  
Although it was too late before I knew it.   

How could it be (my enemy) say, tell me,  
How thou (in greater fault and error being  
Then ever I was thought) shouldst thus repel me?  
And with new league and cruel title seeing  
Thy faith so pure and worthy to be changed.  
And what is that Ismenia, that doth bind it  
To love, whereas the same is most estranged,  
And where it is impossible to find it?  
But pardon me, if herein I abuse thee,  
Since that the cause thou gav'st me doth excuse me.   

But tell me now what honour hast thou gained,  
Avenging such a fault by thee committed;  
And thereunto by thy occasion trained:  
What have I done, that I have not acquitted?  
Or what excess, that is not amply paid,  
Or suffer more, that I have not endured?  
What cruel mind, what angry breast displayed,  
With savage hart, to fierceness so adjured,  
Would not such mor tall grief make mild and tender,  
But that, which my fell Shepherdess doth render?   

Now as I have perceived well thy reasons,  
Which thou hast had, or hast yet to forget me,  
The pains, the griefs, the guilts of forced treasons,  
That I have done, wherein thou first didst set me:  
The passions, and thine cares, and eyes refusing  
To hear, and see me, meaning to undo me:  
Cam'st thou to know, or be but once perusing  
Th'unsought occasions, which thou gav'st unto me,  
Thou shouldst not have wherewith to more torment me,  
Nor I to pay the fault my rashness lent me.    
Thus did my Alanius end his sweet song, wherewith I would my life had also ended, & not without great cause, since my mishap could not be more extreme, then to see him (whom I loved more than myself) before mine eyes to pine so much for the love of another, and so strangely to forsake me. But as I was not alone in these misfortunes, I did dissemble them for that time (as well as I could) as also because fair Ismenia, casting her eyes upon her Montanus, began to sing that which followeth.  


HOw fond am I to hope for any rest  
In endless plaints, vain sighs, and bootless tears?  
The present now at hand to be expressed,  
Yet few to these, that, with ten thousand fears,  
I have poured out unto thy cruel ears.  
And if at any time my life did tend  
To other loves in earnest or in jest,  
This love by that I never could offend,  
Because I did but then begin to prove,  
And learn, how well Montanus I could love.   

Then did I learn to love, myself I taught  
To love, by him, who loved me not again:  
For I suspected that I should be brought  
Unto thy love (Montanus) when in vain  
I loved him, that did my love disdain:  
I tried (I say) my free and careless hart  
Of love to taste some sorrow, that it sought:  
And let that Shepherd with his love departed,  
That loves with thee, for all his pain and grief  
Is but in vain, when vain is his relief.   

Let none accuse me then, if I disdain  
Alanius loves, whose loves are but a show,  
For I could never love nor entertain  
Any but thee, for whom I will bestow  
My dearest life, since heavens will have it so.  
And if at any time I feigned to like,  
I liked (I say) but how I did I know,  
For never any Shepherd else could strike  
My hart indeed, but thou, to whom I give  
My faith kept for thee since I first did live.   

Let burning sighs go forth and still increase,  
Let both mine eyes become two springs of tears,  
Let accidents, repugnant to mine ease  
Arise, for thoughts, which now my mind for swears,  
Shall never hurt that love which now it bears:  
Let sorrow go, and ill which way they will,  
And now let joys return which way they please,  
For where they are, there will I hover still,  
Since that no harm my purpose may reclaim,  
Nor cruel death itself, although it came.    
Ismenia by this song had revenged me of cruel and disloyal Alanius, (if in the love (at the ) which I did bear him, any desire of revenge could befall,) but Montanus stayed not long from requiting Ismenia again, who casting his eye upon me, sung this song as followeth.  


FOolish love, ah foolish lover,  
I for thee, thou for another.   

I am a fool, and seem no less,  
For thee who will not be?  
For he's a fool I do confess,  
That is not one for thee:  
And yet this doth not well agree,  
To be a foolish lover,  
Or fool for her, that is a fool for loving of another.   

Now seeing thee, thou seest not me,  
And diest for my foe,  
Eat me with sauce (that loveth thee)  
Of him thou lovest so:  
So shalt thou make me (to my woe)  
To be a foolish lover,  
And such a fool for loving thee as thou art for another.    
When he had made an end of the last verses, notwithstanding the present agony and sorrow, that we all suffered, we could not choose but laugh heartily to see how Montanus would have me deceive my taste by looking on him, with the sauce and appetite of Alanius, whom I loved, as if it might have fallen in the compass of my thought, to suffer it to be deceived by the appearance of an other thing. But now with greater firmness than the rest, I began to tune and play on my Bagpipe, and to sing a song to it, as you shall hear; for by the same I thought to show how more constantly than any of the rest there, I had persevered in my love to Alanius.  


ALthough my quiet it doth let,  
Rather than blame discredit me,  
(For God forbidden that I forget)  
Let me with wrong forgotten be.   

Not only where oblivion raineth,  
There is no love, nor can be none,  
Nay, where there is suspicion,  
There is no love, but such as feigneth;  
Great harm it is to love, where set  
In bootless hopes, the mind they free,  
But God defend that I forget,  
Forgotten though a jest it be.   

If that I love, why then love I,  
To sport or leave to love at all?  
For what more honour can befall,  
Then die for that, for which I die:  
To live therefore and to forget,  
Is such a shameful life I see,  
That I had rather love one yet,  
Forgotten though to death I be.    
When I had made an end of my song, the shepherds tears (but those especially of fair Ismenia) were so many, that of force they made me participate some of her grief, which thing I might well have left undone, for no fault could justly have been attributed to my great mishap, as to all those that were there, it was sufficiently known. After this every one of us went to their own town, because it was not meet for us to be out of them at such inconvenient and late hours. And the next day, my father (without telling me the cause why) carried me out of our town, and brought me to yours, placing me there in the house of Albania mine aunt, and his sister, whom you know well, where I have remained a few days since my coming hither, not knowing the cause of my sudden exile, but have heard of late, that Montanus hath married Ismenia, and that Alanius was about to marry a sister of hers called Syluia: whereupon to conclude, I wish that he may live (since it was not my good fortune to have him) as joyful a life with his new spouse, that nothing may want to the full accomplishment of their content and happiness: For, the love, which I bear him will suffer me no less, then to wish him all the felicity of this life.  
When Seluagia had made an end of her sorrowful tale, she began to weep so bitterly, that both the shepherds (being a kind of friendly duty, wherein they had no small experience) began also to help her with their tears, and after having spent a little time in this sort, Syrenus said unto her. Great is thy grief (fair Seluagia) and yet I judge thy patience and discretion greater. Take example by other men's harms, look into their pains, consider their woes, if thou wilt the better support thine own: And because it grows now towards night, let us be jogging towards our town, and to morrow pass away the heat of the day near to this clear fountain, where we will all three meet. Let it be as thou sayest (said Seluagia) but because between this and the town there is a pretty way, let every one of us (to pass it away with some thing) sing a song befitting the condition and quality of his love. The shepherds answered, if she would begin, they would follow, which Seluagia did, all three going on softly towards the town.  


SHepherd who can pass such wrong  
And a life in woes so deep?  
Which to live is to too long,  
As it is too short to weep.   

Grievous sighs in vain I waste,  
Losing my affiance, and  
I perceive my hope at last  
With a candle in the hand.   

What time then to hope among  
Bitter hopes, that ever sleep?  
When this life is to too long,  
As it is too short to weep.   

This grief which I feel so rife,  
(Wretch) I do deserve as hire,  
Since I came to put my life  
In the hands of my desire.   

Then cease not my plaints so strong,  
For (though life her course doth keep)  
It is not to live so long,  
As it is too short to weep.    
With a burning sigh that came from her afflicted soul, Seluagia ended her song, saying, How unfortunate (alas) am I that see myself buried in jealousy & despair, which cannot in the end but bring my life to no other pass, then to that which is infallibly expected of them. After this, forgotten Syrenus to the tune of his Rebecke began to sing this song following.  


Weep not my doleful eyes,  
But if you weep, think (at the )  
They told no truth but lies,  
And then it may be you may rest.   

Since that imagination  
Doth cause so much in every state,  
Think that she loves thee as of late,  
And thou shalt have less passion.   

And if you will (mine eyes)  
Have ease, imagine then the best,  
And that they told you lies:  
And so perhaps you may have rest.   

Think that she loves as well,  
As ever she did heretofore:  
But this sad men caunot restore,  
To think what once befell:   

Then mournful eyes, where lies  
Your help? Yet think of some at lest,  
If not, weep still mine eyes,  
Or make an end, and you shall rest.    
After that sorrowful Syrenus with many tears had made an end of his song, despised sylvanus began his thus.  


MY life (young Shepherdess) for thee  
Of needs to death must post;  
But yet my grief must stay with me  
After my life is lost.   

The grievous ill, by death that cured is  
Continually hath remedy at hand:  
But not that torment, that is like to this,  
That in slow time, and fortunes means doth stand.   

And if this sorrow cannot be  
Ended with life (as most)  
What then doth this thing profit me,  
A sorrow won or lost?   

Yet all is one to me, as now I try  
A flattering hope, or that that had not been yet.  
For if to day for want of it I die,  
Next day I do no less for having seen it.   

feign would I die, to end and free  
This grief, that kills me most  
If that it might be lost with me,  
Or die when life is lost.    
And in this sort the two shepherds went homewards in company of Seluagia, departing from one another with accord to meet the next day following at the same place.  
The end of the first book of Diana.   

The second Book of Diana of George of Montemayor.  
NOw did the shepherds, which fed their sheep in the fields of Ezla, begin to show themselves, every one with his flocks along the banks of those crystalline waters (each Shepherd knowing, & choosing out the best place before the Sun did rise, the better to pass away the burning heat of the day) when the fair Shepherdess Seluagia came down from the hill, which from her town did lead to a thick wood, driving her gentle sheep and lambs before her: who, after she had put them amongst the low shrubs, which grew very thick thereabouts, and seeing them busy in knobbing the young and tender boughs, to staunch their hunger, went directly to the fountain of the Sycamores, where the day before, in company of the two Shepherds, she had passed away the noontide heat: and seeing the place so agreeable to melancholy, and contemplation of her sorrows, she thought it not amiss to take the opportunity of the time, and place, and to sit down by the fountain, whose waters seemed with her swelling tears to increase: where, after she had a great while busied herself in divers and sundry thoughts, she began thus to say. May it be possible Alanius, that thou art the man, whose eyes I never saw dried up from tears in presence of mine? And he, who, falling down so many times at my feet, with loving and pitiful words, craved mercy and clemency at my hands, the which (to my great harm and grief) I so gently bestowed on thee? Tell me Shepherd (the falsest that lives on earth) is it true that thou lovedst me, to cloy thy mind, with my favours, and so soon to be weary of the love that thou didst bear me? Thou mightest imagine, that it was no less in my power, to forget and despise thee, as thou hast forgotten me. For it is the part of those, that handle not their matters of love so well as they should, to think that their Mistresses may play the like parts with them, as they have done before; though some use it for a remedy and policy to make their love increase the more. And others, that jealousy (the occasion whereof most commonly they feign) may so captivate their Mistress' minds, that (as they make them believe) they are not able to settle their affection in any other place: whereupon most of them come by little and little to manifest all that they feigned before, whereby more clearly they discover their disloyalty. All which extremes at last result to the grief and prejudice of us poor souls, who (not considering how the ends of such things commonly fall out) do so deeply sink into that kind of assured affection, that we never leave of to love you, nor you to requite us with ingratitude and inconstancy, as thou dost that love (disloyal Alanius) which I have borne, and do still bear thee. So that which of these thou hast been, I cannot conjecture. But wonder not Seluagia, that thou understandest so little in matters of disdain, that art so well practised in loves affairs. Thou didst ever bear an honest and virtuous pretence by thy words, whereby I never looked for less by thy deeds, which made me think, that that love, (whereby thou mad'st me believe, that thy desire extended to wish no more of me, then pure love again) should never have an end: for if any further drift had been in thy desires, I would never have suspected firmness in thy love. O wretched woman, how soon have I begun to know thy intentions, and yet how late to prevent my harms? Come thou to me my pretty Bagpipe, and with thee will I pass the time away: for had I spent it only in thy exercise and delight, it had been better for me: and after she had played a while on it, she began to sing this Sextine following.  

Waters' that fall from top of these steep Hills,  
With such a noise into these low deep Vales,  
Why think you not of those, which from my Soul  
Continually distil my wearied Eyes?  
And what's the cause of them? Unlucky Time,  
In which hard fortune rob all my joy.  
Love gave me hope of such a golden joy,  
That there's no Shepherdess in all these Hills,  
That had such cause to praise a happy Time:  
But after he did put me in these Vales  
Of swelling tears, that fall from both mine Eyes:  
Not to behold such grief as kills my Soul.  
Such is the pain, that wounds a loving Soul,  
That in the end I know what thing is joy:  
O where shall I then turn my wearied Eyes?  
If that the meadows, woods, the plains, and Hills,  
The pleasant groves, and fountains of the Vales,  
Still to my thoughts present so sweet a Time?  
Who would have thought that such a happy Time  
Should be so fierce a torment to my Soul?  
Or cruel fortune banish me the Vale,  
Wherein all things were objects of my joy?  
Until the hungry wolf, which to the Hill  
Ascending up, was pleasant to mine Eyes.  
But fortune now, what may my drenched Eyes  
Behold, which saw their Shepherd many a Time  
Driving his lambs before him down this Hill?  
Whose name for ay shall rest within my Soul.  
O fortune foe unto my former joy,  
How do I languish in this irksome Vale?  
But when so pleasant and so fresh a Vale  
Is not delightful to my wearied Eyes,  
And where I cannot find content and joy:  
And hope not now to have it any Time,  
See what extremes environ then my Soul:  
O that he came again. O that sweet Hill:  
O highest Hills, and fresh and pleasant Vale,  
Where once my Soul did rest and both these Eyes,  
Tell me shall I in Time have so much joy?   
About this time sylvanus was with his flocks in a thicket of Myrtle trees near to the fountain, musing and imagining divers things in his mind: but when he heard Seluagias voice, awaked as it were out of a slumber, he gave attentive ear to the verses, that she did sing. But as this Shepherd was cruelly entreated of love, and contemned of Diana, so his passions made him wander a thousand times out of his wits, as that he now spoke ill of love, and by and by praised it, sometimes merry, and other times more pensive and sad, than the most sorrowful man in the world, to day speaking ill of women, to morrow extolling them above all mortal creatures. And thus did this sorrowful Shepherd lead a life, which as to all, so especially to those that are free from love would be tedious and difficult to describe. But having heard Seluagias sweet verses, and obtained leave of his sad thoughts, he took his Kit, and to the tune thereof began to sing that which followeth.  


TO hear me wearied is the clearest river,  
Tedious I am to every vale and mountain:  
And now to hear (O love, my sorrows giver)  
My plaining, wearied is each crystal fountain.  
The Sicamour, the Oak, and Elm are weary,  
Spring, summer, Autumn, and the winter season  
Hearing my cries, are sworn not to be merry.  
With tears I melt these rocks: and yet all reason  
Of pity (Tigress) thou dost still deny me,  
When trees, and stones for grief are dying by me.   

A bondslave of a freeman thou hast made me,  
And of a man of reason, clean contrary:  
With life, and death, by turns thou dost invade me,  
And to tormenting grief my soul dost carry.  
Of affable, and one that lived so gaily,  
Made me thou hast to frowards disdaining:  
Of one, that did converse with all men daily,  
Made me thou hast their company refraining.  
Eyes had I once, now blinded with desire:  
I was a man of flesh, but now of fire.   

What's this my hart, thy torments dost thou double?  
Tell me mine eyes, and are you still a weeping?  
My soul, sufficeth not my passed trouble?  
My tears, and are ye yet in rivers steeping?  
My wandering wits, and are you not molested  
More than enough with such incessant sorrow?  
And are ye not my senses also wrested  
From your right course, resting not even nor morrow?  
How know I then, weep, see, or feel this hour,  
When torments waste their force and several power?   

Who made my Shepherdess' tresses twist all  
Of fine Arabian gold, not gilt-like shining:  
Her face of clearest and of chosen christ all,  
Her ruby lips, two rows of pearl combining:  
Her dymond eyes, like to those stars above all,  
Her neck, that whitest Alabaster staineth,  
Her passing wit, enforcing us to love all:  
Her stately mind, that all our loves disdaineth.  
Why made she not her hart of melting matter,  
Then of such marble stone so hard to batter?   

One day I do conform me to my fortune,  
And to my grief, that fair Diana causeth:  
Next day mine ill doth vex me, and importune  
My soul with thoughts of grief that seldom pauseth:  
Cruel and fierce and inhuman I call her,  
And so there is no order in my sorrow:  
For afterwards in phrases I install her,  
What now I say, I do deny to morrow.  
And all is thus leading a life in anguish,  
Which soon mine eyes may see by death to languish.    
When fair Seluagia knew the Shepherd sylvanus by his voice, she went to him, and saluting one another with courteous and loving words, they sat them down under the shadow of a thick and leafy myrtle, in the mids of a little meadow, which for the diversity of fine golden flowers wherewith it was spotted, more than their sorrowful thoughts could desire, was most pleasant to the wandering eye. And sylvanus began to speak in this sort. The diversity of so many unaccustomed mishaps, that daily harm us woeful & true lovers cannot be (fair Seluagia) without grief and compassion of mind considered. But amongst them all, there is none (me thinks) that aught to be so much feared as that, which he suffers, who hath once seen himself in a good and joyful estate: the which by experience (as yesterday thou didst tell me) I never came yet to know: for the life (which I pass) is so far from rest, and delivered up to sorrowful imaginations, that a thousand times in vain I seek out new inventions and means to deceive and alter my taste. For remedy whereof, I do sometimes think, That I am dearly beloved of my mistress, which thought (without opening any further passage to this fiction) I retain as long as I can in my mind: but when I consider afterwards the truth of my estate, I am so confounded with myself, as I am not able to express it, and then (against my will) am void of all patience: since then a bare imagination is not such a thing, that may be suffered, behold what the truth is able to do? I would to God (sylvanus) I were free (said Seluagia) from this frantic passion that I might speak the better in it, as in such a case it were most needful. For thou canst not know any greater sign of love, whether it be little or much, or of passion, whether it be small or great, then by hearing her tell it, that feels it: for a passion extremely felt can never be well manifested by her tongue that suffers it. So that I (being subject to my mishap, and sorrowful for that disgrace, which Alanius doth me) am not with words able to express the Chaos of grief wherein I am overwhelmed. Wherefore I leave it to thy consideration and judgement, as to things wherein I may put an assured confidence and trust. I know not Seluagia, what to say (replied sylvanus sighing) nor what remedies we may hope for of our harms, dost thou (perhaps) know any? How should I not know (said Seluagia) And wottest thou what it is? To leave of to love. And this mayest thou do thyself (said sylvanus.) As fortune and time shall ordain (said Seluagia.) Then I tell thee (said sylvanus marveling much) that thou needest not trouble thyself so much by complaining of thy grief, because that love, which is subject to time and fortune, cannot be so extreme, to give one any trouble or pain that suffers it. And canst thou deny (said Seluagia, again) that it is not possible to have an end in thy love, either by death or absence, or by being favoured in some other place, where thy suits & services may be more esteemed, and better recompensed? I will not make myself (said sylvanus) such an hypocrite in love, that I will not grant, what thou sayest may be possible, but not in me. For woe betide that lover, that (though he see such fortune fall to others) would have so little constancy in his love, to think that any thing (contrary to his faith) may befall unto him. I am a woman (said Seluagia) and thou shalt see by me if I love not as much as any may. And yet this offends not my love to think, that there may be an end of every thing, be they never so firm and strong, since it is the property of time and fortune with their usual changes to alter all things, as they have ever done. And think not Shepherd, that any oblivious thought of his love, that hath so injuriously forgotten me, makes me speak this, but that, which I have seen by experience in these passions. And talking thus together they heard a Shepherd singing, as he came along the meadow before them, whom they knew by and by to be the forgotten Syrenus, who, to the tune of his Rebecke came singing this Sonnet.  

Go now my thoughts, where one day you were going,  
When neither fortune, nor my love did lower:  
Now shall you see that changed day and hour,  
Your joys decayed, and uncouth sorrows growing?  
And in the glass, where I was oft bestowing  
Mine eyes, and in that sweet and pleasant flower,  
A sluggish drone unworthily devower  
That honey, which for me sometimes was flowing.  
And you shall see to whom I did surrender  
My subject life, that causeless did despise it:  
And though this ill no remedy can borrow,  
Yet tell her, that my mind did once engender  
A fear of that, which after to mine eyes yet  
She makes more plain, to end my life in sorrow.   
After Syrenus had made an end of his Sonnet, he saw fair Seluagia, and sylvanus coming towards him, whereof he was not a little glad, and after some courteous salutations between them, they determined to go to the fountain of the Sycamores, where they had been the day before, but before they were come thither, sylvanus said, Hark, do you not hear certain voices singing? Yes (said Seluagia) and me thinks of more than one. Where might it be (said Syrenus.) In the meadow of the Laurel trees, said sylvanus, in the mids whereof the spring, that comes out of this clear fountain so pleasantly runneth: It shall not be amiss for us to go thither, but so softly, that they that are singing, may not perceive or hear us, lest we break off their sweet music. Let us go, said Seluagia: and so step by step, they went towards the place, where they heard that singing, & hiding themselves behind certain trees near unto the brook, they saw three Nymphs sitting upon the golden flowers, of such excellent beauty that (it seemed) nature had made a manifest proof of that, she was able to do. They were appareled with upper garments of white silk, wrought all above with fringe of gold, their hair, (which in brightness obscured the sunny beams) was tied about their heads with fillets of oriental pearl, whose curled locks upon their crystalline foreheads made a fine periwig; just in the mids whereof hung down an Eagle of gold, holding between her talants a rich and precious Diamond. All three with marvelous good consent so sweetly played on their instruments, whereunto they joined their Angelical voices, that it seemed no less than celestial music, and the first thing they sung, was this fancy.  


COntents of love,  
That come with so great pain,  
If that you come, why go you hence again?   

Not fully come,  
But you begin to start:  
Never with perfect some  
To nestle in a woeful heart.  
And will you now so soon departed,  
And leave me in such pain?  
Then hence delights, and see me not again.   

From you I fly,  
(Since you deny my sight)  
To make me know thereby  
The loss, if that I lose you quite.  
Then (since you do me such despite)  
Depart not grief and pain,  
For when you go, you soon return again.    
After they had ended their song, one of them called Doria said. Are these (Cynthia) the river banks, where the Shepherd Syrenus went up and down, tormented and lost for the love of the fair Shepherdess Diana? I without doubt (said the other) they must be these, for near unto a fountain not far from this meadow, it was told me, they took of each other their last farewell, which is (I assure thee) worthy to be celebrated with eternal memory, for the amorous and loving speeches, that passed between them. When Syrenus heard this, he was almost out of his wits, to see how the three Nymphs had knowledge of his mishaps. But Cynthia, proceeding, said. And among these river banks are many other fair Shepherdesses, and enamoured Shepherds, where love hath showed his mighty power and effects, and some clean contrary to that they hoped for. This is a thing (said Polydora, for so was the third called) not greatly to be marveled at, because there is no success in love, (be it never so preposterous) which may cause wonder in those that have passed his disordinate effects. But tell me Cynthia, how knewest thou of this farewell? I knew it thus (said Cynthia) for at that time when they took it, near to the foresaid fountain, Celius, who behind an Oak was listening to them, heard it, and committing it to memory, did truly put it in verse, as it passed between them. Therefore if thou wilt hear it, I think, I can sing it to the tune of my lute. Fair Cynthia (answered Polydora) so may thy destinies and fortune favour thee, as thy beauty and good graces are no less delightful unto us, than the hearing of so sweet a song shall be (wherein is matter so worthy to be known) if thou wilt deigned to pleasure us with the recital of it. Cynthia then taking her harp, began to sing as followeth.  

The song of the Nymph.  

near to the river banks, with green  
And pleasant trees on every side,  
Where freest minds would most have been,  
That never felt brave Cupid's pride,  
To pass the day and tedious hours  
Amongst those painted meads and flowers.   

A certain Shepherd full of woe  
(Syrenus called) his flocks did feed,  
Not sorrowful in outward show,  
But troubled with such grief indeed,  
As cruel love is wont t'impart  
Unto a painful loving hart.   

This Shepherd every day did die  
For love he to Diana bore,  
A Shepherdess so fine perdie,  
So lively young and passing fair,  
Excelling more in beauteous feature,  
Then any other human creature.   

Who had not any thing, of all  
She had, but was extreme in her,  
For meanly wise none might her call,  
Nor meanly fair, for he did err,  
If so he did: but should devise  
Her name of passing fair and wise.   

Favours on him she did bestow,  
Which if she had not, then (be sure)  
He might have suffered all that woe,  
Which afterwards he did endure  
When he was gone, with lesser pain,  
And at his coming home again.   

For when in deed the hart is free  
From suffering pain or torments smart,  
If wisdom doth not oversee,  
And beareth not the greater part,  
The smallest grief and care of mind  
Doth make it captive to their kind.   

near to ariver swift and great  
(That famous Ezla had to name)  
The careful Shepherd did repeat  
The fears he had by absence blame,  
Which he suspect, where he did keep  
And feed his gentle lambs and sheep.   

And now sometimes he did behold  
His Shepherdess, that thereabout  
Was on the mountains of that old  
And ancient Leon, seeking out  
From place to place the pastures best,  
Her lambs to feed, herself to rest.   

And sometimes musing, as he lay,  
(When on those hills she was not seen)  
Was thinking of that happy day,  
When Cupid gave him such a Queen  
Of beauty, and such cause of joy,  
Wherein his mind he did employ.   

Yet said (poor man) when he did see  
Himself so sunk in sorrows pit,  
The good that love hath given me  
I only do imagine it:  
Because this nearest harm and trouble  
Hereafter I should suffer double.   

The Sun, for that it did decline,  
The careless man did not offend  
With fiery beams, which scarce did shine,  
But that which did of love depend,  
And in his hart did kindle fire  
Of greater flames and hot desire.   

Him did his passions all invite,  
The green leaves blown with gentle wind,  
Crystalline streams with their delight,  
And Nightingales were not behind,  
To help him in this loving verse,  
Which to himself he did rehearse.    

Syrenus his song.  

A Farewell they departure call,  
That loves delight did never know,  
But that that ends with life and all,  
I term a grief and endless woe.   

God grant therefore that all that space  
My lingering life I might sustain,  
Until I see again the place  
Where my true hart doth still remain.   

For only thinking to departed,  
The thought doth make me so afraid,  
That it must kill my trembling hart  
With force of such great grief paid.   

Syrenus did these verses sing,  
And on his Rebecke sweetly play,  
So far from joy or joyful thing,  
And from contentment any way:  
That he could not pronounce his mind  
For weeping, which was left behind.   

And now because he would not be  
In fault, (if that his grief and pain  
The accents and the verse, which he  
Pronounced, did hinder or restrain)  
That which his willing mind did let,  
His hart to end did not forget.   

But after that the Shepherd had  
With mournful voice these verses song,  
He saw Diana come so sad,  
And yet so fair, so fresh and young,  
That where she cast her star like eyes,  
With colours brave the meads she dies.   

Her face as fair and fresh as flower,  
And yet so sorrowful again,  
That none could judge at that same hour,  
Whether her grief and inward pain,  
Or her brave beauty did surpass?  
In her so fair, and sad (alas.)   

Thus coming many a time she staid,  
Casting unto the ground her eyes,  
So comfortless and so dismade,  
And sometimes up into the skies,  
That there they hung with grief in steed  
Of two bright stars, like stars in deed.   

Saying with greater grief of mind  
(Then human thought can once conceive)  
Since such annoy in joy I find:  
From this day (love) well mayst thou leave  
Thy joys unto thyself to keep,  
And me, to feed no more but sheep.   

The cause of all her grief and woe,  
Which she by absence wrong did fear,  
There did she very clearly show,  
And if she wasted many a tear,  
Ask but those blazing eyes, which still  
With passions did Syrenus kill.   

If that her love had ever peer,  
Her goodness there hide not the same:  
And if that absence cost her dear,  
Or feared her before it came,  
This song above each other thing  
Can tell, which she with tears did sing.    

Diana's song.  

O Love thou gav'st me not the joy,  
That in sweet presence I did find,  
But that in absence the annoy  
Should seem more grievous to my mind.   

Thou givest ease, thou givest rest,  
But not to give content but guile,  
And that the sufferance in my breast,  
Might be but idle for a while.   

She loves inventions, never scant  
In presence to afford relief,  
Because in absence I should want  
Defence against my mortal grief.   

Now fair Diana being come  
Unto the place, where she did spy  
Her love, she would have spoken some  
Few words, but grief did them deny:  
And woeful man, he nothing spoke,  
Though he did oft a semblant make.   

How much they had between them both  
To talk, their eyes made manifest,  
Declaring that, which very loath  
Lay in their secret hearts and breast,  
With that mild countenance and show,  
With which they spoke not long ago.   

They both together down did sit  
Under a flowery Myrtle tree,  
One by the hand the other yet  
Did take, for over come was he  
By her, and she by him again,  
Both in their mutual passions slain.   

For that great pleasure and delight  
Of seeing one an other there,  
And grief, to lose that happy sight,  
So wrought their hearts with joy and fear,  
That to each other neither could  
Utter a word, though feign they would.   

Some other times they met again  
Upon this bank with other passions,  
Which meetings they did entertain  
And celebrate with other fashions:  
Not, as in times then gone and passed,  
For of this sort, this was the last.   

A strange effect of mighty love,  
To see two love in such degree,  
That greater torments they did prove,  
When either did each other see,  
Then when they were removed quite  
From joying in each others sight.   

Syrenus seeing now the hour,  
When grief of parting was to come,  
He had no patience nor no power  
To speak, but strait was stricken dumb:  
Nor of his tears he could get leave  
To utter what he did conceive.   

His Shepherdess he did behold,  
His Shepherdess beheld again  
The man, whose hart with fear was cold,  
Speaking to her with cruel pain:  
Indeed his Grief for him did speak,  
For he could not whose hart did break.   

Alas Diana, who would have said,  
When I was in most heavy case,  
Or who would have imagined,  
But that, when I did view thy face,  
My very soul then most oppressed,  
Should by that sight have found some rest.   

In any time who would have thought,  
That any thing (sweet Mistress) might  
A greater grief or pain have brought  
Unto my soul with more despite,  
Then thy sweet presence and thy sight,  
(My sovereign joy and chief delight)   

Who would have thought, but that again  
Those eyes, when that they viewed me,  
Should have dissolved, and burst in twain  
The knot of all my misery:  
Which my mishaps (so long assured)  
By any way might have procured.   

Fair Mistress then behold my state,  
And how mishap my soul doth chase,  
For if I died but of late  
With great desire to see thy face,  
Now do I die by seeing thee,  
Present and not thou killest me.   

And think not that this passion draws  
To want of loving thee, for none  
Hath been so firm, but now because  
I come unto this mead with moan  
To take my leave, where I before  
To see thee came, but now no more.   

My soul I would have given feign  
This day, which thou hast conquered so,  
Not to have seen thee in this plain  
(Although no other life I know)  
Only to miss (I care not how)  
The grief of this departure now.   

And give me leave (fair Shepherdess)  
To think, that thou canst not deny it,  
But thou dost feel my heaviness  
In that degree, as I do try it:  
For in thy presence 'tis not such  
A matter to presume so much.   

If then, Diana, it be so,  
Tell me, how can I now departed?  
How dost thou suffer me to go  
When each doth carry others hart?  
Or how do I come hither yet,  
To take my farewell without let?   

O my fair Shepherdess again  
No reason can I yield thee why,  
Nor how of thee I should complain,  
As thou shalt have continually  
Absent, when I am gone from thee  
O, never to remember me.   

I know right well it is not thou,  
That makest me to departed, and less,  
My purest faith constrains me now,  
(For needs I must the same confess)  
And if I should but tell and show it,  
Who doth the same, I do not know it.   

Thus full of pain and bitter tears,  
And sighing, which he never spared,  
The Shepherd to her loving ears  
Did speak these words which you have heard.  
And hearing them, in mind she kept  
Them, and full bitterly she wept.   

To answer him she went about  
A thousand times, but could not do it,  
For still her grief did put her out,  
And so she could not frame her to it.  
But then for her, her love so stable  
An answer shaped (her tongue unable.)   

My friend in such a time I am,  
Where I shall speak more than I would,  
That though mine ill, which lately came,  
Cannot be uttered (as it should:)  
Yet (Shepherd) would I think it good,  
To hold my peace if that I could.   

But woe is me, that this great ill  
I come to tell, and publish it  
In such a time against my will,  
That it avails not any whit  
Thy journey to delay a while,  
Nor these my torments to beguile.   

Why goest thou hence (O Shepherd) tell:  
Why wilt thou now forsake me here?  
So full of grief alone to dwell,  
Where time, and place, and all the dear,  
And sweetest joys of this our love  
Shall never from my mind remove.   

What shall I feel (unhappy wight)  
Coming unto this pleasant green,  
When I shall say (Farewell sweet sight)  
here have I my Syrenus seen;  
here did we sit, here did we play,  
Discoursing with him day by day.   

Behold if that it will not be  
A daily sorrow, when these banks  
I do behold, and cannot see  
Thyself, where goodly trees in ranks  
And in their bark my name to stand  
Carved so finely by thy hand.   

And see if any grief or dole  
Is like to this, when I behold  
The place so sorrowful and sole,  
Where dear Syrenus with a cold  
And trembling fear thou didst protest  
Thy grief to me within thy breast.   

If then thy hart (so cruel now)  
Is mollified by falling tears,  
How melts it not for grief, and how  
Consumes it not with many fears,  
At this occasion (so unjust)  
To leave my comfort in the dust?   

Then Shepherd weep not, for in vain  
Thy plenteous tears and sighs are spent,  
For he that doth lament the pain,  
In whom it lieth to prevent,  
I think he is not sound of wit,  
If such a folly he commit.   

But my Syrenus pardon me,  
If my sharp words thine ears offend,  
And give me leave to speak with thee  
In this fair mead, where (cruel friend)  
Thou leav'st me not one little how'r  
With my poor self, nor in my power.   

For I will not, (nor yet in jest)  
Shepherd from thee myself absent,  
Then go not, wilt thou? say at ,  
And to these eyes, that ever lent  
Such help to thee, some pity keep,  
And sorrow now to see them weep.   

Syrenus answered her again,  
Alas thou canst not choose but know  
By all these tears I spend in vain,  
If that I do desire to go;  
But thou commandest me to stay,  
And my hard hap to go away.   

Thy matchless beauty when I see,  
(Mistress) then am I ever bound  
Willing at thy command to be:  
But woeful Shepherd when I found  
My hap to bear so great a sway,  
Of force I must the same obey.   

Then my departure forced is,  
But by no fault that I did make,  
And credit me (sweet Nymph) in this,  
That all the world I would forsake,  
In these fair meads with thee to wend,  
Where now I see my joys do end.   

My Master that great Shepherd is  
He, that doth make me to departed,  
Whom I may see, and wish that his  
Exempted thoughts and freest hart  
Brave love may punish with such pain,  
As at this parting I sustain.   

I would to God, my going hence  
(Only to pleasure thee this day)  
By showing of my just pretence,  
Lay in my power any way:  
As Mistress in thy fairest hands  
My life and death at mercy stands.   

But credit me, it is in vain,  
(To that which ever I do try,  
And that thou thinkest as much again)  
That never in my hands did lie  
Aught in the world, that might but give  
Any content to make me live.   

Another course well might I take,  
And leave my flock to stray about,  
I might my Shepherd to forsake  
And seek some other Master out:  
But if the end I mark and see,  
This with our love doth not agree.   

For if I do forsake my flock,  
Which unto me he did commend,  
And take in hand some other stock  
Of cattle or of sheep to tend,  
Tell me, how can I come unseen  
Without thy harm upon this green?   

And if the force of this great flame  
My willing presence here detains,  
It is a sign, that I do frame  
My thoughts on thee, and so it stains  
Thy honour, which to sail is sent,  
Only (sweet life) for my content.   

And if (they say) I do employ  
(Fair Shepherdess) my love on thee,  
And that again I do enjoy  
Thy love so frankly given me.  
Thee they condemn, thou dost sustain  
The only loss, and I no gain.   

The Shepherdess at this same season  
This answer with great grief did make,  
O Shepherd tell me now, what reason  
Thou hast my presence to forsake?  
Since that in love there is no sound  
Of any reason to be found.   

A sign it is (not good to use)  
By daily proof we see the same,  
That he that can so well excuse  
His absence from his loving dame,  
If he were gone out of her sight,  
He would account the same but light.   

Ah grief, since going now away,  
I know not what will chance to thee,  
And forced if I am to stay  
Nor then what shall become of me?  
Nor there if thou wilt think (my dear)  
That one did see another here.   

I know not if I am deceived,  
By having laid before thine eyes  
This painful grief that hath bereaved  
Me of my joy, where now it dies,  
But that which to my harm must be,  
I know shall be most sure in me.   

Thou grievest not at my little ease,  
Go Shepherd then, take shipping now,  
With brittle bark the Ocean seas,  
In steed of these green fields go blow:  
Since of my tears these seas (alas)  
So quickly thou dost overpass.   

The heavens from storms thy bark defend,  
From rocks, from wreck, and swallowing sand,  
And that thou may'st (my sweetest friend)  
Safely arrive in wished land:  
And fortune better deal with thee,  
Then at this time thou dost with me.   

Alas for very grief I die,  
Seeing mine eyes to take their leave  
Of all their sweet contents, whereby  
This grief, and tears do so bereave  
My tongue of speech, that feign I would  
Speak more unto thee if I could.   

And Shepherd I do wish besides,  
That these two eyes (which weep in vain)  
Before that death my life divides,  
May see thee here yet once again:  
And though their harm thou dost procure,  
They wish thee yet all good be sure.   

He answered her, my Mistress dear,  
A mischief never comes alone:  
A mortal grief doth not appear  
Without more company, and one  
That is more mighty than the rest,  
And this it is that wounds my breast.   

For though I see I must departed  
From my sweet life, (since from thy sight)  
Not half so much it grieves my hart,  
At seeing thee in such a plight  
For my departure, and sustain  
Such grief indeed and cruel pain.   

But if those eyes I do forget,  
(The mirrors of my happiness)  
I wish that God above may let  
Me not this wished life possess,  
Or if my thoughts employed be  
(Sweet life) on any but on thee.   

And if that any beauty else  
Shall make new motions in my mind,  
(Though it be never so excels)  
Or in the same content I find,  
For one small hour of such content,  
I wish eternal punishment.   

And if my firmest faith for strange  
And foreign love, that may befall,  
Or my sincerest love I change,  
I wish that fortune may recall  
Me to a life most desperate,  
Throwing me down from this estate.   

O sweetest Mistress of my hart,  
Prescribe no time for my return:  
For it doth kill me to departed,  
And I shall never cease to mourn,  
And pass the greatest grief and pain,  
Until these eyes see thee again.   

She answered him, (my dear Syrenus)  
If that I shall in any day  
(Though now our destinies do wean us)  
Forget thee, than I wish the May  
And freshest flowers in this mead  
May die, when on them I do tread.   

And if on any man alive,  
But only thee (my love) I think,  
I wish, that, (when my sheep I drive  
Unto the river streams to drink)  
Coming unto them, at my sight,  
The waters may be dried up quite.   

Shepherd, receive this little string  
Made of my hair for thy sweet sake,  
Because by seeing of the thing,  
Thou mayst remember thou didst take  
Possession of my loving hart,  
And them, with which thou dost departed.   

And this ring with thee thou shalt bear,  
With hand in hand, as thou dost see,  
Which for my sake I pray thee wear,  
That though our bodies parted be,  
Nothing shall part, not death alone,  
Two souls united both in one.   

He said with thee what shall I leave,  
nought have I but this Sheephooj here:  
The which I pray thee to receive,  
And Rebecke, to the which (my dear)  
Thou saw'st me sing in this green mead,  
And play and many a dance to lead.   

To sound of which (my Shepherdess)  
A thousand songs to thee I song,  
Singing of thy great worthiness  
(Too high for my base song and tongue)  
And of our loves and of my passions,  
And of my sweetest lamentations.   

Each one embraced the other fast,  
And this (I think) the first time was,  
And (as I guess) it was the last,  
Because those times did change and pass:  
And love with time did change and vary  
From that, which once they both did carry.   

For though Diana felt great pain  
For absence of her lover dear,  
Yet in the same she found again  
A remedy, as did appear,  
For after he the seas did pass,  
She to another married was.    
Fair Cynthia having made an end of her sweet song, Doria and Polydora wondered that a Shepherdess could be the cause, that love kindled such burning flames, and marveled no less how time had cured her grief, which seemed at their farewell to be remediless. But unfortunate Syrenus all the while the Nymph with her sweet song did manifest his old cares and sighs, forgot not to breathe them out so thick, that sylvanus, and Seluagia could not by any means comfort him: for he was now no less pensive than at the very time, when he passed them, marveling much how she knew of these particulars which passed between him and Diana. And sylvanus and Seluagia were no less astonished at the passing sweet grace, wherewith Cynthia both song and played the same.  
But now the fair Nymphs, took up their instruments, and went walking up and down the green meadow, lest of all suspecting that, which happened unto them: for having gone but a little way from the place, where the shepherds were secretly abiding, three monstrous and foul Savages came out of a thicket of high broom and bushes on the right hand of the wood, armed with corselets and morions of tigers skins, and so ugly to behold, that to the fearful Nymphs it was a strange and terrible sight. The braces of their corselets were at the ends armed with gasping mouths of serpents, out of the which their arms showed monstrously great, and full of hair, and their morions that encompassed their grisly foreheads, with dreadful heads of lions, being naked in every other part of their body, but that it was covered all over with long and thick hair, and bearing in their rude hands clubs, armed with iron and sharp steeled points. At their necks their bows and arrows, and likewise their shields, which were broad shells of monstrous Tortuses were hanging down behind them: who with an incredible swiftness ran upon the fearful Nymphs, saying. Now is the time come (ingrate and scornful Nymphs) that by our strength and wils you shall be forced to do that, which our mild love and long suits could never bring to pass, for it is not reason that fortune should do such injury to our captive hearts, with so long and great pain to defer our remedies. In fine, we have now in our hands the guerdon of our sighs and lamentations, which wearied the birds and beasts of the dark and enchanted wood, where we dwell: and the recompense of our burning tears, wherewith we made the raging and loathsome river, that watereth the dreadful fields and plains of our territories to swell, and overflow his banks: Since than you have no other means to save your lives, but by easing & helping our harms, be not so wilful by resistance, to make our cruel hands take vengeance of that pain, which so long you have made our afflicted hearts to feel. The Nymphs at the sudden sursault of these monsters were so amazed, that they were not able to answer to these proud and cruel words, but only with silence and tears. Albeit fair Doria, who had more courage than the rest, at last did stoutly answer them thus again. I never thought that love could bring a lover to so foul an extreme, as with violent hands, and such unseemly force to seize upon his beloved. It is the manner of cowards to carry weapons, and fight with silly women, in an open and desert field, where none is able to defend them, but their virtue, and honest reasons. But of one thing (cruel & vile beasts) you may be ascertained, that your menaces shall not make us lose one jot of that, which our honours require, and that we will sooner leave our lives in your barbarous hands, then suffer our dear chastities by your beastly forces to be violated. It is needless (Doria) (said one of them again) to hearken to their reasons, who had none at all to handle us with so great scorn and cruelty: whereupon unloosing the string from his bow, that hung at his neck, he took her by both her fair hands, and rudely tied them together, and so did his companions, Cynthia's and Polydoras'. The two Shepherds and the Shepherdess Seluagia, astonished at the monstrous violence of the Savages, and seeing what bestiality they began to use to the fair and tender Nymphs, not able to endure it, resolved to die, or to defend them from their cruel hands. Wherefore all three taking out their slings, and filling their scrips with stones, came out of the wood, into the green meadow, and began to throw them at the Savages with such courage and dexterity, as though their lives had lain in their hands; And thinking to ply them so fast with stones, that the Nymphs (while the Savages were busy about their own defence) might escape, and save their persons from their vile immanity, they redoubled their force, with the greatest speed and valour they could: Whose drifts the subtle Savages suspecting, one of them had an eye to the fair prisoners for running away, while the other two, by winning ground on their enemies, thought to make a quick dispatch of them. But the stones came so dangerously and so many, that they had enough to defend themselves, so that, as long as they lasted, the Savages fared very ill. But as the shepherds were afterwards occupied in stowping down to take up more stones, the Savages came running in to them so speedily with their massy clubs, that now they were without any hope of life, if presently a certain strange Shepherdess (of such singular beauty and comely feature, as made both the Savages and the rest amazed at her goodly parsonage) had not come out of the thick wood near unto the fountain, where they before were singing. She had her bow hanging on her left arm, and a quiver of arrows at her shoulder, in her hand a fine staff of wild oak, armed at the end with a long and well steeled pike. But when she saw the three Nymphs in so great distress, and the effray between the two Savages and the shepherds, who now looked for nothing more than present death, by putting quickly a sharp headed arrow into her bow, with no mean force and skill she shot it at one of the Savages, leaving it half hidden in his hard breast, whereby the arrow of love, that pierced his hart lost the force, and the Savage his life. Neither was she slow in putting another in her bow, nor less skilful in shooting it, for with the same she as well ended the enamoured passions of the second Savage, as of the first. But settling herself to shoot at the third, that was keeping the three Nymphs, she could not so soon effect it, but that he came running in to her, within the length of his club, and had surely dispatched her with one blow, if the fair Shepherdess, by lifting up her knotty staff (as he was discharging upon her) had not taken it upon the iron point (whereby his club broke in two pieces) and immediately requited him with another upon the top of his crown, wherewith she made him stagger on his knees, and then running a thrust at his face (and with such force and aim it was) that piercing his eyes, her staff made speedy passage thorough his brains, so that the fierce. Savage, yelling out a horrible and loud groan, fell down dead to the ground. The Nymphs seeing themselves delivered from so great violence, and the shepherds and Shepherdesses from expected death, whereunto they were so near, and how by the admirable valour and strength of that Shepherdess, not only they, but the shepherds had escaped, they were in a trance for a while, and could not afterwards imagine her to be any human wight. But the Shepherdess coming now unto them, began to untie their hands, saying. They deserved no less punishment, then that they have (fair Nymphs) that with these rude and rough bonds durst presume to bind such white and delicate hands, whose beauties are fit to bind tender and relenting hearts. Accursed be such proud monsters, and ill befall to such senseless and beastly men: but Ladies, they have their hire, and I my desire, by having done you this small service, and coming in so good a time with speedy remedy for such an outrage, although these hardy shepherds, and fair Shepherdess deserve no less thanks for hazarding their lives in your defence, who would (no doubt) like myself have thought them well employed, and themselves well appaied, if in so good a quarrel, and for such worthy personages they had jointly lost them. The Nymphs were no less amazed at her rare beauty and wisdom, then at the courage and force, that she had showed in their defence, whereupon Doria with a gracious semblant answered her thus again. Fair Shepherdess, if thou art not (as by thy approved valour and brave mind, thou seemest to be) the daughter of invincible Mars, yet for thy beauty (which is celestial) thou must needs be the daughter of lovely Venus and fair Adonis; and if of neither of them, it cannot then otherwise be, but that Minerva must be thy mother, since such great wisdom cannot proceed from any other part, although it is most true that nature hath endowed thee with the principal of them all. And since for so strange a courtesy, and good turn that thou hast done us, extraordinary and great must the services be, wherewith they must be requited, we hope, that at sometime or other, occasion may be offered, wherein thou mayest know, what earnest desire and entire good wills we have, to repay so singular & worthy a favour. But because (it seems) thou art weary, let us go to the fountain of the Sycamores, near to yonder wood, where thou mayst rest and refresh thyself. Let us go lady (said the Shepherdess) not so much to ease my wearied body, as to talk of other matters, wherein my soul's health and the sum of my content doth chiefly consist. That will we do with all possible diligence (said Polydora) since there is not any, whom we should with greater reason endeavour to content then thyself. But fair Cynthia turning to the shepherds, said. The debt (fair Shepherdess, and stout Shepherds) wherein you have perpetually bound us to you, yourselves know well enough, which though we are never able to acquit, yet we will not cease to wish, that some occasion may hereafter fall out, wherein we may show the earnest will and affection we have to discharge it, according to our great desire. These thanks (fair Nymphs) answered Seluagia, and your gentle offers, are more due to these two Shepherds then to me, that could do no more than pray for your safe delivery. But is this the Shepherd Syrenus (said Polydora) so much beloved in times past, as now forgotten of the fair Diana? And is this other, his corrival sylvanus? They are the same (said Seluagia.) Then am I glad (said Polydora) that you are such kind of men, whom we may in some part recompense, the great good will you showed, and the peril you passed to set us free. Doria wondering at that she had heard, said. And is it true that this is Syrenus? I am very glad that I have found thee, and that there is an occasion ministered me to seek out some remedy (which (I hope) shall not be small) for thy great cares and sorrow. Nor sufficient enough for so great grief, if it be small (said Syrenus.) Let us go to the fountain (said Polydora) where we will at large discourse of these and other matters. To the which when they were come, the Nymphs, placing the Shepherdess in the mids of them, sat them down, and the Shepherds at the Nymphs requests, went to the next town to provide some victuals, because it was now somewhat late, and that they all had an appetite to eat. But the three Nymphs remaining all alone with the unknown Shepherdesle, fair Doria thus began to say unto her. It is no less strange to us, to see such an one as thou art (most valiant and fair Shepherdess) of such valour and strength in these plains and woods, sequestered from all popular concourse, then to thee (I think) to see three Nymphs here all alone, and without company to defend them from the like assaults. But because we may know what thou art (which is our chief desire) we will enforce that favour with this small desert, by telling thee first what we are, for the better knowledge whereof, thou shalt understand (courageous Shepherdess) that this Nymph is called Polydora, that Cynthia, and myself Doria, we having our mansion place in Diana's wood, where sage Felicia keeps her stately court, whose course of life, and only exercise, is to cure and remedy the passions of love. We, going to visit a certain Nymph her cousin, that liveth on this side of the Gallician hills, came by chance to this pleasant and shadowed dale, where, seeing the place fit to pass away the heat of the noon day, under the shadow of these green Sycamores and Laurel trees, and emulating the harmony of this running spring, which passeth thorough this green meadow, we took our instruments, to see if we could imitate the same. And our hap (or rather mishap) it was that these Savages long since captivated (as they say) in our loves, by chance came hither, who importuning us many times with their brutish requests, to grant them our love, and seeing that by no means we gave them any hope thereof, with violent hands determined to put their beastly intents in practice; and finding us here all alone, did that, which (fair Shepherdess) thou sawest, when so fortunately thou camest to our rescue. The Shepherdess hearing what fair Doria had told her, with plenteous tears gave an evident testimony of the inward grief, which her afflicted hart felt, and looking upon the Nymphs, she began thus to say.  
Love is not such a quality (fair Nymphs of the chaste Goddess) that the person, whom it holdeth in captivity, can have any regard of reason, neither is reason a means to make an enamoured hart forsake that way, wherein the cruel destinies will conduct it. For proof whereof, experience is at hand: for though you were loved of these cruel Savages, and that the laws of honest and pure love doth prohibit all injuries, and whatsoever might offend you, yet on the other side, that headlong disorder comes, wherewith it works such strange and sundry effects, that the same men, that should serve and honour you, seek to spoil and hurt you. And because you may know, that I am not urged to say this, as only induced by that, which now at my coming I have seen in this valley, I will tell you that, which I thought to conceal from all the world, but only from him, to whom I yielded up long since the freedom of my hart, (if ever time and fortune grant mine eyes such favour, that they may see him once again) whereby you shall see how in the school of mishaps I have learned to talk of loves consequences, and of the effects, which the traitor works in their sorrowful hearts, that are subject unto him.  
You shall therefore know (fair Nymphs) that great Vandalia is my native country, a province not far hence, where I was borne, in a city called Soldina, my mother called Delia, my father Andronius, for lineage and possessions the chiefest of all that province. It fell out that as my mother was married many years, and had no children, (by reason whereof she lived so sad and malcontent, that she enjoyed not one merry day) with tears and sighs she daily importuned the heavens, and with a thousand vows and devout offerings besought God to grant her the sum of her desire: whose omnipotency it pleased, beholding from his imperial throne her continual orisons, to make her barren body (the greater part of her age being now spent and gone) to become fruitful. What infinite joy she conceived thereof, let her judge, that after a long desire of any thing, fortune at last doth put it into her hands. Of which content my father Andronius being no less partaker, showed such tokens of inward joy, as are impossible to be expressed. My mother Delia was so much given to reading of ancient histories, that, if by reason of sickness, or any important business, she had not been hindered, she would never (by her will) have passed the time away in any other delight: who (as I said) being now with child, and finding herself on a night ill at ease, entreated my father to read something unto her, that, her mind being occupied in contemplation thereof, she might the better pass her grief away. My father, who studied for nothing else but to please her in all he might, began to read unto her the history of Paris, when the three Ladies referred their proud contention for the golden Apple, to his conclusion and judgement. But as my mother held it for an infallible opinion, that Paris had partially given that sentence, (persuaded thereunto by a blind passion of beauty) so she said, that without all doubt he did not with due reason and wisdom consider the Goddess of battles; for as martial and heroical feats (said she) excelled all other qualities, so with equity and justice the Apple should have been given to her. My father answered, that since the Apple was to be given to the fairest, and that Venus was fairer than any of the rest, Paris had rightly given his judgement, if that harm had not ensued thereof, which afterwards did. To this my mother replied, that, though it was written in the Apple, (That it should be given to the fairest) it was not to be understood of corporal beauty, but of the intellectual beauty of the mind. And therefore, since fortitude was a thing that made one most beautiful, & the exercise of arms an exterior act of this virtue, she affirmed, that to the Goddess of battles this Apple should be given, if Paris had judged like a prudent & unappassionate judge. So that (fair Nymphs) they spent a great part of the night in this controversy, both of them alleging the most reasons they could, to confirm their own purpose. They persisting in this point, sleep began to overcome her, whom the reasons and arguments of her husband could not once move, so that being very deep in her disputations, she fell into as deep a sleep, to whom (my father being now gone to his chamber) appeared the Goddess Venus with as frowning a countenance, as fair, and said. I marvel Delia, who hath moved thee to be so contrary to her, that was never opposite to thee? If thou hadst but called to mind the time, when thou wert so overcome in love for Andronius, thou wouldst not have paid me the debt (thou owest me) with so ill coin. But thou shalt not escape free from my due anger; for thou shalt bring forth a son and a daughter, whose birth shall cost thee no less than thy life, and them their contentment, for uttering so much in disgrace of my honour and beauty: both which shall be as infortunate in their love, as any were ever in all their lives, or to the age wherein with remediless sighs they shall breathe forth the sum of their ceaseless sorrows. And having said thus, she vanished away: when likewise it seemed to my mother that the Goddess Pallas came to her in a vision, and with a merry countenance, said thus unto her. With what sufficient rewards may I be able to require the due regard (most happy and discreet Delia) which thou hast alleged in my favour against thy husband's obstinate opinion, except it be by making thee understand, that thou shalt bring forth a son and a daughter the most fortunate in arms that have been to their times. Having thus said, she vanished out of her sight, and my mother thorough exceeding sear, awaked immediately. Who within a month after, at one birth was delivered of me, and of a brother of mine, and died in childbed, leaving my father the most sorrowful man in the world for her sudden death, for grief whereof within a little while after, he also died. And because you may know (fair Nymphs) in what great extremities love hath put me, you must understand, that (being a woman of that quality and disposition (as you have heard) I have been forced by my cruel destiny to leave my natural habit, and liberty, and the due respect of mine honour, to follow him, who thinks (perhaps) that I do but lose it by loving him so extremely. Behold how bootless and unseemly it is for a woman to be so dextrous in arms, as if it were her proper nature and kind, wherewith (fair Nymphs) I had never been endued, but that by means thereof, I should come to do you this little service against these villains, which I account no less then if fortune had begun to satisfy in part some of those infinite wrongs, that she hath continually done me. The Nymphs were so amazed at her words, that they could neither ask nor answer any thing, to that the fair Shepherdess told them: who prosecuting her history, said. My brother and I were brought up in a Nunnery, where an aunt of ours was Abbess, until we had accomplished twelve years of age, at what time we were taken from thence again, and my brother was carried to the mighty and invincible King of Portugal his Court (whose noble fame and princely liberality was bruited over all the world) where, being grown to years able to manage arms, he achieved as valiant, and almost incredible enterprises by them, as he suffered unfortunate disgraces and foils by love. And with all this, he was so highly favoured of that magnificent King, that he would never suffer him to departed from his Court. Unfortunate I, reserved by my sinister destinies to greater mishaps, was carried to a grandmother of mine, which place I would I had never seen, since it was an occasion of such a sorrowful life, as never any woman suffered the like. And because there is not any thing (fair Nymphs) which I am not forced to tell you, as well for the great virtue and deserts, which your excellent beauties do testify, as also for that my mind doth give me, that you shall be no small part and means of my comfort; know that as I was in my grandmother's house, and almost seventeen years old, a certain young Gentleman fell in love with me, who dwelled no further from our house, than the length of a garden Terrasse, so that he might see me every summers night, when I walked in the garden. When as therefore ingrateful Felix had beheld in that place the unfortunate Felismena (for this is the name of the woeful woman that tells you her mishaps) he was extremely enamoured of me, or else did cunningly dissemble it, I not knowing then whether of these two I might believe, but am now assured, that whosoever believes lest, or nothing at all in these affairs, shall be most at ease. Many days Don Felix spent in endeavouring to make me know the pains, which he suffered for me, and many more did I spend in making the matter strange, and that he did not suffer them for my sake. And I know not why love delayed the time so long by forcing me to love him, but only that (when he came indeed) he might enter into my hart at once, and with greater force and violence. When he had therefore by sundry signs, as by Tilt and Tourneys, and by prancing up and down upon his proud jennet before my windows, made it manifest, that he was in love with me (for at the first I did not so well perceive it) he determined in the end to write a letter unto me, and having practised divers times before with a maid of mine, and at length with many gifts and fair promises, gotten her good will and furtherance, he gave her the letter to deliver to me: But to see the means that Rosina made unto me (for so was she called) the dutiful services and unwonted circumstances, before she did deliver it, the others that she swore unto me, and the subtle words and serious protestations she used, it was a pleasant thing, and worthy the noting. To whom (nevertheless) with an angry countenance I turned again, saying. If I had not regard of mine own estate, and what hereafter might be said, I would make this shameless face of thine be known ever after for a mark of an impudent and bold minion. But because it is the first time, let this suffice that I have said, and give thee warning to take heed of the second. Me thinks I see now the crafty wench, how she held her peace, dissembling very cunningly the sorrow, that she conceived by my angry answer: for she feigned a counterfeit smiling, saying. jesus Mistress, I gave it you, because you might laugh at it, and not to move your patience with it in this sort, for if I had any thought that it would have provoked you to anger, I pray God he may show his wrath, as great towards me, as ever he did to the daughter of any mother. And with this she added many words more (as she could do well enough) to pacify the feigned anger, and ill opinion that I conceived of her, and taking her letter with her, she departed from me. This having passed thus, I began to imagine what might ensue thereof, and love (me thought) did put a certain desire into my mind to see the letter, though modesty & shame forbade me to ask it of my maid, especially for the words, that had passed between us, as you have heard. And so I continued all that day until night, in variety of many thoughts. But when Rosina came to help me to bed, God knows how desirous I was to have her entreat me again to take the letter, but she would never speak unto me about it, nor (as it seemed) did so much as once think thereof. Yet to try, if by giving her some occasion, I might prevail, I said unto her. And is it so Rosina, that Don Felix without any regard to mine honour dares write unto me? These are things Mistress (said she demurely to me again) that are commonly incident to love, wherefore I beseech you pardon me, for if I had thought to have angered you with it, I would have first pulled out the balls of mine eyes. How cold my hart was at that blow, God knows, yet did I dissemble the matter, and suffer myself to remain that night only with my desire, and with occasion of little sleep. And so it was indeed, for that (me thought) was the longest and most painful night, that ever I passed. But when with a slower pace (than I desired) the wished day was come, the discreet & subtle Rosina came into my chamber to help me to make me ready, in doing whereof, of purpose, she let the letter closely fall, which when I perceived, what is that that fell down (said I,) let me see it. It is nothing Mistress, said she. Come, come, let me see, it (said I) what, move me not, or else tell me what it is. Good lord Mistress (●…ide she) why will you see it: it is the letter I would have given you yesterday. Nay that it is not (said I) wherefore show it me, that I may see if you lie or no. I had no sooner said so, but she put it into my hands, saying: God never give me good, if it be any other thing; and although I knew it well indeed, yet I said, what, this is not the same, for I know that well enough, but it is one of thy lovers letters, I will read it, to see in what need he standeth of thy favour. And opening it, I found it contained this that followeth.  
I ever imagined (dear Mistress) that your discretion and wisdom would have taken away the fear I had to write unto you, the same knowing well enough (without any letter at all) how much I love you, but the very same hath so cunningly dissembled, that wherein I hoped the only remedy of my griefs had been, therein consisted my greatest harm. If according to your wisdom you censure my boldness, I shall not then (I know) enjoy one hour of life: but if you do consider of it according to loves accustomed effects, then will I not exchange my hope for it. Be not offended I beseech you (good Lady) with my letter, and blame me not for writing unto you, until you see by experience, whether I can leave of to write: And take me besides into the possession of that which is yours, since all is mine doth wholly consist in your hands, the which with all reverence and dutiful affection a thousand times I kiss.  
When I had now seen my Don Felix his letter, whether it was for reading it at such a time, when by the same he showed, that he loved me more than himself, or whether he had disposition and regiment over part of this wearied soul, to imprint that love in it, whereof he wrote unto me, I began to love him too well (and alas for my harm) since he was the cause of so much sorrow, as I have passed for his sake. Whereupon ask Rosina forgiveness of what was passed (as a thing needful for that which was to come) and committing the secrecy of my love to her fidelity, I read the letter once again, pausing a little at every word, (and a very little indeed it was) because I concluded so soon with myself, to do that I did, although in very truth it lay not otherwise in my power to do. Wherefore calling for paper and ink, I answered his letter thus.  
Esteem not so slightly of mine honour, Don Felix, as with feigned words to think to enueagle it, or with thy vain pretences to offend it any ways. I know well enough what manner of man thou art, and how great thy desert and presumption is, from whence thy boldness doth arise (I guess,) and not from the force (which thing thou wouldst feign persuade me) of thy fervent love. And if it be so, (as my suspicion suggesteth) thy labour is as vain, as thy imagination presumptuous, by thinking to make me do any thing contrary to that, which I own unto mine honour. Consider (I beseech thee) how seldom, things, commenced under subtlety and dissimulation, have good success; and that it is not the part of a Gentleman, to mean them one way, and speak them another. Thou prayest me (amongst other things) to admit thee into possession of that, that is mine: but I am of so ill an humour in matters of this quality, that I trust not things experienced, how much less than thy bare words, yet nevertheless, I make no small account of that, which thou hast manifested to me in thy letter; for it is enough that I am incredulous, though not unthankful.  
This letter did I send, contrary to that I should have done, because it was the occasion of all my harms and griefs: for after this, he began to wax more bold by unfolding his thoughts, and seeking out the means to have a parley with me. In the end (fair Nymphs) a few days being spent in his demands and my answers, false love did work in me after his wont fashions, every hour seizing more strongly upon my unfortunate soul. The Tourneys were now renewed, the music by night did never cease, amorous letters and verses were recontinued on both sides: and thus passed I away almost a whole year, at the end whereof, I felt myself so far in his love, that I had no power to retire, nor stay myself from disclosing my thoughts unto him, (the thing which he desired more than his own life.) But my adverse fortune afterwards would, that of these our mutual loves (when as now they were most assured) his father had some intelligence, and whosoever revealed them first, persuaded him so cunningly, that his father (fearing lest he would have married me out of hand) sent him to the great Princess Augusta Caesarinas court, telling him, it was not meet that a young Gentleman, and of so noble a house as he was, should spend his youth idly at home, where nothing could be learned, but examples of vice, whereof the very sameidlenes (he said) was the only Mistress. He went away so pensive, that his great grief would not suffer him to acquaint me with his departure, which when I knew, how sorrowful I remained, she may imagine, that hath been at any time tormented with like passion. To tell you now the life, that I led in his absence, my sadness, sighs, and tears, which every day I powered out of these wearied eyes, my tongue is far unable: if then my pains were such, that I cannot now express them, how could I then suffer them? But being in the mids of my mishaps, and in the depth of those woes which the absence of Don Felix caused me to feel, and it seeming to me that my grief was without remedy, if he were once seen or known of the Ladies in that Court (more beautiful and gracious than myself.) By occasion whereof, as also by absence (a capital enemy to love) I might easily be forgotten, I determined to adventure that, which I think never any woman imagined: which was, to apparel myself in the habit of a man, and to high me to the Court to see him, in whose sight all my hope and content remained: which determination, I no sooner thought of, than I put in practice, love blinding my eyes and mind with an inconsiderate regard of mine own estate and condition. To the execution of which attempt, I wanted no industry, for, being furnished with the help of one of my approved friends, and treasouresse of my secrets, who bought me such apparel, as I willed her, and a good horse for my journey, I went not only out of my country, but out of my dear reputation (which (I think) I shall never recover again) and so trotted directly to the Court, passing by the way many accidents, which (if time would give me leave to tell them) would not make you laugh a little to hear them. Twenty days I was in going thither, at the end of which, being come to the desired place, I took up mine Inn in a street lest frequented with concourse of people. And the great desire I had to see the destroyer of my joy, did not suffer me to think of any other thing, but how or where I might see him. To inquire of him of mine host, I durst not, lest my coming might (perhaps) have been discovered: and to seek him forth, I thought it not best, lest some inopinate mishap might have fallen out, whereby I might have been known. Wherefore I passed all that day in these perplexities, while night came on, each hour whereof (me thought) was a whole year unto me. But midnight being a little past, mine host called at my chamber door, and told me if I was desirous to hear some brave music, I should arise quickly, and open a window towards the street. The which I did by and by, and making no noise at all, I heard how Don Felix his Page, called Fabius (whom I knew by his voice) said to others that came with him. Now it is time my Masters, because the Lady is in the gallery over her garden, taking the fresh air of the cool night. He had no sooner said so, but they began to wind three Cornets and a Sackbot, with such skill and sweetness, that it seemed celestial music. And then began a voice to sing, the sweetest (in my opinion) that ever I heard. And though I was in suspense, by hearing Fabius speak, whereby a thousand doubts and imaginations (repugnant to my rest) occurred in my mind, yet I neglected not to hear what was sung, because their operations were not of such force, that they were able to hinder the desire, nor distemper the delight that I conceived by hearing it. That therefore which was sung, were these verses.  


Sweet Mistress hearken unto me  
(If it grieves thee to see me die)  
And hearing though it grieveth thee,  
To hear me yet, do not deny.   

O grant me then this short content,  
For forced I am to thee to fliie:  
My sighs do not make thee relent,  
Nor tears thy hart do mollify.   

Nothing of mine doth give thee pain,  
Nor thou thinkest of no remedy:  
Mistress how long shall I sustain  
such ill, as still thou dost apply?   

In death there is no help, be sure,  
But in thy will, where it doth lie:  
For all those ills which death doth cure,  
Alas, they are but light to try:   

My troubles do not trouble thee,  
Nor hope to touch thy soul so nigh:  
O from a will that is so free,  
What should I hope, when I do cry?   

How can I mollify that brave  
And stony hart, of pity dry?  
Yet Mistress turn those eyes (that have  
No peers) shining like stars in sky:   

But turn them not in angry sort,  
If thou wilt not kill me thereby:  
Though yet in anger, or in sport,  
Thou killest only with thine eye.    
After they had first with a consent of music sung this song, two played, the one upon a Lute, the other upon a silver sounding Harp, being accompanied with the sweet voice of my Don Felix: the great joy that I felt in hearing him, cannot be imagined, for (me thought) I heard him now, as in that happy and passed time of our loves. But after the deceit of this imagination was discovered, seeing with mine eyes, and hearing with mine ears, that this music was bestowed upon another and not on me, God knows what a bitter death it was unto my soul: And with a grievous sigh, that carried almost my life away with it, I asked mine host, if he knew what the Lady was, for whose sake the music was made? He answered me, that he could not imagine on whom it was bestowed, because in that street dwelled many noble and fair Ladies. And when I saw he could not satisfy my request, I bent mine ears again to hear my Don Felix, who now to the tune of a delicate harp whereon he sweetly played, began to sing this Sonnet following.  

A Sonnet.  
MY painful years impartial Love was spending  
In vain and bootless hopes my life appaying,  
And cruel Fortune to the world bewraying  
Strange samples of my tears that have no ending.  
Time every thing to truth at last commending,  
Leaves of my steps such marks, that now betraying  
And all deceitful trusts shall be decaying,  
And none have cause to plain of his offending.  
She, whom I loved to my obliged power,  
That in her sweetest love to me discovers  
Which never yet I knew (those heavenly pleasures,)  
And I do say, exclaiming every hour,  
Do not you see, what makes you wise, O Lovers?  
Love, Fortune, Time, and my fair Mistress treasures.   
The Sonnet being ended, they paused a while, playing on four Lutes together, and on a pair of Virginals, with such heavenly melody, that the whole world (I think) could not afford sweeter music to the ear, nor delight to any mind, not subject to the pangs of such predominant grief and sorrow as mine was. But then four voice passing well tuned and set together, began to sing this song following.  

A Song.  

THat sweetest harm I do not blame,  
First caused by thy fairest eyes,  
But grieve, because too late I came,  
To know my fault, and to be wise.   

I never knew a worse kind of life,  
To live in fear, from boldness still to cease:  
Nor worse than this, to live in such a strife,  
Whether of both, to speak, or hold my peace?   

And so the harm I do not blame,  
Caused by thee, or thy fair eyes:  
But that to see how late I came,  
To know my fault, and to be wise.   

I ever more did fear, that I should know  
Some secret things, and doubtful in their kind,  
Because the surest things do ever go  
Most contrary unto my wish and mind.   

And yet by knowing of the same,  
There is no hurt, But it denies  
My remedy, Since late I came,  
To know my fault, and to be wise.    
When this song was ended, they began to sound divers sorts of instruments, and voices most excellently agreeing together, and with such sweetness, that they could not choose but delight any very much, who were not so far from it as I. About dawning of the day the music ended, and I did, what I could to espy out my Don Felix, but the darkness of the night was mine enemy therein. And seeing now that they were gone, I went to bed again, where I bewailed my great mishap, knowing that he, whom most of all I loved, had so unworthily forgotten me, whereof his music was too manifest a witness. And when it was time, I arose, & without any other consideration went strait to the Princess her palace, where (I thought) I might see that, which I so greatly desired, determining to call myself Valerius, if any (perhaps) did ask my name. Coming therefore to a fair broad court before the palace gate, I viewed the windows and galleries, where I saw such store of blazing beauties, and gallant Ladies, that I am not able now to recount, nor then to do any more, but wonder at their graces, their gorgeous attire, their jewels, their brave fashions of apparel, and ornaments, wherewith they were so richly set out. up and down this place before the windows road many lords, and brave gentlemen in rich and sumptuous habits, and mounted upon proud gennets, every one casting his eye to that part, where his thoughts were secretly placed. God knows how greatly I desired to see Don Felix there, and that his injurious love had been in that famous palace, because I might then have been assured, that he should never have got any other guerdon of his suits and services, but only to see, and to be seen, and sometimes to speak to his Mistress, whom he must serve before a thousand eyes, because the privilege of that place doth not give him any further leave. But it was my ill fortune, that he had settled his love in that place, where I might not be assured of this poor help. Thus as I was standing near to the palace gate, I espied Fabius, Don Felix his page, coming in great haste to the palace, where speaking a word or two with a porter that kept the second entry, he returned the same way he came. I guessed his errant was, to know whether it were fit time for Don Felix to come to dispatch certain business, that his father had in the court, and that he could not choose but come thither out of hand. And being in this supposed joy, which his sight did promise me, I saw him coming along with a great train of followers attending on his person, all of them being bravely appareled in a livery of watchet silk, guarded with yellow velvet, and stitched on either side with threads of twisted silver, wearing likewise blue, yellow, and white feathers in their hats. But my Lord Don Felix had on a pair of ash colour hose, embroidered and drawn forth with watchet tissue, his doublet was of white satin, embroidered with knots of gold, and likewise an embroidered jerkin of the same coloured velvet, and his short cape cloak was of black velvet, edged with gold lace, and hung full of buttons of pearl and gold, and lined with razed watchet satin, by his side he ware at apaire of embroidered hangers a rapier and dagger, with engraven hilts and pommel of beaten gold. On his head, a hat, beset full of golden stars, in the mids of every which a rich orient pearl was enchased, and his feather was likewise blue, yellow, and white. Mounted he came upon a fair dapple grey jennet, with a rich furniture of blue, embroidered with gold and seed pearl. When I saw him in this rich equipage, I was so amazed at his sight, that how extremely my senses were ravished with sudden joy, I am not able (fair Nymphs) to tell you. Truth it is, that I could not but shed some tears for joy and grief, which his sight did make me feel, but fearing to be noted by the standers by, for that time I dried them up. But as Don Felix (being now come to the palace gate) was dismounted, and gone up a pair of stairs into the chamber of presence, I went to his men, where they were attending his return, and seeing Fabjus, whom I had seen before amongst them, I took him aside, and said unto him. My friend, I pray you tell me what Lord this is, which did but even now alight from his jennet, for (me thinks) he is very like one, whom I have seen before in an other far country. Fabius then answered me thus. Art thou such a novice in the court, that thou knowest not Don Felix? I tell thee there is not any Lord, knight, or gentleman better known in it then he. No doubt of that (said I) but I will tell thee what a novice I am, and how small a time I have been in the court, for yesterday was the first, that ever I came to it. Nay then I cannot blame thee (said Fabius) if thou knowest him not. Know then that this gentleman is called Don Felix, borne in Vandalia, and hath his chiefest house in the ancient city of Soldina, and is remaining in this court about certain affairs of his fathers and his own. But I pray you tell me (said I) why he gives his liveries of these colours? If the cause were not so manifest, I would conceal it (said Fabius) but since there is not any that knows it not, and canst not come to any in this court, who cannot tell thee the reason why, I think by telling thee it, I do no more then in courtesy I am bound to do. Thou must therefore understand, that he loves and serves a Lady here in this City named Celia, and therefore wears and gives for his livery an azure blue, which is the colour of the sky, and white and yellow, which are the colours of his Lady and Mistress. When I heard these words, imagine (fair Nymphs) in what a plight I was, but dissembling my mishap and grief, I answered him. This Lady certes is greatly beholding to him, because he thinks not enough, by wearing her colours, to show how willing he is to serve her, unless also he bear her name in his livery: whereupon I guess, she cannot be but very fair and amiable. She is no less indeed (said Fabius) although the other, whom he loved and served in our own country, in beauty far excelled this, and loved and favoured him more than ever this did. But this mischievous absence doth violate and dissolve those things, which men think to be most strong and firm. At these words (fair Nymphs) was I feign to come to some composition with my tears, which if I had not stopped from issuing forth, Fabius could not have chosen, but suspected by the alteration of my countenance that all was not well with me. And then the Page did ask me, what countryman I was, my name, and of what calling and condition I was: whom I answered, that my country, where I was borne was Vandalia, my name Valerius, and till that time served no Master. Then by this reckoning (said he) we are both countrymen, and may be both fellows in one house if thou wilt: for Don Felix my Master commanded me long since to seek him out a Page. Therefore if thou wilt serve him say so. As for meat, drink, and apparel, and a couple of shillings to play away, thou shalt never want, besides pretty wenches, which are not dainty in our street, as fair and amorous as Queens, of which there is not any, that will not die for the love of so proper a youth as thou art. And to tell thee in secret (because perhaps we may be fellows) I know where an old Cannon's maid is, a gallant fine girl, whom if thou canst but find in thy hart to love and serve, as I do, thou shalt never want at her hands, fine handkerchiefs, pieces of bacon, and now and then wine of S. Martin. When I heard this, I could not choose but laugh, to see how naturally the unhappy Page played his part, by depainting forth their properties in their lively colours. And because I thought nothing more commodious for my rest, and for the enjoying of my desire, then to follow Fabius his counsel, I answered him thus. In truth I determined to serve none, but now, since fortune hath offered me so good a service, and at such a time, when I am constrained to take this course of life, I shall not do amiss if I frame myself to the seruiee of some Lord or Gentleman in this Court, but especially of your Master, because he seems to be a worthy Gentleman, and such an one, that makes more reckoning of his servants then an other. Ha thou knowest him not as well as I (said Fabius) for I promise thee by the faith of a Gentleman (for I am one in deed, for my father comes of the Cachopines of Laredo) that my Master Don Felix is the best natured Gentleman that ever thou knewest in thy life, and one who useth his Pages better than any other. And were it not for those troublesome loves, which makes us run up and down more, and sleepless, than we would, there were not such a Master in the whole world again. In the end (fair Nymphs) Fabius spoke to his Master Don Felix as soon as he was come forth in my behalf, who commanded me the same night to come to him at his lodging. Thither I went, and he entertained me for his Page, making the most of me in the world, where, being but a few days with him, I saw the messages, letters, and gifts that were brought and carried on both sides, grievous wounds (alas & coruives to my dying hart) which made my soul to fly sometimes out of my body, & every hour in hazard to lose my forced patience before every one. But after one month was past, Don Felix began to like so well of me, that he disclosed his whole love unto me from the beginning unto the present estate and forwardness, that it was then in, committing the charge thereof to my secrecy and help, telling me, that he was favoured of her at the beginning, and that afterwards she waxed weary of her loving and accustomed entertainment, the cause whereof was a secret report (whosoever it was that buzzed it into her ears) of the love, that he did bear to a Lady in his own country, and that his present love unto her was but to entertain the time, while his business in the Court were dispatched. And there is no doubt (said Don Felix unto me) but that indeed I did once commence that love that she lays to my charge, but God knows if now there be any thing in the world, that I love and esteem more dear and precious than her. When I heard him say so, you may imagine (fair Nymphs) what a mortal dagger pierced my wounded heart. But with dissembling the matter the best I could, I answered him thus. It were better sir (me thinks) that the Gentlewoman should complain with cause, and that it were so indeed, for if the other Lady, whom you served before, did not deserve to be forgotten of you, you do her (under correction my Lord) the greatest wrong in the world. The love (said Don Felix again) which I bear to my Celia will not let me understand it so, but I have done her (me thinks) the greater injury, having placed my love first in an other, and not in her. Of these wrongs (said I to myself) I know who bears the worst away. And (disloyal) he pulling a letter out of his bosom, which he had received the same hour from his Mistress, read it unto me, thinking that he did me a great favour thereby, the contents whereof were these.  
Celia's letter to Don Felix.  
Never any thing, that I suspected touching thy love, hath been so far from the truth, that hath not given me occasion to believe more often mine own imagination, than thy innocency, wherein, if I do thee any wrong, refer it but to the censure of thine own folly: For well thou mightest have denied, or not declared thy passed love, without giving me occasion to condemn thee by thine own confession. Thou sayest I was the cause that made thee forget thy former love: Comfort thyself, for there shall not want another to make thee forget thy second. And assure thyself of this (Lord Don Felix) that there is not any thing more unbeseeming a Gentleman, then to find an occasion in a Gentlewoman to lose himself for her love. I will say no more, but that in an ill, where there is no remedy, the best is not to seek out any.  
After he had made an end of reading the letter, he said unto me. What thinkest thou Valerius of these words? With pardon be it spoken my Lord; That your deeds are showed by them. Go to, said Don Felix, and speak no more of that. Sir, said I, they must like me well, if they like you, because none can judge better of their words, that love well, than they themselves. But that which I think of the letter is, that this Gentlewoman would have been the first, and that Fortune had entreated her in such sort, that all others might have envied her estate. But what wouldst thou counsel me said Don Felix? If thy grief doth suffer any counsel, said I, that thy thoughts be divided into this second passion, since there is so much due to the first. Don Felix answered me again sighing, and knocking me gently on the shoulder, saying. How wise art thou Valerius, and what good counsel dost thou give me, if I could follow it. Let us now go in to dinner, for when I have dined, I will have thee carry me a letter to my Lady Celia, and then thou shalt see, if any other love is not worthy to be forgotten in am of thinking only of her. These were words, that grieved Felismena to the hart, but because she had him before her eyes, whom she loved more than herself, the content, that she had by only seeing him, was a sufficient remedy of the pain, that the greatest of these stings did make her feel. After Don Felix had dined, he called me unto him, and giving me a special charge what I should do (because he had imparted his grief unto me, and put his hope and remedy in my hands) he willed me to carry a letter to Celia, which he had already written, and reading it first unto me, it said thus.  
Don Felix his letter to Celia.  
THe thought, that seeks an occasion to forget the thing, which it doth love and desire, suffers itself so easily to be known, that (without troubling the mind much) it may be quickly discerned. And think not (fair Lady) that I seek a remedy to excuse you of that, wherewith it pleased you to use me, since I never came to be so much in credit with you, that in lesser things I would do it. I have confessed unto you, that indeed I once loved well, because that true love, without dissimulation, doth not suffer any thing to be hid, and you (dear Lady) make that an occasion to forget me, which should be rather a motive to love me better. I cannot persuade me, that you make so small an account of yourself, to think that I can forget you for any thing that is, or hath ever been, but rather imagine, that you writ clean contrary to that, which you have tried by my zealous love, and faith towards you. Touching all those things, that in prejudice of my good will towards you, it pleaseth you to imagine, my innocent thoughts assure me to the contrary, which shall suffice, to be ill recompensed, besides, being so ill thought of, as they are.  
After Don Felix had read this letter unto me, he asked me if the answer was correspondent to those words that his Lady Celia had sent him in hers, and if there was any thing therein, that might be amended. Whereunto I answered thus. I think Sir, it is needless to amend this letter, or to make the Gentlewoman amends, to whom it is sent, but her, whom you do injury so much with it. Which under your Lordship's pardon I speak, because I am so much affected to the first love in all my life, that there is not any thing that can make me alter my mind. Thou hast the greatest reason in the world (said Don Felix) if I could persuade myself to leave of that, which I have begun: But what wilt thou have me do, since absence hath frozen the former love, and the continual presence of a peerless beauty rekindled another more hot and fervent in me. Thus may she think herself (said I again) unjustly deceived, whom first you loved, because that love, which is subject to the power of absence, cannot be termed love, and none can persuade me that it hath been love. These words did I dissemble the best I could, because I felt so sensible grief, to see myself forgotten of him, who had so great reason to love me, and whom I did love so much, that I did more, than any would have thought, to make myself still unknown. But taking the letter and mine errant with me, I went to Celia's house, imagining by the way the woeful estate, whereunto my hapless love had brought me; since I was forced to make war against mine own self, and to be the intercessor of a thing so contrary to mine own content. But coming to Celia's house, and finding a Page standing at the door, I asked him if I might speak with his Lady: who being informed of me from whence I came, told Celia how I would speak with her, commending therewithal my beauty and person unto her, and telling her besides, that Don Felix had but lately entertained me into his service, which made Celia say unto him. What, doth Don Felix so soon disclose his secret loves to a Page, but newly entertained? he hath (belike) some great occasion that moves him to do it. Bid him come in, & let us know what he would have. In I came, & to the place, where the enemy of my life was, & with great reverence, kissing her hands, I delivered Don Felix his letter unto her. Celia took it, and casting her eyes upon me, I might perceive how my sight had made a sudden alteration in her countenance, for she was so far besides herself, that for a good while she was not able to speak a word, but remembering herself at last, she said unto me. What good fortune hath been so favourable to Don Felix to bring thee to this Court, to make thee his Page? Even that, fair Lady, said I, which is better than ever I imagined, because it hath been an occasion to make me behold such singular beauty and perfections, as now I see clearly before mine eyes: And if the pains, the tears, the sighs, and the continual disquiets, that my Lord Don Felix hath suffered, have grieved me heretofore, now that I have seen the source, from whence they flow, and the cause of all his ill, the pity, that I had on him, is now wholly converted into a certain kind of envy. But if it be true (fair Lady) that my coming is welcome unto you, I beseech you by that, which you own to the great love, which he bears you, that your answer may import no less unto him. There is not any thing (said Celia) that I would not do for thee, though I were determined not to love him at all, who for my sake hath forsaken another. For it is no small point of wisdom for me, to learn by other women's harms to be more wise, and wary in mine own. Believe not good Lady (said I) that there is any thing in the world, that can make Don Felix forget you. And if he hath cast off another for your sake, wonder not thereat, when your beauty and wisdom is so great, and the others so small, that there is no reason to think, that he will (though he hath worthily forsaken her for your sake) or ever can forget you for any woman else in the world. Dost thou then know Felismena (said Celia) the Lady whom thy Master did once love and serve in his own country? I know her (said I) although not so well as it was needful for me, to have prevented so many mishaps, (and this I spoke softly to myself). For my father's house was near to hers, but seeing your great beauty adorned with such perfections and wisdom, Don Felix can not be blamed, if he hath forgotten his first love, only to embrace and honour yours. To this did Celia answer merrily, and smiling. Thou hast learned quickly of thy Master to sooth. Not so fair Lady, said I, but to serve you would I feign learn: for flattery cannot be where (in the judgement of all) there are so manifest signs and proofs of this due commendation. Celia began in good earnest to ask me what manner of woman Felismena was; whom I answered, that touching her beauty, Some thought her to be very fair, but I was never of that opinion, because she hath many days since wanted the chiefest thing, that is requisite for it. What is that said Celia? Content of mind, said I, because perfect beauty can never be, where the same is not adjoined to it. Thou hast the greatest reason in the world, said she, but I have seen some Ladies, whose lively hew sadness hath not one whit abated, and others, whose beauty anger hath increased, which is a strange thing, me thinks. Hapless is that beauty said I, that hath sorrow & anger the preservers & mistresses of it, but I cannot skill of these impertinent things: And yet that woman, that must needs be molested with continual pain and trouble, with grief and care of mind, and with other passions to make her look well, cannot be recknoed among the number of fair women, and for mine own part, I do not account her so. Wherein thou hast great reason said she, as in all things else that thou hast said, thou hast showed thyself wise and discreet. Which I have dearly bought, said I again: But I beseech you (gracious Lady) to answer this letter, because my Lord Don Felix may also have some contentment, by receiving this first well employed service at my hands. I am content, said Celia, but first thou must tell me if Felismena in matters of discretion be wise and well advised? There was never any woman (said I again) more wise than she, because she hath been long since beaten to it by her great mishaps; but she did never advise herself well, for if she had (as she was accounted wise) she had never come to have been so contrary to herself. Thou speakest so wisely in all thy answers, said Celia, that there is not any, that would not take great delight to hear them: which are not viands (said I) for such a dainty taste, nor reasons for so ingenious and fine a conceit (fair Lady) as you have, but boldly affirming, that by the same I mean no harm at all. There is not any thing, said Celia, whereunto thy wit cannot attain, but because thou shalt not spend thy time so ill in praising me, as thy Master doth in praying me, I will read thy letter, and tell thee what thou shalt say unto him from me. Whereupon unfolding it, she began to read it to herself, to whose countenance and gestures in reading of the same, which are oftentimes outward signs of the inward disposition and meaning of the hart, I gave a watchful eye. And when she had read it, she said unto me. Tell thy Master that he that can so well by words express what he means, cannot choose but mean as well as he saith: And coming nearer unto me, she said softly in mine ear. And this for the love of thee Valerius, and not so much for Don Felix thy Master his sake, for I see how much thou lovest and tenderest his estate: And from thence alas (said I to myself) did all my woes arise. Whereupon kissing her hands for the great courtesy and favour she showed me, I hied me to Don Felix with this answer, which was no small joy to him to hear it, and another death to me to report it, saying many times to myself (when I did either bring him home some joyful tidings, or carry letters or tokens to her) O thrice unfortunate Felismena, that with thine own weapons art constrained to wound thy ever-dying hart, and to heap up favours for him, who made so small account of thine. And so did I pass away my life with so many torments of mind, that if by the sight of my Don Felix they had not been tempered, it could not have otherwise been, but that I must needs have lost it. More than two months together did Celia hide from me the fervent love she bore me, although not in such sort, but that by certain apparent signs, I came to the knowledge thereof, which was no small lighting and ease of that grief, which incessantly haunted my wearied spirits; For as I thought it a strong occasion, and the only mean to make her utterly forget Don Felix, so likewise I imagined, that, perhaps, it might befall to him, as it hath done to many, that the force of ingratitude, and contempt of his love, might have utterly abolished such thoughts out of his hart. But alas it happened not so to my Don Felix, for the more he perceived that his Lady forgot him, the more was his mind troubled with greater cares and grief, which made him lead the most sorrowful life that might be, whereof the least part did not fall to my let. For remedy of whose sighs and piteous lamentations, poor Felismena (even by main force) did get favours from Celia, scoring them up (whensoever she sent them by me) in the catalogue of my infinite mishaps. For if by chance he sent her any thing by any of his other servants, it was so slenderly accepted, that he thought it best to send none unto her but myself, perceiving what inconvenience did ensue thereof. But God knows how many tears my messages cost me, and so many they were, that in Celia's presence I ceased not to power them forth, earnestly beseeching her with prayers and petitions, not to entreat him so ill, who loved her so much, because I would bind Don Felix to me by the greatest bond, as never man in like was bound to any woman. My tears grieved Celia to the hart, as well for that I shed them in her presence, as also for that she saw, if I meant to love her, I would not (for requital of hers to me) have solicited her with such diligence, nor pleaded with such pity, to get favours for another. And thus I lived in the greatest confusion that might be, amids a thousand anxieties of mind, for I imagined with myself, that if I made not a show that I loved her, as she did me, I did put it in hazard, lest Celia, for despite of my simplicity or contempt, would have love Don Felix more than before, and by loving him, that mine could not have any good success; And if I feigned myself on the other side, to be in love with her, it might have been an occasion, to have made her reject my Lord Don Felix, so that with the thought of his love neglected, and with the force of her contempt, he might have lost his content, and after that, his life, the least of which two mischiefs to prevent, I would have given a thousand lives, if I had them. Many days passed away in this sort, wherein I served him as a third between both, to the great cost of my contentment, at the end whereof, the success of his love went on worse and worse, because the Love, that Celia did bear me was so great, that the extreme force of her passion made her lose some part of that compassion, she should have had of herself. And on a day after that I had carried, and recaried many messages and tokens between them, sometimes feigning some myself from her unto him, because I could not see him (whom I loved so dearly) so sad and pensive, with many supplications and earnest prayers I besought Lady Celia with pity to regard the painful life, that Don Felix passed for her sake, and to consider, that, by not favouring him, she was repugnant to that, which she owed to herself: which thing I entreated, because I saw him in such a case, that there was no other thing to be expected of him but death, by reason of the continual and great pain, which his grievous thoughts made him feel. But she with swelling tears in her eyes, and with many sighs answered me thus. Unfortunate and accursed Celia, that now in the end dost know, how thou livest deceived with a false opinion of thy great simplicity (ungrateful Valerius) and of thy small discretion. I did not believe till now, that thou didst crave favours of me for thy Master, but only for thyself, and to enjoy my sight all that time, that thou didst spend in suing to me for them. But now I see thou dost ask them in earnest, and that thou art so content to see me use him well, that thou canst not (without doubt) love me at all. O how ill dost thou acquit the love I bear thee, and that, which for thy sake I do now forsake? O that time might revenge me of thy proud and foolish mind, since love hath not been the means to do it. For I cannot think, that Fortune will be so contrary unto me, but that she will punish thee for contemning that great good which she meant to bestow on thee. And tell thy Lord Don Felix that if he will see me alive, that he see me not at all: And thou vile traitor, cruel enemy to my rest, come no more (I charge thee) before these wearied eyes, since their tears were never of force to make thee know how much thou art bound unto them. And with this, she suddenly flung out of my sight with so many tears, that mine were not of force to stay her. For in the greatest haste in the world she got her into her chamber, where locking the door after her, it availed me not to call and cry unto her, requesting her with amorous and sweet words to open me the door, and to take such satisfaction on me, as it pleased her: Nor to tell her many other things, whereby I declared unto her the small reason she had to be so angry with me, and to shut me out. But with a strange kind of fury she said unto me. Come no more, ungrateful and proud Valerius in my sight, and speak no more unto me, for thou art not able to make satisfaction for such great disdain, and I will have no other remedy for the harm, which thou hast done me, but death itself, the which with mine own hands I will take in satisfaction of that, which thou deservest: which words when I heard, I stayed no longer, but with a heavy cheer came to my Don Felix his lodging, and with more sadness, than I was able to dissemble, told him, that I could not speak with Celia, because she was visited of certain Gentlewomen her kinsew omen. But the next day in the morning, it was bruited over all the city, that a certain trance had taken her that night, wherein she gave up the ghost, which struck all the court with no small wonder. But that, which Don Felix felt by her sudden death, and how near it grieved his very soul, as I am not able to tell, so can not human intendment conceive it, for the complaints he made, the tears, the burning sighs, and hartbreake sobs, were without all measure and number. But I say nothing of myself, when on the one side, the unlucky death of Celia touched my soul very near, the tears of Don Felix on the other, did cut my hart in two with grief: And yet this was nothing to that intolerable pain, which afterwards I felt. For Don Felix heard no sooner of her death, but the same night he was missing in his house, that none of his servants, nor any body else could tell any news of him.  
Whereupon you may perceive (fair Nymphs) what cruel torments I did then feel, than did I wish a thousand times for death to prevent all those woes and miseries, which afterwards befell unto me: For Fortune (it seemed) was but weary of those which she had but till then given me. But as all the care and diligence which I employed in seeking out my Don Felix, was but in vain, so I resolved with myself to take this habit upon me as you see, wherein it is more than two years, since I have wandered up and down, seeking him in many countries: but my fortune hath denied me to find him out, although I am not a little now bound unto her by conducting me hither at this time, wherein I did you this small piece of service. Which (fair Nymphs) believe me, I account (next after his life in whom I have put all my hope) the greatest content, that might have fallen unto me.  
When the Nymphs had heard fair Felismenas' tale, and understood what a great Lady she was, and how love had made her forsake her natural habit, and taken upon her the weeds and life of a shepherdess, they were no less amazed at her constancy and zeal, then at the great power of that cruel tyrant, who absolutely commands so many liberties to his service. And they were moved besides to no small pity, to see the tears and burning sighs wherewith the Lady did solemnize the history of her love. Doria therefore, whose tender soul Felismenas' grief did most transpierce, and who was more affected to her, then to any woman, with whom she had over conversed before, took her by the hand, and began to say to her in manner follwing. What can we do (saire Lady) against the blows of Fortune, what place is there so strong, where one may be safe from the mutabilities of time? What harness so impenetrable, and steel so well tempered, that may serve for a defence against the violence of this tyrant, whom so unjustly they call Love? And what hart (though it be harder than diamond) which an amorous thought can not mollify and make tender? Certes this beauty, this valour, and this wisdom, deserve not to be forgotten of him, who had but once seen and known them: But we live now in such an age, that the deserts of any thing, are the means and occasions of not obtaining it. And cruel love is of so strange a condition, that he bestoweth his contents without any good order and rule, and giveth there greatest favours, where they are lest esteemed; but the medicine of so many ills, (whereof this tyrant is the cause) is her discretion & courage that suffers them. But whom doth he leave so free, that these may serve her for a remedy? Or who can command herself so much in this passion, that in other women's affairs she is able to give counsel, how much less to take it in her own. Yet for all this, I beseech thee (fair Lady) to put before thine eyes, and consider what thou art, because if women of such high renown and virtue as thou art, are not able to tolerate his adverse effects, how can they suffer them, that are not such. And in the behalf of these Nymphs and mine own, I request thee, to go with us to the sage Felicias palace, which is not far from this place, for that to morrow about this time we may be well there: where (I am assured) thou shalt find great remedies for thy griefs, as many others have done heretofore, that have not deserved them as much as thou hast: whose profound skill and rare experiments (besides many other notable things in her, wherein no man or woman in our times came ever near her) and her princely bounty doth'make her so famous and renowned, that the greatest kings and estates in the world are desirous of her company. I know not fair Nymphs (said Felismena again) who is able to apply a remedy to such an ill, but he that first caused it. But nevertheless I will fulfil your wills herein, and since your company is such an ease and lighting to my pain, it were a fond part to reject that comfort, whereof at this time I stand in so great need. I wonder said Cynthia, that Don Felix (all the while thou didst serve him) did not know thee by thy fair face, thy sweet grace, and looking daily on such fair eyes. He did so little remember those beauties, said Felismena, which he had once scene in me, (his thoughts being so deeply imprinted on Celia's which he daily viewed) that he had no power, nor knowledge left to think once of mine. And talking thus together, they heard the Shepherds singing, (that in company of discreet Seluagia were coming down the hill) the oldest songs they knew, or that their several griefs did put into their heads, every one taking that, which made most for his purpose. And the first that began to sing, was sylvanus, who did sing this song following.  

MY passion (Love) thou dost disdain,  
But God keep thee from such a pain.  
I am of Love disdained,  
And Fortune's wheel doth bruise me,  
I care not now to lose me,  
And hope not to be gained.  
So care to care is chained  
By Fortune and by Love again:  
But God keep thee from such a paina.  
In plaints Love entertained  
Myhart (such sport to choose me)  
And fortune thus undooes me,  
To make me think unfeigned,  
That Time a change maintained,  
But Both do still my griefs ordain,  
But God keep thee from such a pain.   
Seluagia, who bore no less love, or at lest no less presumption thereof to her Alanius, than sylvanus to fair Diana, and who thought herself no less grieved for the change, that he had made in his love, than sylvanus for the long perseverance in his harm, changing the first verse of this old pastoral round that followeth, she began to sing it, applying it to her purpose in this sort.  


Say Shepherdess, what hath deprived thee  
Of courtesy and joy,  
Since that so merry thou were wont to be?   

The dear remembrance of my passed gladness  
In mids of all my present grief and pain,  
Woe to my soul, that feels it with such sadness,  
If long in such a state it doth remain:  
And since that time hath changed (to beplaine)  
A Shepherd to offend and trouble me,  
Merry and pleasant I could never be.    
Syrenus' thought Seluagias song sufficient enough to manifest his grief, if sylvanus and she had agreed thereunto; who also persuading him to choose out some song, that he had sometimes heard most fit for his purpose, he began to sing this which followeth.  


Mistress thou hast forgotten me,  
But more I love and honour thee.   

Hapless, I see I am forgot,  
And yet I know no reason why,  
To whom thy faith thou dost apply.  
And tak'st from whom thou dost not wots:  
Being beloved, he loves thee not,  
And Mistress thou dost not love me,  
But more I love and honour thee.   

Me thinks I do behold with pride  
Those eyes (my joys not long ago)  
And for thou wilt not see me so,  
Thy fairest face from me dost hide:  
And that I say to thee, beside,  
Mistress lift up those eyes to me,  
For more I love and honour thee.    
The Nymphs with no small delight and content, were hearkening to the Shepherd's songs, but the infinite sighs and tears which the noble Shepherd sse powered forth, did not suffer her to be idle, while the Shepherds were a singing. When they were come to the fountain, and had done their due reverence, they spread a fair white cloth upon the green grass, and setting that meat on it, which they had brought with them from the town, they sat them down to eat, whom their thoughts (at ) would give leave, and they, (who had not such a privilege) importuned by them, that were most free, must needs do the like. And after they had refreshed themselves, Polydora said thus. The remedy of your pains disdained Shepherds, (if it be lawful to call you by that name,) which (to your grief) fortune hath cast upon you, consisteth in the hands of the grave Lady Felicia, to whom nature hath given that divine knowledge, which she hath denied us: And therefore since you see, how greatly it importeth you to go visit her, in the name of these two Nymphs (to whom you have done this day so great service) I request you, not to refuse our company, because by no other means you may receive the reward of your travel and pain, the which this worthy Shepherdess intends to take, who needs it no less than yourselves. And thou Syrenus, whom Fortune hath tossed from a happy and joyful time, to a life as hapless and full of sorrow, despair not, but cheer up thyself, for if thy Mistress had the remedy of the miserable life, which she leads with Delius so near her, as thou of that, which she makes thee suffer, it would be no small lighting to those churlish words, and jealous jars, which I know she passeth every day with him. There is nothing fair Polydora (said Syrenus) that gives me now any greater discontent, then that Diana hath revenged herself on me so much to her own cost, for loving one, who hath not any thing in him that deserves such love, and being perforce in his company, thou seest how much it must grieve her; and as for me, to seek a remedy for my grief, I would do it, if time and fortune would permit me. But I plainly see, that all the ways of it are stopped up, and know not whither thyself and these fair Nymphs will carry me to seek it out. But let it be as it will, I will follow you, as sylvanus (I think) and Seluagia will do no less, if they be not of so small understanding, that they conceive not the great favour, that you do to us all. And so they two referring themselves to that, which Syrenus had answered, and committing their flocks to their friends (which were not feeding far from that place) while they came back again, they went altogether, which way the Nymphs did lead them.  
The end of the second book of Diana.   

The third Book of Diana of George of Montemayor.  
WIth great content the fair Nymphs with their company were going on their way thorough the mids of a thick wood, and now the sun being ready to set, they entered into a fair valley, in the mids of which ran a swift brook, beset on either side with thick Sallows and Sycamores; amongst the which were many other kinds of less trees, which twyning about the greater, and the golden and coloured flowers of the one, woven (as it were) with the green bows of the other, represented a goodly sight and delight to the eye. The Nymphs and Shepherds took a pathway between the brook and the fair arbours, who had not gone far, when they came to a large green meadow, wherein was a very fair great moat of clear water, from whence the brook did spring, that with great force ran thorough the valley. In the mids of that moat was an Island, wherein grew some green trees, amongst the which stood a Sheepe-cote, and about the same a flock of sheep went seeding of the green and tender grass. The Nymphs thinking this a fit place to pass away the night, which was near at hand, upon a fine causey of stones most artificially (as it seemed) laid in order, they passed all over into the island, and went directly to the cote which they saw before them. But Polydora going in first (for she was a little before the rest) was scarce entered in when she came forth as fast again, and looking towards her company, did put her singer upon her mouth, in token that they should come softly on & without any noise, which the Nymphs & the shepherds perceiving, with the least they could, came into the cote, and looking into it, espied a bed in a corner, not made of any other thing, then of the green bows of those Sycamores, that were growing about it, and of the green grass, that did grow about the water brinks. Upon the which they saw a Shepherdess lying a sleep, whose beauty struck them with no less admiration, then if on a sudden they had seen fair Diana before their eyes. She had on a light sky coloured petticoat, and under that a gorget of so passing fine network, that they might at pleasure behold the delicate proportion of her snow white breast, and comely feature of her even body, for the upper part (being of the same colour with the rest) hung so lose about her, that they might take a perfect view of her fine and dainty waste. Her yellow hair in brightness surpassing the sunny beams, were lose and hanging down without any order. But never did frizeling and adorned periwig of any Lady in stately court beautify in such sort, as the careless disorder that these had; and her white leg, being bare by the negligence of her harmless sleep, lay seemly out of her petticoat, but not so much, that the lookers on might perceive any part, but what with modesty they might well behold. And by many tears that (sleeping yet) went trickling down her fair and rosy cheeks, her sleep (it seemed) should not hinder her sorrowful imaginations. The Nymphs and Shepherds were so amazed at her beauty, and at her inward sorrow, which by outward signs they well conjectured did trouble her waking soul, that they knew not what to say, but were forced to shed tears for pity of those, which they saw the Shepherdess power forth: who (as with pity and admiration they were looking on her) turned her on the other side, and with a grievous sigh fetched from the bottom of her hart, said thus to herself. How unfortunate art thou Belisa, that thy grief consisteth in no other thing, but in that thy life is of so small value, that it is not able to pay those things with extinction thereof, which by thine own occasion are destroyed and lost? And then with a sudden sursault she awaked in such sort, that the end of her days (it seemed) was near at hand: But when she saw the three Nymphs, and two such fair Shepherdesses with two Shepherds, she was so amazed, that it was a good while before she came to herself again, who at last lifting up her eyes to look on them again, without stopping her tears, which continually she powered out, or putting silence to her burning sighs, which her afflicted hart sent forth, began to speak in this sort. How great a comfort to so comfortless a sonle as mine is should it be, if I were assured, that none by word nor deed would endeavour to give me any at all; because the great reason, that I have (fair Nymphs) to live enwrapped in such sadness as I do, hath put such a kind of enmity between me and the consolation of my grief, that if I thought at any time to enjoy it, I would myself be the author of mine own death: Whereat marvel not fair Nymphs, or that I would seek to prevent me of this remedy, since there is no other, that can grieve me more, than this your sudden sight and coming to this uncouth cote, a place selected out and fit for no other thing, but to bewail remediless griefs. Wherefore let it be a warning to those that are attending their torments, to go quickly out of this place, because the misfortunes of love have stopped up the ways in such sort, that they never let any hope of comfort or remedy enter in. But what hap hath led such a fair company to this place, where nothing is that yields content. What is it (think you) that makes the green grass of this island grow, and the waters (that encompass it round about) to increase, but my ceaseless tears? What is it, that moves the trees of this fair valley, but the voice of my piteous outcries, and the violent breath of my sorrowful sighs, which, filling the air, do execute that office for it, which for itself it cannot do? Why do the pretty birds sing among these springes, when golden Phoebus is in all his force, but to help to lament and bewail my mishaps? Wherefore is it that the timorous wild beasts come forth to the green meadow, but to hear my continual plaints? I pray God your fortune hath not brought you (fair Nymphs) to this place to that end, that mine hath, because nature (according to the sorrowful life, that I do pass in it) hath for no other thing (it seems) framed it, but for those that are troubled with the incurable maladies of love, therein to pass away their sorrowful lives: If any of you therefore be in this extremity, let her pass on no farther, if not, let her go quickly from hence again, least by staying here long, she be forced by the nature and quality of the place. The fair Shepherdess spoke these words with so many tears, that there was not any amongst them, that could stay theirs. They were all amazed to see the spirit, gesture and countenance wherewith she spoke them, for they came (as it appeared) from the very centre of her painful soul. And she could do no less than this, because the sorrowful success of her love did take away all manner of suspicion, that that grief, which so extremely she showed, was either counterfeit or feigned. But fair Doria spoke thus unto her. What is the cause (fair Shepherdess) that hath driven thy beauty to these extremities? What grief so strange could love make an occasion of so many tears, accompanied with so sole and solitary a life, as thou dost lead in this place? But what do I ask, when seeing thee to complain of love, thou tellest me more than I am able to ask thee. It was thy desire, when we came hither, to be assured that none of us would offer thee any comfort, wherein I cannot blame thee, since it is the property of sorrowful souls not only to abhor comfort, but to fly from them, by whom they think by any means to receive it. If I should tell thee (fair Shepherdess) that I could help thy grief, what doth it avail, if the same will not give thee leave to believe me? To tell thee, that in thine own judgement and discretion thou dost help thyself, I know thou hast it not so free, that thou canst do it: Of one thing yet (good Shepherdess) thou mayst be assured, that there is no means in the whole world to rid thee from this painful life, which I would not give then, if it lay in my power. And if this good will deserveth any thing at all, I beseech thee for their sakes (that are heat present) and for mine own, to tell us the cause of thy grief, because there are some in this company, that have as great need of remedy, and whom love hath driven to so narrow a straight, that, if Fortune do not secure them the sooner, I know not what will become of their lives. The Shepherdess, hearing Doria speak these words, came out of her melancholy cell, and taking her by the hand, carried her unto a fountain in a little green meadow not far off. Wither the Nymphs and shepherds went after them, and about the same sat them down altogether, when golden Phoebus had made an end of his diurnal course, and silver Diana began hers with such brightness, as if it had been midday. Where being in such sort as you have heard, the fair Shepherdess began to tell this which followeth.  
AT that time (fair Nymphs of the chaste Goddess) when I was free from love, I heard once a certain thing, the experience whereof did afterwards beguile me, finding it clean contrary to that which I heard reported. For it was told me, that there was no kind of grief, but (by telling it) was some lighting & ease to her that did suffer it. I find, that there is not any thing, that more augments my mishap, then to call it to memory, and tell it her, that is free from the like. For if I thought otherwise, I durst not (believe me) recount unto you the history of my annoys. But because it is true, that the telling of it to you shall be no cause of comfort to my baleful soul (which are the two causes most abhorred of me,) give ear, and you shall hear the most strange and hapless accidents, that ever fell in love.  
Not far from this valley towards that part, where the sun doth set, there is a village in the mids of a forest near to two rivers, which with their currants do water and give life to the green trees, whose shadowed bows are so delightful, and thick together, that one house may hardly be discerned from another. Every one of them hath their limits round about them, where the gardens in summer time are decked with fragrant flowers, besides the abundance of pleasant orchards, which are there naturally brought forth, though helped by the industry of them, which in great Spain are called (Freemen) by reason of the antiquity of their houses & lineage. In this place was the unfortunate Belisa borne, for this name I took from the font, where I would to God I had left and lost my life. here lived also a certain Shepherd, one of the chiefest for birth and riches, that was in all that country, called Arsenius, and married to the fairest Shepherdess in all her time, but untimely death (because her destinies would have it so, or else for avoiding some other inconvenience that her beauty might have caused) did within a few years after she was married, cut asunder her vital thread. The grief that Arsenius felt for the death of his beloved Florida, was so extreme, that he was almost in danger of losing his life: the which yet he preserved by the comfort of a son she left behind her called Arsileus, whose beauty and comely feature so far excelled others, that they matched the gifts so highly commended (and descended to him) from Florida his mother. And yet did Arsenius for the loss of her, lead the most sorrowful and desolate life, that might be. But seeing his Son in sufficient years to set him to some virtuous exercise, knowing, That idleness in boys was the curse of vices, and an enemy to virtue, he determined to send him to the famous Academy of Salamanca, with intent to have him learn those sciences, which make men mount up to higher degrees than men, and so sent him thither indeed. But fifteen years being now past since the death of his mother, it fell out that I going on a day with others of our neighbour's daughters to the market, kept in a pretty town not far from ours, unfortunate Arsenius (to his own harm, and (alas) to mine, and to the prejudice of his hapless son) by chance espied me. This sight kindled an extreme kind of love in him, as it appeared afterwards by the strange effects he showed: for he endeavoured to make me know it sometimes in the field, as I was going to carry the Shepherds their dinner; sometimes again, as I was going to the river to rinse my clothes; and sometimes for water to the fountain, where he never miss, of purpose to meet me. But I, (that was till then but a novice in matters of love, although by hearsay I understood some of his disordinate effects) sometimes dissembled the matter, as though I understood not his meaning, and sometimes made but a mock of them, and was angry to see him so importunate and earnest. But my words were not able to defend myself from his continual suits, nor the great love he bore me, suffered him to leave of to woe me more and more: And in this sort I passed away more than four years, in which space he left not of his fond attempt, nor I to resolve with myself to give him the lest favour in the world. About this time came his hapless son Arsileus from his study, who amongst other sciences, that he had studied, was so bravely seen in Poetry and Music, that he excelled all others in his time. His father took such exceeding joy in him, that he could never be out of his sight, and not without great reason, because Arsileus was such an one indeed that he deserved to be beloved, not only of his father whom nature constrained to love as his son, but of every one else in the world: And so in our town he was so much esteemed and regarded of the chiefest and vulgar sort, that they talked amongst themselves of no other thing, then of the great wisdom, graces, gentility, and many other good parts more, which beautified the flourishing prime of his youth. Arsenius was so secret to his son, that by no means he would let him understand any thing touching his love, whom although Arsileus had seen on a day very sad, yet he durst not ask him the cause of his heaviness, but rather thought, those passions to be the relics of that sorrow, which yet for the untimely death of his fair mother, remained in his father's breast. But Arsenius greatly desiring to send me a letter, and to get it in such sort from his son, (for he knew him to be an excellent Poet) that he might not perceive for whom it was, he thought it most fit to discover the matter, and the sum of his love to a great friend of his called Argastus, a towns-man and our neighbour, praying him earnestly to request his son Arsileus (as a thing that he stood greatly in need of) to pen him a letter, and to tell him, that it was to be sent a good wale thence to a bonny Shepherdess, whom he loved and served. And so he gave him instructions of other things, making most for his purpose, that he was to request him to put in the letter. Argastus was so careful about his friend's business, that Arsileus (urged thereunto by his incessant requests) delivered him the letter in as ample sort as he requested it. Which Arsenius seeing so fit for his purpose, wrought the means, that it came to my hands: the which receiving much against my will, I found that it said thus.  

Arsenius his letter.  

Fair Shepherdess whose hap and far,  
That such it be, it is Gods will:  
Let not such grace and beauty rare  
Decay, or be employed ill.  
And whose mild lambs and marked sheep  
Thou mayst behold (with merry cheer)  
By flocks increase, where they do keep  
On tops of these green hillocks here.   

Hark to a shepherds wretched cry,  
Unto himself so great a foe,  
As for thy sweetest sake to die,  
He finds he doth it well be stowe:  
Turn thy deaf ears unto my smart,  
And mollify thy hard pretences,  
And now begin to put thy hart  
Into the hands of thy sweet senses.   

Turn these two fair and cruel eyes  
Unto this hapless Shepherd Swain:  
Thy flock regard not, but his cries,  
And think a little on his pain,  
Let that but move and change thy will:  
To think thereof, I pray thee deign yet,  
And not to remedy mine ill,  
But to behold how I sustain it.   

How often hast thou come and lead  
〈◊〉 the field thy flock and dams,  
〈◊〉 many times unto the mead  
Hast thou brought forth thy pretty lambs?  
That I told not my little ease,  
That I became a fool for thee,  
But better had I held my peace,  
So little it availed me.   

That which I feel for thy sweet sake  
With what words shall I now declare?  
Or with what knowledge shall I make  
My faith but known and heavy care?  
What human senses shall suffice  
To feel that pain, and that unrest,  
Which for thy lake Love did devise  
To give me (though I tell it best.)   

Why dost thou hide thyself from me,  
Since thou dost know it very clear,  
That present when I am with thee,  
Most absent from thee I appear:  
I, in suspences to enfold me  
Being where thy fair beauties are:  
And thou, when that thou dost behold me,  
From seeing me then art thou far.   

To show me likewise thou dost know  
(To mock me when thou dost pretend)  
Things from thy thought, which ever go,  
And so deceive me in the end.  
See then who greater love can give,  
Or greater grounded love in hand,  
That my deceived thought must live  
With that thou makest it understand.   

Behold th'extreme wherein I am,  
Seeing my good in doubtful state,  
That silly creatures I became,  
(Less than myself) to emulate:  
For, for the bird the wind doth bear,  
And fish that in the waves do live,  
For their sweet freedom every where  
My understanding I would give.   

A change of thousand times I see,  
And novels every day do rain:  
Minds change from that they want to be,  
oblivions do revive again.  
In every thing there is great change,  
The which I never saw in thee,  
Whereby thou mayst perceive how strange,  
And vain my hope is unto me.   

The other day thou didst pass by,  
Feeding thy fiocke upon the hill:  
For grief I sighed somewhat high;  
Meaning thereby to thee no ill:  
A lamb the head then lift up, that it  
Did hear, and did some pity feel,  
And thou didst fling thy sheep hook at it:  
See what a hardened hart of steel.   

Couldst thou not (armed with such power)  
After such long time killing me  
Help me a day or but an hour?  
If that doth seem too much to thee,  
Do it to see how I may prove  
Or how with favours, that ensue,  
In better sort entreat this love:  
Then after kill my soul anew.   

I do desire to change estate  
From pain to pain, and not to pleasure:  
Nor yet to change from love to hate,  
And all in one degree and measure.  
And though the ill in substance should  
Be but all one and of one sort:  
Yet in the circumstance I would  
That more or less it did import.   

For that may be of such behoof,  
And Mistress, so much it may do  
That love may give thee greater proof,  
Than it hath given thee hitherto.  
And whom an ill and firmest love  
Can neither grieve, nor mollify,  
It may be such a grief may move  
Thee, of some greater quality.   

Unto the mead if thou dost go,  
Unto the river or the plain,  
Then am I diligent to know,  
If thou art gone or come again.  
If angry, when I follow thee,  
Or mock me, if behind I stay:  
See then how fear doth trouble me,  
And what extremes I do essay.   

To Syluia then thy dearest friend  
I go (to seek a poor relief)  
To know if (haply) in the end  
Thou hast informed her of my grief.  
But nothing when of thee she speaks,  
Then do I say, this cruel foe  
Unto her good companion breaks  
Nothing of me, nor of my woe.   

Some other times I watch the place,  
To hear the singing in the night,  
With singular and sweetest grace,  
A thousand songs of great delight:  
For I do hear them one by one,  
And thou seekest out the worst of all,  
And ever from thy mouth hear none  
That in love matters do befall.   

I saw thee yet the other day,  
Talking with Maudlin, who in fine  
To thee her sorrow did bewray:  
O would to God it had been mine.  
I thought thou wouldst not long defer  
(Poor soul) to cheer her heavy hart,  
But laughing, thou didst answer her.  
It is a jest, in love's no smart.   

Thou left'st her weeping all in vain,  
And I came thither by and by:  
Of thy hard hart she did complain,  
And sighing, this I did reply:  
No wonder, for this cruel one  
Delights not only, that above  
All others she loves not alone,  
But that all others should not love.   

Some other times I thee espy  
Talking with other Shepherdesses,  
All is of feasts and bravery,  
Who danceth best, and like digresses:  
That this maid hath a seemly grace,  
And he this, or that interest:  
But if of love they touch an ace,  
Then strait thou turn'st it to a jest.   

Beware yet, live not too secure,  
For in brave love and fortune's art,  
There is not anything less sure  
Than such a free exempted hart.  
And it may be with after woe  
That cruel love will subject thee,  
To one that will entreat thee so,  
(Cruel) as thou intreatest me.   

But (if that fall out to thy cost)  
God grant the same may never be,  
And first I wish my life were lost,  
Rather than such a thing to see.  
For this poor hart which in my breast  
Is burning in so strange a fire,  
Fears more thy harm and thy unrest,  
Than it respects her own desire.    
With the greatest signs of dolour and of a most afflicted hart indeed, the Shepherdess Belisa rehearsed Arsenius his letter, or (to say more truly) the letter of his son Arsileus, staying between many verses, and repeating some of them twice, and at other some lifting up her eyes to heaven with such anguish and grief of mind, that one would have thought her hart would have burst in pieces. But prosecuting the sorrowful history of her love, she said unto them.  
This letter (fair Nymphs) was the beginning of all the harm of the woeful man, that made it, and the end of all the rest and content of the hapless woman, to whom he wrote it. For when I had read it, by some curious investigation that my surmise found out, I perceived, that it savoured more of his son his quick wit, then of the father his blunt affection. And because the time was now at hand, wherein love came to take an account of the small care, I had till then of his invincible power, or because in the end I should have some feeling of his poisoned sweet, I perceived myself a little more mollified then before, and not so little, but that I gave love place to take possession of my liberty. And that which this tyrant did by me, was the strangest thing that ever happened in matters of love, for he made me not only love Arsileus, but also his father Arsenius. Truth it is, that I loved the father to requite the love he bore me; and the son, to yield up my entire liberty into his hands, as from that hour I did indeed give it him. So that I loved the one, not to seem ungrateful; and the other, because it was not in my power to do any less. But when Arsenius perceived me to be more gentle then before (which thing he desired so long since) there was not any thing in the world, which he would not have done for my content and pleasure: For so many were the presents, the jewels, and many other gifts he sent me, that it grieved me a little to see myself so greatly indebted to him. With every thing he sent me, came so many amorous verses and letters, that I was forced to answer them again, whereby I showed him no signs of love to put him in any hope, nor myself so coy as I was wont to be. But the love I bore to Arsileus took every day deeper root in my hart, and molested my senses in such sort, that it left no quiet place in all my soul. It fell out afterwards, that Arsenius and Arsileus being in company on a summers night with certain of their neighbours, and sitting under a fair great Oak, that stood in a broad place before our house, Arsenius began to commend the skill which his son Arsileus had in music and musical instruments, to give them occasion that were present, to pray him to go fetch a harp from home, and to play and sing there among them, who sat so near to our house, that I could not choose, but hear the music. And as he imagined it, so it fell out answerable to his desire: For Arsileus, being earnestly requested by the company, sent for a harp, and sweetly thereon began to play and sing. When I heard Arsileus, and with what dainty melody he played, and enticing grace he sung, I was gone almost as far as might be in Cupid's affects, seeing his father would needs bestow the music on me, and unwittingly enamour me of the excellent graces of his worthy son. Wherefore I said to myself. Thou dost no less deceive thyself Arsenius by procuring thy son to sing, that I might hear him, then by sending me a letter of his own hand. If thou didst but know what will ensue thereof, thou mightest well from this day admonish all lovers, not to procure their Mistress' love by other men's gifts & graces, because it commonly falls out that women do sooner fall in love with those that are the instruments and means, then with those that think to benefit themselves by them. But now by this time did my Arsileus, with a singular sweet grace and voice, begin to sing this Sonnet to the tune of his silver sounding Harp.  

A Sonnet.  

IN this clear Sun with golden beams that shineth,  
In thu most high divine and rare perfection,  
In this sweet soul and figure, that refineth  
Our age with joys, with treasures and affection.   

O blinding light and face each heart's subjection,  
Where beauties store to pity's want inclineth:  
Sweet words, but hard condition of rejection;  
Sweet looks, yet sight that many sorrows shrineth.   

For these sweet Mistress, I am thus enwrapped,  
For these I fear to see mine own desire,  
And pass the time in thinking of thy treasures.  
A case most strange, effects that never happened,  
That seeing thee, I see my greatest pleasures,  
And harms, when that to see thee I require.    
After he had made an end of this Sonnet, he began to sing this song with so marvelous sweet grace and delectable voice, that he held all his hearers in a great suspense, and me (poor sorrowful soul) that loved him more, than ever any could be.  


TO see thee I lift up my happy eyes,  
And having seen thee, cast them down again.  
For further to proceed the same denies:  
Nor other joy but thy love to contain.   

What greater glory is there then to view thee,  
If that he knew the sight that he did see,  
For never was there any one that knew thee,  
That could be weary of beholding thee,  
And though he could not know thee any wise  
As well as I have known thee to my pain,  
Yet should he be besides himself, if dies  
Not at the least, to see thee once again.   

If that my erring pen did others praise  
It was but tried, I see, upon the jest,  
For they were all but papers of essays  
Of that, wherewith thou truly wert possessed.  
And if (before I loved thee) with surmise,  
My pen hath for some other writ in vain,  
It was not for because I saw her eyes,  
But hoped it should see such a Sovereign.   

Nature in framing thee did so excel  
And show'd so brave a skill and subtle art,  
That one of thy perfections served well  
Beauty to thousand others to impart.   

She that to thee is like in any wise  
In least of all I saw in thee so plain:  
To pass no further she may well suffice,  
Nor he, that sees thee but must love contain.   

Who sees thee as God made thee, and hath seen  
An other thing that's fair and of delight,  
He thinks, he sees a thing that would have been  
Thyself in any thing, if that it might:  
But if he sees thee with such perfect eyes,  
And (Mistress) as I saw thee, then again  
There's no compare (compare for it denies)  
Nor glory, but thy sweet love to contain.    
It was not only this, which Arsileus sung that night to the sound of his Harp, but as Orpheus, when he demanded his Nymph Eurydice, made the hellish furies gentle with his sweet song, suspending for a while the pains of the damned ghosts; so did unfortunate Arsileus not only amaze and mollify their hearts that were present, but wretched Belisaes' also, who with great boldness from a high garret window was hearkening unto him: whose sweet music delighted moreover the heaven, the stars, and the clear moon, which was then in her force and vigour, that in what part soever I did then cast mine eyes, it admonished me (me thought) and told me, that I loved him more than mine own life: whereof it was needless for any to put me in mind, for if I had then been Lady of all the world, I had thought myself too mean to be worthy of him. And from thence I purposed to hide this affection as little from him as I could. All that night I lay imagining, by what means I might best discover unto him my grief, but in such sort, that my virtuous name and modesty might not suffer any blemish, though death (when this was wanting) with her appalled fear and danger should not have hindered mine intent. And yet when that should come, and when we have the greatest care to avoid the occasions that might hinder it, even then & most of all they present themselves. The next day after needs I must go with other country maids (my kineswomen & neighbours) to a thick wood, in the mids whereof was a clear fountain, whither every other holy day we carried our kine, as well for that there was good pasture for them, as also for that (the fresh & hungry evening being come) we might take the milk of the next day, whereof we made sweet butter, & fresh chief and cream. But I and my company being set round about the fountain, and our kine lying in the cool shades of the thick and branchy trees of that hedge, licking their young and tender caluelings, that lay by them, one of my friends amongst the rest, (unacquainted (it seemed) with that love that warred within my soul) with many requests importuned me (upon pain never to receive any pleasure at her hands) to entertain the time and that company with some song or other. My many excuses (with telling her besides that times and occasions were not always one, nor alike) availed me very little from performing that, which with so great instance she requested of me: And therefore to the sound of a Bagpipe, whereon one of them most sweetly played, I began to sing these verses.  

Love passed by me with his bow unarmed,  
His eyes cast down, mild, gentle, modest gay,  
And (careless) left me then behind unharmed:  
How small a time did I this joy essay?  
For presently envious Fortune said,  
Stay love, why passest thou so soon away?  
Forthwith the blind boy turned to me, and staid  
Angry to see himself so checked with blame,  
For there's no blame, where his hot fire is laid:  
Cupid was blind, but well he spied his game:  
So blinded b● he, that he may see none,  
That did so blind my wit, and sense inflame:  
O that I might revenge myself of one  
That wisheth harm to all, and will not free  
(With his consent) not one poor hart alone:  
Strait did the traitor arm his bow, and he  
with poisoned shaft did pierce my careless hart,  
Which in his bow he put, and aimed at me:  
Fortune unarmed did take me, for his part  
Love never plays, nor works not any feat,  
But on free souls, exempted from his dart:  
A hardened hart his arrow broke 〈◊〉 with heat,  
And broke a never subject freedom, so  
That I did yield, and his content was great:  
O sole free quiet life that I forego,  
O meadow seen so oft with freest eyes,  
Cursed be Love, his arrows, and his bow:  
Now follow love, and what he doth devise,  
Come from security to greatest care,  
And pass from rest, to thousand miseries:  
See now how that a careful hart doth far,  
Which lately was without suspect or thought  
Subject to be to such a tyrant's snare.  
O soul with tears undone and brought to nought,  
Now learn to suffer, since you learned to see,  
But what avails, if this my Fortune wrought?  
O wretched eyes (if with this term he be  
Not angry) whom you saw with free consent,  
Where have you put and placed my liberty?  
O meadows, groves, and woods of sweet content,  
Which bred so free a hart as I had here,  
So great an ill why did you not prevent?  
Swift running brook, and river pure and clear,  
Where once my flock were wont to drink their fill,  
O every season of the passing year,  
Why have you put me in a state so ill?  
Since only I did love you, and these plains,  
And this most pleasant vale, and greenest hill.  
here did I mock a thousand Shepherd swains:  
Who now will laugh at me, when they shall know.  
That now I do begin to feel their pains.  
They are not ills of Love, that wound me so,  
For if they were, then should I pass them all,  
As thousands, who have died in Cupid's woe.  
Fortune it is, that turns, and makes me fall  
From every mean occasion, path, and way,  
Whereby I might but show my painful thrall.  
How can the causer of my passion (say)  
Help them, if that their pain he never knows,  
But there's no love, where reason beareth sway,  
To how much ill is fortune drawing those,  
Whom she makes love? since nothing can restore  
(sea, earth nor Sun, moon, stars nor any shows)  
Or give delight, unless one love before.  
And all is thus, and wretched thus am I,  
Whom time persuades and hinders more and more.  
Cease now my verse, since love with angry eye  
Beholds, how soon of him I do complain,  
And for my harms do crave his remedy.  
Complain not oft, for fear of his disdain,  
Now hold your peace, since I seal up my words,  
And when you see Loves fell, and angry vain,  
Cease, for loves wrath no remedy affords.   
These verses of the Shepherdess Belisa pleased the Nymphs and shepherds, no less than the sweet and sorrowful note, wherewith she sung them, who (prosecuting the history of her mishap) said: But Arsileus was not far from thence, when I sung these verses, for having gone forth that day a hunting, & being in the thickest of the wood to pass away the heat of the day, it seemed he heard us, and as one, that loved music well, came softly pacing amongst the thickest trees that were near unto the fountain, because he might from thence the better hear us. But our music being ended, he came strait to the fountain, whose sudden sight engendered a forcible passion of joy and fear in my amazed soul. Which was no great marvel, because an enamoured hart may be as well sursaulted with a sudden joy, as with an unexpected sorrow. He came to us where we were set, and courteously saluting us, in very good sort, and with a good grace requested pardon of us; That certes (fair Nympes) when I begin to think of the sweet behaviour, and ripened wisdom of unfortunate Arsileus, I do not think that his sinister fates and fortune were the cause, that death took him away so quickly from my sight, but rather that the world was not worthy to enjoy any longer so singular a youth, on whom nature had bestowed so many perfections of beauty and enriched with so many gifts of the mind, as that he left not his like behind him. After he had saluted us, and leave obtained (which he humbly requested of us) to pass away the heat of the day in our company, he cast his eyes upon me (which had he never done, happy had we both been) and was (as it appeared afterwards by divers signs, whereby he manifested his affection to me) extremely overcome in my love. Unhappy I, (that needed not to look on him to love him, being so much enwrapped in his, by seeing him before, as he was now in mine after he had seen me) lifted up mine eyes to behold him at the very instant when he addressed his to look on me, which forcible encounter both of us would willingly had not befell, because that modesty and shame sharply rebuked me, and fear left not him without bitter punishment. But he to dissemble his new grief, began to discourse with me in matters clean different from those, which he would have imparted to me, to some of which I answered again, my thoughts and senses being then more careful to see, if by the alteration of his countenance, or mildness in his words he showed any signs of love, then fully to satisfy his questions. For then so greatly I desired to hear him sigh, (to confirm me in my doubtful hope) that in am of such a happiness I would not have cared to have passed any grief whatsoever. And in the end I could not wish for more apparent signs of love in him, then at that present I beheld: for what with his tongue he could not, with his eyes he manifestly declared unto me the amorous and secret passions of his hart. And being in these points, the two Shepherdesses, that were with me, rose up to milk their kine, whom I prayed to take the pains to milk mine likewise, for that I felt myself not well at ease. And needless it was for me to entreat them much, and for Arsileus to have any fit occasion to declare unto me his grief, wherein I know not if he was deceived, by imagining the occasion why I would be without company, but am assured, that he was not a little glad to help himself by the opportunity thereof. The Shepherdesses were busy about milking their kine, which suffered themselves to be deceived with human industry by tying their gentle cavelings to their feet. That Arsileus now (newly suprised in love) had yielded himself so much to Cupid's bonds, that nothing but speedy death could give him liberty, I perceived apparently, in that four or five times he began to speak unto me, and every time in vain: for the fear he had of my displeasure came ever between him and his speech, and therefore I began to talk to him of another matter, not far from his intent, because he might not digress much from it, inducing him thereby to tell me what it was that so often he went about to speak and could not utter, saying. Doth this country like thee well, Arsileus? For the entertainment and conversation of that, where thou hast lately spent thy time, is, I know, far different from ours, which therefore cannot so well content thee as that. As of myself (quoth he) I have not so much power, so hath not my understanding (fair Shepherdess) so much liberty, to answer this demand. And changing this manner of talk (to show him the way with occasion) I said unto him again: I have heard say, that in those parts are many fair Shepherdesses, that paragonned to us, they so far excel us, that we must seem but mean in thy sight that are here. I might be thought too simple (said Arsileus) if I would confess this, for though there are as fair there (as you have heard) yet here are they which with mine own eyes I daily see, that so far surmount them, as the sun doth the chiefest stars in brightness. This is the greatest gloze in the world (said I again) and yet for all this I am not sorry, that our countrywomen are so far in your good opinion and liking, because I am one of them myself. Which only reason (said he) if there were no other, were sufficient enough to prove what I have said. So that by word and word he came to tell me that, which I desired to hear, though I would not then make him know so much, but rather entreated him to stop up the passage of his words. But fearing least this might have been an occasion to qualify his love (as often times it falleth out, that disgraces and disfavours in the beginning are the means to make any leave of their true commenced love) I began to tune again my jarring answer, saying thus unto him. And if thy love be such Arsileus, that it will not suffer thee to leave of to love me, be secret therein, since it is the manner of those that are wise and judicious (like thyself) to be no less in things of meaner consequence. Albeit by all this, which I have said unto thee, I would not have thee think to profit thyself any more, then that I must for ever live bound unto thee, if thou wilt follow my counsel in this behalf. This did my tongue speak, but an other thing did my pitiful eyes affirm, with the which I still looked him in the face, and casting out a sigh (an assured messenger of my inward and sensible passion) which Arsileus might have perceived well enough (if Love at the least would have given him leave) I held my peace. In this sort we departed from one another, and many times afterwards he talked with me of these matters, who sent me besides many letters, and fine Sonnets of his own making. And as he sung them night by night to the tune of his sweet Harp, with amorous tears I oftentimes hearkened unto him, so that in the end both of us was assured of each others love. But now did Arsenius his father importune me in such sort, with his messages and presents, that I knew not what way to take, to defend me from him. And it was the strangest thing in the world to see, how the love, which increased every day in the son, was also augmented in the father, though they were both of different age and powers: and yet the same (I must needs confess) made me not reject him, nor refuse any thing, that he sent me. But living now in all contentment, and seeing myself so truly beloved of Arsileus, whom I loved so dearly again, it seemed that fortune would make an end of all my joy with the most hapless event that was ever seen before. For thus it was, that Arsileus and I appointing to meet together on a certain night (too dark and dismal for me; because I never since knew perfectly what day meant) we concluded that he should come into my father's orchard, and I to my chamber window, which opened right upon a Mulberry tree, whereon he might easily get up to be necre unto me, there to talk together of our matters. Accursed Belisa that shalt never conceive to what purpose I brought him to such danger, when as every day, sometimes in the field, sometimes at the river side, and sometimes at the wood, when I carried my kine to pasture, and sometimes when I drive my sheep to the fold, he might at pleasure have talked with me, as he did many days before. But my hard hap was the cause, that fortune would be paid for the content, which she had lent me till then, with making me live all my life time without it. For now the appointed hour, (which was the end of his days, and the beginning of my woes) being come, Arsileus came just at the time, and to the very place, where both of us talking together of those things, which they may imagine, that have sometimes loved well, his wretched father Arsenius, that accustomed many nights to walk up and down about our house, to see if he could see me (which if I had so well remembered, for it was so far out of my thoughts, as if I had never known any such matter, I would never have consented to put him in such danger) in the end happened to come thither that night, and just at that hour when his son was in the tree, and so privily, that though he had quickly espied us, we could neither hear, nor see him. And knowing it was I, that was speaking out at the window, but not his son, that was in the Mulberry tree, not imagining who he might be, it was the principal cause of our ill success. For thereupon he conceived such great wroth and jealousy, that, without any noise at all, he bied him home, where bending a crossbow, and putting a poisoned arrow in it, came again to the place where we were, and aimed so right at his son, that the arrow piercing his tender hart, he fell immediately down dead from the tree, saying. How little time (my dear Belisa) doth fortune lend me to serve thee according to my great good will & desire. Which words he could scarce utter, when the accursed father, who by his speech knew that he was the homicide of his own son, with a desperate outcry said. Thrice wretched and accursed may I ever be, if thou art my son Arsileus, who seemest to be no other by thy voice. Whereupon coming unto him, and by the light of the moon, that shone upon his face, knowing him well, and that he had given up the ghost, he said. Since (cruel Belisa) my unfortunate son by thy means hath been slain, it is not meet that the murdering father survive to lament his untimely death. At which words taking out his Woodknife, he thrust it into his hart, and fell down presently dead! O unhappy chance! O strange case, never heard of, nor seen before! O grievous scandal to their ears that shall he are the lamentable discourse of my baleful tragedy? O miserable Belisa, may thy guilty hart think of these things, and not take that way, which both father and son have taken for thy sake? Alas it shall be great impiety not to mingle thy blood with theirs, who desired so much to serve thee. But when wretched soul I saw this unlucky accident, without any more ado, I left my father's house, and went up and down, wearying the heavens with importunate complaints, and burning the air with smoky sighs, until I came to this place, where accusing cruel fortune and hateful death, that had in so short time taught me to feel the wounds of their cruel darts. I have lived six months, without seeing or speaking to any person, and not desirous of any company or consolation whatsoever.  
Fair Belisa having made an end of her pitiful tale, began to weep so bitterly, that every one there was forced with their tears to help to bewail her dire misfortune. And adding further she said. This is fair Nymphs, the sorrowful history (or rather doleful tragedy) of my hapless loves, and of their bloody success: Behold then if this be such an ill, that fortune or time may cure and remedy? O Arsileus, how often did I fear it, without thinking of that, which I justly feared. But she that will not believe her fear and prevent it, let her not marvel, when she sees that come to pass which she feared, for well I knew, thou couldst not be any long time without meeting me, and that my joy could endure no longer, than when Arsenius thy father perceived any thing of our loves. I would to God it had so fallen out, that the greatest hurt that he could have done me, had been but to banish thee his sight and our town. For an ill which is cured with time, may with less harm be suffered. O Arsenius, the death of thy son is no impediment to the grief, that I also conceive for thine, for the love which thou didst continually bear me, thy virtuous and pure zeal, wherewith thou didst ever love me, thy bounty and cost bestowed on me, the tempestuous and ill nights, that thou hast passed for my sake, will let me do no less, then lament and bewail thy disastrous end, for by this time I had been married unto thee, if thy sweet son Arsileus had not come to our town. If I should say, that I did not love thee well, I should deceive the world; for in the end there is no woman, if she knows she is truly beloved, but will love little or much again, although otherwise she manifest the same. But now my tongue hold thy peace, since thou hast told more than thou wert asked. And pardon me (fair Nymphs) if I have been tedious in my sorrowful narration, because so great mishaps cannot be comprised in few words. Whilst the Shepherdess was telling that which you have heard, Syrenus, sylvanus, Seluagia, and fair Felismena, and the three Nymphs could not give ear without some secret tears, although the Nymphs, as women never touched with love, felt her pain and grief, but not the circumstances of it. But fair Doria seeing the comfortless Shepherdess did not leave of her bitter complaint, began to comfort her in this sort. Let thy tears cease Belisa, since thou seest what small remedy thou hast of them, and weigh that two eyes are not able to bewail so great a grief. But what sorrow can there be, which is not ended, or ends not her that suffers it: and yet I could show thee the way whereby I could a little lighten thy pain. Wherefore, I pray thee go with us as well for this respect, as for that it is not meet thou shouldest waste thy life so fond, for in that place where we carry thee, thou mayst choose out what manner of life thou list, & where none is that may hinder thee of it. This place (answered the Shepherdess) I thought most fit not only to lament my woes in, but to end my life in the same, the which (if time doth but entreat me as it hath done hitherto) shall not be very long. But now since this is thy will, I am minded not to gainsay it; and as for mine (fair Nymphs) from this time forward you may use it according to your own pleasures. They were all glad that she yielded to go with them. And because the night was passed on more than three hours, and the moon did shine as clear as day, they supped there with that provision the shepherds had in their scrips. And after they had supped, every one chose out her place that did best content her, to pass the rest of the night away, the which the lovers spent more in tears and sighs then in sleep; and the rest that were free, eased themselves of their weariness they had the day before.  
The end of the third book   

The fourth Book of Diana of George of Montemayor.  
NOw did the morning star begin to cast forth her wonted brightness, and with the comfort of her light the pretty birds and nightingales were warbling up their sweetest notes to the skies, when the three Nymphs with their company departed from the little Island, where Belisa passed away her sorrowful life; whose grief, though she was a little comforted by the enamoured shepherds, and cheered up by the rest, did nevertheless haunt her so much, that she found no remedy, nor means to rid herself from it. Both the Shepherds acquainted her with their passed pains, and the Shepherdesses told her the sorrowful sum of their loves, to try if by these means they might mitigate her pain a little. But all comfort is in vain where the grief is remediless. The disguised Lady took such delight in Belisaes' beauty, discretion, and sweet graces, that she could not satisfy herself by ask her still more questions, though Belisa was almost weary with answering to them. And the familiarity between them both was so great, that it made the Shepherds and the Shepherdess in a manner emulate their conversation. But they came to a thick wood full of wild shadowed trees, where they could not choose, (had they not been guided by the Nymphs) but have lost themselves. They therefore led the way before thorough a narrow glade, where they could not enter in but by one and one. And having gone half a league thorough the thickest thereof, they came into a broad and fair plain lying between two goodly rivers, both which were brinked on either side with green & tall trees. In the mids thereof suddenly appeared unto their sight a stately Palace, with so high and lofty turrets, that it filled them full of wonder and delight to behold it. Before they came to this great palace, they saw divers Nymphs of incomparable beauty coming forth to meet them: All of them appareled with dainty white veils, curiously woven with fine threads of gold and silver, wearing garlands of redolent flowers upon their yellow hair, which in most comely grace was hanging down lose upon their shoulders. After them came a Lady, which seemed (by the gravity and majesty of her person) to be a woman of some great state and authority, attired in black velvet, and leaning (as she came) upon one of her Nymphs shoulders, the fairest in the company. When the three Nymphs were come unto them, with great joy and many embracings they were received of the other. But when the Lady came nigh, with great reverence they kissed her hands, whom she entertained and welcomed as joyfully as they could wish. And before the Nymphs spoke one word of that which had passed, sage Felicia (for so was this honourable Lady called) said to Felismena. The great adventure which thou hast done for these three Nymphs, cannot (fair Shepherdess) be requited with less, then by ever having me bound unto thee; and to do thee all the favour I may, which shall not be small, thy need being so great: For since I know what thou art (without report of any) and whether thy thoughts do lead thee, thou shalt in the end perceive if I be able to help thee in any thing. Wherefore be of good cheer, for if I live, thou shalt see and enjoy thy desire, in pursuit whereof though thou hast passed much pain and travel, there is nothing (as thou knowest) obtained nor gotten without it. Fair Felismena, marveling much at Felicias words, and forgetting not to give her due thanks for so great courtesies and promises, answered thus. Since you deign (sage Lady) not only in the end to remedy my griefs, but to bless the remnant of my life with happiness and content, whereas there is no desert of my part that may challenge any such favour at your gracious hands, do but consider (good Lady) what is due to yourself, and then you shall see how I remain acquitted of this debt, and yourself sufficiently paid. For so great deserts as thine are (said Felicia) and for such excellent beauty, as nature hath bestowed on thee, all that may be done, is little enough. Felismena then bowed herself at these words to kiss her hands: but Felicia embraced her lovingly, and looking upon the Shepherds and Shepherdesles, said unto them. Be not dismayed courageous Shepherds, and discreet Shepherdesses, at the continuance of your several griefs, for I have also no less care of their speedy remedies. The shepherds and the Shepherdess kissed her hands, and went in all together to the stately Palace. Before which was a fair broad court, set round about with high Cypress trees, and placed in good order, and interpaved all over with Lozanges of Alabaster and black Marble in manner of checky work. In the mids whereof stood a fountain of jasper Marble, set upon four great brazen Lions. And in the mids of the fountain a jasper pillar, about the which four Nymphs (most lively made out of white Marble) had their places. They reached up their arms on high, and in their hands held several vessels after the antic Roman manner, out of the which from certain Lions mouths, that were painted in them, they powered Crystalline water: The portal of the Palace was of polished Marble, with all the bases and chapters of the pillars gilded, as likewise the garments of the imagery that was set in it. All the house seemed to be made of shining jasper, with statues and figures of many Roman Emperors and matrons therein engraven, and with other like antiquities. All the windows were leafed a piece, and the springs and bars belonging to them of bright silver, and all the gates of stately Cedar. The house was quadrant, and at every Canton was reared up a high and artificial tower. Coming to the portal, they stayed a little to behold the strange workmanship and the imagery that was so lively graven in it, that it seemed rather a natural then artificial work, or wrought by human industry, wherein were two Nymphs of massy silver that stood on the tops of two pillars, and held up between them a polished table of smooth jet with golden letters graven in it, that said thus.  

WEll let her life that enters here be weighed,  
And if she hath not chastity estranged,  
And she that loves, or loves laws hath essayed,  
If for another's love she hath not changed:  
And if from former faith she hath not strayed,  
And kept her first true love, and hath not ranged:  
May enter here into Diana's temple,  
Whose sovereign grace to such appears most gentle.   
When fair Felismena heard this, she said to the Shepherdesses Belisa and Seluagia, I think we may safely enter into this sumptuous Palace, without breach of the laws, that this table doth depaint unto us. Syrenus answering to that, said. But fair Diana could not do so, because she hath not only gone against them, but against all, that good and honest love commands to be observed. Be not angry with her Shepherd (said Felicia,) for before many days hence thou shalt wonder that thou wert so much angry, and laugh at this hard opinion thou hadst of her. And so hands in hands they went into the sage Felicias chamber, which was richly hanged with cloth of gold and tissue of inestimable value. And by and by (after they were come in) supper was made ready, where fine white clothes being spread on the tables, and furnished with dainty cates, every one was placed in order: Felismena was set next to the sage Lady Felicia, and the Nymphs took the shepherds and Shepherdesses between them, whose talk at the board was full of modest mirth and delight. There were the rich tables of Cedar, and stools framed out of ivory, with cushions of fine needle work wrought with gold and silver, many cups, goblets, and glasses of divers forms and metals, were common there, and all of no small price, some of them artificially made of strange glass, others of fine Crystal, with the feet and handles of pure gold; others, all of gold and silver most richly garnished with precious stones of inestimate value. They were served with such plenty of sundry dainty dishes, as is almost impossible in order to set down. After that supper was ended, three Nymphs came into the hall, one of them playing on a Harp, another on a Lute, and the third on a base Vial de gamba, but with such sweetness and melody, that they that were present, were (as it were) enchanted and ravished with it. They placed themselves in one side of the hall, and the shepherds and Shepherdesses (being lovingly requested by the three Nymphs, and by sage Felicia) placed themselves right over against them on the other side, with their Rebecks and a Bagpipe, whereon Seluagia sweetly played. And then the Nymphs began to sing this song, and the shepherds to answer them in manner following.  

The Nymphs. 
THe authors of subjections  
Fortune and Love, and of most peevish fashions,  
Above the moon affections  
Do place, and hard reiections,  
And in the same extremest pains and passions.   
The shepherds. 
Lessemay he vaunt and boast  
For joy, whom Love did never yet molest,  
Then he, that loveth most,  
And favours ever lost,  
Since they that suffer more are ever best.   
The Nymphs. 
If loves extremes releene you,  
And did not gainsay reason, as we view them,  
Perhaps we would believe you:  
But seeing how they grieve you,  
Happy are we that can so well eschew them.   
The shepherds. 
The hardest things the stout  
And valiant persons ever take in hand:  
And that of greatest doubt  
Brave courage brings about,  
For 'tis no honour small things to withstand.   
The Nymphs. 
The Lover well doth see,  
To fight it out, it is not loves intent  
With magnanimity:  
In torments he must be  
Of those, that suffering them are most content.   
The shepherds. 
If any joy we sought  
By any ill of Love which we obtain,  
It cannot be the thought  
Unto the passion brought:  
But he's more happy that endures more pain.   
The Nymphs. 
The best estate and fare,  
Where he doth see himself that loveth best,  
Brings nothing else but care:  
And yet doth never spare  
With flames to burn the dame and servants breast:  
And he that's favoured most,  
Is changed in the twinkling of an eye:  
For with disfavours tossed,  
And in oblivion lost,  
It kills his hart and makes his joys to die.   
The shepherds. 
To lose a good estate  
By falling from it, is a grief and pain:  
Blameless is Love, but fate  
It is, and Fortune's hate,  
That no exception makes from his disdain:  
Unjust and far unfit  
Is death, if Love doth say that we shall live,  
If death it promised yet,  
No fault he doth commit:  
For in the end his promise he doth give.   
The Nymphs. 
Fierce Love they do excuse,  
That find themselves entangled with his fetter:  
And blame those that refuse  
Him, but of these to choose  
The blamed man's estate is far the better.   
The shepherds. 
Fair Nymphs, it is denied  
The free and bond with one tongue to debate,  
Live men and those that died,  
The loved, and defied,  
All speak according to their own estate.    
Sage Felicia and the Shepherdess Felismena gave attentive ear unto the music, that the Nymphs and shepherds made, and to the sundry opinions, which on both sides they showed by singing. And Felicia smile on Felismena, said to her in her ear. Who believes not (fair Shepherdess) but that most of these words have touched thy soul to the quick? who with a mild and sober grace, answered her again. Such were the words good Lady, that whose soul they did not touch, the same should not be touched with such love as mine is. Felicia then lifting up her voice a little higher, said unto her. In these love matters I note a certain conclusion, which I find for the most part true, That the generous mind and delicate wit by many degrees excelleth him in affection, that hath not these gifts. Because as love is a virtue, and virtue doth ever choose her being in the best place, it is clear, that persons of valour and dignity, are more enamoured, and (as they are properly termed) better lovers, than those of base condition and estate. The Shepherds and Shepherdesses hearing what Felicia said, seemed to be somewhat angry in their minds, which made sylvanus to think, that her words ought not to escape without an answer, who therefore said thus unto her. Wherein good Lady doth a noble mind and fine wit consist? Felicia (who by and by perceived to what purpose the Shepherd demanded this question, because she would not give him any occasion of discontent) said. In no other thing but in the proper and sole virtue of him that loves, as to have a lively and quick wit, a mature and good judgement, a thought tending to high and stately things, and in other virtues which do arise and flow from them themselves. I am satisfied said sylvanus, and so are these Shepherdesses, because we imagined (discreet Lady) that you take valour and virtue to be only in noble personages. I speak it to this end, because he is but poor in the gifts of nature, that goes to seek them forth in those that are gone and passed. It pleased not the other Shepherdess a little to hear what sylvanus had said; and the Nymphs did laugh, to see how the Shepherds did blush at Felicias proposition. Who taking Felismena by the hand, brought her into a fair chamber, where she lay herself all alone: And after she had passed the time with her in many discourses, she put her in great hope of enjoying her desire, & the virtuous end of her love, by having Don Felix to her husband, albeit she said, that this could not be done, without passing first some few travels and troubles more: which the Lady made small account of, who in countermand of them did encourage and comfort herself with the guerdon that she hoped to gain by them. Felicia told her moreover, that during her abode in her palace, she should put off her pastoral habits, until the time came, when she was to wear them again. And therefore calling unto her the three Nymphs, in whose company she came, she commanded them to apparel her in such garments, as to her noble and high estate were requisite. The Nymphs were not slow in executing her command, nor Felismena disobedient in doing that which Felicia thought convenient for her. They leading her therefore away by the hand, brought her into an inward chamber, at the one side whereof was a door, which fair Doria opening, they went down a pair of alabaster stairs into a fair hall, in the midst whereof was a cistern of most clear water, where all the Nymphs did use to bathe themselves. Where stripping themselves naked with Felismena, they did bathe themselves. And after they had addressed their golden hair, they went up to one of Felicias inward chambers, where the Nymphs having appareled themselves, they did also put these garments on Felismena: A fair petticoat of carnation printed satin, the upper body of shining cloth of gold, of the same colour, and fringed beneath, and guarded with a lace of beaten gold and small pearl. A gown of crymosin velvet, with the sleeves, the bodies and skirts beneath embroidered with knots of seed pearl, and gold which was curiously wrought with needle by artificial and cunning hand. A kirtle of pure white satin full of embroidered flowers and rare works of silver, in the mids whereof did stick out fair oriental pearls. And tying up her hair with a carnation ribbon of silk and silver, they did put thereon a call of glittering gold, in every corner whereof a precious Ruby was set, with a natural crisped periwig of her own hair, matching the brightest gold in colour, which adorned either side of her crystalline forehead: wherein were put two jewels curiously enchased with tablet Diamonds and sapphires of infinite value. The border that bound up her call, was of chosen flowers of gold, enamelled with sundry lively colours, and beset between with Emeralds and Rubies, in the mids whereof, just between the two periwigs, hung down a rich jewel of sparkling Diamonds upon her snow white brow, with three long oriental pearls in form of acorns, hanging therea. The attire of her head was in form of two little ships made of Emeralds, with all the shrouds and tackling of clear sapphires. About her white neck, they put a little chain of fine gold, made in manner of a wreathed snake, with an enamelled Eagle of gold in her mouth, which held between both her talons a Ruby of infinite price. When the three Nymphs did see her adorned in this sort, they wondered at her excellent beauty, and then brought her into the hall, where the other Nymphs and Shepherds were. And whereas they did till then know her for none other than a Shepherdess, they remained so astonished, that they knew not what to say. Felicia commanded her Nymphs after this to carry fair Felismena and her company to see the sumptuous and rich temple, which was presently done, the sage Lady betaking herself to her solitary chamber. Pollydora therefore and Cynthia taking Felismena between them, & the other Nymphs the shepherds and Shepherdesses, who for their wisdom, and many other good parts were not a little made of, went out into a great court, the arches and pillars whereof were of jasper marble, and the bases and chapters of Alabaster, with many borders and works cut out after the Roman manner, gilded in some places very curiously, and wrought all over with Moysaical work: the pillars were supported with Lions, Ounces and Tigers, so lively cut of brass, that they looked as though they would assail them that came into that place. In the midst of the court was an eight square pattern or Obeliske of shining copper, ten cubits high, upon the top whereof stood fierce Mars armed at all points after the ancient manner, whom the Gentiles called the God of battles. In this Obeliske with marvelous art and skill were set forth the proud squadrons of the Romans' on the one side, and the Carthaginian camp on the other side. Before the one 〈◊〉 stood the noble captain Hannibal, and before the other, the invincible and valiant African Scipio, in whom, before he had either age or experience, nature showed great tokens of valour and magnanimity. On the otherside stood Marcus Furius Camillus the wise and valiant captain fight in the high capitol, to set his country at liberty, from whence he had himself been late banished. There stood Horatius, Mutius Scaevola, the happy Consul Marcus Varro, Caesar, Pompey with great Alexander, and all they who by war had achieved great enterprises, and won great same, with scrolls & characters in gold, declaring their names and famous deeds, and in what especial point every one of them had showed himself most valiant and courageous. And a little above these stood an invincible knight armed all over, with a naked sword in his hand, and with many dead men's heads under his feet, with these words over his head.  

I Am Cid th' honour of Spain,  
If that any more could be  
In my works thou shalt see.   
On the other side stood another brave knight armed in like manner, the sight of his beaver lifted up with these words also above his head.  

Hernand Gonçales of Castille I am  
In number the first Earl, and endless praise,  
The Spanish Sceptres honour, since the same  
With my brave deeds so highly I did raise,  
My valour and my manhood golden Fame  
Can tell, that sa we it, wherefore she displays  
My high deeds in eternal memory,  
As tells you the Castilian history.   
Next to him stood another knight of great force and courage, as by his face they might well judge, armed in bright silver, which was sown full of Lions and castles, who showed by his countenance a kind of fierceness, making them (almost) afraid that looked on him; and that which was written above him was this.  

Bernard of Carpio I am,  
The Pagans terror, and their smart:  
An honour to the Christian name,  
Since that my hands advanced the same  
By valour of my stoutest hart:  
Fame, just it is not thou conceal  
My matchless deeds from tender years,  
But nothing if thou wilt reveal,  
To Ronçes-Vales I appeal,  
That sometimes was of the twelve Peers.   
On the other side stood a valiant captain in gilded armour, with six bends gueles in the mids of his shield, and on the other side on him many enfolded Ancients, and a captive king in a chain, whose superscription said thus.  

My greatest valours they shall see,  
Which knew them not, whereby again  
I only have deserved to be  
Surnamed (The great captain)  
And in strangelandes, and in our own  
I purchased so great a fame,  
That my exploits are held and known  
To be far greater than my name.   
Next to this stout captain stood a knight all in silver armour, sown full of stars, and of the other side on him a king with three Fleure de Lyses Or in his shield Azure, before whom he tore certain papers; the superscription above him was this.  

I am Fonseca whose brave history  
Europe doth know, and doth so much commend,  
(Whose life though ended) yet my memory  
Enrolled by living fame shall never end.  
My sooner aigne King I served, and did bear  
My country love, and not in feigned show,  
I never did leave of for servile fear  
To keep that holy law, which every where  
The servant doth unto his master owe.   
In another quadrant of the Obeliske stood an armed knight, his armour sown full of little golden shields, who by the valour of his parsonage seemed to be descended from some noble and high blood: casting his eyes amongst many other Lords and knights of his ancient lineage, the subscription beneath his feet was this.  

Don Lewis of Villanova I am named,  
And from the great marquess of Tranz descended,  
My valour and renown (with praise proclaimed  
In Italy, France, Spain) is far extended.  
Bicorb, an ancient house my state is framed,  
That fortune to a hart hath now commended  
So high, sans peer, and that so much surmonnteth,  
As to command a world, it smally counteth.   
After they had particularly beheld the pattern, and all the knights and valiant champions placed in it, they went into a rich hall, the feeling whereof was all of ivory, wonderfully wrought and carved, the walls of alabaster, and many ancient histories so lively cut out and graven in them, that one would verily have thought, that Lucretia killed herself indeed, and subtle Medea undid her web in the Island of Ithaca; and that the famous Roman Lady yielded to the fatal sister, because she would not offend her honour with the sight of the horrible monster; and that the loving wife of Mauseolus was making great lamentation, thinking to what end the sepulchre of her husband was counted for one of the seven wonders of the world: And many other histories and examples of chaste Ladies worthy to be eternised with immortal fame thorough out the whole world, because it seemed not sufficient enough for some of them, to give manifest examples by their unspotted life, but for others, by their untimely and cruel death great testimony of their pure and undefiled thoughts, amongst the which the Spanish Coronella was one, who did rather commit her body to consuming flames, then suffer her chaste mind to be overcome with the motion and delight of a dishonest thought. After they had viewed all the figures well, and the variety of the histories round about the walls of the hall, they went into another square court, which for the riches thereof, seemed to their judgements so much to excel all that they had seen, as the substance doth the shadow; for all the walls of it were covered over with fine gold, and the pavements of precious stones. Round about this Quadrant stood the figures of many Ladies of Spain, and of other nations, and above them all, the Goddess Diana curiously cut out of metal of Corinth, with short garments like a hunter, adorned with much pearl and precious stones of great value, who had her bow in her hand, and her golden quiver hanging down by her side, environed round about with a troop of Nymphs fairer than Titan in his chiefest glory. The shepherds and the Shepherdesses were so amazed at the sight of these things, that they knew not what to say, because the riches of the house were so infinite, the figures so lively, the workmanship of the Quadrant so excellent, and the proportion of the Ladies that were retracted there, with so great art, that they thought it impossible to imagine a more perfect and absolute, or a more sumptuous building in the whole world then that was. On the one side of the Quadrant stood four Laurel trees of gold, so bravely enamelled with green leaves, that in gardens there were none more fresh or lively, and near to them a little fountain made all of beaten silver, in the mids whereof was likewise a Nymph of beaten gold, which at her fair breasts thorough nybles of Rubies spouted out water clearer than Crystal: and near to this fountain did Orpheus the famous musician sit, enchanted with the age that he was in, when his Eurydice was requested of importunate Aristeus: He had on a cote of cloth of silver, interseamed and embroidered with flowers of seed pearl, his sleeves broad about the shoulders, and falling very narrow to his elbows, from whence his arms came out naked. He had on a pair of hose of cloth of silver to the knee, and made after the old fashion of Thrace, wrought full of little golden haps and Citherens', his golden bush of hair, which hung down curled and long, was tied about with a fair Laurel wreath. But when he perceived the Nymphs coming towards him, he began most sweetly to touch a fine Harp, which he had in his hands, with the divine melody whereof the strangers were so much ravished, that they forgot all that they had seen, in respect of this new delight. Felismena sat her down upon a fair low bed in the Quadrant, which for the most was covered all over with purple damask, finely wrought and fringed with gold, and the Nymphs and Shepherdesses about her, the shepherds leaning upon the silver fountain. In this sort therefore they were hearkening to worthy Orpheus, as if he had been singing amongst the Cyconians when Cyparisus was turned into a Cypress tree, and Atis into a Pine tree. Enamoured Orpheus then began to sing so sweetly to the tune of his Harp, that with the heavenly music thereof he suspended their amazed senses. And turning his sweet face to Felismena, he began to sing these verses following.  

Orpheus' his song.  

Hark Felismena to the sweetest song  
Of Orpheus, whose love hath been so high,  
Suspend thy grief (Seluagia) somewhat long,  
Whilst now I sing, that once for love did die:  
Forget (Belisa) now thy woeful wrong,  
And to my voice sweet Nymphs your ears apply:  
That lost his eyes, to beauties blaze then turning,  
And shepherds, cease a while your amorous mourning.   

I will not speak (for God forbidden the same)  
Of that most heavy process of mine ills,  
Nor when I so did sing, that I did tame  
Wild beasts and birds, and moved trees and hills:  
Nor when I did suspend th'infernal flame,  
Nor when I saw Pluto, nor that, that kills  
My soul with grief, when I looked back to see,  
If that Eurydice did follow me.   

But I will sing with pure and sweetest voice  
Of those perfections, and that grace display,  
That wisdom, wit and beauty of such choice,  
Of those who do illustrate Spain this day.  
Then see her (Nymphs) whose beauty doth rejoice  
Us all: her great Diana, and her gay  
And goodly train, on whom both Gods and men  
Cannot enough employ their tongues and pen.   

Lift up your eyes this Lady to behold,  
That here is sitting in this highest chair,  
With sceptre near to her and crown of gold,  
And angry fortune by her on the stair:  
This is the star that Spain's light did enfold,  
Whose absence now her glory doth impair:  
Her name is Lady Mary that hath been  
Of Hungary, Boeme, and of Austrie Queen.   

The next that sits to her, is Lady jane  
Princess of Portugal and of Castille  
The Infant, and from whom fortune had ta'en  
The crown and sceptre by her turning wheel:  
And unto whom death was so inhuman,  
That in herself great wonder she doth feel,  
To see how soon she did stretch forth her hands  
On her, that was the light of Lusitans.   

Behold (fair Nymphs) that Lady Mary great  
And sovereign Infant of her Portugal:  
Whose grace and beauty hath this day a seat,  
Where human thought could never reach at all:  
Behold, though cruel for tune there doth threat:  
Her wisdom yet doth count of her but small:  
For time, and death, and destiny cannot  
Conquer her goodness, virtues, and her lot.   

Those two that are by her on either side,  
Whose beauties Titan's brightness do offend:  
Their sleeves of gold, their gowns of damask tied  
With pearl, and where fair emeralds depend:  
Their curled golden locks, waving so wide  
Upon their shoulders, lose that do descend:  
Daughters they are of th' Infant Lusitanc:  
Duarta the valiant, and great Cristiane.   

Those two great duchesses of worthy fame,  
For beauties prise in either of our Spain's  
Which there you see to life se● out in frame,  
With grace, and features, that all others stains  
Of Sessa and Najare each hath her name:  
Whose company Diana not disdains  
For their exceeding beauty, and deserts,  
Discretion, wisdom, and all other parts.   

Behold a golden Phoenix all alone:  
Arare perfection never seen before,  
Wisdom, as like was not in any one,  
Beauty, and grace, where never could be more.  
She that pulls fortune from her vaunting throne,  
And hath her subject to her will and lore:  
Great Lady Leonore Manuel hath to name,  
The Lusitane light that doth the world inflame.   

The Lady Luise Carillo, that in Spain  
Hath made Mendoças' blood of such renown:  
Whose beauty, and brave grace hath in a chain  
Cupid himself, for love of her cast down:  
She's waiting still upon our Goddess train:  
For chastity worthy to wear a crown.  
Of fair and honest an example here,  
And of them all a mirror bright and clear.   

Rehold a sweet perfection and a rare,  
Of her, whom fame herself doth greatly fear:  
Behold a passing beauty, sans compare,  
Founded in grace and wisdom every where:  
That both with reason bind to love and care.  
For in her doth the lest part beauty bear.  
Lady Eufrase of Guzman is her name,  
Worthy to be eternised with fame.   

That matchless beauty sweet and peregrine,  
Not seen in any, but in her alone,  
Which every wit and soul doth so refine  
With holy love, as like was never none:  
appareled with Crimson, that doth shine  
With flowers of gold, and pearl that there are sown.  
The Lady Mary Arragon her name:  
The world doth know, and he aven doth know the same.   

Her do you know to whom Diane her face  
Doth turn, and points her to us with her hand,  
Who matcheth her in wisdom and in grace,  
And equal is with others in this land  
In wit, and hath in beauty highest place,  
Apt to conduct and lead a martial band.  
'tis Lady Isabella Mauriq of Padille,  
Who Mars doth conquer and with wonder fill.   

The Ladies Mary Manuel and jone  
Osorius, are those two, which you do see,  
Whose grace, and beauty, as the like not known,  
Even Love himself with love doth wound and slay.  
And this our Goddess doth not joy alone,  
To see two such with her, but also we.  
Since than no tongue their worthiness may praise,  
Reason, and fame to heaven the same shall raise.   

And those two sisters of such worthy name,  
Either of them a second never had.  
Their grace, and beauty fills the world with fame:  
This day their golden beams doth each one glad:  
methinks I see them in their perfect frame,  
To which more beauty nature could not add.  
The Lady Beatrice Sarmient is one,  
With Castro her fair sister so well known.   

That clearest sun, which here you see doth shine,  
And here and there her golden beams doth cast,  
She, that doth laugh at lovers that do pine  
In love, and at the tears, that they do waste,  
And at loves power: whose countenance divine  
Says more than I, though praising her so fast,  
'tis Lady jone Carate, in whom we see  
Surpasing grace and beauties praise to be.   

The Lady Anne Osorius, that brave dame,  
And Castro next to her possess their place,  
For peerless beauty honoured with fame,  
For goodly gifts, for modesty, and grace:  
But her hard hap (alas) was much to blame,  
So cruelly her glory to deface:  
Because her fortune equal might not be  
Unto her wisdom, beauty, and degree.   

That matchless beauty that's adorned so  
With honesty, and grace so sovereign,  
Which was with reason chosen to bestow  
Her honour in the Temple of Diana,  
Not conquered, but still conquering high and low:  
Her name (O Nymphs) is Lady juliana,  
Niece to that greatest Duke and Constable,  
Speak fame of her, for I am far unable.   

Behold the beauty (on the other part)  
Of many fair and brave Valencian Dames,  
Whom with my pen, but more yet with my hart,  
I will procure to celebrate their names?  
here Fount of Helicone, vouchsafe thy art,  
And here Minerva help me in these blames;  
To tell what those brave Ladies be, whose sight  
Only to them all eyes and hearts invite.   

See here four blazing stars that brightly shine,  
Of whom Fame brutes their name in every ground,  
That from three famous kingdoms draw their line,  
And from Cardonas aneient house come down,  
On th'one side Dukes most excellent decline,  
And from the other sceptre, throne, and crown:  
Daughters unto Sogorbe, whose golden fame  
From Atlas unto Maurus sounds their name.   

The light of all the world, the flower of Spain,  
The end of perfect beauty, and of grace,  
A royal hart, that ever doth maintain  
Valour, and bounty, in a virtuous race:  
That look so modest, and so sweet again,  
Adorned with so fair and mild a face,  
Giuès Lady Anne of Arragon such fame,  
That Love himself is captive to her name.   

Her sister Lady Beatrice, that you see,  
Is next (if that you can behold such light)  
Whom none can praise, for this is only she,  
Whom none can praise according to her right:  
That Painter that did make her, so must be  
Her praiser, and her gifts he must reeite:  
For where all human wit cannot attain,  
My poor conceit doth labour there in vain.   

The Lady Frances of great Arragon  
Show you I would, but she is always hid:  
Her sweetest beauties leaves not any one  
With life, for so her starlike eyes forbidden  
Our mortal sight to view the same alone:  
In life and death, her virtues ever did  
Subject each hart to love, and admiration:  
As fame can tell in every foreign nation.   

Now Lady Magdalene you may reveal,  
Sister unto those three which I have shown,  
Behold her well, and see how she doth steal  
Her gazer's hearts, and subject lives to none.  
Her peerless beauty threats, and in a chain  
Leads little Cupid, turned into a stone:  
None see her, but they die, and none there are  
But she doth conquer without arms or war.   

Those two bright stars, that here and there do vaunt  
Their shining beams, that dim the starry sky,  
And making that illustrious house of Gaunt  
In all the world with high renown to fly.  
This day their wisdom, and their beauties daunt  
Each human thought, and every mortal eye.  
For who sees Magdeline and Marguerite,  
That doth not die (for love) at such a sight?   

But will you see the thing, that hath undone  
All wits, and made them all to wonder so?  
Behold a Nymph more fair than orient sun,  
Or lovely rose, or lily hard by Po;  
This Phoenix name, that through the world doth run,  
Is Lady Caterine Milane, for so  
Valencia calls her, and the world doth say,  
She is as fair, and wise, as lives this day.   

Lift up your eyes (fair Nymphs) and now behold  
The Lady Mary Pexon çannoguere,  
How by the river banks her locks of gold  
She combs, adorning of her shining hear,  
Whose beauty, wisdom, and brave gifts are told  
For rarest in our Europe every where,  
Behold her eyes, her fair and Crystalline face,  
Her sweet demeanour and her heavenly grace.   

Those two behold, the rest that do excel  
Inperfect wisdom, and in quick conceit:  
And for brave beauty bear away the bell,  
A pair sans peer, whose starlike eyes do threat  
Despair and death, to those that view them well:  
For there sits Cupid in his proper seat.  
Their blessed names do with their nature fit,  
Fair Beatrice Vigue and Beatrice Fenollir.   

What time Diana went to sport and play,  
With her most sovereign face, and more divine,  
Amorning star arose in month of May,  
Like to that Star, that near the Moon doth shine:  
Which when she saw so glorious every way;  
A famous place to her she did a ssigne:  
Her beauties tell you, if her name you seek,  
That she's the peerless Lady Anna Vigue.   

Fair Nymphs, behold the Lady Theodore  
Carroz, that is great Lady and the Queen  
Of such brave beauty, never seen before,  
Wisdom, and grace, as like was never seen:  
Each thing of hers enamours more and more.  
The bravest men's deserts have never been  
Such, as they durst attempt, or ever sought,  
By them to place in her an amorous thought.   

See (shepherds) Lady Angelas brave grace,  
Of Borja, looking on Diana bright;  
And how to her the Goddess turns her face,  
To view those eyes, that all eyes do invite,  
And mighty Love himself weeping apace,  
And how the Nymph derides his conquered might:  
And laughs to see the cruel Tyrant lying,  
Wrapped in chains, to her for mercy crying.   

Of that most famous stock of çannoguere  
A flower sprung out, so perfect and so pure,  
That living yet but young, she need not fear  
Any that may her beauties blaze obscure:  
Her mother's heir she is, for she doth bear  
The praise, which she did with her gifts procure.  
So hath Lady Hieronymas, you see,  
In grace, and wit obtained the highest degree.   

Now in a wonder (Nymphs) will you remain?  
And see what fortune gave to her alone,  
How wisdom, beauty, and the goodly train  
Of virtues, make in her the chiefest throne?  
Lady Veronica Marrades see again,  
For only by her figure it is known  
That she hath all, and nothing wants to serve her,  
Unless it be, that none can well deserve her.   

The Lady Luise Penaroje we see  
In more than human beauty and in grace,  
In every thing most excellent is she:  
All beauties else she stains, and gaine●…pace,  
Love dies for her, and he will not agree,  
That any should behold so sweet a face:  
Who sees it dies, unless he see it again,  
And seen it, than his sight augments his paint.   

Now see I (Nymphs) that you are seeing her,  
On whom my thoughts continually devise,  
And yours perforce from her can never stir,  
Cupid for robs, and in her love he dies:  
See how her beauties make the world to err?  
See, but beware such light blind not your eyes.  
The Lady jane Cardona, that fair star,  
It is to whom loves powers subjecteth 〈◊〉.   

That beauty, which exceedeth human thought,  
Which you do see, if that you can behold it,  
She, whose estate was blest, esteeming nought  
Of fortune, time, or chance, that could enfold it.  
She, to the world that such rare gifts hath brought:  
She that's my Muse, and Parnasus, untold yet,  
Lady jone Anne of Catalane, The end  
She is of all, that e'er I did commend.   

near unto her there is a great extreme  
In purest virtue, high and sublimate,  
In comely grace, the fairest in this Realm,  
Her golden hair, her neck most delicate;  
Each gracious eye a fiery pointed beam,  
A noble wit, and name of heavens estate:  
The Lady Angela Fernando named:  
Whom nature to her name like gifts hath framed.   

Next to her sits the Lady Marian,  
Who hath not in the world her paragon,  
near to her sister, fairer than the swan  
In crystal streams, or fine vermilion.  
Proud is our age of both of them, that can  
In tender years have no comparison  
For wisdom; for so much they may presume,  
As thousand tongues can tell, or golden plume.   

The two fine sisters Borjas which you see,  
Hyppolita and Isabella so fair,  
With grace and gifts, that so adorned lee,  
That Phoebus' brightest beams they do impair.  
And see how many lives, that once were free,  
Their beauties conquers (Cupid's only snare),  
Behold their hair, their countenance, and eyes,  
This gold, that sweet, and those like stars in skies.   

Behold the Lady Mary Cannoguere,  
Who wow is Lady of sure Catarasse,  
Whose beauty, and sweet grace doth every where  
Conque●… 〈◊〉 with unrepaired loss!  
Fame on her wings ●…row out the world doth bear  
Her virtues rare, that shine like gold to dross.  
Since each one them that sees her must commend her,  
Who them can praise her well and not offend her?   

The Lady Isabella Bor●… here doth stand  
Perfect and absolute in every thing  
Behold her face, her fine and dainty hand,  
Over whose head the nightingales do sing.  
Our age she honours, and th' Hiberian land:  
Of grace, and virtue she's the only spring:  
And those, to whom nature did beauty give,  
She stains, as fairest that did ever live.   

She, that her hair hath hanging down, and speed  
Abroad, and tide with golden third behind:  
And that fair face, that hath so often led  
So many hearts to bondage of the mind:  
Her ivory neck her ties in beauty bred,  
Fair, modest, grey, not looking out of kind:  
Her famous name is Lady juliana,  
That honours ●…ere the Temple of Diana.   

She, whom you there do see, whom nature made  
So curiously, at never like before,  
Since that her beauty never seemed to fade,  
Nor that a fair one can desire more:  
Whose great deserts, and wit, doth still persuade  
Fame, to the world her praises to restore:  
Is called Lady Moncia Fenollit,  
To whom Love yields himself and doth submit.    
The song of renowned Orpheus was so pleasant in Felismenas' ears, and in all theirs, that heard it, that it held them in such a suspense, as if they had passed by no other thing but that, which they had before their eyes. Who now having particularly viewed the rich chamber of estate with every thing in it that was worth the seeing (as all was) the Nymphs went forth by a certain door into the great hall, and by an other out of the hall into a fair garden, the beauty whereof stroke no less admiration into their minds, than the strange things which they had seen before: for amongst the fruitful trees, and sweet flowers, were many sepulchres and tombs erected of divers Nymphs and Ladies, which with great purity had kept their chastity (due to the Goddess thereof) inniolate and unstained. Some of the tombs were adorned with coronets of knotty ivy; others with chapplets of sweet Myrtles; and some with garlands of green Laurel. There were also many Allabluster fountains in the garden, some of jasper marble, & some of other metal seated under vines, which with artificial arches and wreaths aloft did spread forth their branches depressed with clusters of coloured grapes. The Mytrhe trees grew in manner of four walls, with embattlements and pinnacles on the tops of them, and on the sides above them were certain Terraces and walks, reared up, whereon (as over all the garden besides) did grow many sweet flowers of sundry colours, as white jesmins, Woodbyne, and many more delightful to the insatiable eye. In the hide of the garden stood a jeat-stone upon four brazen pillars, and in the thids of it a tomb framed out of jasper, which four Nymphs that were wrought out of white Alabaster did hold up with their hands, and about it stood many Tapers of Virgin wax burning in massy candlesticks of bright silver, that were made in artificial manner. About this tomb stood certain Lords and Knights, some fashioned out of stone, and metal, other some out of jasper marble, and other matter. Which figures showed such great sorrow by their countenances, that they filled Felismenas' hart, and all theirs that were looking on the tomb, with no less grief, than admiration. But viewing it narrowly, they saw in a table of shining gold, which at the foot of the sepulchre, a dead and pale mattone held between her hands, this Epitaphe subscribed.  

Here Lady Katherine entombed lies,  
Of Arragon and Sarmient, whose fame  
Doth mount with praise unto the lofty skies:  
And sounds from North to South, her worthy name.  
Death killed her, to revenge the sacrifice  
Of those she killed, when she was a dame:  
Her body's here, her soul in heaven with pleasure:  
The world unworthy to possess such treasure.   
After they had read this Epitaphe, they saw an Eagle of black marble, with displayed wings on the top of the tomb, with a golden table between her talons, with those verses in it.  

EVen as (O death) the Planets should remain  
Without Apollo and Diana bright,  
The ground without mankind, and beasts again,  
The Mariner without the North-star light;  
The field without fair flowers, grass, or grain,  
The morning's show without the dew of night:  
Virtue and beauty so remain and die  
Without the dame that in this tomb doth lie.   
When they had read both these Epitaphs, and Belisa had understood by them what the Nymph was, that was buried therein, and how much Spain lost by losing her, calling therewithal to mind the untimely death of her dear Arsileus, she could not, but with tears breath out these sorrowful words. O death, how far am I from thinking that thou mayest comfort me with other women's harms? The small time, that the world enjoyed the great beauty and wisdom, wherewith they tell me this Nymph was endowed, doth not a little grieve me, because as she was not herself in love, so did not any deserve, she should be so. For had she been, I would then account her for so happy a woman by dying, as myself unfortunate, by seeing how small reckoning thou makest of me (cruel death) since taking from me all my good, and the only joy of my life, thou dost not leave me here, but only to feel the never-ceasing pain of this heavy want. O my Arsileus, O rare wisdom in such young years? O the most faithful lover that ever was, and the finest wit that the heavens could ever infuse into so brave an ornament of nature. What eyes may without inundations of rears behold thy sorrowful absence? And what hard hart suffer thy untimely and difastrous end? O Arsenius, Arsenius, how small a time wert thou unable to endure the violent death of thy unfortunate son, having more occasion to suffer it, than myself? Why didst thou make me (cruel Arsenius) participate of two deaths? Of both which to prevent the least that did grieve me, I would have given a thousand lives. Farewell (happy Nymph) the light and honour of the royal house of Arragon: God give thy soul eternal glory, and deliver mine from so many woes and afflictions, wherinto it is so deeply sunk. After that Belisa had spoken these words, and after they had seen many tombs more, very richly erected, they went out by a back door in the garden, into a green meadow, where they found the sage Lady Felicia recreating herself alone, and walking up and down, who seeing them coming towards her, received them all with a joyful countenance. And whilst it was time to go to supper, they went to a pleasant walk in a grove of Sycamores hard by, where the Nymphs of the sumptuous temple were wont many times to go and disport themselves: where sitting down in a little plat of green grass, that was encompassed round about with levy Sycamores, they began to discourse one with another of that, which did best please their fancies. The Lady Felicia called the Shepherd Syrenus, and Felismena to her. The Nymph Doria sat her down with sylvanus in one place of the green meadow, and the Shepherdesses Seluagia and Belisa went by themselves, with the most beautiful Nymphs Cynthia and Polydora into another, so that (though they were not far asunder) yet they might talk together well enough, and not trouble one another. But Syrenus desiring that their talk and conversation might be conformable to the time, place, and person with whom he talked, began to say in this manner. I think it not (sage Lady) much beyond the purpose, to demand a certain question, to the perfect knowledge whereof, as I could never yet attain; so do I not meanly desire by your ladyships wisdom to be resolved therein: and this it is. They do all affirm (that would seem to know something) That true Love doth spring of reason: which if it be so, what is the reason, that there is not a more timorous and unruly thing in the world than love, and which is left of all governed by it? As this Question (answered Felicia) is more than a simple shepherds conceit, so is it necessary, that she that must answer it, aught to have more than a silly woman's wit: But to satisfy thy mind with that little skill I have, I am of a contrary opinion, affirming that Love, though it hath Reason for his mother, is not therefore limited or governed by it. But it is rather to be supposed, that after reason of knowledge and understanding hath engendered it, it will suffer itself to be governed but few times by it. And it is so unruly, that it resultes oftentimes to the hurt and prejudice of the lover: since true lovers for the most part fall to hate and neglect themselves, which is not only contrary to reason, but also to the law of nature. And this is the cause why they paint him blind, and void of all reason. And as his mother Venus hath most fair eyes, so doth he also desire the fairest. They paint him naked, because good love can neither be dissembled with reason, nor hidden with prudence. They paint him with wings, because he swiftly enters into the lovers soul: and the more perfect he is, with more swiftness and alienation of himself, he goeth to seek the person of the beloved, for which cause Euripides said; That the lover did live in the body of the beloved. They paint him also shooting his arrows out of his bow, because he aims right at the hart, as at his proper white: And also, because the wound of love is like that, which an arrow or dart maketh, narrow at the entrance, and deep in his inward soul that loveth. This is an inscrutable, and almost incurable wound, and very slow in healing: So that thou must not marvel Syrenus, that perfect love (though it be the son of reason) is not governed by it, because there is nothing, after it is borne, that doth less conform itself to the original of his birth, than this doth. Some say there is no other difference between virtuous and vicious love, but that the one is governed by reason, and the other not: but they are deceived; because excess and force is no less proper to dishonest, then to honest love, which is rather a quality incident to every kind of love, saving the one doth make virtue the greater by it, and the other doth the more increase vice. Who can deny, but that in true and honest love excessive and strange effects are oftentimes found? Ask it of many, who for the only love of God made no account of themselves, and cared not to lose their lives for it, although knowing the reward they looked for, did not work Io much in their minds. And how many again (inflamed with the love of virtue) have gone about to cast away themselves, and to end their lives, to get thereby a glorious and surviving name? A thing truly, which ordinary reason doth not permit, which doth rather guide every effect in such sort, that the life may honestly preserve itself. But what diversity of examples could I bring thee (Syrenus) of many, who only for the love of their friends have lost their lives, and every thing that with life is lost. But let us leave this love, and come again to that which nature hath bred between man and woman: wherein thou must know, that if the love, which the lover bears to the mistress of his affections, (although burning in unbridled desire) doth arise of reason, and of true knowledge and judgement, as by her only virtues he doth judge her worthy to be beloved, That this kind of love (in my opinion,) (and yet I am not deceived) is neither unlawful nor dishonest, because all love being of this quality, doth tend to no other end but to love the person beloved for her own sake, without hoping for any other guerdon or effect of his true, and sincere love. So that this is as much as (me thinks) may be said in answer of thy question, which thou hast put me. Syrenus then said unto her. I am resolved (sage Lady) of that which I desired to understand; and also belceve, that by your gracious wisdom which is great, and bounty which is no less, I shall be thoroughly instructed of whatsoever I would desire to know, although some finer capacity than mine were more requisite to conceive these deep reasons, so perfectly alleged by your learned assertions.  
Syluenus, that was talking with Polydora, said: It is strange (fair Nymph) to see what a sorrowful hart (that is subject to the trances of impatient love) doth suffer, because the lest ill, that it causeth in us, is the deprivation of our judgement, the loss of our memory, and the surcharging of our imaginations with his onelse objects, making every one to alienate himself Iron, himself, and to impropriate himself in the person of his beloved. What shall that woeful man than do, who sees himself so great an enemy to pleasure, such a friend to solitariness, so full of passions, environed with fears, troubled in his spirits, martyred in his wits, sustained by hope, wearied with thoughts, afflicted with griefs, haunted with jealousies, and continually worn with sobs, sighs, sorrows, and woes, which he never wanteth? And that, which makes me more to marvel, is, that the mind doth not procure, (this love being so untolerable and extreme in cruelty) nor hath any desire at all to part from it, but doth rather account it her enemy, that gives it any counsel to that effect. All this is true (said Polydora) but I know well that Lovers for the most part have more words, than passions. This is a sign (said sylvanus) that thou canst not conceive them (fair Nymph) because thou canst not believe them, nor that thou hast been ever touched with this pleasing ill. And I wish thou mayst not, the which none can believe, nor know the multitude of woes proceeding from it, but only she that doth participate of his bitter effects. Why? dost thou think (fair Nymph) when the lover that finds himself continually confused, his reason obscured, his memory gone, his fancies and senses wearied by excessive love, that his tongue can then remain so free, that it may feign passions, and show another thing by words, then that he feels by deeds? Ah deceive not thyself with these words, which I know are clean contrary to thy thought. Behold here am I, in whom there is nothing, that can be governed by reason; neither can he have it, that is so much without his liberty as I am, because all corporal subjections do suffer the will (at the least) to be free, but the bondage of love is such, that the first thing it takes in hand, is to constrain one, to make a profession of it. And wilt thou Shepherdess then believe, that he doth form complaints, & feign sighs, that sees himself handled in this sort? It seems well thou art free from love, as I did but even now tell thee. I know sylvanus (said Polydor a again) that lovers are full of troubles, and afflicted in mind all the while they do not obtain their desires. Thou speakest in a thing (said sylvanus) wherein it seems thou hast no experience, because their love, whose pains cease after the accomplishment of their desires, proceedeth not from reason, but from a base and dishonest appetite.  
Seluagia, Belisa, and fair Cynthia were talking together, what the reason was that in absence, love did for the most part wax cold. Belisa could not believe, that for any thing in the world she might entertain such disloyalty in her hart, saying: That since she did bear her Arsileus (being now dead, and too well assured never to see him again) the self same love, that she did, when he was alive, how much more than was it impossible for any other to forget that love, which one doth hope sometimes to see again. I cannot answer thee Belisa (said the Nymph Cynthia) so sufficiently as perhaps this matter doth require, because as it is a thing impertinent to our condition, so the resolution thereof is it not expected of a Nymphs wit and profession. But yet this is my opinion, that though one departs from the presence of her lover, yet the remembrance of him afterwards remains in her eyes, by the present occasions whereof she still sees the Idea of the thing that she desireth. The charge and office of this remembrance is to represent that to the understanding, which it containeth in it, and of thinking of the person whom she loveth, cometh will (the third power of the soul) to engender desire, by means whereof the person absented suffereth pain, by not seeing that which she loveth well. So that all these effects are derived from the memory, as from a fountain, from whence the beginning of desire springeth. But you must now know (fair Shepherdesses) that as the memory is a thing, that the more it increaseth, the more it looseth her strength and virtue, for getting that which the eyes did deliver and put into it; so likewise do the other powers, whose works had their beginning in it, in the very same sort as rivers should want their streams, if the fountains from whence they spring, did cease to flow. And as this is understood of him that departs, so is it likewise of her that remains still. And whereas thou dost think (fair Shepherdess) that time will not cure thy grief by committing the remedy thereof into my Lady Felicias hands, thou art much deceived, because there is not any, whom she doth not help, and lovers more than any other kind of people.  
The sage Lady Felicia (though she was somewhat from them) heard what Cynthia said, and answered. It might be thought no small point of cruelty in me, to put the remedy of her griefs (who needs it so much) in the hands of so slow and tedious a physician as time is: For though it be sometimes a help, yet it falls out in the end, that the greatest maladies (if they have no other remedies than their own) do last so long a time that before they have an end, they end their lives that have them. And therefore because I mean to be think me of that, which toucheth Felismenaes' ease, and the remedy of her griefs, and those of all her company, & that now the beams of golden Apollo seem to make an end of their days journey; I think it best to seal up our discourses, and to go in, bieause supper (I think) by this time is staying for us. And so they went into the great Lady's Palace, where they found the tables ready furnished and set under an arbour of green vines, in a pleasant and fresh garden within the house. And supper being ended, the sage Lady prayed Felismena to tell them some discourse, were it a history, or some notable accident, that had befallen in the Province of Vandalia? Which Felismena did not deny: for with a sober and gentle grace she began to tell this history following.  
IN the time of the Valiant Prince Don Fernando, who was afterwards King of Arragon, lived a knight in Spain called Rodriga of Naruaez, whose singular virtues and approved manhood were so great, that as well in peace, as in war, he got the Surname of the best knight of all those that lived in his time; and where he did especially win it, when the same noble Prince overcame the power of the Moors at the city of Antiquera, showing by his great enterprises and martial feats in this war, an absolute mind, an invincible hart, and a noble kind of liberality, by means whereof a good Captain is not only beloved, and highly esteemed of his own soldiers, but also of strangers and his chiefest enemies: In regard of which worthy service, he was guerdoned after the subduing of that country (although but meanly in am of his high deserts and excellent deeds) with the regiment of Antiquera and Allora, where he spent most of his time with fifty choice gentlemen at the King's pay, for defence and garrison of both those frontier towns. All which by the good government of their Captain enterprised many valiant deeds in defence of the Christian faith, achieving them with great honour, and registering the in perpetual same with notable adventures done in mainrenance of the same. Whose minds therefore being so great enemies to idleness, and the exercise of arms so agreeable to the generous hart of their valiant Governor; it fell out that upon a certain summers night, Cynthia inviting them to take part of the bright & cool air, Rodrigo with nine of his gentlemen (for therest remained in garrison of the town) armed at all points, went out of Allora, to surprise the Moors which lay on their frontiers, careless (perheps) in their charge and negligent. And emboldened by the privilege of the night, they passed by certain ways near unto their towns. The valiant Captain therefore going on with his gentlemen as secret as he might, and very careful not to be descried, came to a way that parted into two, where consulting to divide themselves into two companies of five a piece, and in such sort, that if the one company perceived themselves to be in any danger, by sounding of a cornet they might be presently aided by the other five. The Governor and four of them took one way, and the other five an other: who riding in several companies together, and talking of divers matters, every one desiring some adventure to try his manhood, and to show himself a courageous man at arms, as almost every day they were wont to do, they heard not far from them a man's voice sweetly singing, and now and then breathing out a profound sigh; whereby they conjectured that some amorous passion did trouble his thoughts. The horsemen therefore that heard this, road into a little wood hard by the way, and because the moon did shine as clear as day, they might perceive a Moor coming that way they went, so gallant and comely a gentleman, that his parsonage did well testify that he was of noble blood, and singular valour. He came mounted upon a daple grey horse, and the garments he had on was a horseman's coat of crimson damask, and upon that a Barbary mantel fringed about with gold, and embroidered all over, and edged with many works of silver twist. He ware by his side a fair Moresco Cymitarre, with tassels of carnation silk and gold hanging at it; on his head a Tunez Turban or roll of silk and white cotton, which was listed with gold, and fringes of the same, which being wrapped many times about his head, did serve him for an ornament, and a defence of his person. He carried a great Target on his left arm, and in his right hand a Lance of two punches: and with so goodly grace and countenance came the enamoured Moor, that they could not wish to see a better sight. But giving attentive ear unto his song, they heard that the ditty (although it was in the Arabic tongue) said thus.  


FIrst in Granada Iwas borne,  
In Cartama brought up and bred,  
To Allora fronter, which I scorn,  
And in Coin enamoured.   

Though in Granada I was borne,  
And brought up in Cartama brave;  
My faith in Coin I have sworn,  
And there my liberty I gave.  
There do I live, where I do die,  
And where my care is thither led  
To Allora Fronter am I,  
And in Coin enamoured.    
The five horsemen, who had perhaps but small experience in amorous passions, or whether they had or no, regarding more the interest, which so brave an adventure did promise them, than the song of the enamoured Moor, issued out of the wood, and ran with great violence upon him. But the valiant More, who in like assaults was a tried champion (though love at that time was Lord of his thoughts) was not a whit dismayed, but couching his lance in rest, with wonderful courage began to skitmish with them all, whom he made immediately know, that he was no less valiant than amorous. Some say, they set upon him by one and one, but they that have sought out the truth of this history, assirme, that they ran all upon him at once, which is most like they did so, to take him prisoner, but when they saw him begin to defend himself, that then perhaps the other four did stand by, whilst one of them did fight with him alone. But howsoever it was, he drove them to such a narrow straight, that casting three of them to the ground, the other two very fiercely set upon him, who needed not to use their ordinary strength against so valiant an adversary; for though he was wounded in one of his thighs, yet his strength and courage was not of such a temper, that mortal wounds could daunt his mind, nor make him leave of that, which so highly touched his honour. But having by chance let fall his lance, he put spurs to his horse making a show of flight, whom the two Christians pursued at his very heels, which when he perceived, he turned back against them both, and passing thorough them like a furious and swift lightning, came to the place where one of the three lay, which he had unhorsed, where stooping down from his horse to take up his lance that lay by him, he mounted nymbly into the saddle again: which one of the two horsemen seeing, and thinking they were not able to make their party good, he sounded his Cornet; but the Moor in the mean time so fiercely assailed them, that if the valiant Governor had not come, they had kept company with their other three companions, that lay hurt on the ground. But when the governor was come, and saw how valiantly the Moor did fight, he made great account of him in his mind, and having an eager desire in single combat to prove his manhood with him, he said unto him. Such is thy noble valour and rare strength (brave knight) that by overcoming thee, there cannot be but great honour and glory got; which singular favour if gentle Fortune would but grant me, I could not (by my life) request any other at her hands. Wherein though I put my person in no small danger, by offering him the combat, that can so bravely defend himself, yet for a world I will not leave it, when by so brave an enterprise, and howsoever I speed, I cannot choose but win great honour and renown. And saying this, he bad his men stand aside, appointing the conquered the prize of the victory. When they were both asunder, a hot fight began between these valiant men at arms. The magnanimous Narudez desired the victory, because the valour of the brave Moor increased the glory, that he hoped to get by it: And the stout Moor, to no other end but to attain to the effect of his hope and desire. And so they belayed about them, passing active and nimble in lending blows, and so hardy in assailing each others person, that had it not been for the former weariness, and wound that the Moor had, (who by this time grew somewhat faint by losing his blood) with great difficulty had the Govenour got the happy victory. But these impediments, and being not able to manage his horse any longer, did promise it Naruaez clearly; and not because he knew there wanted one jot of courage or valour in the Moor, who (when he saw that in this single combat his life was in hazard, which he would have willingly changed for the contentment, which Fortune did then deny him) he r'enforced himself with all his might, & standing uptight in his styrrops, gave the Govenour a dangerous thrust, which he received upon his target, who was not slack in answering him with another upon the right arm, and trusting to his strength, if the matter came to handy gripes, at last he ran in, and closed with him, and with such force shaked him, that casting him out of his saddle, he also fell with him to the ground, saying. Yield thyself knight, if thou makest any account of thy life, which is now in my hands. It is in thy hands (said the Moor) to kill me as thou sayst, but fortune shall never do me such despite, to make me overcomed by any, but only by whom I have long since suffered myself to be conquered. And this only content doth remain to me of my prison, whereunto my misfortune hath now brought 〈◊〉. The Governor did not then mark the Moor his words so much, nor to what end he spoke them, but using the mercy that the valiant conqueror is wont to use to the forlorn man of Fortune, he helped him to rise up, and to bind up his wounds, which were not so great, but that he might get upon his horse, and so all of them with their prisoner took the next way home to Alora. The Governor as he road, did continually cast an eye upon the Moor whom he thought with himself, a goodly man of person, and gracious of visage, remembering therewithal, how stoutly he had defended himself; but thought his sadness too great for so brave a mind as he carried; and because he intermixed his sorrow with sighs, which were tokens of greater grief, then could be imagined in so brave a man, and also desirous to know more of the matter, he said unto him. Behold Sir knight, how the prisoner that loseth his hart & magnanimity for fear of imprisonment, doth hazard the law of his liberty, and that in Martial affairs, adversity must be entertained with as merry a countenance, as by this greatness of mind it may deserve to enjoy prosperity again. And these sighs are not (me thinks) beseeming that valour and courage, which thou hast showed by trial of thy person; neither are thy wounds so mortal, that thy life is in hazard, whereof besides thou hast showed not to make so much account, but that thou wouldst willingly have left it for thine honour's sake: If there be then any other occasion of thy heaviness, tell it me: for by the faith of a gentleman, I swear unto thee, that I will use as much courtesy and friendship towards thee, as thou shalt not have occasion to repent thee, that thou hast told me it. The Moor hearing the governors gentle speech, whereby he argued in him a brave and noble mind, and his courteous and friendly offer to help him, thought it no point of wisdom to conceal the cause of his grief from him, because by his mild words and gracious countenance he had such great hope of help and favour, that lifting up his face, which with the weight of sorrow he went carrying in his bosom, he said unto him. How art thou called Sir Knight, that dost thus comfort me in my sadness, whereof thou seemest to have some feeling, and the which thou dost enforce me to tell thee. My name is Rodrigo of Naruaez, and Governor I am of Alora, and Antiquera, of both which towns of garrison the King of Arragon my Lord and Master, hath appointed me Chieftain. When the Moor heard this, with a merrier countenance than before, he said: I am glad that my misfortune hath been so fortunate, to make me fall into thy hands; of whose force and manhood I have been long since informed, the trial whereof though it had cost me dearer, could not have greatly grieved me, since it doth so greatly content me to see myself his prisoner, whose virtues, valour, and dexterity in arms doth importune every one's ears so much. And becavie the subduing of my person doth oblige me to esteem thee the more, and that thou mayst not think it is any kind of pusyllanimitie, or fear in me (without some other great occasion, which lies not in my power to forsake) that makes me so sad and pensive, I pray thee gentle Knight, by that thou art, to command thy gentlemen to ride on before, because thou mayst know, that neither the pain of my green wounds, nor the grief of my present captivity is cause of my heavy thoughts. The Governor hearing these words, made greater reckoning of the Moor, and because he was very desirous to be thoroughly resolved what he was, he willed his gentlemen to ride on before: and they two coming on fair and softly behind, the Moor fetching a profound sigh from his soul, began thus to say.  
IF time and trial of thy great virtues (most valiant Governor) and that golden fame wherewith they are spread in every place, had not penetrated my hart with desire of knowing them, & now put them manifestly before mine eyes, these words, which thy will doth enforce me to relate, should be now excused, and the discourse, which I mean to tell thee of a life, continually environed with disquiets & suspects (the least whereof being (as thou wilt judge no less) worse than a thousand deaths) remain untold. But as I am on the one side assured of that I speak, and that (on the other) thou art a worthy knight, and noble gentleman, and hast either heard, or else thyself passed the like passion to mine, Know, that my name is Abyndaraez the younger in difference of an uncle of mine, my father's brother who is also called so. Descended I am from the noble house of the Abencerrajes in Granada, by whose unlucky destinies I did learn to be unfortunate. And because thou mayst know what theirs was, and mayst by them the better conjecture, what may be expected of mine, Thou shalt understand, that in Granada was a noble lineage of Lords, and Knights, called Abencerrajes, whose valiant deeds, and grave personages, as well in martial adventures, as in peaceable and wise government of our commonwealth, were the mirrors of that kingdom. The old men were of the King's counsel; the young gentlemen exercised their minds, and bodies in feats of arms, in the service of Ladies and gentlewomen, and by showing in every point their valour and gentility. And as they were honoured of the popular sort, and well-beloved among the principal, (for in all those good parts that a gentleman should have, they far excelled others) so were they very well thought of with the King: They did never any thing in war abroad, nor in counsel at home, that their experience was not correspondent to their expectation: whose valour, bounty, and humanity was so highly commended, that for a common example it was ever alleged, That there was never Abencerraje coward, niggard, or ill disposed person. In the city they were the masters of brave inventions for apparel: In the Court, of masks, dances, and triumphs, and in the court and city, in the service and courting of Dames passing gracious: For never did Abencerraje love and serve any Lady, of whom he was not favoured, nor any Lady (were she never so fair and amiable) think herself worthy of the name & title of an Abencerraje his mistress. They living therefore in as great prosperity, honour, and reputation, that might be, came fortune (an enemy to the rest and contentment of happy men) to cast them down from that joyful estate, to the most unfortunate and grievous condition of disgrace that might be. The beginning whereof was, that the King having done a certain injury to the Abencerrajes, they made an insurrection, wherein, with ten gentlemen more of their kindred, they conspired to kill the King, land to divide the kingdom amongst themselves, & so to be revenged of the unworthy disgrace received by him. This conspitacie (whether it was true or false) was discovered before it could be put in practice, and they apprehended, and condemned to die, before the citizens had intelligence thereof; who, without all doubt for the great love they bore them, would have risen, not consenting that justice should have been done upon them; For, carrying them to execution, it was the strangest spectacle in the world, to see the lamentations that some made; the privy murmuring of one to another; and the bootless excuses, that for compassion of these gentlemen were generally made in all the city. They ran all to the King, and offered to buy his mercy with great sums of gold and silver; but such was his severity, that it expelled all motions of pity and clemency: Which when the people beheld, they began to weep, and lament again: The Lords, Knights and gentlemen did weep and mourn, with whom they were wont to keep company: The tender Ladies and Damsels of the Court wept, whom they loved and served: And all the whole city wept, for the great honour and authority, that such noble citizens gave them. The lamentations, and outcries were so many, and so loud, as if the earth had sunk, or the world been drowned anew. But the King, who to all these tears, lamentations, and pitiful outcries did stop his ears, commanded, that his definitive sentence should be presently executed: So that, of all that house, and lineage there remained not one man alive, that was not beheaded that day, except my father and mine uncle, who were not found complices in that conspiracy. These ills resulted to them (besides this miserable chance) that their houses were ruinated; they proclaimed traitors to the King; their goods, lands, and possessions confiscated: And that no Abenceraje should live any longer in Granada, except my father and mine uncle; and they but with this condition, that if they had any issue, they should send the men children (as soon as they were borne) to be brought up out of the city, never to return into it again; and if they were women, and marriageable, to be married out of the Realm. When the Governor heard the strange discourse of Abyndaraez, and the terms wherewith he complained of his misfortune, he could not stop his tears, but did show by them the sensible grief, which of such a disastrous accident could not be but felt. And therefore turning himself to the Moor, said unto him. Thou hast good cause Abyndaraes', to be sorry for the fall of thy noble house and kindred, whose heads (I think) could never hatch so great treason: And were it for no other proof, but that so worthy a gentleman as thyself came out of it, this only were sufficient to make me believe, that they never pretended such wickedness. This gentle opinion, which thou hast of me (said the Moor) and of the goodness of my ancestors, I know not (worthy Governor) how to requite, but only with unfeigned and humble thanks. But now, when I was borne into the world, with the inheritance of the self same mishap of my kindred, they sent me (because they would not infringe the King's edict) to be nursed, and brought up in a certain fort, belonging sometimes to the Christians, called Cartama, committing the charge and care of me to the Governor thereof, with whom my father had ancient familiarity & acquaintance: A man of great account in the kingdom, upright in the manner of his life, and very rich, but chief in a daughter that he hath, which is the greatest ●…ie, which I account of in this life, the which I wish I may never enjoy, if in any ●…g (but only her) I ever took content & pleasure. With her was I brought up 〈◊〉 my childhood, (for she was borne but three years after me) and as we were ●…erally thought of all to be brother and sister (for like such was our education) so did we also think ourselves to be. The love that I did bear Xarifa (for thus is the Lady called that is mistress of my liberty) were but little, if I could tell it: Let it ●…fice that time hath so confirmed the same, that I would give a thousands lives (if ●…ad them) but to enjoy one momentary sight of her fair face. Every day increased our age, but every hour augmented our love, and so much, that now (me thought) I was made of another kind of metal, then of consanguinity. I remember that Xarifa being on a day in the orchard of the jesemynes, dressing her fair head, by chance I espied her, amazed at her singular beauty, and how (me thought) it grieved me, that she was my sister. And by the extreme passion of my love, driven out of my musing, I went to her, who, as soon as she saw me, with open arms came to receive me: And sitting upon the fountain by her, she said unto me. Why hast thou (good brother) left me so long alone? It is (sweet Lady) said I again, a good while since I having sought thee in every place, & found not any, that could tell me what was become of thee, my hart at last conjectured where thou wert: Buttel me now (I pray thee) what certainty hast thou, that we are brother and sister? No other (said she) then of the great love I bear thee, and to see, how every one doth call us so, and that my father doth bring us up like his son and daughter. And if we were not brother and sister (said I) wouldst thou then love me so much as thou dost? Oh seest thou not (said she) that we should not be suffered to go so continually together, & all alone, if we were not. But if we were deprived of this joy, that which I feel in myself is a great deal more: At which words her fair face being tainted with a vermilion blush, she said unto me. What couldst thou lose by it, if we were brother and sister? Myself and thee to, said I. I understand thee not said she, but (me thinks) (being brother and sister) it binds us to love one another naturally. Thy only beau●… (said I) doth oblige me to this brotherhood, which rather qualifieth my love, 〈◊〉 sometimes distempers my thoughts: At which words blushing for too much bol●…es, casting down mine eyes, I saw her divine figure in the crystalline fountain so lively represented, as if it had been she herself, and in such sort, that wheresoever she turned her head, I still beheld her image, and goodly counterfeit truly translated into very hart. Then said I softly to myself. O, if I were now drowned in this fountain, where with pride I behold my sweet Lady, how more fortunate should I die then Narcissus? And if she loved me as I do her, how happy should I be? And if fortune would let us live ever together, what a happy life should I then lead? These words I spoke to myself, and it would have grieved me, that another had heard them. But having spoken this, I rose up, and reaching up 〈◊〉 hand to certain jesemynes that grew round about that fountain, I made of th●…, and of some Orange flowers a fair and redolent garland, and putting it upon my head, I sat down again crowned, and conquered. Then did she cast her eyes upon me (to my thinking) more sweetly than before, and taking it from my head, did put it upon her own, seeming then more fair than Venus. And looking ●…on me, she said. How dost thou like me now Abyndaraez? That in beauty (said I) and sweet perfections, thou overcomest all the world, and that crowned Queen and Lady of it. At which words rising 〈◊〉 of her place, she took me by the hand, and said unto me. If it were so indeed (b●…er) thou shouldest lose nothing by it ●…d so without answering her again, I followed her out of the garden. But now from that time certain days after, wherein cruel Love thought he was too long from discovering unto me the deceit that I had of myself, and time meaning then to lay open hidden and secret things, we came to perfect knowledge, that the kindred between us was as much as nothing, whereupon our firm affections were confirmed more strongly in their former and true places. All my delight was in her, and my soul cut out so just to the proportion of hers, that all, that was not in her face, seemed to mine eyes foul, frivolous, and unprofitable in the whole ●orld. And now were our pastimes far different from our first, and I beheld her with a certain kind of fear, and suspect to be perceived of any: And now had I also a certain envy and ●…lousie of the sun, that did touch her. Who, though she looked on me again with the very same desire and intent, wherewith she had beheld me before; yet thought it was not so, because ones own distrust is the most assured and certain thing in an enamoured hart. It fell out afterwards, that she being on a day it the clear fountain of the jesmynes, I came by chance thither, and beginning to talk with her, her speech (me thought) and countenance was not like to her former looks & communication. She prayed me to sing, for she was greatly delighted with songs & music: And I was then so trustless & misconceiving of myself, that I thought she bade me sing, not for any pleasure that she took by hearing me, but to pass away the time, and only to entertain my company with such a request: so that I then wanted time to tell her the whole sum of my grief. But I who employed my mind in nothing else, but to do whatsoever my Lady Xarifa commanded me, in the Arabic tongue began to sing this song, whereby I gave her to understand the cruelty that I suspected of her.  


IF thy soft Hairs be threads of shining gold,  
Under the shade of which are two fair Eyes,  
(Two suns) whose Brow like heaven doth them uphold,  
Ruby thy Mouth, and lips where Coral lies?  
Can Crystal want, to frame thy Neck so white,  
And Diamond, to make thy Breast so bright?   

Thy hart is not unlike unto thy Breast,  
Since that the flight of metal of thy Hair  
Did never make thee turn thy Neck at jest,  
Nor with thine Eyes give hope, but cold despair.  
Yet from that sugared Mouth hope for an I,  
And from that snow-white Brow, that makes me die.   

Ah beautiful, and yet most bitter Brow,  
And may there be a Breast so hard and fair,  
So sweet a neck, and yet so stiff to bow,  
So rich, and yet so covetous a Hair?  
Who ever saw so clear and cruel Eyes,  
So sweet a Mouth, yet moves not to my cries.   

Envious Love my Neck doth chain with spite,  
His passions make my Brow look pale and swart,  
He makes mine Eyes to lose their dearest light,  
And in my Breast doth kill my trembling hart.  
He makes my Hair to stand in ghastly wise,  
Yet in thy Mouth all words of comfort dies.   

O sweetest face, and lips more perfect fair,  
Then I may tell; O soft and dainty Neck,  
O golden Rays of yonder Sun, not Hair,  
O Crystalline Brow, and Mouth with Ruby decked,  
O equal white and red, O Diamond Breast,  
From these fair Eyes when shall I hope for rest?   

But if a (No) by turning of thine Eyes,  
Hark yet what saith her sweetest Mouth to me?  
See if her hardness in her Breast yet lies,  
And if she turns her whitest Neck to thee?  
Mark well the beckoning of her fairest Brow,  
Then from her Hair what may I hope for now?   

If that her Lily Breast and Neck do once affirm their (No)  
And if her shining Eyes and Hair will not conclude an (I)  
What will her Ruby Mouth then do, and Brow as white as snow,  
Nay what shall I myself expect but with denials die?    
These words were of such force, that, being helped by the love of her, in whose praise they were sung, I saw her shed certain tears, that I cannot tell you now (noble Governor) how much they moved my hart, nor whether the content, that I had by seeing so true a testimony of my Mistress love, or the grief, (my self being the occasion of her tears) was greater. Calling me to her, she made me sit down by her, and thus began to say unto me. If the Love Abyndaraez, whereunto I am obliged (after I was fully assured of thy thoughts) is but small, or such, that cannot but with extinction of life be ended, my words (I hope) before we leave this only place, shall make thee sufficiently know. And blame thee I will not for thy mistrust, which hath made thee conceive amiss; for I know it is so sure a thing to have it, as there is nothing more proper and incident to love. For remedy whereof, and of the sorrow that I must needs have, by seeing myself at any time separated from thy sweet company, from this day forth for ever thou mayst hold and esteem thyself such a Lord and Master of my liberty, as thou shalt be indeed, if thou art willing to combine thyself in sacred bonds of marriage with me, the refusal whereof is (before every other thing) no small impediment to both our contents, a prejudice to mine honour, and the sole obstacle of enjoying the great love which I bear thee. When I heard these words (Love working my thoughts to things clean contrary) I conceived such great joy, that had it not been but by only bowing down my knees to the ground, and kissing her fair hands, I was not able to do any other thing. With the hope of these words I lived certain days, in the greatest joy in the world, whilst mutable Fortune (envying my prosperity and joyful life) bereaved us both of this sweet contentment: for not long after, the King of Granada minding to prefer the Governor of Cartama to some higher charge, by his letters commanded him forthwith to yield up the charge of that Fort, which lies upon the frontiers, and go to Coin, where his pleasure was he should be captain and Governor, and also to leave me in Cartama under the charge of him, that came to be Governor in his place. When I heard these unlucky news for my Mistress and myself, judge you (noble Gentleman, if at any time you have been a lover) what a world of grief we conceived. We went both into a secret place to weep, and lament our misfortunes, and the departure and loss of each others company. There did I call her my sovereign Mistress mine only joy, my hope, and other names, that Love did put into my mouth: with weeping I said unto her. When the view of thy rare beauty shall be taken from mine eyes, wilt thou then Xarifa, sometimes remember me? here did my tears and sighs cut off my words, and enforcing myself to speak more (being troubled in mind) I uttered I know not what foolish words unto her: for the apprehended absence of my dear Mistress in my thoughts did utterly carry away my wits, senses, and memory with it. But who can tell what sorrow my dear Lady felt for this departure, and what bitter potions of grief her oriental tears, (which for this cross of fortune she powered forth) made me sup up? She did then speak such words unto me, the lest of which was enough, to have made the hardest hart thought of a sorrowful departure for ever: which (valiant Governor) I will omit to tell thee, because thou wilt think them (if thy breast was never possessed with love) impossible. And if it hath been for fear, lest by hearing some of them, thou couldst not, but with hazard of life, stay out to hear the rest. Let it suffice, that the end of them, was by telling me, that, having any fit occasion by her father's sickness, or by his absence, she would send for me, that, that might have effect, which was betrothed and agreed upon between us both. With this promise my hart was somewhat lightened, and for this infinite courtesy, (which she did promise me when time and occasion served) I kissed her dainty hands. The next day after, they went away, and I tarried still behind, like one that (wandering upon craggy and wild mountains, and having lost the comfortable light of the sun) remained in hideous darkness: with great grief I began to feel her absence, and sought all the false remedies (I could) against it: for sometimes I did cast mine eyes up to the windows, where she was wont to look out; sometimes upon the bed where her tender body was accustomed to take rest; and went sometimes into the garden, where daily she used to disport herself, and in the heat of the day to the crystalline fountain, where she bathed and refreshed herself under the shade of Limon and Pomegranate trees: I walked and went all her stations, and in every one of them I found a certain representation of my sorrowful thoughts. Truth it is, that the hope that she gave me (to send for me) eased my pains a little, and with it I dissembled some part of my woes. But for as much as the continual thought of my desire so long deferred, did increase my pain the more, me thought sometimes I would have been glad, if I had been left altogether without hope, for desperation doth but trouble one, until it be certainly known; but hope, until the desire be accomplished. But my good Fortune did so much favour me, that this morning my Lady stood to her word, by sending for me by a gentlewoman of hers (a trusty secretary of her thoughts) for the Governor her Father was gone to Granada, who being sent for thither by the king, was to return home in a short time again. Awaked out of my heavy slumber and melancholic cares with these inopinate and happy news, I prepared myself to go with winged speed unto her: yet staying for night, and because I might the better escape unknown, I did put on this habit, as thou seest, and the bravest I could devise, to make the better show to my Lady of my proud and joyful hart. In which journey (truly) I would not have thought, that two of the best knights at arms had been sufficient to abide me the field, because I carried my Mistress with me. Wherefore Rodrigo if thou hast overcomed me, it was not by pure strength, which was impossible, but it was either my hard fortune, or the determination of the heavens, that would prevent me of such a supreme good. Whereupon consider now in the end of my true tale, and of the good that I have lost, and the ill which I possess: I came from Cartama to go to Coin, but a short journey, although the desire of the proudest Abencerraje that ever lived, made it a great deal longer. I went, sent for by my Lady, to see my Lady, to enjoy my Lady, and to marry my sweetest Lady. But now I see myself wounded, captive, and in subjection to him, who will do, I know not what with me. And that which grieves me most, is, that the time and enjoying of my desire, endeth with this present night. O suffer me then Christian to comfort myself at the least with my secret lamentations: let me evacuate out of my sorrowful breast my choking and smothering sighs, and water mine eyes with burning tears: All which impute not to any imbecility or fear of mind, though it were a great deal better for me that I had a hart, that could bear and suffer this hard and sinistrous chance of Fortune, then to do that which I now do.  
The discourse of the enamoured Moor pierced deeply into the valiant Naruaes' his soul, who was not a little amazed at the strange success of his love. And thinking with himself, that for the better dispatch of his affairs, nothing might hinder them more, than his long staying, he said unto him. I am minded Abyndaraes', to make thee know how much my virtue surmounteth thy ill fortune, for if thou wilt but promise me to return to my prison within three days, I will set thee at liberty, because thou mayst not leave of thy amorous enterprise. For it would grieve me to cut off so good, and honest an endeavour. The Abenceraje hearing this, in token of thanks would have fallen down at his feet, and said unto him. If thou dost me this unexpected favour (noble Governor of Alora) thou shalt restore me again to life, and show the greatest gentility of mind, that ever any Conqueror did. Take what security thou wilt of me, for whatsoever thou dost demand, I will not fail to accomplish. Then Rodrigo of Naruaes' called his gentlemen unto him, and said. Gentlemen, trust me for this prisoner, for whose ransom myself will be a pledge. They answered him again, that he might dispose of him at his own pleasure, for whatsoever he did, they would be well content withal. Then the Governor taking the Abenceraje by his right hand, said unto him. Dost thou promise me as thou art a Gentleman to come to my Castle of Alora, there to yield thyself my prisoner within three days? I do (said he) and with solemn oath bind it. Then go (said the Governor) and good fortune with thee, and if thou standest in need of mine own person to accompany thee, or of any other thing for thy way, speak, and thou shalt have it. The Moor thanked him very much, but took no more but a horse, which the Governor gave him, for his own was hurt in the late encounter between them, and went very heavy, being also wearied and faint with much blood, which he lost by the way: and so turning the rains, he road as fast as he could towards Coyn. Rodrigo of Naruaes' and his Gentlemen returned homewards to Alora, talking by the way of the valour and goodly behaviour of the Abenceraje. The Moor was not long (according to the great speed he made) in coming to the Fort of Coin, where, going directly as he was commanded, he first went about all the walls, until at last he found a postern gate, and the Centrinels on the walls fast asleep, who though he had a great desire, and made no less haste to enter in, yet he stayed a little, looking about him on every side, least happily he might be espied, or in danger of some thing else. But when he perceived that all was quiet, he knocked with the punch of his lance at the wicket (for that was the watchword, that his Mistress had given him by the gentlewoman that went to call him) the which was immediately opened unto him by the same gentlewoman, who said unto him: Sir your long tarrying hath put my Lady in a great fear, for she hath staid this good while for you. Alight and I will bring you up where she is attending your presence in great perplexity: he than dismounted from his horse, and set him up in a secret place, that he found there, where also leaving his Lance against a wall with his Target and Cymitarre, the gentlewoman took him by the hand, and very softly led him up a pair of stairs, for fear of being heard by them in the castle, and brought him into Xarifaes' chamber. Before whom when he was come, with a sudden sursault of joy she ran to receive him, and both of them with such extreme passions of love and gladness embracing one another, were not able to speak one word, for the infinite joy they had at each others sight: But coming to themselves again, at the last she said thus unto him. What the cause may be, that thou hast stayed so long (my loving Lord) I know not, but what sorrow and anxieties of mind I have passed for thy slow coming, my impatient love is able to testify. I hope, thou dost imagine fair Lady (said he again) that it is not by my fault and negligence, but men's designs do not always fall out fit to their desires: So that if there be any truth in me, thou mayst well believe me, that it was not in my power to come sooner than I have done. But breaking him off in his excuses, she took him by the hand, & leading him into a rich chamber, they sat them down upon a fair bed, where thus she said unto him. I was desirous my thrice beloved Abyndaraes', to have thee see, how captives in love can fulfil their promise; for, from the very day, that I gave thee my word for pledge of my hart, I have sought the means to discharge me of it. I sent for thee to come to this Castle, to be my prisoner, as I am thine. But now I have brought thee in hither, to make thee Lord of me, and of my father's treasure, under the honourable name of a lawful husband, whereunto my estate, nor thy loyalty cannot otherwise consent. I do know well, that my father's will willbe contrary to our workings, who being ignorant of thy valour, and not knowing thy deserts, as well as I do, will perhaps bestow some richer husband on me: but I esteem thy noble parsonage, and thy virtuous and valiant mind more, than the greatest riches in the world. And having said thus unto him, she hung down her head, blushing not a little, that she had so much discovered herself, and in so plain and open terms declared her affection unto him. The noble Moor took her in his arms, and many times kissing her white hands for such loving and courteous words, said thus unto her. I have no new thing (sweet Lady of my soul) to give thee in requital of such great good as thou dost offer me, because I am no less (as I was before) wholly thine. Only this pledge I give thee in token of my unspeakable love, that I receive thee for my beloved Lady and wife: And heerewithall thou mayst lay aside for a while that modest shamefastness, and maidenly teynt, which continually thou hast had, since thou hast taken me for thine own. Unwillingly she did the same: And upon this conclusion they went to bed, where with a new experience they rekindled the flames of their enamoured hearts. In which amorous enterprise, passed on either side many loving words, and deeds fit for imagination, then to be written. The Moor being in so great joy and pleasure, fetched on the sudden a profound and painful sigh, and turning from her, began to lie so sad and pensive, that fair Xarifa perceiving it, was much amazed and troubled in mind to see so sudden an alteration: who lying still, heard him breath forth a deep and doleful sigh with turning his body on every side. The Lady unable to suffer so great an injury to her beauty and loyalty, thinking he was displeased with the one or both, rising up a little in the bed, with a mild and merry voice (though somewhat troubled) said unto him. What means this Abyndaraes'? It seems thou art offended with my mirth. I heard thee sigh, and tumble, and toss thy body on every side: why man, if I am wholly thy joy, and thy delight, why dost thou not tell me for whom thou dost sigh; and if I am not, why hast thou thus deceived me? If thou hast found any fault in my person, that hath abridged the delight of thy imagination, cast thine eyes and mind upon my will, which is sufficient to supply many wants, and upon my zealous and loving hart, that wisheth it the fairest and finest in the world for thy sake. If thou servest any other Lady, let me know her, that I may serve her to: And if thou hast any other grief (which shall not offend me) tell it me, for I will either die, or rid thee from it. And clasping him with a kind of violent and forcible love, she turned him to her again, who being then confounded, and ashamed for that he had done, and thinking that it might be an occasion (if he did not tell her the cause of his sorrow) to fill her head full of jealousy and suspicion, with an appassionate sigh he said unto her. If I did not (my sweetest life) love thee more than mine own soul, I would never have made such signs of inward grief, for the wounding thoughts, which I brought with me (when I came with myself all alone) I passed away with a better hart; but now that I am constrained to go from thee, I have no force to endure them at all. And because thou shalt be no longer in suspense of knowing the cause of my sorrow, I will tell thee what lately passed: And then he told her all the matter, not leaving any thing out, in the end of his tale with many tears saying thus unto her. So that thy captive (fair Lady) is also prisoner to the Governor of Alora: And the pain of that imprisonment, which thou hast cast upon me, and taught my hart to suffer, I feel not, but the torment and bondage by living without thee, I account worse than any death: Whereupon thou seest, that my sighs are rather arguments of greater loyalty, then of any want thereof. And with this, he began again to be so pensive and sad, as he was before he had told her his grief. But then with a merry countenance she said unto him: Trouble not thy mind Abyndaraes' with these thoughts, for I will take the care and remedy of this grief upon me, as a thing that toucheth me most of all; and the more, since it is not denied any prisoner that hath given his word to return to prison, to satisfy it, by sending the ransom that shall be demanded of him: Wherefore set thyself down what sum thou wilt, for I have the keys of all my father's treasure, which I will put into thy hands, & leave it all at thy disposition. Rodrigo of Naruaez is a courteous gentleman, & a good knight, and one who gave thee once thy liberty: And as thou hast acquainted him with the trust of these affairs; so is he now the more bound to use greater virtue and gentleness towards thee. I am sure he will be contented with reason; for having thee in his power and prison, he must perforce set thee at liberty, when he hath the value of thy ransom. I see well fair Lady (said the Abencerraje again) that the love which thou dost bear me, will not suffer thee to give me the best counsel, for I will never commit so foul a fault as this. For if I was bound to fulfil my word, when I was alone, and without thee, now that I am thine, the bond is greater: I will therefore return to Allora, and yield myself into the governors hands, and when I have done what I am bound to do, let Fortune do with me what she will. Nay let me rather die, said Xarifa (if thou goest to be prisoner) then once desire to remain here at liberty. For being thy captive, by duty I am bound to accompany thee in this journey for the extreme love that I bear thee, whereas also the fear of my father's frowns, which I have purchased by offending him, will let me do no less. The Moor weeping for joy, to hear these words, embraced her saying. Thou never ceasest (my dearest soul) to heap favours upon my happy head, do therefore what thou wilt, for this is my resolution. With this determination they rose before it was day, and providing some necessary things for their journey, they went very secretly towards Allora: and when the day began to wax clear, Xarifa went with her face covered with a mask, for fear of being known, and by reason of the greath aste they made, they came in good time to Alora, where going directly to the castle, & knocking at the gate, it was opened to them out of hand by the Centrinels, who had notice of that was past, and what they should do. The valiant Governor received them courteously: and Abyndaraes' going to the gate and taking his wise by the hand brought her unto him, & said. Behold Rodrigo of Naruaez if I keep not well my word and appointed time? For promising thee to return thy prisoner, instead of one, I bring thee two, for one was enough to overcome many. Behold here my Lady, & judge if I have not justly suffered for her sake: accept us now for thine, for in thy virtuous and noble mind I repose my whole trust and confidence, and into thy hands commit her dear and chiefest honour. The Governor was very glad to see them both, and said to Xarifa: I know not fair Lady which of you have conquered each other in love and courtesy, but truly think myself greatly bound unto you both. Come in therefore, and rest you in your own house, the which from henceforth, as also the master of it, accept for none other. After this friendly entertainment, they went with him into his dining chamber, where after a little while they refreshed themselves, because they came somewhat weary. The Governor asked the Moor how he did for his wounds. I think (said he) that what with the way, and what with pain, they are somewhat rankled: which fair Xarifa hearing, with an altered an appalled countenance said unto him. Alas how comes this to pass my Lord? Have you any wounds about you, and I not know them? Who escapes (said he) from thine, needs little to care for any other. Truth it is, that at our late skirmish in the night I got two little wounds, which my troublesome journey and negligence in curing them hath made somewhat worse, but all is but little or nothing. It is best (said the Governor) that you lay you down, and I will send for a Chirurgeon that is here in the Castle to cure them. Following which counsel, fair Xarifa caused him to put off his apparel, and though she set a good face on the matter (because she would not give him any occasion to feel her inward grief) yet was she altered much and troubled in her mind. The Chirurgeon came, and searching his wounds said, that they were not dangerous, because the sign was not in those places when he received them; and also, because they were smitten overthwart, would not be long in healing: For with a certain ointment that he made out of hand, the pain of them was somewhat assuaged; and in four days (by means of the great care the Chirurgeon had in healing them) he was as sound and whole as ever he was before. But one day, after dinner was done, the Abenceraje said thus unto the Governor. As you are wise, Rodrigo of Naruaez, so can you not choose, but by the manner of our being at Coin, and of our coming hither, imagine more than you have seen, which affairs of ours by our own misfortunes (driven to this desperate (though happy) event, wherein they now are) must be (I hope) by your advise and help brought to some good end. This is fair Xarifa, of whom I told you: This is my Lady, and my dearly beloved wife: In Coin she would not stay for fear of her Father. For though he knows not what hath passed between us, yet she feared least this accident at some time or other might be discovered. Her Father is now with our King of Granada, whose highness I know, doth bear you especial good will, and loveth you, (though you be a Christian) for your valour and virtuous disposition. Wherefore I beseech you (gentle knight) to solicit our pardon at his gracious hands for doing what is passed without his leave and privity, since Fortune hath brought it (though happily) to this doubtful pass. Comfort yourselves Abyndaraes' and fair Xarifa (said the noble Governor) for by the faith of a gentleman I promise you to do what I can for you in this behalf, whereupon he presently called for ink and paper to write a letter to the king of Granada, which in a few words and true, opening their estate unto him, said thus.  
MOst mighty king of Granada, Rodrigo of Naruaez the Governor of Alora, by these letters kisseth your royal hands, and gives your Majesty to understand, that Abyndaraez Abencerraje borne in Granada, brought up in Cartama and being under the charge and government of the captain of that Fort, was enamoured of Xarifa his fair daughter: And after that it pleased your Majesty to prefer the said captain to the government of Coin, the two lovers (to bind themselves in a mutal and indissoluble bond) betrothed their faith to each other before her departure, who sent to Cartama for the Abencerraje in her Father's absence (being now in your majesties Court) to whom as he was going to Coin, in the way I met him, and in a certain skirmish between us, (wherein he showed himself a valiant and courageous man at arms) made him my prisoner: who telling me his pitiful case (my hart being moved with compassion of his grief, and with his earnest prayers) I set him free for two days, who went his way, and got him to his wife, so that in that journey he won his wife, and lost his liberty. But seeing the Abencerraje (according to his word) would needs return to my prison, she came also with him, and so they are both now in my power. Let not the name of Abencerraje, I beseech your Majesty offend it, for this Gentleman and his Father were not privy (as I have heard) nor consenting to the conspiracy pretended against your royal person, in testimony whereof, they are yet both living. Wherefore I humbly beseech your Majesty to impart-betweene your Grace and me a remedy for these hapless lovers, whose ransom I will frankly forgive, and freely let them go. May it only please your Majesty to procure the Lady's pardon with her Father, who is your subject, and to entreat him to receive the gentleman into his affinity and good liking: By doing whereof (besides the singular favour that your Highness shall do me) your Majesty shall do no less, then is expected of the wonted virtues and bounty of your Royal and magnificent mind.  
With this letter he dispatched away one of his gentlemen, who coming before the King, gave it him into his own hands, the which he gratefully received, when he knew from whom it came, for he loved this Christian, especially for his valour and goodly parsonage: and reading it, he turned his face, and by chance espied the Governor of Coin, to whom (taking him aside) he gave the letter, saying unto him. Read this letter, who read it, and seeing what was past, by his countenance did manifest how much he was grieved in mind. Which thing the King perceiving, said unto him. Be not offended, nor sorry, although thou hast good cause; for there is not any reasonable thing, that the noble Governor of Alora requesteth at my hands (if it lies in my power) which I will not do for him. And therefore I command thee by deferring no time, presently to go to Alora, and to pardon thy daughter and son in law, and carry them with thee to thy Castle; in recompense whereof I will not forget to bestow on thee continual favours. It grieved the old Moor to the very hart, when he understood of this event; but seeing he must not disobey the King's command, by counterfeiting a merry countenance, and borrowing a little courage of his daunted spirits, as well as he could, he said That he would do it. The Governor of Corn departed from the Court in all haste, and came to Alora, where (understanding by the way of the governors Gentleman that went with him, all that had passed in this adventure) he was courteously received: The Abencerraje and his daughter teynted and appalled with shame and fear came before him, and kissed his hands, who receiving them joyfully, said unto them. I come not hither of mine own accord to repeat, nor entreat of things past, but by the commandment of the King, who willed me to pardon your misdeeds, and your sudden marriage without my consent. And as for the rest daughter, thou hast chosen a better husband for thyself, than I could have given thee. Rodrigo of Naruaez was very glad to hear this gentle greeting of the old Moor, for whose entertainment he made many feasts and banquets. And one day when dinner was done, he said unto them. I am not so glad, as proud, that I have been some part and means, whereby these occurrents are brought to so good a pass; in proof whereof, and that nothing else could make me more content, for the ransom of your imprisonment, I will have but only the honour, that I have enjoyed by getting and keeping such brave prisoners. Wherefore Abyndaraes', thou art free, in testimony whereof I give thee leave to go whither it please thee, and whensoever thou wilt. He humbly thanked him, and so they prepared themselves to be gone the next day, when Rodrigo of Naruaez bearing them company, they went from Alora, and came to Coin, where great triumphs, banquets, and feasts were made in public celebration of the marriage: The which being passed, their father taking them both one day aside, spoke these words unto them. Now that you are (my beloved son and daughter) possessors of my riches, and live in rest, it is not reason that you forget the manifold good turns done you by the Governor of Alora, for which you are yet indebted unto him; and it stands not with our honours, for using you with such great virtue and humanity, that he should lief the right of your ransom, which should be rather (if you consider the matter well) more than ordinary. I will give you four thousand double ducats, send them unto him, and behold them here, which he well deserves (as a friend indeed) though there be different laws between you and him. The Abencerraje thanked him very humbly, and taking them, sent them in a little rich coffer to Rodrigo of Naruaez. And because he would not of his own part show himself unthankful, he sent him there with all six fair Barbary horses with rich saddles & furniture, and six targets, and lances, the bars and punches being of fine gold. Fair Xarifa wrote a sweet and loving letter unto him, wherein she gave him infinite thanks for the benefits she had received by his means, and for the gentle entertainment she had in his Castle. And willing to show herself as liberal and thankful as the rest, she sent him a sweet Cypress chest, finely wrought and carved for a present, and within it most curious and costly white garments for his own person. The valiant Governor accepting the presents, with great thanks to them that sent them, gave the horses, targets, and lances incontinently amongst the gentlemen that did accompany him that night in the skirmish, taking the best of each, and also the Cyprsse chest, with that which fair Xarifa had sent him for himself, and returning the four thousand double pieces to the messenger again, he said unto him. Tell thy Lady Xarifa, that I receive the Ducats for her husbands ransom, and (to do her service) send them back again, towards the charges of her marriage, and, that for her friendship and sweet sake, I would change all the interests that I have in the world, in lief that she would make an account of this Castle, as her own, and her husbands also. The messenger returned back to Coin, where he was well received, and the liberality of the noble Captain of every one highly commended, whose lineage doth continue in flourishing estate to this day in Antiquera, equivalent in Heroical and Martial deeds with the first original, from whence they are descended. The history being ended, Felicia did commend the grace, and good words wherewith fair Felismena did tell it, and so did all the rest, that were preient, who taking their leave of the sage Lady, went all to take their rest.  
The end of the fourth book.   

The fifth Book of Diana of George of Montemayor.  
THe next day in the morning the Lady Felicia rose up, and went to Felismenas' chamber, whom she found, not with few tears, newly making an end of appareling herself, thinking every hour she stayed there a thousand years. And the sage Lady taking her by the hand, they went into a gallery that looked into a garden, where they had supped the night before, and having asked her the cause of her tears, and giving her some comfort and assured hope, that her griefs should have such an end, as she herself desired, she said unto her. There is nothing in the world more ready to take her life away, whom I love well, then with incertain hope to deprive her of the remedy of her grief, for there is not an hour that seems not so long unto her (living in this sort) as she thinks the hours of her life short and speedy. Because therefore my desire is to fulfil thine, and after some few troubles to have thee obtain the sweet content and rest, that Fortune hath promised thee, thou shalt departed from thine own house here, in the same habit that thou camest, when thou didst defend my Nymphs from the force and violence of the brutish and cruel Savages; assuring thee besides, that when my help and favour may stand thee in steed, unsent for, thou shalt always have it. So that thy departure fair Felismena must be presently; & trust in God, that thy desire shall have a happy end: For if I knew it to be otherwise, thou mayst well think, I would not be without other remedies to make thee forget these thoughts, as I have done to many other Lovers more. Felismena was glad to hear the grave Lady's words, to whom she replied thus. I know not how with words (discreet Lady) I may give you condign thanks, nor with what deeds and humble service make any part of satisfaction of this infinite favour, which I receive at your ladyships hands. God grant I may live so long, that by proof your Ladyship may know the great desire I have to do you all the service I may. That which your Ladyship commands me to do, I will presently go about, which cannot but have good success, being directed by her counsel, that can in every thing give the best. The sage Lady embraced her, saying. I hope to see thee, fair Felismena, in this house more loyfull and contented, then now thou art. And because the two shepherds and Shepherdesses are staying for us, it is reason that I go, to give them also some remedy for their sorrows, that need it so much. Wherefore both of them going out of the hall, and finding Syrenus and sylvanus, Seluagia and Belisa attending their coming, the Lady Felicia said to Felismena. Entertain this company fair Lady, while I come hither again: and going into a chamber, it was not long before she came out again with two cruets of fine crystal in either hand the feet of them being of beaten gold, and curiously wrought and enamelled: And coming to Syrenus, she said unto him. If there were any other remedy for thy grief (forgotten Shepherd) but this, I would with all possible diligence have sought it out, but because thou canst not now enjoy her, who loved thee once so well, without another's death, which is only in the hands of God, of necessity than thou must embrace another remedy, to avoid the desire of an impossible thing. And take thou, fair Seluagia, and despised sylvanus, this glass, wherein you shall find a sovereign remedy for all your sorrows past & present; and a beginning of a joyful and contented life, whereof you do now so little imagine. And taking the crystal cruet, which she held in her left hand, she gave it to Syrenus, and bad him drink; and Syrenus did so; and sylvanus, and Seluagia drunk off the other between them, and in that instant they fell all down to the ground in a deep sleep, which made Felismena, and Belisa not a little to wonder, to whom the sage Lady said. Discomfort not thyself Belisa, for I hope in time to see thee as glad, as ever any was after their many sorrows and pains. And until thy angry fortune be not pleased to give thee a needful remedy for thy great griefs, my pleasure is, that thou still remain here in my company. The Shepherdess would have kissed her hands at these words, but Felicia did not let her, but did rather embrace her, showing how greatly she loved her. But Felismena standing half amazed at the deep sleep of the shepherds, said to Felicia: If the ease of these Shepherds (good Lady) consisteth in sleeping (me thinks) they have it in so ample sort, that they may live the most quiet life in the world. Wonder not at this (said Felicia) for the water they drunk hath such force, that, as long as I will, they shall sleep so strongly, that none may be able to awake them. And because thou mayst see, whether it be so or no, call one of them as loud as thou canst. Felismena then came to sylvanus, and pulling him by the arm, began to call him aloud, which did profit her as little, as if she had spoken to a dead body; and so it was with Syrenus and Seluagia, whereat Felismena marveled very much. And then Felicia said unto her. Nay, thou shalt marvel yet more, after they awake, because thou shalt see so strange a thing, as thou didst never imagine the like. And because the water hath by this time wrought those operations, that it should do, I will awake them, and mark it well, for thou shalt hear and see wonders. Whereupon taking a book out of her bosom, she came to Syrenus, and smiting him upon the head with it, the Shepherd rose up on his feet in his perfect wits and judgement: To whom Felicia said. Tell me Syrenus, if thou mightest now see fair Diana, & her unworthy husband both together in all the contentment and joy of the world, laughing at thy love, and making a sport of thy tears and sighs, what wouldst thou do? Not grieve me a whit (good Lady) but rather help them to laugh at my follies past. But if she were now a maid again, (said Felicia) or perhaps a widow, and would be married to sylvanus and not to thee, what wouldst thou then do? Myself would be the man (said Syrenus) that would gladly help to make such a match for my friend. What thinkest thou of this Felismena (said Felicia) that water is able to unloose the knots that perverse Love doth make? I would never have thought (said Felismena) that any human skill could ever attain to such divine knowledge as this. And looking on Syrenus, she said unto him. How now Syrenus, what means this? Are the tears and sighs whereby thou didst manifest thy love and grief, so soon ended? Since my love is now ended (said Syrenus) no marvel then, if the effects proceeding from it be also determined. And is it possible now (said Felismena) that thou wilt love Diana no more? I wish her as much good (answered Syrenus) as I do to your own self (fair Lady) or to any other woman that never offended me. But Felicia, seeing how Felismena was amazed at the sudden alteration of Syrenus, said. With this medicine I would also cure thy grief (fair Felismena) and thine Belisa, if fortune did not defer them to some greater content, then only to enjoy your liberty. And because thou mayst see how diversly the medicines have wrought in sylvanus and Seluagia, it shall not be amiss to awake them, for now they have slept enough: wherefore laying her book upon sylvanus his head, he rose up, saying. O fair Seluagia, what a great offence and folly have I committed, by employing my thoughts upon another, after that mine eyes did once behold thy rare beauty? What means this sylvanus (said Felicia.) No woman in the world even now in thy mouth, but thy Shepherdess Diana, and now so suddenly changed to Seluagia? sylvanus answering her, said. As the ship (discreet Lady) sails floating up and down, and well-nigh cast away in the unknown seas, without hope of a secure haven: so did my thoughts (putting my life in no sinal hazard) wander in Diana's love, all the while, that I pursued it. But now since I am safely arrived into a haven, of all joy and happiness, I only wish I may have harbour and entertainment there, where my irremooveable and infinite love is so firmly placed. Felismena was as much astonished at the second kind of alteration of sylvanus, as at that first of Syrenus, and therefore said unto him laughing. What dost thou sylvanus? Why dost thou not awake Seluagia? for ill may a Shepherdess hear thee, that is so fast asleep. sylvanus then pulling her by the arm, began to speak out aloud unto her, saying. Awake fair Seluagia, since thou hast awaked my thoughts out of the drowsy slumber of passed ignorance. Thrice happy man, whom fortune hath put in the happiest estate that I could desire. What dost thou mean fair Shepherdess, dost thou not hear me, or wilt thou not answer me? Behold the impatient passion of the love I bear thee, will not suffer me to be unheard. O my Seluagia, sleep not so much, and let not thy slumber be an occasion to make the sleep of death put out my vital lights. And seeing how little it availed him, by calling her, he began to power forth such abundance of tears, that they, that were present, could not but weep also for tender compassion: whereupon Felicia said unto him. Trouble not thyself sylvanus, for as I will make Seluagia answer thee, so shall not her answer be contrary to thy desire, and taking him by the hand, she led him into a chamber, and said unto him. Depart not from hence, until I call thee; and then she went to the place again where Seluagia lay, and touching her with her book, awaked her, as she had done the rest, and said unto her. Me thinks thou hast slept securely Shepherdess. O good Lady (said she) where is my sylvanus, was he not with me here? O God, who hath carried him away from hence? or will he come hither again? Hark to me Seluagia, said Felicia, for me thinks thou art not well in thy wits. Thy beloved Alanius is without, & saith that he hath gone wandering up and down in many places seeking after thee, and hath got his father's good will to marry thee: which shall as little avail him (said Seluagia) as the sighs and tears which once in vain I powered out, and spent for him, for his memory is now exiled out of my thoughts. sylvanus mine only life and joy, O sylvanus is he, whom I love. O what is become of my sylvanus? Where is my sylvanus? Who hearing the Shepherdess Seluagia no sooner name him, could stay no longer in the chamber, but came running into the hall unto her, where the one beheld the other with such apparent signs of cordial affection, and so strongly confirmed by the mutual bonds of their known deserts, that nothing but death was able to dissolve it; whereat Syrenus, Felismena, and the Shepherdess were passing joyful. And Felioia seeing them all in this contentment, said unto them. Now is it time for you Shepherds, and fair Shepherdess to go home to your flocks, which would be glad to hear the wont voice of their known masters: And make this account, that you shall never want any help and favour at her hands, who is soready to pleasure you in what she may. And the holy end (sylvanus) and consummation of thy love shall be, when with her, whom thou dost so dearly love, thou shalt combine thyself in the sacred bonds of chaste and lawful marriage, whereof I will be careful to put you both in mind, when time & opportunity shall serve. And (fair Felismena) prepare thyself also for thy departure, for to morrow is the day, wherein it behooves thee to go from hence. After this, all the Nymphs came in at the hall door, who now knew of the remedies, that their gracious Lady had given the Shepherds for their griefs, which thing made them not a little glad, Doria especially, Cynthia and Polydora, because they were the principal occasions of their content. The two new lovers did busy themselves in nothing else, but in looking upon one another with such affection and tenderness, as if a thousand years had been passed since their loves had first begun between them. And that day they all tarried there, with as great joy and pleasure, as by such a new commenced love might be imagined, until the next day in the morning, when the two Shepherds and the Shepherdess, taking their leave of the sage Lady Felicia, and of Felismena, and Belisa, and likewise of all the Nymphs, with great joy returned to their villages, whither they came the very same day. And fair Felismena (who had that day put on again her Shepherdess' weeds) taking her leave of the sage Lady, and being particularly and well advised what to do, with many tears embraced her, and, accompanied of all those Nymphs, went forth into the great Court before the Palace gate, where embracing every one by herself, she went that way that they did direct her. Felismena went not alone, neither did her imaginations give her leave so to do: for on the one side she went thinking of that, which the wise Lady had told her; and considering on the other, what little hap and less success, she had yet in her love, which made her doubt of her future happiness. With these contrarieties of thoughts did she go warring in her mind, which though on the one side they made her weary; yet on the other they did entertain her with their company, so that in the mean time she forgot her solitary and painful way. She had not traveled far in the mids of a fair valley, when towards the west part thereof, she espied a far off a Shepherd's coat, which, at the entrance of a green wood stood, amongst many high Okes, and invited thither by her importunate hunger and weariness, and also because the heat of the day began to come on so fast, that she was forced to pass it away under the shadow of those braunchie trees, she bended her steps directly towards it. Coming to the coat, she heard how a Shepherd said unto a Shepherdess, that sat near unto him, these words. Entreat me not, good Amarillis, to sing, since thou knowest what great causes I have to sigh, and weep all the days, whilst my languishing soul shall not forsake this wearied and faint body. For though music is no small means to increase his melancholy, that is ever sad and pensive, as his joy and mirth, who lives a merry life; yet my grief is not of such a quality, that by any human art or industry may be increased or diminished. here hast thou thy baggepipe, play and sing, fair Shepherdess, for well mayst thou do it, having thy hart as free, as thy will exempt from the bondage of love. Then the Shepherdess answered him again. Be not such a niggard of thy skill, Arsileus, which the heavens and nature have so bountifully bestowed on thee: for, she that doth ask it at thy hands, will not deny to pleasure thee in any thing she may. Sing if it be possible that song, which (at the request of Argastus) thou didst make in the name of thy father Arsenius, when, for her love, you both served and sued to the fair Shepherdess Belisa. Thy condition is strange Amarillis (said the Shepherd again) still demanding that of me, which doth least of all content me. What shall I do, for perforce I must please thee, and yet not perforce, since he were very discourteous (to say the truth) that would not of his own accord do thee any service he could. But now thou seest, how my ill fortune doth ever narrowly pursue me, when I would feign take some small respite, and ease from my grievous thoughts. And seeing the great reason I have (Amarillis) to burst out in continual lamentations and tears, why dost thou then command me to sing? What pleasure dost thou take to offend the occasions of my sorrow? I pray God thou mayst never have the like, to feel the grief that I do, because Fortune might not (so greatly to thy cost) inform thee of my pain. Thou knowest well enough I have lost my Belisa, and that I live without hope of her recovery. Why dost thou then command me to sing? But since I will not have thee conceive an opinion of me to be discourteous (for it was never my manner and condition to be accounted so amongst fair Shepherdesses, to whom we shepherds, and myself especially for my Belisas' sake, own all respect of love and duty, and are so much beholding) I will endeavour (though most against my mind) to content thee: Whereupon taking up his Rebecke that lay hard by him, he began to tune it, and do that, which the Shepherdess requested him. Felismena, that was listening to their talk, might hear very well what speeches passed between them; And when she saw they talked of Arsenius, and Arsileus, servants to fair Belisa, (both which she took to be long since dead, as Belisa had told, not only her, but the Nymphs also, & the Shepherds, when they found her in the Shepherd's coat in the Island) she verily thought, that all, that she heard, and saw there, was but a mere dream, or some fantastic illusion. But giving attentive ear, she perceived how the Shepherd began to touch his Rebecke so divinely, that she thought it to be some celestial music, who having played on it a little with a more heavenly than human voice, began to sing this song following.  


O Vainiest hopes, Alas, how many Days  
Have I been bondslave to a brave Deceit?  
And how, in vain, have these two wearied Eyes  
With showers of tears watered this pleasant Vale?  
Apaid I am of cruel Love, and Fortune,  
And know not yet whereof I do Complain.   

No small harms I must pass, smce I Complain,  
For, to endure, framed are all my Days,  
The trances, and deceits of Love and Fortune:  
But whence Complain I, of a brave Deceit,  
Of such a Shepher desk within this Vale,  
On whom (to my great harm) I cast mine Eyes?   

Yet am I much beholding to my Eyes,  
(Although with grief of them I do Complain)  
Since by their means I saw within this Vale  
The fairest thing, which never in my Days  
I thought to see, And this is no Deceit;  
In proof whereof, ask it of Love and Fortune.   

Though on the other side, instable Fortune,  
And time, occasion, and my doleful Eyes,  
And not suspecting this most brave Deceit,  
Caused all the ill, whereof I do Complain:  
And so I think to end my woeful Days,  
Counting my griefs, and passions to this Vale.   

If that the river, hill, the mead, and Vale,  
Earth, heaven, and fate, and cruel Love, and Fortune,  
The hours, and the moments, years, and Days,  
My soul, my hart, and these two wearied Eyes,  
Do aggravate my grief when I Complain,  
Who then can say, I live by fond Deceit?   

Deceived I was, but this was no Deceit,  
For, that I have beheld within this Vale  
So rare perfection, I do not Complain,  
But to behold, how Love and cruel Fortune  
Would signify unto these wearied Eyes,  
That there should come a help after some Days.   

And now the years are past, the months, and Days,  
Upon this confidence, and clear Deceit:  
Weary with weeping are my watery Eyes:  
Weary to hear me is the hill, and Vale.  
And in the end thus answered of false Fortune,  
jesting at that, whereof I do Complain.   

But woeful man, whereof do I Complain,  
But of the length of my prolonged Days?  
Perhaps, a slave to me is cruel Fortune,  
That for my fault she must pay this Deceit?  
Went he not free, exempted in this Vale,  
Who did command me to lift up mine Eyes?   

But who again can tame his greedy Eyes,  
Or can I live, if I do not Complain  
Of th'ill, which Love hath done me in this Vale.  
Cursed be that ill, that lasts so many Days:  
But death cannot (if this be no Deceit)  
Stay long to give an end unto my Fortune.   

calms wont are to come after hard Fortune,  
But never shall be viewed of mine Eyes.  
(Nor yet I think to fall in this Deceit)  
O well, let the first suffice, which I Complain,  
And will (fair Shepherdess) as many Days,  
As the remembrance lasteth of this Vale.   

If (Shepherdess) that day, when in this Vale  
I did behold thee (to my hardest Fortune  
The final end had come of all my Days,  
Or I had less beheld those coyest Eyes,  
The cause should cease, whereof I do Complain,  
And I would fall no more into Deceit.   

But purposing to work me this Deceit,  
When by and by thou sawest me in this Vale,  
Mild thou didst seem: See then if I Complain  
Unjustly of false Love, and cruel Fortune?  
And now I know not, why thou turn'st thine Eyes  
Away, unless thou greeuest at my Days.   

My song of Love and Fortune I Complain,  
And since a brave Deceit so many Days  
Did last, water mine Eyes this hill and Vale.    
This did the Shepherd sing, keeping time with his tears, and resting with his sighs, and the Shepherdess sat hearkening unto him with great content, to see with what a grace he did both play and sing. But after the Shepherd had made an end of his song, laying his rebecke out of his hand, he said to Shepherdess. Art thou now pleased Amarillis, for (to content thy mind) thou mayst make me do that, which doth utterly displease me. And accursed Alfeus, I wish that Fortune would bring thee to that pass, whereunto by thy detested forceries I am come, because thou mightest then know what good cause I have to hate thee, for the cruel despite that thou hast done me. O sweet Belisa, is there any in the world more bound to thee then I am? God grant I may deduct this sorrowful life so long, that mine eyes may once again enjoy thy peerless beauty, & that thine may see, if I do not acknowledge, how much I do owe unto them. These words the Shepherd spoke with such plenty of tears, that there was no hart (had it been never so hard) that by hearing them, would not have melted. But now that thou hast told me Arsileus (said the Shepherdess unto him) the beginning of thy affection, and how thy father Arsenius was the principal occasion of thy service and great love to Belisa; because when he sued unto her, she did participate, and thou profit thyself by thine own letters & songs, and some times by thine own music, (of all which he might have well excused himself) I pray thee now tell me, how thou didst lose her. This is a thing (said the Shepherd) which I would seldom repeat, but because it is ever thy quality, to command me to tell thee that, which is most grievous unto my soul, hark then, and in a few words I will tell it thee.  
There was a man in our town called Alfeus, who had the name amongst us to be a great Magician, and he loved Belisa extremely, before my Father ever began to serve her, but she could not abide, not only to see him, but not to hear of his name, which if any had but founded in her ears, they could not have angered her worse. Now when this conjuror understood (I know not how) of the appointed meeting between me and Belisa, to talk together in the night from the top of a Mulberry tree in her father's Orchard; Alfeus, full of devils, commanded two spirits to take the shape of my father Arsenius, & mine upon them, & that he, that took upon him my shape, should go to the appointed place; & the other, that took my fathers, should come thither, & shoot at him in the tree with a crossbow arrow, thinking he was not his Son, but another, & then to come presently unto him, & knowing him to be his Son, should kill himself, for grief that he had stain his own Son, to the end that the Shepherdess Belisa should kill herself, seeing myself & my Father dead, or at least do that, which afterwards she did. This villainy did the traitor Alfeus work, for despite of that great love, which he knew Belisa did bear me; and for the contempt, which she had of his unworthy affection. When this was in manner aforesaid done, and Belisa thought that my Father and I were both stain, like a careless and desperate woman, she forsook her Father's house, and is gone where none can yet tell where she is, or any tidings of her. This did the Shepherdess Armida tell me, and I do verily believe it, according to that which succeeded after. When Felismena had heard what the Shepherd had told Amarillis, she wondered not a little, imagining with herself, that all that he told, did seem to be true, and by the signs that she saw in him, knew that he was the same Arsileus, Belisas' servant, whom she thought to be dead, and therefore said to herself. It is not reason, that Fortune should give her any content, that would deny it a Shepherd, that doth so well deserve it, and that stands so much in need thereof. I will not at the least, depart from this place, without giving him such joy, as he will receive at the news of his beloved Shepherdess. Whereupon coming to the door of the coat, she said to Amarillis. Will it please thee (fair Shepherdess) to give the forlorn woman of Fortune, that hath lost her way, and the hope to find it out again, leave to pass away the heat of the day in this place with thee? The Shepherdess seeing on a sudden such exceeding beauty, and so comely a feature, was so amazed, that she was unable to answer one word again: but Arsileus said unto her. There wants no other thing (fair Shepherdess) for the performing of thy request, but the place, which is not so good as thou deservest: but if thou art wont to be served with such homely lodging, Come in, and wherein we may do thee any service, our good wills shall excuse the wants of our ability. These words Arsileus (said Felismena again) seem well to come out of thy mouth, but the joy, that I will leave with thee in requital of them, I wish may befall to me of that, which I have so long desired. And saying thus, she went into the Coat, and the Shepherd and Shepherdess rose up, offering her their places, and all three sitting down again, Arsileus said to Felismena. Have you ever seen me before (fair Shepherdess,) or hath any body told you of my name? I know more of thee Arsileus (said Felismena) and of thy estate, than thou thinkest, although thou art in a shepherds weed, far different from that I saw thee in, when thou wert a student in the famous Academy of Salamanca: If there be any thing here to eat, I pray thee give it me, for I will tell thee afterwards a strange and true thing, which thou hast desired long since to know. This will I do with a good will (said Arsileus) though I can do no kind of service, due enough to the great appearance of thy virtues and deserts. Whereupon Arsileus and Amarillis, taking of their severallscrips, gave Felismena such victuals, as they had. And after she had refreshed herself, desirous to make him a joyful man, who lived so long a time in grief and sorrow, she began to speak to him in this sort. There is nothing in the world (Arsileus) that aught more religiously to be kept then firmness, and most of all in a woman's hart where it is seldomer wont to be found. But the reason thereof I plainly perceive, that men for the most part are occasions of their small constancy towards them. I speak this for the greatbond wherein thou art obliged to a Shepherdess, that I know, who would not (if she knew thou wert alive) exchange her joy and content for all that the whole world could afford. And then she began to tell him in order all that was past, from the time that she killed the three Savages, until she came to the Lady Felicias house: In which discourse Arsileus heard the golden news of the thing, which he so dearly loved, and all that had passed between her and the Nymphs, when they found her sleeping in the Island of the Lake, as you have heard before: And that joy, which he then felt, when he understood, that the love and faith which his Shepherdess did bear him, remained yet sincere, and inviolate in her hart, and the place certain, where he might find her out, was so extreme, that he fell down in a trance between them both, by putting his life in hazard, with surfeit of that sudden passion: But coming to himself again, he said to Felismena. With what words shall I sufficiently (fair Shepherdess) thank thee for the great courtesy thou hast done me, and with what deeds acquit that singular content, wherewith thou hast now blessed me, the like whereof I pray God so amply in every thing may give thee, as thy hart can either wish or desire. O my sweet Belisa, is it possible that I shall see those eyes so soon again, that had so great power over mine, to kiss those delicate hands, that made so intricate a knot in my hart, to hear those angelical words, and see that singular beauty, that ravished so much my admiring senses. And that after so many troubles of mind, and turmoils of Fortune, such sovereign felicity to succeed in their places? And speaking this with many tears, he took Felismenas' hands, and with great reverence kissed them. And so did the Shepherdess Amarillis, saying. Thou hast revived (fair Shepherdess) the most sorrowful man that ever I did see, and filled him full of joy, who did lest deserve to have it. Six months hath Arsileus lived in this Cottage so sorrowful and desolate a life, as none could imagine the like, without all manner of consolation, but that curtain Shepherdesses, seeding their flocks in these plains (of the which I am one) sometimes come in to visit him, and to afford him that comfort, which his grief (were it at the lest capable of any at all, would give him leave to embrace. This is not such a grief (said Felismena again) that he, that hath it, may think to take any comfort in any thing, but in the first causer thereof, or by whom he heareth such news, as I have now told him: which are so good for me (fair Shepherdess) said Arsileus, that they have revived a living hart in me, which was mortified and worn almosT out with the clog of continual care. So much did the Shepherd's words & tears, uttered and powered forth for joy, mollify her tender hart, as by her own, she gave manifest proof thereof. And in this sort they tarried there, until the heat of the day was passed; and than Arsileus, taking his leave with great thanks to both the Shepherdesses, with infinite joy went towards the Temple of Diana, the same way that Felismena did direct him.  
sylvanus, and Seluagia with that content, as they are wont to have, which after a long absence, enjoy the sight of their desired Love, did go towards the pleasant meadows, where their flocks went feeding in company of the Shepherd Syrenus, who went also free and delivered from that kind of content, that he beheld in them, and from the pain, which the want thereof is wont to procure; because he neither thought of loving well, nor cared, whether he was beloved or no? Whereupon sylvanus said unto him. Every time that I see thee (my dear friend Syrenus) thou shouldest not be the man (me thinks) that thou wert wont to be, but that jointly with thy former thoughts and affection, thou art thyself also changed: On the one side, I have in a manner pity of thee; on the other, it grieves me not to see thee careless of loves misfortunes. In what respect (said Syrenus) hast thou pity on me? Because I think it (said sylvanus) the most malcontent and worst estate of life, not to love well, nor to be beloved again. It is not long since that thou didst understand this clean contrary (said Syrenus.) And for mine own part, I pray God that Fortune may still preserve me in this ill estate, and thee in that joy & pleasure which thou takest in seeing thy Seluagia. For though there might arise some emulation of thy love, and being beloved of so fair a Shepherdess; yet can I assure thee, that Fortune doth not neglect to tune you the content, that you receive of your mutual love. The hurt, said Seluagia, that she may do us with her disordinate effects, can never be so great, as my joy is to see myself so well bestowed. Ah Seluagia (said Syrenus to her) I have also seen myself as well beloved, as none might be more, and thought as little to see an end of my love, as you do now: but let none account without Fortune, nor lay his foundation without the consideration of the mutability of time. But I do owe no small respect of love and duty to the sage Lady Felicia, whom the heavens requite: For I never imagined to speak so freely of mine ill in such a time, when I thought to feel it so little. But I am more indebted to her (said Seluagia) because she was the cause, that I loved him well, whose sight I ever enjoyed before mine eyes: But sylvanus turning his eyes to her, said. This debt I should with great reason (my life) requite, if it were such a thing, that might with life be paid, which God grant thee (said Seluagia) since without the same mine should be worse than a continual death. Syrenus seeing the amorous words on both sides, with a smiling countenance said unto them. It is well that every one can so well acquit himself for his good turn done him, that the one will neither be in debt, nor the other have any indebted to him; and yet in mine own opinion it is better, that you rejoice so much, and so lovingly entreat of your amorous affections, myself not being a third in them. With these and other speeches the new Lovers and careless Syrenus passed away the time and length of the way, which they made an end of about sun set: And before they came to the fountain of the Sycamores, they heard a voice of a Shepherdess sweetly singing, whom they knew by and by, for sylvanus hearing her said unto them. This is Diana doubtless, that singes at the fountain of the Sycamores. It is she indeed (said Seluagia.) Let us go behind these Myrtle trees near unto her, because we may hear her the better. Agreed said Syrenus, although the time hath been, when her music and sight delighted me more than now. But all three going into the thicket of Myrtle trees, and because it was about the going down of the Sun, they saw fair Diana near to the fountain, shining with such surpassing beauty, that they stood (as men that had never seen her before) amazed and in a wonder. Her hair hung down lose from her head behind, and gathered up with a carnation string, which parted them in the mids: her eyes were fixed on the ground, and sometimes looking into the clear fountain, and wiping away some tears, that now and then trickled down her beautiful cheeks, she sung this Ditty.  


WHen that I poor soul was borne,  
I was borne unfortunate:  
Presently the Fates had sworn  
To foretell my hapless state.   

Titan his fair beams did hide,  
Phoebe ' clipsed her silver light,  
In my birth my mother died,  
Young, and fair in heavy plight.   

And the nurse, that gave me suck,  
Hapless was in all her life:  
And I never had good luck  
Being maid or married wife.   

I loved well, and was beloved,  
And forgetting, was forgot:  
This a hapless marriage moved,  
Grieving that it kills me not.   

With the earth would I were wed,  
Then in such a grave of woes  
Daily to be buried,  
Which no end nor number knows.   

Young my father married me,  
Forced by my obedience:  
Syrenus, thy faith, and thee  
I forgot, without offence.   

Which contempt I pay so far,  
Never like was paid so much:  
jealousies do make me war,  
But without a cause of such.   

I do go with jealous eyes  
To my folds, and to my sheep,  
And with jealousy I rise,  
When the day gins to peep.   

At his table I do eat,  
In his bed with him I lie,  
But I take no rest, nor meat,  
Without cruel jealousy.   

If I ask him what he ails,  
And whereof he jealous is?  
In his answer than he fails:  
Nothing can he say to this.   

In his face there is no cheer,  
But he ever hangs the head:  
In each corner he doth peer,  
And his speech is sad and dead.   

Ill the poor soul lives iwis,  
That so hardly married is.    
The time was once, when Diana's tears and doleful song and the sorrow, that by her sad looks she expressed, might have so much moved Syrenus hart, as put the shepherds life in such danger, that all other remedies (but only proceeding from the same) had been impossible to have helped it; whose eyes and hart, since now they were delivered out of that dangerous prison, took no delight to behold Diana, nor grieved at her sorrowful lamentations. And the Shepherd sylvanus had less cause in his mind to be condolent for any grief that Diana had, considering she never had the smallest regard of the greatest woes which he passed for her sake. Only Seluagia helped her with her tears, fearful (by the fall of her joy) of her own fortune, whereupon she said to Syrenus. There is no perfection, beauty, nor favour, in nature's gift, which she hath not liberally bestowed on Diana, because her beauty is peerless, her wit and discretion admired, her good graces excellent, and all other her commendable parts, which a Shepherdess should have, not to be seconded: since in the lest of them, that made her such a wonder in our age, there was never any yet that excelled her. Only one thing she wanted, which I ever suspected and feared, and this was her good Fortune, which would never accompany her, to have made her live a contented and joyful life, which (to speak the truth) she ever well deserved. She that so unjustly hath taken it from so many (said Syrenus) by great reason should not enjoy such a happy estate; which I speak not, that I am not sorry to see this Shepherdess so sorrowful, but for the great reason I have, not to wish her any content at all. Say not so (said Seluagia) for I cannot think, that Diana hath offended thee in any thing. What offence did she by marrying, compelled thereunto by the constraint of her parents, and kinsfolks, and not by her own will? And after she was married, what could she do (having due regard to her honour and honesty) but forget thee? Truly Syrenus, thou shouldest have greater cause to complain of Diana, than I have heard thee hitherto allege. In truth Syrenus (said sylvanus) Seluagia hath so great reason for that she saith, that none can well disprove it. And if there be any that of ingratitude can justly accuse her, it is I, who loved her more than myself, she requiting it so ill again, and with such cruel contempt as thou knowest well enough. Seluagia casting an amorous eye upon him, said. But thou didst not deserve (my beloved Shepherd) to be so ill entreated, since there is no Shepherdess in the world, that may not think herself blest to enjoy thy happy love. About this time Diana perceived, that their talk was of her, for the Shepherds were so loud, that she might hear them very well: Wherefore rising up, and looking among the Myrtle trees, she knew the shepherds, and the Shepherdess that was sitting between them. Who, perceiving that she had espied them, came to her, and courteously saluted her, and she them again with a good grace and countenance, ask them, where they had been so long a time. Whom they answered with another kind of words and countenance, than they were wont to do, which seemed so strange to Diana, that though she took no care for any of their loves, yet in the end it grieved her, to see them so much altered from that they were wont to be, and especially when she perceived what great joy sylvanus took in beholding fair Seluagia. And because it was now time to go home, and that the flocks took their accustomed way towards the village, they went after them, and by the way fair Diana said to Syrenus. There are many days past, Shepherd, since I saw thee in these valleys. But more (said he) since I would have lost my life, in am she had not seen me, that made me pass it away in such great grief, whereas in the end it contents me not a little to talk of my passed fortunes, that find myself now in a safe haven. Dost thou then think this to be a sure estate, (said Diana) wherein thou now livest? It cannot be dangerous (said he) when I dare speak thus before thee. I never remember (said Diana) that I saw thee so much lost for my love, but that thy tongue might have had as much liberty, as now it hath. Thou art as discreet in imagining this (said he) as in all other things else. Why so (said Diana?) because there are no other means (said he) to make thee not know that, which thou hast lost in me, but only by thinking that I did not love thee so much, that my tongue might not have that liberty, as thou sayest. But yet for all this I pray God give thee so much content as sometimes (fair Diana) thou hast wished me: For though my love be now past, yet the relics thereof that remain in my soul, are sufficient to wish thee all the happiness in the world. Every word that Syrenus spoke was a dagger to Diana's hart. For God knows, if she would not have rather given a more willing ear to his wont complaints, then occupied her mind in believing such apparent signs of his new liberty. And though she answered to every thing the Shepherd spoke unto her, with a certain kind of carelessness, and did help herself by her own discretion (because she would not show any sign of sorrow for their liberty) yet in her mind she ruminated the discontent, that by their speeches & semblances she had so deeply conceived. And with talking of these and other matters, they were come to their village by that time the Sun had hidden all his beams, and taking leave one of another, they went to their own houses.  
But coming to Arsileus again, who went with great joy and desire towards the wood where Diana's Temple was, to see his Shepherdess, he came to a little brook, that ran hard by the Temple amongst a row of green Sycamores, under whose cool shadows he sat him down, hoping that Fortune would send some body that way, by whom he might make his Belisa understand of his being there, because he thought it somewhat dangerous to come upon her on the sudden, especially when she thought him long since to be dead: And on the other side, the unpatient desire that he had to see her, would not suffer him to take any rest at all. But the Shepherd consulting with himself what was best to be done, espied by chance a Nymph of wonderful beauty coming towards him with her bow in her hand, and her quiver at her neck, looking on every side, if she could espy any Dear or wild beast, to try how she could bestow an arrow, that she carried in her bow ready bend. But seeing the Shepherd, she went strait unto him, who rising up, did her such reverence as was due to so fair a Nymph, whom she courteously saluted again: For this was fair Polydora, one of the three that Felismena and the Shepherds delivered from the violent hands of the Savages, and a dear friend to Belisa. But both sitting down again upon the green grass, Polydora asked him what country man he was, and the cause of his coming thither. Whom Arsileus answered thus. The country where I was borne (fair Nymph) hath so ill entreated me, that (me thinks) it grieves me to call it mine, although on the other side, I am bound to love it much, and more than I am able to express. And to tell thee the cause, that Fortune had to bring me to this place, it were first needful for thee (fair Nymph) to tell me, if thou dost belong to the sage Lady Felicia, in whose Palace (I heard say) my dearest Belisia doth remain, the only cause of my exile out of my native town, & of that infinite sorrow, which her long absence hath made me feel, I am of Lady Felicias house (said Polydora) & the greatest friend in the world to the Shepherdess that thou hast named: and because thou mayst also make such an account of me, if I thought I might profit thee any thing by giving thee some consel, I would advise thee to forget her, if it were possible, or (if it lay in thy power) not once to have an amorous thought of her, because the remedy of thy grief is no less impossible, than the help of that, which she suffers, since the cruel ground doth now feed on him, who was once the hope of all her sorrow. And may this be true (said he) that the earth doth consume her servant Arsileus? most true (said Polydora) for this was he, whom she loved more than herself, and he, whom I may justly call the most unfortunate man besides thee, because thou hast settled thy thoughts in such a place, where it is impossible for them to have any remedy. For though I was never in love myself, yet do I hold it for a firm opinion, that the passion of death is not so ill, as that, which one suffers by loving, her that hath her affection settled in another place. I believe it well fair Nymph (said Arsileus) and that such are Belisas' golden virtues and rare constancy, that as imperious death cannot make her settle her affection in any other place, so there is none in the world, that can make her change her mind, wherein (fair Nymph) the whole sum of my felicity consisteth. How doth thy felicity consist Shepherd (said she) by loving so as thou sayst, when as her love is so strongly fixed in another place? This is a strange kind of affection, and never heard of before. Because thou mayst no longer (fair Nymph) marvel at my words, nor at the manner of the love which I bear to Belisa the sovereign mistress of my thoughts, give ear a while (said Arsileus) and I will tell thee that, thou never thought'st to hear, although the beginning of it, thy friend, and the lodestar of my life hath perhaps told thee. And then he told her from the beginning of their loves to Alfeus his enchantments and brave deceit, and every thing else, that till then in his loves aforesaid befell unto him: which the Shepherd told sometimes with tears, being loath to recall to memory his passed mishaps; sometimes with sighs, that he fetched from the centre of his hart, imagining what his mistress Belisa might feel in these occurrents and grievous accidents. And by his doleful words and alterations in his countenance, he gave so great a spirit to that he said, and showed such signs of inward grief, that as it struck the Nymph in a great admiration, so likewise in no less compassion of his pains: but when she understood, that undoubtedly he was Arsileus, the joy that she conceived thereof was so great, that with words she could not tell it, and thought herself unable at that present to do any more, but with inward sense to surfeit on the sweet joy of such happy news. Behold then what might be expected of comfortless Belisa, when she should understand of these gladsome tidings. The Nymph therefore casting her eyes on Arsileus, not without tears of inward gladness said unto him, I would I had thy ripe wit and fluent tongue (Arsileus) to make thee know what infinite pleasure I conceive by the good success, that Fortune hath solicited for my Belisa, because I might otherwise be deceived, by thinking that so simple a conceit and barren words as mine are, could declare it. I ever thought that the continual grief of my Belisa should be at length converted into great gladness, induced thereunto by the great deserts of her singular beauty, wisdom, & faith that she hath ever kept firm and inviolate, but did ever fear on the other side, that Fortune never made account to give it her so amply, and in such sort, as I did desire it, because it is her condition (for the most part) to bring her effects to pass clean contrary to their desires that love well. Happy mayest thou call thyself Arsileus, since thou didst deserve to be so well beloved in life, that couldst not be forgotten after death. And because the deferring of such great joy, for a hart that needs it so much, may not be too long, give me leave to go and carry so good news to thy Shepherdess, as those of thy life, and of her deceived mind. And depart not from this place until I come again with her whom thou dost so much desire, and most deserve to see. As I can expect nothing else (said Arsileus) from such excellent wisdom, and exceeding beauty as thine, but all joy and contentment whatsoever: even so fair Nymph (because thou dost so greatly desire to give it me) thy will be done, whereby I hope to govern myself as well in this, as in all things else, that shall ensue thereof. Whereupon they taking leave of one another, Polydora went to tell Belisa these inopinate news, & Arsileus remained still, tarrying for them under the pleasant shadow of those green Sycamores, who (to entertain the time with something) as they are wont to do, that are attending some joyful thing, took out his Rebecke, and to the tune of it, began with sweetest voice to sing these verses following.  

NOw Love, and fortune turn to me again,  
And now each one enforceth and assures  
A hope, that was dismayed, dead, and vain:  
And from the harbour of mishaps recures  
A hart, that is consumed in lurning fire,  
With unexpected gladness, that adiures  
My soul to lay aside her mourning tire,  
And senses to prepare a place for joy.  
Care in oblivion endless shall expire:  
For every grief of that extreme annoy,  
Which when my torment reigned, my soul (alas)  
Did feel, the which long absence did destroy,  
Fortune so well appaies, that never was  
So great the torment of my passed ill,  
As is the joy of this same good I pass.  
Return my hart, sur saulted with the fill  
Of thousand great unrests, and thousand fears:  
Enjoy thy good estate, if that thou will:  
And wearied eyes, leave of your burning tears,  
For soon you shall behold her with delight,  
For whom my spoils with glory Cupid bears.  
Senses which seek my star so clear and bright,  
By making here and there your thoughts estray,  
Tell me, what will you feel before her sight?  
Hence solitariness, torments away  
Felt for her sake, and wearied members cast  
Of all your pain, redeemed this happy day.  
O stay not time, but pass with speedy haste,  
And Fortune hinder not her coming now.  
O God, betides me yet this grief at last?  
Come my sweet Shepherdess, the life which thou  
(Perhaps) didst think was ended long ago,  
At thy command is ready still to bow.  
Comes not my Shepherdess desired so?  
O God what if she's lost, or if she stray  
Within this wood, where trees so thick do grow?  
Or if this Nymph, that lately went away,  
Perhaps forgot to go and seek her out.  
No, no, in her oblivion never lay.  
Thou only art my Shepherdess, about  
Whose thoughts my soul shall find her joy and rest:  
Why com'st not then to assure it from doubt?  
O see'st thou not the sun pass to the west,  
And if it pass, and I behold thee not,  
Then I my wont torments will request  
And thou shalt wail my hard and heavy lot.   
When Polydora went from Arsileus, not far from thence she met with the Shepherdess Belisa, who was going to recreate herself in the green wood, in the company of the two Nymphs Cynthia and Doria, who seeing her coming in such haste, began to be afraid, thinking that she ran away from some thing, from the which it behoved them also to fly away. But now when she came nearer unto them, the joy that they perceived by her mild eyes and countenance did warrant them from danger, and being come to them, she went presently to the Shepherdess Belisa, and embracing her with great joy and gladness, said thus unto her. If thou knewest from whom this embracement came, thou wouldst with greater content (fair Shepherdess) receive it then now thou dost. It can come from no part fair Nymph (said she) where I may more joyfully accept it, then from thine own self, since he, from whom with the supre most joy in the world I should entertain it, is not now in the world: And I would desire to live no longer, if I were now altogether deprived of the content, that this miserable life may at some times afford me, which only I account, fair Nymph, thy friendly and gracious company. This life (said Polydora) from henceforth I hope thou shalt enjoy with more content than thou canst imagine: And because thou mayst know how, let us sit under the shade of this green Sicamour, and I will acquaint thee with such matters, as shall revive thy spirits, and decayed soul. Belisa, and the Nymphs sat them down taking Polydora in the mids, who said to Belisa. Tell me (fair Shepherdess) how certain art thou of the death of Arsenius and of Arsileus? Belisa unable to stop the sudden eruption of her violent tears, answered. So certain, as one that beheld that tragical spectacle with her own eyes, the one shot thorough with an arrow, the other killing himself with his own Falchion. But what wilt thou say to one, that will tell thee, that these two, whom thou didst see dead, are alive, and in perfect health? Her would I answer (said Belisa) that told me this, that she had a desire to renew my tears, and to bring those to my thoughts again, whose remembrance is my death, or that she took a delight to sport herself with my griefs. I am certain (said Polydora) thou thinkest not so of me, for thou knowest how thy cares have touched me nearer than any other, to whom thou didst ever impart them. But tell me what is that Shepherd of thy town, that is called Alfeus. The greatest conjuror (said Belisa) and the most cunning Magician that is (I think) in Europe, who did once fond spend his time in loving and serving me. He is a man (fair Nymph) whose dealing and conversation is altogether with Devils, which he makes to take such shapes upon them as he list himself, so that many times thou wouldst think, thou wert talking with thy familiar acquaintance (into whose shape he transformeth some spirit or other) when indeed thou art talking with a very Devil. Thou must therefore know fair Shepherdess (said Polydora) that the same Alfeus with his enchantments and devilish devices hath been the cause of the deceit, wherein hitherto thou hast lived, and of the infinite tears, that for the same thou hast powered forth, because knowing that Arsileus was to speak with thee that night (as it was concluded between you) he caused two spirits to take the shapes of Arsileus and his father upon them. And Arsileus desiring to talk with thee, effected that, that should fall out, which with thine eyes thou didst that night behold. Because thinking they were dead, thou mightest despair and kill thyself, or do that (at the least) which thou hast already done. When Belisa heard what fair Polydora did tell her, she was so far beside herself, that for a while she could not speak one word, but coming to herself again, she said unto her. Thou hast told me (fair Nymph) strange things, if my sorrow would give me leave to believe them. By that love which (thou sayest) thou dost bear me, tell me (I beseech thee) how thou knowest it, or of whom thou hast understood that those two, which I saw dead before mine eyes, were not Arsenius and Arsileus? Of no other said Polydora, but of Arsileus himself. What, of Arsileus, said Belisa? Is it possible that my Arsileus doth live, and so nigh to bless me with these happy news? I will tell thee how possible it is (said Polydora) if thou wilt go with me, for before we come yonder to those three hedges, which thou seest before thee, I will show thee the man, that shall restore thy decayed hope, and restore thee thy life again. O sovereign Deities (said Belisa) what words do I hear? That the renewing of my joys & felicity is so apparent, and that my Arsileus is there? Why dost thou not lead me (fair Nymph) to the place, where I may see him, and die at his feet with joy of his happy sight? Ah thou dost not love me (Polydora) so much as thou sayest. This did the fair Shepherdess speak with an uncertain kind of joy, and doubtful hope of that, which she so much desired. But Polydora rising up, and taking her by the hand, and the Nymphs Cynthia and Doria, who for joy also to see Belisas' good hap, would not stay behind, went to the brook, where Arsileus was: And before they came, a temperate air, that came from the place where he sat, ravished their senses with the sweet voice of the enamoured Shepherd, who had not yet left off his music, but still began a fresh to sing upon this old proverb. Good fortune come and tarry.  
With the gloss that he himself did descant upon it to his own purpose.  

The Gloss.  

WHat motions, times and changes,  
What ways, what uncouth ranges,  
What slights, what disillusions,  
What gladness (in conclusions)  
Have risen of such sorrows?  
One faith yet all these borrows,  
And one goodlove assureth,  
And my misfortunes cureth.  
And since from grief they vary,  
Good fortune come and tarry.   

Good hap thou still dost move thee,  
So light as not behooves thee,  
And if, thus to content me,  
Thou thinkest to repent thee?  
Then better is my smarting:  
For if thou goest, At parting  
My sense and wits forsake me:  
But if (more sure to make me)  
Thou comest, my soul to marry,  
Good fortune come and tarry.   

But if I come in vain here,  
Or live deceived, to plain here:  
For, wretched men what fear not?  
To lose my life, then wear not  
The same more safe each hour?  
O fear, strange is thy power.  
For th'ill thou figurest ever.  
But since such beauty never  
Did any falsehood carry, Good fortune come and tarry.    
When Belisa heard Arsileus his music, she felt such inward joy, as the like did never any, whereupon resolving with herself to shake off all former sorrow that had appalled that surpassing beauty, which nature had bountifully bestowed on her, and decayed those pleasant looks, and comely favour (the only source of Arsileus his tears and sighs) in her sweet and alluring face, now on a sudden with a renewed grace and excellent beauty (whereat the Nymphs were not a little amazed) she spoke in this sort, saying. This is, without doubt, the voice of my Arsileus, if I do not deceive myself by calling him mine. When the Shepherd did see the cause of all his passed cares, and present contents before his eyes, the ineffable joy that he conceived thereat was so great, that his hart unable to comprehend it, was troubled in such sort, that at that instant he could not utter a word: To whom the Nymphs, perceiving in what a trance the sight of his Shepherdess had put Arsileus, most lovingly came, when the Shepherd, suspending that for a little while, which the present joy wrought in him, with many tears said. With what words am I able to express the satisfaction that fortune hath made me for so many griefs and troubles, as for thy sake (sweet Shepherdess Belisa) I have endured. O who may give me now a new hart, and not so distempered with sorrowful thoughts, to receive into it such unspeakable joy as thy happy sight presents me! O fortune, I have no more to request of thee, and thou no more to give me: yet only one thing I ask thee, That, since it is thy fashion to give no supreme happiness without extreme heaviness, the great force of this unexpected joy, which thou hast given me this sevenfold happy day, may with little sorrow (in lieu of such a sovereign sweet) and with such an opposite, as may but a while countermand this sweet content, be mildly and with favour tempered. And fair Nymphs, in whose sacred guard and ampare, such great treasure hath been divinely preserved, & where it could never have been better employed, let your hearts rejoice with mine, at this infinite joy that revives it, which thing (if you yourselves have sometimes loved well) shall seem no less than due to my restored good. O fair Shepherdess, why dost thou not speak unto me, doth it grieve thee to see me, or dost thou take no delight in seeing thy Arsileus? hath his grievous sight troubled thy tongue, or the extreme joy thereof hindered the passage of thy golden words? Whom Belisa answered thus. The joy which I have to see thee (my dear Arsileus) were but little, if with words it might be told. Let it suffice thee to know in what continual pangs and dangers of my life, thy supposed death hath put me, and by that thou shalt see what a world of joy thy renewed life hath brought to this my mournful soul. At the end of which words, by reason of an issue of swelling tears ascending up from the centre of her sorrowful hart into her eye brinks, she was not able to utter out the rest of her mind, which the tender hearted Nymphs, being mollified with the mild and pitiful words of both these lovers to one another, did help and accompany with theirs. And because night was coming on, they went all to Felicias house, telling to each other the discourse & accidents of their lives, which till then they had both passed. Belisa asked her Arsileus for his father Arsenius, who told her, that, as soon as he knew she was gone, he went to one of his Farms not far from thence, where he lives as quiet and contented a life, as he could wish, having put all mundane affairs in oblivion: whereat Belisa was very glad, and so they came to the Palace of sage Felicia, where they were welcomed with great joy and feast, whose hands Belisa kissed many times, saying, evermore that she was the cause of her good Fortune. And so did Arsileus, to whom Felicia showed an earnest will to do ever for him, what lay in her power.  
The end of the fifth book.   

The sixth Book of Diana of George of Montemayor.  
AFter that Arsileus was gone, Felismena stayed still with the Shepherdess Amarillis, that was with him, demanding of one an other the course of their lives, a common thing to them, that find themselves in like places. And as Felismena was telling the Shepherdess the cause of her coming thither, a jolly Shepherd came to the Coat, though very sad by his countenance and gate. When Amarillis saw him, she rose up in great haste to be gone, but Felismena taking hold by her garment, and suspecting what the cause of her sudden departure might be, said unto her. It were not reason Shepherdess, that I should receive this discourtesy at thy hands, who desires so much to serve thee. But as she strived to be gone from thence, the Shepherd with many tears said unto her. My desire is (Amarillis) having respect to that, which thou makest me suffer, not to see thee sorry for this unfortunate Shepherd, but to consider what belongs to thy wisdom and beauty, and that there is nothing in the world worse beseeming a Shepherdess of thy brave qualities, then to entreat one so cruelly, that loves thee so entirely. Behold these wearied eyes (Amarillis) that have shed so many tears, and then thou shalt see what reason thine have to show themselves so angry against this miserable man. Alas, that thou fliest away from me, not seeing the reason thou hast to abide my presence. Stay Amarillis, and hearken to my complaints, and to my just excuses, and if thou wilt not answer me at all, yet I will be content, so that thou stayest still. What can it hinder thee to hear him, whom it hath so dearly cost to see thee? And looking upon Felismena, with many tears he besought her, not to let her go, who with sweet and gentle words entreated the Shepherdess not to use him with so small pity, whom he showed to love more than himself, or that she would (at the ) hearken unto him, since she could not hurt herself much by doing so little. But Amarillis said: Entreat me not (fair Shepherdess) to give ear to him, who believes his thoughts, more than my words. For behold, this Shepherd that stands in this feigned sort before thee, is one of the most disloyal men, that ever lived, & one of them that most of all troubles our simple loving Shepherdesses with his false deceits & dissimulations. Then said Filemon to Felismena. My only request and desire is, fair Shepherdess, that thou wouldst be judge in the cause between Amarillis and me, wherein if I am found culpable, or the just provoker of that anger, and ill opinion that she hath wrongfully conceived against me, that then I may lose my life; and if she be, that I may have no other thing for satisfaction, but her confession, how much she hath injured, and owes me. To lose thy life (said Amarillis) I am sure thou wilt not, because thou wilt not wish thyself so much harm, nor me so much good, as for my sake to put thy life in adventure. But I am content, that this fair Shepherdess be judge (if it please her) between us, to consider of our reasons, and to declare which of us both is more worthy of blame. Agreed (said Felismena) and let us sit down at the foot of this green hedge near to the flourishing meadow before our eyes, for I will see what reason you have to complain of one another. After they were all three set down upon the green grass, Filemon began thus to say. I trust fair Shepherdess, if thou hast at any time been touched with the force of Love, that thou shalt plainly perceive what small reason Amarillis hath to be angry with me, & to conceive so ill an opinion of the unstained faith I bear her, which makes her surmise that, which never any other Shepherdess hath ever yet imagined of her loving Shepherd. Know therefore (fair Shepherdess) that the fates (not only when I was borne, but long before) determined, that I should love this fair Shepherdess, which fits before thy fair & my sorrowful eyes, whose intents I have answered with such effect, as there is no love (I think) like mine, nor any ingratitude like to hers. It fell out afterwards, that from my childhood, serving her in the best manner I could, there are five or six months past, since my mishap brought a Shepherd hither called Arsileus, who went up and down seeking a Shepherdess called Belisa, which by some ill success of Fortune, wandered like an exile here and there amongst these woods & groves. And as his sorrow was very great, it fell out, that this cruel Shepherdess, either for great pity she took of him, or for the little she had of me, or for what cause else (she knows best herself) would never be out of his company: To whom if by chance I did but speak thereof, she was ready to kill me with anger; for those eyes which thou seest there, procure death no less, when they are angry, than life when they are mild and gentle. But now when all my senses were thus occupied, mine eyes with tears, my ears with hearing denials, my thoughts with a bitter taste of sorrow, my soul with a rare and unspeakable kind of affection, and my understanding with the greatest jealousy, as the like never any had, I made my complaint to Arsileus with sighs, and to the earth, and these groves with pitiful and bitter lamentations, showing them what injuries Amarillis did me. Her deceived imagination of the suspect, that I had of her honesty, hath bred in her so great despite and hatred against me, that to be revenged of me, she hath hitherto persevered therein, which grievous torment she is not only content to lay upon me, but when she sees me before her eyes, flies from my presence, as the fearful Hind from the hungry and pursuing Hound. So that by the love which thou owest thyself, I pray thee (good Shepherdess) judge whether this be a sufficient cause to make her thus abhor me, and if my fault on the other side, be so great, that it deserves such endless and extreme hate. Filemon having made an end of the cause of his grief and injury, wherewith his Shepherdess tormented him; Amarillis began to shape her answer thus. This Filemon (fair Shepherdess) that sits before thee, hath loved me well (I must needs confess) or at the least, made a fine show thereof, and such have his services been towards me, that to say otherwise of him, than he deserves, it would ill beseem me. But if for his sake, in am and recompense of that affection, I have not rejected the suits and service of many jolly Shepherds that feed their flocks upon these downs, and in these pleasant vales; and also (for his love) have not contemned many country youths, whom nature hath enriched with no less perfections than himself, let himself be judge. For the infinite times, that with their amorous suits I have been importuned, and those wherein I have kept that firmness due to his faith, have not (I think) been at any time out of his presence, which nevertheless should be no sufficient cause for him to make so small account of me, as to imagine or suspect any thing of that, wherein I am most of all bound to myself. For if it be so, (as he knows well enough) that for the love of him I have cast off many, that died by mine occasion, how could I then forget or reject him for the love of another? A thousand times hath Filemon watched me, not losing a step that the Shepherd Arsileus and I have trodden amid these green woods, and pleasant vales, but let him say, if he ever heard Arsileus talk to me of love, or if I answered him any thing touching such matter. What day did Filemon ever see me talk to Arsileus, whereby he might conceive any thing else by my words, but that I went about to comfort him in such great sorrow, as he suffered: And if this be a sufficient cause to make him think ill of his Shepherdess, who can better judge it, than himself? Behold then (fair Shepherdess) how much he was given to false suspects and wrongful jealousy, that my words could never satisfy him, nor work with him, to make him leave off his obdurate mind by absenting himself from this valley, thinking thereby to have made an end of my days, wherein he was deceived, when as he rather ended his own joy and contentment, if for me at the least he had ever any at all. And this was the mischief besides, that Filemon being not only content to bear me such a kind of unjust jealousy, whereof he had so small occasion, as now (fair Shepherdess) thou hast seen, he did likewise publish it at every feast, in all bridals, wrestle, and meetings, that were made amongst the Shepherds of these hills. And this thou knowest (good Shepherdess) how it did prejudice mine honour more than his contentment: In the end he absented himself from me, which course since he hath taken for a medicine of his malady (which it seems hath the more increased it) let him not find fault with me, if I have known how to profit myself more thereby than he hath. And now that thou hast seen (fair Shepherdess) what great content that I felt, when thou toldst the Shepherd Arsileus so good news of his Shepherdess, & that I myself was most earnest with him to have him go and seek her out, it is clear, that there could not be any thing between us, that might engender such cause of suspicion, as this Shepherd hath wrongfully conceived of us. So that this is the cause, that hath made me not only so cold in the love that I did bear him, but not to love any more, whereby to put mine honour & good name in hazard of false suspects, since my good hap hath brought me to such a time, that (without forcing myself) I may do it at mine own choice & liberty. After Amarillis had showed the small reason the Shepherd had to give so great credit to his jealous imaginations, and the liberty wherein time, and her good fortune had put her (a natural thing to free hearts) the woeful Shepherd replied in this sort. I do not deny (Amarillis) but that thy wisdom and discretion is sufficient to clear thee of all suspicion. But wilt thou now make novelties in love, & invent other new effects, than those which we have heretofore seen? When a lover would love well, the least occasion of jealousy torments his foul, how much more when those were greater, which by thy privy conversation and familiarity with Arsileus thou hast given me. Dost thou think (Amarillis) that for a jealousy certainties are needful? Alas thou deceivest thyself, for suspicions be the principal causes of their entrance: which was also no great matter, since I believed that thou didst bear Arsileus good will, the publishing whereof was as little prejudicial and less offensive to thine honour, since the force of my love was so great, that it made me manifest the ill that I did fear. And though thy goodness assured me, when, at stealth and deceit of my suspectes, I thought thereof, yet I always feared, lest some adverse success might befall unto me, if this familiarity had been still continued. But to that thou sayest (fair Shepherdess) that I absented myself, I answer, that upon a stomach, or to give thee any offence or grief thereby, I did it not; but to see if I could have any remedy in mine own, not seeing the cause of my great mishap and grief before mine eyes, and because my pursuits might not also offend thee. But if by seeking remedy for so great an ill, I went against that, which I owed thee, what greater punishment can I have, then that which thy absence hath made me feel? If thou sayest thou didst never love Arsileus, it gives me greater occasion to complain of thee, since for a thing of so small importance, thou didst forsake him, who so greatly desired to serve thee. So that I have the more cause to accuse thee, the less thy love was to Arsileus. And these are the reasons Amarillis and many more, which I do allege, not in mine own excuse and favour, whereby I think not to help myself at all, since in matters of love they are wont to profit so little; only requesting thee (gentle Amarillis) that thy clemency and the faith which I have ever borne thee, may be of my side, and move thee unto pity, the want whereof can prescribe no end to my grief, nor means of reconciliation in thy hard condition and cruelty. And with this the Shepherd made an end of his words, and began to pour forth so many tears, that they were sufficient (with the requests and sentence that Felismena gave in his behalf) to mollify Amarillis hard hart, and to make the enamoured Shepherd come again into her good grace and liking, for which he was so glad a man, as never more; and Amarillis not a little joyful, by showing how much Filemon was deceived in his false suspicions of her. And after this, they passed away that day with great content of the two reconciled lovers, and with greater sorrow of fair Felismena, who next day early in the morning departed from them after many embracings, and promises, to send to each other news of their affairs.  
But Syrenus being now free from love, and sylvanus and Seluagia more enamoured then ever before, and fair Diana, not a little discontent for the sorrowful success of her affairs, passed away her melancholic life, feeding her flock along the banks of the great river Ezla, where, many times meeting with one another, they talked of that, which pleased their fancies best. And discreet Seluagia being on a day at the fountain of the Sycamores, the Shepherdess Diana came thither by chance, to seek a lamb that had run out of the fold, which sylvanus had tied to a myrtle tree, for when they came thither, they found it drinking at the clear spring and by the mark knew it to be fair Diana's. But being come (as I say) and courteously welcomed of the new lovers, they sat them down upon the green grass, leaning to one of the Sycamores, that stood about the fountain, and after they had talked of many matters, sylvanus said unto her. Why dost thou not ask us (fair Diana) for Syrenus? Because I would not talk of matters past (said Diana) for the great grief which present things do give me: The time was, when I took more delight to ask for him, and he for me, and to speak and converse with one another then now, which gives neither of us the like contentment; but time doth cure infinite cares, that seem remediless to many men, which if I understood not so, there could not be now a Diana in these fair meads & plains, in regard of the sorrows and care that are daily offered me. God never grant so much harm to our pleasant fields (said Seluagia) by depriving them of such great beauty as hers is. That shall not be wanting as long as thou livest (said Diana) and wheresoever thy grace and perfections are, little may be lost by my want, in truth whereof, behold thy sylvanus, who (I thought) would never have forgotten me for any other Shepherdess, and yet in the end hath shaken hands with me for thy love, which deserved a great deal more. This did Diana speak with a gracious smile, although she laughed not so much in mind at these things, nor with so good a hart as they thought. For though she once loved Syrenus more than her own life, and despised sylvanus, as nothing so much, yet it grieved her more, that sylvanus had forgotten her for the love of another, whose sight he now enjoyed every day with great contentment of his new love, then that Syrenus had freed himself out of her love, whom now no new affection moved. When sylvanus heard what Diana said, he answered her thus. Time, and the revolutions of the heavens shall first cease (fair Diana) before I will forget thee, for thy beauty and wisdom is not such, that may be ever put in oblivion. Truth it is that I am now bound to my Seluagia, because (besides many other good parts in her obliging me to her love) she never esteemed her Fortune to be worse by this, that she is now beloved of him, whom thou didst always so reject and make so small account of. No more of this (said Diana) for thou art well bestowed, and I was not well advised by not loving thee, as thy love deserved it at my hands. But if at anytime thou didst desire to give me some content, I beseech thee (all I may) and thy fair Seluagia, to sing some song, to entertain the time, and to pass the heat of the day a●way; which now begins so fast, that we must be feign to pass it under these Sycamores, and there enjoy the bubbling of this clear spring, which shall not a little help the sweetness of your song. The new lovers were not dainty to be prayed, though fair Seluagia was not very well content with this kind of talk that Diana had with sylvanus. But because in her song, she thought to be revenged on her, to the tune that Diana played on her Bagpipe, both of them began to sing as followeth.  

I See thee jolly Shepherd merry,  
And firm thy faith and sound as a berry.  
Love gave me joy, and fortune gave it,  
As my desire could wish to have it.  
What didst thou wish, tell me (sweet lover)  
Whereby thou mightst such joy recover?  
To love where love should be inspired,  
Since there's no more to be desired.  
In this great glory, and great gladness,  
Thinkest thou to have no touch of sadness?  
Good for tune gave me not such glory,  
To mock my love, or make me sorry.  
If my firm love I were denying,  
Tell me, with sighs wouldst thou be dying?  
Those words in jest to hear thee speaking,  
For very grief my hart is breaking.  
Yet wouldst thou change, I pray thee tell me,  
In seeing one, that did excel me?  
O Noah, for how can I aspire,  
To more than to mine own desire.  
Such great affection dost thou bear me  
As by thy words thou seem'st to swear me?  
Of thy deserts, to which a debtor  
I am, thou mayst demand this better.  
Sometimes me thinks, that I should swear it,  
Sometimes me thinks, thou shouldst not bear it.  
Only in this, my pap doth grieve me,  
And my desire, not to believe me.  
Imagine that thou dost not love mine,  
But some brave beauty that's above mine.  
To such a thing (sweet) do not will me,  
Where feigning of the same doth kill me.  
I see thy firmness gentle lover,  
More than my beauty can discover.  
And my good fortune to be higher  
Than my desert, but not desire.   
About this time came Syrenus down from the village towards the fountain of the Sycamores, with great desire to meet Seluagia or sylvanus, for he now took no greater delight in any thing, then in the company of these two lovers. And if he had (perhaps) a touch of Diana's love in his memory, the time that he had spent in loving her, did not leave him altogether without some pensive thoughts, not, for that her love now gave him any pain; but because the remembrance of a good estate, doth breed some small kind of grief and discontent in him that hath lost it. Before he came to the fountain, in the mids of the green meadow which was beset round about with Myrtles and Laurels, he found Diana's sheep, that went by themselves all alone feeding amongst the trees under the keeping of two fierce mastiffs. And as the Shepherd stayed to look upon them, thinking of the time, wherein he had greater care of them, then of his own, the mastiffs with great fury came running upon him. But when they came somewhat nigh and knew him, by wagging their tails, and holding down their necks (that were armed with collars of sharp nails) the one fell down at his feet; and the other by skipping upon him fawned on him with the greatest joy in the world. And the sheep did no less, for the Bell-wether with his rural bleating came to the Shepherd, whom all the rest followed, and knowing Syrenus, came round about him, which sight he could not behold without tears, calling to mind that sometimes in the company of fair Diana he had fed that gentle flock. And seeing that in the silly beasts that love and knowledge did abound, which wanted in their mistress, it was so forcible a motion in his mind, that if the virtue of the water, which sage Felicia had given him, had not made him forget his old love: it might well have been, that there was nothing else in the world that could have let him from renewing it again. But seeing himself thus in the mids of Diana's sheep, and with the thoughts, that the memory of such a thing did put before his eyes, to the tune of his merry Recbecke he began to sing this song.  


PAssed contents,  
O what mean ye?  
Forsake me now, and do not weary me.   

Wilt thou hear me, O memory,  
My pleasant days, and nights again,  
I have apaid with sevenfold pain:  
Thou hast no more to ask me why,  
For when I went, they all did die:  
As thou dost see,  
O leave me then, and do not weary me.   

Green field, and shadowed valley, where  
Sometime my chiefest pleasure was,  
Behold what I did after pass:  
Then let me rest, and if I bear  
Not with good cause continual fear,  
Now do you see.  
O leave me then, and do not trouble me.   

I saw a hart changed of late,  
And wearied to assure mine:  
Then I was forced to recure mine  
By good occasion, time and fate,  
My thoughts, that now such passions hate,  
O what mean ye?  
Forsake me now and do not weary me.   

You lambs and sheep that in these lays,  
Did sometimes follow me so glad:  
The merry hours, and the sad  
Are passed now with all those days:  
Make not such mirth, and wont plays,  
As once did ye:  
For now no more you have deceived me.   

If that to trouble me you come,  
Or come to comfort me indeed:  
I have no ill for comforts need.  
But if to kill me, Then (in sum)  
Full well may ye  
Kill me, and you shall make an end of me.    
After Syrenus had made an end of his song, fair Diana knew him by his voice, and so did the two enamoured shepherds sylvanus and Seluagia. They called to him, telling him, that if he was minded to pass away the heat of the day in the field, there was the fresh fountain of the Sycamores, and fair Diana, both which should be no small allurements to invite him thither. Syrenus answered him, that be must needs stay all day in the field, until it was time to go home again with his sheep to the town, and coming where the Shepherd and Shepherdesses were, they sat round about the clear fountain, as they were commonly wont to do. But Diana, (whose life was so sorrowful, as one may imagine, that ever saw a Shepherdess, the fairest and wisest that was then known, married so greatly to her grief) went day by day seeking out new occasions to entortaine the time, and to pass her life away, and studying often to prevent her continual and sorrowful thoughts. But the shepherds sitting and talking of other matters touching the feeding of sheep, and their profit, Diana broke off the substance of their talk, saying to sylvanus. It is a proper thing, Shepherd, that, sitting before thy fair Seluagia, thou talkest of other impertinent things, and not of praising her beauty, nor of the great love, that she bears thee: Let the field and lambs alone, the good or ill success of time and fortune, and enjoy the good hap that (Shepherd) thou hast now, by being beloved of so fair a Shepherdess, for where there is so great reason to have continually such contentment of mind, thou needest not care for that, which Fortune doth but sometimes give. How much I am beholding to thee Diana (answered sylvanus) none can express but he, that knows what great reason I have to acknowledge this debt, because thou didst not only then teach me to love well, but now also showest me the way to use the contentment, that my love affords me: The reason thou hast to warn me, not to talk of any other matter (my Mistress being in presence) but only of the content that by her sight I receive, is great & infinite, the which I promise thee (fair Diana) to do, while my happy soul shall be contained in this joyful body. But I marvel at one thing, to see how thy Syrenus doth cast his eyes another way, when thou speakest unto him, it seems thy words please him not, or that he is not satisfied with thy answers. Blame him not (said Diana) for careless men & enemies to their own good will do more than this. Enemy to mine own good (said Syrenus?) If I was ever such an one, let death punish me for my error. This is a pretty shift to excuse thy fault. To excuse my fault (said Diana?) If I have not yet the first offence to do thee, I pray God I may never have any other content, then that, which I now enjoy: It is well that thou dost find fault with me for being married having parets. But it is well (said Syrenus) that thou didst marry having another Love: And what power had that Love (said Diana) where obedience was due to parents? And what power had those parents (said Syrenus) that obedience, those times, those favourable or sinistrous successes of Fortune, to overrule so true a Love, as before my departure thou didst show me? Ah Diana, I never thought there was any thing in the world, that could dissolve so great a faith as that, and how much more Diana's, considering that well thou mightest have married, and not forgotten him, who loved thee so entirely. But thinking of the matter unappassionately, it was now better for me, since thou wert resolved to marry, and being married, to forget me quite. For what reason said Diana? For what, said Syrenus? Because there is no worse thing in the world, then for a Shepherd to love a Shepherdess that is married, nor that makes him, (that bears her true love and affection) sooner to lose his wits and senses: the reason whereof (as we all know) is, that the principal passion which doth torment a lover (after the desire of his Mistress) is cruel jealousy: For what dost thou then think, that a poor unfortunate Lover that loves well is able to do, what grief (thinkest thou) he passeth, when he knows, that his Shepherdess is in the arms of her new married husband, and he bewailing and weeping his disgrace and ill Fortune in the street. And this is not all the torment, when such a mischief and death remains yet thereof, that he must not complain of it at all, but must suffer (silly man) and hold his peace, because by complaining he shall be thought no less than a fool or a mad man (a thing as contrary to his rest as may be:) For if the jealousies were of some other Shepherd, that served her, by complaining of the favours she doth him, and by hearing her excuses, the Lover might better pass away his grief; but this is such a kind of torment, that in an instant one shall lose it, if he have no stay in his desire. Leave of this talk (said Diana) for thou hast no need to love, nor to be beloved. In respect of not having it to love (said Syrenus) I am glad in not having it also to be beloved. Strange is thy liberty (said Diana) but stranger was thy forgetfulness (said Syrenus) if thou dost remember well the words thou spakest to me at my departure. But let us (as thou sayest) leave of to speak of things which are past, & let us thank time and Lady Felicia for those that are present. And thou sylvanus, take thy Pipe, and I will tune my Rebecke to it, and let us sing some verses together, although so free a hart as mine cannot sing of any thing, that may give content to thine, that is of another quality. I will give thee a good remedy for this (said sylvanus:) For let us imagine that we are both in the same case, as this Shepherdess made us live, when we filled these hills and dales with our amorous complaints. sylvanus devise liked them all well, but Seluagia was a little displeased thereat, who for that time, (because she would not seem to be jealous, where she was ascertained of so great love) held her peace: And the Shepherds began to sing in manner following.  

Syrenus. 
IF tears cannot with tenderness relent thee,  
How can my song thy cruelty assured,  
Since nought of mine could ever yet content thee:  
What hart was ever that so much endured?  
That to deride thou never canst suffice thee,  
Agreefe that hath the worlds wonder procured.  
Ah blind conceit, let love nor time disguise thee,  
And such a thought of change that never told me  
But to thy good and my content a duise thee.  
Ah wilt thou in such cares and griefs enfold me,  
Fierce Shepherdess, and in such lamentations  
To spend my doleful years, wilt thou behold more?  
A hart that's thine, dispos'st thou in such fashions?  
Intreat'st thou thus a soul to thee affied,  
That the lest grief it is to suffer passions?   
sylvanus. 
Love such a knot, that's endless thou hast tied,  
That's blind, and thou, and I more blind intended:  
She is blind, for whom my life's denied:  
For I saw not my life, and pleasure ended,  
Nor she how I for her to death employ me,  
Nor thou, that I in flames am thus incended.  
Fell Love, shall fair Diana now destroy me  
With absence? then conclude (since hate surrounds it)  
To end my life, and fortunes that annoy me.  
joy's slow, time flies, and with his shortness wounds it,  
Hope dies, an amorous thought lives still augmented:  
Love shortens it, prolongs it, and confounds it.  
To speak I am ashamed thus tormented,  
And though it grieves me, yet with ceaseless paining  
Without the same I cannot live contented.   
Syrenus. 
O soul, forsake not now thy doleful plaining,  
And you my wearied eyes  
Cease not in swelling tears my cheeks to steep,  
Since you have learned to weep,  
And wail the chiefest cause of all my cries.   
sylvanus. 
And wail the chiefest cause of all my cries:  
Yet (cruel Shepherdess)  
Sometimes they were of my most sweet content.  
O thoughts in sorrow spent,  
How small time lasts a joy and happiness?   
Syrenus. 
How small time lasts a joy and happiness,  
And that sweet gracious smile,  
(Fortune) wherewith I saw thee not accoyd?  
Now all is well employed  
In him, whom time doth counsel and beguile.   
sylvanus. 
In him, whom time doth counsel and beguile,  
Love works his behest:  
But in his things who can him well advise?  
Or his deceits who spies?  
O cruel Shepherdess, O cruel breast.   
Syrenus. 
O cruel Shepherdess, O cruel breast  
Whose cruelty is no  
Whit less than her brave beauty and her grace,  
And my mishap and case:  
How to my cost my sorrows do I know?   
sylvanus. 
My Shepherdess, in white and red more clear,  
Then both those roses plucked, in May we see:  
And brighter than the sun beams sent  
From their coruscant Orient  
By morning, that upon thy folds appear:  
How can I live, if thou forgettest me?  
My Shepherdess, thy rigour then impair,  
For cruelty becomes not one so fair.   
Syrenus. 
My fair Diana more resplendent, than  
The Emerald, or Diamond in the night:  
Whose beauteous eyes do cease  
My sorrows, that increase,  
if gently that (perhaps) to me they bend.  
So mayst thou with thy flock so fair and white,  
Come to my shadowed sheepfold in the heat,  
That such a wretch thou wouldst not ill entreat.   
sylvanus. 
My Shepherdess, when that thy yellow hair  
Thou combest in the beams of shining sun,  
Dost thou not see the same obscured?  
My pride andioy by them procured?  
That am from hence beholding it so fair,  
Woon now with hope, now with despair undone,  
But so mayst thou thy beauty brave enjoy,  
As thou wouldst give, ameane in such annoy.   
Syrenus. 
Diana, whose sweet name in all these hills  
The wild beasts tames, and cruelty rebates:  
And whose surpassing beauty to it  
Doth subject fortune, and undo it.  
And fears not love, but wars against his wills:  
Respecting not occasion, time, nor fates.  
To thee thy flocks and folds such joy may give,  
As careless of my grief thou wouldst not live.   
sylvanus. 
The heat is passed (Syrenus) and doth cease,  
The Shepherds to their folds begin to go,  
And weary grasshoppers do hold their peace:  
The night will not stay long, which, hid below,  
Is coming in, while Phoebus in our sky  
Doth here and there his vading light bestow:  
Therefore before the darkest shade shall lie  
Upon the ground, and while the wrens doth sing  
In top of this green Sicamour on high,  
Our wandering flocks together let us bring,  
And drive them where Diana now doth stay  
For us, while in the woods our voices ring.   
Syrenus. 
My friend, sylvanus, go not yet away,  
Since all his beams not yet the sun doth hide,  
And that we have sufficient of the day.  
There's time for us and for our flock beside,  
And time to drive them to the river clear.  
For in this mead to day they shall abide:  
And, Shepherd, let my song be ended here.    
All the while that the Shepherds were singing, the Shepherdess Diana was leaning her fair face upon her hand, whose sleeve falling down a little from her wrest, discovered an arm whiter than the driven snow, she held her eyes down to the ground, pouring out such plenty of tears, as were sufficient arguments of more inward grief and pain, than she would (though feign) have then uttered. And as the Shepherds ended their song, with a deep sigh, in company whereof it seemed that her soul would have flown out, she rose up, & without taking her leave, went down along the valley, dressing her golden hair, whose vail hung entangled behind in a bow, when she rose up. And if the Shepherds had not tempered the great pity which they had of her, with the little that she had of them, neither the one nor the others hart had been able to endure it. And so all of them went to gather up their sheep, that (scattered abroad) went skipping up and down the green meadow.  
The end of the sixth book.   

The seventh Book of Diana of George of Montemayor.  
AFter that Felismena had reconoiled Amarillis & Filemon, & left them with full purpose and resolution, the one never to do any thing to the discontentment and complaint of the other: being now gone from them, she went down along the valley, wherein she wandered many days without hearing any news, that might afford her the least content, that she desired: and yet carrying with her an assured hope of sage Felicias words, she did not let it pass out of her mind, but thought, that after so many travels, Fortune would be weary at the last of troubling her any more: And these imaginations supported her somewhat in the greatest torments of her desire. But traveling one morning on her way, thorough the mids of a wood, and at the going out of certain thick bushes which appeared from the top of a high hill, she beheld before her a most pleasant and green Champain that lay all along beneath the hill, and of such length, that she could scarce see to the end of it; for twelve miles right out it butted upon the bottoms of certain hills, that might hardly be discerned. Thorough the mids of this pleasant plain a goodly river ran, which in many places made fresh and fair banks on both sides, whereon grew thick Birches, green Sycamores, and divers other trees; and in other places leaving the crystalline waters discovered to the wandering view, and in some (brinked with sandy plaits) did from a far off more bravely beautify the fair river banks. The grain which was sown in all those fields, was at hand to yield up the desired fruit, and by reason of the fertile soil was very well grown: which being moved by a little gale of wind, waved up and down some in green, & some in yellow colours, which made most pleasant shades and delightful objects to the greedy eye. The green and delectable vale was in some places three miles broad, and in others a little more, and in none less than this. The fair Shepherdess therefore coming down her way from the hill above, entered into a great wood full of Sycamores and wild Olive trees; in the mids whereof were many stately houses so sumptuously built, that they made her not a little to marvel: And lifting up her eyes on a sudden, there appeared to her sight a great and fair City, which being full of fair houses and stately buildings, from the top of a rocky hill that was right before her, reached in breadth with the walls to the great river that ran thorough the mids of the plain. The buildings of that famous city were high, and wrought with as great art, as humane industry could devise. Amongst the which were many towers, Pyramydes, and shining pinnacles, reared up to the skies. The Temples were many, and sumptuous, the houses strong, the walls lofty and strongly embattled; the bulwarks thick and full of munition: so that excelling in stately structure and even proportion, it made a fair show, and gave a goodly glory to the great and ancient City: all which from that place she severally beheld. The Shepherdess was amazed to see that brave sight, and on the sudden to be so near so fair a City; from whence, as from all other popular concourse with great care she endeavoured to fly. And yet she could not choose, but sat her down a little under the shadow of an Olive tree, to behold from thence all in particular which you have heard; and seeing that populous City, great Soldina her native City and Country came to her musing thoughts; from whence, the love that she bare Don Felix had exiled her, which was an occasion not to make her pass it out of her memory without tears, because the remembrance of a good thing lost, doth for the most part offer occasions of no less. But the fair Shepherdess leaving that place and city on the right hand, went softly on by a path hard by the river towards that part, where the Crystalline waters with a gentle and pleasant noise run smoothly into the Ocean. And having gone six miles by the pleasant banks of that river, she espied two Shepherdesses at the foot of a great Oak near to the river side, passing away the heat of the day, both which (though they were but meanly fair) yet in sweet favour and gentle behaviour, were passing gracious. The hue of their faces was a nutbrown sanguine, but amiable, the colour of their hair, a dark browne-abram; their eyes and eiebrowes black, and yet of a sweet and mild aspect in their countenances. Upon their hands they had several garlands of green ivy, tied up together with many roses and sweet flowers. The fashion of their attire seemed to her to be different from any other kind of apparel, that she had seen till that time. But one of them rising up in great haste, to drive a flock of sheep out of a flax field, where they had broken in, and the other going to drive her goats to the river to drink, they went and sat them down again under the shadow of that leafy Oak. Felismena, that had hid herself in a plat of high bulrushes, and so near to the Shepherdesses, that she might well hear what passed between them, understood that the language they spoke, was the Portugal tongue, and that the kingdom wherein she was, was Portugal; for one of the Shepherdesses taking the other by the hand with a sweet grace in her own tongue said thus to the other. Ah my Duarda, what small reason hast thou to despise him, who loves thee more than himself? How better beseeming thee were it, not so ill to entreat a thought that is so much employed in thy perfections? It grieves me that so fair a Shepherdess should be so far from pitying him that hath so great need thereof. The other, that seemed to be more at liberty, with a certain disdain, and a fillippe of her hand (a common note of careless and free minds) answered her thus. Wilt thou have me tell thee, Armia? If I should trust him another time, who hath so ill apaied the love I bore him, he shall not bear the blame of the ill, that I shall procure by mine own desire, but myself. Lay not before mine eyes the services, that this Shepherd hath sometimes done me, nor tell me the reasons that he gives thee to move me, for the time is now past, when they once helped him. He promised to marry me, and behold he hath married another. What would he now have? Or what pretends this enemy of my quiet rest? What, now that his wife is dead, would he have me marry him? O God forbidden that I should do myself so great injury. Let him go, Armia, let him go: for if he loves me so much as he saith, this love shall serve me for a renenge of his deep deceit. The other joining her smiling face to Duardas' srowning countenance, and lovingly embracing her, with mild & gentle words replied thus. How well hath all becomen thee, gracious Shepherdess, which thou hast said? I would never desire to be a man, but even now, to love thee more than mine own self. But tell me, Duarda, why art thou so desirous to have Danteus lead so sorrowful a life? He saith, the reason that thou hast to complain of him, serves him for his excuse. For, before he married, being with thee one day near to the hedge of Fremoselle, he said unto thee. Duarda, my father will marry me, what is thy advise in this matter? And that thou didst answer him roughly. How now Danteus? Am I so old, or have I so great power over thee, that thou dost ask my opinion and leave for thy marriage? Thou mayest do what thou list, and what thine own will and thy fathers shall oblige thee to: for in the like case I myself would do no less: And this was spoken with an estranged countenance, and not with that wonted kind of mild and gentle speech, but as if it had been quite past thy memory, that thou didst once love him well. Callest thou this an excuse (said Duarda) If I knew thee not Armia, so well as I do, thy wisdom and discretion should hazard their credit with me. What should I answer a Shepherd, who published every where, that there was nothing in the world whereon he would cast an affectionate eye, but on me, how much more then, that Danteus was not so ignorant, but that he understood by my countenance and manner of my words, that with my will I would not have answered him, as I did. What a mockery was this (I pray thee Armia) for him to meet me one day before this came to pass, near to the fountain, and with many tears to say thus unto me. Why are thou so ungrateful (Duarda) to the good will which I bear thee, that thou wilt not be married to me without thy father's consent? when time (thou knowest) will wear out the anger, that they may conceive thereof. Whom I then answered thus. Content thyself Danteus, that I am thine, and that I can never be any others, whatsoever shall befall unto me. And thy word and promise, which thou hast given me to be my husband, contents me well enough: desire not then, in respect of staying a little time longer, a thing, whereof such mischief may ensue. At which words he took his leave, telling me the next day that his father would marry him, and requesting me to give him leave, and not content with this, but to be married in deed three days after. Dost thou not therefore think this (Armia) a sufficient reason for me, to use the benefit of that liberty, which with such trouble of my thoughts I have at last obtained? These are things (said the other) soon spoken and passed between the truest lovers, but must not be taken so much at the hart, nor so narrowly interpreted, as thou dost understand them. For those, which are spoken, thou hast reason, Armia; but for those that are done, thou seest it well enough, if they touch not our souls too near, that love well. In the end Danteus married, and it grieves me not a little, that so fair a Shepherdess lived so small a time, and more, to see that one whole month after her burial being scarce passed, new thoughts began to occupy his mind again. God took her away (said Armia) to the end that Danteus might be thine, for indeed he could be no others but thine. If this be so (said Duarda) that he that is ones, cannot be another's, I find myself now to be mine own; and therefore cannot be Danteus his. But let us leave of a thing not worth the loss of time that is spent about it, which shall be better employed in singing a song: And then both of them in their own tongue with a sweet grace began to sing that which followeth.  


Time's change and shall (as we do see)  
And life shall have an end:  
But yet my faith shall ever be  
Whereon my eyes depend.   

The days, and moments, and their scope,  
The hours with their changes wrought,  
Are cruel enemies to hope,  
And friends unto a loving thought.  
Thoughts still remain, as we do see,  
And hope shall have an end;  
But yet my faith shall not leave me,  
Her honour to defend.   

Inconstancy in trust contrived,  
Causeth great danger in conclusion,  
And life that is of hope deprived,  
Stands not in fear of disillusion.  
Times go and come, as we do see,  
And life shall have an end,  
But yet my faith shall never be  
Distaned for foe or friend.    
This song being ended, Felismena came out of the place, where she had hid herself, directly to that place where the Shepherdesses were, who amazed at her sudden sight, but more at her rare grace and beauty, went to her, and with loving embracings welcomed her, ask her of what country she was, and from whence she came. To which demands fair Felismena could not answer, but with many tears asked them what country that was, wherein they now where. For by her own tongue she clearly made them know, that she was of Vandalia, and that for a certain mishap she was banished from her country. The Portugal Shepherdesses with their pitiful tears did the best they could to comfort her, being very sorry for her exile, a common thing to that nation, & more proper to the inhabitants of that province. And Felismena ask them what city that was, which she had left, where the river with his crystalline streams, and speedy course came running on with great force: and because she also desired to know, what castle that Montemayor was, which was situate on the hill, higher than the rest, and many other demands, one of them called Duarda, told her, that the city was Coymbra, one of the most famons & principal cities, not only of that kingdom, but of all Europe, for the brave territories & fields about it, which that great river (called Mondego) watered with his clearest waters. And that all those fields, where with great swiftness it ran, were called the fields of Mondego: And that the castle which she saw before her, was the ancient light and glory of Spain; which name (she said) did better fit it, than the right name of it, because in the mids of the infidelity of Marsilius the mahometical king, who had so many years encompassed it with a cruel and continual siege, it did ever so strongly defend itself, that it was always the conqueror, and never subdued, and that it was called in the Portugal tongue Montemor, or Velho, where the virtue, valour, wisdom, and magnanimity remained for trophies of the noble deeds, that the Lords and Knights of it did in those days, and that the Lords and Ladies that now dwelled in it, flourished in all kind of virtues, and commendable parts. And so did the Shepherdess tell her many other things of the fertility of the foil, of the antiquity of the buildings, of the riches of the inhabitants, of the beauty, discretion, and virtues of the Nymphs & Shepherdesses, and of the aptness and activity of the jolly shepherds, that dwelled about that impregnable castle: All which things did put Felismena in great admiration. But the Shepherdesses requesting her to eat something (because they thought she needed it) she thankfully accepted their courteous offer. And whiles she was eating that which the Shepherdesses had set before her, they saw her shed so many tears, that caused no small sorrow in them both. And desirous to ask her the cause of them, they were hindered by the voice of a Shepherd, that came sweetly singing to the tune of his Rebecke, whom the Shepherdesses knew to be the Shepherd Danteus, for whom Armia pleaded so much to the gracious Duarda for pity and pardon. Who said to Felismena. Although these are but homely cates (fair Shepherdess) and country Shepherdesses far, yet falls it out to be a dinner for a Princess, for thou didst but little think when thou cam'st hither, to dine with music. There is not any music in the world (said Felismena) that pleaseth me better than thy sight and conversation, gracious Shepherdess, which by greater reason makes me think, that I am a princess, than the music thou talkest of. These words should be addressed (said Duarda) to one of more worth, and higher deserts than I am, and that had a riper wit, and deeper conceit to understand them. But howsoever I am, to my poor ability, thou shalt find an earnest will & an unfeigned affection in me ready to do thee all the service it may. Ah Duarda (said Armia to her) how discreet art thou, and how mightest thou not win the only praise of wisdom, if thou wert not cruel? Is there any woman in the world like thee herein, who of purpose art offering occasions of impertinent speech, and to busy thy head with other matters, because thou hast no list to hearken to the woeful Shepherd that by doleful song is breathing out his sorrows and mishaps. Felismena understanding what that Shepherd was by Armias words, prayed them to be still and to give ear unto him, who to the tune of his Rebecke did in his own tongue sing this song following.  


Sighs, since you lighten not my hart,  
Why go you not, why stay you still?  
For in the end hope doth impart  
Aremedie unto mine ill.   

Yet hope to help me never stood,  
Where reason worketh all in vain:  
Nor ever promised so much good,  
As cruelty doth give me pain.  
But love and trust give me an art,  
And quality of such a skill,  
That neither hope revives my hart,  
Nor cruelty the same doth kill.   

Mine eyes you need not then complain,  
With which her fair ones I have seen,  
And what need you to fear again,  
Since viewed by her you have been?  
And therefore change shall have no part,  
Nor entrance in my constant will,  
Though cruelty doth kill my hart,  
Or whether hope remaineth still.    
The Shepherd's music pleased Felismena better than the Shepherdess' meat, for she thought the song was made to complain more of his own grief, then to lament an others. And as he made an end, she said. Shepherd, it seems thou hast truly learned by my ills to complain of thine own. Unfortunate woman, that can neither hear, nor see any thing, which sets not before me the small reason I have, to desire life. But yet God grant I may so long enjoy it, until mine eyes may see the cause of their burning tears. Thinkest thou fair Shepherdess (said Armia to her) that these words deserve not to be heard, and that the hart, from whence they came forth, to be more esteemed than this Shepherdess regards them? Talk not said Duarda of his words, talk of his works; speak not of his ditty, but of his deeds, for by them his intent and meaning is to be judged. If thou dost enamour thyself of songs, and delightest in Sonnets compacted of industry of fine and flattering words; Think not, that I do so: for as they are things wherein I take least pleasure; so by them I less persuade me of the love he bears me. Felismena then favouring Duardas' reason, said. Behold Armia, how many ills might be avoided, and great mischiefs not effected, if we would not hearken to smooth & filled speeches, & lightly credit words framed by free hearts: for, by nothing else they show their properties more, then by a cunning and false tale, uttered by an eloquent & fine tongue; that when we think it most true, there is nothing more false. Unhappy me, that could not in time help myself with this counsel. But by this time was the Porugall Shepherd come where the Shepherdesses were, who in his own language said to Duarda. If the tears of these eyes, and the sighs of this my hart are not sufficient (Shepherdess) to mollify that hardness, wherewith thou dost so ill entreat me, I require nothing else, but that my company may not be troublesome unto thee in these fields, and that the sorrowful verses (which my grief makes me sing, like to the dying swan near to this river) may be no occasion of thy miscontent and trouble. Pass away (fair Shepherdess) the parching heat of the day under the shade of these green Osiers, for thy swain will drive thy goats to the river to drink, and tarry with them, while they are washing themselves in the crystalline waters. comb and address (lovely Shepherdess) thy silk soft hair upon the brink of this clear fountain, from whence issueth out the running brook, that round about watereth this sweet meadow: And in the mean time I will carry thy fair flocks to feed, and keep thy sheep from going into the corn, that grows along the river side. I pray thee (sweet Shepherdess) take no care for anything, for I have no rest all the while that I am not traveling about thy business. If this seems to thee but a small token of love, tell me then, wherein I may show the good will & entire affection that I bear thee? For no especial love doth wrong (to speak the truth) in anything whereof it offers any experience at all. Danteus having made an end, the Shepherdess Duarda answered him thus. If it be true (Danteus) that there is any love in the world, I have borne it thee, and as great, as thou thyself knowest. Never any of these Shepherds, that bring their flocks to seed in the fields of Mondego, and to drink in these clear waters, obtained so much as one only word of me, whereby thou mightest have occasion to complain of Duarda, nor of the love that she hath ever shown thee. Thy tears, and burning sighs have never touched any nearer at the hart then me. The day, mine eyes beheld thee not, could not see anything that pleased them. The bullocks that thou didst keep, were of more account to me, and I had a greater care of them, then of mine own. And (for the most part) fearing, lest the keepers of this delightful Champain might hinder their feed, I went to the top of this little hill, to see if I could espy them, whereas I brought mine in place, when they could not feed the grass of these fair river banks, without fear of being impounded. And I was not afraid to put myself in this subjection and danger, to put thee in assurance and safety. I know well, that of this my subject and apparent kind of love thy affiance did arise; and of thy affiance, that which thou dost. Thou didst marry Andresa (whose soul is now in glory) a thing that in times past, made me to die for grief: but I prayed to God, that I might see myself at last revenged of her and thee, and after thy marriage I have suffered that, which thou and others sufficiently know: And in the end my Fortune hath concluded, that thine shall give me no more pain and care. Let me then enjoy my liberty, and hope not to regain that with me, which by thine own folly and default thou hast so fond lost.  
The Shepherdess having made an end of her sharp answer, and Felismena beginning to arbitrate the matter between them; they heard a great noise in the other side of the meadow, like to the sound of blows, and smiting of sword upon harneys, as if some armed men had fought together, so that all of them with great haste ran to the place, where they heard the noise, to see what the matter was. And being come somewhat near, they saw in a little Island, (which the river with a round turning had made) three knights fight against one. And although he defended himself valiantly, by showing his approved strength and courage, yet the three knights gave him so much to do, that he was feign to help himself by all the force and policy he could. They fought on foot, for their horses were tied to little trees, that grew thereabouts. And now by this time, the knight that sought all alone and defended himself, had laid one of them at his feet with a blow of his good sword, which ended his life: But the other two that were very strong and valiant, redoubled their force and blows so thick on him, that he looked for no other thing than death. The Shepherdess Filismena seeing the knight in so great danger, and if she did not speedily help him, that he could not escape with life, was not afraid to put hers in jeopardy, by doing that, which in such a case she thought, she was bound to perform: wherefore putting a sharp headed arrow into her bow, she said unto them: Keep out knights, for it is not beseeming men that make account of this name and honour, to take advantage of their enemies with so great odds. And aiming at the sight of one of their helmets, she burst it with such force, that the arrow running into his eyes, came out of the other side of his head, so that he fell down dead to the ground. When the distressed knight saw two of his enemies dead, he ran upon the third with such force, as if he had but then begun the combat; but Felismena helped him out of that trouble, by putting another arrow into her bow, the which transpiercing his armour, she left under his left pap, and so justly smote his hart, that this knight also followed his two companions. When the Shepherds and the knight beheld what Felismena had done, and how at two shoots she had killed two such valiant knights, they were all in great wonder. The knight therefore taking off his helmet, and coming unto her said. How am I able (fair Shepherdess) to requite so great a benefit, and good turn, as I have received at thy hands this day, but by acknowledging this debt for ever in my grateful mind. When Felismena beheld the knight's face, and knew him, her senses were so troubled, that being in such a trance she could scarce speak, but coming to herself again, she answered him. Ah my Don Felix, this is not the first debt, wherein thou art bound unto me. And I cannot believe, that thou wilt acknowledge this (as thou sayest) no more than thou hast done greater than this before. Behold to what a time and end my fortune and thy forgetnesse hath brought me, that she that was wont to be served of thee in the city with Tilt and Tourneys, and honoured with many other things, whereby thou didst deceive me, (or I suffered myself to be deceived) doth now wander up and down, exiled from her native country and liberty, for using thus thine own. If this brings thee not into the knowledge of that which thou owest me, remember how one whole year I served thee as thy page in the Princess Cesarinas Court: and how I was a solicitor against myself, without discovering myself, or my thoughts unto thee, but only to procure thy remedy, and to help the grief, which thine made thee feel. How many times did I get thee favours from thy mistress Celia to the great cost of my tears and griefs: all which account but small Don Felix in respect of those dangers (had they been unsufficient) wherein I would have spent my life for redress of thy pains, which thy injurious love afforded thee. And unless thou art weary of the great love, that I have borne thee, consider and weigh with thyself the strange effects, which the force of love hath caused me to pass. I went out of my native country, and came to serve thee, to lament the ill that thou didst suffer, to take upon me the injuries and disgraces that I received therein; and to give thee any content, I cared not to lead the most bitter and painful life, that ever woman lived. In the habit of a tender and dainty Lady I loved thee more than thou canst imagine, and in the habit of a base page I served thee (a thing more contrary to my rest and reputation than I mean now to rehearse) and yet now in the habit of a poor and simple Shepherdess I came to do thee this small service. What remains then more for me to do, but to sacrifice my life to thy lovelesse soul, if with the same yet, I could give thee more content: and if in am thereof thou wouldst but remember, how much I have loved, & do yet love thee: here hast thou thy sword in thy hand; let none therefore, but thyself revenge the offence that I have done thee. When the Knight heard Felismenas' words, and knew them all to be as true as he was disloyal, his hart by this strange & sudden accident recovered some force again to see what great injury he had done her, so that the thought thereof, and the plenteous effusion of blood that issued out of his wounds, made him like a dead man fall down in a swoon at fair Felismenas' feet. Who with great care, and no less fear, laying his head in her lap, with showers of tears that reigned from her eyes, upon the Knights pale visage, began thus to lament. What means this cruel Fortune? Is the period of my life come just with the last end of my Don Felix his days? Ah my Don Felix (the cause of all my pain) if the plenteous tears, which for thy sake I have shed, are not sufficient: and these which I now distil upon thy lovely cheeks, too few to make thee come to thyself again, what remedy shall this miserable soul have to prevent, that this bitter joy by seeing thee, turn not into occasion of utter despair. Ah my Don Felix, Awake my love, if thou dost but sleep, or be'st in a trance, although I would not wonder if thou dost not, since never any thing that I could do, prevailed with thee to frame my least content. And in these and other lamentations was fair Felismena plunged, whom the Portugal Shepherdesses with their tears and poor supplies, endeavoured to encourage, when on the sudden they saw a fair Nymph coming over the stony causey that lead the way into the Island, with a golden bottle in one hand, & a silver one in the other, whom Felismena knowing by and by, said unto her. Ah Doria, could any come at this time to secure me, but thou fair Nymph? Come hither then, & thou shalt see the cause of all my troubles, the substance of my sighs, & the object of my thoughts, lying in the greatest danger of death that may be. In like occurrents (said Doria) virtue and a good hart must take place. Recall it then (fair Felismena) and revive thy daunted spirits, trouble not thyself any more, for now is the end of thy sorrows, and the beginning of thy contentment come. And speaking these words, she besprinkled his face with a certain odoriferous water which she brought in the silver bottle, whereby he came to his memory again, and then said unto him. If thou wilt recover thy life, Sir Knight, and give it her that hath passed such an ill one for thy sake, drink of the water in this bottle: The which Don Felix taking in his hand, drunk a good draft, and resting upon it a little, found himself so whole of his wounds, which the three knights had given him, and of that, which the love of Celia had made in his breast, that now he felt the pain no more, which either of them had caused in him, then if he had never had them. And in this sort he began to rekindle the old love, that he bore to Felismena, the which (he thought) was never more zealous than now. Whereupon sitting down upon the green grass, he took his Lady and Shepherdess by the hands, and kissing them many times said thus unto her. How small account would I make of my life (my dearest Felismena) for canceling that great bond, wherein (with more than life) I am for ever bound unto thee: for since I enjoy it by thy means, I think it no more than right, to restore thee that, which is thine own. With what eyes can I behold thy peerless beauty, which (though unadvisedly) I knew not to be such, yet how dare I (for that which I own thee) cast them in any other part? What words are sufficient to excuse the faults, that I have committed against thy faith, and firmest love, and loyalty? Wretched and accursed for ever shall I be, if thy condition and clemency be not inclined to my favour, and pardon: for no satisfaction can suffice for so great an offence, nor reason to excuse me for that, which thou hast to forget me. Truth it is, that I loved Celia well, and forgot thee, but not in such sort that thy wisdom and beauty did ever slide out of my mind. And the best is, that I know not wherein to put this fault, that may be so justly attributed to me; for if I will impute it to the young age that I was then in, since I had it to love thee, I should not have wanted it to have been firm in the faith that I owed thee. If to Celia's beauty, it is clear, that thine did far excel hers and all the worlds besides. If to the change of time, this should have been the touchstone which should have showed the force and virtue of my firmness. If to injurious and traitorous absence, it serves as little for my excuse, since the desire of seeing thee should not have been absent from supporting thy image in my memory. Behold then Felismena, what assured trust I put in thy goodness, that (without any other means) I dare put before thee, the small reason thou hast to pardon me. But what shall I do to purchase pardon at thy gracious hands, or after thou hast pardoned me, to believe, that thou art satisfied: for one thing grieves me more than any thing else in the world, and this it is. That, though the love which thou hast borne me, and wherewith thou dost yet bless me, is an occasion (perhaps) to make thee forgive me, and forget so many faults: yet I shall never lift up mine eyes to behold thee, but that every injury, which I have done thee, will be worse than a mortal incision in my guilty hart. The Shepherdess Felismena, who saw Don Felix so penitent for his passed misdeeds, and so affectionately returned to his first thoughts, with many tears told him, that she did pardon him, because the love, that she had ever borne him, would suffer her to do no less: which if she had not thought to do, she would never have taken so great pains and so many weary journeys to seek him out, and many other things, wherewith Don Felix was confirmed in his former love. Whereupon the fair Nymph Doria came then to the Knight, and after many loving words and courteous offers in the Lady Felicias behalf passed between them, she requested him and fair Felismena to go with her to Diana's Temple, where the sage Lady (with great desire to see them) was attending their coming. Don Felix agreed thereunto, and taking their leave of the Portugal Shepherdesses (who wondered not a little to see what had happened) and of the woeful Shepherd Danteus, mounting upon the horses of the dead Knights that were slain in the late combat, they went on their way. And as they were going, Felismena told Don Felix with great joy, what she had past since she had last seen him, which made him to marvel very much, and especially at the death of the three Savages, and at the Palace of the sage Lady Felicia, and success of the Shepherds and Shepherdesses, and at every thing else contained in this book. And Don Felix wondered not a little to understand how his Lady Felismena had served him so many days as his page, and that he was so far gone out of his wits and memory, that he knew her not all that while. And his joy on the other side, to see that his Lady loved him so well, was so great, that by no means he could hide it. Thus therefore riding on their way, they came to Diana's Temple, where the sage Felicia was looking for their coming: and likewise the Shepherd Arsileus, and Belisa, sylvanus, and Seluagia, who were now come thither not many days before. They were welcomed on every side, & with great joy entertained; but fair Felismena especially, who for her rare virtues and singular beauty was greatly honoured of them all. There they were all married with great joy, feasts, and triumphs, which were made by all the goodly Nymphs, and by the sage and noble Lady Felicia; the which Syrenus with his coming augmented not a little, of whom, & of the Portugal Shepherds Danteus, and Duarda, more shall be spoken in the second part of this book.   
The end of the seven Books of Diana of George of Montemayor.   


THE FIRST BOOK OF THE SECOND PART OF DIANA OF George of Montemayor.  Written by Alonso Perez. 
ALthough it was not otherwise possible, but that the joy of these happy Lovers was very great, since fortune had now lifted them up to so high a degree of content, and happiness, as they themselves could not wish for more, (every one possessing his only desire) yet I think that Felicias was not any whit less than theirs, by seeing herself visited by so worthy a company, and that by her only means they enjoyed such wished rest: And the rather, for that she was more capable to feel this joy, by reason of the excellency of her wit, the mature judgement whereof, the more it was higher than theirs, the more it made the internal powers and works of the soul more perfect and absolute. So that if the sage Lady had only regarded her pleasure and content (forgetting what was conveeient for every one of them) she would not have requested them to come to her Palace again: but being so careful for those things, which were most needful for them, by neglecting her own will and desire, she provided for every one in particular. Whereupon (certain days being past, in which she had entertained them with most royal and sumptuous feasts, and small they were not, since she was mightier in operations than others in imaginations) she bethought her of Arsileus, and of his dear love Belisa, and therewithal remembered how needful it was for them to go visit and comfort their aged parents, who passed many a doubtful and sorrowful thought for them, Arsenius especially father unto Arsileus, whom she had now remedied and rid from the love, which so lately had made him dote on fair Belisa. Who therefore giving the Lady Felicia infinite thanks for the benefits, and loving entertainment they had received at her hands, and taking their leave of the Lords, Ladies, Nymphs, and shepherds that were there, the next day following went to their own town. And not many days after, Felicia one night after supper said thus to sylvanus and Seluagia. I could not choose but blame you fortunate shepherds, for the small care you have of your flocks, if I myself were not in fault, because you have never asked after them in all this time, nor (I think) once remembered them, fearing lest by reason of your absence, they have been in great want, and not without cause, being not carried to feed at convenient times upon the green and savoury grass, nor (at their need) driven to the clear springs to quench their burning thirst, nor with wont love put into the cool and pleasant shades: And seeing that with familiar and gentle hand they are not eased of the burden of their fruitful bags, that swell with abundance of white milk, and that with the accustomed and known voice of their loving Shepherds they are not called to lick the smooth pebbles of the savoury salt; nor that your sweet Bagpipes (seconded with many amorous Ditties, which not long since made there the woods and dales to ring) have sounded in their ears: It is therefore convenient that to morrow you depart at the rising of purple Aurora the foreteller of speedy Phoebus, whereof I put you in mind, at this time especially, because your absence from them before was not so great, that you needed to be told thereof. Which departure of yours I would not have you think is to any other end, but to set some order in your affairs, that at your pleasure you may the sooner return hither again, assuring you that elsewhere you shall not be better entertained with deeds, than here with hart and good will. And your return shall only be to solace yourselves in the company of Don Felix, and Felismena, whose time is not yet come to departed. Wherefore I pray you go about it, for setting all things in good order touching your flocks and domestical affairs, you may do the other the better; yet promising you, that before you come to your dwelling places, you shall find those that can look well to your flocks, if you will at the lest commit them to their charge: and who will most willingly take it upon them. Let your return (therefore) be with as much speed as may be, which shall result to your own profit, and to their pleasure with whom you shall pass away the time here. sylvanus and Seluagia had their eyes so fastened on the majestical countenance of the Sage Lady, perceiving her speech to be only addressed to them, that with great reverence they rose out of their places, and gave a diligent ear unto her, because they might better understand the meaning and effect thereof. For otherwise seldom were their eyes carried away into any other part, but to look upon one another, unable to remove them (the least time that might be) from thence, wherein each others soul had no small portion, and thinking it stealth, to remove their thoughts from that entire affection, whereof their mutual hearts had so sure possession. Whereupon the sage Lady's speech being ended, both of them turned their amorous eyes to each other again, sylvanus making loving signs to Seluagia to answer the Lady's intent. To whom with a seemly blush, as partly ashamed thereat, she said in this sort. It is now no time (my dear sylvanus) to use circumstances of such art, when there is no cause, neither do they well beseem this place. For though their usage to all women is commendable, yet not in particular, for the husband to his wife, and in such sort as if he went about to prefer her before himself. For after that the woman hath delivered herself into the possession of her husband, she therewithal yieldeth up to his jurisdiction the title of her liberty, by the sweet and sacred bond of marriage. Whereupon I shall see the love thou bearest me, if thou usest this pleasant bond according to the just laws thereof, by setting aside the superstitious vanities of unlawful and wanton love. sylvanus had not let Seluagia escaped so smoothly without an answer, if he had not thought it an undecent part to defer his to the sage Lady. Wherefore giving a beck with his head to his Shepherdess in token of thanks, and that he was well pleased, with her loving words, he answered Felicia thus. Presupposing (sage Lady) that we must do all that you command and set down, and that there is nothing more behoveful for our welfare, than your will, and pleasure, therein it lies to command us whatsoever, I feeling no greater reprehension in mine own behalf, then that which proceeds from your wise and loving advise, saying, that I have no care of my flocks, nor thought of them at all: For though (I confess) I have not remembered them as reason would I had done, yet cannot I therefore be justly blamed, but rather think, that if I had done otherwise, I might have been in greater fault. For it were not meet, since I have received such benefits in your house, that I should forget one minute, that joy and content, wherewith such sweet and pleasant thoughts are engendered and preserved, to think upon those flocks that feed upon the unsavoury grass. And you may also believe, that if my few and silly sheep, nay if the whole world should perish, and be lost, and that if it lay in my hands to help them both, in respect of employing my high and happy thoughts (the least time that might be) on my fair and virtuous Shepherdess, my sheep should remain without help, and the world without succour. Seluagia that was not unskilful in paying such debts with like coin again, an sweared him thus. As it lieth not in me, (my dear friend) so will I not find fault with any thing thou dost: which I speak to this end, because thou shouldest not use (as I told thee before) any more words so apparently manifesting that love, whereof I doubt not: Although there is nothing (if I must tell the truth, after the glory that I have conceived in my joyful thoughts by being thine) that can please and content me more than to see, how far by words and effect thy true love extendeth. For though some say, That where deeds be, words are in vain, yet I take great pleasure in hearing them, when they are by all probability correspondent unto deeds, and especially in matters of love, whereof we now talk. For since the interior part is a hidden and secret thing, and which is soon discovered by words, we must therefore not meanly account of them, that pretend to make the interior known by th'exterior. True it is that such words and outward acts must be measured by the effects of him that pronounceth them. For oftentimes we see that many things are uttered by a false and deceitful tongue, which were never meant in the hart. Which I speak not in preiddice of thy love (my dear Shepherd) or to 〈◊〉 thee of disloyalty, assuring that I am glad to hear thy words, whereby (besides the certainty that I have of thy truest love) thou makest me the most contented woman in the world. And in this I take no small glory, and that thy love (not able to contain itself within the soul) flows out by the mouth, like the little pot which filled with water is hardly set on the fire without running over. And because thou mayst not think to overcome me in affection, I would wish that as love hath given me deeds, it had also lent me some words, to make a full satisfaction of those true signs of thy unfeigned good will, which hath brought me so much in thy debt. But since they are so strange unto me, I must, with only offering that which I am able to give, endeavour to discharge myself thereof. They all took great delight to hear what amorous words passed between the shepherds, which had not ended so soon, if Felicia had not cut them off, saying: That since the one was satisfied and content with the others answer, their compliments should now cease, and turning to Syrenus, she said. And think not (free Shepherd) that I have forgotten thee, for thou shalt hereafter see wonders at my hands. I know not any thing good Lady (said Syrenus) wherein I may truly say you have forgotten me, since you have made me so much remember myself, that with clear eyes I may easily discern, not only my follies past; but also those which these Gentlemen and shepherds are so fond fallen into. Every one laughed at Syrenus words, to whom Felicia said. In sooth Syrenus, all are of thy opinion, if not, ask thy corrival sylvanus, and his beloved Seluagia. The blind man (answered Syrenus) cannot judge of colours. Whom will't thou have then for judge (said Felicia?) Him (said Syrenus) that hath the eyes of reason. And who is he, said Felicia? If there be no other (said Syrenus) myself. So wouldst thou give sentence (said Felicia) in thine own favour; but knowest thou not, that the judge is not admitted, when he is not free from passion? But I am (said Syrenus.) Otherwise (said Felicia) thy judgement would not be allowed. Not for me at the least (said Syrenus) though it be for others. Let us leave this for some fit time (said Felicia.) And (Syrenus) thou shalt to morrow accompany sylvanus and Seluagia home, because thou camest in their company hither, but with condition (as theirs is) of thy speedy return again. Syrenus answered, that it pleased him well. It is well then, said Felicia: and therefore let us go take our rest with some parting song to the tune of thy free Rebecke, and sylvanus and Seluagia with their enamoured Bagpipes shall answer thee. Then did sylvanus take his Bagpipe for Syrenus to sing to it, and Syrenus his Rebecke to play to sylvanus when he had done. And so Syrenus leading the song, began thus.  

Syrenus. 
WHo hath of Cupid's cates and dainties prayed,  
May feed his stomach with them at his pleasure:  
If in his drink some ease he hath essated,  
Then let him quench his thirsting without measure:  
And if his weapons pleasant in their manner,  
Let him embrace his standard and his banner.  
For being free from him, and quite exempted,  
joyful I am, and proud, and well contented.   
sylvanus. 
Of Cupid's dainty cates who hath not prayed,  
May be deprived of them at his pleasure:  
If wormwood in his drink he hath essated,  
Let him not quench his thirsting without measure:  
And if his weapons cruel in their manner,  
Let him abjure his standard and his banner:  
For I not free from him, and not exempted,  
joyful I am, and proud, and well contented.   
Syrenus. 
love's so expert in giving many a trouble,  
That now I know not, why he should be praised:  
He is so false, so changing, and so double,  
That with great reason he must be dispraised:  
Love (in the end) is such a jarring passion,  
That none should trust unto his peeutsh fashion:  
For of all mischief he's the only Master,  
And to my good a torment and disaster.   
sylvanus. 
love's so expert in giving joy, not trouble,  
That now I know not, but he should be praised:  
He is so true, so constant, never double,  
That in my mind he should not be dispraised:  
Love (in the end) is such a pleassing passion,  
That every one may trust unto his fashion:  
For of all good he is the only Master,  
And foe unto my harms, and my disaster.   
Syrenus. 
Not in these sayings to be proved a liar,  
He knows, that doth not love, nor is beloved:  
Now nights and days I rest, as I desire,  
After I had such greefefrom me removed:  
And cannot I be glad, since thus estranged,  
Myself from false Diana I have changed?  
Hence, hence false Love I will not entertain thee,  
Since to thy torments thou dost seek to train me.   
sylvanus. 
Not in these sayings to be proved a liar,  
He knows, that loves, and is again beloved:  
Now nights and days I rest in sweet desire,  
After I had such happy fortune proved:  
And cannot I be glad, since not estranged,  
Myself into Seluagia I have changed?  
Come, come good Love, and I will entertain thee,  
Since to thy sweet content thou seekest to train me.    
The rest of the company took great delight to hear the Shepherds sing, and how contrary they were in their opinions, commending sylvanus his wit and skill very much, which he showed in every point with the same terms to contradict Syrenus. And after this, they went to sleep, the Shepherds then taking their leave for their departure early in the morning, because rising betimes, not to travel in the heat of the day, their visiting in the morning might not hinder their quiet sleep. Felicia gave Doria in charge to fill their scrips that night before with sufficient provision for their way, who like a friendly and loving Nymph, that was never slack to serve their necessity, going about it immediately, did put into the same good store of victuals.  
The opprobrious and rude shame of the ignominious conjunction, had now thrust out vermilion and purple Aurora to leave with her absence, the deformed little old man in a solitary sadness, for fear of being espied by Phoebus: and the little stars as most obedient, and of less force, with the coming of the mounting Sun into our Hemisphere, hide themselves when the three Shepherds went from Felicias rich palace towards their poor Cottages by their accustomed and known ways: which with their pleasant and merry talk they overcame, and made less painful, conferring together of bitter and sorrowful memories of times past, and entermingling them with recital of the sweet and joyful remedies of their former griefs, which by Felicias favours they enjoyed, living now in a happy and wished estate.  
But Clicies loving friend had scarce lifted up his chariot over the face of the earth, when from the side of a hill they espied a Shepherd coming down with a paper in his hand, staying between pace and pace, and unfolding it, looked into it, and put it by and by into his bosom again, and without playing on Bagpipe or Rebecke, began to sing this Sonnet.  

A Sonnet.  

FRom whence O Paper mine such happy favour,  
That undeservedly thou must be placed  
Before that flower that yields the sweetest savour,  
Which nature hath with all her powers graced?  
Thou shalt the figure see (my loving Paper)  
Where all the virtues make their wished dwelling,  
And of the rest not any one escape her,  
Graces, and gifts, and beauties most excelling.   

Then when thou comest before my heavenly treasure,  
Say thus from me to her. He sends me hither,  
Who lives to serve thee, whilst his life extendeth:  
In only this his thoughts are musing ever:  
In joy of this both nights and days he spendeth:  
To serve thee is his only sport and pleasure.    
At the very instant when the Shepherd made an end of his Sonnet, the three Shepherds met with him, for they might well have come to the valley before, where their way and the other Shepherds met both together in a cross path, but that of purpose to hear him, they lingered out the time as they went; to whom (after they had saluted him) they said. Since our Fortune hath been so good to us (jolly Shepherd) to make us take part of thy sweet Sonnet, do not thus leave us in suspense, by hiding from us, what this happy paper containeth. I am content said (the Shepherd) upon condition (when you have read it,) you will let me go without any more questions, as well for that I go in haste, as also that it doth not please me to give any further account and discovery of myself. Syrenus taking the paper to read it, and seeing it was a letter said. Tell us in brief (if it please thee) the contents hereof, because thou knowest how hardly (otherwise) the ground and meaning of letters are understood. No more (said the Shepherd) but this. A most fair young Shepherdess, to whom in good qualities, and excellent parts I come nothing near (I will not speak of the rest, since in these she hath not her equal) for want of better company, hath vouchsafed to like of mine, whereupon she and I, to pass away the time, have feigned to play the parts of two true Lovers. Wherein, (when I took least heed) I quickly perceived, that the feigning of my side was turned to good earnest (she remaining still in her former estate and liberty) and that her jesting never made any true impression of love in her own hart, as it hath done in mine. The rest and almost all if thou wilt diligently read, or hearken unto, thou mayest easily gather. Syrenus then beginning to read it, saw that it said thus.  


Poor I that am not now for thee  
(If any health I have to lend)  
To thee, that hast each part of me  
All that I have, I mean to send.   

Receive this letter left alone,  
That to conuers all his to thine,  
And not in any thing his own,  
This only paper is behind.   

Since I have given thee all the rest,  
Thine honour it shall not gainstand,  
To take a thing, that is the lest:  
Apiece of paper at my hand.   

So poor and base a thing as this,  
Cannot offend thy mind so high:  
Why then, it cannot be amiss,  
To take and read it by and by.   

But in the same if thou dost find  
Words written ill, and not well couched,  
Know, that my hand did like the wind  
Tremble, when that my pen it touched.   

The blots, which here thou see'st disgrace  
My letter, making it to blame,  
My tears they are, that fell apace,  
Knowing to thee I wrote the same.   

Read it, I pray thee, to the end:  
And make an end of all my woes,  
Open thine eyes to this I send,  
And to my griefs give some repose.   

And to the end thou mayst it reed,  
It comes not from an Enemies' breast,  
But from a faithful hart indeed,  
And from a friend above the rest.   

It is no letter, that defies  
(Defied for I am too much)  
Alas in conquered men it lies  
Not in their power to be such.   

In endless peace I seek to live,  
And on thy grace I do rely,  
If not, the doom and sentence give  
Unto my life condemned to die.   

I have contended to this hour  
Thy mighty forces to resist,  
And now I find, thy only power  
Doth conquer (Mistress) as thou list.   

It is not much, that in the field  
Unto thy valour I give place,  
Since that the God of love doth yield  
Himself, unto thy wounding face.   

So that now subject Iremaine  
Unto thy sou'raine force, I see,  
Then wound me not, for 'tis in vain,  
Since wholly I do yield to thee.   

My life I put into thy hands,  
And now do with me at thy will,  
But yet behold, how pity stands  
Entreating thee thou wouldst not kill.   

So shalt thou make thy conquest brave,  
If in thy spoils and triumphs, such  
Remorse of pity thou wilt have,  
Which all the world commends so much.   

I saw thee sit not long ago  
Feasting with joy and pleasant fare,  
And I, because I could not so,  
Did feed upon my woes and care.   

There leisurely thou didst begin  
Of other cates and flesh to feed,  
But I with haste did ravine in  
My pains, wherewith my hart did bleed.   

The River water thou didst drink  
With freest mind devoid of care,  
But I in floods of tears did sink,  
The which to drink I did not spare.   

I saw thee with thy little knife  
Cutting thy bread and meat again,  
And then (me thought) my woeful life  
Should in like sort be cut in twain.   

A little Boy sat in thy lap,  
Thou didst embrace him with great joy:  
Oh would it had been then my hap  
To have been that same little Boy.   

Thou gav'st to him a loving kiss:  
What here I felt, I will repeat,  
Let it suffice, that I was this  
Most happy child, but in conceit.   

But not contented with the same,  
Marking the place where thou didst lay  
Thy lips, unto the child I came,  
And took from him the kiss away.   

Each thing of thine so well I love,  
That if I see them to decay,  
Me thinks, my care it doth behove  
To save, to cast them not away.   

For all the bones, which thou didst leave,  
With greedy stomach I did pick,  
Because I only did conceive,  
That they thy dainty mouth did lick.   

The place I marked of the pot,  
That did thy Coral lips divide,  
When thou didst drink, and I did not  
Forget to drink of that same side.   

And with the wine which I did shed  
Of purpose, on the cloth above:  
Often (in vain) these words in red  
My finger wrote: I love, I love:   

(Disdainful) thou dost not esteem  
These signs, nor these in ductions know,  
Or dost at least (as it doth seem  
Dissemble: it must needs be so.   

And only that thou dost dissemble,  
Which might unto my profit fall,  
But that which makes me now to tremble,  
Alas, thou feignest not at all.   

By seeing such effects in me,  
That thou dost cause my heaviness,  
Thou feign'st, my plaints are not for thee,  
But for some other Shepher desk.   

Thou seest how for thy love I pain,  
And at thy gracious feet I lie.  
(To grecue me more) yet dost thou feign,  
That for another I do die.   

But if thy beauties in great store  
Engender pride of such excess,  
Thou must believe, and feign no more,  
That my pure love is no whit less.   

If thy perfections do surpass  
All beauties that the world doth breed,  
As much as Dimond passeth glass,  
So doth my love all loves exceed.   

And when thou comest to know, that none  
Is worthy of thy lovely grace,  
Thou must not feign, that I am one,  
That may deserve so sweet a place.   

I am not worthy of so dear  
A choice (I say) to be my lot,  
Since all the world hath not thy peer,  
For that itself deserves thee not.   

And though I said so (in a vain)  
I shall not be believed, I know;  
For well thou knowst what one doth feign,  
Is of a thing which is not so.   

Distose's of me even at thy will,  
And feign as much as any one,  
So thou believe, and feign not still,  
That I love none, but thee alone.   

Then on thy gentleness I call  
In pity, which thou hast forgot,  
Thou wouldst not mock my love at all,  
Nor feign, that I do love thee not.   

Great jove can witness here to thee,  
That it doth grieve me not so much,  
The little love thou bearest to me,  
As once to feign, that mine is such.   

Nor it doth grieve me of thy guise,  
To see thee mock me in such sort:  
Or that my things in any wise  
May cause thy laughter and thy sport.   

But it doth glad me without measure,  
That thou dost mock my love so lost,  
Since by such means I give thee pleasure:  
(Although it be unto my cost.)   

To make thee laugh, I do adjure  
The heavens (as I thy love may joy)  
That many times I do procure  
To do, and tell thee many a toy.   

And though I know none willomit  
To call me fool (not without cause)  
A simple man of little wit,  
Swerving too much from reasons laws:   

Yet Shepherdess it skills me not,  
Nor it doth not my mind dismay  
That all repute me for a sot,  
So I may please thee any way.   

Since that I cannot (Shepherdess)  
With things in earnest please thy vain,  
I will content thee (at the )  
From hence with toys (though to my pain)   

To thee they are but things in jest  
(For so thou meanest to take them all)  
But ever to my painful breast  
True they have proved, and so they shall.   

Mock me thy fill, since thou dost make  
It all thy glee, thy sport, and laughter:  
But I do wish, that Love may take  
A narrow count of thee hereafter.   

I once did also jest with love,  
Love did I scoff, and love despise,  
But to my pain I now do prove  
What did thereof to me arise.   

And this is that poor silly me  
This wicked traitor brought unto;  
But woe is me, that now with thee  
I know not what he means to do.   

With jests and sports of thousand fashions  
Two thousand favours thou didst lend me,  
But yet the God of love, to passions  
In earnest turns them, to offend me.   

With thine own hand (O what a thing)  
In jesting didst thou carve to me?  
In jest thou saidst, and sometimes sing,  
Mine only Shepherd thoushalt be.   

O sweetest food of savoury taste,  
Of force my poor lafe to maintain:  
Sweet words, whose sound did bind me fast,  
Of force to give me rest again.   

Both word, and deed, and what did pass  
(Though but a merry jest it were yet)  
So singular a grace it was,  
That in my breast I cannot bear it.   

To sickest men, to give great store  
Of meat, and so much as they crave,  
It is not good, but just no more,  
Than it is meet for them to have.   

Favours I crave by heaps of thee,  
That thou wouldst give me (Shepherdess)  
But yet (perhaps) they may kill me,  
For little force I do possess.   

It hurts the driest field and mead,  
As much to cast in them great plenty  
Of water, as if they lay dead,  
Of water, and of moisture empty.   

So favours in the selfsame sort,  
If that they have no rule, nor measure,  
Suffice to make one's life more short,  
As well as scorns, hates, and displeasure.   

But in the end, and howsoever,  
Take thy full joy, although I die.  
Whether it be with death for ever,  
Or with my life, I care not I.   

Mock, and with me do what thou list,  
And happen will, what happen may,  
My will thy will shall not resist,  
But thy command shall still obey,   

Command me then to be thy love,  
Command me in thy love to end,  
And he that rules, and is above  
All hearts, command thy hart to bend.   

Since mighty Love commands my hart,  
Of force thy lover I must be,  
join thou with love, and take his part,  
Then all the world shall honour thee.   

But I have written to be plain  
Enough, since thou hast not thy fill  
By giving me continual pain,  
Desiring yet to serve thee still.   

But in the end now will I cease,  
Although my torment doth not end:  
Desire is conquered by the fear  
I have, thy patience to offend.    
When Syrenus had made an end of reading this letter, the Shepherd took it out of his hands, & without staying any longer, went his ways singing. That which he sung, whilst they could hear him (giving great ear unto him) was to the purpose of that, which he had told them before he showed them the letter.  

A Sonnet.  
I Played with Love, Love played with me again,  
I mocked him, but I was mocked in deed,  
He would not let my hart his art exceed:  
For (though a Boy) yet mocks he doth disdain.  
A friend he is to those, that do not feign:  
My jests (it seems) do true affection breed:  
And now, if Love is not revenged with speed,  
My hart can witness that with earnest pain.  
Go lovers then to jest it out apace  
With this God Cupid but a boy, and blind,  
And you shall see, if it be good or no?  
Thinking to have delight, you shall have woe,  
Seeking cold water, fire you shall find,  
Who plays with boys, comes often to disgrace.   
They marveled not a little at the sweetness of his song, & were no less sorry, because they knew not what Shepherd he was; but seeing it was not then possible to know him, they went on their nighest ways. Some haste they made to pass away the heat of the day in that Island, where they found the desperate Shepherdess Belisa, taking the same to be a more fresh and pleasant place, and more quiet for their recreation then any other. Whereunto being come, they saw how a little brook, covered almost all over with sweet and smelling herbs, ran gently thorough a little green meadow amongst a rank of divers trees, that were nourished and maintained by the clear water; under the shadows of which, as they were now determined to rest themselves, Syrenus said. Let us see (if you think good) from whence this little spring doth issue forth: It may be the place is more fresh and cooler thereabouts; if not, or if we cannot find out the fountain, from whence it flows, we will come hither again. It liked his company well, and so they desired him to lead the way. Every place and part, that all the brook upwards they trod on, invited them to pleasant rest, being all alike to the very fountain, whereupon Seluagia said. If we cannot find out the beginning of this spring, we shall not find (at the least) any discontent for ourselves, or suffer any trouble in returning back again, since so convenient places (as better, and more pleasant we cannot wish for our desired rest) in going up higher, are offered unto us. Having now gone up a little along the running brook, and not found out the head, and that every step (as I said) presented unto them a pleasant place of rest, they went staying sometimes, & sometimes reasoning with themselves, where they might sit, one of them saying: This place is more fresh: and another answering, no, but this, let us sit down here, for this is more pleasant: no, but here (said another:) So that the pleasant object of every place held them in such suspense, that none of them could choose out the best. But resolving at the last upon one, they took the scrips of their shoulders, and passing their sheepehookes from their left hands, they took them in their right to lay them down to rest, when they saw, that with greater quantity of waters and fresher shades of green trees the brook ran up higher; so that for a new hope, a new air and place was objected to them. They had not yet scarce begun to go up a little farther, when the brook forsaking her right course towards the left hand, made them turn their steps back again, where they discovered a great thicket, and spring of divers trees. Coming to the which, they saw a very narrow entrance, and somewhat long, whose sides were not of walls fabricated by artificial hand, but made of trees by nature (the mistress of all things:) so that the woody place was no less ennobled and imbelished with the natural verdure, than the stately chambers with embossed gold. For there was seen the deadly Cypress, the triumphant Laurel, the hard Oak, the low sallow, the invincible palm, the black and ruggie Elm, the Olive, the pricky Chestenut, & the high Pineapple, one amongst another; whose bodies were bound about with green ivy and the fruitful vine, and beset with sweet jesmines & many other redolent flowers, that grew very thick together in that place. Amongst the which many little birds (inhabitants of that wood) went leaping from bough to bough, as in scornful cages, making the place more pleasant with their sweet and silver notes. The trees were in such order set together, that they denied not the golden sunbeams to have an entrance in between the boughs and leaves, to paint forth the green ground with divers colours, which reverberated from the flowers, that were never steady in one place, by reason that the movable leaves did disquiet them. This narrow way did also lead to a little green, covered all over with fine grass, and not touched with the hungry mouths of devouring flocks. At the side of it, was the fountain of the brook, having a care, that that place should not dry up, sending forth on every side her flowing waters. The water of this clear fountain came out of a stony rock, which a great Oak with his hard roots did embrace, on either side whereof stood two great Laurel trees. This fountain did rise towards that place, where the sun begins to mount, declining somewhat to the septentrional part. The same rocky stone, whereby the water ran out, served both for a mouth and channel, which was not wrought with the blow of the hard Chesil; but by the continual running of the gentle water: and so it was in some places a little more worn, then in others, being more soft, or (to say more properly) less hard in one place then in another; and by reason of the concavity of the stone, there was seen an inequality, that represented a more pleasant and gracious running, because it made the water come out more merrily with high and low falls, representing certain crystalline in clears, and shadows, a pleasant and delightful sight to the greedy eye. The water fell into a fountain of the same rocky stone, wrought after the same form, as the channel was: It was foursquare, and every side was four foot in breadth, and in depth six or a little more. The Petrenall was not right, to smite fire with the blow of hard steel, because it was not black, but so white, that had it not been for the hardness thereof, none would have thought, but that it had been Alabaster. And though it was not so curiously cut out, and wrought like marble, yet was it marvelous and strange for the turn it served. And so for the clecrenes of the water, as also for the whiteness of the rocky stone it was so crystalline, that if any foul thing did fall therein, it was so apparent to his sight that came thither, that (maugre his will) he was forced not to suffer it to receive such injury, but to bring it again to the former pureness: For which cause it was ever kept very clear, and clean. The water ran out of it into an Island on both sides, to enuironne the green plat, which was set round about with white Poplars, black Elms, and green Sallowes. It was in length about a hundred and fifty paces, and a hundred and twenty in breadth. There was no entrance into it, but where the Shepheds went in, and by another way right over against the same, made almost in the self same form and fashion: for the thickness of the trees stopped up all other ways, and also because the water that ran by the sides, issuing towards the side without in some places of that brook, did wax so broad between the place of the trees, that by the plain it could not, by reason that it was somewhat higher. near to this fountain did the Shepherds sit under the shadow of a braunchie Oak, and certain Laurel trees, and taking out some of those victuals that Doria had provided for them (after they had rested themselves a little) they overcame their importunate hunger, satisfying their appetites sufficiently with the same: and because they had a good way to go that day, they took not their rest, as much as the place and their desires did invite them; but before all the heat of the day was passed (lest the time should also pass away with it) they were about to go from that place. But as they were preparing themselves to rise, and to be gone, Syrenus said to sylvanus. It is not reason sylvanus, that, living now in such joy and content, and in the presence of thy beloved Seluagia, thou shouldest let thy Bagpipe wax so dry; nor, is it meet, that from this pleasant place (the friendly entertainment and delights whereof thou hast enjoyed) thou shouldest departed, without requiting it with the sweetness of thy melody, and song. With greater reason (answered sylvanus) should the Hamadryades preservers of these trees, and the Dryads inhabitors of these green woods complain of thee, that wouldst go away, without giving them some part of thy sweet harmony, and melodious voice. Let us leave this courteous contention (said Syrenus) and do that which I request thee, for the great reason which thou hast to do it for that which I told thee first, though thou wilt not (perhaps) for that, which I alleged last. For the first indeed I cannot deny thee said sylvanus, but in faith I know not what to sing, that might not grieve thee, that art so far from love, or offend me that am so full of amorous thoughts, so that in the end I can sing nothing (unless it be to mine own grief) but that which belongs thereunto. To hear thy delicate songs, and enjoy the sweetness of thy voice (said, Syrenus) I will be content with any thing: but since it must needs be in such sort, in thy song I pray thee show, how far the firmnenes of thy love extendeth, which thou bearest to thy loving Shepherdess; for by occasion hereof I know she cannot, nor will not choose but answer thee again, in whose sweet voice and song I shall take no less delight, then in thine. I am content said sylvanus. And then thus he began.  
sylvanus. 
IT may fall out the heavens may turn at leisure,  
And stay themselves upon the highest mountains:  
And Ezla, and Mondego, at their pleasure.  
With hasty course turn back unto their fountains:  
And that the flax, or reed, laid to the fire,  
May not consume in flames, but burn like wire:  
But yet the day and time shall happen never,  
When Sylvan shall not love Seluagia ever.   
Immediately without any entreaty, Seluagia, because she would not die in sylvanus debt, nor be beholding to him in this respect, taking her Baggepipe up, in this sort did answer him.  

Seluagia. 
The ground shall first be void, nor trod, nor used,  
Losing her nature, and her proper being:  
First shall the rain, and water be refused  
Of plants, no moisture round about them seeing:  
First shall our life with air be not sustained,  
And first the food of hunger be disdained:  
Before the world shall see a deed so heinous,  
Seluagia not to love her dear sylvanus.   
sylvanus. 
The presence of the wolf, that doth devour  
The silly lambs, in shades shall not be feared:  
As little shall the hare, within her bower  
The yalping hounds, nor hearts of lions teared;  
Nor Mouse of Cat, All hate shall be extruded,  
And loving peace twixt all shall be concluded:  
But yet the time and day shall happen never  
When Sylvan shall not love Seluagia ever.   
Seluagia. 
The flock of little chickes (the dams dear treasure)  
Of ravening kites and gleades shall be eschewed:  
The Partridge shall securely live in pleasure,  
Of praying Goshauke being not pursued:  
The pullen shall not be of Fox molested,  
But peace, and truce twixt all shall be suggested:  
But never lies a deed in her so heinous,  
As that Seluagia should forget sylvanus.   
sylvanus. 
I say, while any part shall be maintained  
Of thy sylvanus with blood and vital powers,  
And whilst each member of the same sustained  
Shall be with soul, unto their latest hours;  
And if (besides) the soul can love (expired)  
When to the grave the body is retired,  
In life, in death, else let him prosper never:  
Sylvan. sshall love his Shepherdess for ever.   
Seluagia. 
I say, while living breath shall not be wanting  
In thy Seluagia, loving thee so truly:  
And while her soul, within her body panting,  
Shall make abode, and govern it so duly:  
And afterwards, if that (the same deceased)  
Body and soul may be in love increased,  
In life, and death, and after death so heinous,  
Seluagia shall for ever love sylvanus.    
Syrenus being very glad for the contentment of their company, and to see them both love one another with such mutual and great affection, and knowing that it belonged to the duty of friendship, and (though he had refused) that they would entreat him in the end to sing, without more ado, took his Rebecke and sung thus.  

THe Gods grant you to frolic in your hall,  
His years, that so long time with nature strive,  
And that in happy fortune you may live,  
Free from all kind of sorrows, great or small:  
And in your love one hair may never fall  
Of jealousy, a plague eid like a sieve.  
Let heavens to temporal 〈◊〉 their favours give.  
Fire, air, sea, earth, and nature at your call.  
The rot may never touch your soundest stocks,  
Fear of the wolf your shades may not molest:  
And wily fox not fear your pretty lambs.  
In plenty may increase your goodly stocks,  
Two kids may yearly yeane your fruitful dams,  
And your fair Ewes with double twinlings blest.   
The Shepherds having made an end of their sweet songs, rose up, and casting their hairy scrippes on their shoulders, staying themselves upon their knotty sheephooks, began to go on their way. Who being comen out of that pleasant place into a fair mead, to pass the time away, and lighten their travel and length of their way, went inventing and exercising divers pastoral sports, of which they made Seluagia judge between them both; sometimes throwing with their slings at some white or mark, that they could espy within their reach upon the side of some hill or tree; sometimes trying with great dexterity the goodness of their slings, to see, who could give the greatest crack with them; sometimes striving who could throw his Sheephooj farthest; sometimes contending to pitch them nearest to some white, or Daisy in the way before them, and whether of them with the strength of his arm could come nighest to some other mark, as far as they could reach; and sometimes striving who could smite a stone farthest with them. In this sort they passed the time and weariness of their way, until the broad mantel of the dark night beginning to overspread those plains and fields, made an end of their sports, and warned them to take their rest, where they lodged that night. The next day in the morning betimes, when the pretty birds with their warbling notes filling the air (not yet fully clear) with harmony, foretold the coming of the Vermilion morning, they began to make an end of their former journey. And now did the sun cast down his beams hotter upon their heads, and with greater heat showing his forces, when the three Shepherds came in sight of their known fields, and plains, so often trodden of them before. Whereupon they now began to know their wandering flocks, and amongst those Diana's sheep, although they were mingled with the flocks of her unworthy husband Delius: And so as sylvanus was saying, (These are the flocks of the ungrateful and disdainful Shepherdess Diana, and of the Shepherd Delius, happy without desert) Seluagia said. It is not good to go by and not salute Diana, if we find her there: And so they went that way to seek her out, where they had not gone far, but they saw her standing very sad, and leaning against a great Oak with her elbow upon her sheephooj, and her cheek upon the palm of her hand, whereby one might have judged the care and sorrow that so much troubled her pensive mind. After a little while (as though she was angry with herself for casting herself into so great a grief) she put her hand into her bosom, and took out a fine little Baggepipe, the which putting to her mouth to play on it, in that very instant, she threw it to the ground, and without more ado, sliding down along the body of the tree, sat her down, as if for great feebleness she had not been able to stay herself on her feet, and casting out a sorrowful sigh, and looking upon her harmless Baggepipe, she spoke these words. Accursed Baggepipe, consuming fire burn thee, for the grief and anguish that thou hast given me. I brought thee with me to lighten and assuage my cruel sorrow, in which duty thou hast not only failed, but redoubled it the more. Thou shalt not then accompany me any more, for the ill requital of that love, wherewith I did ever cherish thee. Now I am not any more for thee, nor thou to serve my turn: There shalt thou lie for the parching sun to open thee, making thee as dry as I am comfortless; and for the rain to rot thee, making thee as moist as my cheeks, sponged with continual tears. Ah woe is me, how am I deceived, in thinking that the silly and senseless Baggepipe is in fault of that, which envious Fortune hath made me feel, and in forgetting (being so skilful in other things) how more abundantly my fortune surchargeth my soul with pain and troubles, than this poor Baggepipe with any fault or injury? How do I afflict and molest myself for a small cause, having so many to weary me withal? O God, how comes it to pass, that the cause of my passed joy and gladness is now the occasion of my present sorrow, and that those things, which before were light and easy, are now most grievous torments and burdens to me? How soon is pleasure exiled from my poor soul, wherein it was wont to make so sweet a sojourn? In how short a time have I lost my dear content, whilom my only & trusty companion? And how easily am I deprived of all joy and happiness, which I once so much at will possessed? To what end doth it avail me to be endowed with beauty and wit (which with modesty I may challenge, since all do affirm the same in me) unless they were sufficient to remove some part of my grief? But I beseech the sovereign Gods, that I were so far from beauty and wit, as I am at this present from joy and comfort, so that either the first had not brought me to this painful condition of life, or want of the second passed it away without feeling it so sensibly. O Syrenus and sylvanus, how are ye now revenged of me, although it be unknown to you, thou sylvanus of the contempt I did unjustly bear thee, & thou Syrenus of the ill requital I gave thee for thy sincere and earnest love. How near (alas) doth the sorrowful memory of that joyful time come to my mind, that did so soon slide out of my hands? I would the Gods had been so pitiful to me, at one and selfsame time to have ended my days, and those delightful hours. When she had spoken these words, she gave so great a sob, and such vehement sighs, that it seemed she had no more life left to animate her afflicted and feeble body. Syrenus his liberty and oblivion, and sylvanus his new content were not so great, but that their hearts did melt with pity at Diana's sorrowful words and afflictions: for the passions and effects, which with her doleful speeches so lively she represented, were so many, that might have moved the cruel Tigers to tenderness and compassion. In all this complaint she spoke not a word almost, that was not accompanied with a grievous sigh. Seluagia therefore (who by experience knew well, how much a great grief aggravateth the hart that suffers it) felt Diana's pain no less, than both the Shepherds. But above all the rest, a certain Shepherd, who because he would not be seen, stood closely behind a great Oak, yet as near unto her as he could, to hear her the better, & to see her face. The three Shepherds that were not far off, perceived him, though he saw them not again: And it was worthy of admiration, to see how astonished he stood at Diana's beauty, augmented (if it might be) with the burning anger and anguish of her grievous thoughts, and enamelled with the crystalline tears, which he saw trickle down from her clear eyes upon her Rosy cheeks; so that the Shepherd did neither stir hand nor foot, nor did once put together (a common and natural thing in all men) his moving eyelids. But Diana unable to take some little rest and ease in any place, rising up from the hard ground, she went into those bushy thickets, next unto her, which was as great a grief unto the unknown Shepherd, as if his tender hart had been rend out of his panting breast. For seeing Diana gone, and that she would not hearken to his request (for he prayed her to stay a little longer) he made haste to follow her: But thinking with himself, that it contented her better to be alone, he went not after her, because he would not in any thing offend her, but sitting down again, and taking out his Rebecke, he began to sing this song following.  


Fair Shepher desk Diana,  
Where dost thou now thy figure hide,  
More bright than clear Diana,  
When to her full course she is hide.   

Venus, the Goddess fair,  
Of beauties all the sooner aine,  
Wonders at this affair,  
That now her beauties do not rain.   

A sunny beam thou art,  
And who beholds thy heavenly dies,  
Thou wound'st with nature's art,  
And wounded, in his passions dies.   

Thou art a Diamond well,  
From whence sweet liquor floweth fast,  
Ambrosium thou art well,  
From which mine eyes shall never fast.   

Each thing in thee thou hast  
To make thee perfect in each part,  
If now thou wouldst but haste  
To pity, not my soul to part.   

This wager will I bear,  
And lay, Thou wantest not an ounce,  
More cruel than a Bear  
To be, or Tiger, or an Ounce.   

Cruel thou art in praying,  
For thee I burn, as flames in Kill,  
Those that to thee are praying  
For mercy, thou dost scorn and kill.   

My soul thine absence tears,  
And gives unto the same again  
Torments, my torments tears,  
(Tears that do make so small a gain.)   

More bitter than the gall,  
Thy absence is, or Sallow wan,  
With sorrow it doth gall  
My hart, and makes me pale and wan.   

In beauty not a peer  
Thou hast, for it exceeds the rest,  
But where it doth appear,  
Thy cruelty there gives no rest.   

O what a fool am I  
To wish to see her in this plain,  
That from her mouth an (I)  
Will not afford, but (No) so plain.   

No pain I do deserve  
For words, having worse deeds essaid  
For whom Love thus doth serve,  
It is not much this to have said.   

If that thou meanest to seal  
Thy cruelty in deeds to leave,  
How can I then conceal  
The same in song among these leaves?   

Fair Shepherdess, who bade  
Thee fly from me? If thou dost weigh,  
So base a thing, and bad,  
Deserves not glory any way.    
They marveled much at the shepherds new kind of song, and how he wrested the self same words to fall in rhyme, that were of different significations: to whom at last they came, who, perceiving he was espied, held his peace. And after they had saluted each other, Syrenus said. Whosoever thou art jolly Shepherd, so may not thy loving flocks be devoured of the hungry wolves, nor want the sweet and cool shades in burning summer, nor taste of the foul waters in seeking out clear streams and fountains, that thou wouldst hold on thy song: for this Shepherd and fair Shepherdess here shall play unto thee, whose merry Bagpipes, and sweet songs have not once, but a hundred times stayed the nimble footed Fauns and satires in their swift flight, and made the fair Nymphs to come out of their green arbours to listen to them. Shepherd, said Firmius again (for this was his name) thy manner of adjuring me is but of little force, since it shall grieve me little or nothing whether my flocks be torn by ravening wolves, when deeper matters than these trouble my mind, which (more than devouring wolves) tear my hart a sunder. But yet for the respect which thou hast told me of these Shepherds (which I believe no less) I would be glad to give you all the pleasure I could, but since I have it not myself, nor am desirous to have it in this sort, it is impossible that you should take any by my means; and the more, since by those signs of joy, that by their countenance may be gathered, they have little need to borrow it from him, that hath none at all. We will not deny (said Seluagia) but that, which thou hast said, is true, that so much, and more ready we are to show our joy, as thou art to manifest thy sorrow, which is not (by that we ourselves have seen) of many days, nor hours continuance, because it seems to be (to speak in plainer terms) for love of the fair Shepherdess Diana. And if it be so, the sorrow cannot be much, which in so small a time cannot do any great harm. I will not deny Shepherdess (said Firmius) nor confess unto thee, that Diana's beauty hath destroyed my content. But admit she were the cause thereof, thou hast but little skill (it seems) and less experience in Cupid's wounds; for thou sayest that in a small time a great wound cannot be made, as if it were needful for love to have some longer time to make a deep & perfect wound, to touch one to the quick. Thou knowest mine but a little (said Seluagia) by not confessing, that it is not only greater than thine, or any others that were ever borne. Thou hadst not said amiss (said Firmius) if thou didst add (in thine opinion.) It needed not (said Seluagia.) and less need have I (said Firmius) by thy love to know mine own, if (at the least) I had any at al. By not confessing it (said Seluagia) thou showest the little interest thou hast in love: and perhaps the great property (said Firmius) that I have in grief and sorrow, because I dare not tell it. Why (said Seluagia) who doth hide the glory of thy thoughts? My small deserts (said Firmius.) So much the better (said Seluagia) because the glory is greater. Nay the worse for this (said Firmius) because the fall shall be the greater. Thou art a great master of words (said Seluagia.) Nay of works (said Firmius.) I have not seen them hitherto (said Seluagia.) To this last Firmius would not answer again: But Syrenus, that marveled all this while at the sharp and witty answers of the unknown Shepherd, put himself between them both to end this strife, as also for that he saw sylvanus somewhat altered, seeing his Shepherdess urged so much, although he discreetly tempered himself with Firmius his moderate and mild answers, which made him hold his peace, which otherwise he would not have done: wherefore Syrenus said. No more gentle Shepherds, as you love yourselves. Then Seluagia acknowledging her fault, and the modesty of the Shepherd, she looked on him with a mild and sober countenance, saying. Pardon me good Shepherd, for the force of my great love urged me to say thus much. But I (said Firmius) must rather crave pardon, for if there be any offence, it is of my side. I am glad (said Syrenus) that you are friends again, and that you will not fall out for so small a matter. I knew thee Syrenus, (said sylvanus) when once thou wouldst not judge it so light a thing as now thou dost. But of friendship Shepherd, (looking upon Firmius) he said, tell us (since thou hast showed thyself so wise in every thing) how that may be, which thou didst say: That love doth make his operations as perfect in a short time, as in a longer: for (me thinks) it should be clean contrary to reason and experience, I mean, if it be not by some extraordinary and secret science, as Felicia doth, a Lady not meanly experimented in those operations. On the otherside, I would feign know the cause thereof, if at least there be any; for to make a change in ourselves, (which is but an easy matter in comparison) we must have the help of some time, how much more than is it requisite for so great a work as that, which Cupid makes. In base and simple Cottages in my native fields (replied Firmius) I would have thee also ask this question, where so wise and learned a Shepherd abides, who is able, not only to satisfy thy doubts herein, but what else thou wouldst desire to know. But as concerning this matter, I remember I heard him say: That as the Sun, when it appears, doth in the very point and instant power down all his brightness without wasting any time, & perfectly gives us his light: So Cupid (whom he called the God of love) when he takes possession of the lovers hart, doth in an instant with his full and absolute force command and reign there. This comparison (said sylvanus) doth not like me so well. Why so, said Firmius? for according to the same (said sylvanus) we should all love in equal proportion and degree, if love with all his force in such sort wounded every one, which I will not confess. Shepherd (said Firmius) thou hast so well touched the matter to the quick, that I must needs yield myself overcomed, and yet without shame, since the meaning thereof exceeds my pastoral condition and conceit. But give me leave a little, and I will bethink me (if I can remember) how he resolved the like objection. But this (I think) and the rest is slid out of my memory, and yet (me thinks) I should remember it, and have it at my tongues end. And now I call it to mind, though I know not whether so well as he spoke it. But howsoever it is, you must accept it in such rude sort, as I shall tell it you. He said, if Cupid wrought more in one hart then in another, that this proceeded not of Cupid's part, who assails all equally, but of the better disposition of the hart, where he makes his impression; and for this he brought a pretty comparison. For with examples he made us Countrey-fellowes understand this and many other things, because by them we might remember the better what he told us. But the example was this. That as the Sun or fire doth sooner heat a piece of wood, than a stone (giving as much heat to the one as to the other) because the wood is apt and better disposed to receive the heat, than the stone: so love maketh a greater impression in one hart then in another, by reason of the better disposition of one, then of another. He added moreover, that as the stone resisteth heat better than the wood; and after it is once hot, more hardly loseth that heat, than the wood, which more easily received it: so he, that most resisteth love, and being after subject unto it, with greater difficulty delivers himself, than he who suffered himself but easily to be overcomed by it. And with this ask me no more of this matter: for as I now remember no more; so was not then my weak capacity able to attain to the knowledge & conceit of those things, which he alleged. And yet I know not how I understood this: for when we were satisfied, thinking we had known it sufficiently, and that (in our judgements) there was no more to conceive, you might have seen him change the whole matter again, and gainsay his former propositions; so that he quite undid all that he said before, and confuted his former examples by other clearer assertions, and more apparent reasons that he had in store; and when we were inclined to this place, he turned us again to the other, and then to the contrary, at his pleasure: so that he wrought us like weaklings on every side, as liked him best, making us ever incline to that which he last of all alleged. In the end, though he had set all clearly down before us; yet (when he list) he marred, and darkened all again. If he had spoken (said Syrenus) in any other thing but in love, his company had been as fit and acceptable to me, as thine is now. But truly it was a strange sufficiency in a Shepherd to do what thou hast told us: for there is no reason (me thinks) to refel that which thou hast said, by that experience which sometimes I have had in like matters. But tell me young Shepherd, where did this Shepherd learn so much? I know not, said Firmius. For as I am a stranger in these parts, so is he in those. But I imagine that love, and his good judgement were his best Schoolmasters there: For (as I perceived by him) he had in both no small experience: and was (as we heard) but a Shepherd in habit, and that his misfortunes had clad him in pastoral weeds. They must (no doubt) be very great (said Syrenus) when they brought him to so poor an estate. Do you not know them well, said Firmius? No, said sylvanus; and therefore I pray you tell them us. It were too long and troublesome a task for me (answered Firmius) to tell them now, and therefore I pray you request it not of me. He saith well (said Syrenus) and we had also need to rest us, wherefore let us go our ways: And God be with thee gentle Shepherd. And with you, answered Firmius. But if our company like thee, said sylvanus, come and rest with us: the which Seluagia and Syrenus did also both request him to do. The Shepherd thanked them and refused, for he had rather been alone the better to pass away his passions in solitariness, and to go seek Diana, whose lovely face and beauties he carried about with him in his hart. Yet no excuse could avail him with the shepherds, for in the end they carried him with them. The one to take pleasure in his sweet company and conversation; the other to wean him (if he could) from his amorous thoughts, with the which he was not meanly troubled for the love of fair Diana, which they well suspected, though he hide it from them, as much as he could, because he knew not what Diana was, and feign would have asked, if he had had any good means and opportunity without suspicion. But as they were now come near to their town, Seluagia said. It shall not be amiss, to make our town know of our coming, and content, which our merry Bagpipes and Rebecks shall sound forth. They all agreed thereunto, and tuning one with another, began to play on them very sweetly. sylvanus, and Seluagia upon Bagpipes, Syrenus and Firmius upon Rebecks. Seluagia prayed Firmius and Syrenus, since the played on Rebecks to sing. To play on my Rebecke (said Firmius) though unwilling I agree thereunto, but to sing it most of all discontents me. Yet refuse not (said Seluagia) to pleasure us. Sing if thou wilt something in the praise of fair Diana, for this (I imagine) will not be unpleasant unto thee; and then shall Syrenus sing that which best likes his fancy. Whereunto Firmius condescending, and every one playing on their instruments, he began to sing this Sonnet.  

THe fearful Bat that lurks in stony wall,  
Flies here and there assured of her sight,  
When that she sees the signs of darksome night  
Approaching on, contented therewithal;  
But when she spies the sunny beams so bright,  
Her fault she doth acknowledge and recall.  
So now of late to me it did befall:  
For I did think there was no other light  
Nor beauty then in her, who did invite  
My senses first to love: but (to my thrall)  
When I beheld Diana so bedight  
With beauties, and such grace Angelical,  
Then by and by I knew that heretofore  
I plainly erred: but never could do more.   
The time was once, when Syrenus could not have been better pleased, then to have replied upon Firmius in Dian'as praises. But being now free, he thought there was not any thing, whereon he might best employ his song, then in giving the fields and shepherds to understand of the coming of sylvanus, and Seluagia his dearest friends, who therefore with a friendly note began to sing as followeth.  


THe open fields, the meadows fresh and green  
Their colour and their sign of hope had lost,  
Having not Sylvan. and Seluagia seen,  
With whose sweet presence they did always boast.   

The goodly vales and hills were hard and dried,  
Without the steps, that now doth make them glad,  
Shepherds and sheep in me lancholie died,  
Deprived of their songs, that once they had.   

Now all with pride will show their joys again,  
All will rejoice, as once they did before:  
The hill, the vale, the field the, mead, and plain,  
For merry spring and summer they restore:  
Welcome Seluagia then, your joyful spring,  
And her sylvanus, that doth summer bring.    
sylvanus and Seluagia would gladly have answered him, had they not been hindered by the confluence and flocking of shepherds and Shepherdesses, that came running together at Syrenus' voice (so well known amongst them) and to the welcome of the shepherds, so well-beloved of them all. And because it was now about that time of the day, when they should defend themselves from the glowing sun, they were a good while in the town, having left their gentle sheep under the shades of divers trees, and safeguard of their fierce mastiffs. Their welcome of the shepherds, and their thanks to them again being past, they went all to take their rest, taking Firmius with them, who marveled greatly at the earnest love and affection that all the shepherds and Shepherdesses showed at Syrenus coming, of whose absence (which till then he knew not of) he would have talked something with him, but deferred it, until he had fit time and opportunity. But it was told him before he asked it, and the whole success of his loves from the beginning to his present estate of life. O how many bitter draughts of jealousy did he swallow down in the mean time (think you) that they were telling of the favours, that Diana had in times past bestowed on Syrenus. Then would he have been glad, that they had never begun to tell that wounding discourse, and if at that time they had not made an end of their talk, they had put him in great peril of his welfare. Syrenus, sylvanus, and Seluagia perceived very well his secret grief of mind, by so many changes of his colour, that went and came in his face, that they were apparent signs of the present grief he felt. But when they came to the drink that Felicia gave him, they restored him to life again, who took besides no small joy and comfort in seeing how far Syrenus was from Diana's favours, and how freely, and without alteration of countenance, he talked himself, and heard them tell the things that were past and gone, whereupon he never made an end in thanking and blessing the sage Lady Felicia in his mind, thinking that she had done that especial favour for him, by giving Syrenus the cup of forgetfulness to drink on, since by means thereof, she took so great a block out of his way, not because he thought Syrenus knew not how to serve and please her, better than he, nor that he had less good parts in him then Syrenus, to obtain any favour of her; but because he being unknown, and Syrenus having made love so long before him, he thought it a hard matter to bring him out of favour with Diana, and as difficult a thing to throw him down from so high an estate, as he had attained unto. But he revolved in his memory, and considered of Diana's inconstancy towards Syrenus, though he laid the fault more on Syrenus for absenting himself at such a time, thinking, if he had come then in the nick, when Syrenus did, that he had known better how to have helped himself by such an occasion. His head was so occupied in these and other considerations, that the shepherds perceiving in what passions he was, left him all alone, because they were glad to pleasure him in any thing they could, who then began to talk of their own affairs, & to give good order for convenient provision, & keeping of their flocks. After they had agreed upon these matters, they determined to know of Firmius if he would remain in those parts any long time, and if it were his will to take upon him the charge and keeping of their flocks till their return: whereupon they went to him, and asked him his name, and knowing it, would have known from whence he came, and what he was. But perceiving these demands did not like him very well, they would not urge him farther than his own will & pleasure: but they told him what they had agreed upon, if he thought good to do it. He gave them many thanks for the good opinion and confidence they had in him, not knowing what he was, saying, he was very glad to do it. For though he was minded not to stay in that country, yet to do them any service (he could) he would at such time make his abode there, during the time they went about their other business. In the end after they had agreed with him, they delivered him their flocks, which he kept so well and charily all the time that they were yet at home, that they were very glad they had found out so good a keeper, but he was more, that his fortune was so good, to have so fit an occasion to remain, where he thought he might sometimes enjoy Diana's presence with so good an excuse, and not of intent to procure the same.  
In these days (though they were but a few) none durst take in hand to play on their Bagpipes and Rebecks; for so sweet were Firmius his songs, and so melodious his voice wherewith so greatly he ravished the rest, that they thought their time but ill bestowed, that was not spent in hearing him. They went many times to entreat with Diana for him; but she was so froward and disdainful, that their conversation and speeches with her; and her answers to them again pleased not each other very well. Not her, not because she was not glad to see those Shepherds (and Syrenus especially) but because it was a great grief and torment to her mind to have him before her eyes soliciting for another, who was sometimes all her joy and delight (having yet some few relics of her former love she bore him) and to see him now so oblivious of all the same. Not the Shepherds, because being so jocund & merry, they would not have any sad in their company, especially Diana, to whom they wished all the good that might be, though now in another sort, then in times past they did it. And the company both of the one and other neither pleased Diana nor themselves, because that sorrow and solitariness, which pleased Diana, the shepherds eschewed and fled, and the delights and joyful company that the Shepherds sought out, Diana did utterly forsake: So that if they went to see her, it was only to drive out of her mind (if they could) her great and grievous thoughts. Into the which, Seluagia seeing her on a day so plunged, to rid her from them, said. So may the Gods be favourable unto thee Diana, and give thee that content, which thou most desirest, if thou wouldst sing, and play on thy Bagpipe a little. How art thou deceived Seluagia (said Diana) by thinking that I should hope for content, when I know assuredly there is none at all left for me, because all the ways, whereby it should have passage into my soul, are now stopped up. And this is my greatest grief, that I have no hope at all never to be rid from my continual sorrow. One only mean, whereon my chiefest hope dependeth is left, which is untimely death. And yet fortune being in every thing so contrary to me, hath taken it away also from me, since I cannot give it myself, without great infamy and shame to remain me ever after to my name and memory: which should not yet be a hindrance to the performance of it, nor I would not care for the same, if there were not another matter in the way. Thou dost request me to sing, and (alas) I can do nothing but weep. The day that you came home, I essayed to do it, but demand of my hart, if not, of my Baggepipe what passed; for this remained afflicted and full of grief, and that thrown away in a profound and painful passion, where yet (I think) it lies, beseeching the Sovereign Gods, that, as I had strength and a hart to cast my senseless Bagpipe away, I had also the power to cast my hart from me, that then and now doth feel such excessive woes. So that now having forgotten my singing, and left my Bagpipe, pardon me if herein I cannot pleasure thee. Then said Syrenus to Seluagia: It is not in Diana's power (fair Shepherdess) to do any thing against thy will. Nor in her power (said Diana) to have any thing fall out to her own will. But since in times past (said Syrenus) when the conquering of thee did most of all behove me, thou didst ever carry away the victory, why then in this (wherein I lose nothing, nor care to be overcomed) need I pretend to be conquer our? I will not enter into disputations with thee, and therefore let it be as thou wilt. O how many inward sighs did every one of these words, and the remembrance of that which was past, cost afflicted Diana. But for love of thyself (said Syrenus to Diana) let us go and seek out thy Bagpipe: for it is no reason thou shouldest requite it so ill, that hath done thee so good service: And by the way we will go to our flocks, and bring thee acquainted with Firmius, of whom I have told thee sometimes before, and if we could entreat him to sing, I know thou wouldst take great delight to hear him: the one for his great judgement and wisdom; the other, because he is as sorrowful as thyself, whereby thou mightest (I think) receive some comfort and content. But if Syrenus had known, what should afterwards have befallen unto him of these praises, and of other things which he told of Firmius, he would not only have left undone what he did, nor spoken at all in the matter, but not once have had a thought thereof. Thou hast told me so much of this new Shepherd (said Diana) that I must needs go see him: for there are two things in him (thou tellest me) befitting my humours so well, but especially his melancholy and sad life, wherein I shall best conform myself with him. Now were they come in sight of the place, where Diana had left her Bagpipe, when they saw Firmius singing to the tune of his Rebecke. We are come in good time (said Syrenus) for Firmius is singing, and (happily) I must needs say, since so seldom he is wont to do it, being continually so full of sad and pensive thoughts. Coming therefore softly and secretly on, because they would not be seen of him, they heard him singing this transuersed Sextiven.  


IN this green Mead mine Eyes what do you see,  
The Bagpipe of my Nymph so passing fair?  
Unless my senses Dream, so should it be,  
For Sure this is the Oak, wherewith despair  
She leaned unto, and here the grass yet lies,  
And field, that she did water with her eyes.   

What doubt I then? mine Eyes see it so plain:  
For Sure I know, this is the very Mead,  
And tree, that did her tender limbs sustain:  
This is the Bagpipe, which my Nymph did tread  
Upon: This is the Oak, the happy beam,  
Whereto she leaned, I know this is no Dream.   

But if I Dream, that thinking with mine Eyes  
All this I see, and all doth prove but nought:  
And if this Oak in dream I do surmise,  
And see this Mead, but only in my thought,  
Where my fair Nymph did print her goodly feet:  
O Sure it were a dream to me most sweet.   

jove thee I pray, if this I do but fear,  
And if my Dream doth fall out Sure or no?  
By all the love to Nymphs, that thou didst bear,  
Open mine Eyes the truth that I may know:  
Help me to pray him green and flowery Mead,  
Help me to pray him, Oak with branchy head.   

What hath deserved this fair and stately Oak,  
Why that should not be Sure, which I do see?  
What heinous fault could this fine Meade provoke,  
Why things in deed should seem but Dreams to me?  
Unto mine Eyes what is befallen of late,  
Why that they should not see my nymphs estate?   

This Bagpipe of my Nymph I will devise,  
To hang it here (fair Oak) to honour thee:  
A worthy Trophy, though before mine Eyes  
Lying disgraced for tears they cannot see,  
If it be Sure, or if I dream in vain,  
(Spoiled in this Mead with parching sun and rain)   

That gracious Nymph that gave my hart the stroke  
In this green Mead, I saw (a heavenly prize)  
And (if I dream not) leaning to that Oak;  
Nay, Sure, I did be hold her with mine Eyes:  
O that she had but seen me then again,  
Or that I had but seen or dreamed in vain.    
Thus as he made an end of his song, gathering up the freshest and sweetest flowers he could find, he adorned Diana's Bagpipe so finely with them, that one would have thought, it had been that Horn, that Hercules took from Achelous transformed into a Bull, the which, the Naiads decked with plenty of coloured Apples and flowers, whereupon it took the name Cornu copia or the Horn of plenty. When he had done thus, he hanged the Bagpipe upon the Oak, whereunto she had leaned, and hard by it (as afterwards they perceived) wrote these verses. 
I am Diana's, th' Arabian bird in beauty and in grace,  
Let no man therefore once preseume to take me from this place.   
Syrenus, who of purpose (it seemed) would have had Diana show some love to Firmius, stepped before his company, and pulling Firmius by the lap of his coat behind (for his back was towards him) said unto him. I will show thee Shepherd a braver and fresher bow than this, and more worthy of this Trophy, and which will perhaps give thee more content than this Bagpipe, and such a thing that shall be no less welcome to it, then to thyself. Firmius desired him to show it him. Then Syrenus pointing to Diana with his finger, said unto him. Dost thou see it there? Firmius was so altered with the sudden sight of fair Diana, that though he would feign have dissembled it, neither the colour in his face, nor the faintness of his legs would give him leave to do it, for that was gone, and these were not able to support the body without great pain. But in the end borrowing a little strength of his weakness, in the best sort he could, he encouraged his hart to hide that, which was so openly manifest, and answered Syrenus. There should be other Trophies of higher honour placed in this bow. By this time came the two Shepherdesses, and sylvanus and saluted him: but he was in such a case, seeing Diana so near him, that he gave no great heed to their salutations. Whereupon Diana turning to Seluagia, said. This Shepherd should (belike) talk to none, but to himself alone: for in company (me thinks) he hath no list to answer us. You must needs be the cause thereof (said Seluagia) for he never wanted talk for us. Now as thou lovest thy life (said Diana) ask him how he knew my name. This I can tell thee (said Seluagia) without ask him. For when thou threwest down thy Bagpipe in this place, talking with thyself, thou didst name thyself, which I know to be true; for we ourselves heard it, and then she told her in what sort they saw her, and how they found Firmius, and what he then did and said, when she was gone; and told her moreover, that they had asked the same things of Firmius himself, because in his song he had many times named her. If it be thus (said Diana) he knows more of my matters then I would he did. But let us hear what thy sylvanus sayeth unto us. We have requested Firmius (said he) to sing here a little, and we can by no means entreat him: but as I understand by others, and partly by mine own conjecture, that if thou wilt but speak the word unto him, he will do it by and by. There is no reason (said Diana) (by condescending to my requests) that he should deny you yours. But if you be not able to entreat him, here is Seluagia, that can enforce him. Indeed in thy beauty (said Seluagia) all the force and virtue that is sufficient to move greater matters than this, doth consist. But let us leave this, & do that (I pray thee) which my sylvanus requesteth thee. Diana then looking upon Firmius, said unto him. Urged more by the importunate requests of these shepherds, then by any confidence of thy part, or assuredness of mine own, I pray thee (young Shepherd) satisfy their desires. Firmius coming near to Diana, said unto her, and so softly as they could not hear him. As these shepherds are in a safe haven, so would they not (by their wills) but be ever singing and merry: but as I am continually in stormy tempests and suffering shipwiacke for thy sake, not knowing on what shelf of disgrace my fortune will cast me, would not be but, ever weeping and sad. But because I neither can, nor will disobey thy will, unless it be in leaving of to serve thee (which yet at thine own desire I can not do) what shall please thee, I will sing, though it be with a hoarse voice like to the dying swan, divining her ensuing death. Thou art not so near thy end (said Diana) that death should help thee. I am so near ended (said Firmius) that I look only but for death. I did never yet see any (said Diana) die for this cause, but with words, and do believe besides, there are not any such: And speaking a little louder, because they might all hear, with dissembling that which she had secretly spoken unto him, she said. Thou wouldst belike have me tell thee (Firmius) and the rest, that I am desirous to hear thee sing, and because thou art such a friend to wailing and sadness, it were not meet thou shouldst sing at my will and pleasure, but to leave it to thine own. But yet let us tune & concord with these Shepherds, and ask them what thou shalt sing. Thou comest too late to agree and concord with us now, said Syrenus: but because it pleaseth thee so, entreat him to express by his song the cause of his sorrow and passions. Let him sing what thou wilt (said Diana) and what he will, because thou mayst not say, that I never knew how to consorme myself with thee. Then did Firmius take his Rebecke and began to sing in manner following.  


Shepherd's give ear and now be still  
Unto my passions, and their cause,  
And what they be?  
Since that with such an earnest will,  
And such great signs of friendship's laws  
You ask it me.   

It is not long, since I was whole,  
Nor since I did in every part  
Sreewill resign:  
It is not long, since in my sole  
Possession I did know my hart,  
And to be mine.   

It is not long, since even and morrow  
All pleasure that my hart could find,  
Was in my power:  
It is not long, since grief and sorrow  
My loving hart began to bind,  
And to devour.   

It is not long, since company  
I did esteem, a joy indeed  
Still to frequent:  
Nor long, since solitarily  
I lived, and that this life did breed  
My sole content.   

Desirous I (wretched) to see  
But thinking not to see so much  
As then I saw:  
Love made me know in what degree  
His valour and brave force did touch  
Me with his law.   

First he did put no more nor less  
Into my hart, than he did view  
That there did want:  
But when my breast in such excess  
Of lively flames to burn I knew,  
Then were so scant.   

My joys, that now did so abate  
(My self estranged every way  
From former rest)  
That I did know, that my estate  
And that my life was every day  
In deaths arrest.   

I put my hand into my side,  
To see what was the cause of this  
Unwonted vain,  
Where I did feel, that torments hied  
By endless death to prejudice  
My life with pain.   

Because I saw, that there did want  
My hart, wherein I did delight  
(My dearest hart)  
And he that did the same supplant,  
No jurisdiction had of right  
To play that part.   

The judge and robber, that remain  
Within my soul, their cause to try  
Are there all one:  
And so the giver of the pain,  
And he that is condemned to die,  
Or I, or none.   

To die I care not any way,  
Though without why, to die I grieve,  
As I do see:  
But for because I heard her say,  
None die for love, for I believe  
None such there be.   

Then this thou shalt believe by me  
Too late, and without remedy  
As did (in brief)  
Anaxarete, and thou shalt see,  
The little she did satisfy  
With after grief.    
The shepherds gave a diligent ear to Firmius song, to see if by the same he would give some light of the love, that he did bear to Diana; but he was so vigilant to the contrary, that though he reported the cause of his passion, yet they could understand no more than they did at the beginning. It was needless for the three shepherds to know Firmius passion by hearing him sing, who wished rather, that he had manifested it by words, that he might not afterwards deny it, or (to say better) confess it, when any such speech should be offered thereof. For whensoever they told him of it, he spoke of it so obscurely, that he neither confessed, nor denied that he loved her. And so to this intent he finely cloaked with Syrenus, that Diana by his means should demand the cause of his sorrow, thinking with himself, that (for any thing that might ensue) being demanded by her, he would not deny to manifest it unto her. But if he could have concealed his love as well by deeds, as he did by words, the Shepherds might have been as wise, as at the first for ever knowing it. But it fell not out so to Diana, who understood well by his last verse, that all the rest were only meant of her, for it answered to the latter end of her speech, when they both talked so secretly together. And so she made great account of Firmius for his witty and short answer. Every one commended his singing, and Diana, as well for this, and for that which he sung on the Baggepipe, as also for that which he had spoken to Syrenus, was somewhat inclined to like him, thinking very well of that, which he had sung and spoken. Considering besides, that the trouble, which the Shepherd felt, (being in her presence) was no small cooling card, and a sharp bridle to his tongue. For this fear, which Diana clearly perceived was for her sake, she soon took away, because Firmius might be more accepted of her, if there were (at the ) any thing acceptable or pleasant to one, that found herself in so miserable an estate, as she was. But when the song was ended, Diana said she would departed, because she had stayed there a great while, and would go seek out her husband Delius, who would not willingly have been one moment out of her sight and company. Being determined therefore to departed, Syrenus entreated her to take her Baggepipe again with her, if so it pleased her, because none other should unworthily enjoy such a sweet Trophy as Firmius had made of it. She took it, because she thought thereby to show some especial favour to Firmius. And taking it from the tree, she said unto it. God knows, I do not carry thee as a mean to ease or mitigate my passion and sorrow (my intent being clean contrary) for though I might seek some favour and help to sustain them (being so many as they are) yet will I not advantage me with any such remedy, but I do take thee with me, because those Shepherds might not have an occasion to blame me for discourtesy. When she had spoken this, she turned to them, and asked them when they would departed: who told her in the morning, for now they had set all things in good order, and durst not stay any longer, because Felicia about that time would look for their coming, whom they had promised to return assoon as they had set their flocks in good order, and in the custody of some faithful shepherds. Their departure grieved Diana not a little, though she would not manifest so much, but said. Since it is then so, the Gods be favourable unto you, and be your guides. They thanked her again, and prayed her not to sorget to look to their affairs, as they would be careful for hers, and charged her besides, to think upon Firmius and his business, and to supply his wants, if in their absence, he stood in need of any thing: And that, the pleasures and favours that she did him, they would esteem as much, as if she had bestowed them on themselves, since he remained there to keep and tend their flocks. Some other thing (said Diana) you might have demanded at my hands, wherein my good will should not be wanting to my power, for this which you request, considering his great deserts, is no less than due to him. Truth it is (said Firmius) that of a small desert it hath resulted to be great, not of my part, which could not give so great a leap, but of my thought, which hath been sufficient enough to make it most capable of the great glory it feels. And yet for all this thou hast obliged me to much, for which I will not give thee those thanks, that are due to such an offer, because thou mayest not have occasion to remain contented only with words. I understand thee not (said Diana) and though I did, yet will I think, that I do not. But know Shepherd, that I will do what I have said, if I be well; if not, it may be then an easy thing for me to change my opinion, whereat thou must not marvel that I (being the only disciple of mutable fortune) do know so much what belongs to channge. Firmius was so astonished hereat, that the word prepared already to answer her, stuck frozen in his mouth with the cold and sharp blast of her answer, and to see with what liberty and signory she had openly declared her hard hart. Syrenus perceiving that Firmius did not speak, said to Diana. Of one being discreet, thou art become extreme. Rather (answered Diana) of one being extreme (if I may say so) I am become discreet and wise: for Fortune hath taught me so much, that she hath brought me to be extreme in believing it: And I am also myself in extremes; and with this I go, for behold where Delius cometh. For the love of God come quickly again. Another time (said Syrenus) thou didst request this of me, and didst speak these self same words, which then grieved me more, and struck a deeper impression into my soul, then now they do. Diana could not hold her tears at these words, and turning to Syrenus because she would not be seen of them; and going away, she said unto him. The Gods, Syrenus, take account of all these cares, that thou pretendest to give me, & of the small benefit thou hast got in casting me in the teeth with this sorrowful memory. With this she held her peace, breathing out a most doleful sigh, for the grief of mind had taken her force away from speaking any more; and also because Delius was come very near unto her. Firmius clogged with the burden of this grievous thought, went to gather up his flocks, because it was now time. But the Shepherds perceiving that he was not able alone to drive them together (being so many) every one went to help him, willing him to take some Swain to his aid, until he heard more from them. Whereupon the next morning after, they departed towards Felicias Palace.  
The end of the first book.   

The second Book of the second Part of Diana of George of Montemayor.  
THe Shepherds going on their accustomed way, about that time of the day, when the flocks (to eschew the heat of the highest Sun, go hanging down their heads, and with their breath raising up the dry dust, seek out the cool & pleasant shades) they heard a tune of a Bagpipe, & thinking it strange (for as often as they had passed that way before, they never heard so much) they made towards it (the sound thereof being their best guide) to pass away there the heat of the day, if the place did like them well. But now as they came somewhat near, they saw a Shepherd, who (leaving his Bagpipe) began to sing this ditty in a low voice to the tune of a sweet Rebecke that he had in his hands.  


WHen I, poor wretch, of all men most accursed,  
That never durst aspire to sweet content,  
In dolours spent, in miseries the first,  
Lived most secure, to pleasure only bend:   

Which to prevent, The traitorous God of Love  
With force did shove into my careless breast  
Cares and unrest of things, which I above  
All other things till then did scorn and jest:   

He thought (at ) to be revenged of me,  
When he did see, that I scorned him alone  
Because that none should once presume to be  
So stout, as mock his might so tried and known,   

Nor his high throne, nor his supreme estate:  
The Elf of late hath played a subtle part,  
As with new art my joys to ruinated:  
For often as he had essaid my hart   

With wounding dart of beauty to subdue,  
And with the view (not long since) of a face,  
Which took no place, for then in vain he threw:  
A fair and dainty hand he did unbrace,   

With such a grace, and to mine eyes did show,  
And such a blow he gave me with the same,  
That then with shame his power I did know,  
For down it threw me, my brave pride to tame.   

Tell me, how came it thus (fair hand) to pass,  
That so I was with such a blow again  
Thrown down amain, (never to rise, alas)  
By thee so fine and tender to be slain?   

Alas, in vain I took thee for a hand,  
For can it stand, that nature did thee frame?  
Into the same, I think a mighty band  
Of Cupid's powers of late transformed came   

My hart to tame, and dire revenge to take,  
Since I did make so little of his power:  
If now each hour for this thou dost awake  
Thy haughty force, my poor hart to devour:   

Be not so sour, for pardon I do crave,  
The which to have, I promise to obey  
From day to day thy will, thy force and brave  
Command, and also to confess, and say,   

That thou dost sway, more than the rest above,  
O God of Love: And if that any nill  
Embrace thy will his follies to reprove,  
I will advise him how thy wrath doth kill.  
And ever will endeavour to reclaim  
The freest hearts unto thy loving flame.    
The Shepherds wished in their minds, that he had not made an end so soon of his sweet song; but when (staying themselves a little) they perceived, that he was in contemplation of some thought, they went to him, and saluting, said. Thy sweet song and merry Bagpipe (Shepherd) have both invited and forced us (by leaving our high way before due time) to give some rest to our wearied bodies, and in this place (if our company may not be troublesome to thee) with thine to pass away the burning heat of the day. Faustus (for so was he called) answered. Think not (Shepherds) that I am at any time alone, who indeed knows not whether it be better for me, to be so, or no? Although your company (by that which I may conjecture of you) shall be as acceptable, as yourselves welcome to me. They thanked him, and sat down, when after a few sweet speeches that passed together between them, sylvanus said unto him. So may our God Pan favour thy resounding Bagpipe, and put thee in that estate thou desirest, as thou wouldst sing that once again (so that it be no pain to thee) which at our first coming to thee thou wert a singing. Pain to me (said Faustus) nay rather Shepherd, it is the greatest pleasure that may be, to sing of my passions, and of my pride and scorn, wherewith unworthily I have repugned great Cupid's laws. For let not any from hence forth (be he never so stout and hardy) presume to mock and contemn him, whose force controls all: And because it may not be displeasant to your ears, I will change the manner of my song, observing nevertheless the same intent. Then taking a Rebecke out of his scrip, he thus began to sing.  


CVpid was angry with my merry face,  
Because I ever laughed him to scorn,  
And all his followers (hapless and forlorn)  
I mocked in public and in private place:  
Wherefore he armed himself (to my disgrace)  
When time a fit occasion did suborn,  
But nought I wrecked his flames, in vain out worn.   

For Satyrlike I did not thee embrace:  
Who seeing, that he built upon the sand,  
If by a face my life he would devour,  
He showed me then a fine and dainty hand,  
Which once beheld, it lay not in my power  
To be unconquered Tyrantlike; nor would  
Deliver me from him although I could.    
sylvanus immediately after the Shepherd had made an end of singing, said. For all that this God Cupid is able to do, I care not greatly that he can do this or more. No (said Faustus) do you think it so small a matter to conquer Cupid with a disarmed hand, when as the same lies not in fierce Mars his power: Why hearken a little to this Sonnet.  


IT is a sign of valour and of might,  
A power, that in wonder doth increase,  
For any king to win (and never fight)  
A kingdom, and to enter it with peace.   

Proper it is for Mars to wound with hand:  
Mars wounds with hand, if angry once he be:  
But now behold, the matter thus doth stand,  
That Cupid wounds with hand as well as he.   

And my good hap, or ill would have it thus,  
That first of all my woeful hart should feel  
This new Alarm, wherewith he feareth us.  
So with a hand, to which all hearts may kneel,  
My hart he hath transfixed to make me know,  
His valour, strength, his wounding shaft, and bow.    
Thou hast sufficiently proved it (said sylvanus) and truly I cannot but wonder at the new manner of loves proceeding, and how in the end (like one, whom this affair toucheth) thou hast highly pondered and weighed it in thy mind. But so may God give thee a good hand in thy love of the hand, as thou wouldst tell us the manner he had to bring thee to the sweet bondage of so fair a hand. From that (said Faustus) which hitherto you have heard, you may deduce (as it were) all the rest; but passing that slightly over, which I have already told you, I will briefly declare the rest. Living (as I now have told you) not meanly contented in my judgement to see myself free (if he may be termed free, that is far from love) on a night I went to visit a friend of mine, a certain Shepherd, who was by chance wounded with a knife, with whom passing away the time, in lamenting his mishap (divining perhaps mine own) a Shepherdess, disguised in her attire, and having all her face covered over with a fine white vail, came sweetly in, so comely and graceful a parsonage, as by her discreet words I judged her to be of excellent and high conceit. Of both which things, as immediately, so not meanly was I enamoured, for of any other part I could not, because her injurious vail did hide the rest. But after a little while (to my great harm) she pulled out a hand (a hand I say she pulled out) for I know not how such a perfect brightness could be covered. At the sight whereof mine eyes were so blinded, to give light to my understanding, that though she did afterwards discover her fair face, yet I was not able to behold it. She went from thence sooner than I would, and I (sooner than my need required) exiled myself from my wont joy: for she would not give me so much as leave to accompany her with this miserable body, whose happy soul went away in her heavenly company; whereby you may judge what kind of man I then was, that remained in such anxieties, and what I am also now, who never since could find out the means to see her any more. And (Shepherd) this is the sum of that thou didst desire to know of me. If thou tellest us nothing else (said sylvanus) it then seems that as this Shepherdess doth neither know thee, so thy passion is not manifest unto her. It is true, said Faustus, she knows me not, but hath had some certain notice of me by the means of another fair Shepherdess, with whom she keeps daily company: who to do me a pleasure (for surely she ever wished my content) made me write unto her, upon assured promise to give my letter into her own hands, & to procure me an answer again: though from the last she hath not yet discharged herself. True it is, she tells me (or feigns at the least to put me in some hope and comfort) that she hath promised me an answer. I pray thee pleasure us so much (said sylvanus) to show us thy letter, for being written by thine own hands, there can be nothing else expected, but an ingenious and well composed order in it. Although there is no such matter (said Faustus) yet for your pleasure I will show it you, for here I have the copy of it, hoping by these means to discharge me of you; but it is in prose of purpose, because I understood how certain of my rude rhymes (against my will) came to her hands. I think not (said sylvanus) that thy well penned prose is of less substance and commendation than thy pleasant and gracious verse, and yet I have heard, that it requires many things more, not so commonly known to us Shepherds. Then thrusting his hand into the lining of his Shepherd's hood, he took out a paper, and reading it, they saw it said thus.  
Faustus his letter to Cardenia.  
HE that hath none himself, nor wisheth to have any, but only that which may come from thy hands, sends thee (Gracious Shepherdess) all the health in the world. My rude hand trembleth to think, that a letter written by it, must come to thy fairest hands, in whose judgement it lies not otherwise (I suspect) but to condemn my bold attempt, and chastise my foolish rashness, and that I shall not have force to suffer the rigour of thy angry hand, if thou dost but once withdraw it from my comfort and secure. For thou must not understand that (to make thee amends for the injury I have done thee) as being but a base Shepherd, to have placed my thoughts on so famous a young Shepherdess, there needs any more punishment, than the wound, which thy fair and cruel hand hath given me, if by the same again I am not favoured with some remedy. I know well fair Shepherdess (pardon me for saying so) that reading these ill compacted lines, thou wilt be in suspense to know the man, that shows himself so much appassionate for thy sake; if any such thing occur to thy thoughts, demand it I beseech thee, of a hart, which thou hast lately got into thy subjection, for that shall tell thee so sincere and pure a truth, as here by a senseless wit simply set down. Alas for me, that going to visit one wounded with a knife, I returned from thence wounded by thy ivory hand; & thou going to comfort a weak man in body, didst leave me wounded in soul. Behold therefore, if being compassionate with him, thou hast not been cruel to me. Thou wilt say perhaps, thou didst not think, any such thing would fall out, which I believe very well, when as the same did as little fall in the compass of my thought. But yet thou canst not be justly excused from fault and punishment, since, no less than her, that with suspicious and privy weapons arms herself, thou art worthy of both. Who then can carry about her such secret weapons as thou hast done, assailing my soul (unarmed then and without defence) with such a victorious and wounding hand. I will not trouble thee any more with my unpolished & simple reasons, until the string of my jarring fancies be tuned by thy most sovereign hand, which the immortal Gods defend with their mighty hands, as thou mayst me with thy milk white hand.  
This letter being short and sententious pleased the shepherds very much. But when it was read out, Faustus said. Behold here (good Shephedes) the estate wherein I am attending the sentence of my glorious death, or happy life, written by that incomparable white hand. Entreat (gentle shepherds) the Amorous God of love (if your sacrifices be acceptable to him) to wound her, like myself, with his golden headed arrow, and hide his leaden one from her. If the servants of this little boy (enamoured Shepherd) said Seluagia, may prevail any thing to obtain such favour of him, thou shalt be soon delivered from these passions, by the mild entreaties of my Shepherd sylvanus here, and of myself. But it is needless to make this Shepherd Syrenus, a mean and intercessor for thee, because he is the most injurious rebel to love that dwells in these villages here abouts. O jupiter, said Faustus! Is it possible that I enjoy the thing before mine eyes that (next to my most sovereign Shepherdess) I desired to see, whose loves have wearied fame so much in every place? I was about to ask you who you were, and which way you traveled, wherein it only remains for you to satisfy my desire, since of the first I am not ignorant. Although first I would rather advise thee Syrenus (for keeping my promise to Cupid) and pray thee besides (having mature consideration to his invincible might) to follow and obey him, and to beware to rebel against his sovereignty, because thou mayst not say, that I have not warned thee before. I thank thee for thy good will said Syrenus, but for thy counsel I care not. Well (said Faustus) herein I have discharged my duty, & thou mayst do what thou thinkest best. But yet take heed lest sometimes hereafter thou be'st not punished like myself. But then Syrenus, because he would not have him talk any more of that matter, told him whither they went, but could not tell him of their return. I am sorry for that (said Faustus) because at your return I would willingly go with you to see the ungrateful Shepherdess Diane's, whom I have heard wonderfully commended for beauty and fine graces, and to behold in what hart such forgetfulness could harbour, hoping (that if, for the great desire I have to see her, I stay here till your return to accompany you home) thou w●… not be angry Syrenus. Not I, said Syrenus, but as I must warn you to take heed; so must I tell you, that this counsel is better for you, then that which you gave me. In these and other speeches they passed the time away, until the hour of their departure came, wherein with proffered courtesies, and gentle offers on both sides they went every one his way.  
With some small force yet went vermilion Apollo shining over the face of our old mother, when the three Shepherds, coming near to the Island where they had been before at their last departure, did see a company of people together, and as they came nearer to them, knew it was Felicia, & some of her Nymphs, with Don Felix, and his Lady Felismena. Not a little amazed thereat, they stayed, and perceived how they came guiding their steps towards them. But they marveled very much to see them come so silent, and not talking a word. But Felicia being come, and the Shepherds, having in dutiful sort saluted her and the rest, asked her the cause of their coming that way, and of their unwonted silence. Whom she answered saying. The desire I have (my friendly Shepherds) to pleasure Lord Felix and Felismena, and the love I bear to you, to give you all possible content, hath moved me to bring them hither against your coming, because you might in so delightful a place as this, recreate your minds altogether. The cause of my coming in such silent sort, and without any singing of these lovers, or of my Nymphs is, because their noise may not deprive both them, and you of a sight worthy the marking, which shall by & by ensue: whereby you shall know, that as you yourselves are not only in love, so all alone you do not suffer troubles and sorrows for your dearest loves: And therefore I will you all to follow me as softly as you can. The Lady then going up with her company along the Spring in the Island (the way which I said before did lead to the pleasant mead where the fountain of the Laurel trees was) came unawares to the very entrance of it: The which Lord Felix and his beloved Lady (not having seen that place before) imagined it to be some earthly paradise, or that they were in the pleasant fields of Elysium, although they were not suffered to take any other delight therein, but only the pleasant view thereof with their wandering eyes, because (for the strict silence enjoined them) with words and worthy praises, they durst not extol that place of paradise, nor had leave to demand any thing concerning the same. At the entrance of it, Felicia sat her down, and all the rest after her, who stayed there a pretty while, not daring almost to breath, and saw no more, than the trembling Sunbeams, that with force seemed to pass between leaf and leaf amongst the green trees that grew near together; whereupon their thoughts went wandering, and musing of many matters, and their hearts were constrained to bite on the bit of forced patience: And feign they would have changed (in their judgements) the pleasure to see that which Felicia promised them, to be rid of the discontent, which their silence did procure them. Which thing (when she perceived it) made her smile a little to herself. Being thus therefore in this pleasant meadow, and tedious mutenes, Felicia pointed with her finger to an entrance thereof right over against them, to have them all look that way, where casting their eyes, they saw a reverend old man coming in, grave in his countenance, person, and disposition, as also in the manner of his habit and apparel: for in every point he seemed to represent a most worthy priest of jupiter. He came holding a staff in his right hand, and sustained upon it his old and wearied body, whereon sometimes leaning, he looked steadfastly on the ground, like a man full of imaginations, and sometimes again lifted up his eyes to heaven, like one most sorrowful and comfortless. He made such sundry kinds of motions and gestures of his body, (observing yet always the due gravity of his noble person) that he did not only mollify the tender hearts of them that were looking on him, but had been able to have made the cruel Hyrcanian Tigers mild and gentle, if they had been present, especially with the outward shows of sorrow that he represented of some inward grief: for in the mids thereof he gave a turn about, viewing the heavens on every side, and speaking against Fortune (of whom he seemed to make his chiefest complaint) he uttered this that followeth.  


IN each created thing  
One motion only, and of might,  
Predominant continually is found.  
Which still doth keep and bring  
The same, one way, and course aright,  
That's always like, and uniform, and round.  
And none can be unbound  
From this compacted order though he would,  
None can again the same forsake,  
Or any other take,  
And yet it would not though perhaps it could:  
Thou Fortune art alone  
Without it, in disorder only one.   

That first, and highest Sphere,  
That moves, and is not moved again  
Of any other heaven, that moves one whit:  
The which with his Careare,  
And swiftest course doth turn away  
The lowest heavens, and carries after it:  
An order doth admit,  
And doth maintain, not erring in the lest:  
For it doth carry them with speed,  
And with more haste (indeed)  
The nearest heaven to it, from East to West:  
But rule thou dost disdain,  
And only without order dost remain.   

The circled Elements  
Of qualities most opposite,  
The fire, the air, the sea, and earth below,  
In motions not invents  
A novel course, but move aright,  
And ever keep good order, as they go:  
None erreth, no.  
The earth about his lowest Centre moves,  
The water next in circle wise,  
The air next that that lies,  
And fire to that a gallant order proves:  
But Fortune in thy Sphere  
Thou runnest, without good order, rule, or fear.   

The heavy falls down right  
(Unless it have impediment)  
Unto the Centre of his proper Sphere:  
And that, which is but light,  
If that it have an open vent,  
Mounts to his highest region every where:  
And so each thing doth bear  
Good order, and good rule continually:  
In generation it doth spring,  
Corruption it doth bring,  
In fine, all things by order live and die:  
Without it, thou dost range  
(Fortune) that with disorder still dost change.   

In this world nothing is  
(If out of order it be gone)  
But ordered it may be in time again:  
there's nothing in black Dis  
(Though there be all confusion)  
Nor order kept (for there it were but vain)  
But may indeed remain  
In order, in their manner, form, and kind,  
And may be called to order fit,  
If we consider it:  
Though nought but pains and plaints are there assigned.  
Thou worse than hellish thought  
In no point canst not be to order brought.   

Thy motion out of kind  
So far besides proportion lies,  
That it can never be to order brought:  
Swifter sometimes than wind,  
With hasty speed so soon it flies,  
That it is never seen, nor felt, nor thought:  
The Parthian never wrought,  
Nor sent an arrow out of steeled bow  
With such great haste and main:  
Sometimes with sloth again,  
Like to the snail or Tortoise she doth go:  
Blind Fortune thou dost reel,  
And more doth he, that sits upon thy wheel.    
He had no sooner made an end of the complaints, which he declamed against Fortune, when walking towards the fountain (from the which he was not twenty paces) on the sudden they saw him fling away his staff, and with a lusty kind of agility (contrary to his aged limbs) lay hand on his Falchion, which from under a side garment that he wore, he took out to smite a certain Shepherd that lay a sleep in that side of the meadow. When they that were thus beholding him, perceived with what fury he ran upon the silly Shepherd (whom hitherto they had not seen) and with his naked Falchion in his hand, they would all have run to help him, but that sage Felicia with signs which she made unto them, willed them to sit still, telling them the matter should not need it. But the old man was now lifting up his Falchion to smite him on the head, when two beggarly and foul ragged Shepherdesses which were at hand, rising from the ground, took hold on him, the one with a sorrowful voice saying unto him. O my good Father. But the old man unwinding himself from them stepped back, making as though he would smite her that went about to hinder him. Whereupon she, that had first spoken, perceiving that he knew her not, spoke to him again, saying. O my dear Father Parisiles (for this was his name.) The angry & afflicted old man amazed at the tender voice he now knew, and like the marble stone benumbed in all his senses, let his Falchion presently fall out of his hands, whom then the Shepherdess (calling him by the same name as before) most lovingly embraced, as he was falling down to the ground. Who coming to himself again, and with the tears of mild love supplying the interrupted voice of his breast, threw his aged arms upon her, and that face of hers which with loathsome mud and dirt was so much defiled, sweetly began to kiss. Felicia turning to her company, that (being now rid from the grief of their late passed silence) was laughing with a scornful delight at the present sight, to see him kiss that foul ill favoured face, said. Marvel not my sons and daughters, to see you reverend old man kiss those deformed cheeks, for fatherly love extendeth to more than that, so that if she seems foul in your eyes, he thinks her fair, and no less doth the Shepherd that lieth there asleep. Like will to like, said Felismena. It is so (said Felicia) but because so great an injury may not be offered to the honourable old man, as to be embraced with such an unseemliness, let us go to put them asunder. Whereupon they went towards them, and making as though they had not seen them before, Felicia said unto them. God save this noble company. The other Shepherdess yielded her due thanks, and a courteous answer, for the Shepherd was yet sleeping, and the old man and the other Shepherdess were still embracing each other. Lord Felix coming to them both, said. Thou shouldest have enough noble Lord of these unfit embracements. Whereat Felicia laughed to herself, to see how much in their minds they disdained the Shepherdess. But the old man said. Now may ye (O Gods) conclude my many days with their last period, since you have granted me this unspeakable favour, to see my dearest daughter: now may ye make an end of my wearied years, having before mine eyes my only beloved Stela, (for so was the Shepherdess called that spoke unto him) Stela mine only hope, my joy and comfort of my life. To this end my prayers tended, to lengthen my decaying life, and to see this joyful day. This was the white whereat my petitions, oblations, and sacrifices aimed, for prorogation of my death. And now let it come when it will, since I have her in my presence, who in despite of death maintains my life; but yet gentle death, rather than by any other misfortune that may ensue, I might be deprived of her again, come and bereave me of this common light. O my dearest daughter, who did take thee away from me, for I could never believe that of thine own accord thou wouldst have left me without first taking leave of thy loving father. Woe befall to thee (false Shepherd) that liest there asleep, and an ill end betide thy friend, wheresoever he be, if he hath it not yet already. Bend not thy ears, O jupiter (said the Shepherdess) to this cruel petition, but rather turn it upon me (a thing more requisite for my miseries) and not on them, whose goodness never deserved any ill at all. I will not consent (good Father) nor be content to hear them accursed, that in all points are so faultless. Lo (Love she would have said hath erred, if modesty and maidenly shame had not stayed her tongue in the midst) I have erred, or rather my Fortune (to speak more truly) hath been to blame, by granting me no means to take my leave of thee. Felicia, who knew the cause of the Shepherdess her grief, said. Let these excuses now cease. And Parisiles forsake thy sadness, since now thou injoyest thine only desire. Who turning to sage Felicia, and marking with what grave authority she spoke unto him, said unto her. Whosoever thou art (noble Lady) whether thou dost reckon thyself in the number of mortal women, or art registered in the Catalogue of the immortal Gods (for such an one thou seemest to be) pardon me, if hitherto I have not done my obliged duty, and reverence, having so pitiful and condign a cause of pardon: in every thing hereafter I am wholly at thy devotions, and subject to thy command whatsoever. It is well, said Felicia, we shall think of that hereafter. And because I will make thee more joyful, then ever thou thoughtest to be (for from him thy comfort shall proceed, of whom thou dost most complain) let us go to rest us under the shadows of those Laurel trees, near to the silver fountain brink: and that thou mayst believe my words to be true, know that I am Felicia, if ever my name hath sounded in thine ears. Parisiles then with the Shepherdesses fell down on their knees to kiss her hands, saying. Who of all those, that honour our immortal Gods, is there, that is ignorant of the portion which thou hast with them? Felicia lifted them all three up, and would not suffer them to do her such honour, and taking one of the Shepherdesses by the hand (called Crimine) said to all the rest. Go you (my Sons) to the fountain, and rest you there, while I talk with this Shepherdess, and with that Shepherd a word or two. And thou (my friend Parisiles) with thy dear daughter shalt keep them company, and tell them some famous history, or antiquity, until it be time to go in to dinner. Then taking Crimine by the hand, she went towards the Shepherd that was yet sleeping all this while, and shaking him by the shoulder, awaked him, & said. He should sleep but a little, that comes as a guard to two fair young Shepherdesses. Whereat the unknown Shepherd awaked, and not seeing Stela, without making the sage Lady any answer, with a sudden sursault of grief, said. O Crimine, where is Stela? Be not afraid (said Felicia) for she is not far from hence. Thou mightest do better to look more advisedly to thyself, when as but even now thy temporal slumber had very near cast thee into thy last and endless sleep. They (of whose lives and honours they chose thee their only ampare) had more care to save thy late endangered person, than thou hadst of thyself or them. And because thou mayst see unto what extremity thy fates had almost brought thee, know that it is not long since the knife was at thy throat ready to cut it. The Shepherd could not imagine what she meant by these words, nor what company that was, that sat about the fountain, where (turning his eyes about to see Stela) he espied her, but Crimine secretly admonished him to do his duty to Felicia, who then making low obeisance unto her, craved pardon of her. Felicia then told him in order what had passed; and how Parisiles forgetting his aged weakness, and aided by the force of his fury, would have killed him, & how they would not let him, with that that followed. In the end the Shepherd was very sad, when he knew that old Parisiles was there, not for fear of him, but because he now thought to lose his beloved Stela, which sage Felicia perceiving, said unto him. Abandon (Shepherd) these sorrowful thoughts, for all shall redound to thy content and joy: for now thou art in such a place, where thou shalt have no wrong, and where thy passed troubles, & those of thy sweet company & dearest friends shall be better ended, than thou art able to imagine. To all this the Shepherd could yield no more but humble thanks, though it was not sufficient to comfort him, because he was absent from a dear friend of his, whom he loved more than himself, and who ever requited him with no less love again, as by many proofs most often it appeared. For well might they two have been the third number, annexed to the only two pair of friends, that after so many thousand years were accounted in the world for the greatest. But the Lady Felicia assured him, how she would find out some means to have him thither out of hand. At which words he fell down on his knees, and kissed her hands, for any thing that she could do the contrary. In these and other speeches, they went talking up and down a pretty while. But God knows, how Crimine was ashamed of herself before Felicia, though it was not long, for Felilia did remedy that by and by, having taken her aside to no other end from the rest of the company. While these three were in these speeches, Lord Felix, Felismena, the three Nymphs, and the Shepherds, desirous to know who these four were, and for what cause Parisiles in so great an anger would have killed the Shepherd that lay asleep, and all the rest of his fortunes, would feign have demanded the same on him. But yet they did not, because they suspected he would not tell it them. Whereupon they reserved it, till Felicia was come, to entreat her to move Parisiles, or the rest thereof, because they knew they could not then excuse themselves. Lord Felix therefore with the rest prayed Parisiles to obey the sage Felicia, by discoursing some novelty unto them. But they seemed importunate & troublesome unto him, for he would not (willingly) have been one moment from the loving embracements of his beloved daughter Stela, & so did not one minute (when from any other forced thing he ceased) cast his tender eyes off her, whereby he gave Stela no means to look upon the unknown Shepherd, on whom her eyes and hart attended: but every time that she might steal a look from her Father Parisiles, making as though she sat not well, or as though she would spit or cough, then with earnest desire and affection she beheld him. But in the end the old man having no good excuse to acquit himself from Felicias command, nor from the requests of that fair company, which so seriously demanded it of him, began to say in this sort.  
My loving Sons (for by the privilege of mine age I may call you so) for as much as the greater part of my life hath been dedicated to the worship and service of our most sovereign Gods, and especially of our Goddess Isis (whose unworthy Priest from the entrance of my youth I have been) it would be most agreeable to my condition, to entreat of the manner, that aught to be observed in worshipping of her, and how much we are bound to perform the same. But because you have for your Lady and mistress (for so I take her to be, because you do accompany and follow her) the sage Felicia, to whom not I myself (the lowest of all Priests) but the best in all the world may justly be disciples, it must needs be a part beyond all courtesy, and good manners to enterprise any such task. And this difficulty besides doth offer itself to my mind, in that I know not, with what history to delight all your ears: For the difference of estates, which in this noble company I perceive, strikes a doubt into my mind upon the choice of my discourse, considering with myself, that that which will please some, will (perhaps) offend others. To these shepherds I could present some things requisite for their poor estate and vocations, and profitable for them and their flocks, and some curious secrets, which they should know (happily) never yet thought on amongst shepherds. As likewise from whence the playing on the fluite or Bagpipe first came, and when the honour of their God Pan, and the customs and rites, which in old times they observed in their sacrifices, were first in use, and why those are decayed, and other now admitted in their places. To you noble personages, I could present (a thing (perhaps) which would best fit your desires) whereof love was first engendered, and how he worketh, and for what cause the God of Love doth keep no reason, being honoured as a God, we holding it for a rule infallible, That the Gods are just, and that in all things they observe due justice and equity. And this is that, which I would more willingly entreat of, because in these meadows here, a question was once moved, which touched not the simplicity of the Shepherd that did ask it. But because to declare it well, it were necessary to entreat of the powers of the soul, and the duties thereof, and what place every one of them hath in man's body, (a disputation more fit for Philosopher's schools, then for the fields, where none but flocks are) I will not explain it, reserving it only for any one that will thereof be privately instructed. But because I have here a thing before mine eyes, which filleth me with admiration, (although it may be, that many that have been here have perhaps touched the same) I will make my beginning thus. Do you not see how nature and art, the one borrowing that of the other, wherein either of them was defective, have done their utmost in making this Island or meadow (calling it as it shall best please you) the very pattern of the Elysian fields? But leaving aside many things, that I could note unto you about this matter, I will declare unto you why this Oak is placed here in the mids of these Laurel trees, because you may understand that there was nothing done nor placed here, but with great wisdom and conceit. The loves of Apollo and Daphne, are sufficiently known unto you, I mean of Apollo with Daphne, as also the pre-eminences wherewith this God endowed the Laurel tree, whereinto this Nymph was transformed. But how? Doria at these words interrupting his discourse, said. Me thinks (noble Parisiles) thou hast played the part of a gentleman Sewer, that hast (at our chiefest appetite) taken away our best dishes. Since then these noble personages (pointing to Lord Felix and Felismena) whom the subject of love did more narrowly touch, and these Shepherds (pointing to Syrenus, sylvanus, and Seluagia) to whom the first point belonged, have let thee pass on without interruption, myself (to whom it chiefly appertains, to hear the accidents of so famous a Nymph, because I am one myself) will not (with my will) give thee leave to proceed any farther, before thou hast told us the beginning of Apollo's loves, & why Daphne refused and disdained so high a God. sylvanus and Seluagia blushing for shame and anger, that Doria had pointed to Lord Felix and Felismena, and not to them, when she said, that the questions of love belonged more to Lord Felix and Felismena, taking Parisiles by the hand, said. And how thinkest thou Nymph? Are we in respect of these two so far from love, that to them only, and not to us the treatise of this demand is more appertaining? Every one laughing at the Shepherd's words, Doria answered. I have made a fault (Shepherds) and so I confess it. It pleaseth me well (fair Nymph said Parisiles) to obey thee herein. But if I begin at the very beginning, it may be I shall not make an end before the sage Lady cometh, where (being constrained to end abruptly) I shall perhaps do you more wrong, then if I had not begun at all. Leave not of for this (said Felismena) for if it be so, we will request her to give us leave to hear out the rest. Since than you will have it so (said Parisiles) give attentive ear, for I will recite it unto you as I did see it written in Apollo his Temple.  


THat deluge of revengement being past,  
Determined that was by Gods above,  
For guilt of wickedness of mortal men:  
The earth of moisture yet remaining full,  
Wherewith the heat of Titan's beams conjoined,  
Strange creatures did engender of the same:  
divers in shape, proportion and in kind.  
Amongst the which a Serpent did arise,  
Cruel, untamed, and greater than a hill,  
In Thessaly, a Province of great fame;  
That first put bridle to the horse his mouth.  
This monstrous Serpent did devour, and waste  
His native soil, and all the people there:  
He spared not the corn (a sweet reward  
And hope of him that did with labour sow it)  
He spared not the strong and painful Ox,  
(The faithful servant of the country toil)  
As little spared he the harmless Calves,  
Nor goats, nor kids, that skipped about the heaths.  
He spared not the flocks of simple sheep,  
Nor gentle lambs, nor herds of grazing neat.  
He spared no house, nor of the little Bee  
The sweetest work (the Mistress of her art)  
This cruel beast had no regard of men,  
For whose avail each thing created was.  
But as the supreme Gods would not consent,  
With angry hand to spoil the world anew:  
They did provide forthwith a speedy help,  
Since human skill and wit could not prevail.  
For God Apollo going forth to hunt,  
With bow and quiver full of wounding shafts:  
Only on Bucks his cunning aim to try,  
On mountain goats, wild boars, and savage beasts,  
He did by chance encounter with this Serpent;  
Which cruel monster when he did behold,  
He by and by contemned his wont chase,  
To make his name eternal by his death.  
For strait he bent his hardened bow of steel,  
And from his back his golden quiver took,  
And drew thereout his shafts with wounding heads;  
Which dipped in poison, he did shoot with force,  
And nailed them between the Serpent's skailes,  
And there lay Python stretched on the ground.  
(For this the cruel Serpent had to name)  
Apollo haughty in his joyful mind,  
For glory of so great an enterprise,  
Remaining there, to view his noble spoils,  
Proud with himself he did triumph so much  
For this great victory, that he did think  
That heaven had not a God like to himself;  
Which by his speeches he did manifest,  
Speaking sometimes unto the monstrous beast,  
Sometimes unto his quiver, and his bow;  
With joy and pride did utter forth these words.   

Glory of glories O most excellent,  
Triumph of triumphs O the most esteemed,  
Of victories O worthy victory.  
O deed, above all deeds in honour deemed:  
O chance, than any chance more eminent:  
O fame of fames the sole supremacy.  
O happy war, whereby  
My arm so fortunate  
With power did abate  
The fiercest Serpent that was ever bred:  
O crown most worthy for my conquering head.  
O bow, that from complaining didst deliver  
The people well nigh dead,  
O happy shafts, O brave and blessed quiver.  
Python, for thee the ground was barren still,  
Denying her increase, and wont fruit,  
For thee, the learned Bee did aye lament,  
That she could not her sweetest work salute:  
For thee, the gentle Ewe herself did kill,  
For grief to see her lamb in pieces rend:  
For thee out of his tent  
The Shepherd durst not go,  
For clearly he did know,  
How much thy poisoned tooth and breath did harm:  
For thee the husbandman within his Farm,  
And Citizens within their walls, for fear  
(Did in their City's swarm)  
Of every shadow thinking thou wert there.   

What God deserves all the heavenly Choir  
Incense in sacrifice as doth Apollo?  
And what God by his skill and cunning art,  
As many as the firmament so hollow  
Contains, to such great titles doth aspire  
With honour's type, renowned in every part?  
For nature doth impart  
Her gifts, and every grace  
To me, their proper place.  
I did invent the art of medicine,  
If any one like prophet doth divine,  
I am the God, that answers and inspires,  
My music passing fine  
Doth answer that the heavens make in their gires.   

A famous Surname I shall now obtain,  
O Serpent Python by thy mortal death:  
And I will cause, that they shall celebrate  
This liberty in never dying breath.  
With solemn sports and feasting to maintain  
This glory, in eternal time and state.  
And that this golden date  
In history by fame,  
That straight doth blaze the same,  
And sparing such, as always we do see,  
Never in this may such a niggard be.  
And though of others she doth prate too much,  
And speaketh partially,  
Not any lie herein, her tongue shall touch.   

He therefore being in this sort content,  
By chance (and yet it may be to requite.  
The general scorn he made of all the Gods)  
The child God Cupid passed by that way.  
(A puissant and mighty Lord of love)  
A golden quiver hung behind his back,  
In his left hand he bore a bended bow:  
And in his right, two fine and pretty shafts.   

His eyes were both bound with a silken string,  
Whom, now as soon as God Apollo saw,  
Thinking that none, but he deserved to bear  
A bow, and shafts, and quiver at his back:  
In braving sort these proud injurious words,  
And full of scorn he thus to him affords.   

What's he so proud, and stout that doth impute him  
Worthy of those brave weapons in his hand?  
What, knows he not that they are due to me;  
And none but I this honour may demand?  
'tis Venus son, God Cupid, it is he,  
So called, but here he comes, I will salute him:  
Infamous villain, thief and void of shame,  
And wicked robber of another's fame.   

Be these thy tools? Tell me, why dost wear them,  
That art a wanton, far for thee unfit?  
Deliver them, for these my hands divine  
Do beautify, and on my shoulders sit  
With better grace, and honour then on thine,  
That art not able half enough to bear them.  
Then little boy, leave of with these to boast thee,  
If not, in faith, full dearly they shall cost thee.   

This furniture is proper to my might,  
These shafts, this quiver, and this bended bow:  
With them I slew fell Python, that of sheep  
Whole flocks within his belly did bestow.  
And them to kill wild beasts, and birds I keep,  
For only these belong to me of right.  
With them (moreover) if it be my will,  
With mortal wounds mine enemies I kill.   

Thy fires and flames should well content thy mind,  
With which (fond Love) with love thou givest pain,  
join not thy sports, nor thy dishonest brands  
With these brave weapons of my glorious gain.  
Leave then this bow, dishonoured by thy hands,  
And see, if that thou canst, that art so blind:  
Thine eyes are blinded with a silken string,  
How canst thou then aim right at any thing?   

Cupid at this waxed angry and ashamed.  
But yet with threats to his unworthy scorns,  
Nor with proud words in no wise would reply.  
For mighty Love, as he is very wise,  
And resolute of that he takes in hand,  
Cares not to brag it out with threatening words:  
But doth perform it with most valiant deeds.  
But yet because his follies he should know,  
And how he was deceived in his might,  
Which all the Gods besides himself had known  
(For yet Apollo never felt the pains,  
Nor cruel torments that brave Cupid gives)  
With gentle words proceeding from a mind,  
Incensed more within, then outwardly,  
To his brave terms this speech he did reply.   

Too proud thou hast thyself (Apollo) shown  
In speaking such vile words unto my face.  
Such rather I embrace  
With honour, and I use them not, but saying  
Nothing at all in such a wrongful case,  
I do such things, as like were never none.  
Hark then how I am known  
By word of mouth, and how much I am swaying.  
After by deed, I will bring thee to obeying.  
Neptune, and jove, and Vulcan I do keep  
Under my mighty will:  
Few Gods there are, that with their skill,  
Do free themselves, but unto me do creep.  
The Goddesses do weep  
To hear my name, and yield with mere consent  
Unto my government.  
And Venus, though my loving mother be,  
Cannot escape with partial liberty.   

What man is he, never so strong in arms,  
That hath escaped in my amorous field?  
Here boots not spear, nor shield,  
Nor Mars his weapons, nor his strong defence.  
In vain he fights, whom I will have to yield.  
Learning, and wisdom here procure but harms,  
And fly at my Alarms,  
And staying, do imprint a deeper sense  
Of loving passions, and with more offence.  
Women (mine ornament) do ever hide  
What never was concealed.  
For flames are hardly unrevealed.  
The birds and savage bcastes my hands hath tied  
Unto my yoke, beside,  
That Nature doth herself my chariot follow.  
Then tell me now Apollo,  
If that thou thinkest to get such puissance,  
As that with these thou shouldst not come to dance.   

Thou dost rejoice, because these arms are due  
To thee, for killing of that monster fell.  
But hark, and I will tell,  
How these belong more justly to my might,  
Although thy shaft in wounding doth excel,  
It never yet but beasts and venison slew,  
Apollo, this is true.  
But mine shall wound thy soul both day and night:  
And thou shalt swear, mine is the only flight.  
So that how much each beast, not me,  
In mgiht thou dost exceed,  
And get'st most glory by this deed,  
So much more famous shall my conquest be.  
But now thy follies see,  
In saying, that this quiver, and this bow  
Did me dishonour so.  
For thee, Apollo, better had it been,  
If with myself the same thou hadst not seen.   

Thou sayst I nill deserve this ornament,  
Because mine eyes are blinded with a band;  
And therefore that my hand  
Must needs shoot false because that I am blind.  
And yet, besides, I tell thee that they stand  
Against all reason, and intendment.  
Hark now, to what intent?  
And how this comes so fitly to my mind.  
Then tell me, if thou thinkest it out of kind,  
For any God to burn in fervent love  
Of any woman here?  
That more his griefs, and pains appear,  
The more sheshould from him her liking move.  
If blind, such things I prove,  
And study to revenge me with my flight?  
Tell me, were it not right?  
Then take good heed, since thus my bow doth kill:  
And makes thy reason subject to my will.   

This said, he would no longer with him stay,  
Nor hearken more to answers nor replies:  
Nor did Apollo care to answer him,  
Esteeming nought his childish words, and threats.  
But Cupid wounding with his golden wings  
The lofty air, that burned as he went,  
Without delay he gains the shadowed top  
Of mount Parnasse, where looking round about  
He stays, and waits the means to venge himself  
At pleasure of Apollo's proud contempt.  
Wherefore out of his quiver he doth take  
Two wounding headed arrows fatal both:  
In colour divers, and in their effects,  
For th'one procureth love, with burning fire,  
The other hate, with cold and frozen ice.  
Golden is that, that causeth fervent love,  
Leaden is that, that causeth frozen hate:  
And talking with them both, as though they did  
Conceive his words, in this sort he did say.   

Come speedy out (my loving friends)  
And show your valour, and your force so high:  
In you my trust, and hope doth lie,  
That you will show, whereon my strength depends.  
Beat down Apollo's pride,  
That here our honour did deride:  
That he may know, how well my words agree  
With earnest deeds as shortly he shall see.   

Since thou, that art so sharp and tried  
With kindling fire in each loving breast,  
Thou shalt Apollo's hart molest,  
That cruel pains, and smarts he may abide.  
And thou that art of bluntie lead,  
Strike thou some woman's hart so dead  
In cruel hate, that she shall never feel  
The sense of love, no more than stone, or steel.   

Apollo there remained very glad,  
Calling the heavens, the elements, and beasts,  
The trees, the meads, the springs, the birds, and fish  
To joy with him in his renowned spoil,  
And victory, by Python's death he got:  
For in this sort with joyful face he said.   

O heavenly frame,  
Whose course, and sweet accents  
Give earthly things their life, that are  
Of nature's name.  
You circled elements,  
So contrary in secret war,  
You beasts, that far  
And near, in earth do make your dwelling place,  
You birds, that in the sky  
With hasty wing do fly,  
You fishes, that the crystal streams embrace,  
For my brave deed  
Come show yourselves content in joys agreed.  
You shadowed treene,  
An ease of sweet delight,  
And fence from Titan's burning heat:  
Fair meads and green,  
And waters sweet and bright,  
This forest that with liquors wet:  
Green Iuies seat,  
That livest still, and diest not in thy kind,  
And wind'st about the tree,  
That still upholdeth thee:  
For this brave deed,  
Come show yourselves content in joys agreed.   

Apollo being in this joyful mood,  
Behold where comes a fine and tender Nymph,  
And fairer than Aurora in her prime,  
Laden with spoils, she got by hunting late,  
A Nymph endowed with virtues high and rare.  
The father oft unto his Daphne said  
(For so they say this fairest Nymph was called,  
And Pene was her aged father's name)  
Daughter, to me thou ow'st a son in law.  
Daughter, to me some nephews thou dost owe.  
But with a teint, like the Vermilion Rose,  
Bespread upon her face as white as snow,  
To see her father would have wedded her,  
The chastest virgin with her tender arms  
All Lily white about the loving neck  
Of her dear father sweetly then did hang:  
Requesting him, that he would give her leave,  
To lead her life in spotless chastity,  
And live therein, as she had lived before.  
Her loving father granted her request.  
But yet before, to hinder her intent,  
With grave advise unto her he did tell,  
How heat of youth, and wealth, and beauty's lure,  
Were contrary unto the chastest mind.  
And how that each of them alone is able  
To work the tender hart like melted wax.  
How much more easy then, when all in one  
Were found, as in fair Daphne they did reign.  
Yet though she did excel in all these gifts,  
She would not leave to put her chaste intent  
In practice, and Diana's grace to serve.  
And saying, it was true her father spoke.  
And said, if that she had such cause to vaunt  
That she was rich, and fair, and nobly borne:  
That it was tenfold dearer unto her  
To be accounted chaste of every one.  
And that her chiefest honour did consist  
In honest, pure, and undefiled life.  
Now therefore as the virgin did not know  
(Because her mind was soon virtue bend)  
What thing love was, nor due of marriage rites,  
To hunt it was her only joy, and sport.  
Then hither came this gallant Nymph to chase,  
Where proud Apollo went by chance to hunt:  
Not thinking to find out so fairy a game.  
Because his breast, free from the thoughts of love,  
Was only bend in thinking of his spoil.  
He was so glad and did triumph so much  
Within himself, that he did never think  
Of any thing but this, till (to his harm)  
He cast his wandering eyes unto the place,  
Where he did spy fair Daphne in her chase.    
The good old man Parisiles went prosecuting his history, carrying all his hearers with him very silent, by reason that the substance thereof (as also the stile wherewith he told it) delighted them very much, when they perceived the sage Felicia coming with Crimine, and the unknown Shepherd towards them, whose coming made not Stela a little glad, for she lent but a small ear to the tale, because the Shepherd was not in her company. But Parisiles turning his head, and seeing Felicia, said. Behold how it falls out true, which I feared: my tale shall break off till another day, when we will have fit time and place for it, wherein nothing shall be lost having made so good a beginning. By no means (said Doria) will I consent hereunto. The like did all affirm with one voice. Then came Felicia, and as they were rising to do her honour, they saw the Shepherd that came with her, to be the fairest, most gracious, and goodliest youth of person, as ever they beheld before. His weeds were of grey cloth, to signify by that colour his troubles and griefs. All along the border of his coat, and sleeves, went three ribbons or laces of sundry colours, two of them on either side, of Lion tawny and Olive green, to signify by the first his sorrow, and by the second his torment. That in the mids of his sorrow and torment was his hope. Other things did the Shepherd wear, worthy himself, and to be marked. But Parisiles did hinder them, because Crimine returned now clean, and washed at Felicias request, whom now he also knew, and therefore with a loud voice, with casting up his eyes to heaven, he said. And is it true (O jupiter) which with mine eyes I here behold? O sweet Nymph; my friend and mistress. Is it possible thou art here? If I had known my dear daughter had gone in thy company, I would have somewhat moderated my grief for her absence. And being come to her, with reverence he lovingly embraced her. But both of them desiring earnestly to know the means of their unlooked for coming to that place, Felicia said. Defer this till further time: for I know these questions will not hereafter a little delight this company. Come thou Crimine, and speak to all this company, who will be very glad of thine. They were a pretty while in congratulations and convesies, wondering at Crimines' beauty, and therefore at last thus said. Why did such a shining gem as this (Lady Felicia) go hidden in such a base coverture: if her conpanion be such another, do us this favour to make her wash herself? To avoid all danger by reason of their tempting beauty (said Felicia) and not to be molested like those, that have suffered many inconveniences for theirs, they have gone thus disfigured in apparel and face. As for the washing of this young Shepherdess (pointing to Stela) it shall remain at my pleasure, when I will request her to do it, for dinner being now ready, I will defer it till some other time, for fear I should give you a dinner against your stomach, for washing now her fowl face and hands, will not (perhaps) make you eat so much, as otherwise you would, and make you have a less appetite, then to see them in the manner that now they be. But if you like not of her company at dinner, she shall sit by herself, and dine with Parisiles, in whose eyes she is nothing so soul, nor ill-favoured. And then turning to her Nymphs, she commanded them to bring in dinner, who presently came in with it. But if you please good Lady (said Lord Felix) command Parisiles first to make an end of the tale he hath begun. Since you will have it so (said Felicia) I will entreat, not command him. It were great reason sage Lady (said Parisiles) to hold my peace, & not to show so great rudeness before your singular wisdom, if it were not more to obey your just command. It is well (said Felicia) leave off this, and do that which all the company here requesteth thee. Parisiles then began thus. Obeying then most willingly (great Lady) what you have given me in charge, and purposing to tell the cause why this Oak was planted between these two Laurel trees, I have touched the gifts, that Apollo gave to the Laurel tree, when Daphne was turned into it: From whence this noble company did not suffer me to pass any further, though I alleged some excuses to the contrary, but that I must needs from the beginning recount this transformation of Daphne into a Laurel tree. And so having told of the glorious victory, that Apollo had of the serpent Python, and of the quarrel and contention between him and Cupid for carrying both one weapon, I went on along telling, how Apollo being proud of this conquest, by chance cast his eyes upon the fair and chaste Nymph Daphne: And when you came hither good Lady with Crimine, you gave a gracious impediment to my tale. So that now (since it is your pleasure) I will proceed in it, beginning only but with a word or two recited before, to annex that, and this that followeth the better together.  


APollo being in this heavenly joy,  
For victory by Python's death obtained,  
Lift up by chance his eyes, and spied the Nymph  
(The fairest Nymph as ever he did see)  
Whom at the first he only did behold  
With an impartial eye (a common thing)  
And only marked her beauty, and her grace,  
And with that common kind of honest love,  
In praise of her these loving words did move.  
What Nymph might yonder be,  
So fine with her dishieveled hair,  
That in this forest hunteth all alone?  
I will go near to see,  
If that she be indeed so fair,  
As she doth seem. Ah (Godheades) there is none  
In all your heavenly throne,  
No Goddess, nor no power divine,  
With beauty, and good grace,  
That nature doth embrace,  
Then this, in whom most clearly shine  
Her gifts, and chiefest art,  
As many as to all she did impart.   

But Cupid seeing her in such estate,  
Thought it high time to punish the contempt,  
And braving words, that proud Apollo used.  
And now to be revenged on his head  
With more dishonour and with greater shame,  
He did prepare him to assail his foe  
With those same weapons, that were threatened him:  
So, with his headed shaft of beaten gold  
He smote his breast, and passed his careless hart;  
Omitting not to wound fair Daphne's to  
With that of hate, headed with heavy lead.  
And so with this the Boy remained glad,  
And well did see, though blind what he had done.  
And thus content in mind, he did departed,  
Upon some others to employ his might.  
O blinded Boy, of strong and mighty force,  
Where none is found but only in thy hands,  
That more the one with fervent love doth burn,  
The more the other freezeth with disdain.  
And proud Apollo now thou shalt perceive,  
(That thinkest no equal God to thee in heaven,  
Nor celebrated in the earth beaneth  
With such like honours, which thou claym'st alone)  
That there is one that reigns in heaven and earth,  
In hell, and every corner of the world,  
More puissant than any other God.  
Because thou art inventor of the skill  
Of physic, and of musics sweetest art;  
Because (besides) thou tell'st with secret power,  
Things that are past, and present, and to come,  
Thou thinkest thou reign'st alone as Sovereign.  
Now art thou subject to a silly maid,  
Too base if she be paragoned to thee:  
And yet this grieves him not, but that the more  
He loves this Nymph, the more doth she contemn  
His mighty love, and all his vainest suits.  
Fair Daphne's hart is hardened and congealed  
In love of this great God of heaven above:  
Apollo's hart consumes with burning heat  
In love of this poor maid in earth beneath.  
The God desireth to enjoy her love,  
And after this desire cometh hope.  
But here his Oracles deceive him much:  
For in these things divining is but vain.  
So with this hope, which is but vain, and false,  
He doth maintain and feed his barren love.  
And feeling with great pain his burning fire,  
To Cupid in this sort he mildly spoke:   

What fire is it, that thus my breast doth tame,  
And yet no flame, I see that's manifest?  
Is this thy best revenge, O Cupid tell,  
Fierce God and fell, which on me thou dost take?  
How dost thou make the mighty Gods to bend,  
And dost offend the rich, the proud, and wise,  
And dost despise and tame the great and small?  
So easy shall not flux, nor tow be burned,  
Nor reeds be turned to fire laid thereby,  
Alas as I with thy revenging games  
Do burn in flames: for thou hast made my hart  
To feel the smart of love, and with thy might  
And golden flight, haste (cruel) wounded it.  
Which thou hast smit, and smitten, stolen away,  
And made decay of it within my breast:  
Where now no rest, nor wont joys do devil.  
Then cruel tell the same where hast thouput,  
Where hast thou shut my hart of sorrow? what,  
And is that, perhaps? O that it is.  
And now in this fair forest do they use,  
Thus to abuse God's hearts, and steal and kill?  
From hence I will (Cupid) make thee my mate,  
And friend (though late) for ever thou shalt be,  
Since linked me thou hast in such a chain.  
Her hair doth stain the golden Colchos fleece,  
Which out of Greece, jason shall sail to seek.  
Her face and cheek enamelled with red,  
With white be spread, passing the Roses gay  
In month of May, that dare not come in place  
To see her face, nor yet the Lily white  
Approach in sight, where her brave beauty shines.  
Aurora pines in seeing her, and dies.  
Her twinkling eyes, more than the heavenly lights  
In frosty nights do shine, where Gupid skips.  
Her ruby lips with praise shall not be vouched,  
But only touched, and kissed of mine again:  
Her neck so plain, and smooth, nothing doth owe  
Unto the snow, for pure unspotted white.  
What else (O spite) her wrongful garments grudge  
To show, I judge, that nature made each part  
With such brave art, as never human eyes  
Did see the like, or heavenly thought devise.   

whilst God Apollo wandereth in her praise,  
Daphne with hasty foot doth fly away.  
Which when he did perceive, these words in vain  
(Continuing still his speech) to her did say.   

O thou the skies that dost excel, stay, stay;  
Fly not away so fast, thy friend I am:  
So flies the lamb from ravening wolf away,  
The Hart again, of cruel death afraid,  
With hart dismayed doth from the Lion fly;  
The doves do high them from their praying king  
With trembling wing, so each thing here below  
Flies from his foe: But Love that burns Apollo  
Doth make him follow thee with friendly pace:  
O see each place, whereon thy feet do tread,  
With thorns bespread, unworthily to bear them.  
The stones do wear them like the shaving file:  
Then stay a while, and haste not so I pray.  
Sharp is the way, and I for nothing would  
My following should make thee (fair Nymph) to fall.  
I pray thee, all I may, to moderate  
Thy hasty gate, and I with milder pace,  
To save thy face from hurt, will follow thee.  
Oh didst thou see, and know but who it is,  
That moveth his great l we unto thee so,  
Thou wouldst I know not fly, but tarry still  
To know my will, and think that thou wert blest  
To be possessed of such a Lord so high.  
I dwell not I, in this poor harren hill,  
Though here I kill wild beasts for my delight:  
I hold by right, as much as Tanais streams,  
And Titan's beams do see, where they arise:  
This I despise, but only for thy sake,  
Where thou didst take thy beauties first of all.  
Which country shall be reared unto the skies  
In all men's eyes, with fame and dignity:  
And loved of me, more than th'imperial seat  
Of heaven so great, from whence fair Nymph I came.  
Neither I am a Shepherd, nor do keep  
cattle, or sheep, but what love doth commend  
To me to tend. In Delphos for mine honour,  
Of which the ownour I am, incense burns.  
Claros by turns, and Tenedos likewise  
Burn sacrifice to me: The lands which great  
Xanthus doth wet, wherewith such sudden voice  
I do rejoice the hearts of them, that crave  
Answers to have by Oracle divine.  
Delphos is mine, and famous there I am.  
Of birth I came more noble than the rest:  
For (at the ) the Gods are kin to me.  
First in degree great jove my father is,  
And she ywish that reigns in heavenly seat,  
A Goddess great (Latona) fairer than  
Fair Titan, when in all his chiefest pride  
Unto his bride Aurora he doth haste:  
By me things past, and those that present be  
I know, and see, and things to come can tell:  
I do excel in verse, and sweetest song:  
With arm most strong I draw my bow and flight:  
Where it doth light, it hits with sure wound:  
Yet have I found, that Cupid's certain arrow  
Doth hit more narrow in my wounded breast,  
Where all my rest and pleasures it hath spent.  
I did invent the art of medicine.  
My wit divine found out the secret power  
Of every flower, and herbs whose virtues still  
Unto my skill, and practise subject be.  
But woe is me, that neither herb nor pill,  
Nor physics skill to love no ease imparts.  
Nor that those arts, that profit every one,  
Cannot help me their master all alone.   

Now running fast away between them both,  
Daphne to fly Apollo's wanton will,  
Apollo following chaste Daphne's love,  
Love help Apollo with his speedy wings,  
And unto Daphne's feet fear tied her wings.  
And both sufficient favours have of both,  
But love in fine doth overcome pale fear,  
Because he is more forward, light and hot.  
But when the Nymph did see herself surprised,  
And that the God embraced her in his arms:  
Lifting her hands and eyes unto the heavens,  
Secure she craved of all th'immortal Gods,  
Forgetting not her father demi God.  
And in this sort besought their favours all,  
Help each immortal power,  
For jointly all your helps I do desire,  
And humbly do your favours all invoke:  
None I except out of the heavenly choir:  
O save my virgin flower:  
Be ready, else with force it will be broke.  
O let the earth devour,  
And swallow me within her hidden veins  
With furious pains.  
Or else destroy my shape with thunder clap,  
Since this mishap  
It wrought. Help Pene now my father dear,  
If deity be in thy rivers clear.   

Scarce had fair Daphne ended her request,  
When by and by a trembling fear possessed  
Her body with each member of the same.  
Hard bark did wind about her snowwhite breast:  
Her golden hair was turned to green leaves,  
Her arms into two long and branchy boughs:  
Her nimble foot, which was of late so light,  
Fastened remained in roots that could not stir,  
And such like shape remained in every part.  
Apollo dearly loved this Nymph in life,  
And now he loves her turned into a tree:  
Where thrusting his right hand into the bark  
Felt, that transformed Daphne's hart did yet  
Tremble, and quake under the same so new.  
He doth embrace those fine and tender boughs,  
As though he would embrace her body yet,  
The wood he kisseth, but the wood disdains  
His kisses, and doth seem to bend away.  
So in this sort Apollo stood a while  
Speechless, and thinking of no other thing:  
After like one, that is amazed in mind,  
Not knowing whether he doth dream or no,  
Upon the Gods, and heaven he doth exclaim  
With angry words of pity and despite;  
Because they used such rigour to his love.  
For feign he would had Daphne to his wife.  
But when he saw it could not come to pass,  
He chose her for his tree, and gave to it  
Great honours, as the like had never yet:  
And in this great astonishment he said.   

What thing is this, which I do see,  
Is it a dream, or none? O that it were  
A fancy, or some vain deceit,  
What, do I err?  
Or is it night, or day, what might I be?  
If it be true, I see a loss so great  
With many harms my burning soul will threat.   

But yet awake I am, for in my right  
Hand Python dead, and headless I do bear,  
And on my left arm wear  
My bow, and low my quiver and my flight.  
Why, this is Thessaly,  
Which this fell beast did waste both day and night,  
O woe, and after such a joy so high,  
Must such mishap my sweet content deny?   

What hard and cruel God is that,  
That hath transformed with envy and despite  
Her goodly figure, and her face,  
Most perfect bright?  
Me thinks, he nill deserves to banquet at  
The tables of the Gods, nor heavenly place,  
Since he hath wronged nature in this case.   

My skill and powers bear not such a sway,  
To change thee to thy former shape again:  
And that snowewhite,  
And rosy face, which first did breed my pain:  
The reason is, because that none  
(Though never yet so learned any way,  
And though they joined their virtues all in one)  
Can undo that, which one did do alone.   

But now since all the fates so dire,  
And wicked destinies this good forbid,  
That thou my loving wife shouldst be:  
Yet though they did  
With more despite against my will conspire,  
Thou shalt for ever be my loving tree,  
And I will never cease to honour thee.   

My yellow hair like shining threads of gold,  
To honour thee, thy leaves shall compass round:  
My harp with silver sound  
Thou shalt adorn, and quiver shalt uphold:  
In all the world thy noble fame shall bide:  
And when triumphantly  
In honour's chair the Conqueror doth ride,  
Before them they shall carry thee on high,  
Lifting their conquest to the starry sky.   

And as my fair and youthful head  
Adorned is with locks of dangling hairs,  
Whereon were never yet employed  
The little shears:  
Even so thy leaves shall never be destroyed.  
And angry time thy honour shall not tear,  
But evermore green bows and leaves shalt bear.   

The lightning, that all creatures doth offend,  
And every thing of beauty's pride bereaves,  
Shall never touch thy leaves:  
But be obedient to thee without end.  
From lightning to defend  
The oaks, with them thy branches they shall rear,  
And every where  
In honour of th'imperial palace gate,  
On portals they shall place thee with great state.   

This did Apollo speak unto the tree,  
And gratefully the Laurel bowed her top,  
In steed of moving her new changed head:  
And with her new and tender branches made  
A sign, that she with thankful mind received  
These gifts and favours, which that God did give  
To her, while Laurel on the earth did live.    
And now behold (noble company) how I have fulfilled your commands, although not so fitly to your demand nor my desire. Worthy Parisiles (said Lord Felix) you have done no less than was expected at your hands: but yet one doubt remaineth in my mind, for what reason the Oak is better kept then any other tree, since there are of others a great number more necessary for man's life. There is no God (answered Parisiles) but hath some tree, bird, beast, or other thing dedicated to his deity: as the Olive to Minerva; the Laurel to Apollo; the Turtle dove to Venus; the Peacock to juno, and so forth. But because jupiter is the highest of the Gods, and the Oak is dedicated to him, for this respect, to that tree, more than to any other, we do greater reverence. I am satisfied, said Lord Felix. But tell me (I pray you) why the Oak was rather dedicated to him then any other tree. To show the infinite power and might of jupiter, said Parisiles. It is well answered (said Felicia.) And for this time let demands & answers cease, and let us go about other necessary business, without the which no mortal creature can any long time preserve life. The tables therefore being spread, and furnished with many dainty dishes, Felicia took Crimine and Stela by the hands, and carried them out of the meadow to a fine spring, where Stela being washed, she appareled them as richly as their worthiness and beauty deserved, for she had commanded some garments secretly to be brought thither, knowing what would ensue, and then they returned by and by to the fountain, (for now they were tarrying for her) allthings being in a readiness against her coming. Felismena & the Nymphs beauties were so eclipsed at Stelas coming, as the clear stars at the rising of the radiant Sun, whereat all of them did not a little wonder, the women, not without great emulation, procuring yet to comfort themselves, by putting some defect therein, although indeed there was not any at all, which (when they could find any such) they studied to pick it elsewhere, as out of the baseness of her estate, or to attribute it to some other things, that they (with enquiring and talking amongst themselves) are commonly wont to help and flatter theirs withal. But now (said Felicia) you may laugh indeed at Parisiles embracements, and you shall see, if we did with good cause find fault with him for conjoining his reverend visage with so foul a face. Then Parisiles rose up, and began to embrace Stela a new, saying. O my daughter, now do I see thee like thyself, and in the habit of thine own estate and deserts. The unknown Shepherd marking all this, his colour in his face went and came, not because he saw Stela in so brave a habit, for his affection did not augment with the bravery, nor value of her costly garments, neither did his love diminish with the baseness of her pastoral habit; but for the remembrance of that time, when he had seen her in like ornaments. His colour changed also for envy of Parisiles, thinking that those embracings were more proper and due to him. But Felicia must needs come once again to put old Parisiles and Stela asunder, which done, they went to dinner. To tell the manner and order of their libationes, which they made before they went to dinner, and to describe the preparation, order and diversity of dainty messes, as things too prolix, I think best to omit.  
The end of the second book.   

The third Book of the second Part of Diana of George of Montemayor.  
WHen dinner was done, all of them being very desirous to know what these Shepherdesses and the unknown Shepherd was, & for what cause Parisiles showed himself so incensed against him, Lord Felix, for his own desire, and at the request of his beloved Felismena, and the Nymphs and Shepherds, prayed Felicia in her ear, to entreat it of them; whom Felicia answered, saying: By this request I might demand of them a thing which I assure you, they themselves cannot tell, for the unknown Shepherd, and the fair Shepherdess know not who they are, how can they then make any report of themselves? And it is not now possible for you to know the course of their lives, for they are here in the presence of old Parisiles, before whom they dare not unfold it. But yet leave this charge to me, & I will find out some means to satisfy you herein. I could tell it better than they, (better I say) touching the certain knowledge who they are: Nevertheless I mean that you shall hear it from their own mouths, who can better express their own affections, as those that they passed themselves. When Felicia had answered thus, Lord Felix made signs to her to speak no more of the matter for that time, whereupon all of them were content, perceiving it was most convenient to be so. But having now reposed themselves a little after dinner, Felicia said unto the unknown Shepherd. Show these Shepherds thy sheephook, and view it well, for it deserveth well to be seen. The Shepherd then rose up for it, for he had laid it aside with his scrip, when he sat down to dinner. And giving it to the Sepherds, and Lord Felix seeing it of a different colour, requested only to see of what wood it was, for from a very little sidewise, the principal was not divided, which might be from the mids of the pommel upward, which was wrought all over, and carved very fine, and from one side thereof (I say) this carving was not seen, by reason of the fine workmanship. But when Lord Felix holding it in his hand, viewed the sheephooj well, he said. Why wouldst thou have the Shepherds (good Lady) only enjoy the sight of this sheephooj? Because it is a thing (said Felicia) more properly appertaining to their estate. And me thinks (said Lord Felix) it may well beseem a Prince his hands, though it is well enough bestowed, where it is. If I am of any worth amongst so good a company as this (said the Shepherd) I will not gainsay you, neither is it my mind, to pay you with the same money, lest my base words might diminish your high deserts. Now was Lord Felix answering, when Felicia reached forth her hand, saying. here take it, and view it well. Then came the Shepherds Syrenus, and sylvanus to Lord Felix, to look upon the curious sheephooj; Which was all black with some white spots, and the women stayed to look on it afterwards. They varied amongst themselves what would it might be, and there were divers opinions concerning the same. Some of them said it was the wood of Aloës, others of Ebony; and in the end concluded, that it was the root of an Olife, which was very like to both. Then they began to view the sheephook well, which was of length, as much as a man of mean stature to the breast; from the part beneath to the mids of the head, and from the part above in the steel a handful length: it was garnished with copper, which shined like gold, so finely laid in, and so even with the wood, that if it were not for the different colour, the staff might hardly have been discerned from the metal. Then from the metal in the steel, without any work, two strikes went down as broad as two barley corns: the rest of the pommel of the sheephook was divided into four pieces in breadth, by four pedestals, Bases, Cannyons, Chaptrees, Architrees, Frises, and Cornishes. And yet because all reached not to the steel (for all the four pillars upheld it) upon every one was a little child, holding forth his arm, and lifting up one leg, the better to reach it with his hand, and to support the steel of it. Between pillar and pillar were four little figures very finely wrought, so that there were sixteen carved pieces in all the Pommel: But between every pillar, one only fable was carved, belonging to sheep or Shepherds, because it was a hook for a Shepherd. In the piece that was first offered to their sight, was a goodly white Bull in a heard amongst many other Bulls and Cows, a fairer Bull than all the rest, and with white horns (for the workman helped himself by the white streaks of the wood, when he had any occasion) whereon Europa was putting a garland of flowers, which she took from her own head; the Bull lying gently, standing quietly, & licking her garments, to assure her the more of his gentleness. A little before that was she sitting upon the bulls back, who by little and little (making as though he went feeding) rose up. Above the first of these two pieces, the Bull, turning his head, licked the Damsels hands that rod upon him, and pace by pace went towards the sea shore that was hard by, putting now and then his foore into the water. Above the second figure of his first space, the Bull leapt indeed into the sea before him: upon whose back the Damsel sitting with great fear, and not regarding her wet and drenched garments, thought good to hold fast by his horns, to save herself from falling, turning her pitiful face (and wrinkled for fear) to the shore, which she was forced to leave. When they had beheld this piece, turning the sheephook a little about, they saw in the second piece of it a goodly Shepherd amongst a flock of sheep, wearing upon his yellow locks a band of fine white silk lose, to tie them up on either side, because they might not hang down about his eyes. Whom (for that a little before he was more earnestly, and with more brightness beholding the Moon) they knew to be Endymion. In the upper part thereof, they saw the selfsame man lying upon the massy body of a tree (cut down) and the Moon with her arts & power endeavouring to cast him into a deep sleep. The intent why she had to make him sleep, was understood by that which followed, for when he was asleep, she was lovingly kissing the fair youth. In the third part, or space of it, was the Goddess juno talking with a Shepherd that had a hundred eyes, (named Argus) pointing with her finger to a fair white heifer, which she commanded him to keep well, and threatening him, if he did otherwise. The same Argus a little farther was sitting upon a rock, with his ninety eight eyes (which then watched) looking steadfastly upon the heifer that was committed to his charge. In the upper piece Mercury was passing by in a shepherd's habit, playing on a Baggepipe, who being invited by Argus to sit down and rest him, at the sweetness of his music, all his eyes fell asleep. A little before that, Argus being killed by Mercury, he carried the heifer away, or (to say more properly) Io transformed into a heifer, and gave her to jupiter. In the fourth part, in Xanthus' river banks was Alexander engraven, who was afterwards called Paris, casting his left arm about a nymphs neck (called Enone) and with his right hand carving these letters in a poplar, the smooth bark whereof served him for paper, and a sharp knife for pen and ink. 
First shall these christ all streams their courses backward move,  
Before I will forget my sweet and dearest love.   
A little farther was the Nymph with this Shepherd amongst the boughs of a low Tamarisque, despoiling the harmless Nightingale of her dearest pretty ones, and the sorrowful Dame fluttering up and down over their heads, and, for that injury, crying for vengeance to the impartial heavens. In the piece above, Mercury was showing Paris (who from that time took this name) a golden apple, pointing to it with a wand in his hand, to give it to the fairest of those three Goddesses that came with him. A little before this were the three Goddesses stripping themselves naked at Paris command, the better to give his judgement, and after having viewed them on every side, and each ones several beauty, he gave it to Venus, who remained very proud and lofty by obtaining the prize, and the other two hanging down their heads with sad countenances, and angry against the Shepherd. In the steel of it divers artificial sports were carved, and sundry kinds of hunt, not to be told or written here, to avoid tediousness. Although Lord Felix, and the shepherds, Seluagia, and the Nymphs every one by themselves viewed the sheephooj, yet Parisiles would never take it in his hands, because it belonged to that Shepherd, whom he hated above allthings in the world. After they had seen and marked the sheephooj well, and commended the fine workmanship and devices of it, Syrenus asked the Shepherd, if he himself had made it. The Shepherd answered no, nor knew by whom it was made, but only him, that gave it him. It seemed he meant thee no ill (said Syrenus) when he gave thee so rich a gift as this. Nay rather (said Crimine) he that gave it him, was even then, and yet is the most mortal enemy he hath, and gave it him to as cruel an intent and purpose, as was ever heard of, because it might have been the means to have brought this Shepherd to a violent and untimely death, as it hath been the occasion not only of his banishment and ours, but also of the cruel imprisonment of his dearest friend. At these words the Shepherd Stela, and Crimine could not hold their tears, whereupon they would ask them no more of that matter. But Felicia said. I know my friend Parisiles, that it grieves this young people, that you and I are here, who having respect and reverence to our age, cannot converse together with such discourses as are most agreeable to their minds, and common amongst young folks: Let us therefore give them place, if you think it best, and go and talk together, for our pastimes shall be no less delightful unto us than theirs to them. But because they are a suspicious kind of people, Stela and Crimine shall go with us. They laughed all at these last words, and then without more ado, Felicia, and they three went walking out of that meadow. But as they were going (being a little way from the fountain, where most of the company was) Felicia said to them that went with her. Stay here a little, for I have forgotten to warn them of one thing: wherefore being come back to the fountain, she said to the unknown Shepherd. Since I have to talk with Parisiles about a matter concerning thee, thy friend, and the content of you all, my departure from hence is to withdraw Parisiles, Crimine, and Stela from this place, because thou mayst the better report to them that stay here with thee, who thou art, or (at the least) as much as thou knowest of thyself, & why, and how thou didst bring so good company with thee; for as they greatly desire to hear it, so shall I think thou dost much for me, if thou wilt afford me and them this content. When she had said thus, she went back again to her company, which she left staying for her, with whom she walked to a secret place, where sitting down, she said. Sat down Parisiles, and daughters forbear us a little, or else go walk up and down there, for I will not have you bear witness of the love that I have to impart to Parisiles. They two therefore remaining all alone, Felicia told him all that hereafter shall be rehearsed, and that he should not take it in ill part, that his daughter went in the Shepherd's company; for such an one he was, by whom nothing should be lost, and the rather, since he had entertained her, and her love with the greatest purity, and sincerity in the world. And that he should expect, that all things should succeed by a preordinate course from the Gods, which we cannot attain to (said she) in bare conceit, considering that they for the most part give to those whom they love, wished ease and content, when they think themselves farthest from it. These and many other things did she discourse with him. But the unknown Shepherd, that stayed in the company of Lord Felix, Felismena, the Nymphs, and the shepherds (Felicia being gone) began thus to say.  
TOuching the first thing you demand of me (noble Lord, and the rest) to tell you who I am, I know not how to resolve you therein, for that not many years since I knew these parts (my parents not being those whom I took them to be) and with desire to know who they were, I came with a certain friend of mine (the half part of mine own soul) out of our supposed own country. The Gods made him and me not only in body, face, and condition, but in fortune, and manner of life so like, that it might be said, they gave us two souls for one body, or two bodies for one soul: and so he knoweth no more nor less than myself, who his father or mother is. We believed we were brethren, but that in distinct places, & with different persons we were brought up: I, with a young and courteous Shepherd; he, with an old and reverend Shepherdess. I (who am called Delicius) was brought up in a little village in Tinacria, in the corner called Pachinus, and in the house of a Shepherd (called Carpostus) my friend (whose name is Parthenius) in another village in the second corner of one of the three which that Island hath (called Pelorus) in the house of another Shepherd called Sarcordus. From this base estate fortune lifted us up on high, wherein we lived a while: but because you may hear the brave and strange means, whereby our good or ill hap did guide us to it, I will now tell it you, wherein I must advise you to carry the names of my dear friend and mine in memory, as also of our nurses, if you will delight you with the rare accident. It happened that Carpostus my nune (I being then but three years old) went about certain business to the place where my Parthenius was nursed, who seeing him play with other children in the street, stood half amazed, thinking it was I (so like were we to one another) and that from out some Cannon I had been shot into that place: but yet he marveled more, when the child (after he was come to him, & had kissed him against his will) with his weak forces endeavoured to wind himself from him. At the cry that Parthenius gave, his nurse came out, and with sharp words blamed Carpostus, who not so patiently endured her, but that he had offered (had it not been for some of the townsmen which came running out at that noise) to have rudely entreated her. But he still affirmed obstinately that it was his child, and made such ado about it, that of all of them there he was reputed for a man out of his wits. In the end Carpostus held his peace, seeing it was no point of wisdom to be opposite against the whole town, who affirmed with one voice, that it was the child of that woman: and seeing moreover, that the child ran away from him (which more persuaded him to the contrary of that, which he thought in his mind) he was content to be quiet. But the more he viewed the child's face, hands, qualities, gesture, age, and stature, the more he found himself incredulous: And so much, that he could not otherwise think, but that the woman had bewitched them all, or that he was surely in a dream. To be brief, he returned as soon (as he could) to his own town in great fear and doubt not to have found me there. But the joy, that he conceived in seeing me (when he came home) and with what a glad countenance I ran unto him, as I was wont to do, made no less alteration in his mind: the which my nurse Carpostus perceiving, with a moderate laughter said unto me. It is not long since (my child) thou didst deny me: for children & sons our nurses called us, requested by them so to do, that did first put us to them to be brought up. And coming to his wife, he asked her if I had been at any time from home since his departure, who answered no but some little while, when I went to play with other children abroad. But why said she? Carpostus then told her all that had happened, at which strange novelty she wondered not a little, and more when he told her of the great resemblance of us both. And who would indeed have laughed heartily at the deceit, but that her husband grew very pensive and sad: which she considering well with herself, asked him if any other thing had happened unto him, or what the matter was; for if it were no more but that, he might have greater cause to be glad (she said) then sorry. Carpostus' answered, that he had made so great ado in the town, affirming it was his child, that they might justly judge him for a senseless and drunken fool. After my nurse Calasta (for so she was called, who was ever accounted subtle and wise) had thought a little upon the matter, she resolved upon this which you shall now hear. And thus it was. My nurse Carpostus and his wife carried me closely (because I might not beé seen) to the town where Parthenius was brought up, where, being very privately kept, and Calasta tarrying with me secretly at the Inn, Carpostus went again to seek out little Parthenius, and having found him, began to wrangle as before, affirming still it was his son, and that he would prove it before the best in the town, or any justice else, when as most of the townsmen (that had flocked together to see his madness the other time before) were laughing again at his headless folly, that now yet another time he stood stiffly in his former error: who nevertheless took away the child Parthenius, and (for all that they could do to the contrary) running as fast as ever he could, carried him home to the Inn. It was worthy the sight, to see how he carried the child, that cried out amain, and how the people ran after him, fearing least (like a frantic man) he would have done it some harm. The bruit whereof being spread abroad, Sarcordus, nurse unto Parthenius, ran up and down in a great heat to seek Carpostus out, fearing lest some harm might befall to his little child. And having quickly found him in talk with other people in the street, (for by this time he had left the child privily with Calasta and me) he would feign have had a blow or two with him; but that the dissuasions of his neighbours stayed his unbridled fury, as also for the gentle and mild words that Carpostus gave him: who knowing him to be his father (father he called him, for he knew him for none other) said thus unto him. Goodman of the child, whether he be thine (as thou supposest) or mine (as I certainly know it) fear not, but that he is well enough, and without any harm at all. To return him back to thee, shall be as we can either of us make our best proof before the judge: So that if the child be thine, here am I, that will restore him as safe and sound as I took him away; if he shall be judged to be mine (whereof I doubt not) thou needest not care for his safety, (if thou dost not mean (at the least) to care for other men's matters.) These words of Carpostus liked all the townsmen well, not because they doubted one whit of the wrong, that he offered the other, but to hear his reasons, which he grounded upon a thing so much without reason. For proof whereof much people flocked together with either of them in presence of the justices, before whom Carpostus being come, in this sort began to speak.  
As I am assured (grave judges) before my cause shall be fully justified before you, that you will take me for a man deprived of my wits, (you being informed perhaps by mine adversary to the contrary of my demand, and by the townsmen of of this present accident) by wilfully oppugning a thing clearer (as you think) than noon day: So when my manifest right is but with indifferent justice ratified before your impartial ears, I doubt not, but his false supposal shall be utterly condemned, and my just demand apparently proved. Whereupon (because the matter may be more rightly scanned and determined) reverend judges you must know, that a few days since I was deprived (to speak more modestly) of a little son, and (thinking lest of all of such a wickedness, as the thing to be most strange) having not long before left him in my house at my departure, and coming hither with all the haste I could, found him unawares in this town playing with other children in the street, only referring it to your tender consideration (that have loving children) what I might justly feel, when leaving him (as I said) at home a little before, I found him on the sudden in so distant a place: whereupon (as I did but the part of a loving father) by taking him away, so was I judged of all men to be a mad and senseless man. Seeing myself mocked and injured by them for demanding mine own, I dissembled the matter for that time, because I would not be such an one indeed, by wilfully resisting a whole town: But now with witnesses I come to defend my cause, which accustomed proof, if perhaps you will not allow, as insufficient, or call their sincerity in suspicion of my supposed right, for better proof and testimony thereof, I mean (by your permission) to make my claim in such sort, as shall best please mine adversary; whereby I think not only to convict him, but also to make the standers by believe, their opinions to be as false, as their words injurious, that they have unjustly conceived and uttered against me: So that, command mine adversary (most rightful judges) to choose out some way or other to try the truth, if yet (at the least) he claimeth this child in controversy to be his son. To this Sarcordus answered thus. The matter brought here before you (most reverend and just judges) being accounted of all most bad of itself & most untrue, I think so far unfit (for the high respect due unto you) to trouble your grave ears withal, that were it not by the dissuasion of my friends, but especially by the due regard of justice (wherein he falsely claims to have the only title) and by maintaining of the kings inviolate peace (whereof I am a member) this controversy had been (without troubling you) long since decided. But since for justice he calls and cries, which (though supposed) is not wont to be denied any here, I was content to condescend to his own request, assuredly knowing when by your grave censures the matter shall be thoroughly scanned, to overcome him with his own weapons. All which considered, you must either judge this man a very fool in that he speaks (and as I mean to prove him no less) or else think, that he comes to importune and mock you, procuring you come to judgement of a matter clearer than the brightest light. But because his impudency may be thoroughly known, and that you may inflict due punishment upon him for it, Command him, I beseech you, to bring hither the child, which with the testimony of all the town I will prove to be mine. If this proof be sufficient (said Carpostus interrupting him) I will also prove it by the uniform voice of all my town to be as well mine. Why then grave judges (said Sarcordus) we will no longer detain you here about this matter. Let the child be brought and set between us both, and let him be deemed the right Father to whom it will go. Carpostus (for that was the thing he most of all desired) immediately answered. Bear witness all good people what he saith. And deprive him (grave judges) of a Son, whom the child shall forsake, and let not the offender & condemned person escape unpunished: he, for his theft committed; me, for my folly & shame that is spread abroad of me. When he had spoken these words, he turned him about to a boy that he brought with him on purpose, and said unto him. Run to the Inn and bring the child hither, who brought me strait ways thither, leaving Parthenius still in the Inn, whose coats I did then wear, for Calasta my nurse had taken off his to put them upon me, and in change of them, had put mine upon him. But now when I was come near, the people made way, Sarcordus standing on the one side, and Carpostus on the other. Then the boy that carried me in his arms, brought me in sight of them both, and I with a merry countenance (being called by the name of loving son) ran to my Father, not turning so much as mine eyes to Sarcordus, who was with great grief & anguish of mind calling in vain upon me. This being done to the great wonder of all the town (for there was none there that durst not have laid his head, but that I was Parthenius) Carpostus took me up and set me near to Sarcordus (himself going away) but I ran by and by after him, making no account at all of Sarcordus. At this sight, as they were all astonished, so were they not able to say any thing else, but that Carpostus had bewitched me, and therefore took him for some conjuror & wicked person. But first they brought Sarcordus his wife to see if I would seem to faun more on her (being (as they thought) mother unto me) then on him, of whom (to be short) I made no more account then of Sarcordus. Wherefore Carpostus said unto Sarcordus and all the standers by. Why men of sense and reason dote you thus? Be assured the child knows his own Father well enough. Command him therefore (I beseech you righteous judges) to offer no violence to me for carrying away what is mine own. The judges not knowing what to determine in so doubtful a case, Carpostus said. I know not (grave judges) why in a matter so manifest as this, you should suspend your just judgement, but that without delay you should proceed to definitive sentence, unless you seem to make any more doubt herein, which if you do, I will clear it, if it please you to send the child back again to my lodging by this boy, who shall incontinently return with him again; for whom I will in the mean time remain here a pledge, because it shall not be said, that I took possession of him before sentence given. That being granted him, he willed the boy that brought me (but secretly in his ear) to carry me back, and to bring the other child, not forgetting to put on his own coats, who did it incontinently, and having brought Parthenius there before them all, without any more ado, he ran to his Father Sarcordus, and to his known nurse Sarcordus wife. The judges seeing so strange an alteration, and thinking he did what he listed with the child (for they took me and Parthenius to be both one) commanded to lay hands on him for a notable Sorcerer. To whom Carpostus (seeing whereabout they went) said. Though here I am (worthy judges) at your disposition and command, yet do me this favour (I beseech you) to suspend your doom, until you see the end of this matter; it may be you will delight yourselves with the conveyance & rare sequel of it. And then he bade the boy carry back the child, commanding him softly in his ear to bring me and the other child back again, but both naked. And this he devised, because Parthenius might not be known by his coats. But before we came, he requested the judges to command Sarcordus & his wife to go aside, or to put themselves amongst the press of the people, so that the child, when he was commight not see them. They did so, & behold we were both brought naked thither, and playing together, at the sight whereof the standers by marveled very much, and they that came to behold the fame of that which was past, wondering yet a great deal more; and others, that came after us in the streets, looking upon one another in sign of admiration spoke not a word, but opened their hands, and sometimes lifted up their eyes to heaven in token of great wonder & admiration. Then with a loud voice Carpostus (before we came) spoke thus. One of these children is mine, the other is Sarcordus his. Let him therefore take his own. But because the child by seeing him, may not know him, let him come to claim him behind the people, and I will also hide me here. Sarcordus being therefore come in manner aforesaid, and not able to discern which was his, my nurse said. Now do you see (grave judges and good people assembled to behold the end of this debate) how I have this day (to delight you with a rare novelty) presented before your eyes the strangest wonder in the world, because you might not wonder at me, nor repute me for such a fool, as you have taken me, for that which these few days passed I have done with Parthenius, believing he was my son, and because you might see, whether I had just cause to claim him with assuredness for mine own or not. They were all passing glad to see this strange conclusion, and took him for a very wise man, in that he had so well contrived the matter to save his credit: And with great reason (said Lord Felix) though all was done (in my opinion) by Calastas' counsel, albeit I cannot also otherwise think, but that Carpostus was very wise by knowing how to govern himself so well against the whole town. When he had said thus, Delicius proceeded in his discourse saying. They put on our garments again, and to give either their own, was no less variance, and as great difficulty as before; for if we of ourselves had not made ourselves known to our nurses (either of us going to his own) we might have both gone naked home again. But from that time we entered both into such a mutual league of amity, that by no means they could part us asunder: for much force had one God (I know not) that reigned in us, over each others soul, divining the great and inviolable friendship that should be between him and me. I fear me (noble Sir, and the rest) that you would a good while since have asked me what was become of my dear brother Parthenius (for so we ever called one another) and other questions that you have left of, not to interrupt me in my tale. Delicius would have passed on farther but his falling tears would not permit him. Wherefore Cynthia came to him, saying. Dry up thy tears (Shepherd) and tell on thy tale, for by doing this, thou showest the small confidence and hope thou hast in my Lady Felicias help, whereas I myself have also divers times told thee before that thy sorrows shall be remedied. Delicius then wiping his eyes, said. Thou tellest me (O Nymph) by that which I show, the small trust I have in Felicia; but I tell thee, that by thy speech, thou dost manifest how little thou art acquainted with my grief, and how less thou knowest of like passions, to which knowledge I wish thou mayest never attain, since ignorance in such matters is much more expedient. I could tell thee much about these effects, if I thought not to offend this worthy company: but only one word I will tell thee. That hope doth not pardon the punishment, although it doth lighten it a little. But thou seemest Shepherd (said Polydora) to know the very secrets of our hearts, because (as thou hast told true touching the desire we had to know what was become of thy dear brother) thou didst chance to say, that we would not give thee leave for answers and replies: wherefore dissembling thy grief for a while, tell out the rest as thou hast begun. With a good will, said Delicius. But let it not grieve you (worthy personages) if you hear not now of my beloved brother, considering, that the great grief which I suffer for him, must now suffice, and that the process of my history shall in convenient place declare it amply unto you; and if not so, at some other time you shall know it, when you shall see what great reason I have to solemnize such a memory with these and many more tears. The fame of this strange accident (I told you of) and of our great likeness within a few days after came to the ears of old Synistius, governor of the kingdom where we were borne, who was placed there by Rotindus' king of Eolia, for the which cause Synistius commanding, that we should be brought unto him (as well for our great likeness, as for the great beauty which we were reported to have when we were children) took us from our fathers, and not long after sent us to Rotindus, who also hearing that rare report, which fame had blown abroad of us, sent for us to keep Agenestor his nephew company, to whom he was Grandfather by the mother's side, being then but one year younger than us both. As it was strange to see what intensive love every one did bear us, so were the unspeakable favours and affection, which the young prince Agenestor showed us, so great, that needs we must (to content him) lie altogether in one chamber; for whose sake, like panie, I will tell you what the song was, and whatsoever else you shall command me, since such an one did sing it, whom I shall never forget, nor the song itself, while I have either life or memory.  


IF to my musics skill  
Apollo might his praises all resign,  
And if (unto my will)  
My speech were so divine,  
That Mercury for grief thereat might pine.   

And if that eloquence  
So famous of Minerva sweet, did seem yet  
But r●…ude irreverence  
To mine, and each one deem it  
But harsh, and placed with mine, but base esteem it.   

And if I were adorned  
With hundred mouths of iron, and like wit,  
Or if I had been borne  
With Dimond tongues (admit)  
Or saw myself in every part so fit:   

The ruin, nor the fall  
Of those, whom jove from scaled heaven did throw,  
Nor that great flood, when all  
The drowned world did flow,  
I would not tell, nor time in them bestow.   

Only by me thy praise  
(O Chastity) with honour should be told:  
And with thy heavenly ways  
I would no less unfold  
Those goodly parts, that thou dost still uphold.   

Thou art a weeder out  
Of vices, from the place of virtues grain:  
And thou dost go about  
Our honours to maintain,  
And dost our souls from cankered vice restrain.   

The only way and sign  
Thou art, that doth the soul to virtue lead,  
A captain most divine,  
That under foot dost tread  
Thy foes: Thy fort and tower no force do dread.   

Fowl lechery doth kill  
Reason, if that it conquered hath the same,  
And captive to her will  
Doth make it (to her shame:)  
So to the maid the Mistress subject came.   

Thou chastity dost free  
Reason (if to thy gate she bend her pace)  
In more supreme degree:  
And she in every place  
Is only free, that doth thy law embrace.   

The soul with sweetest balm  
Thou fillest, and the senses dost refine,  
And therewith all, the palm  
Of beauty most divine  
Thy figure bears, where bravely it doth shine.   

The vain thoughts of the mind,  
Which reason cannot with her counsel tame,  
Nor friendly discipline,  
Thy wisdom doth reclaim:  
And apt to each good art the soul dost frame.   

Being sincere, and pure,  
Thou joinest us to things pure, and sincere,  
And so thou dost assure  
Those, that thy rob do wear,  
Friends unto God, a conscience free from fear.   

In vain I here do waste  
These words, wherewith thy praises I pretend:  
Better it were (at last)  
In action to commend  
Thee, then with words; And so I make an end.    
Having made an end of her sweet song, & perceiving that she came not again, we rose up softly to see, who had so much joyed the Forest, filling it with so sweet harmony. But casting our eyes to the place from whence the delicate voice came, a sudden noise and rushing of the river waters hard by, made us suddenly look that way. The cause whereof was the passage of a most fierce Shepherd that in great haste came wading thorough the river. He was of stature so huge and high that no common tall man might reach with his head above his middle, to whose high and main growth each limb of his body was proportionably correspondent. In every part he was so hairy, that the skin of his body might hardly have been discerned, if the hair (like to the bristles of wild Boars) had not grown right forth. His eyes were terrible to behold, and full of foggy flesh; his wearing of wild beasts skins (from whom he rend & took them) was sodden hard for his defence against their sharp teeth; his sleeves came no further on his arms, than almost to his elbows, and his hose but a little beneath his knees. On his head he ware a broad Shell of a sea Tortoise, which served him for his morion. His scrip, that hung down behind his shoulders, was made of a wild goats skin. Almost a whole Pine tree, (big enough for the mast of some tall ship) served him for his sheephook; the end whereof was pointed with sharp and tempered steel. The cause of his passing thorough the river in such haste, was to follow (as we afterwards perceived) a certain Damsel, which was singing the song (which you have heard) on the other side of the river. Whose fair sight filled us with no less wonder, than the fierce show of the huge and monstrous Shepherd with a pale and shivering fear. As soon as the fair virgin had set eye on Gorphorost (for so was this deformed fellow called) with incredible swiftness she began to fly away, and coming to pass near unto the place where we were, we judged her to be some Nymph, resembling in face like a fair boy, or a boy transformed in countenance like to a fair Nymph: for her habit was not altogether manlike, nor in every point appareled like a woman. Her disshiveled hair (in brightness surmounting the fine Arabian gold) in curled locks hung dangling about her snowwhite forehead; and from the mids of her head (which with a crown of Laurel and sweet coloured flowers was graced) in fair and loo●… tresses hung carelessly down. The which being spread abroad upon her even shoulders, and with a sweet sight falling down beneath her fine waste, were gathered up by the said Laurel crown, because they might not hide such singular beauty, nor hinder the light of her radiant eyes. On her body she wore a fine little doublet of a most perfect purple tynsell (the like I think not to be imagined) the same being richly died, and woven as curiously as art could devise, and so fit for her sightly body, that it seemed, it was endowed with understanding, desiring by no means to be severed from it; the which at her fair and smooth neck (for some greater respect) was somewhat carelessly lose. The purple colour of this little doublet with the glimmering beams of her snowwhite face reflecting upon it, was represented with such a heavenly grace, like to that orient blush, which a crimson vale (pierced by the Sunnc bright beams) is wont to cast upon some white Palace. A little wind gathered by the speed of her swift running, fashioned a delicate lap of the same colour of the doublet: the white and azure border whereof came down but a little beneath the calf of her fine leg, when, but half a light green busquin, wrought all before with flowers of gold, was discovered to our dazzled eyes, with certain Scarpines' or shoes (such as Mercury (men say) was wont to wear) to defend her pretty foot from the injuries of the hard ground. Within her ivory quiver, that so seemly hung on her left shoulder, her lose arrows went shaking up and down. The bow she carried in her left hand, with three arrows in her right, made her in her flight more light and nimble. And in this sort Parthenius and I beheld at once this sovereign virgin; and both at once (as after it was known) were surprised with the beauty of her angelical face: which made us so far besides ourselves, that both of them in a short time being overrun us a pretty way, we neither thought upon her succour, nor once remembered to deliver her from that bruit beast, who was almost at her fainting heels: which help admit, though awaked out of our sudden passion & wonder we had offered to have lent her; yet had we neither been able to control Gorphorostes beastly forces, nor to come any thing near him in running, nor yet to have overtaken saire Stela (for this is the Sovereign name of the noble virgin and heavenly Shepherdess, that disdains not my company) in her swift and fearful flight. Needless it had been (said Lord Felix) to tell her name, when as by thy fine description and praises, that thou hast given her, it might be easily conjectured who she was. O let him proceed Lord Felix (said Doria) for me thinks I am enduring all this while the pains and fear, wherein this fair Nymph was, until I see her free from the hands of this monstrous beast: wherefore as thou lovest thyself, good Shepherd, make haste, (if it be true at the least) that she escaped from him. Then said Delicius. Now had the cruel Gorphorost blown up fair Stelas hair with his fiery foaming breath, when she, looking pale for fear to see him so nigh her, and herself in so apparent danger, encouraged her fainting spirits (wellnigh overcome by the violent pains of her swift course) and got a little again before him; wherewith being (happily) come to the rivers side, where it yields his running streams into the sea, she said. Ye sacred Nymphs, if it be true that you have any power in your waters, forsake not (I beseech you) a distressed virgin, long since devoted to the purity of chaste Diana, since you are so great friends to her, whom I have ever honoured from my hart. When she had thus said, she threw herself into the river; and after her, fierce Gorphorost without fear, leapt in, where he had been in great danger of drowning, if he had had less strength to wrestle with the fury of the swift stream, or known as little, by swimming, to have helped himself. The ugly Shepherd when he saw himself o●●he other side of the river, shaking off the water from him, like to the dirty swine when they come out of their wallowed puddles, and lifting up his eyes to heaven, in a loud and menacing manner began thus to exclaim. O ye partial Gods (if there be any, besides mine own will and appetite) ye unjust Gods enviers of my good, how would I piece-meal rend you, if I had you in my hands, to teach you not to meddle any more in my matters. And thou Neptune, who above the rest art termed to have an absolute and sole power over the waters, cast out from thy habitations that, which of right belongs to me; otherwise in these caves and dens I will every day disquiet thee and thy company, turning these huge and steepy hills into thy waters. As he was uttering these proud words, we came to the river, where we saw a goodly Nymph put out her yellow head, and spoke these words against Gorphorost. Thou huge and monstrous beast, that, in dishonour of the immortal God's art vomiting out blasphemies, hurtful to thyself, and not offensive to them, hark what I will say unto thee. Thou hast now incensed all the Gods so much against thee, that (were it not to reserve thee for some greater torments) they would presently afflict thee with due punishment. Trouble not thus our waters, since the utmost of thy power is so little able to profit thyself, unless thou wilt also make us thy principal enemies, and purchase our ill wills; which (think not) shall be small, since we have her in our custody, whom thou unworthily callest thy Goddess: We keep her, but not for thee, who by the fates is allotted to another. She remaineth in our palaces without any harm, for it was not reason she should for thy fault, suffer any at all. And with this get thee hence, hopeless for ever to see her in thy power, in whose behalse the Gods were never so unjust, as to combine two such unequal persons together. To this Gorphorost answered thus. The threatenings of these, whom vainly thou termest Gods, and Goddesses (sweet Nymph, the happy gardienne of my sacred Goddess) I little account of, who never yet acknowledged subjection to any other, but to her, who (as thou sayest) remaineth now in your dwelling places. And her justly do I confess to be mine only Goddess, and therefore fear her more than all the rest. And it grieves me, if she thinks I went about to hurt her, to whom (I confess) I never intended any such matter. For if I ran after her, it was because she fled from me, and would not stay to hearken to my just complaints. And believe me (Nymph) because her tenderfoote might not be harmed by some sharp thorn or flinty stone, thinking she would have moderated her flight, I followed with a slow pace, entreating her still to stay; and telling her, that since the swiftest Does I overran, and took in a short race, she might not then think therein to go beyond me. And this I was desirous to tell thee, to request thee (gentle Nymph) to hold me excused and blameless to her. By doing whereof, I promise thee to keep thy waters ever clear, and undefiled: And because she may understand how much it grieves me, that I have offended her, I will purge me of this error in my cave, without coming once out of it, until this new Moon shall have run out her full course. When he had spoken these words, he went his ways, & the Nymph refusing to hearken to my cries, and to Parthenius his pitiful requests, dived down again into the waters. Which thing (if it did not grieve us both) I leave hereafter to your judgements: Seeing therefore how bootless it was to call her, Parthenius turning to me (for I had first called the Nymph) said. Brother, what wouldst thou have with her? How is it possible (said I) but that I must call her, since she hath in her custody that power of beauty, that wholly possesseth my conquered hart. I came forth (dear brother) to seek out my lost Father, and have met with her, that hath found my soul. Woe is me, that know not what shall become of me. And from henceforth now thou mayest go seek out thy dear parents, which leave (sweet friend) I would not give thee (for the Gods know how much thy departure grieves me) but only to content and please thee: for here will I stay, until I know what the immortal Gods will determine with me. Scarce could my loving brother stand upon his feet, when from mine own mouth he heard that I was enamoured of the fair damsel, because he had also no less than myself (as by a strange chance I afterwards knew it) yielded up to her his love and liberty. But because it was either my good or ill hap to manifest my passion first, Parthenius dissembled his, in am that I might carry the guerdon away. So that on the oneside, he was very glad, that one thing offered itself, whereby I might receive the first fruits of his true friendship; and was sorry on the other, to see that his grief was remediless. Which perfect function of amity I would in very truth have no less performed towards him, if he had first opened his love of her unto me, as afterwards I did, though yet for all this I must remain his debtor. But because I might not perceive the great good turn he did me, and he by disclosing it have lost the merit thereof, he did not only dissemble it rightout, but by words and demonstration made as if no such matter had been: And albeit he strived with himself not to love Stela, yet was he not able to perform it, but (as I say) hid it in such sort, that it might not be perceived. Whereupon to that which I had said, he answered thus. The Gods never suffer me to profit nor pleasure myself with such a leave, dear brother. For thou art my father & mother, & to forsake thee, I mean not to seek them out: Let them pardon me whosoever they be, for since they left me in my infancy, & perhaps without just occasion, it shall be no part of impiety for me to deny them in their old age, being warranted by so just an excuse. Many other friendly speeches passed between us both, & that whereon we concluded was this: To go to the next town, because itwas late, & there by some other course (if at the least some happy means did obuiate our desires) to inform us what that Damsel was, & thereupon to advise us what was best to be done. Coming therefore near unto a little town, not far from that place, we espied this reverend old Parisiles, almost in the very same robes that he now wears, who turned his eyes on every side, to see if he might perceive her coming, for whom (it seemed) he had long looked and lamented. To whom in the end a certain ranger, that a far off came crossing over the lawns, appeared, who being come unto him, spoke some few words together, but what, we could not hear, for we had hid ourselves a pretty way off: and few they were. For by and by the sorrowful old man with a pitiful outcry fell into a great swoon. The ranger seeing him in such a trance, thinking he was dead, and fearing lest his sudden death (as he thought) might have been laid to his charge, ran presently away as fast as ever he could, when as we all in vain called and cried out aloud unto him; so that, for that time we could not know the cause of the good old man's sorrow. One thing I have noted in thy disoourse, said Lord Felix, that thou ever with reverence and humanity entreatest old Parisiles, who (as not long since it seemed) would have killed thee. And with great reason, answered Delicius, to whom I do not only wish well, because he is Father to fair Stela, but honour him for his high deserts. But returning to my discourse, seeing the ranger would not stay, we went to the noble Parisiles, who was lying (as abovesaid) distraught of his senses, and perceiving that he came not to himself again, we both went to seek out some water to sprinkle on his face, each of us going a sundry way, to bring it the sooner to him. Which, when after too long seeking (as we thought) we could not find, we returned back again, and before we came to the place where we left him, we heard him lamenting in this sort.  


O World, false world, and like to hell below,  
Alake of filled hinesse, and puddle mud:  
A sea, where tears and miseries do flow:  
A travel without ease, or hope of good:  
A pit of sorrow, and of endless woe:  
A region full of brambles, thorns, and brakes:  
Ameadow full of adders, toads, and snakes.   

A ceaseless grief, afalse delight, and pleasure  
Of men that go on wheels, and dancing scope:  
Of him, that counteth thee his trust and treasure,  
And of thy worldlings, false and vainest hope:  
A heap of woes, that hath no end nor measure:  
A hideous hill of care, and dwelling place  
Of monsters, and of pain an endless race.   

A poison sweet, a honey full of gall:  
A dungeon of despair, a dismal field  
Of wretchedness, of servitude, and all  
Infections, that ten thousand deaths doth yield.  
A hell, a filth, a misery, and thrall,  
A care, a grief, a pain, a plague, a sore,  
A slaverte, a death, and what is more.   

Many that have endured thy yoke of pain,  
Have gone about in colours to depaint  
Thy wicked slights, with which thou still dost train  
Distressed souls unto an endless plaint.  
And weeping, where my clearest light is hid,  
There wretched man my life I mean to rid.    
By this lamentation, whereunto we gave an attentive ear, we understood the cause of his complaint, That the Woodman belike had told him, how Stela, flying from Gorphorost, had cast herself into the river, but not that which afterwards succeeded. We were no less glad to hear the news, of that we so much desired to know, as to give him good tidings, whom it behoved us to make as much beholding to us as we could, for serving our own turns. But as we were now determined to go and talk with him, my brother said. Let us stay, for if this be Father to thy new Mistress, it is not best that he should now know us, when we ourselves know not what we have to do, nor how our matters (not yet well commenced) will fall out. And since he said he will go to the river, there to be the minister of his own death, I think it best for us to follow him, and demanding what he seeks, and whither he goes, to tell him what hath passed; which I also think best to be done, when it is somewhat dark, because speaking to him then, he may not know us another time, whereas (if it might afterwards avail us) by knowing us to be the same men that brought him these good news, we shall not want means to tell him that at our own pleasure. We thought this to be good counsel, and did therefore put it so well in practice, that the good old man being thereby comforted up a little, went back again, and in requital of these good news, offered me, that was the teller of them, his lodging that night. Which courtesy of his with thanks repaying, I made an excuse that I had some business another way, and bade him farewell, wherewith I went back again to Parthenius, and the old man homeward to his house. The next morning (for there we passed away the same night) we went to the place where Stela had cast herself into the river, attending there her coming forth; and being come forth, to see, if we might talk with her. But before we came, we espied the virgin's old Father walking up and down along the river banks: And going nearer unto him, to see if he offered to cast himself into the river, we saw, how weary of walking he sat him down, and then with as loud a voice as his grief would give him leave, heard him in this sort singing to his dearest daughter.  


DAughter, that in this dear  
And christ all river hast thy dwelling place  
With Nymphs: O hearken here  
To me a little space,  
Parisiles, thy woeful father's case.   

Deny not him thy sight,  
Who ever did for thee himself despise:  
The absence of thy light,  
And heavenly shining eyes,  
Unto his soul a bitter death applies.   

Which so consumes his breath,  
That living thus, his life he doth defy:  
For such a life is death,  
And he would rather die,  
Then leave to live without thy company.   

joy now, (and do not stay)  
An aged man consumed with grief, unless  
That thou wilt have him say,  
The love thou didst profess  
To him, was all but feigned, as he may guess.   

Why dost thou stay so long  
A wretched soul with comfort to sustain?  
O come and break this strong,  
And mourning vale in twain  
Of his affliction, misery, and pain.   

My soul, thou woont'st with glee  
To hear this voice: but either I am not,  
As once I wont to be,  
Or thou art changed, I wots,  
Or thy poor father else thou hast forgot.   

But first I pray to God,  
Then such oblivion in thy breast should be,  
My vital period  
May finish, not to see  
Myself forgot of her, that loved me.   

Come then my hart, and clear  
Thee of this doubt, this favour let me try:  
If not, this river clear  
Shall hide me by and by,  
For there with thee I mean to live or die.    
If the waves of the river, and the neighbour sea being moved to ruth and pity, seemed to stay, and the noise of them both with his doleful voice made gentle and calmed, ceased a while, that his tender complaints might be the better heard, how much more would you have judged our hearts (being wrought with pity and compassion) to be mollified with the amorous plaints, wherewith the pitiful old man did call upon fair Stela. For it might be well understood by his impatience, how much he loved her, when as he thought every moment he stayed there a thousand years. But there passed not much time, when the waters being gently opened, out of the mids of them rose a fair company of Nymphs, with garlands of divers colours upon their yellow hair: in the mids of which appeared fair Stela like chaste Diana amongst her gracious choir of Nymphs. At whose sight old Parisiles, for the incomparable joy he had to see his desired daughter, and we to see our new beloved Mistress, fell all down to the ground, but raised up again with the sweetness of a Set-song & a consort of heavenly music, which the Nymphs had made amongst themselves, we hearkened to that which was sung, as followeth.  


PArisiles, thy doleful song and plaining,  
Thy piteous sighs, and weeping without measure  
(To comfort thee) have made this goodly choir  
Leave their aboades, and stately seats of pleasure.  
Afflict not then thyself, but cease thy paining,  
And let thy wearied soul to rest aspire:  
Let plaints begun, retire,  
And be in joy, and happy gladness ended:  
And be not now offended  
Parisiles, or careful for thy daughter;  
For hither we have brought her  
In good estate, for thee to see her, knowing,  
That more than this to both we all are owing.   

If that the Gods are just in any wise,  
Then are they bound to help those that do pray  
To them for help, and in their service live.  
Then since that you yourselves did ever give  
To follow them, and choose the better way  
In honouring us by deed and sacrifice,  
The best we can devise  
Of all good turns, that may your love requite,  
Belongs to you of right:  
Parisiles, the Gods in heaven do know  
In sea, and earth below  
Thy things, and have of them a greater care,  
Then thou mayst think, and of thy happy fare.   

For which thing, they themselves had first ordained  
That Stela, the most monstrous Shepherd flying,  
Should cast herself into this clearest river,  
For knowing, what her fates and stars would give her,  
Their influence with all their help denying  
By secret means her fortune, they restrained,  
And such a sign that reigned  
Over her head, that threatened to destroy her,  
And present to annoy her:  
They therefore will she live within our bowers,  
Until these luckless hours  
Do pass, and while this sign and fate expires,  
Unworthy her deserts, and high desires.   

The Son of Goddess Cytherea shall  
Here after be the cause of her despair:  
(The cruel) wounding her with doubtful love:  
And so this love, that shall so doubtful fall,  
Great strife in her, and many wars shall move,  
Not knowing which to choose, that is most fair,  
Her breast (loves sweet repair)  
Continu ally shall waver on two men,  
Inclining now and then  
Her love to one, then to another strait:  
Poor soul she shall await  
In this suspense, not knowing to define  
To whether of them both she should incline?   

And think not that th'immortal Gods intended  
To bar these loves, that here I am declaring,  
Nor their success would ever have denied:  
For being to a virtuous end applied,  
Either of both they would not have suspended:  
Alas, it is their fate such woes preparing,  
Not one nor other sparing.  
Both for one cause in one love shall be chained;  
And both alike be pained:  
But yet the Gods shall ever be procuring,  
That, Stela then enduring  
These hardest haps shall not with those be placed,  
Whom Fortune always checks, and hath disgraced.   

But thou must comfort thee above the rest,  
If of these three, the hard and cruel fate  
Cannot be shunned; their joys that must adjourn:  
After these woes Fortune shall make them blest,  
Showing her face mild and propitiate,  
Gentle, and sweet: Then shall they cease to mourn,  
For●…e her wheel shall turn:  
Annoys to joys, their sighs to sweetest songs  
Shall turn, and all their wrongs  
Shall cease: Their woes, their miseries, and tears,  
Their sorrows, griefs, and fears  
Shall be one day converted into joy,  
Which never after Fortune shall destroy.   

Thy daughter then (Parisiles) embrace,  
And so restore her to this place again,  
The heavens must have their race:  
Then let them run: And cease to mourn in vain.    
This bevie of fair Nymphs, when they had ended their prophetical song, came to the river side, and with a marvelous sweet consent did put into Parisiles arms his well-beloved daughter: Between whom certain speeches being past, with great thanks to the Nymphs, they took their mutual leave, the old man going away all alone, though accompanied with a thousand perplexed thoughts, & swelling tears, that for deprivation & loss of his dear daughter fell in great plenty from his aged face. The Nymphs to their crystalline aboades, and Parthenius and I remaining not a little sorrowful (as you may guess) for Stelas departure, and full of imaginations for that which we heard by the nymphs divining song, being then ignorant, and doubting whether the contents thereof were meant by us or not. All which pains, griefs, and troubles threatened therein, and many more feign would we have suffered, in am that fair Stela had been the cause of them. With these and many other considerations revolved in our minds, we determined to stay there, to see if the Nymphs (taking fair Stela with them) came sometimes forth to solace themselves amongst those green and pleasant forests: where we stayed not long before our desires had part of their contentment; for even the next day about that hour when Titan equally viewed all our Hemisphere, and certain days after came out many fair Nymphs, to pass away the heat amongst those cool and fresh shades, though their happy sallies (happy by fair Stelas company) did little avail us, since every time that we made offer to come out of the wood towards them, with fearful flight they ran back again to their acquainted river. Parthenius therefore seeing the small occasion that was offered us to talk with them, said unto me. With this beginning (dear brother) we must not continue on our commenced purpose, which is not only an open impediment to the good success of our determination, but a manifest occasion to molest thy Mistress, and a let to the Nymphs from their wont pastime and delight. What remedy then (said I) shall we use, or what dost thou advise us to do, for I cannot by any means depart from hence with safety of my life. As I will not counsel thee thereunto said Parthenius, so the immortal Gods forbidden that we go from hence, before we find out some good means, whereby these Nymphs (their coyness laid aside) may admit us into their sweet company. If there be any remedy for this (said I) than all my sorrows, and sorrowful life shall be (I hope) both eased and ended; but alas my grief will not give me leave to conceive it so. And if there be any (said Parthenius) it is but only one. Thou knowest well my dear brother, by all those times that we have seen them coming hither, how they do less disdain the simplicity and plainness of country Shepherds, than the suspicious company of cunning courtiers, and that their turall baggepipe is more delightsome to their ears, than the enticing and wanton Lute of the others. The which duly considered, it shall be better for us (in my opinion) by leaving of these costly habits, to clad ourselves in homely Shepherds weeds; which probable invention being put in practice, may happily prove more fortunate unto us, than any other course that we may well think of. His counsel, which was forthwith put in execution, liked me so well, that we left of our accustomed apparel, and put on this which you see, not consenting that garments (whom nature made so like) should put any difference between us. And so likewise we forgot not our sheepehookes, and scrips, and whatsoever else belonged to a Shepherds calling. But as for sheep, we bought none, before we knew how well this devise answered our deseignes, the which, time, and occasions afterwards would advise us best to do: for we agreed to say, that we left them behind, in custody of our Swains, and that we came before to seek out the best pasture for them. We had also fiddles, and pipes, whereon we soon learned to play, because we could play on the Fluet, and Vials and other musical instruments. With this new habit we passed away certain days, in singing & playing many sundry things: All which felout so fit to our desires, that not once, but a many times, the Nymphs kept us company, bringing Stela that fair and shining stair many times amongst them, by whose golden light the course of our grievous life was then, and is yet most happily guided: Wherein Fortune so highly favoured me, that day by day (though much against my will) I accompanied those fair Nymphs; not, that it was not a foveraigne glory to me to be in presence of that clear Sun I spoke of; but because I would have thought it a greater good, if my dear brother had also enjoyed the same. This is strange (said Lord Felix) to show thyself on the one side most appassionate for fair Stela, & to grieve on the other, that thou injoyest her sight all alone, desiring it for another. But stranger it would seem (said Delicius) if you knew every thing that passed about this matter: But now let it suffice you (Gentlemen and Shepherds) to know this much, and another day (it may be) I will make an end of that I have begun. They were all importunate with him to have him tell on, when Felicias coming made them leave of, who being come unto them, said to Delicius. My friend Shepherd, since I enjoined thee of late to a task that not so well contented thee, I am now come to deliver thee from it, because I imagine how grievous it is to thee to pass therein any further. To do the contrary good Lady (said Delicius) were unworthy your gracious self, and not quadrant to that, which is expected at your hands, wherein I mean not to give you the thanks you deserve, nor hope of any other guerdon, then that which you yourself have already taken, considering that you do no more, than what to your own self you are bound to do. For all this (said Felicia) let us (my sons) go home, for Phoebus now doth hasten him to his own, whose rosy beams, though silently they begin to decay, shall with his Sister's silver lights, to guide our steps be carefully supplied. And we might well pass away this fresh approaching night, and with great pleasure spend it in so good company; but in the end we shall better take our rest in the house, whereas for this day let us content us with the booty we carry home. With a few such walks abroad (said Felismena) we shall be quickly enriched: Though in very truth at our first onset, we have taken so brave a prize and rob so much good, as I think, we shall not need to take any pains to lie in wait for more. Felismena had not gone away in Stelas debt, if Felicia had not cut her off, saying. The fashion in this place is not to pay by and by, but to trust something. But how comes this to pass, that I have already taken Parisiles, Stelas, and Crimines' words to be my guests, and have not Delicius consent to be one of them? Advise thee therefore Shepherd, if it please thee to go in with us, for it was never my condition to force any against their wills, whereby to give thee any occasion to complain of me, and to say that like a forced captive I carry thee in. Your words good Lady (said Delicius) are different from your deeds. For whosoever should hear you say, that you did not perforce carry me in, would not (I think) believe your words: for I frankly confess before them all, that you carry me in as a prisoner, forced and taken. Wherein if they will not credit me, for themselves (at the least) they must needs believe me: for I will gauge my head, that all will affirm no less, and say, that you have moreover forced and made them captive to your will and command. They all laughed at Delicius answer, seeing how well he had acquitted himself of Felicias jest, whereupon they all told Felicia, that the Shepherd said true, and that she should not care for satisfactions with words. And who shall judge this between us (said Felicia) for I confess to, that you carry me no less constrained and forced to your wills and desires. But leaving this doubt to be decided, let us go our ways. Then all of them obeying the sage Felicia, followed her, and with the pleasant discourses which they moved there amongst themselves, made the way seem less and shorter; so that sooner than they would, some of them came to the royal Palace. It was now well entered into night, when being come near to Diana's Temple, and Felicias Palace, a great number of fair Nymphs (being richly attired) came forth to meet them, and every one with a torch of virgin wax in her hand to light them in, thereby the rather to manifest the great magnificence and majesty of Felicia, then for any need of their light at all. For the moon did shine so bright, that (it seemed) she endeavoured nothing more than with her sociable presence to behold and hearken to that noble company. They that were never before in that rich Palace, marveled to see the stately and sumptuous buildings of it. But when upon the chief portal and entrance thereinto, they saw two Nymphs made all of massy silver stand upon the Chaptrees of two columns, with these verses: 


WHo comes into this place, let her take heed  
How she hath lived, and whether she hath kept  
The gift of chastity in thought and deed.  
And see besides, if she hath ever stepped,  
With wavering mind to foreign love estranged,  
And for the same, her first afection changed,   

May enter in DIANA'S Temple here,  
Whose grace and virtues sovereign appear.     
Delicius said. This advise (Lady Felicia) speaketh (me thinks) only of women, but I would feign know, why it toucheth not as well men, as if there were not some, in whom that is also found, which warranteth an entrance into this place. If the Goddess of chastity (because it is the Temple of Diana) delighteth only in the company and conversation of women, then must all men consequently be forbidden to come in. And whereas it saith, that she, that in all those points finds herself guiltless, may come in, my desire is to know, if any woman failing in any of them, happen to come in, what would ensue thereof. Syrenus before Delicius passed any further, said. It is wittily demanded, or else I understand it not: and truly my desire is no less to know, what harm would befall to her, that with breach of her first faith and love entered in, thereby to warn the faithless Shepherdess Diana. But now another scruple (said Delicius) ariseth in my mind, which is, That when we were coming towards this rich Palace, I asked one of these fair Nymphs, what every one of this noble and virtuous company might be; who briefly satisfying me in every point, amongst other things that she told me made me especially to marvel at this, That some of these here, were married in this place: Whereupon I would feign know, if in the Temples of the Goddess of chastity it be usual to solemnize any marriage, because that mystery is as strange to mine ears, as the reason thereof to my conceit. If by resolving thee in these demands (said Felicia) I thought to prevent thee of any more replies, I would endeavour to pleasure thee herein: but because (I know) thou wilt not therewith content thee, but that with many doubts (that in my answers may perhaps occur) thou wilt yet urge me further, I am minded to leave it of for this time, and the rather, because it is time to go in to take our wont food and rest: Whereupon they went in to supper, which by this time was sumptuously made ready for them. Having supped, they went to bed without singing or playing on their instruments, for there were some that desired more their rest then recreation, and sleep then solace, thinking their late merriment passed sufficed them for that day.  
The end of the third book.   

The fourth Book of the second Part of Diana of George of Montemayor.  
AMongst many other times that Felicia carried her guests to disport themselves at the fountain of the Laurel trees, (a place more pleasant than any other) on a day when they were going into the little meadow where that fair fountain did arise, they saw two lovely Shepherdesses (though by their coy looks showing a kind of signory and stateliness above any other) that were sitting hard by the goodly spring, both of them endowed with singular beauty, but especially the one, that to their judgements seemed the younger. Right over against them on foot stood a young Shepherd, who with the lap of his side coat wiped away the tears that fell down thick upon his blubbered cheeks, in requital whereof, and of his inward grief, the Shepherdesses did nothing else, but by looking upon one another, afford him a gracious smile. Syrenus, sylvanus, and Seluagia, knowing it was the same Shepherd, that showed them the letter, when they were going from Felicias palace towards their own town, withdrew themselves aside, and every one of them doing the like, Syrenus very softly said. O how glad am I to see this young Shepherd here, for if he would but sing, you should see that the sweetness of his songs, which we have so much commended to you, were no feigned thing. But it grieves me not a little to see him in these terms, that he is not like to make me now as good as my word. Take no care for that (said Felicia) for he will not forget to do it, and because you may hear him the better, come softly on with me, for I will bring you to such a place, where they shall not see you, but where you may at pleasure delight you with his sweet music. The Shepherdesses were talking with the Shepherd, when Felicia brought them as near (unseen) as they could be, but yet not so near, that they were able to tell what they were talking together. More fair than courteous are those Shepherdesses (said Lord Felix) that request not the Shepherd to sit down by them. It is not for that (said Felicia) but for great respect of love and duty that he beareth to the younger, who in her presence could never find in his hart to sit, but only when others were in company, from whom he thought it best to conceal his passions. Why is he so sad (said Seluagia) for as I remember, and could gather by his letter, his Shepherdess could not do, nor say any thing, wherein he took not great joy and contentment. I, but Fortune hath now turned her wheel (said Felicia) for then, and ever since, for the reward of his love, he only enjoyed the presence and sweet company of his Shepherdess, the force from whence his joys and comforts sprung: but now, for some certain days, he is forced to departed from her, which farewell breedeth no less his present grief & sorrow. And that which gives him greater pain, is that he knows not when he shall see her again. But hark and give attentive care, for now they command him to sing, whereupon they saw him take his Rebecke out of his scrip, and with a plaining voice began thus to sing.  


PHillis, my fair young Shepherdess,  
That from thee by and by  
I must departed (O heaviness)  
O that no, but woe that I.   

O from the world that now I might departed,  
Since that I must (my joy) forego thy sight,  
For now I live too long: Then kill my hart  
Mishap, if thou wilt grant me so much right:   

Or fatal sisters now consent,  
That she or I might die,  
I crave it to a good intent:  
O that no, but woe that I.   

Pardon, it is not I that do desire  
Thy sudden and thy wrongful death not, I.  
It is my love, my hot and burning fire,  
That made my tongue so much to go awry:   

And fear it is that moves my hart,  
And thoughts of jealousy,  
Since thou dost stay, and I departed,  
O that no, but woe that I.   

Such jealousies they are not, thou must think,  
That thou some other love wilt entertain,  
For I do know that love can never sink  
Into thy breast (unto my cruel pain.)   

But jealousy thou wilt forget  
Hereafter, and deny  
That one did see another yet:  
O that no, but woe that I.   

But if thou dost (fair Shepherdess) suspect  
To bury me in Lethe's lake, let grief,  
Before thou shouldst so ill my love respect,  
Consume my life, let death be my relcefe:   

Then thou shouldst think but such a thought,  
First (fair one) let me die:  
Although it shall be dearly bought,  
O that no, but woe that I.   

To rid myself from such n cruel pain,  
I would destroy myself, and purchase rest:  
But then to kill thee, I do fear again,  
Because thou dwellest here within my breast:   

Do then a noble deed (my life)  
From thence with speed to fly,  
That then I may conclude this strife.  
O that no, but woe that I.   

Bargain with me, let me this favour crave,  
To leave my hart, that so thy harm doth dread,  
Thy place again then after thou shalt have,  
If thou mayst come to it, when it is dead:   

For if thou once goest forth, I will  
To death with courage hte,  
And then my vital powers kill.  
O that no, but woe that I.   

As if it lay within thy hands and power  
(Sweet Shepherdess) forsake my woeful hart,  
But yet thou canst not go from thence one hour,  
Neither can I, although I would, depart.   

Nor yet I would not, though I might,  
I say, I would not die,  
But yet because I lose thy sight,  
O that no, but woe that I.   

If that I am in any thing to thee  
Grateful, this favour then of thee I pray  
Thou wouldst, when I am gone, remember me,  
And say, where is my Shepherd all this day?   

Then would I count my grief but small,  
If thou wilt not deny  
This thing, or think of me at all:  
Woe that no, but O that I.   

Then say but I, although it be in jest,  
And never meanest thy promise to maintain:  
Thou shalt thereby procure some little rest  
Unto my parting soul, which I will feign:   

Little I crave to ease my hart,  
And pains, yet let me try  
This favour, Then I will departed.  
O that no, but woe that I.    
As he thus made an end of his song, they rose up, and the younger (called Phillis) made a sign to the Shepherd with her singer, to reach her up her scrip and Sheephooj that lay on the ground, at whose hands (though in most dutiful manner he did it) she received them with no more thanks or show of courtesy, then if one of her swains had given it her. And then with a word or two of the Shepherdesses, but with his many tears the mournful Shepherd took his leave: whereat Phillis being moved to some small sorrow and to no less grief for his departure, took out of her scrip a fine little spoon (the same perhaps that she herself did eat with) and gave it him, wherewith the Shepherd did somewhat mitigate his helpless sorrow: and then they went out of the meadow one way, and the Shepherd another, Might it not be well done (said Felismena to Felicia) to talk with those Shepherdesses before they go. Not now answered Felicia, for hereafter you shall know all, when their due time shall come, wherein you shall then take as great delight to see and converse with Phillis and Castalius (for so is the Shepherd called that was with them) as now perhaps some little grief for their departure: whereas besides it is not now so convenient, because I know, we should make them not a little ashamed. The Shepherdesses therefore being now gone out, they went into the little meadow to the crystalline fountain, where, in set dances and sweet songs (accompanied with pleasanthistories and gracious speeches) they spent the time till Felicia thought it good for them all to go to the Temple, when she came to warn them. Who (it seemed) did never awake, or take care for any other thing, then where, and after what manner she might best delight that noble company. Whereupon she carried them sometimes to the goodly plain before the Temple, other times to another pleasant meadow near to the wood, and sometimes to the Laurel fountain. Truth it is that (to have all possible joy) Don Felix and his fair Lady Felismena, sylvanus, and his loving Shepherdess Seluagia needed not to seek it out in exterior things, since their inward joy (to see themselves all four with mutual affection so happily beloved) was so great, that all others (in respect of this) were but mere shows and shadows. Syrenus took a singular pleasure to behold the contentment of them all, whom so unfeignedly he loved. The Nymphs not only procured it for themselves, but to delight them all in general. And Parisiles his anger being now past with that which Felicia had told him, and shaking off his former sadness, by enjoying the presence of his daughter, was no less joyful than the rest. But Stela, and Crimine were in suspense, between solace and sorrow, comfort and care, being cheered on the one side by the hope that Felicia promised them, and by knowing that those lovers were only by her means recured; but sad on the other, that by imagination they could not find out some way or remedy for their pains and passions, which were so strange, that though to their own content they craved it, yet they could not devise how to their own wills and desires they might enjoy it. For both of them equally loved Delicius and Parthenius: but Stela especially, who desired not to have Delicius love her, if Parthentus forgot her; nor esteemed of Parthemus his love, if Delicius had despised her. Only Delicius amids such sports and pastimes (as were offered there) was far from all comfort, by finding himself absent from his dear friend Parthenius, without whose presence he cared not to enjoy his sorrowful life. And the danger besides (which shall be hereafter spoken of) wherein he knew his dear friend to be, was every hour so sensibly represented to his grievous thoughts, that he was many times determined to go and deliver him, or else to die in that resolution; but that he was prohibited on the one side, and had no force on the other to forsake Stela, the joy and light of his dark and mournful life. The seldom enjoying of whose wonted sweet sight, and discontinued speech with her, by reason of old Parisiles, applied more matter to the heavy burden of his grief: So that he (though all the rest did sing and play) could never be persuaded to keep them company, from the which but with faint and feigned reasons he for the most part excused himself. Whereupon (when opportunely he could do it) he closely conveyed himself out of their company, whose discontentment (his young Shepherdesses with watchful eye perceiving it) did not a little grieve them. But sage Felicia seeing how little her promised hope prevailed with the fearful Shepherd, on an evening before them all said thus unto him. I would never leave to complain on thee (sorrowful young Shepherd) if I knew not the great reason thou hast to be so sad: And therefore I beseech you that be here, not to be offended with the course of his melancholic life; nor take it in ill part, if he cannot pleasure you as you would; praying you besides to do me so much favour, not to ask him any more, than he is willing of himself to tell you, and to attend the time, when with his grateful conversation and sweet discourses he shall fill your hands full. Of courtesy then good Shepherd, and for shame do no more, than what thou shalt see most availing thy content, since we are so glad (by all the means we can) to give it thee. Then answered Delicius. I can receive no greater favour in any thing (most gracious and prudent Lady) unless it be the enjoying of my Parthenius his presence) then in that, which you have already done me: which especial benefits (since my ability is so small) must needs remain without due requital. For though in sign of subjection, my willing mind and person would be ever ready at your command and services; yet it were but a frivolous and undiscreet part to promise you that, which by all reason is already due unto it. Don Felix, Felismena, the Shepherds and the Nymphs with one voice said, That they were not a little glad to see Delicius take content in any thing, who gave them many thanks for it, craving pardon of them for the great strangeness he used amongst them. At whose hands and of Felicia and the rest obtaining a friendly pardon, he passed away his sorrows all alone, going often into that thick wood to lament his hard and sinister haps; wherein he could not choose but many times have lost himself, if the shining turrets of Felicias palace had not brought him thither again, when he would. Amongst many other days, that here and there some went to sport themselves in divers places, it fell out that the shepherds Syrenus, sylvanus, and Seluagia, (for Felicia and Don Felix had gone one way, and the rest of the company another) were one day all alone with old Parisiles in a quadrant of the rich palace, to whom Syrenus said. Since it hath pleased you worthy Parisiles (the few days that you have been here) to content all our lovers with your pleasant and amorous history of C●pid their idolatrous God, myself, that have not to do with this blind boy, why have you refused to gratify with some pleasant discourse touching a Shepherd's state. The first day that we enjoyed your happy company, you propounded divers things concerning the same, from that time surcharging me with (more than a mean) desire to heat them discoursed by you: And especially the manner of the sacrifice of our God Pan, and how at the first it was used to be done, and from what time it was held in reverence, and all the rest that you propounded about this matter. So that your tale shall come now in good time, and to very good purpose, since we are here all Shepherds and alone. Whereupon I pray you (noble Parisiles) ease my impatient mind of the burden of this desire. I cannot my friend Syrenus (answered Parisiles) but obey thee, wherein thou cravest to be resolved, since it is a thing appertaining to my office, to declare the rights and honours due to our Gods, and also a convenient mystery for you to know, and a thing especially belonging to Pan the great God of Shepherds.  
As touching the first, you have great cause to make no small account of your functions and estates, when not only Pan, but many other of our Gods have used the like, besides many great Emperors, Kings, & worthy personages that have not disdained this simple and contented kind of life, which was the first charge and vocation, that our forefathers in the primitive world embraced, whose names impertinent for you to know, and tedious for me to report, I mean to leave untold. So that you must not marvel if I told you that the first, to whom we offered sacrifice, was this God. I know well, that I should take my beginning by declaring what God this is: but because he hath none, I cannot put it in any other thing, but in himself. For, to say that Pan, and Faunus is all one (as almost all authors aver) I have no reason to believe it, when by them themselves I mean to refel it. For they say, that Faunus was the son of Picus, Father to Latinus; Pan the son of Demogorgon, God of the earth. To say also (as they affirm) that Pan and sylvanus is all one, it is false: for a certain Authentical author, after he had told that Pan the God of Shepherds came, said that sylvanus also came, with a root of a tree, into the which Cyparisus was transformed. Whereupon it is clearly gathered, that one cohereth but ill with the other. That which they hit nearest of sylvanus, is, that he is the God of the dregs of the Elements, whereof all material things took their essence. Reverend Parisiles (said Seluagia) you have annulled that, which we took for a sure ground, holding it ever for an infallible opinion, that all three were but one, or two of them at the lest: Not only you (said Parisiles) but almost all, who have been of greater reading and judgement. Indeed (said Seluagia) to our sex and condition it is not granted to understand so much, as to gainsay what you have affirmed, and how much more (since you yourself do say it) ought it to be believed? But yet one doubt occurreth to my mind about this matter: For noble Parisiles, you said, that Pan had no beginning, and afterwards confessed he was the son of Demogorgon, how can this be? It is wisely objected, answered Parisiles, and like one that notes my discourse well. And in truth fair Shepherdess, thou propoundest a question to me, which I know not how with the honour of my Gods, or with mine own to resolve. For in sooth I must fail in one, when I am constrained to confess, that I understand it not, or that our Gods are none, if we must believe our writers: but because thou touchest me with contradiction in my speech, I will have thee know, that when I said Pan had no beginning, it was but mine own opinion, and true, if Pan signifies all. When I said, he was the son of Demogorgon, it was according to their opinions that affirmed that Pan and Faunus were all one. And to bring contradiction in their opinions, was a thing sufficient enough to throw them down from their opinion, showing their affections to be repugnant and contrary. It remains therefore for me to prove, that he is not the son of Demogorgon, both which I dare verify with their own grounds. For Pan is as much to say as all, to give us to understand, that he is God of all: They paint him as you know. Demogorgon is as much to say as nature. Now than if Pan be God of all, and nature be something, Pan is the God of nature; then by consequence if Demogorgon be nature, Pan is God of Demogorgon his father. If they will say that nature is not something, but all, they must then be driven to confess that Pan and Demogorgon is all one, and not two things, which cannot be two, since each of them is absolutely al. So that as our Authors confound themselves with this God, they will show the like of all other Gods. But well (said sylvanus) whom do you believe that Pan is? Let him be whosoever he will (answered Parisiles) sufficeth you to honour this God Pan under the name of the God of all. The first, that I knew did sacrifice to this God was king evander, and the first that built a temple to him in Arcadia at the foot of a hill called in the old time Olympus, because Romulus (they said) was nursed in that place. This hill afterwards was called Palatine, and Lyceus, wherein were four principal things. A Wood consecrated to jupiter, of such quality, that if any despising the law that forbade them to enter in, did go into it, he died within one year after. An Altar in the top of it to the same jupiter, held in great reverence. A Fountain of so marvelous a nature, that it seemed the Gods were more curious in it, then in any other thing; for the water being gently stirred with an oaken twig, a vapour rose suddenly out of it like a thick mist: The which, not long after being congealed into a cloud, and mixed with others that were there raised up, was sufficient to have made a great shower of rain. And at the foot of the hill lay a certain place or space of ground called lupercal, which some say took that name, because there were no wolves that ranged up & down with their cruelty to hurt the harmless sheep. Others, because Romulus and Remus were nursed there by a certain woman called Lupa. here therefore stood the temple of God Pan, and hereupon the sacrifices they do him, took their name Lupercalles: They were first called Lycea of the hill, where first they were made, and are solemnised, as you know, the eighteen of januarie. They that celebrated those sacrifices were called Lupercos: who in making them, ran naked up and down the streets, covering their faces with masks, and having in their hands certain reins made of goats skins, wherewith they smit the hands and bellies of women with child, and of those that could not conceive, to make the childbirth by these means more easy to them, and the others fruitful. They went up and down naked (as some say) to show thereby (as it seemed) the lightness of their God: and because Pan (as others say) abhorred garments, whereupon they paint him without them. And because Romulus and Remus (as others report) being one day with other yoongsters to celebrate these sacrifices, and to exercise their persons in games agreeable to their youth, wherein they cast off their garments for heat, news came that their flocks were stolen away: who with the rest of the youth, full of rage and anger, not staying to put on their apparel, pursued the thieves, and the victory obtained by Remus with the Fabians, that were in his company, they got their flocks again. In honourable memory of which valiant act, it was afterwards ordained, that they that offered sacrifice to Pan, should be naked. All which abovesaid hath continued until our times, except the going naked: for it was not used since a certain Roman dictator refused th'imperial crown that a Consul (made Lupercus) did put on his head: for that which that Consul did, was so abominable in the sight of the people of Rome, that, for his sake, they abhorred from thence such an unseemly form of sacrifice. You see here therefore (my friends) how I have resolved you (I think) in that which you asked me, wherein though I have seemed somewhat long, yet shorter, than so ample a matter as this required. And I think too brief (said Syrenus) considering how much you have laid open unto us. Wherefore do us yet this pleasure (I pray you) to tell us why God Pan so much abhorreth garments. With a good will, said Parisiles, for it is both pretty and pleasant.  
Hercules going on a day to recreate himself with his love jole along the shadowed woods and pleasant groves, to eschew the heat of the Sun, Pan from a hill aloft beheld them, but especially cast an earnest eye upon jole, a woman of a most sweet and fair countenance. He saw her, and seeing burned in her love, and said. I have not now, O ye deities of these mountains, to do with you any more, nor to see you from this time forward. Farewell, farewell. For she is only my delight. jole had her shoulders and breast shining like gold with her yellow hair that from her head fell dangling down upon them. The sun now waxing pale, and shining but a little, began to give as little heat, and the moist welkin with the evening dew of approaching night, came stealing on apace with her sable coloured horses, when Hercules with his company took up a cave near to the vineyards of Lydia: wherein, while supper was a preparing for the servants, jole for her pleasure, or for some other merry conceit that she had in her head, did put her apparel upon mighty Hercules, unripping the seams to make it fit for him, and tearing that which was too straight. On herself she put the lions skin, and took his club on her shoulder, and in her hands, her husband's bow and arrows. In this sort they supped, and laid them down to sleep, and with this habit each of them in a bed by themselves (as time and place afforded them) began to sleep: for it was not lawful for them that night to lie together, because the next day they were to offer up sacrifice to Bacchus. And now (Pan burning in impatient love) about midnight, which was very dark (for what doth not a lover enterprise) came into the cave, and found the servants, what with their great cheer and wine at supper, and what with their sports afterwards, fast a sleep, thinking the same might be also the cause of their Master and Mistress sleep. His good fortune therefore falling out so well, conducted him to the place, where jole was (happy man if he had known his good hap) where groping up and down, and feeling the lions paw, with fear he lifted up his hand, (thinking it was Hercules that lay there) as the musing traveler by the high way, his foot, that hath unawares trodden upon some snake or hidden adder he saw not. Going therefore from thence he met by chance with the couch where Hercules in a habit different from his person, lay a sleep, whom when Pan touched, and felt joles' soft and delicate garments, thinking he had found that he sought for, at the bed's feet began to mount up, and lifting up his clothes, in am of finding a soft and tender skin, felt a hard flesh and full of hair. Hercules' awaked out of his sleep, gave the poor lover such a blow with his fist, that he smote him from the bed to the ground, where he lay all along. jole awaked at the noise, and calling to her servants for light, found the silly God on the ground complaining for the blow he had received, which made not only Hercules and his men, but his beloved jowl laugh apace at the infortunate lover. You therefore see here (my friends) why the God deceived by the garments, doth so much hate them. It is well (said Syrenus.) But tell us I beseech you, as you have begun, how we should know him to be the God of all by his picture. They paint him with two horns, answered Parisiles, like to the sun beams, and to the horns of the Moon, his face red like a fiery flame, in imitation of the fiery Element. In his breast a star called Nebrides in representation of the stars, which star I think was made of a wild goats or Heart's skin, because Nebrides is as much in signification as a wild Goat or Heart: which skins they used in Bacchus' sacrifices: whereby we may easily gather, that he is God of all above. From the mids of his body downward, they paint him full of hair and bristled, to signify the trees and wild beasts; with goats feet, to show the hardness of the earth. And let this suffice for this time.  
With these and many other like curiosities, that the Shepherds demanded of Parisiles, the night came on to his great contentment. The very same day (as I said) Felicia carried with her Stela: And Lord Felix, Felismena, and the Nymphs with Crimine, went by themselves to another place. To whom, after they were set under the shadow of some thick Sallowes, Lord Felix said. So may all thy fortunes succeed happily to thee (fair Nymph) and according to thine own desire by seeing thyself in the greatest prosperity in the world, as thou wilt deign to tell us why Stela and thyself go wandering up and down so sorrowful in the company of this fair young Shepherd, and how long since it is you had acquaintance with him. Thou commandest me Lord Felix (said Crimine) to renew the sum of my sorrows and extremest grief. Alas, who can stop my tears from their continual flowing by awaking such tormenting memories? Who can quench my scalding sighs, that with such a heavy recital will come smoking out of my baleful breast? How can I tell you my excessive misfortunes in order, since there was never any in my innumerable passions? Let it content you Lord Felix, and you fair Ladies to know that you have before your eyes the most hapless woman of all our sex, and in your presence the very sum and pattern of all disastrous virgins. Having thus spoken, a profound sigh accompanied with abundant tears, hindered the rest of her doleful words: whereupon they came all together to comfort her, Felismena saying. Believe me (fair Nymph) my Lord Don Felix would never have requested this at thy hands, if he had thought to have given thee the least grief in the world, but that he and all we were desirous (by knowing the cause of thy sorrowful life) to help thee as much as we could in thy cares and troubles. O happy Lady (said Crimine) how much art thou deceived and the rest, that think there is any remedy for my mishaps. But for the love and friendship you show me, and for that which I bear to you all, give attentive ear unto my words, and understand my misfortunes; for I will satisfy you in that which Lord Felix hath demanded of me. And because you may know how far my mishaps have extended, and to what end my miseries have driven me:  
Know that I am forced to love one, that hath no power to love me again; & that it is not in my power, not to account her my dearest friend, that entreats me like a cruel foe: Which thing because it may perhaps seem hard to you to believe, you must understand that I love this Shepherd, that is our guide in our travels, as much as I can, & can in truth as much as I wil I love also Parthenius his friend as much as I will, & will truly as much as I can: for, as it cannot be discerned which is Delicius, and which Parthenius, and the one impossible to be known from the other, for like two drops of water they resemble one another so much; so cannot I tell, which of them I love most, loving both in equal balance of extreme affection. I thought once to be content and happy by being beloved of one of them, whereof when I was persuaded, I was not yet satisfied. I cannot with reason complain of them, since both, or at the least Delicius (I think, nay firmly believe that my suspicion is not in vain) hath forced himself as much as may be to love me, by working all the means he could, which never yet lay in his power to do. Whereby you see that I have placed my love on him, that cannot (though feign he would) requite it with his again. But you will ask me perhaps in whom the cause & impediment consisteth, that they are not answerable to that, which both are so justly owing me. To this I answer my greatest and dearest friend I have in this world, because for her, both are alike wounded with Cupid's invincible flight, she dying no less in both their loves. And who this is, you may easily guess, for she can be no other than Stela. And yet I swear to you by all that a true lover can protest, that I never wished Stela any ill, though she is now, and hath ever been the cause why I am not beloved of these two peerless Shepherds. For I could for mine own part do no more in her cause then she doth in mine: and though I hated her besides, yet it stood me in hand to be her friend, when by her means I enjoyed Delicius sight, & hope by the same to see Parthenius. But because you may know how we lost our liberties, and they remained without theirs, I will only tell you that, which maketh for this purpose.  
The same day (as they afterwards told us) that Stela by the ordinance of the Gods came to our company (for now you know that I am one of the Nymphs of the renowned and famous river Duerus) Parthenius, and Delicius did see Stela, and both of them equally loved her, though then it seemed not so; for Parthenius concealed his affection, because Delicius had manifested his before: But when Delicius told, that he was enamoured of Stela, they agreed to stay in a forest hard by, to see if sometimes coming out of the river they might have some occasion to talk with her. But when she came out, and they offered to come towards us that went in company of her, we fled away, and ran back again to our river. Who perceiving it was not possible to talk to her in that sort, concluded to deceive us by wearing Shepherds weeds, and leaving of their courtly apparel. Thus therefore attending daily for us, Stela and I came forth, and as they saw us (though they made no show thereof) one of them played aloud on his Baggepipe, to invite us (I think) unto their music: which when we heard, as it was a thing not used there many days before, we came somewhat near, and hid ourselves behind a company of thick Sallowes. But they, who by stealth were looking on us, perceiving their devise to have a good beginning, made as though they had not seen us, and between themselves prayed one another to play or sing some song. In the end Parthenius getting the upper hand, Delicius took his Rebecke, whereon he so sweetly played and sung to it, that we thought Apollo had committed some new fault to become a Shepherd again, and that it was even he that made that sweet melody. The song was of great sentence, the invention witty, and the form of it curious, wherefore lend an attentive care to the one and the other, if you desire to delight you with it.  


Never a greater foe did love disdain,  
Or trodon grass so gay,  
Nor Nymph green leaves with whiter hand hath rend,  
More golden hair the wind did never blow,  
Nor fairer dame hath bound in white attire,  
Or hath in lawn more gracious features tied,  
Then my sweet Enemy.   

Beauty and chastity one place refrain,  
In her bear equal sway:  
Filling the world with wonder and content:  
But they do give me pain, and double woe,  
Since love and beauty kindled my desire,  
And cruel chastity from me denied  
All sense of tollitie.   

There is no Rose, nor Lily after rain,  
Nor flower in wonth of May,  
Nor pleasant mead, nor green in summer sent,  
That seeing them, my mind delighteth so,  
As that fair flower, which all the heavens admire,  
Spending my thoughts on her, in whom abide  
All grace and gifts on high.   

Me thinks my heavenly Nymph I see again  
Her neck and breast display,  
Seeing the whitest Ermine to frequent  
Some plain, or flowers that make the fairest show,  
O Gods, I never yet beheld her nigher,  
Or far, in shade, or sun, that satisfied  
I was in passing by.   

The mead, the mount, the river, wood, and plain,  
With all their brave array,  
Yield not such sweet, as that fair face, that's bend  
Sorrows, and joy in each soul to bestow  
In equal parts, procured by amorous fire:  
Beauty and love in her their force have tried,  
To blind each human eye.   

Each mind and will, which wicked vice doth stain  
Her virtues break, and stay:  
All airs infect by fire are purged and spent,  
Though of a great foundation they did grow.  
O body, that so brave a soul dost hire,  
And blessed soul, whose virtues ever pried  
Above the starry sky.   

Only for her my life in joys I train,  
My soul sings many a lay:  
Musing on her, new seas I do invent  
Of sovereign joy, wherein with pride I row:  
The deserts for her sake I do require,  
For without her, the springs of joy are dried,  
And that I do defy.   

Sweet fate, that to a noble deed dost strain,  
And lift my hart to day,  
Sealing her there with glorius ornament:  
Sweet seal sweet grief, and sweetest overthrow,  
Sweet miracle, whose fame cannot expire:  
Sweet wound, and golden shaft, that so espied  
Such heavenly company  
Of beauty's graces in sweet virtues died,  
As like were never in such years descried.    
Now as Delicius had ended his song, and Stela thinking that he had made an end indeed of singing and playing (although it was not so, for Delicius was requesting Parthenius to play on his Rebecke and to sing) she said unto me. Tell me fair Crimine, Enjoyeth this solitary place oftentimes such like voices, joined with such heavenly sweetness? If it be so, I cannot but in some sort complain of the amity lately commenced, and confirmed between us, in that I have not spent the time in such pleasure and delight, as now by the sweetness of this music and fine song we have amply had. After that cruel Gorphorost (my dear friend said I) whom the Gods confound for bereaving us of a great part of our pleasures, began to dwell in these parts, this is the first Bagpipe and Rebecke, that in this forest hath been long since touched, of so many shepherds and Shepherdesses, that have continually played and sung in other times before when they fed their sheep here, and passed away the heat of the day under these green trees: whereupon I marvel no less at the novelty of this accident, then at the rare melody of the song, for I never heard the like since I first dwelled in this place, nor that ever delighted my senses so much. But because they begin to play and sing again, let us go a little to them, for they seem to be mild and courteous youths, and such that make a show to have some respect and reverence of us that be Nymphs. When I had spoken this, we went towards them, who perceiving it, felt an extreme joy, because they had now brought their desired purpose to effect. But to dissemble the more with us, and because we might not take us to our wonted flight, they sat still, without once rising to do us any courtesy, until we first spoke unto them. When we were come unto them, and saw two such goodly young shepherds, and so like in face and apparel, turning to Stela, I said. Behold what two fair shepherds, but seest thou not how like they be? There is not in my judgement, silver to silver, gold to gold, nor water to water so like as these be. Our jupiter and Amphitrion could not be so much one, nor Mercury so like to Sosia, when to enjoy Alomenas' love, jupiter in the likeness of Amphitrion kept him out of his own house; and Mercury in the likeness of Sosia made his man feel the hardness of his fist. Then turning by and by to the Shepherds, I spoke thus unto them. Your unaccustomed and sweet songs (gracious Shepherds) after the long suspense and silence of many, that have been long since made in these fields, have forced us to come thus abruptly to enjoy the sweetness of them; if we therefore (being Nymphs) are of any estimation with you jolly shepherds, we beseech you, that our presence be not of worse condition and entertainment than these trees, which (without moving) were even now hearkening unto you, nor may displease you no more than our absence, and to make no more difficulty to sing, now we are here, then when we were not. At these words the shepherds rising up, and ask one another who should answer, Parthenius said. Sweet Nymphs in grace and beauty non pareille, we will not deny but that, in respect of your courteous speech to us, we are bound to perform your gracious request (at will they cast out golden words which savoured of the gloze in the Court) and confess no less, that we are constrained to obey you more for your own sakes, then for any thing else, be it spoken with pardon of the rest of these goodly Nymphs: So that only tell us wherein we may give you content, and we will do our best to please your minds. Our minds said I, you have already understood. Then since it is so, said Delicius, begin Parthenius to sing. It were better, said Partthenius, for thee to do it: for in regard of the great sweetness wherewith (not without good cause) thou hast already delighted them, thy self being also more skilful in music, whatsoever I shall sing after thee to my disgrace, will be but irksome, and unpleasant to their ears. Thou hast no reason to say so, said Delicius, for thy verses will give testimony of the truth of thy side. Whereupon Parthenius would have begun, but not finding himself satisfied, because I only entreated him, and not Stela, he said unto me. I would not (gracious Nymph) by obeying thy request to content thee, give any occasion of dislike to thy companion, which moves me to speak it, because I know not whether it be her will that I should sing or no? There is not any thing (answered Stela) that likes this fair Nymph, which doth not also please me, how much the more (if it were not so) for her own sake should it suffice thee to fulfil her mind, without making any matter of my liking at all. Both of them would feign have answered to these words, but that (I think) they were afraid, one of them because he would not show himself on the sudden so appassionate; the other, not to displease or make me blush, a thing that made much for their purpose; and also because I now took them by the hands, saying to Stela. The Shepherd hath spoken very well, and hath great reason, entreat him therefore to sing, for he looks for it. Because than we will not delay the matter any longer (said Stela) leaving that aside which might be said herein, I request him with this warning, that if another time thou entreatest him to do any thing, and if he will not do it, that he ask not counsel of me, since by fulfilling thy will he shall satisfy mine. We will observe this charge (said Delicius:) and see thou forgettest it not Parthenius. Then the one began to touch his Rebecke, the other to play on his Bagpipe: And going about to begin his song, Parthenius was a pretty while in suspense, not knowing what matter to take in hand, for he would have said something of Stelas beauty, for whom he felt no less secret pain, then Delicius public passion: But the force of friendship on the other side diverted him from it. And so partly for joy to do that which touched the love of his friend Delicius, and with grief to go against that, whereunto he was bound for himself, he would by praising Delicius persuade Stela to incline to his own love, whose beginning was this, entering after the self same sort as his friend did in the song before.  


Never so true a subject to great love,  
Put sounding Baggepipe to his mouth and tongue:  
Nor ever Shepherd, that did keep  
In any mead his silly sheep,  
And never did so gracious members move  
Shepherd so fair, so lusty, and so young,  
In throwing of the bar, or steeled dart,  
As this my dearest friend, and loving hart.   

His songs and ditties, which he sung and played,  
Hath made the satires leave the sweet pursuit  
Of Nymphs, that they had chased,  
And in their arms embraced:  
And them besides, with his sweet music stayed:  
Forgetful of their fear (amazed and mute.)  
The hardest rocks he makes both soft and tender,  
And mildness in great wildness doth engender.   

Unto his person, beauty, and his grace  
The Nymphs, and Napees fair to yield are glad:  
The Niades, Hamadryads,  
The Oreades, and Dryads:  
For such a feature, and so sweet a face  
Paris, Alexis, nor Endymion had:  
The fairest in the world he doth despise  
But only one, whom justly he doth prize.   

Because that she may only him admit,  
Her only, and none else, he doth obey:  
She only doth deserve  
Him, he but her to serve:  
She only him, he only her doth fit:  
For th'one is even with th'other every way:  
For he for her was borne, (for her alone)  
And she for him, or else was borne for none.   

So that if she had not been borne at all,  
He had not loved, for he his like should want:  
And so she, to have loved  
Her equal, it be hooved  
That he was borne, For none but he should fall  
Equal to her, he then might justly vaunt  
That she was borne, only for him reserved,  
And she that he, whom only she deserved.   

Fortune did favour him above the rest,  
By making him the gladdest man that lives,  
If that perhaps she knew  
His love so pure and true,  
And faith so firm, within his constant breast,  
(She that her lights unto each creature gives)  
In whose brave beauty nature strained to show  
More art, and skill then ever she did know.   

The poor soul takes his grief, and holds his peace,  
Which to reveal he wanted means of late:  
Once did he go about it,  
But stratght then did he doubt it:  
With saying nought, his pain that doth increase  
He passeth, not to lose his wonted state:  
For though she be in all the world alone  
The fairest, yet as hard as any stone.   

Then (Shepherdess) this rigour lay aside:  
And fly not him, that pains so much for thee:  
It is a great defect  
Such hardness to detect:  
Let not so ill a thing with thee abide,  
Where each thing is, as good as good may be.  
And since in thee there should be not hang vicious,  
Pay then the love, thou owest unto Delicius.    
These two last staeffs so lively touched Parthenius that sung them, that (being forced to crave that for another which he would have had himself) he could scarce make an end of them: Which was clear and manifest, for after the manner of those that sob, he redoubled some syllables, whereby he gave us to understand, that he felt some sorrow in his distempered hart, which more evidently we suspected, seeing how with some inward sighs he ceased without making an end of his song. But yet we could not attain to the cause of his grief, whereof (though earnestly we craved it on him) he told no more, then by feigned appearances (far from the truth indeed) we were able to conjecture: To whom therefore with a modest smile I said, I would not be of thyqualitie (gracious Shepherd) to praise thee in thine own presence, as thou hast done thy friend, although he excels thee not (perhaps) in any thing, since in sweet voice and good grace thou art as like him, as in fair shape and figure. But for all this Delicius is beholding to thee (for so me thinks thou callest him) but Because the praise in ones presence is held for no less than a gloze, I would counsel thee to reserve it to some other time, when he is out of thy sight and hearing. Thou must not condemn me (gracious Nymph answered Parthenius) without hearing first what I can say, for it may be thou wilt judge it (though thy accusation seem just to thee) clean contrary, when by good reason I shall resolve thee herein, premising that this rule is not so universall, That none must not be praised in presence, but that necessity may oftentimes infringe it: whereby not only one may praise another in his presence, but that he may do the same by himself, for his own behoof. What necessity is requisite for that said Stela? To this when Parthenius held his peace, turning to Delicius, she said unto him; If thy friend will not answer, tell thou us what it is. Delicius, although he knew it, not presuming yet to tell it, said: I say nothing, but that in my usurped name he sings of his own praises and deserts. Parthenius going about to reply to this, I stepped in between and said. Let there be no more time spent in courtesies; but tell us, if it please you, from whence you are, (for your habits deny you to be of any place hereabouts) and whither your way lies, and especially if you mean to stay any long time in this country? And because we know already one of your names, to oblige you the more to make us know the others, know that I am called Crimine, and my friend and companion here Stela. Delicius then taking her by the hand answered. Our incertain & doubtful pilgrimage is to seek out our Fathers, with certain tokens that we carry with us to know them (for being children they left us young, as yet never knowing how they are called, or from whence they are) which are no other but to seek out a fair young Shepherd, and a grave old woman, both which at one time, but in different places, gave us to certain nurses to be brought up. The name of my companion and friend is Parthenius; Mine, as thou sayest by my friend's song. Our tarrying here shall be no longer than it shall please both you. If it be referred to our pleasure said Stela, take us not for such simple ones, that we know not how to profit ourselves by enjoying so good conversation, and so sweet and unwonted music. Yet would we not be so ill advised to prefer our pleasure before your due piety, nor without content to hinder your good intent. The most religious intent, sweet and fairest Stela (said Delicius) and that which toucheth our souls nearest, is thy gracious command to have us stay still in this country, because we may not lose so pleasant hours as these be. I will not hinder so commendable a purpose (said Stela) although I would be glad, if (now returned, and your fathers found) it liked you to live still here in these parts, to spend those few hours, that we use to come abroad, in honest & seemly recreation. Then I calling that to mind which Parthenius had sung, That Delicius on a pride and bravery had despised all women for only one, whom he loved more than himself, with smiling I answered. And now Shepherd I will command thee to stay, at the least to see if I must also be put in the number of disdained women, or if I am only beloved of thee. With these and such like speeches we passed away the heat of the day, with this agreement in the end, that they should stay a certain time thereabouts, to inquire out some news of their unknown parents in those parts, and not forget to pass away the heat of the day in that same place, where we would not fail to keep them company. Which being agreed on, Stela said unto me; Let us now go, if thou thinkest good, my friend Crimine, for it is a pretty while since we came forth, because we will not give our keeper an occasion to blame us for our long tarrying. But because you may better understand this, which Stela said, you must know, that by all means possible we procured to give Stela all the content and pleasure we could, for which cause we did let her go with company to disport herself up and down in that green forest. But being afraid of fierce Gorphorost, one of us ever remained at the rivers side under a palm tree, that stood almost right over against that part, where there was but one passage, to the end, that if the ugly Shepherd had come down, she might have warned us by sounding of a cornet, to high us home again with Stela. Taking our leaves therefore of the Shepherds (no doubt without some inward sighs of theirs) we returned to our dwelling places, and they stayed still in the forest. The next day going very softly about the same hour, and by secret places to see how they were occupied, we found them sitting upon the green grass, and Sleeping in such sort, that they showed, that that was not their principal intent; for the crystalline tears, that trickled down their burning cheeks in corrivalitie, signified more store of sorrowful thoughts in their hearts, then heavy vapours in their heads. The face of the one was right against the others, as though they had been talking together, leaning their cheeks upon the one hand, and with the other arm sustaining the weight of the arm and head, in which sort they lay casting out sometimes profound & grievous sighs. Which thing moving us to no small compassion, for now we were somewhat affected to them, we determined to withdraw ourselves, least being awaked, they might (perhaps) have had an occasion to be ashamed to be seen in that sort: And from thence a little way off, of purpose to awake them, but as though we had seen nothing, we began to sing, taking for the ground and subject of our song, the tears, that they had shed before us. That which we sung was this.  


WIth sorrow, tears, and discontent,  
Love his forces doth augment.   

Water is to meads delight,  
And the flax doth please the fire:  
Oil in lamp agreeth right,  
Green meads are the flocks desire:  
Ripening fruit, and wheatie ears  
With due heat are well content:  
And with pains and many tears  
Love his forces doth augment.    
As their sleep was nothing else but an ecstasy, scarce had we begun, when they awoke, and seeing that we left singing when we came near them, they said. If your coming were an occasion to make an end of your singing, we would be glad that you had stayed a little longer; wherefore let not our presence be of worse condition to deprive us of this delight, than our absence was by enjoying it, and since we refused not to do what you commanded us, nor made it strange to acquaint you with the baseness of our simple Bagpipes, disdain not then (fair Nymphs) by that which we entreat you, to show us the highness of your excellent voices. Well well the truth of this is known (said we again) but not denying your demands, since we have time for it, tell us now if you mean to rest you here a few days. Rest (fair Nymphs) answered Delicius? Why, we know not what it is, if we had it here. But we are determined to have it as long as it shall please your good wills; which are ready to do you all the pleasure we may, said I, but I will tell you one thing, which it may be ye never yet heard. By the report and certain news of the fertility of this Country, there are ten or twelve years past, since from the North parts there departed a mighty huge Shepherd with a great number of sheep, and came to feed in these grounds (certes not so fair and amiable a parsonage as either of you) the Son of God sylvanus he saith, and of a most strong and fierce Shepherdess, that came with him, whether fairer and more gracious than my companion here, I am not able to tell you. This unseemly Shepherd was not only like to his parents in face and fierceness, but in either of both, as also in hideous feature he hath the advantage of them. Seeing therefore that fame was no liar, and how the situation of that part of the river (being no less than a great I land) invited him for his habitation, without fear of the wild beasts, which made it desert and inhabitable, he determined to live there: Which I land, as it will in time I hope be clean eaten out by the river (for by little and little it is every day made less) so I wish it had now the full and complete time with the forcible waters to be quite consumed. The name of this monstrous man is Gorphorost, whose incredible strength and bigness, because you may understand, behold the depth of this river, and the main force wherewith it runs, with wading over himself a foot, by three and three, and four and four he sets over all his sheep on the other side: which have multiplied in such numbers (for since his coming he hath almost killed all the wild beasts that might destroy them) that there is scarce any place to contain them: and so, not able to put a great part of them under the shades, he lets them go freely amids the fields and along the river banks, without fear of estraying or any other danger, being environed by the waters that keep them in manner of a prison. We wished well to Gorphorost, and would have pleasured him for killing the wild beasts, that annoyed not a little this pleasant country wherefoever they went, if there with all not injuring the Shepherds of these places, he had not deprived us of their friendly company, though to ourselves, but only in these respects he did never any other harm, who are rather bound unto him (though of his own virtue it proceeds not the not offending of us) that he hath been a means, whereby this fair Nymph is in our company. The end therefore, for the which I have made this short admonition, is, that we would not have you for our sakes suffer any harm by this rude Shepherd, who for all this hath forgotten a great part of his fierceness, since he gave place and entrance to gentle love. Whereupon you may know how great the force of that mighty child is. But if in these days (for I am certain he will not come out for a solemn oath he made) some good means may be found to make you live here with safety, we will not be a little careful to seek it out for you: And if there be none, yet shall it please us better, that with your absence you should be free from danger, then with your presence (for our content) to hazard your lives, or safety any way. They thanked us for our good will, and seemed not to take care for any thing, that might happen, in am, that we failed not of our agreement with them; Parthenius assuring us, that he could so well flatter, and please fierce Gorphorost, that they might without any harm abide there still. With these words and some amorous songs that we four did sing in course, we passed away the heat of that day, and returned (as we were wont) to the river, they remaining still in that pleasant forest, which served them for their dwelling place, and making provision of necessary food for their sustenance from the villages thereabouts. Not only Delicius, Parthenius, Stela and I failed not in those first eight days to be at the appointed place of our meeting, but the fame of the new Shepherds came to the ears of some other Nymphs, who coming thither, and consorting with us, made many gracious and pleasant quires, dances, and songs to the tune of their Rebecks and Bagpipes; sometimes lending a gentle ear to Parthenius and Delicius sweet songs; sometimes applying ourselves to telling of tales: At which pleasant meetings old Parisies, who sometimes came to see his daughter, gave no small content to every one with his wise precepts and counsel touching the honour of the immortal Gods, and showing their divine providence in all creatures, and by them the great power and might of their eternal creator, by explaining the accelerate courses and motions of the celestial globes, and the cause of their unwearied swiftness. In which time Delicius and Parthenius gained so greatly to their wills, the love of all my companions, Shepherds and Shepherdesses, (who also resorted thither) knowing what Gorphorost had vowed, that they were not meanly beloved of all, as well for their sweet songs and playing, as also for their wisdom, demeanour, and good graces. But above all fair Stela and I without comparison exceeded them, though my love with Parthenius was more openly extended, whereunto I had then most of all disposed my mind; and for no other cause, then that I knew Delicius had employed his thoughts and love on Stela; and also because Ithought Parthenius was most free. Between us both, like rude girls, we knew not how to govern ourselves in Cupid's affairs. Between us both, being but a littleprudent, we were ignorant how we should behave us in the effects of this child, and therefore endured him impatiently, though harder and more violent he was to Stela then to me, not because I had been a longer scholar in Venus' school, or had more experience in her blind Sons effects than she; but because she desired, and forced herself to wring out the worm out of her hart, that every day without feeling it, crept more and more into the centre of it; for of such quality is this traitor love, that the more one endeavours to shake him off, with greater force he takes place and seizeth on his conquered soul: So that Stela the more she laboured not to love the Shepherds, the more courageously love assailed her, which made her night nor day take any rest, nor find ease in any thing: all which I afterwards knew by her own mouth, who at the first dissembled the matter so cunningly, that I could gather nothing of it. And so, meaning to take away the effect by removing the cause, she would sometimes sly from company, refraining to come where the Shepherds were staying for us, unless she was importuned by me. But after certain days that we four were all alone together, I said. It is not reason young shepherds, that with therest we live in doubt of knowing you, but that in some point we may perceive a difference between you, when as oftentimes we cannot, no more than the rest, call you by your right names, which I assure you troubles us not a little: So that I would feign have one of you take some kind of mark to be known from the other, but in such secret sort, to put us out of doubt, and make the rest remain still therein: Our intent answered Delicius, hath been hitherto (gracious Crimine) to have our garments make no dissimilitude between them, whom one will and shape hath made so like. But to pleasure thee herein, & that by taking it, no offence be ministered to thy companion, let fair Stela set down the difference between us in outward show, since she hath made it in the inward soul. I know not Shepherd said Stela, what difference I have put between you and Parthenius. Thy conceit fair Stela is not I think so hard, as thy hart, but that thou mayst easily conjecture, how much love works in me for thy sake. The putenesie of my thoughts (said Stela) hath made me ignorant of that, which I would had not been. The hardness of thy hart (said Delicius) hath made me prudent in that, which was not so much expedient for me. Dost thou then speak it in good earnest said Stela, That thou lovest me? Dost thou then ask it in jest (said Delicius) if I love thee? No said Stela: But then belike I am she (as the matter falls out) to whom thou hast addressed all thy songs and tears. Delicius thinking to have a prosperous gale (whereof we also thought him assured, for all this while she seemed not to be angry, but mild and gentle, whereby she got that out of his hart (which the sorrowful soul had kept so secret in his breast) with a pitiful eye cast on her, answered. Even she indeed thou art, as the matter falls out, to whom I avow the term and service of my life and voluntary subjection of my soul, that is, etc. Enough, enough said Stela. I understand thee too well, and am now resolved of my former suspicions. I never thought that the bold presumption of a miserable and obscure man could so far extend as to entertain a thought so prejudicial to my honour. Wherefore from this day let come who will to enjoy thy poisoned conversation. When she had spoken these bitter words, with an austere and angry countenance, she fling from thence without any company, and with no less haste, than the timorous virgin, that walking by some hedge, and treading with her fine foot upon some careless viper, appalled with feat, flieth with speed away: The tender hearted Delicius not able to power forth any complaints, as one strooken dumb, remained no less astonished than the Shepherd, seeing the faithful Mastie hard by his side strooken dead with a fearful thunderclap, and the grass but even now green at his feet, burned by the sudden lightning thereof. On whom I took so great compassion, that I could not stay my tears, but turning my face to Farthenius to bid him help his fellow, I espied him in a senseless trance, representing more the image of a dead body, than the figure of a live man, to whom it was no less than death to see his dear friend in such a plight, and worse than death to his decayed soul, knowing that he must now be deprived of the sight of his dear Stela, the only reward and comfort of all his private passions. Seeing my Parthenius in such a case, like a true lover I clasped my hands together, and then opening them again, said. O dismal day! At which very instant I cast myself upon Parthenius (for when Stela was risen up to be gone, I also rose up from my place) & joining his pale face to mine, kissed him softly; he (poor Parthenius) hanging down his head in my lap. At the voice that I gave, Delicius (awaked as it were out of a deep sleep) sighed; and seeing Parthenius in like case, fell again into another swoon, and remained in such sort as my Parthenius did. I was a good while embracing my Parthenius (for love and pity overcame my due regard of modesty) and held him in such sort as you have heard, not taking away my face from his, but at the end craving help of Delictus, I perceived he stood in no less need of the same. Believe me (Gentlemen) if my pain might have been augmented, I must needs have felt it by this second sight of Delictus: But my grief being extreme, and nothing able to add more torments to my tortured soul, I felt them not, unless it were to see myself all alone in such a case. But animared by the desire I had to help them, I took a fine ashen dish out of one of their scrips, and ran to the river for some water, and having brought it, besprinkled both their faces with it: who being therewith, and with shaking them, a little awaked, with a merrier countenance than courage, I said unto them. What faintness of hart is this young Shepherds? Ye are but young Apprentices (it seems) in Cupid's service, since you will give him over at the first encounter by leaving your lives in his hands. But feign would I know Parthenius (for then I imagined nothing of his secret love) what made thee so much besides thyself (for the cause of Delicius his grief, and of his sudden trance I know well enough.) What, did Stelas sharp answer touch thee so near? No, answered Parthenius. What was it then, said I again? Parthenius, who would not for all the world have manifested the love he bore to Stela, answered: because I saw my dear Delicius in some danger, whose chiefest desires and their full accomplishment I rather wish with greater content, and in higher degree than mine own. It grieved me not (Gentlemen) to hear him speak this, for now had the impatient worm of jealousy begun to gnaw my throbbing hart. I believe thee said Felismena, but knowest thou what I think of all these matters, and contentions that thou hast told, That thou wert the only gainer, since thou enjoyedst so pleasant (though so small a time) being in such sort as thou wert with Parthenius. By our virgin rights I swear to thee (said Crimine) that I would rather have been deprived of that delightful being with my Parthenius, so that I had been excused of the great grief I had to see him in so pitiful a case. For if thou hast not tried fair Lady, yet happily thou mayst have heard say, That a pleasure or delight is but half tasted which is distempered by one bitter grief or sorrow. But leaving this aside, will you know (said Felismena) whereupon I have thought? Whereon said Crimine? On this (said Felismena) musing with myself, how thou couldst call the shepherds by their own names, whereas thou saiedst, they could not be known one from another for their great likeness, which caused thee to request some privy tokens to discern them, which hitherto yet thou hast not told us. So that I conceive not how without knowing them distinctly (as if the difference were now made) thou shouldst name them so right, giving to each his proper name. Thou sayest well fair Lady (said Crimine.) But that which is already told, may satisfy thy demand. For Delicius alone was the man (I said) that loved (at the lest openly) without telling whom, until this last accident befell, which we by his speeches, and so soon as he had but opened his mouth easily gathered, so that although we knew not them, when we came to them, yet by the manner of their talk we were afterwards cleared of that doubt. It is well (said Doria) And as thou lovest thyself fair Crimine, proceed in this history of your love and fortune, for I am partaker of some of the pain, wherein thou leftest the solitary and sorrowful shepherds. To comfort them in their great grief, said Crimine, I reasoned with them with some apparent and consolatory words, but the afflicted shepherds ceased not to power out abundance of tears, with no small quantity of burning sighs: whereupon blaming them sometimes, and sometimes encouraging them, I endeavoured to cheer them up, but all was not enough to disburden them of despair in that sorrowful place, if I had not armed them with an apparent hope to restore Delicius to Stelas favour again, by enjoying it more than ever he had before, though he would not have meanly contented him with that alone, whereof he was deprived without requesting any more. But thinking it was now, more than convenient time to go my ways, I took my leave of the shepherds, promising them to do what possibly I could in their affairs, in the which I only commended patience unto them for a few days, telling them that a hard imposthume in the beginning could not be cured, until by time, and plasters laid thereunto, it be first mollified and made tender; and that in the mean while I would not with other Nymphs forget to visit them, though not so often as I desired, not to leave Stela all alone, as also for avoiding of suspicion. In this space of time because Delicius and Parthenius did lead so sad and uncomfortable a life, which by no kind of pastime could be cheered, and also because the vowed time of Gorphorosts coming abroad was near at hand, all our company was dissolved. Parthenius, who was not only careful for that which touched him, but especially for that which was needful for his friend, went sometimes walking up and down along the river banks, and by singing many amorous and sorrowful sonnets, practised to enter into familiarity & friendship with fierce Gorphorost, because they might by these means (whilst he kept him company, and told him many things to please his loving humour) without any danger continue still in that forest; and also, because holding him other times with tales and discourses, Delicius, myself and Stela (if Stela perhaps grew afterwards to be more gentle) might in the mean time be secure in mutual company together. Parthenius therefore beginning his walks in this sort, fierce Gorphorost came down from a high hill, whom when Parthenius beheld, he sat him down upon a round bank made by the water, and played on his Baggepipe so loud that Gorphorost might hear him. But scarce had the sound thereof pierced his ears, when step by step (which any other Shepherd with running very fast could not outgo) he came to the river banks on the other side: when Parthenius saw him nigh at hand, he left his Baggepipe, and taking his Rebecke, began to sing in the praise of love (for afterwards he told us all the matter) the which, for that it made for his purpose, as also for the sweetness of the song, delighted not a little the fierce shepherd, who had forthwith passed to the other side where Parthenius was, if he had not feared by coming upon him unawares, to have made him run away, though he was now somewhat assured to the contrary: when he saw Parthenius (being so nigh unto him) not once begin to stir, nor to leave of his singing, whereon presuming a little, he spoke thus unto him aloud (for the distance of the place by reason of the great river being between, & the noise which the waters running with great force continually made, were an impediment that he could not be so well heard.) So may this God be ever favourable unto thee (jolly Shepherd) if thou wilt give me leave to come to thee, to enjoy part of thy sweet music and songs: for by her, that hath sole power over my hart I swear, thou shalt not now, nor at any time hereafter have any harm at my hands. Parthentus hereupon made him a sign to come over, which he did out of hand, and there they gave to each other a particular account of their lives, Parthenius having ever a special care to conceal that, which by revealing it, might be hurtful unto him. They passed away the time there a good while, when at the last Parthenius played and sung such things, as pleased Gorphorosts vain, wherewith the fierce Shepherd was not only most highly content, but no less glad, that he had got a companion and friend, to whom he might impart his uneven loves with Stela. In this sort therefore they spent that day, and took their leave of one another, Gorphorost requesting him not to forget that place of meeting. While Parthenius was a gaining Gorphorosts good will, (wherein he had so much profited himself by his passing wit and discretion, that in his arms to the other side of the river he oftentimes transported him, to show him all his riches and habitation) I laboured to pacify angry Stela, wherein I took such pains, and was so forward, that I had put her (as it were) in Cupid's bosom, to make her know his source and signory; and in such sort, that though she had no force to resist love, yet she encouraged herself to pass away her pain without discovering it once unto me, being her chiefest secretary, and dearest friend: Nevertheless I studied by all means possible (by procuring Delicius pardon) to make her return to her former company and conversation; whereupon, when most of our Nymphs were on a time in several companies agreed to pass away the heat of the day, I said unto her. I cannot but grieve (beloved Stela) that for so light an occasion we should lose so many pleasant hours as we were wont to have. Truth it is Crimine (said Stela) that I would feign enjoy them, if they were entertained with such purity and honesty as at the first we found them: And I know not why thou shouldst term it light, when to thyself (as at the least to me it seemed) it should be no less heavy to endure. What harm didst thou get by it (said I) or how couldst thou be aggrieved, that so jolly a young Shepherd, so wise, and discreet should love thee (I know) with such apparent tokens of true and sincere affection; whom neither Apollo, when he fed Admetus' herds, nor any other did ever excel in any thing. And how more available (if not for their deserts) were it for us to have their company, to no other end, but to pass away the heat of these days, which well thou mightest dissemble, since in the end thy will remains so free to do whatsoever shall like thee best. Should I consent (said Stela) to have one love me beyond the limits of chastity? Why this (said I) is not in thy power, because thou canst not let it: for command Gorphorost to leave of to love thee, and thou shalt see how much thy desire or command prevails. I know it well (said Stela) but then must I suffer him to manifest so dishonest a motion to me? Thou art in the fault (said I) by provoking him first unto it, as if (it seemed) thou hadst no other desire. By means whereof the careless and simple lover, thinking there was no such hidden deceit in thee (as with thy fair words to draw that out of his breast, which with fast and secret bonds he had enclosed there) and thinking to take opportunity by the forehead, plainly laid open unto thee his unfeigned and fervent affection; wherein thou wert much beholding unto him, since otherwise (perhaps) he would never have manifested it (by passing rather in the mean time great pains for fear of offending thee) until thou didst first command him. Since it is then so (said Stela) that thou wilt lay this fault upon me, I will take the blame and punishment upon myself, which shall be hereafter not to see nor speak with him, nor to have any thing to do with him, because I will not fall with him into more errors: And as for him let him taste the fruit of his own boldness, which punishment as it will not (I think) be grievous to me to suffer, so will it not be hurtful to him, to gather that which he himself did sow: How easy a thing it is for thee (said I) I see well, but how hard it is for him, I cannot conceive, assuring thee, that if thou hadst but seen him at that present, thou wouldst consider better of that I say, who is yet in such a case, that thou art scarce able to know him; with whose tears and burning sighs the hard dimonds and crystal may be mollified and melted. And believe me Stela, if it had not been for me and Parthenius, that did put him in some uncertain hope, because he should not despair, he had before this time paid dearly for his fault, (if by doing thy command, he made a fault) though yet in the end I greatly fear me that he cannot endure very long, if thou dost stay too long from visiting him, who now requires no other thing for his only satisfaction and content. Truly (said Stela) thou hast termed them well (uncertain hopes) for so they are indeed, and of uncertain they shall be for ever vain. When I perceived her hardness, and of what small force my persuasions were, with mine eyes full of tears I said unto her. Ah Stela how ill dost thou requite my great love towards thee, how small an account dost thou make of the love, that thou owest me, and how ill dost thou think of the tender affection, which I have ever vowed unto thee? the revenge of all which (if with speed thou dost not prevent my ensuing sorrow) I crave at the just hands of our impartial Gods. Speaking thus unto her, and renting the fine vail that weakly covered my amorous breasts, with many sighs, and so profound, that my breath seemed to burst my inward soul, I folded mine arms, and leaning my head upon my knees (for then I was set down) I made strange and piteous motions with my body. Stela stood astonished at such a sight, not knowing whereunto she might attribute so great extremes, and so was she in a great suspense, unable to speak or do any thing, but weep for love and pity (not knowing wherefore) only thereby to keep me company: and a little while after embracing me, she began thus to say. My dear Sister and Mistress, if this offence which without reason (as I know no less) thou hast conceived against me, thou takest in ill part at the first, I do no less wonder at this new accident, that thy unwonted tears move me thus to pity. Tell me wherein I am culpable, or how I have offended thee; and beware thou puttest me not in suspicion that thy friendship to me is stained and unpure, when as mine hath ever been towards thee virtuous, and sincere. For thou sayest I requite thee ill, because I will not see that presumptuous Shepherd. O my dear friend Stela (said I) how feign would I be as thou art, that I might with that liberty that thou hast, tell thee the cause of my complaints, or that thou wert as I am, to hear with my subjection, What reason I have to make them, and to accuse thee. But in the end with the possibility that I shall attain to, and as shortly as I can, I will tell it thee, to take away that suspicion which thou hast of me, and not to conceal any secret matter from one another, an unlawful part to our right of mutual friendship. The reason that justly moves me to complain of thee is, that thou wilt not go see Delicius, and this is for another matter than thou thinkest of, and therefore be attentive, It is now clear enough to thee, what great love and amity is between both the brothers, which hath made Parthenius feel the grief of his friend Delicius no less than he did himself, whereby he is in as great dawnger of his life: For when Delicius falling down, had lost his colour, and was in such an agony, Parthenius was in no less to see his friend in such a case, that thou wouldst have thought the last period of both their lives had been come, who had been long since delivered from their pains, if by some small hope I had not revived them; yet thinking that either of them would be glad to live, not for himself, but because the other might live: for both of them knew well that one of their lives could last no longer than the other enjoyed his, so that denying to go see Delicius, thou leavest Parthenius in great danger. Thou wilt (perhaps) ask me, what I have to do with the good or ill fare of this unhappy Shepherd, by ceiling it so much as I do: feign would I have another tell thee this, but in the end setting all virgin modesty aside with thee, since it lies in my power to do no less, Thou must know, that since these Shepherds came hither for their ill (I will not say for mine, for though their sight cost me ten thousand lives, I cannot yet deny but that I have been happy) I am not able to tell thee how I yielded to loves command, being forced to love Delicius no less than Parthenius; for I never found any thing, wherein I liked the one more than the other: with which doubt, not knowing to what side to adhere, I was certain days in suspense; but afterwards knowing that Delicius was in love with thee, and Parthenius free, I thought it best not to make myself subject to him who was already a captive, but to the other, whose love hath made so forcible an impression in my unarmed hart, that without him my life is hateful to me. Thou seest therefore by this, fair Stela, how for that which concerns me so much, I wish some content to Delicius. It can cost thee but a little (dear friend) to pardon him for the good that I shall gain, when also no harm can redound to thee thereby, & the rather since he craves pardon of thee with protestation never after to offend thee. Thou demandest a hard matter at my hand (said Stela) but because I see thy tears, which I cannot suffer to issue out in such abundance, whereby thou dost manifest the grief which thou feelest, and because thou mayest not have any occasion to complain of my friendship, I will do that which I thought not to do; but on such a condition, that thou shalt never complain on me again, if by committing any other such fault, I deny Delicius my sight for ever: whom I would also know, that neither he, nor any desert of his part could obtain pardon for so great a fault, if he had not procured so good a mediator: for it is not my will, that for his sake thou shouldst thank me for it. Embracing her then for this courtesy and gentle offer, that she made me, I thanked her for it, and with her good leave went my ways (imagine how glad) to seek out my Shepherds, and found Delicius all alone, for Parthenius was with Gorphorost. Needless it is to tell you if Delicius was glad to see me come to him with another kind of countenance, than I was wont some days before, for as I promised him, so I performed, to go and see him: who perceiving now my signs of gladness, said unto me. The only hope of my health, & comfort in my cares, dost thou bring thy noble hart so joyful, as thy gracious countenance so full of content? Tell me quickly, without more circumstances, for thou knowest that A good deed quickly done, is twice done, although it be but one: by which words knowing him to be Delicius, I said. To morrow thou shalt see Stela. What do I live (said Delicius?) If between this and then thou dost not die, said I. In her good grace, said he? If thou wilt said I. O good words, said he. But thou must do better deeds, said I. Doubt not of that, said he, but that I do, and will make it the highest and best deed in the world to love Stela my truest soul. O Delicius (said I) how do I conceive, that thy great love, or the small dissembling thereof (I will not say small knowledge) will be hereafter hurtful to thee. Let come what will (said Delicius) for I will rather joy to suffer for loving too much (if there be any excess in love) then to be harmed for loving too little. I will not counsel thee (said I) not to love, for it would avail me nothing at all: But I must tell thee, that it is expedient for thee not a little to dissemble thine affection, especially before Stela, if thou wilt not be only odious unto her, but also deprived of her desired presence. By performance whereof, know that she will make truce with thee for her part and for thine. Not for my part (answered Delicius) although I should yet pass greater harms by this occasion, which cannot be greater than these which I have already suffered: But in the end she hath made such truce according to her will, that she hath seemed the conqueror, since none is able to come to resist her hand to hand. Well, well, said I, time consumeth many things, and it may be that amongst so many, the anger of thy Stela may also be forgotten. God grant it (answered Delicius) but not to the prejudice of my great love. Tell me (said I) what is become of thy brother, or where is he, that he is not with thee? In faith (stepped out Doria and said) I was not a little wondering with myself that all this while thou didst not ask for thy Parthenius, since thou wert so pained and lost (or at the least as thou hast made show) so much in his love, which made me long to ask thee the cause thereof. Lost saidst thou, nay rather found said Crimine, and happy in it. But I will answer to that which thou hast asked. If assoon as I came, I had asked for him, Delicius would have thought, that my chiefest intent was to see Parthenius, and not to help him, which (to get the good will of both) was no good way at all. I could give thee other reasons (fair Nymph) but let this suffice. But returning to that I was telling, when I asked for Parthenius, Delicius said, he was gone to Gorphorost, and told me of the new friendship lately begun between them both: whereof though I was somewhat afraid; yet I could not those, but think well of his policy to tarry the safer and longer time in those parts. I would have stayed for him until he had come, to have counseled him, how he might have conversed and behaved himself with that fierce Shepherd. But I must needs go, because Delicius told me, that he would not come so soon again; for that Gorphorost was determined to show him the Island, and the Cave where he dwelled. The next day before our accustomed hour, challenging Stela for her promise, I carried her with me to the wont place, the which a Nymph (to whose lot it befell that day) watched (as I said) to see if any danger was at hand. We going on therefore that way, and Stela seeing the shadows to be but narrow, said: We go too soon, for the Shepherds be not yet come: and admit they were, it is not decent nor convenient for us to go before our accustomed hours, because they might not think, that being so desirous to see them, we prevented our wont time: If therefore (friend) thou thinkest good, let us go into the thickest of the forest here, to walk under the shades, while it is fit time to go. I told her I was content, & bade her lead the way. But going in this sort from tree to tree, we might perceive in the tender bark of a great and tall ash, from as high as a man of more than a mean stature, might reach from the ground, certain verses written very small and close together, and coming to the same to see what they were, I began to read them as followeth.  


SInce all my fortunes are so overthwart,  
And so unequal to my just pretence,  
That where dame Nature (Mistress of her art)  
Did make an end to frame each beauty's part,  
There all my ills and sorrows did commence:  
Auguish, and woes, fierce torments, grief, and pain  
With their brave force my soul do overrun,  
That they do work it to their only vain,  
As blustering winds upon the clouds and rain,  
Or as the snow that meltes before the sun.   

And then since that my wet and wearied eyes  
Were wont to be envious once to see,  
Because they saw the seat, where nature lies  
With all her treasures, and the chiefest prize,  
Of beauty, that in all the world might be:  
Now shall they only seek, and wish this hire  
(Continually in bitterness to weep)  
Now shall they burn in swelling tears like fire,  
And now in am of seeing that desire,  
My cheeks in them shall never cease to sleep.   

Since th'absence of the Nymph, I love so much,  
Hath deyned to bear me company of late,  
Then needs my life must languish, and be such,  
That griefs and sorrows will not also grudge  
To follow absence, as their chiefest mate:  
And since my Star is hid, and gone away,  
Whereby my life and senses I did guide,  
I cannot choose but err, and go astray,  
And live in senseless darkness every day,  
Finding no light wherein I may abide.   

And now exiled, shall my body fly  
(Since hard mishap the same did so oppress)  
But yet my soul shall evermore be nigh,  
And shall be never absent, though I die,  
From the sweet body of my Shepherdess:  
And so if that my vital powers quail,  
Or body die by wandering here and there,  
Impossible it is my soul should fail,  
Or death or danger should the same assail,  
Accompanying her body any where.   

My soul for ever doth in her remain,  
My body but for absence doth lament,  
That though my wretched body now is feign  
To wander here, yet doth my love restrain  
My soul to stay, that never would consent:  
Then (miserable body) once begin  
This sorrowful departure with no wonder  
To feel with pain and grief: And never lin  
To wail the cruel torments thou art in,  
With soul and body parting thus asunder.   

You shall my drenched eyes, no less than this,  
Feel this great misery, that grieves me so,  
Your company here shall not be amiss,  
Since that you were the only fault, iwis,  
Of all my troubles, and tormenting woe.  
Then seas of tears begin to drown your marge,  
And weep for your attempt so rashly done,  
Let weeping be your office and your charge,  
And care no more to look so much at large,  
Let it suffice, you saw another sun.   

The intellectual and inward eyes  
Shall only have this charge, and care to see,  
And you my corporal, with mournful cries,  
Bewail my harms, in which no comfort lies,  
Only to you this office I decree.  
And those which are impassable at all,  
Shall see at length and in succeeding time  
Impossible and strange things to befall,  
And you, as passable hereafter shall  
Weary yourselves by means of such a crime:   

For you they shall with double sight behold  
That shining blaze, that brave and glorious sight,  
Without the fear of hurt; and shall be bold  
With great delight their senses to unfold  
On that, which did your looks with harm requite,  
They shall behold that now I am, and was  
Condemned without the course of justice lore,  
For if I did offend to love her as  
Myself, than I confess this fault did pass  
To make me suffer, what I can no more.   

And of this thing I mean not to repent  
For happen will, what happen shall, to prove  
Each amorous torment I am well content,  
And with good will with mere and frank consent  
I yield unto the harm that comes of love.  
In loving her, I do all what I may,  
Though to my mind it falleth out amiss,  
I promise to forget her every way,  
And that my love for ever shall decay,  
If she would leave to be what now she is.   

Alas she cannot leave to be the same,  
A thing it is, her mind that well doth please,  
Having no peer in cruel beauty's fame:  
Nor I cannot, but still maintain this flame,  
Nor 'tis a thing convenient for mine ease:  
And if she said to me, with little love,  
That it were best for me to hate and scorn,  
And should find ease, if I began to prove  
The same, I answer, that it doth behove  
Me still to choose the worse, to worse borne.   

My piteous words she did condemn with fell  
And angry looks, for telling her mine ill  
(Infernal grief and to my soul a hell)  
That with such cruelty she should repel  
Me so, because I did obey her will:  
She bid me tell her (O accursed day)  
If that my torments were for her or no?  
And if I loved her so as I did say?  
She did command, Alas I did obey  
Why angry then, if she will have it so?   

Weep eyes of earth O weep, and weep no more  
My misery, and whether it doth tend:  
Eyes of my soul, behold and then deplore  
My wretched state, what I was once before,  
And what I am, and what must be my end,  
O woeful life, O poor afflicted hart,  
Tell me (poor soul) how canst thou not but fail  
In Passions of such torments, pain, and smart?  
With such a thought how dost thou not departed  
And perish when no succour can prevail?   

O hapless lover wretched, and forgot,  
Though happy once, and happy but of late:  
To day thou diest, but yet thy love cannot,  
To day thy griefs begin their gordian knot,  
To day thy joy doth end, and happy state:  
To day thy woes, and sorrows do appear,  
To day thy sadness, and thy pains are known,  
To day thy sweet content doth finish here,  
To day thy dismal death approacheth near,  
To day thy firmest love, and faith is known.   

What do you now mine eyes, what do you rest?  
Let out your floods, whose streams in grief do swell:  
For it may be, you may within my breast  
Quench out this burning flame, or at the jest,  
Cool this great heat that burns like Mongibelle?  
But woe is me, I strive but all in vain  
Against the stream: For golden Tagus' streams  
Nor Duerus flood, nor Iberus again,  
Can quench this heat or mitigate the pain,  
How then my tears? Alas, these are but dreams,  
And in such sort, because it doth hoffend  
My hart, that burns like to the smithie flame,  
For it doth more increase, and doth extend,  
And more it doth with sparkling flames incend,  
The more that water's cast upon the same:  
And now since want of hedgrow faileth me,  
And that I feel increase, not want of pain,  
I think it best for me to go and see,  
If I can find some other hedge or tree,  
To write that there, which this cannot contain.    
With the taste of this sorrowful song I will now leave of, which me thinks is of great substance, whether the affection I bear the Shepherd that wrote it, makes me think so (for by the words thereof you may understand it was written by Delicius) or that then the reading, and now the recital of it, whereby the miserable estate of the poor youth was then and now represented unto me, doth make me judge it to be no less I know not: Assuring you, that then for a little I would not have made an end to read it out, though I had sought it in every place, if the tears which fell so fast from mine eyes to see the grief of so fair and unfortunate a young Shepherd, had not let me. Tell me no such thing (said Lord Felix) for if I thought thou hadst not as well read the other, which he said he went to write in another tree, I would entreat thee to recite this once again: but we shall have time enough (if it please the Gods) to hear out the rest. But what will you say (said Crimine) if I should tell you, that we never remembered to seek out the other. Therein I believe thee not answered Lord Felix, for so small care should not (me thinks) befall in women of so great respect, and in thee especially, who didst love him with such tender care and affection. Not to deceive thee therefore nor thy imagination (said Crimine) know Lord Felix, that we sought and found it out. O how hast thou rejoiced my hart, said Felismena! but take heed hereafter Crimine what thou sayest: and if we shall continue friends, I pray thee mock us no more in this sort, for thou hadst not a little troubled my mind by making me believe, that thou hadst not sought it out. But state yet (said Doria) for I am not of your opinion, that she should recite this other song so soon as you would have her. Why said Lord Felix? Because I would first know, said Doria, if it be such an one as the last, for if it be not, she did well to leave of her tale at such a point; for it is not the condition of my palate, to remain with an ill taste, when it hath once a good one. Very true, said Felismena. What answerest thou therefore Crimine to this? I have not perhaps the same taste (said I) that she hath; so that it may be that what is sweet to her, may seem bitter to me, or contrary: for in tastes there is no small difference. But for myself I can say, that the rest to come pleaseth me no less, then that which is past. Then by this reason (said Lord Felix) thou mayst tell it, which I believe thou wilt not otherwise choose to do with the condition that Doria alleged unto thee. Since you have fair Ladies (said Polydora) staid yourselves more than I would in questions and answers, I will also propound mine. Of which I dare lay a wager you will confess, that one of them will seem better to you then all the rest. And for this I will not call any other to be judges, but yourselves; and in faith not to appeal in any time from the sentence given. Thou takest much upon thee (said Felismena) and more, leaving it in the arbitrement of these that be contrary to thee. Nay rather little (said Polydora) for I know well that for your credits you dare not but pronounce it in my favour. Tell it then to try (said Lord Felix.) You all take upon you (said Polydora) not meanly to be in love, and praising (not without good cause) the song, and having heard Crimine confess, that she could not make an end to read it for pity she had of Delicius, what is the reason, that you have not asked any thing what he did, or what Stela felt, or what impression it made in her? These are questions more worth the ask of lovers, then to be so precise in demanding, if it were written or not, and if she saw the other, or not? It would have grieved me (being no lover) if she had not been condolent for him, who was put in such anxieties, and you that affirm it to be so, seem not to be sorrowful for this passion; whereby it seems you have no desire to help him with so much as a word. Polydora gave them all great delight with her friendly anger, which she showed in jest, of whom there was not any that thought not, but that she was in good earnest, if in the end she had not laughed. Then all with one voice said, that the verdict should pass on her side. Every one holding their peace to see what Crimine would answer to it, she began thus to say. Thou hast so highly considered the matter Polydora that if thy demand had come jointly with the quesions of these Gentlemen, I would (to have satisfied thine) (with pardon be it spoken) have left theirs unanswered. And truly if love had not required of Stela a narrow account of the hardness of her hart, then thine also had been without an answer, because I think you would not give any credit to my speeches, not seeming a possible thing, that where all virtues are laid up, pity should there be wanting, in whom I assure you, was no more show of mercy, than sign of heat in snow: Whereat if I took any grief, wishing the Shepherd so much good, for the reason that I have alleged, thou mayest (fair Nymph) conjecture. But I promise you now, that I have no occasion to complain, for love hath as well paid me for the offence, which then by her cruelty she gave me, that I may justly complain of too great pity, which she used towards him, since being such, it hath been too cruel for me in this behalf. And for this time I will cease, as well for that I weary myself and you, as also for that Felicia and the rest come in very good time: who coming near unto them, Felismena said. Lay thy hand of punishment upon me Lady Felicia, for I confess I deserve it, affirming that thy coming hath made me sorry, & hereof I know well who is in fault. The same all the rest said. Say you so (said Felicia) Then I swear to morrow you shall be all punished for it. With this they went to supper and to rest. If I should set down in order the brave dances and songs, that after supper were played and sung, it would be an endless piece of work.  
The end of the fourth book.   

The fifth Book of the second Part of Diana of George of Montemayor.  
THe next day in the morning the three Nymphs, that were rescued by the shepherds, being there when the Savages ran upon them, desirous to give them all the pleasure and contentment they could, told them all what Crimine had discoursed unto them before, even unto that very point, where Crimine by Felicias and their coming was interrupted, which made Syrenus to say. Did Felismena then say it grieved her for this, because Felicia came? Not for any other thing, said the Nymphs. God never help me (said Seluagia) if ever I go one foot from Crimine, before she have made an end of her history, and I hope sylvanus, and Syrenus will do the like. We mean no less said they. Dinner being done, Lord Felix, Felismena, and the Nymphs desirous to know the rest of that which Crimine had begun the day before, consulted together to get her out of the company she was in. Which sage Felicia perceiving, and what they went about, bad Lord Felix be content, and told them that she would do the best to fulfil their desires. A little while after, she went from thence to pass away the time with Parisiles and Crimine, and left Stela with them all, to tell out the rest, because Crimine could not tell that which followed, so well as Stela, whereof Felicia informed Lord Felix. When dinner was done, Delicius went as he was wont to walk up and down in the woods, spending those miserable days in sorrowful thoughts and tears. So that Felicia, Parisiles, and Crimine being gone, Lord Felix, Felismena, the Nymphs, and the shepherds remained with fair Stela, to whom Felismena began thus to say. From that very instant (most excellent virgin) when first thou didst discover to us thy vermilion and snow white face, we clearly knew, that for singular beauty thou didst get the prize and honour amongst the fairest wheresoever, and till yesterday that Crimine showed the hardness of thy hart, we had not known, that thy exceeding cruelty deserved the palm and victory amongst all mortal women. Renowned Lady, said Stela (cutting her off) I think it will not grieve thee, if I answer thy needless words after a rude sort, since thou wilt give me that but in words, which thou hast deserved in deed, I speak it concerning thy more rare beauty. For, as for being cruel, I deny not but that I have deserved a reward, though I am now more worthy of a greater, for being on the contrary so pitiful as thou seest. Thereof (said Felismena) we know the first, and of the second being ignorant, do us therefore the favour to rid us out of this false opinion of thee. All of them with one voice likewise charged her with the same demand. For many respects, said Stela, I cannot (worthy company) deny your earnest requests, for one, because I was commanded thereunto by sage Felicia, to whom I own all obedience and respect of duty: for another, to fulfil your commands, which I will not disobey: and for the third, because I take a pleasure in recounting mine own passions, to try if with the grief which I shall have in telling them, death will deliver me once from them; which though for this respect I chief desire, yet life is pleasant to me, only for no more, but to enjoy the sight of my young shepherds, to whom (mine honour reserved) I have sacrificed my dearest liberty. Other reasons I omit that move me to satisfy your minds. And now because you are informed to that point where my dear friend Crimine left, from that I will take my beginning and proceed unto the present estate that we are now in, advising you by the way, that I durst never open my mouth with such boldness to tell you of my loves, if of mine own part there had ever been the  stain or thought of impurity in them. The which thing affirmed as well by Crimine, as by that which I will rehearse, shall soon appear. And as I will also tell you (which my companion could not, but that which she did openly see) what I did, and spoke with myself alone, so cannot I report unto you what she or the shepherds did, or spoke, when they were by themselves alone. And if I shall tell you any thing that I have not seen, it shall be after their own report to me. Give ear therefore, for now I begin.  
CRimine could scarce pronounce the words of the song written in the tree, and recited by her, for pity of Delicius (which we knew well by the tenor of it to be his) for if they had held out longer, she could not have made an end of them, but having read them, she said. Woe is me, how different are they in mind that are so like in face (for now you know how Crimine died for the love of Parthenius, and how she had told me it) Delicius burns in love, and Parthenius is cold in the same. Me thinks it were good, that both of them should love like faithful companions, or that Stela and I like good friends should hate. O Stela thou mightest well agree with Parthenius, who in condition of cruelty is so like unto thee, and shouldest forsake Delicius, so like to me. I assure you Gentlemen, that the pitiful verses that Delicius wrote in the tree, penetrated deeply into my soul, but the words that were fixed in Crimines'; sorrowful breast, moved me without comparison to more ruth. The persuasions that Crimine oftentimes used to me, to induce me to love Delicius were of great force, but this last was so strong, that it wrought more effectually with me then all the rest. Delicius his singular parts, and the rare deserts of Parthenius were of great worth with me, by noting how worthy they were to be beloved; but the jealousy I had of Crimine, perceiving how glad she was to be beloved of either of them was more forcible in my mind. O love, love, how justly do they paint thee like a blind boy, thy conditions being no other! For a boy with a broken pate, that will not suffer his head to be bound up in a clout, but seeing the same tied to another boys head, cries out for it: So was it with me and Crimine. I rejected the love of the Shepherds, but knowing that Crimine loved them, I died for their love, and wept in my inward soul that Crimine was so much devoted to them. But mark my dissimulation, for to that, which she said I answered thus. To this last (my sweet friend) which thou hast alleged (for as much as toucheth me) thou mayest well agree, not only with Delicius, but with his friend, if thou wilt. This is not well (said Crimine) that thou hast yet so much liberty to grant me such leave, but in the end, I am well content to take it: for I love not Delicius so little, that I would do him such injury, neither do I see him so inclined to yield to my love again. And I see no reason (said I) why I should not give thee leave or any body else in this respect: let us leave this (said she) & go if thou thinkest good whither we were determined. Come on (said I) let us go whither we must, not whither we should, for the sooner we go, the sooner we shall come back again. Being therefore come to our wont place, we found the Shepherds merry for the hope they had to see me, wherein I deceived not myself, for if it was not so, I am then sure I was well deceived, though somewhat sorrowful also for my long staying. We therefore coming before the fair Shepherds, a certain fear possessed both their bodies, no otherwise then if some fearful and ghastly thing had suddenly appeared before their sight, so that it caused a notable trembling in every part of them. Crimine went on six steps before (it might be to bid Delicius take courage and a good hart) and afterwards spoke out aloud to them saying. By force (my friends) I bring this my companion hither to establish a loving peace between you and her. Delicius would have answered, but Crimine fearing least his love would have made a fault in something, cut him off, following her speech thus. For confirmation whereof, there is nothing more requisite, but that without remembrance of that which is past, we return again to our former pastimes. Truth it is, that I will not dissuade Delicius from ask her pardon, whom he hath moved to anger, and her I beseech by the faith of our friendship not to deny the same. Then said Delicius by and by, his eyes full of tears, and his knees on the ground, not only for the offence committed, but if in any thing I shall hereafter offend her, with all humility I ask her forgiveness. If so for nought (said I) a fault should be sold, it would be held but for a sport and pastime in am of satisfying your wills, to give occasion of anger, howsoever by redeeming it only with pardon craved and obtained. So that trust not to this Shepherd: for the second shall not be forgiven thee so good cheap. Wouldst thou have him live so precisely fair Stela, (said Parthenius) and in such continual fear, that he dare not only speak, nor so much as breathe for fear of offending thee? I could not choose but laugh at Parthenius words, and at the countenance wherewith he spoke them: To the which I answered thus. Gracious thou art in sooth jolly Shepherd, that art so ready to help thy companion, I do not meaneit so extremely, as thou sayest, he understands me well enough: I imagine as much said Parthenius, but am not ignorant, that thou art rigorous, and that in this sort we are both in an ill case, if for speaking perhaps or doing a light thing ignorantly, one should not be pardoned. If so small faults are so heinously punished, how can the greater escape uncorrected? Wherefore set down this law (if thou wilt at the least be accounted just) that the punishment exceed not the fault, putting the fault and the punishment in an equal balance of moderation: We are more bound to our Gods for mercy, which they show us, then for their justice, whereby but a little they profit themselves. Tell me then fair Stela (as the Gods preserve thee still in thy singular and rare beauty) if every time that men offend, high jove should send down his thunderbolts, how many dost thou think should he find unarmed? I impute it not Gentlemen, to any pride, arrogancy, or necessity of mine own part, if lying, sometimes I say (fair Stela) which are formal words of Shepherds, and commonly used of them, which besides (although I might well leave unspoken) yet could it not be well suffered, because they are not without mystery. It is well (said Doria) let it be as thou wilt, and tell on, for we will not stay ourselves upon so apparent a matter as this. I answered Parthenius (said Stela.) That the error committed is well manifested, but after what sort shall the ignorance thou speakest of be clear unto me? But I see thee Parthenius so free in thy speeches, and bitter in thy reprehensions, that I shall be forced with my will, yea, and for very fear, to do something for thee. Parthenius without more ado humbled himself with Delicius, who was all this while at my feet, for of purpose I would not bid him rise, desirous to see them both equally yield themselves unto me, because I equally loved them both, and being in this sort, he said. If it be then so, I beseech thee pardon him, since he craves it on thee with so great humility. I am content (said I) and taking them both by the hands, I lifted them up, which when I had done, Crimine said. Tell me Parthenius how falls it out, thou art not with thy friend Gorphorost to day? Parthenius answered, because I knew fair Stela would come hither to day. And not because I came, said Crimine? Thou hast no cause to ask me this question (gracious Nymph) answered Parthenius, since thou art assured, I would do it no less for thine, but only because fair Stelas presence was so much desired, by reason of these passed discontents. One thing I have marked, said Crimine, whereof I should not be a little ashamed, if there were any other here besides Stela, that thou dost call her evermore (fair) and me (gracious.) Thou mayst urge me so far said he, that I may confess myself overcomed. Friend Crimine, said I, their faults cannot take away the due praise of thy beauty, so that if thine were deemed by right and indifferent judges, it should ever have the prize and superiority. And whom said Crimine shall we appoint for such judges? Myself said I, and those, whom thou wilt besides, that are of better judgement and skill, than these shepherds. Why, what sayest thou, said Crimine? I answered, that which I said. This sufficeth me, said Crimine, and now I care not a whit for that they shall say, since the sentence is given with a better vow and voice in my favour. In these and other jests (which I omit to tell you, because I know you are desirous to hear the other song) we spent a pretty time, wherein, after we had sung some merry and joyful ditties, we heard the sound, that the Nymph our watch woman gave, to high us home, because Gorphorost was coming down the hills beneath; whereupon with the greatest haste we could, we hied us away before he began to pass over the river: Who by chance espying us, with humble requests began to persuade us not to fly away, since it was not his mind to offend us in any thing: To whose bootless speeches, hating him for mine own part as much as I loved the Shepherds, I would not abide to listen; though Crimine requested me to stay a pretty way off, to see what he would say, and if offering to come near us, he would not go back, with warning him to the contrary, we might then be gone, and save ourselves, being in so sure a place as then we were. But I, that had no desire to condescend to Crimines' request, with my company entered no sooner into our river, when Gorphorost came on the other side where my dear Shepherds were. To whom he said. Parthenius (which of you two soever he be) although by thee, your likeness was so fully made known unto me; yet I thought it was not so great, that it might trouble me from knowing thee again. Now I confess, that I cannot tell, which of you two is Parthenius. Speak therefore to me both of you, and by your voice I shall discern that, which by your countenance and apparel I cannot. Then they said both together: I am Parthenius. If I had not seen you both move your lips (said Gorphorost) I would have thought it had been but one voice. Do me therefore this pleasure to speak each one by himself, and then by that means I shall know you. Delicius speaking first said. I am Parthenius, dost thou not know me? Gorphorost said yes, and that very well. Then spoke Parthenius, and said. I am Parthenius, dost thou not know me? Now, said Gorphorost I know not thee, nor the other. But which of both soever thou be'st, for the friendship between thee and me, I pray thee sing those verses, which thou didst sing the first time I saw thee, for I never remembered to demand it sooner at thy hands, and when I heard thee first sing it, I could not understand them well, being both so far asunder. Parthenius, who (as you know) desired to give him all the content he could, taking out his Rebecke, began to sing this Sonnet which he had made of purpose, because with patience he might suffer the disdain that I did bear him.  

A Sonnet.  
IF tears we spill by loving, and bereave not  
Our hearts of troubles, which for love we feign not,  
Dainties they are of love, which we obtain not,  
Dainties they are of love, which we conceive not:  
If that by loving passions we desire not,  
And sighs for love, wherewith we do complain all,  
Dainties they are of love, which we disdain all,  
Dainties they are of love, which we require not.  
The false suspectes to be of all eschewed,  
The ie alousies of every Mistress moved,  
Dainties they are of love not well advised:  
To feign not, without why, not to be loved,  
To think not, without cause, not to be viewed,  
Dainties they are of love of all despised.   
O how glad would I have been, said sylvanus, to have heard this Sonnet, when I poured out so many vain tears, and had so many disfavours of ingrateful Diana. What comfort couldst thou have had, said Syrenus, since his purpose and intent doth marvelously import, that they are the pleasures and joys of love, to feign (without any cause thereof) that they are not loved, so that to understand, that they are not loved (having good cause to believe it) they should be no sweets nor dainties of love. Whereupon perceiving so clearly that Diana did not love thee, thou shouldst have had but small comfort by this Sonnet. I perceived well enough, answered sylvanus; that I was despised, but yet for all that, would not conceive, that I knew so much. It is well said (said Doria) talk no more of times that are gone and passed, since both of you are content with this, that is present. And thou fair Stela for the love of us all proceed in thy sweet discourse. In many other songs (said Stela) they passed away a good time with sicice Gorphorost: and now that Titan went down to visit the other earth, he took his leave of them, requesting Parthenius to come and visit him sometimes, promising him, that when he came to pass over the river, he would not fail to come and help him over. That night I slept not sound in my bed, nor with much rest, for so many imaginations of things that I had passed the day before, & of many other more, ran up and down in my troubled fantasies, that I could take no rest at all. For I thought of the goodly behaviour, graces, and beauty, and parsonage of the two Shepherds, each thing in them seeming to me (being not men of flocks as I supposed) more worthy of greater things than myself. The sorrowful words of Delicius song written in the tree, filled me full of pirie, and the frantic jealousy that (rooted in my hart) I had of Crimine for Parthenius sake, stung me mortally. On the one side I endeavoured not to love, and was unwilling on the other, that any should love them besides myself. In the trouble of which considerations having a good while turmoiled my wearied spirits, at the very point when fair Aurora began to awake, a profound sleep began to take more hold on me, then in the whole night before. I dreamt, but will not tell you what, because I desire to forget it: let it suffice, that th'extreme fear of so horrible a dream awaking me, eased me in some sort. Seeing myself free from that danger, as if my bed had been in fault, the only cause of my sorrow, and full of stinging vipers, and fiery flames, with a sudden sear I leapt out of it. At the noise whereof Crimine, who lay with me, awaked, and inquiring the cause of my sursault, I answered her, that it was nothing but a start in a fearful and unacquainted dream: which should not be a small one (said Crimine) since (my friend) it hath altered thee so much, that there is no colour left in thy face, but such as in dead & pale bodies; and thine eyes swelling with sears, not yet sully ascended up to issue forth, seem to burst, for the great force and desire they have to weep. It was so said I, for I would have thought they had opened my breast. Crimine with a gracious smile (who is no less in all she doth) began to jest a little with me, and unlacing my body, & looking into my breast, said. Truly thy dream hath not showed thee any thing contrary to the truth, for it is open, and hath been to receive into it there all possibility of beauty. And yet if thou wilt give me leave, I will tell thee more. She had little need to ask me leave, that took it of herself so frankly to tell me what she did. But tell me what thou wilt (said I.) Although thy breast, said she is open, yet hath Delicius his more open to receive thee in. But rather thine said I, to lock up Parthenius in it. That would not grieve me, said she, if this might be truly affirmed of thee and him: but knowest thou what is come into my mind, that we spent too short time yesterday in seeking out the rest of the song, that was written in the tree: Why, what remained, said I? This would I know said Crimine. Dost thou not remember that the last verse of it said, that because that tree was not able to contain any more, he went to write it in some other tree. It is true indeed, said I. Now hast thou come, said Doria, to the point, which we all desired to know: but Stela said on, As thou lovest thy felse therefore (said Crimine) let us go a little sooner to day, and we will seek out the place, where he wrote the rest, and to read again that, which we found yesterday. Let it be as thou please, said I. And so with this determination we went betimes to the place where we had been the day before, and began again to read the song, that we had read, but not without many tears, where by and by not far from thence, we found out a great Sicamour, whose tender and white bark served him for paper, for this which he wrote in it.  


AH well away how firm and sure are  
Torments, and pains in each true lovers hart:  
For when I thought, that I did wander far,  
And changed place, this fierce and amorous war,  
And wounding grief would from my soul departed.  
Yet now in fine by proof too well I know,  
That grief, and sorrows, absence doth not kill,  
As some do say; but makes them more to grow:  
And wit so dearly bought with double woe,  
Is bought (I needs must say) against my will.   

I go from place to place, and never yet  
My haunting grief, and cares do go away:  
I am so divers in my wandering wit,  
That in one place I never rest, nor sit,  
Yet still the same are sworn with me to stay.  
My fainting legs my drooping body bears  
From place to place, and yet fierce pain sustains,  
It is so seasoned with my swelling tears,  
That since my Life of late my love for swears,  
All comforts that I offer, it disdains.   

My cruel pain, wherewith my life is spent,  
I would contemn, and would but little make,  
If that my Mistress would in mind consent,  
That I should bear this ceaseless punishment  
Only for her for her most sweetest sake.  
But that which makes so wide, and deep a tent  
Of grief within my hart, and makes it die,  
As often as I think how she is bend,  
Is, that to that she never will relent,  
Where remedy, nor any help doth lie.   

After that love so strong and firm a fort  
Had built within my breast, unto his mind,  
Loving, a death I rather would support,  
Then now to live after another sort,  
Or for myself in liberty to find.  
For speedy death I know must be my fate  
With such a life, as now I do endure,  
With mine own hands to end this hard debate,  
To cruel death I will set  the gate,  
And in my breast will lodge it most secure.   

Who doubts that if but once she came to know  
My grievous pains and passions which I feel,  
But that to me some pity she would show,  
Though in her breast, where pity yet may grow,  
She had a hart harder than any steel.  
Who doubts, if that she did but know the smart,  
Her lover feels, his plaints and endless moan,  
But that she would with mild and gentle hart  
Pity his case, although she had each part  
Of it, as hard as craggy Dimond stone.   

Orpheus, when descended into hell  
For fair Eurydice his wife, and past  
The triple-headed-dog, that did not yell,  
Nor bark, the Fiends that in Auernum dwell,  
Made not so mild, at his sweet sound aghast,  
As my tormenting passions, and my pain  
Would move the hardest hart to heaviness,  
And every hart in all the world again,  
And not without great reason, nor in vain,  
But that of my most cruel Shepherdess.   

Ah woe how have I thus deluded been?  
How have I lived deceived in this art?  
Since that so simply I did overween,  
That there could be no difference between  
Her fairest face, and her most cruel hart.  
What man betwixt the cope of heaven and hell  
Is there of wit so simple and so slender,  
That could but think, or once imagine well,  
That such a hard, and cruel hart could dwell  
In such a dainty body and so tender?   

What human wit (O grief that I do see it)  
Would ever think that cruelty possessed  
Her hart, or such a Tigress hart to be yet  
Placed in her, whose outward show to me yet  
Should promise peace, and in so mild a breast?  
Who would have thought (it almost was in vain)  
That from her tongue, distilling honey drops,  
So fierce an answer should proceed again,  
And words she utterea with so great disdain,  
Bittrer to me then gall, or wildest hops.   

And, that I am deceived in this ground  
Of my fair Nymph, I joy with all my hart:  
Because I would not think, there could be found  
In so great good a thing, that should redound  
To so great ill, and to so bad a part.  
It shall be therefore best for me iwis  
Not to suspect in her so foul a crime,  
That she is hard, or that she cruel is,  
But my mishap, that ever went amiss  
Even from my birthday to this very time.   

Because my pains should never be above  
My joys, and care before my sweet content  
Should come: I am most constant in my love,  
Sans widowhood, like to the turtle dove,  
That loss of her companion doth lament.  
In living, and in loving too amain,  
I think I go beyond her every hour,  
But yet I am not like to her again,  
In that I did not first a sweet obtain,  
Before I tasted of a bitter sour.   

All that my woeful mind should recreate,  
The water, that is crystal pure and clear,  
I cannot choose, nor otherwise but hate,  
Because I would not see so bad a state,  
And such a hapless body wander here.  
Like as the snake, or adder that doth bite  
I fly, with hasty foot, and do not stay  
In any place, where green may give delight,  
For this doth lose his hue, and vigour quite,  
Where hope gins to fail and to decay.   

If musing all alone by chance I stay  
Upon my grief, that smallest joy denies,  
And see some spring or fountain in the way  
I fly, and softly to myself I say,  
Let that suffice, that runneth fro mine eyes.  
And if in taking some poor little pleasure  
(If pleasure in a hapless state I take)  
And view the green, the country's hope and treasure,  
I fly, and say, that hope of death must measure  
My mind with joy, that doth my pleasures make.   

According to my life in great disgrace,  
And miseries, even from my mother's womb,  
I think (and as I am in such a case)  
That if I follow death with happy pace,  
Death will not yet unto my succour come.  
I think sometimes (alas weak is my might)  
To give myself some comfort and some rest,  
But they do fly from me by day and night,  
In me (poor wretch) they can take no delight,  
And so my pains do double in my breast.   

It wearies me (for grief doth ever range)  
To be so long together in a place:  
Yet my unwearied griefs do never change  
Their place, but still my seldom joys in strange  
And cruel manner from my bre●… do chase:  
here stay my song, and tell the world my smart,  
And let this tree with thee have never end,  
For with me shall my haunting grief departed,  
For it will never leave my woeful hart,  
Like to a trustic good and faithful friend.    
Lord Felix, as soon as Stela had made an end of the song, turned him to Polydora, saying. Art thou now satisfied? So much said she, that for a little I would not stick to say that it is better than the first. But knowest thou, what I think of it said Syrenus, That the first is finer & prettier, & this more sententious & witty, & with this I am pleased: and it came finely in when he said (& very well) that first the ill came to him before any good, since without widowhood he suffered like grief to the Turtle Dove; for he esteemed it but a mean sorrow to be a widower, because it was a sign of sometime enjoying the thing he loved. But it seemed a most grievous thing unto him, not having at any time the possession of the thing he loved, to be deprived of it. Truly said Felismena, thou art much beholding to him Stela, being so hard unto him as thou wert, to clear thee of all fault; and that none might be laid upon thee, he said: Thou wert not cruel, only attributing his disgrace to his ill fortune. But in one thing (said Doria) he showed his infinite love, more than in any thing else, when he said, he rested not in any place. I might well have noted something said sylvanus, but that I would not hinder so pleasant a discourse. Tell on therefore fair Stela, as the Gods grant thee thine own desires. Having made an end of reading this, that was in the Sicamour (said Stela prosecuting her tale) neither of us could speak for a good while, Crimine, for pity, and I, for grief. But afterwards Crimine said. Dost thou think Stela, that I had not reason to help thy great need? What had become now of Delicius, if thy rigour and hardness had lasted till this time? That which is now (I answered) and if any other thing had happened, I would not have greatly cared. Say not so (said Crimine) for therein thou dost offend thyself. After this we went to the accustomed place to the shepherds, because we thought it was no time. And being there in their sweet and gracious company, my companion said. I am ever, when I am with you my friendly Shepherds, not a little troubled in mind. They asked why so. Because to know you distinctly said she, some outward token and sign must be apparent, whereby I may know how to make a difference between you: whereas otherwise, I am as much deceived, and know as little as they that have frequented your company less than I; for if I turn but my head, I return to the self same doubt, if (happily) in the mean time you have changed places. For the cleared whereof, and for the friendship that is between us, I pray thee, Stela, give one of them a token, whereby we may know how to be assured of either of them, and not need to be troubled any more with this doubt. If thou hast then so great a desire (said I) what needest thou require this at my hands, but that thou mayst do it as well as I. Thou knowest now said Crimine, that it was first demanded of thee, and if it had not been, it might suffice, that I request it again of thee. I deny not this said I, but assure thee that of this great likeness and deceit, which troubles thy mind so much, I take great pleasure. And it was so indeed: for as I loved them in equal sort; so my desire was to have them, not only like in their exterior shows, but all one in their interior souls. I say as touching myself (so that I knew it) because I was then far from knowing the love that Parthenius did secretly bear me, and not only desired (as I said) to have them still like to one another, but that in truth they had been both one. It must not ever be to thy liking (said Crimine) for it must sometimes please mine a little. Let it be as thou wilt, said I; and choose since it makes so much for thee. Good Lord (said Crimine) how froward art thou Stela? Heereaster I will not request thee to do any thing, I will be gone, and tarry thou here if thou wilt; if not, do what thou wilt, for I know not now to what end it will come. Stay, stay, said I: Go not away, and be not so angry, for all shall be done to thine own desire. In faith if it were not for these young shepherds sakes (said Crimine) I think thou shouldest see me no more here. If then the matter be so, said I, hark but one word that I shall say unto thee, and taking her aside I said unto her. I would not by any means in the world give more favour to one then to the other, by giving one a sign and the other none, lest his wings (to whom I give it) grow bigger than the others. Thou must therefore either give me some time to think of it, or else counsel me how I must do it. The wings to serve thee (she answered) are now grown in Delicius, so that to him only thou mayest give thy favour; for as Parthenius will not care for it so much at thy hands, so it likes me best that thou givest him none at all. Crimine thought not by speaking these words, that she did cut me to the very hart, but God knows how much I felt them, yet dissembling the matter the best I could, I answered. Though it likes thee not, yet will I give to Parthenius his difference, as well as thyself, and I was not then in jest. But when dost thou mean, said she, to make this difference between them? To morrow I answered. shepherds, said Crimine aloud, turning to them, The difference that Stela will give you with her own hands, and the means how we should know you, is deferred no further than to morrow. When it shall please her, said they, for no other thing durst they speak. Being come thither the next day, I said unto them. My friend's shepherds (for this name I cannot deny you, as long as your desires reach not beyond that, which is lawful) although I have been urged by my well-beloved friend to give you some token of difference with mine own hands, whereby we may come to the better knowledge of you both; yet of mine own free will, by leaving her request aside, I mean to do it. I deferred it yesterday to this present hour, to think on it the better, and in what manner I should give it you without showing any particular affection more to one then to the other; and as with equal love I am sound affected to you both, so was your great likeness most agreeable to my mind. But as that which is just and due must not be denied, so will I in such sort give you the marks of your difference, to rid ourselves out of doubt, and hold all others still in it. And therewithal, you are not yourselves (I think) able to judge, when I know not myself, whether of you shall have the greater favour (if it deserves such a name) and because you may know, that partially I decline no more to one part then to another, until I have made the same, I will not have you make yourselves known unto me by word nor sign, by discovering to me which is which, but that the lot may fall to whom it shall; and none refuse or gainsay that which I shall now do, unless he will refuse and hazard my good will from henceforth. When I had said thus, I took out of my bosom a little green ribbon, and put it with a bodkin in one of their coats near to his hart; and then I went to the other, and clipping from him with a fine pair of Syssers which I brought of purpose with me, a piece of dark green lace from that part, where I had put the green ribbon in the other, I sowed it on mine own left side not far from the secret seat of both their loves: Whereby I meant to give them to understand, that to the one I gave hope, and from the other I took torment. Which being done I said. Now may you declare to whom I have given the green ribbon, and from whom I took the little piece of lace. Then it was evident, that to Delicius I gave the first, and took the second from Parthenius. Now that they had declared their names, and were known unto us, Delicius being glad and joyful for the gift given him by mine own hand, with a certain kind of merines said. Now doth the cause come to my remembrance (fair Stela) why Crimine hath been so importunate with thee to make a difference between us: O how glad would I be to know this, said I, because I could never get it out of her. If thou wilt crave leave and pardon of her (said he) for me to tell it, I would quickly give thee this contentment. Because she may have it (said Crimine) it pleaseth me to grant it, though it were to my cost. Thou must then know said Delicius, that though it hath been the greatest favour, that we have received at this present (as a gift of thine own hands) yet that which was done to Parthenius in comparison of this was most singular and great, being of greater quality in that kind. And this it was, that when thou showedst such rigour to me, Parthenius, to see me in such an agony (as gracious Crimine thou knowest) was so much dismayed, that he was in no less danger than myself. For as I spoke not a word, but lying in such a piteous trance, wherein he equally bore me company, at last coming to myself again, and turning my head aside to a certain cry that Crimine gave, I saw her embrace Parthenius (a happy ecstasy for him, since it was the occasion of so sweet a favour done him) and hold his head face to face in her own lap. If any other thing passed between them, ask it of her, for I could see no more by reason of my late dismayed senses, not then perfectly restored. What thinkest thou of this fair Stela, what a sovereign pity was this? This he spoke with a gracious smile, and had no sooner made an end of telling it, when a vermilion blush teinted all our faces, though it proceeded of different causes. It made Crimine blush with a decent shamefastness, mingled with joy of so delightful a remembrance. It made Parthenius blush for grief and anger at the passed act; and me for jealousy, incorporated with the offence of so unworthy a deed against my love. So that Delicius, thinking to make it but a jest, and to delight us with it, found that it was in good earnest, and filled us full of sorrow, and from that hour Parthenius and I liked not so well of Crimine, though we made her not know so much; for she was the means whereby we all three met and talked together. Truth it is that now I have forsaken the ill will that I did bear her, for divers and sundry good turns, which I received of her; and seeing what great reason there is to love them (as every fair Nymph should likewise do) for mine own part I give her leave & frank consent to love them as much as she will: as also, because I see her not beloved of them, or (at the least) not so much as myself, although in very truth (had they as perfect knowledge of her deserts as they might have) they would never deny to do it. But leaving this aside, we passed away many days there, which lasted us not so long as we would, for the great content that then we began to take in each others company, which for mine part, I would not have changed for any other mortal delight, and desire in the whole world. In all which time neither Rebecke, nor Bagpipe were heard, unless it were when other Nymphs came: for when true lovers are alone, singing (I think) and music pleaseth not their musing minds so much as the mutual contemplation and looking of one another; and that talking and amorous conversation should be more pleasant and sweet to them, than the melody of sweetest music. I cannot tell you by what means, but Delicius love to me came to the knowledge of fierce Gorphorost, which made him believe no less, but that I must needs love him again, since with meeting every day, we entertained the time in discourse and pastimes: whereupon being not a little enraged, he purposed, if Delicius desisted not from it, to execute his fury upon him; which he had done indeed, but that he stayed his hands (as he said) because he would not give me any occasion of offence, and was Loath to lose the company of Parthenius, & also because indeed he could not know him from his friend Parthenius, lest thinking to be revenged on Delicius, he might hurt his friend Parthenius. Wherefore to clear himself of this doubt, one day as Parthenius, according to his wonted custom, went where he was, he said unto him. I understand my friend Parthenius, that thy brother Delicius doth love Stela; which thing, if it be not more bitter to me then the wild Olife, I leave thy judgement, since she is the only Goddess, to whom my soul is subject, and I the only man that can deserve her. Of one thing thou mayest be assured, that had it not been for thy sake, I would long since have made him leave such follies, or else felt the hardness of my sheephook. He might have considered, if he had any wit, that he goes about to be a Corrival with him, who makes no reckoning of the Gods, if there be any at all. Advise him therefore to leave that to me which is worthily mine own; if not, tell him that by my justice he shall be punished, and not without reason. And because it is not my will that the great likeness which is between you, might prejudice or harm thee, take this sheephook, which for ransom of a jolly young Shepherd, I had of a fair and gracious Shepherdess, the which carrying ever in thy hands, I may know thee for Parthenius. If thou dost mean Gorphorost (said Parthenius) any harm to Delicius my dearest brother, begin first with me, which shall I promise thee least of both grieve me: But because thou mayest know they have not told thee true, I swear unto thee by the Gods, whom I adore, and by her, whom I love more than mine own life, that Delicius loves Stela no more than I do. For her I cannot tell thee, if she love him or not (and he spoke in truth in the one and other.) The Sheephooj thou givest me, as an impious gift for so vile an effect, I refuse to take, if by taking it, I thought thou wouldst give it me to the intent to know us one from another. But yet because I know it is not sufficient for such a purpose, I will take it, because it shall not serve thee to that end that thou pretendest, when as Delicius shall carry it as often as myself; for by carrying it, and not carrying it, thou mayest not know which of us is Delicius: whereby thou mayest clearly perceive if his life be dear unto me or no? Gorphorost was amazed at the great love that Parthenius did bear Delicius, but believed it was not so great in deeds, as in words he showed it: wherefore he answered him thus. Behold Parthenius, I have warned thee now for the great friendship that is confirmed between us: for surely I make more account of thee, than thou thinkest, because thou art only he, by whose means I find with imparting my grief unto thee, some ease in these my extreme pains. But if with this intent thou wilt take the Sheephooj of me, I am not content to give it thee, nor for the worth of it (for I would give thee more than this) but because none of my things should come to Delicius hands. Of one thing thou mayest be ascertained, that love hath taught me how to know him, and then thou shalt see, how my despised counsel shall avail to serve him more, than his own deceitful opinion. With this Parthenius came away very sorrowful and full of melancholic thoughts, not knowing what was best to be done in such a case. On the one side, he saw it was dangerous for Delicius to be there; on the other, he knew it was impossible for him to absent himself from me. He conceived by that which he found in himself, the irrepugnable force of Cupid, and considered (by that he knew too well) the unbridled fury of cruel Gorphorost. But if they were desirous to kill him, they thought it impossible, unless it were by treason, which rather than they would have done, they would first have lost a thousand lives. That very evening at Sun set, all we sour sitting under a leasie Sallow tree, fierce Gorphorost came out of his cave, and by and by was on the top of a high rock, that hung over the river, right over against that place, where I threw myself into it, when I fled from him. Who after he had sit down a little while, and laid his scrip by his side, and his Pine tree between his legs that served him for his Sheephooj, staff, and weapon, he took a Flute out of his scrip, made of a hundred Bagpipes, joined together with wax. Putting it to his mouth and blowing it strongly to clear it of filth within, the hills resounded again, the rivers ran back, the wild beasts and fish were strooken in a fear, and the forests and woods thereabouts began to tremble. And a little after that, he began to sing the most amorous song of me that ever you heard, which I promise you had pleased me well, if he had not made so cruel an end of it. For with cruel comparisons, borrowed of the fields and Shepherds, he strangely praised my beauty, and made me (on the contrary) most cruel, by offering me such things afterwards as he thought fittest to win me most of all unto him. But to see how he proved himself fair being so fierce, it is a pleasant jest. By that which most of all thou lovest, said Seluagia, I pray thee fair Stela recite it, if thou dost remember it, which if it like not (perhaps) these Gentlemen (a thing different from their estate) shall wonderfully delight us, if they will do us so much pleasure to lend us a little patience to hear it, because it is fittest (thou sayest) for country Shepherds. No (said Lord Felix and Felismena) but she shall do us as great a pleasure, to see what so fierce a Shepherd could say, loving this fair damsel so much, whom she hated more. How can I deny your requests, said Stela, being so bravely conjured? Give therefore attentive ear, for I promise you it will please you well.  


STela mine only Goddess, and my good,  
Whiter than is th'untrodden snowy way,  
And redder than the rose, but late a bud  
Half blown, and plucked with dew by break of day:  
To see more gracious than the Plane tree shape,  
And sweeter than the ripe and swelling grape:  
More pleasant than the shade in summer time,  
More than the sun in winter's coldest prime.   

More fresh than any cool and trembling wind,  
More noble than the fruit, that orchards yields,  
More jocund than the tender kid, by kind  
When full, it skips and runs about the fields:  
More flowery than the rich and pleasant mead,  
With painted flowers in mids of May bespread:  
More soft than spotless down in Cygnets breast,  
More than the milk, and cheese curds yet unpressed.   

More shining then clear crystal and transparent,  
And finer wasted than the Cypress tree,  
Straighter than is the Poplar eminent,  
Placed amongst those trees that lower be  
More clear than ice, or any frozen rain  
And (if in only this thou dost disdain,  
Because it is with more perfection filled)  
More fair than any Orchard that is tilled.   

And yet with this more fierce and more unstaid  
Than Bull, that yet was never tamed with yoke,  
Prouder than Peacock with her tail displayed,  
Harder than old and knotty sturdy oak:  
More than the rocks immovable, and madder  
Than angry snake, or cruel trodden adder.  
More furious than the swiftest streams: then thorns  
More sharp and pricking with thy singing scorns.   

More deaf than is the sea, to my desires:  
Then smoothest streams more full of deep deceit,  
Stronger unto my pains then greatest fires,  
More cruel than Bear, that gives the teat:  
Then Sallow wand, or Osier that is weak,  
If it be green, more hard and tough to break.  
More contrary unto my joy, and rest,  
Then hungry wolf to tender lambkins breast.   

And that which doth increase my cruel pain,  
And doth revive my hot and flaming fire,  
By knowing which, it hath my comforts slain,  
And hope, whereto in thought I mought aspire,  
Is, that thou art not only swifter, than  
The Hart pursued of hounds into his den,  
But swifter than the swiftest blowing wind,  
Swifter than time, then thought within the mind.   

Sure I am, if well thou hadst me known,  
(Stela my life) from me thou wouldst not fly,  
Or sometimes yet from me if thou wert gone,  
Thou wouldst return without my call or cry:  
And if thou didst stay there but somewhat long,  
Then wouldst thou think thou didst thyself great wrong:  
I know that this will grieve thee at the hart,  
To see me pass for thee such pains and smart.   

A Cave, that doth contain the better part  
Of this great hill, hewn out of quarry stone,  
Serves for my rock, the which is of such art,  
That there the Summer sun is never known,  
Nor winters cold is felt within that place,  
But apples there do hang in marvelous grace  
Hard by the ground, that shade in hottest weather,  
And load the boughs, they hang so thick together.   

Clusters of grapes do beautify my vines,  
Some golden, purple red, all fair and full,  
Of part whereof I make most dainty wines;  
And part of them I keep for thee to pull:  
And with thy hands most delicate and fair  
Gather thou mayst ripe plums by goodly pairs,  
Under the shadows of their boughs, to ease thee,  
And Apricocks, and cherries if it please thee.   

here have I damsens, nuts, and coloured pears,  
And peaches fine, that would each eye invite:  
And every tree, and fruit this Island bears,  
All for thy service, pleasure, and delight:  
And as my hart to please thee I have bowed,  
And so have these the self same office vowed:  
In Autumn (if thy husband I might be)  
Chestnuts, and Medlars I will keep for thee.   

As many flocks as here thou dost behold,  
Which in these banks I feed with mournful song,  
And many more within these hills untold  
And woods and vales estray, to me belong:  
Many that lie in shades along this coast,  
All which to tell were but a labour lost.  
For poorest men they say, are wont to keep,  
The number of their cattle and their sheep.   

The praises which, I vaunt unto thee here,  
I will not thou believe in any sort,  
Thine eyes the same shall witness very clear,  
If so thou please, and not my bare report:  
I durst be bound, that if thou cam'st to try,  
Thou wouldst affirm I told no tale nor lie:  
Since that to milk them all I am unable,  
Or ease their bags, trust me, this is no fable.   

I have likewise shut up in shadowed places  
(All by themselves) great store of gentle lambs,  
And little kids, with spotted skins and faces,  
Of equal age new weaned from their dams:  
In many other houses large and wide  
Great store of wanton calves I keep beside,  
And milk doth flow within my cave, whereby  
My cunning in this manner I do try.   

Profit thereof in divers sorts I make,  
Leaving the thinnest of it to be drunk,  
Some part of it within a charne I shake,  
And beat it there a while till it be shrunk:  
Some part again for tender cheese I dress,  
And into that, juice of an herb I press.  
And yet some part whiter than Ermines skin  
I turn to curds, and put some cream therein.   

Yet will I give thee greater gifts than these  
(If thou dost reckon these but poor and small)  
Wild boars, and goats and bucks shall be thy fees,  
Coneys, and hares, and hounds to hunt withal.  
Two turtle doves I took out of their nest  
In bigness, colour, and in all the rest  
So like, that them hardly thou shalt descry,  
Although thou markest them with narrowest eye.   

I took them from that tree in yonder ground,  
For thee to play withal when thou art weary;  
Two little whelp bears after this I found  
And brought them home to sport and make thee merry:  
Both these and them I nourish to delight thee,  
If thou but with thy coming wouldst requite me:  
And finding them I said I would reserve them  
For thee my Stela, who dost best deserve them.   

Come Stela then out of thy watery brook  
And see how I am staying for thee here,  
To my request vouchsafe a gracious look,  
Calling upon thee with most heavy cheer:  
Yet thy disdain (as I hope for the best)  
Will not deny my pitiful request,  
When that thou knowst my wealth without compare,  
Myself of person nimble, stout and fair:   

I did behold myself not long ago  
Within a fountain clearer than the sky,  
I viewed myself from top unto the toe,  
And without doubt my person pleased mine eye:  
Your jupiter, and every heavenly creature  
Envies my stature, and my comely feature:  
Your mighty God, to whom you sacrifice,  
And honour so, whose Godhead I despise.   

Behold again what curled locks of hair  
Falling upon my shoulders, and my face,  
And goodly beard doth make me seem so fair,  
And to my person gives a manly grace.  
Think that my body is not foul therefore,  
Because of bristled hair it hath such store.  
Fowl is the tree when autumns course bereaves  
Her boughs of fruit, of green, and comely leaves.   

How looks the horse that hath no crest, or main,  
Nor bushy tail to grace his body forth;  
How looks the hawk that hath no wings, nor train,  
Fair is the wool of sheep and much worth.  
The man looks bald that hath no comely beard,  
And as with spirits he had been lately feared:  
Then foul I am not with my beard, and hair,  
Since with the same I am more perfect fair.   

Besides all this I come of no base blood,  
For God sylvanus is my noble Sire:  
Thy father he shall be, if thou think good;  
Then pity me, and grant me my desire:  
Hark then to me, scorn not to see my pain,  
Let not my sighs and tears be spent in vain:  
Only of thee, and humbly I do crave  
Of this poor wretch some pity now to have.   

I which do scorn the furious thunder blow  
Of jupiter, and other Gods despise,  
Thee, Stela, for my Goddess I do know,  
And come to thee with humble weeping eyes:  
More than his bolts thy anger makes afraid,  
And piercing eyes my senses have dismayed:  
Thou dost deserve more honour, praise, and love,  
Then jupiter, or all the Gods above.   

It would not half so much have grieved my hart,  
That thou my love so strongly didst deny  
(Being so fair, and such one as thou art)  
If (as from me) from others thou didst fly:  
But since Delicius (wherein thou dost err)  
Before stout Gorphorost thou dost prefer,  
His small embracements, and too far unmeet  
Thou lovest more, than mine so great and sweet.   

But let him swim in seas of his delight,  
And with thy favours let him now prevail:  
If time, and place be granted to my might,  
Soon will I make him strike his puffed sail,  
Soon shall he feel my strong and sine wed arm,  
And how it will his amorous senses charm:  
O grief, that time and place do not afford,  
To make my deed as currant as my word.   

If, with my hands his tender trembling flesh  
I will dishiver, and in mammocks tear,  
And then his bones in pieces I will thrash,  
And in the forest, cast them here and there:  
And die the rivers with his blood I will,  
And throw his members from this steepy hill  
Into thy lap, where, laughing, I will stand  
To see, if there he joineth hand in hand.   

O woe is me, that thus tormenting grief,  
And wrath doth make my tongue to go awry:  
O thoughts, that feel no hope, nor hope relief:  
In Aetna's flames I live, I burn, I die:  
I burn (O grief) and die, thou wilt not end  
To secure me, that am thy loving friend.  
If thus thou handlest those, that languish for thee,  
How wilt thou those entreat, that do abhor thee?    
Gorphorost having cast these vain complaints into the air, rose up and like a mad Bull, from whom the young heifer hath been taken away, unable to take rest in any place, with monstrous skips went down the hill along into the Island, whose pastoral song pleased us well, and the gifts he offered to bring me to his love, and especially how he made himself so fair, if he had not concluded it with so cruel menaces. Stay a little if thou lovest me (said Syrenus) for I cannot but note one thing in this song, which hath pleased me wonderful well. And what is it (said Seluagia) that makes thee interrupt so pleasant a discourse as this? I will tell you, said Syrenus, and promise you, it will not please you all: for it inveighed delicately against women. How so, said Felismena? I will tell you, answered Syrenus. For in how many comparisons he fitly made of white and red, gracious, and fine, he never made any exception, thinking thereby he greatly honoured Stela, and that she was glad to be compared to those things: but when he said she was fair, he spoke that with a certain kind of reverence and pardon, saying. And if thou dost not disdain it (more fair than a tilled orchard) wherein he thought he offended her, because in only being fair, he judged, that women with their wills would admit no equality nor comparisons. But let them jest with you in what they will else, beauty must be a religion not timorously touched. And now pass on fair Stela in thy narration. Every one laughed at Syrenus words, and Lord Felix said. It seems well Shepherd, thou art free, since of thyself thou takest leave to say what it pleaseth thee. To take this strife from you, said stela, I will tell on.  
Parthenius being afraid, as well for the resolute fury wherewith he made his threats, as also for that which he said to him the same morning, not knowing what to do, nor how to invent a remedy in such an exigent, oftentimes busied his wits to seek out some one or other. But casting many doubts in such affairs, and thinking with himself what remedy he might find out for Delicius avail, not respecting what might befall to him, he resolved to do that which you shall now hear. Staying on a night (as he was wont) for Gorphorost, and being passed to the other side of the river with a merry and smiling countenance, contrary to the meaning of his mind, he said thus unto him. As I have been careful about thy affairs, so know friend Gorphorost, that I have persuaded thy Corrival to leave of his love to Stela, the which not able to compass, I have obtained thus much of him to swear to me to forsake this country, and to absent himself from her. Whereupon he only requesteth but eight days respite for his departure, the which he prayed me in his name to crave of thee: So that thou mayest now well give me thy Sheephooj; for here will I stay alone with thee in these parts, and in thy company. Gorphorost being very glad to hear these news that Parthenius brought him, thinking that if Delicius were gone out of the way, he might the better obtain his purpose and my love, went by and by for the sheephooj, and having brought it, gave it him. Then Parthenius said. Behold Gorphorost, since it is thy will to have him departed, and me to stay, thou shalt swear to me to do me no harm in the world; & because thou mayst understand that it is I, I have requested the sheephook of thee, the which thou shalt continually see me carry about with me: and if thou pretendest any other matter, not observing the laws of holy friendship, unfold to me thy inward thoughts, and I will also departed myself O go not hence my Parthenius, answered Gorphorost, for I swear to thee by Stela mine only Goddess, that now, nor at any time hereafter, thou shalt have no hurt at my hands, nor by my procurement. Parthenius satisfied with this agreement & oath, went to put that in practice, which he had purposed in his mind before (you shall hereafter see what his intent was hereby) but when he found not Crimine, nor me with Delicius, because we were now gone from him, he kept it till another day, when we were altogether. But as we failed not at our accustomed hours, Parthenius brought forth the sheephook which Gorphorost gave him, the very same that now Delicius hath, and which you did but lately see at the fountain of the Laurel trees, and said. Before I make manifest my determination unto you, I will first have you see what a fair gift Gorphorost hath given me, though his intent was far different from mine: But because with the rest, you shall also hear this, look upon it well, & tell me your opinions, & then I will tell you more. Then we three coming near together, because he had viewed it well before, looked upon it very earnestly, every one of us casting our eyes upon that which pleased us most. We would not have left looking once and twice again upon the curious sheephook, although we turned it not a few times about, if we had not a greater desire to hear what Parthenius had promised to tell us. Who, when he saw us expecting what he would say, began thus to speak unto us. Since the pitiful banishment of us from our dear and native country is sufficiently manifest unto you (most sovereign Nymphs) and likewise the cause of our amorous staying in these parts, it would seem but time ill spent and tedious to make repetition of the same again. I will not say that my tarrying here to this present time hath been only commanded by the request of my dear Delicius, for that your sweet company and sight was sufficient to have forcibly detained here a worthier person than myself. But that which I mind to tell you is, that as to this hour my being here hath been perhaps convenient; so from this day forward my departure is needful, and in such sort that (all affection laid aside) you would judge there is no other possible thing for our avail. Whereof because you may not be in suspense, and of my late determination, if with attention you will give ear unto me, the inexcusable necessity of my intended departure shall be clearly known unto you. You are not ignorant of the odd and inconvenient love of fierce Gorphorost with thee fair Stela, nor of the even and proportionable love, or of the sound (to say better) and perfect affection of Delicius with thee again fair Stela. But love that discovers all things, hath suggested into the fierce Shepherd's ears (as by his song you might well perceive) that he hath for rival (if it may be so said) my dear brother. If he grieved thereat, yourselves have heard him sing it on the top of yonder rock: and being in his company that same morning before, I heard it from his own mouth, where he said unto me, that he purposed to be revenged on him, and only for the great love and friendship he bore me, protested that he deferred the same. But now not able to suffer it any longer, and not knowing by what means to be avenged of his adversary, without executing the punishment on me, for the great likeness between us, and for avoiding the harm that might come thereof, he gave me this sheephook, because by carrying it, he might know me from him, the which for that it was offered me for a cruel act, I then refused: but afterwards seeing his great rage, by studying out a good means for both our avails, I took it. And this was my devise, I told him that Delicius by my counsel and persuasion would go his ways; so that he might give me the sheephook, whereby he might know that I remained still in this country. For which departure I craved eight days respite, which he willingly granted me. Now therefore it behooves me to go seek out my Father, with whom or without him, within a certain time I will return hither again, where Delicius in the mean time may stay in my place, and visit Gorphorost in my name to dissemble the better with him; whom before I will advise, and acquaint with all that I have passed with him, because he may think it is I. This did Parthenius say with ill uttered words, for the grief of taking his leave of Delicius and me, whom he loved so much, would not let him frame them any better. None of us three had then the courage, to answer any thing to Parthenius wounding words, for the great grief that we conceived of his sudden departure: but after we had all held our peace a good while, Crimine with watered eyes (for then she had not the power to dissemble the great love she bore him any longer) said. It is now no time, my friend Parthenius, by my forced countenance to dissemble the inward pain and grief of my hart, if hitherto by deeds and demonstrations thou wilt not understand and see how much I love thee, by words therefore at this present let it be clear unto thee, That I love thee, and loving thee more than mine own life, determine to go in thy company (at the lest with thy consent) if thou wilt not carry me with thee, or else with mine own hands (if not with thine thou wilt not) resolve to give me my mortal stroke of death, which shall be more glorious and acceptable to me, then given by myself when thou art gone. Then she being as it were cut off from her boldness, with a tainted blush and a sorrowful sigh, held her peace. To whose amorous words Parthenius wisely answered thus. Stela had scarce begun Parthenius answer, when Felicia with the company she brought with her came, saying to Felismena. Dost thou not think that I have fulfilled that which I promised thee yesterday, by coming hither to day at the worst time? Yes indeed good Lady, said Felismena. But why must we pay for that, said sylvanus, which she hath eaten: because we must pay her something for her company, said Felicia. But more for your sakes then Felismenas' I will be gone, for I came to no other purpose but to accomplish my word, and hereupon she went, they remaining still that were there before. Then Stela said.  
But hark what Parthenius answered to Crimines' words. I am not able to judge, dear Nymph, if thy ill fortune be greater by having placed thy love in so miserable a man; or my mishap greater, by nothaving liberty to give thee the like again. On the one side I would gladly satisfy thy desire, and have on the other no power to do it: yet I will not deny to do thee this pleasure to carry thee with me, whereby I should not gain little, if I thought not to do fair Stela, and my brother Delicius an ill turn: her, by bereaving her of so sweet companion; him, by depriving him of her, by whose means he hopes to be remedied, whereas thou knowest how ill it would fall out for him with thy fair companion when thou art absent. I was not a little glad to hear him with such modesty take an occasion to forsake Crimine, because my life molested with the secret jealousy I had of Crimine, depended (me thought) upon his answer to her again. And so turning to Parthenius, I said. For mine own part, good Shepherd, I thank thee for thy good will thou hast to do me so much honour, by not consenting to carry away with thee my friend Crimine: But for that which I own her, and wherein I am bound to thee, and for the content of both, I agree thereunto, though it be to mine own cost: wherefore deny not what she hath with such earnest affection requested. But before thou answer me to this, I must needs tell thee that (it seems) thou hast taken more leave, because thou art going away, then was reserved, by taking so boldly upon thee to speak for thy friend Delicius beyond the due limits of chastity, and common friendship, which were promised me. But I will pardon thee, as I said, because thou art now but a guest, who are allowed to do and say what they list. But yet I would feign know who it is that hath taken thy liberty from thee, as thou sayest, no doubt the only impediment to make thee condescend to the amorous request of my friend Crimine. If thou thinkest (said Parthenius) to have me so obedient to thee as my friend Delicius, by satisfying all thy demands (pardon me fair Nymph) thou art much deceived. This selfsame thing didst thou ask him, which cost us all dear, how much more than having no cause to ask it, when it can serve thee to no purpose. One thing thou mayst know, that something thou must not know. To that which thou repliest to me of gracious Crimine, I have now answered. Crimine not able to suffer these words any longer, with tears trickling down her cheeks, and without speaking a word went her ways. Delicius went after her to comfort her, and telling her that Parthenius was not yet going, promised to requite the good turn in like manner as she had done to him, by regaining Stelas lost favour: with hope whereof being something cheered up, she went her ways. And in the mean time I said thus to Parthenius. How feign would I (Parthenius) not have thee go thy ways, and as greatly desire that Crimines' tears would not move thee. For the first I think there is no remedy (said he) because I desire it more than any can imagine: and for the second thou needest take no care, in that thou commandest and I must obey. I know thou wilt not go (said I) without speaking to me. No, answered Parthenius, for that were not possible. Why then God be with thee said I, for I cannot leave my company. And with thee, fair Nymph, said he. Stay a little said Felismena, for I must needs tell thee, that (in faith) thou didst Delicius great injury by never favouring him half so much, as thou didst Parthenius at that time; whereupon thou wert inclined (it seems) more to him, then to Delicius. Impatient jealousy was the cause hereof, answered Stela: But hearken on, for I was not herein one whit behind hand with Delicius, who deserved much, because by a most amorous passage which ensued, he showed an evident proof of love and humility: For after I had taken my leave of Parthenius, and going somewhat in haste to overtake Crimine, I met Delicius by the way, coming back from accompanying her: who when a pretty way off he espied me in such haste, before I came to him, said. If I may not offend thee, I beseech thee, (sovereign Mistress) when thou comest nigh me, not to pass by in such haste, because I may think that thou fliest not from me, if not, thy will be done. Truly said all of them, it was highly considered of him, who well deserved to be rewarded, but let us hear what thou didst answer, or do in hearing these words. With a soft and slow pace, said Stela, I came to him saying. Thy request, being so reasonable and modest, I cannot choose but grant, as all such besides, that savour of virtue and honest meaning (touching thyself) I will never disobey, and will not only go softly buy, but stay with thee as much as thou pleasest, so that I may conveniently overtake Crimine. I spoke all this of purpose, for as he judged (perhaps) that I showed Parthenius love, by the words which I uttered when I departed from him, (wherein I would not have preferred him before Delicius, since in love and affection I did not) I therefore endeavoured to make him not imagine any such matter at all. Who in his own judgement not able to requite so great a favour, fell presently down on his knees (though I did the best I could to hinder him) and taking my hand between both his, with great humility kissed it. marveling at such a sudden part, and knowing that such presumption proceeded of deep love, with patience I said unto him. Though for this bold attempt thou deservest punishment, yet I will not give it thee, because I will not give thy brother an occasion to be offended with me, by saying that I can pardon nothing. Delicius came to himself again, & seeing that his boldness had put him in no small hazard to lose me, he had such a colour for shame and fear, that it did not a little augment his brave beauty, which I noted too well. Wherefore to encourage him, I said. Art thou content? Delicius answered. O my sweere Mistress, I, but that I cannot thank thee so much as I would, and with this I will stay thee no more. Both of us being gone from one another, I made haste after Crimine, and he to Parthenius, who passed many sweet and amorous speeches together upon his friend's departure, because Delicius would not consent thereunto; but when he perceived that he would needs go (by reason of the imminent danger that they were both in, if he had stayed longer than the time prefixed) he would not also agree unto his departure without his company: But in the end being overcome by Parthenius, though much against his will, he yielded to his determination. In this mean while, believe not Gentlemen, that we were idle on the other side, for we were thinking of Parthenius bitter departure, Crimine complaining sometimes before me of his cold affection; and sometimes comforting herself with Delicius promise, with which speeches and imaginations we went to bed. The hour being now come, when all mortal creatures take rest, and Crimine lying by herself sole, and solitary to her own thoughts, what she suffered and talked softly to herself, I know not, but what I passed, myself can tell you. For thinking that my bedfellow was asleep, and the candles being put out, and also the silent darkness of the night (a faithful friend to thoughts and fancies) serving my mind so fitly, divers and sundry things were represented to it, which being well grounded in my breast, I began thus to say to myself.  
What God hath brought these two new Shepherds into these parts, to make such an alteration in me? What, am not I she, whom the only thought of a man was wont to offend? What great content then doth the thinking of these two young shepherds give me? Am I not she, who delighted so much in hunting of beasts and birds: Why do I then hunt now after thoughts and vanities? Am I not she, that of mine own free mind offered myself up to Diana's service? Why with my will then must I become a bondmaide to Venus? Hence hence from me such an unseemly fault. O pardon me Delicius, and Parthenius, for yet I cannot choose, but do that which you both deserve. O Gods, what a virgin colour is in their young and sweet faces, adorned with that little hair upon their vermilion and tender cheeks, what beauty, what mildness, what discretion? I think truly they must descend from some lineage of the Gods, if they be not such themselves, wherein my surmise (I know) is not vain. The God Hymen not being hateful to me, I could perhaps submit myself to this only fault. But I beseech the Gods, the earth may first swallow me up, and jupiter with his thunderbolt smite me to the mournful shades of Acheron, and perpetual night, before I violate thee (O chastity) or break thy holy bonds. The chaste mind that ever I have borne, shall accompany me to my grave. But I know, it offends me not by thinking to which of both I should incline, if my firm intent should turn to any side? which of them both excels the other in disposition, feature, and beauty, to love the one more for that, and forsake the other for this I cannot discern; who are so like, that if they themselves beheld one another, they could not know the one from the other. Great is the goodness of Parthenius, for even to the hazard of his life he offered it for safety of his friend. What witty and ready answers for Delicius? What wisdom to make my companion help his, and me not to forsake him, and that fierce Gorphorost might not hurt him? Parthenius in the end deserved well my love, but yet (I think) he goes not beyond Delicius, who needed not the favour of his brother to help him, and could no doubt have done no less than he. And though he never had occasion to show the sharpness of his wit, his pithy words, and witty answers (from the which he was cut off from the very beginning) yet how clearly by all his sweet songs and ditties that he made, did he manifest it? What verses did he carve in the tree, or rather in my hart, how modest, by refraining (not to offend me) to speak of that, which concerned him most. O God, and what great reason have I then to love him? But who believes not that Parthenius, if he had also loved me, would not have done as much. Alas then for me, to whether of them shall I incline? Must Delicius be despised, because he loves me, and for desiring so much my love again? Must I consent that he die, because he desireth to live with me? Must he be guerdoned with unworthy death for so high a desert of his great love? O hapless Delicius, I would I had never seen thee, or thou not cast thine eyes upon me? Thou well deservest my love, if I had not vowed chastity, and if my importunate destinies had not threatened me with marriage. But must Parthenius be rejected because he loves me not as Delicius doth? For this he is more worthy to be admitted into my love. It imports but little that he love me not, so I love him that hath so many good parts in him worthy to be beloved. That which most of all forceth me to his love, is that I cannot suffer with patience that Crimine should love him. But whither do I range in these wandering thoughts? what need I take such care for them, after so many whom I have despised? Why do I thus torment myself? Their beauty moves me not (and yet the same might well do it) who are but yet boys. They themselves move me not, but their young and flourishing youth. But let them go hence in a good hour, now that of mine own free will I have counseled them, and the rather since marriage is denied me. Let them go, and seek forth some other loves, since none that are wise will reject them. But alas for me this leave is too hard. With these last words, not able to pass on further, though many other things remained still in my mind, I held my peace, my tongue was silent, but my hart did still speak. And with these and like words and praises (poor soul) without knowing what I did, and rude in such affairs, I loved without the sense of love: I conceived the fire without seeing it, and nourished a wound in my veins without feeling it. Three or four days passed, in the which we went not to the Shepherds, because Crimine came not forth, for seeing herself disdained of Parthenius, she endeavoured to forget him by her absence, which kindled her fire the more. So that I would have been now glad, that Parthenius had loved Crimine in am of seeing him and Delicius. For the which I many times importuned her, that we might go see them, by putting her in mind of the hope that Delicius had given her: but for all this she forced herself not to come before him. There remained now but two days to come of the time prefixed for Parthenius departure, when, not able to endure so long an absence, I spoke thus unto her. It might not a little rejoice me (dear sister) if we went to see the Shepherds, because I promised to speak with Parthenius before he went. Crimine desiring the same no less than I (as I imagined) answered me saying. Thou mayest go good friend, although I will not deny, that I desire to see mine enemy. But this hapless love is so cruel, that I cannot choose in the end but tell thee the truth, that my going this time will avail me as little (I know) as other times before. Behold thou canst not tell Crimine (said I) what Delicius hath done for thee, in recompense of the good turn he owes thee, & for the promise he made thee: and if this were not so, remember that certain days past, myself having less occasion and will to go, yet only to content thee I went thither. So that thou art bound now to perform my request, when I was then so willing to do thy command. Thou hast overcomed said she, I will nor cannot gainsay thy forcible reasons. Whereupon we went to the Shepherds, whom when I espied gone aside (for on purpose they were talking very earnestly together) I said to my companion. They should now talk of some great matters, and it may be Delicius is talking about thy affairs. Nay about thine, answered she again. And it was true indeed. For both of them were in counsel together, as afterwards we knew it. Being come to the Shepherds, we found such an alteration in them, that it seemed very strange to us. What will you more, but that Delicius seemed to have changed the love that he did bear me, to bestow it on Crimine, when he had greatest reason to love me. Who, at the last time when I spoke to him, got more of me then ever he did before. I could not by any means know the cause of this sudden change. Truth it is, that as I had perceived Delicius love to Crimine to be but cold, as that I also held him for such an one, who would not change without great occasion, and not able to conjecture it by any fault of mine own, I have suspected, and Crimine thinks no less, but that Delicius by some ways should know of Parthenius secret love to me; and by saying that he had forgot me, it was to give place to his dear friend in my love. Which if it be so (as we believe) although we could never get it of him, it is (Gentlemen) one of the noblest deeds of friendship that was ever seen to this day. For in more than a whole year that we accompanied together, he never solicited me for himself, but for his friend, beholding me ever with such modesty, as if we had been both borne in one belly. But I pray thee tell us (said Doria) what means he used to show that he did not love thee. That I will, said Stela, because there remains now but little of my tale, for our long peregrination with many misfortunes that we have passed shall be kept for some fit time: When we were come before the Shepherds, Delicius showed a certain kind of greater liberty and boldness in his words, and more merrines in his countenance than he was wont to do. Whereat both of us marveling not a little, and ask him the cause, he answered. Times are not ever all one, nor equal Stela. The fire many times mollifies that which is hard. The finest plaster (be it never so well tempered) if it be too much charged, falls down again. So much water may be cast on the greatest fire, that it will put it quite out. My great love served me nothing at all to make thee gentle, and thy extreme disdain hath availed me to make me forget thee. I had grounded well mine affection on thee, but thou hast choked it with a multitude of torments, sorrows, & cares. Great was the flame that burned continually in my breast, but thou hast quenched it with excessive water of thy cold disfavours, & with th'abundance of my tears. So that from this day thou mayest well match thee with one, who is more virtuous, wise, & constant than I am, & who may in just proportion be more answerable to thee in every thing than myself; for I confess I am not sufficient for it. Yet I will not deny, but that I am now as truly, and as much devoted to thy service as ever I was before, whereof thou mayest make trial, if it please thee in whatsoever thou wilt command me, though in another kind of respect then in these days past. We were all three looking with what liberty he took his leave of my love, and marveled more at his change. Delicius had told Parthenius before of his determination, but he never believed all till then, when he verily thought his companion did not love me, because face to face so constantly he told me it, thinking if it had been otherwise, it had not been possible for him to have used the boldness nor courage by speaking to me in such sort. At this novelty I stood astonished, and a certain kind of remorse and repentance (me thought) troubled me for handling him, and mine own matters so ill: but dissembling it as well as I could, I said. O how glad am I to hear these good words Shepherd? From this time forward I will love thee more than ever I did. But I know not (said Crimine) what I may say unto thee friend Delicius, neither can I sound the cause of such a sudden alteration. Tell me if thou hast any occasion to complain of Stela? For here I will cause her to make thee amends without the consent of such a breach. The Gods be contrary to me in all my desires, said Delicius, if I have any just complaint of her, but only of my hap. And by them I swear unto thee, that I do this, because I find it most expedient for me. Wherefore if thou desirest my good, thou shouldst not speak to me about it. In faith Crimine, said I, thou art very pleasant, how long I pray you, had you leave to trouble yourself with my matters, and such as like me not at all. Because it should like thee well, said Crimine, I spoke it. If such things liked me well, said I, smiling, there is Parthenius, who hath no less good parts in him to be loved then his friend, if they have not both (perhaps) agreed together about this matter. This did I speak but in jest, but love did not jest with me at all. I would not make this agreement, said Delicius, if it were not for that, which I love most in this life, which I wish thou wouldst love, leaving him to sail with the greatest prosperity in the seas of thy happy love. Delicius laboured so much in the end, by showing himself also so appassionate for Crimine (but truly but now) that Parthenius discovered himself the next day to be my open lover, and for Delicius his sake had kept it so long close, which was the cause (he said) why he could never be moved to love Crimine. I had not then been a little proud and glad, as I should be now, if I had then known, or did now know, that I was equally beloved of them both, as I love them both alike. Crimine had no end of her joy and content, thinking that she was in good earnest beloved of Delicius, the which he cunningly showed by words and deeds. But now she is not I think in such glory and content because he is as cold in her love again, although he ever makes her some show thereof. The last day of respite, wherein Parthenius was to departed, was now come, when the night before, Delicius said to Parthenius. Since it is thy will (dear brother) to absent thyself from me (a hard and heavy chance) it shall be needful for me to go to morrow to Gorphorost, and speak to him in thy behalf, because with the instructions that thou hast given me I may know from henceforth how to converse with him, and as thou shalt afterwards advise me how I may entertain his company. It may be he will keep me till night: Think not therefore much if I stay so long. This agreement Delicius made with Parthenius, because he had now determined to go and seek out his parents, and to leave Parthenius with me, for he never meant to go seek out Gorphorost, nor to speak with him at all; but only to absent himself secretly, as afterwards he informed us of it. He knew, or at the least suspected that Parthenius would not consent to have him go without him, and therefore thought it good to use this dissimulation, because he would not have him nor us pass the hard trance of his grievous departure. Hereupon he went towards the river, and near to the place, where he was wont to stay for Gorphorost, wrote this with a knife in an Elm, in letters that might be discerned a good way off.  
My dear friend Parthenius, thou shalt feel by thyself, if thy absence will not breed an extreme sorrow in me; but because this is forced and necessary, I think it best for thee to tarry still, since thou hast so great reason for it. That which I commend to thy charge (for the friendship between us both) is to make no change of place nor of thy fair young Shepherdess, for this shall be the greatest pleasure that thou mayst do me. And as for the rest, I promise thee to seek out my father and thy mother with all diligence, carrying so good tokens with me as I do of them both. Within a year (if the Gods spare me life and health) I will return and visit thee, with report of that which I have done, and hath befallen unto me. I pray thee once again not to departed from hence. For if thou thinkest to seek me, perhaps thou shalt lose me, because coming back again, I shall not know where thou art. The Sheephooj thou shalt find at the foot of this Elm hidden under the sands. The Gods remain with thee and accompany me.  
But Crimine and I, knowing that Parthenius was to go that day away, went in the morning betimes to take our leaves of him (or to say more truly) for Crimine to entreat him in my behalf, for she had some suspicion of me, that I was affected to him) who meant not to absent himself, but that since they could not be there both together for the causes abovesaid, one of them should go to some near place thereabouts, and come thither by turns, the one going and the other coming in course; and that thus by the absence of either, Gorphorost might be deceived by the Sheephooj. But when we were now come before Parthenius, and saw him all alone, we asked him for Delicius, who told us that he was gone to Gorphorost to learn to keep him company after he was gone. Which when Crimine heard, without tarrying any longer she went to attend her new love, where she knew Parthenius was accustomed to go, who tarried with me walking up and down in a little green meadow within the forest. Crimine coming to the Elm, saw what Delicius had graven so lightly in it, and reading it, not able to endure any longer with patience, she began to weep, and cry out aloud, accursing her misfortune, and as she determined to follow him, she first thought good to tell Parthenius of it. But going to take out the Sheephooj, Gorphorost from a high hill espied Parthenius and me, and how all alone hand in hand we walked up and down, and seeing him without the Sheephooj, thought surely it was Delicius. Whereupon he began to cry out aloud, and with such fury as he made the earth to shake, saying. Now have I espied thee wicked Imp, which I will make thy last sight and delight, and then with an incredible swiftness he came down from thence, and in an instant passed over the river. I being fearful with the terrible voice, and warned of the Nymphs watchword got me to the river. Parthenius, fearing more the harm that might have befallen to his friend, than his own danger, stayed for him without flying away, which though he would have done he could not, because Gorphorost was so near. Crimine hearing the furious voice of Gorphorost, suspecting what might happen, like a wise woman (for surely she is no less) came running to the place where she had left us, to warn Gorphorost in time that it was his friend Parthenius, lest being deceived, he might have done him some harm. And believe me, Gentlemen, with her mastered wisdom, she restored to us all our lives: So that she came to Parthenius (for I was now gone) and stepped before Gorphorost, saying. Stay Gorphorost, and behold him well: for this is Parthenius, and because thou mayst think it is true, behold here the Sheephooj which thou didst give him, for she had taken it out of the place where Delicius had hidden it. Whereupon being somewhat pacified, although not wholly pleased because he saw us walk hand in hand, and not assured who he was, he took him, saying to Crimine. I will be better advised who he is, and accordingly will do with him what it pleaseth me. And saying thus, he took up Parthenius under his arm, and ran away with him as fast as he could. Parthenius durst not ask Crimine for Delicius, although he saw the Sheephook, which he carried away with him that morning, because he thought he was with Gorphorost. For if he asked for him, he had then given him to understand that he was Parthenius. So that he would have rather suffered, saying he was Delicius then not, lest any harm might have happened to Delicius by confessing himself to be Parthenius. With this incertainty Gorphorost cast him into a dark cave, to the mouth whereof he rolled a great piece of a rock instead of a door, as afterwards we knew it. Crimine with that content and sorrow as you may imagine, knowing Delicius was gone, and seeing Parthenius carried away in that sort, came to our mansions to bring me news of what had passed, and to tell me what she had resolved to do. When she came into our withdrawing chamber, she found me almost breathless: for I was revolving in my thoughts what had happened to me concerning both my loves. When I saw her, I rose up from my bed, where I had laid me down, and going towards her (my breast bathed in tears, and my hair torn with my hands) I cast mine arms about her neck, not able to speak a word, but gave a sorrowful sigh, which I fetched out from the profoundest part of my amorous soul. Crimine with a little more force than I had, holding fast by me, as well as she could, came to the bed, and there fell down with me upon it, where we lay a good while without speaking or moving. We were not seen in these trances of the other Nymphs, because they were most of them gone to solace themselves along the river banks. After a little time therefore, as I began again to rend my clothes that covered my breast, marking my tender flesh with my hard nails, Crimine, awaked as it were out of a dream, held my pitiless (or rather more pitiful) hands. To whom at last I said. Let my hands alone, Crimine, for they do no more than they are bound to do. For thinking perhaps to be pitiful, be not in am thereof so cruel unto me. Let them pull out my hart to be openly known, for that hitherto it hath been ever secret. O Stela, O Parthenius, O Delicius. Harken to me, said Crimine, if thou wilt have me lighten thy griefs, and augment mine own passion. Parthenius is safe by my means, and Delicius lost for thy sake. Dost thou affirm that to be true, said I. Is Delicius dead? Lost, I have said, not dead, said Crimine? for what dost thou call lost, said I? To me (answered she) for thy sake, because to leave Parthenius to thee, he hath taken that journey in hand, which Parthenius was about to do, to seek out his parents. Then somewhat appeased, I asked her farther, how she knew it, which she told me in order as it was; affirming afterwards how she had resolved to follow Delicius. Hast thou such courage, said I, as that thou darest alone take upon thee such a dangerous journey. I will not go alone, said she, for love shall accompany me which is afraid of nothing. Being stung with the prick of jealousy, and not able to suffer, that she should go alone with one whom I loved more than myself, I said. Since thou hast so good a defence with thee, I will also accompany thee. But let us first (I beseech thee) endeavour to know, what is become of Parthenius; for if he be dead, I will not live, nor come before Delicius with such unfortunate news, being assured that whosoever shall first advertise him thereof, shall give him no less than death. Whom we should rather inform (as soon as might be) if he were prisoner, to seek out some means to deliver him from thence, which counsel we thought was the best. We remained therefore in this determination, and such was our good hap, that walking the second day up and down the river banks, at the narrowest place of it there came a strong and lusty Shepherdess with a sling in her hand, and being right over against us, did fling over to our side a certain thing like a round ball, and then running away as fast as she could, got her into the Island before her. We not conjecturing what that might mean, and desirous to know what it was, went to take it up, that ran trendling in the meadow before us. When we had it into our hands, we saw it was a piece of linen tied up fast together, and within it a round stone, which we thought was put in, least with the lightness of the linen, it had fallen into the river. This piece of linen was written all over, and I think with the juice of Mulberries, for it seemed he wanted ink and paper, looking upon the letter we knew it to be the hand of Parthenius, whereby he willed us to be of good comfort, & told us the order of his imprisonment, and how by the tokens which he gave Gorphorost, he was now sufficiently resolved, that he was not Delicius, and that he used him very well, but would nor dimisse him, because he kept him for a bait for Delicius, knowing that it might avail him for the great friendship that was between them; and also because if he did let him go, he might take Delicius (if afterwards he met him) for Parthenius, of whom he might not be deceived if he kept him still in his cave. And therefore because Delicius might not come in sight by any means, said, that he would take some order himself for his own delivery. With these doubtful news, and happy adventure we went to seek out Delicius. And truly if we had not carried that piece of linen cloth written by Parthenius own hand to him, the grief of the imprisonment of his dear brother had made an end of him by reason of the great sorrow that he felt thereof, as yet he doth, as you daily see.  
Behold here therefore Gentlemen, what you desired to know of the Shepherd and us, and for what cause we go up and down in his company. And the reason why my father would have killed him, I suspect to be this, That the Nymphs our fellows (seeing us all four waiting at one time) told him (perhaps) that the Shepherds had carried us away with them: So that we found out this young Shepherd with whom we go, and the infinite troubles that we have suffered, and must still endure, until we see Parthenius so well beloved of us all three. Wherefore I pray you do me this favour, to request no more of me at this time, nor how we found him out, until with more joy we be altogether, if our misfortunes shall have an end, as sage Felicia hath promised us: for now you see what content one takes in recounting of adversities, that are gone and passed, when she is free from them; and contrary what grief, when we still suffer them. Of purpose (said Felismena) we took fit time for our discourses, because we might have had opportunity to know all. But because thy will is to the contrary, we will not gainsay it, to satisfy our own. Whereupon with this that Stela told them, they knew what great reason Delicius, Stela, and Crimine had to be sorrowful, who were partly no less for pity of these four unfortunate lovers. The night being come, they went in, and after they had supped they went all to take their rest, they at the least that were capable of it.  
The end of the fifth book.   

The sixth Book of the second Part of Diana of George of Montemayor.  
ALl that company coming forth, (except Felicta, and Parisiles with some Nymphs that tarried still praying in the Temple) in a clear morning, the day was but a little spent, when the air changed on a sudden with such thunders and stormy tempests, that what with fear of the lightning, and with the water that seemed to threaten them, they were now going in again, when they heard a Shepherd singing a far off, and who (they thought) was coming towards them. And hearing him, they said. It seems he cares but little for the injury of the weather. They all agreed to stay for him: who not tarrying long from coming out of the wood, where his way lay, & seeing so many together, marveled much, and left of his singing. But they wondered more when he came nigh them, to behold his strange kind of habit. For he had on the skin of a beast called Hyena, tied about his middle with a great wreath of leaves like to Bryony, or the white vine, which runs winding about the bodies of trees like a snake. On his head he ware a Laurel crown, & in his hand, in steed of his sheepehook, he carried a great bough of a fig tree. All which when they had well marked, they said unto him. Tell us, jolly Shepherd, is this thy common wearing? No, said he, but as I now use to wear this or some such like, as the quality of the time shall counsel me, arming myself ever against the injuries of it. And therefore I clad me thus, as at this present you see me, because I would not be smitten with the furious lightning, not thunderclap, which the virtue of any one of these doth marvelously resist, & many other things that came not so soon to my hands. We are glad to know it, said they; but because the rigour of this day warns us to put ourselves under covert, do us this pleasure (Shepherd) to come in with us here to Diana's temple. The good report & fame of this house, & your noble company shall carry me in, although in such a time as this, by the advise of a cunning and expert Shepherd that dwells amongst us, it is not safe to be in stately and high buildings. Why so, said Lord Felix? Because he said (answered the Shepherd) that the thunderclap as it comes not right down but circularwise, encounters with that which is highest, & therefore alights for the most part on high places, as upon towers & castles: Whereas on the contrary, if there be any in the field, (unless it smite upon his body) it can do no harm; but he, that in high and lofty houses lodgeth (though the thunderclap smite him not) may be killed or wounded with the stones, timber, or some other thing that may fall from thence. And may also be burned or choked with the smoke of the fire, that is kindled in the wood, all which by experience have been often seen. But because of good will you invite me, to do that which you request me, I will go in, although I was determined to lay me down and sleep, if I had found out some fit place for the purpose, because the thunderclap spareth those (they say) that are asleep. Thou wilt live too long said Seluagia, since with so many defences thou dost arm thyself. Hereof thou mayest be ascertained, said the Shepherd, for there is not any, who desires his life and health more than I do. So me thinks, said Seluagia, and the cause of it must be, that thou art not in love. Nay, rather the contrary (said the Shepherd) which my song did even now speak of. Dost thou love then said Seluagia? I love said he with the greatest bliss and joy as thou hast ever heard of. Not only heard, but seen said Seluegia. For they are before thee. And this do I say, said he. And I that, said she. Leave of these speeches said Lord Felix, and let us go in. And do us so much pleasure, good Shepherd, to tell us by the way if thou be'st in love. I am (said he). Are these loves thine own, said Lord Felix? They are mine (said he) & none others. I say not so, said Lord Felix, but if they be properly of thee thyself. I have not so many good parts, said the Shepherd, to be enamoured of myself: and yet there is not any (I think) that loves me, as much as I do myself. But leaving this aside, I love, as much as possibly I may, a most fair young Shepherdess. Thy love is not perfect said Lord Felix, because thou sayest, there is none whom thou lovest as much as thyself. Why doth this hinder it (said the Shepherd,) that it is not perfect? Why not, said Lord Felix? Then by this I understand (said the Shepherd) that there is none that loves in this degree: But rather believe the contrary, said Lord Felix, for here thou seest some, who would gladly hazard their heads for them whom they love. This is an easy thing, said the Shepherd, to say it. And easier said Lord Felix to do it. I promise you sir, said the Shepherd, if death knocked at your door, and if it were in your election to go with it yourself, or to send your love, that it might be seen what I say. But rather that which I affirm, said Lord Felix. I think it a hard matter, said the Shepherd. With these demands and answers they came to the Temple, where they rested themselves, and feasted that new guest, who was well entertained of the sage Felicia, because she knew him worthy of it. After they had made an end of their great dinner, all of them requested him to sing the song, that he came singing when he left it off at their sight. He said, he was well content, and glad if they would lend an ear unto it, not for his voice, which was not worth it, but for the matter which deserved any good whatsoever: But requesting, that some instrument might play to him, because his song might be the better set forth, Doria by Felicias command, took a Harp, and tuning it to the highest note that he would sing, the rest being all attentive to him, he began thus.  


Lovers, record my memory, and name,  
For one that is more happy than the rest:  
And solemnize my conquest, and my fame,  
which I have got in being only blest:  
Extol my glory to the lofty sun,  
Which with this famous triumph I have won,  
To be the happiest man, that hath been borne,  
Of all, that have to love allegiance sworn.   

What lover yet was found unto this hour  
(Though in his love most favoured he had been)  
Of grief that had not tasted yet some sour,  
And had not felt some pain, and sorrows seen?  
Or who hath with such sweet his love endured,  
(Though of his Mistress he were most assured,  
And though she loved him with truest hart)  
That felt not yet a little jealous smart?   

Amongst all these, I only am exempted  
From sorrows, troubles, from mishaps, and pains:  
With both hands full I live in joys contented:  
And more if I did tell, yet more remains:  
Secure I am, that in my happy breast  
Vile jealousy shall never build her nest:  
And that I may with grief be never paid,  
A strong and firm foundation I have laid.   

Nothing in all the world shall break this chain  
(If cruel death doth spare me with her dart)  
And yet if love in sepulchre remain,  
Death shall not there dissolve it in my hart:  
See then how that most strong it needs must be,  
Since to my will I wrought the same in me.  
And for you may not say that I do move it  
With blazons, hark with reasons I will prove i   

Who to himself could be so inhuman  
(Unless he were deprived of his wit)  
That swimming in a pleasant Ocean  
Of joys, would wish for grief, not finding it.  
Such joys I taste, as never more I could,  
My love admits no sadness, though I would:  
For (yet admit) that I would now procure it,  
My love is such, that it will not endure it.   

I have good fortune at mine own command,  
Since I have favours at mine own free will:  
My love to her, her love to me is pawned,  
Which fortunes spite and time shall never spill.  
But now if aught with grief my mind may move,  
It is, to have Corrivals in my love:  
But they my joy, and glory do augment,  
For more they are, the more is my content.   

If any care for these Corrivals do  
(These faithful lovers) in my breast remain,  
Then see, how that with earnest suits I woo,  
And seek them for my Shepherdess again:  
And (truly) if it lay within my power,  
A thousand I would send her every hour:  
But since I am so rude, and but a clown,  
I cannot set her golden praises down.   

If that with all the fair one should resort,  
Showing her virtues, and each goodly grace:  
Little should then my homely praise import,  
Having the world at her command and trace:  
For (saying nought) her praise she better would  
Herself disclose, though I said all I could:  
And how much more, since I want skill, and art,  
Of her to blazon forth the meanest part.   

But now behold how far from that above  
I have estraied (my promise and intent)  
My promise was, with reasons now to prove,  
That cross, nor care my joys could not prevent.  
I know not, if by rashness, or advice,  
It was my thought, that did my tongue entice?  
For when I think to praise my Shepherdess,  
Then strait my tongue doth in her favour press.   

It takes no heed, and hath but small remorse,  
To whom, what, where, how oft, why, how and when  
Her praises be, nor of her little force,  
Nor virtues of this fairest one; But then,  
All in a heat, her praise gins to babble,  
And I to stay such fury far unable:  
For thousand times I sharply chide the same,  
But more I chide, the more it is to blame.   

Counsel I give it, and with counsel threat,  
That never it presume to meddle here,  
By telling it, it is too base a seat  
For her high praise, that never had her peer:  
But shameless it replies: let this not grieve thee,  
And boldly says: 'tis true I do believe thee.  
For I confess I never did suffice,  
But such a want I hope my will supplies.   

As to a fool, seeing her follies such,  
Sometimes I yield at length, to leave the rain:  
If then my Nymph so basely it doth touch,  
It doth deserve no punishment, nor pain:  
For howsoe'er she praise her: In the end  
I fear not, that my love it will offend:  
But to return fro whence my tongue did run,  
Briefly I will conclude what I begun.   

Another Cupid reigns within my breast,  
Then Venus' son that blind, and frantic boy:  
divers his works, intent and interest,  
His fashions, sports, his pleasure and his joy  
No slights, deceits, nor woes he doth inspire,  
He burns not like to that unseemly fire:  
From reason, will my love cannot entice,  
Since that it is not placed in this vice.   

For beauty I love not my Shepherdess  
(Although she may be loved for passing fair)  
Beauty in her the lest part doth possess,  
(Though hers doth make all others to despair)  
For mildness, wisdom, and for virtues sake,  
This zealous love I first did undertake:  
And so my love is honest, chaste, and sure,  
Not wanton, fleshly, filthy, nor unpure.   

I wish my flocks green grass may never find,  
Nor clearest springs, their burning thirst to slake,  
Nor shades enjoy in heat, nor coolest wind,  
And that they may no profit to me make,  
That March may come with rigour, to their harm,  
And sheds and sheltor want to keep them warm,  
If ever any wicked thought had past  
My love, but what was honest, clean, and chaste.   

The juniper oil may never help my flocks,  
With loathsome mangy being overrun,  
Milk fail my sheep, decay my country stocks  
And little kid by hunger be undone:  
And let my masty lay him down to sleep,  
So that the wolf doth kill him, and my sheep,  
If in my love I ever had invention  
Of wickedness, bad thought, or bad intention.   

But think not that my love so chaste and pure,  
Without the slain of vain and wanton thought,  
And loving so sincerely, and so sure,  
From virtue of mine own proceedeth not:  
Only from her alone it is proceeding,  
That no foul thought doth suffer to be breeding:  
Dishonest motions in a fleshly soul  
Her modest sight most bravely doth control.   

For plainly, and not vainly, I suspect,  
That if some boldface younker did bewray  
His wanton love, or did to her detect  
His thoughts, that did from honesty estray,  
In looking on her only, I durst swear,  
His words would freeze within his mouth for fear,  
And that he could not only speak for shame,  
But never durst again presume the same.   

If in this song I purposed to touch  
Her honesty, and virtues to explain,  
I know I am not worthy for so much,  
When thousand books cannot the same contain:  
And more, that once I somewhat sung, and said  
Before, and that my voice was then afraid,  
For being so base: Now must it err, as lately,  
Since that her praise is grown more high and stately.   

Then loving, as you see, with such success,  
I do not fear disfavours any whit,  
Musing alone on my fair Shepherdess,  
Favours do come by heaps, my mind to fit,  
And so of her I never beg, nor crave them,  
But in this sort continually I have them:  
As many as my hands can hold and borrow,  
Wherefore I live in joy devoid of sorrow.   

Loving in this samesort, there is no fear  
Of jealousy, that's either true or feigned:  
A rival here sweet company doth bear,  
And all that in chaste love in one are chained:  
Yet name of Rival fits not well this place,  
Since chastity together all embrace:  
Nor different minds we can be said to carry,  
Since our intents in no one point do vary.   

Come then all you that love, come by and by,  
Leave every one his Shepherdess, and love,  
Come love my Shepherdess, and for her die  
In that that's pure, and cometh from above:  
And you shall see how that your fortunes far  
It dignifies, to love this radiant star  
Of virtue, and the time you shall aver  
Ill spent, that is not spent in loving her.    
They could not hold their laughter at the Shepherd's admonition, to whom sylvanus said. By my faith, friend Shepherd, thou comest too late with thy counsel. For to leave of that, which we have already for this young Shepherdess, I think there is no remedy: And if thou termest this time lost, we are not sorry for it a whit. I would you were better advised, said the Shepherd, but I do but my duty. It is well, said Felicia, that you (my sons) are content with your lots, and he with his good fortune: of one thing I assure you (leaving aside your love, because we will make no comparisons) that this Shepherd loveth (and with the greatest reason in the world) a sovereign young Shepherdess, endowed with many gifts and perfections, the lest whereof in her (as he said in his song) is peregrine beauty. And his love to her is so infinite and pure, as he also said, that though he be many times in her presence, yet never any wanton thought turned his mind awry. Which in truth proceeds from her excellent and singular virtue. And so no man (I think) hath gone beyond him in purer love than he, as by his song you might well perceive. With what greater purity, said Syrenus, could any Shepherd love his Shepherdess, than I did Diana? Indeed it was very great, said Felicia; but in the end thou didst presume to tell her of thy love. It is true, said Syrenus: why then behold, said Felicia, how far the love of this young Shepherd extends, that he durst never manifest this sound and perfect affection to his Shepherdess, thinking by doing so, he should greatly offend her honour. Then let him tell us (said Lord Felix) if thou thinkest it good, reverend Lady, some part of his chaste loves, which thou commendest so much, because we may pass away, with something, this gloomy evening. To this the Shepherd answered. It would content me greatly to spend this cloudy evening in so joyful a discourse, if I were able to end it. But now in my song if you be remembered, I told you that I had another time sung of her, and that for her great perfections and deserts, I came very short of her due praise. Being therefore somewhat afraid, I am determined to hold my peace, & the rather because I have no longer time to stay, for I am going to seek out a pretty fawn, which my Shepherdess makes no small account of: So that I must be forced to departed, sooner than I would, from such an honourable company. Take no care for that, said Felicia, for I have taken order for it. But Delicius moved with a certain desire to know, or rather with a secret instinct and motion from above, said. If by entreaty I might obtain at thy hands (fortunate Shepherd) to tell us some curious things, such as thou didst touching thy habit, and who did first show them thee, I should think myself much bound to thee. More questions yet, said Felicia: What dost thou mean? Gracious young Shepherd, answered the Shepherd, those, and many more I learned in the fertile fields, which the great river Duerus with his crystalline fluents doth water in the County of Saint Stephen, of a famous Shepherd that came thither from foreign parts, to whose skill and knowledge, it seemed, nature itself with all her secrecies was subject. If I should tell you of his graces, his virtues, and courteous behaviour, as to me it would be impossible, so to you it would be tedious, not being able to make an end. We all know (for it cannot otherwise be) that he is no Shepherd, although he feigns it by his habit. Of one thing I can assure you, that with whom soever he converseth, with great affection he wins the same unto him. O what great profit do we and our flocks receive by his company with us? We, by easing us of our continual labours by his industry; our flocks, by healing their common diseases. If there were any gadding goat that estraying from his company, did put us to trouble in seeking him, by cutting his beard, he made him keep still with the flock. If the Ram, which for guide of the rest we chose out for the stoutest, we could not make gentle, he made more mild than a lamb, by making holes thorough his horns hard by his ears. If at any time we wanted tinder, lint, or a steel to smite fire with at our need, he procured us light, with rubbing two dry Laurel sticks the one against the other, or with the Mulberry stick against the ivy, and a great deal better with the Laurel stick against the ivy, which being rubbed very well, with casting the dust of brimstone upon them, with great facility he got out fire. To instruct us, and sometimes to be merry with us, he used many pretty jests amongst us: for he would secretly hang upon the racks in our sheepe-folds, and other places the head or tail of a wolf, by means whereof, not only the lesser flocks, as our lambs, sheep, durst not once take a mouthful of fodder laid there before them, but also the greater, as Oxen, Horses, and the rest would stand and eat nothing. We being ignorant of the cause thereof, thought the cattle had some disease, and he perceiving us to be grieved for it, took them away again, but so privily that we might not see him. Whereupon the cattle falling to their wonted feeding, we held it for a wonder, seeing them on the sudden so whole again. When we were in the fields, misdoubting nothing, and our goats feeding apace, he would secretly put an herb into one of their mouths called Eringius, wherewith he made not that Goat alone stiff and numb, and not to feed; but all the rest in company of that, to leave of feeding. We marveling thereat, and not able to make them feed, asked some remedy of him for it. Who feigning then to make some characters upon the Goat, into whose mouth he had put the herb (because we might think it proceeded of his own virtue) took it out of her mouth, and then did she, and all the rest feed apace. These pretty deceits he used in all things to make us wonder at him the more, and because we might not understand that it was not the natural virtue of those things. The master Goat, whom we call the leader of the rest, he took out of the flock by the beard, and in an instant, the whole flock, standing like senseless things forget their food, until he let him go again. I omit other infinite deceits, which we thought impossible to be done by natural means, because he made no mention of them (though he showed me their secrets) for that they were not things belonging to shepherds. And many of these I have forgotten. He made monstruosities in the trees, & corn, preserving them from that which might hurt them, and hastening their fruit, yea, and changing their nature. He delivered the trees from any kind of canker, and worm, and the corn from tempests, and the birds that came to devour it, with a certain thing that he put in seed, he took them with his hands. He ever provided us with good store of fish out of that famous river, wherein, with casting the roll of Hartwoort, beaten and mingled with lime or chalk, to the which paste the fish coming with all their force, and by tasting of the bait, did swim a pretty while as if they had been dead, with their bellies above the water. And it was a strange thing to see, how soon they came to the nets that he had laid for them; for I think he did cast in the seeds of roses, mustard-seed, and wesel foot. I remember not what herb he took in his hand, but putting it into the water, the fish did swim above. It were an endless piece of work to tell you of the instructions, which he gave us to take heed from what pastures we should keep our flocks, and what we should seek out. But to see with what security he slept in places where were great store of snakes, adders, and vipers, and other venomous and stinging serpents, it was a marvelous and strange thing, environing only himself with Oaken boughs, from the shadows of which trees, we see by experience these vermin ever to fly. And other things he did in our presence, because we should see the hatred they had with this tree, for he made half a circle of fire, and another half circle of these boughs, and in the mids of it did cast a viper, the which not able to come out, but by the fire or the boughs, to avoid these, came to the fire. He did eat the dead flesh of a wolf, for he said, and so we found it indeed, that it was more savoury than any other flesh: but he did not clothe himself with their skins, nor hair, because he said, they bred louse. He told us of certain hours, & times, and taught us the nature of divers things. By the moon he prognosticated the scarcity or plenty of all that month. By the Sallow tree, white Poplar, Olive tree, and others the Solsticies showing to our eyes, how they turned their leaves up and down in every one of them, whether it were winter or summer. The hours of the day, with the beams that he marked in the ground. Them of the night with certain little tables that he made. The height of the sun, by an herb of a blue colour. The fools and wanes of the Moon, by the Ants and doors. For the Ants between the Moons take their rest, and in the full, labour night and day. And that which made me to marvel most about this matter (because, being so common a thing, I never marked it so much, thinking there was not any thing in them worthy the noting) was that the door, a little creature, so vile, and common, had such an instinct, that if we look into it well, it shows us clearly the conjunction of the Moon and Sun. For rolling up and down a little ball which she makes of ox dung, she fashions it in a round figure, and buries it in a ditch, or little pit that she makes, where eight and twenty days she keeps it secret, while the Moon is passing towards the Sun; and then opening it, (by that teaching us the conjunction of the Sun and the Moon,) she takes forth her young ones, and knows no other ways of generation. And with this pardon me, if I have wearied you. If you desire to know any more, another day, if we be all together, I will tell you the little, that I have noted and gathered of that great store, which that learned Shepherd bestowed among us. They all said, they were glad to hear, and desired greatly that he would pass on farther. By that which I have now heard of thee, (said Syrenus) and by that which not many days since I heard of a Shpeherd called Firmius, if thou knowest him, who now keeps our sheep, this wise Shepherd is called Coryneus. By that which now I hear of thee, and not long since have heard, said the Shepherd, thou shouldst be either forgotten Syrenus, or despised sylvanus. Firmius I know very well: for he is one of my greatest friends I ever had or shall have, and it is true, that this is the learned Shepherd's name, of whom I spoke. I confess, said Syrenus, that I am the man forgotten, and now it grieves me not much, although it made me once sorrowful, But because Firmius told me many things worthy to be remembered, and by that which thou hast now told us of his friendship, and acquaintance, I guess thy name is Partheus. It is so, said he. I know not, said Seluagia, how thou hast made so large an account of Coryneus, leaving his young Shepherdess called Dinia, because Firmius told us she was passing fair, wise, and virtuous. Ah Shepherdess, I dare not name her with my unworthy mouth, for if I would go about to set forth her praises, I think I should but diminish them, since there is no judgement, nor conceit able to unfold the least perfection in her: Let it suffice you to know, that she is a young Shepherdess, whom I reverence for her singular virtues. And if I should speak of every thing, I would not omit a daughter to them both, but yet twelve years of age, that in beauty, virtue and discretion is the right type and figure of her parents; to whom the fawn, that is lost, belongs, and whom I love so much, that I dare not come before her sight, unless I bring it with me, or know at the least where it is. And so, because I know what content I shall give my Shepherdess, for that which the young Shepherdess shall have, I know not what I were best to do to find it out, to present it to her with mine own hands. And it is not without good cause indeed that she loves it so much, because you would say the Gods had endowed it with understanding to serve Luztea, (for so is this most fair young Shepherdess called.) Tell me Partheus, said Syrenus, how long is it since thou didst see thy friend Firmius? For if thou desirest to see him, I can soon lead thee to him, where he is. I thank thee (said Partheus) for thy good will. It is not yet a month since I last saw him, the thing that I desire most in the world, and truly it grieved me to see him in such a case as he was in, because I think the love of the ingrateful Shepherdess Diana will make an end of his life: for his own grief, thinking it not sufficient to make him lead such a sorrowful life, hath conspired with a foreign grief to raise up a great corrival against him, a jolly young Shepherd, wise, and rich, called Faustus. What is it possible, said sylvanus, that Faustus loves Diana? It is so, answered Partheus, and that not a little. Indeed he told us, said Seluagia, when we were coming hither, that he desired to see Diana for the great report of her beauty: And now he hath seen it, said Partheus, and I think, will not praise the good market he made. I warned him well before, said Syrenus. But these Shepherds move me to pity them, for I know by experience in what troubles Diana will put them, and how ill they will deliver themselves again. Syrenus and sylvanus would have asked him, how Firmius did, when two Nymphs came in bringing with them the little faun. Which when Partheus saw, he rose up joyfully to go to it, which fauned on him with skipping and leaping upon his breast and licked his face. Partheus began to speak very lovingly to it, as if it understood him. All of them rejoiced to see it; for besides, that it was a most fair one, it was so finely set out, that it invited all eyes to behold it. And because it would be too long to recount the fables and histories, that were wrote in a little saddle cloth, and collar it had on, I will not speak of it; but only that in the collar which was the finest of all the rest, there was a posy that said thus: 
To Luztea fair I do belong, this collar can avouch it,  
Let no man therefore be so bold, without her leave to touch it.   
But Parisiles having read it, said. The Mistress of it hath a great opinion (it seems) and confidence of herself, thinking it is enough for her to say (because it is hers) that no body should touch it. Say not so (said Partheus) for there is nothing in Luztea worthy of reprehension: whereas it is well known, that she may say so, and the rather that she did not put it on herself: for I would willingly tell you, why she suffered it to wear this collar, but that it is not now time to know it. And none again should be blamed in absence; and since you are also ignorant of the cause, it were better (me thinks) by your favour, that you held your peace. This is no place said Felicia, stepping in between them, for such words as these are. If I have (Lady Felicia) in any thing offended, said Partheus, I crave pardon of thee, and of this reverend old man, desiring you to hold me excused for answering in her behalf, to whom I am so much bound, not enduring that any thing should be spoken in her disgrace any ways. I promise thee Shepherd, said Parisiles, I never meant any such matter, but to approve the virtues and deserts, that thou hast reported of her; for the opinion, which I spoke of is, that since she would do no hurt to any, she also thought that none should offer any to her, & for this cause she would show by the posy, that it was her own. It is well, said Felicia, but leaving this aside, give attentive ear to that, which for the profit and pleasure of you all, I will have you do to morrow morning. I know well Partheus, it will be no pleasure for thee to stay here until the next days light, because thou wouldst gladly see thy Shepherdess, for the good news thou carriest with thee. But because thy staying here shall be for her profit, and her husbands, I hope thou wilt not think it grievous, nor too long: And because thou mayst understand it so, know, that by my means this faun was lost, by straying so far beyond his wonted fashion, and let this suffice thee. It is expedient therefore (for let not any gainsay what I shall ordain or think convenient) that thou Partheus carry with thee to Coryneus and to his Shepherdess, this young Shepherd (pointing to Delicius) and shalt deliver him a letter from me, which I will write this night, and he shall take order for that, which I purpose to do. It is needful for thee Syrenus, to accompany them to thy fields, for that way doth his lie, because there are new matters in hand. When she had said thus after supper, & passed a little of the night in their wonted pastimes, they went to bed, though Crimine and Stela could not sleep all that night for grief of Delicius departure. And it was to be thought, that he slept as little as they, for it grieved him to departed and leave so good company, wherein he took the greatest joy in the world, but he could not choose, but obey Felicias pleasure, for the great hope and trust he had in her. The morning therefore being come, before the three Shepherds took their leave, Felicia gave Syrenus a certain potion to make him by little & little lose the contempt forgetfulness that he had of Diana, and Delicius a letter to carry to Coryneus, admonishing him to call himself by the name of Caulius, and to tell him nothing of his own matters, nor ask him any questions concerning the same, because it was not good for him, until he came thither again. The contents of the letter were these.  
TO thee (noble Disteus) Felicia, servant and minister in the Temple of chaste Diana, sends all the health I may. The Gods have determined to make a period of thy infinite troubles, and to augment thine honour and estate, and have deigned to humble themselves without any merit of mine, to make a mediatrix for thee. It is therefore requisite, that with as much expedition as thou canst, thou be here with thy dear spouse Dardavea, accompanied with thy loving nurse Palua, and thy fair daughter Luztea. This young Shepherd the bearer hereof shall bear thee company, and is one, who shall best please thee. Be not desirous to inquire more of him, than he will tell thee of his own accord. I will be no longer, because I hope very shortly to see thee: And as for these words, I doubt not, but thou wilt credit, and also her, that could write unto thee, and the rest, so right by their own names. This being done, the three Shepherds went their ways, having taken their leave of all the rest. Then that very night Felicia in presence of them all began to speak in this sort to Lord Felix, and his wife, sylvanus, and his Shepherdess. I know well Gentlemen, and my sons, that I withhold you more than is convenient from going to your own houses: but because it hath fallen out so to all the rest, as afterwards you shall see, and because you may know the Shepherd that I have sent for, and see the success of his coming hither, and of Parisiles, Stela, Crimine, and their Shepherds, I have deferred it, since it shall not be any long time with the sovereign wills above. All four answered, that what, or howsoever she disposed of them, they took it for no small favour. A little after that, Lord Felix, and Felismena, came to Felicia, saying. Because it is already manifest unto us (most sage Lady) that nothing is hid from thy wisdom and knowledge, we pray thee to resolve us in this (which troubles us not a little) because we do not know it. Delicius, and his company these few days passed told us as it were by piecemeal parts, the abrupt process of their lives and loves from their infancy unto the present estate they are now in; and though we know not who they are, it skills not much, and we care not greatly for it in respect of the earnest desire we have to know the cause why Delicius did forsake (if it be so) fair Stelas love, who loved her so much as he did, and at that time when he had received most favour of her. Whereof (as it seemed) Stela was either ignorant, or else would not tell it. Because I know you will keep the cause secret (said Felicia) that moved Delicius to do it, I will tell it you. You must therefore know, that he left not of to love her, but feigned to do it (as he yet very finely dissembles the same) understanding how his dear friend Parthenius loved her (by showing thereby the greatest part of friendship) he gave place to his friend's affection, and resolved to go without her himself. A strange example of friendship said they all, although, it seems, it was no less due to Parthenius. But Lady, we also suspecting this, as Stela doth no less, are desious to know, how he knew it, for by her discourse we could not gather it, considering how he did so well dissemble it. I will tell you said Felicia. You must remember well (as Stela told you) that for the rigorous answer that Parthenius gave to Crimine, when she manifested her love unto him, she determined not to go where the Shepherds were, to prove if absence could work that in her, which it did in many: by reason whereof some days passed on, in which they were not visited of them, because (without Crimine) Stela durst not adventure, but for shamefastness left of to go to their wonted sports. In these so sorrowful days for Delicius, Parthenius, and Stela, and Crimine, in the which these four did not see one another, as many times they were wont to do, there came some Nymphs to keep the Shepherd's company, and to pass away the time with them, but they took no pleasure in their company, although outwardly they dissembled it, as by singing, playing on their instruments, & other pastimes. From the which sports Parthenius on a time feigning a little business, that he had to go into the wood, went from that company, and entering into the thickest of it, in a secret place a good way off sat him down, where musing upon many matters, and seeing how needful it was for him to departed from his Mistress, by reason of the menaces of cruel Gorphorost against Delicius, as it was told you, he was many times about to kill himself, but would not put it in practice, only because he knew Delicius would follow him therein; as also for that, the future bliss and hope of seeing his Mistress any more would have ended. Being therefore a greater while there, then was needful for the cause of his absence, from his friend, Delicius asked leave of the Nymphs to go see why Parthenius stayed so long. And so seeking and finding him, he came to him, where he lay flat upon his belly with his mouth to the ground, who seeing him in this sort, and thinking he was asleep, came so softly to him, that Parthenius could not perceive him; and in very truth, being in such extreme grief of mind and deep imaginations as he was, though he had come as fast, and as loud as he could, I think, he had not heard him. As these two were therefore thus together, and Parthenius now & then speaking to himself, thinking that no body heard him, he uttered such lamentable words and complaints of himself and of his hard fortune, that Delicius knew by and by he was a truelover of Stela, and that for his sake he dissembled the same so much: when Delicius, perceived this, he went softly from thence again, because he would not be seen of Parthenius, the better to do that which he had now determined. Whereby he might show that in his love and friendship to Parthenius, he had no less integrity and degree than Parthenius in his, or to endeavour (at the least) to be even with it. And so without speaking or doing any thing, he went back to the Nymphs, saying, that he could not find him, but hoped he would not be long away. After a good while Parthenius came (to all their think) very joyful, which made Delicius not a little to marvel, knowing in what a miserable plight he had lest him; whereupon he gathered, it was but a sayned gladness, because he might not suspect his grief. From this point therefore, Delicius by little and little (because he would not be suspected doing it on the sudden) began to show himself very cold in Stelas love, being merrier than he was wont to be, & saying it was needless to pass sorrows and griefs for one, that made no account of them, nor cared a whit for him: which (he said) he clearly perceived, since so many days she stayed without coming to see him; and that he had done a great deal better, if he had employed his love on Crimine, then on her, of whom (perhaps) he might have been rewarded: so that with this he showed, that he made no great account of Stela, and to bear no small affection to Crimine. But for all this Parthenius would never declare his love, for he rather suspected that this was but a devise to try if he loved Stela, then once thought that Delicius knew it, the which he imagined not at all. But as Delicius could not by these means bring the truth out of Parthenius to light, by forcing himself as much as he could, he sung and played many merry things, like a man free from love, and without speaking any thing of Stela, which was different from his wont custom, which he did not only put in practice, but determined to do more if they met together, as he did indeed, when face to face he told Stela that he loved her not. And behold here, what you desired to know. We are satisfied, said Lord Felix, and truly it was a great part of friendship between them both. But yet you shall see and hear said Felicia, of many other proofs of their mutual love. With these, and many other speeches Lord Felix, Felismena, sylvanus, and Seluagia passed that time merely away, while Felicia stayed them there: Parisiles, Stela, and Crimine with a mean content, for the hope they had of their remedies to come.  
But it shall not be amiss, that, leaving these Gentlemen here, we go on with the three Shepherds, which went where Diana was, if you will, that we begin to help Syrenus, who now with his potion that Felicia had given him, began to feel a tenderness of love, entering in by the passage of the late passed oblivion, and a certain discontentment of Firmius and Faustus loves, that followed the same. Whereupon Syrenus, musing with himself, said to Partheus. By that young Shepherdess, which hath so great power over thee (because with some thing we may lighten the weariness of our way) I pray thee tell this young Shepherd and me something (if thouknowest) of that, which passed between Faustus, and Firmius with Diana. Although it must be to mine own grief (said Partheus) because I shall reduce to my memory a part of the troubles, which so great a friend of mine as Firmius is, passed, yet (to pleasure you herein) it lies not in my power (gentle shepherds) not to obey you.  
Having intelligence from the place, where he was, that in the fields of Leon my Firmius had made his abode, I went (leaving on a sudden the presence of my sovereign Shepherdess for certain days) to visit him, and the very same day I came thither, found him sitting under the shade of a high Sicamour, in company of the fair Shepherdess Diana. To whom, because she had not been well at ease, by reason of a conceit she took in losing a paper that Firmius had given her, he sung this Sonnet.  


IF that a small occasion had the power,  
To make thee lose thy rosy hue and colour,  
Diana, say, how falls it out this hour,  
That all my woes to pity make thee duller?   

Hath now a little piece of paper made thee  
So mild, and gentle in so short a morrow,  
And cannot yet my greatest love persuade thee,  
To make thee take compassion of my sorrow?   

How of myself am I myself ashamed,  
That thou shouldst reckon of so short a writing,  
Which cannot judge, nor under stand thy graces?  
And yet thou wilt not bend thee to requiting  
Of that, that's written in my hart inflamed,  
And which hath always suffered thy disgraces.    
I, that behind other trees hard by, was hearkening unto him, would not interrupt their pleasant conversation with my abrupt presence: but there wanted not a means, that immediately hindered the same. For Faustus going up and down to seek Diana (for now he knew she was gone to the field) by chance he light upon the place, where they were; who with the grief he had to see her so fortunate in beauty, as unfortunate by marriage, came singing this old ditty. 
A fair maid wed to prying jealousy, etc.   
The which he had scarce begun, when he espied Diana and Firmius together. Which sight (if it grieved him not) I leave to your judgements. But as the beginnings are hurtful to a lover to amend them, by dissembling notwithstanding his grief, he came and saluted them. Diana by and by caused him to sit down by her on the other side. But before I pass any farther, you must know that Diana, to discharge herself a little of the great passion that made her complain of her discontent, of purpose bestowed favours on both, though small ones; which manner of hers did arise of a desire she had in this sort to pass away, and forget her afflicted life. Faustus (as I told you but now) with the desire only to see that beauty so much blazed by fame, going from his own fields came to those where Diana kept. With whom he spent some days in good company very freely (especially for her part) for as it seemed, he was in love with another young Shepherdess in his own country. Diana liked well of his discretion and wisdom, and therefore loved him a little, as Firmius no less for the like good parts in him. So that to see which of them excelled each other, she set them many times together in contention, to try them both in discourse and song. Wherein each of them to please her, as of their own selves also willing to the same, studied for nothing else. Whereupon arose a certain kind of emulation between them, not because they hated one another, but because one endeavoured to excel the other before the fair Shepherdess. Whereupon it came into their heads, that there passed not one day, nor yet I think there is any, wherein they strive not either in wrestling, pitching of the bar, singing, dancing, and in other things, which we Shepherds make account of, appointing ever judges to crown the Conqueror; but the one never went so smoothly away with the victory, that the other went clearly without it: for Firmius was never conqueror, nor Faustus conquered; nor Faustus' conqueror, nor Firmius conquered. Of this emulation and corrivalitie, there were none, but took great delight to see it, and especially Diana above the rest; who to make them contend the more, on a day, after certain talk that had passed between Faustus and her, smiling alone to herself, she said unto him. As thou speakest (me thinks Shepherd) with great liberty and boldness; so are thy words full of subtlety and dissimulation. O that I might see thee one day so far in love with me, that thou mightest once pay me this overmuch liberty. From this hour therefore Faustus began to love Diana, and lose his liberty: whereof he had now very little or none at all, when he came to the place where Diana and Firmius were. But returning to this point (because as I was not present at the other, I cannot tell it you) as he was set down, Diana said unto him. Do us this pleasure Shepherd, to sing that again which thou camest singing. Who without more ado took out his Rebecke, and began thus.  

A Fair maid wed to prying jealousy,  
One of the fairest as ever I did see:  
If that thou wilt a secret lover take,  
(Sweet life) do not my secret love forsake.   


Eclipsed was our Sun,  
And fair Aurora darkened to us quite,  
Our morning star was done,  
And shepherds star lost clean out of our sight,  
When that thou didst thy faith in wedlock plight:  
Dame nature made thee fair,  
And ill did careless fortune marry thee,  
And pity, with despair  
It was, that this thy hapless hap should be,  
A fair maid wed to prying jealousy.   

Our eyes are not so bold  
To view the sun, that flies with radiant wing,  
Unless that we do hold  
A glass before them, or some other thing:  
Then wisely this to pass did Fortune bring,  
To cover thee with such a vail:  
For heretofore, when any viewed thee,  
Thy sight made his to fail:  
For (sooth) thou art, thy beauty telleth me,  
One of the fairest as ever I did see.   

Thy graces to obscure,  
With such a froward husband, and so base,  
She meant thereby, most sure  
That Cupid's force, and love thou shouldst embrace:  
For 'tis a force to love, no wondrous case.  
Then care no more for kin,  
And doubt no more, for fear thou must forsake,  
To love thou must begin,  
And from henceforth this question never make,  
If that thou shouldst a secret lover take?   

Of force it doth behove  
That thou shouldst be beloved: and that again  
(Fair Mistress) thou shouldst love:  
For to what end, what purpose, and what gain,  
Should such perfections serve? as now in vain.  
My love is of such art,  
That (of itself) it well deserves to take  
In thy sweet love a part:  
Then for no Shepherd, that his love doth make,  
(Sweet Life) do not my secret love forsake.    
Firmius, because he would not leave of his accustomed contention, took his Rebecke, and sung thus.  


IF that the gentle wind  
Doth move the leaves with pleasant sound,  
If that the kid, behind  
Is left, that cannot find  
Her dam, runs bleating up and down:  
The Baggepipe, reed, or flute,  
Only with air if that they touched be,  
With pity all salute,  
And full of love do brute  
Thy name, and sound, Diana, seeing thee,  
A fair maid wed to prying jealousy.   

The fierce and savage beasts  
(Beyond their kind and nature yet)  
With piteous voice and breast,  
In mountains without rest  
The self same song do not forget:  
If that they stayed at (Fair)  
And had not passed to prying (jealousy)  
With plaints of such despair,  
As moved the gentle air  
To tears: The song that they did sing should be  
One of the fairest as ever I did see.   

Mishap, and fortunes play,  
Ill did they place in beauty's breast:  
For since so much to say  
There was of beauty's sway,  
They had done well to leave the rest.  
They had enough to do,  
If in her praise their wits they did awake:  
But yet so must they too,  
And all thy love that woe,  
Thee not too coy, nor too too proud to make,  
If that thou wilt a secret lover take.   

For if thou hadst but known  
The beauty, that they here do touch,  
Thou wouldst then love alone  
Thyself, nor any one,  
Only thyself accounting much.  
But if thou dost conceive  
This beauty, that I will not public make,  
And meanest not to bereave  
The world of it, but leave  
The same to some (which never peer did take)  
Sweet Life do not my secret love forsake.    
Diana, because she would have them sing more, when Firmius had made an end, said. Shepherd, I will consider of this matter upon condition thou wilt tell me, for what cause thou dost publish it so much by words, that thou lovest me, when as thy deeds show thy small affection. As Firmius did ask her how she knew it, she answered him. If thy love Firmius extends so far as thou sayest, thou wouldst come to see me oftener; it grieves me in the end, of the favour that not long since I did thee. Firmius not suffering Diana to pass any farther, being as it were half mad with himself, for these cruel words, in that she grieved and repent her of her favour done him, took his Rebecke and sung this Sonnet.  

Fair Shepherdess, what hast with grief to fill me,  
And how long dost thou purpose to destroy me,  
When wilt thou make an end with wounds to noy me,  
Not stretching forth thy cruel hand to kill me?  
Tell me the cause, why dost thou so much will me  
To visit thee, and with such words dost joy me?  
That to my death I rather would employ me,  
Then by such present pangs and griefs to spill me.  
Woe to my soul, since this doth cause thy sorrow,  
That such a little favour thou hast done me,  
Little it is, in sooth, if it be pease  
With all my tears, that never yet have ceased  
To fall, that to my death have almost won me:  
They great, this small, those give I, this I borrow.   
Firmius had scarce done, when Faustus asked Diana, how she knew that his love to her was so small. Who answered. In that, hoping to enjoy thee inflamed in my love, thou complainest no purpose of a few tears thou hast spilled for my sake, as if these were not as incident and requisite for love, as pasture for sheep, and oil for the lamp. To which words Faustus taking up his Rebecke did thus answer her.  

THou dost desire (My life) as thou dost say,  
To see me in thy loves inflamed (at )  
And yet an uncouth means thou dost suggest,  
Which is, to give me care from day to day:  
Dost thou not see the fire to decay,  
Wax cold, and quenched, within my loving breast  
With swelling tears, which trickle without rest  
Out of mine eyes, to see thy hard delay?  
The mead with rain her goodly green redeems,  
The oil doth in the lamp the flame maintain,  
And love with tears augmented is no less:  
But love, the lamp, and meadow (as it seems)  
If that too much of these they do contain,  
Is spent, is quenched, and drowned in excess.   
As Faustus had thus made an end, Firmius said (for all that I could not then hear, he told me afterwards) we are well content Diana, that thou delightest thyself with our sorrows (since thou wilt take no pleasure in any of our other things) if thy sweet voice in am of that, might sound in our desired ears with some happy song. Diana excused herself, requesting them to pardon her, saying she could not therein pleasure them, since she wanted so much her own content of mind. They endeavouring to comfort her, gave her some hope, saying, that in the end sorrows and griefs are not perpetual, and that she should remember that common song that saith. 
Continual grief and sorrow never wanteth, etc.   
Because therefore you may see (said Diana) how ill this saying is understood, tune your Bagpipe with your Rebecke, and walking towards our flocks, because it is now time to gather them up, although I thought not to do it, yet will I sing as well as I can upon this theme, and you shall take the tune of the song, as of a woman so much tuned in miseries and mishaps as nothing more. Firmius and Faustus made no delay: And then Diana like a desperate woman, with a mournsull and sorrowful voice began thus, taking for her first verse that, which they had already alleged for her comfort.  

Continual grief and sorrow never wanteth,  
Where feeding hope continues, not decaying:  
But evermore despair, that grief recanteth,  
From former course of mind doth cause estraying.   

The gloss.  

Rivers arise and run into the seas,  
And waters without number day by day,  
And yet the same seem never to decay,  
But new do spring, and run and do increase.  
So endless woes arise and multiply,  
Redoubled one upon another's head:  
(For one in truth is with another fed)  
Still do they come and yet they never die.  
For since their fertile roots each moment planteth,  
Continual grief and sorrow never wanteth.   

Torments of mind and vilest miseries  
Are sworn to dwell within a hapless soul,  
And there her joys and pleasures do control,  
As to myself my sweet content denies:  
Then let not any Lover think to gain  
The meanest thing, that lives in any hope,  
But living so, to fall into a scope,  
And wander in a world of grief and pain:  
For miseries, men say, continue staying,  
Where feeding hope continue not decaying.   

Who knows it not, Alas I know it well,  
That if a woeful soul is hoping still,  
She seldom doth enjoy her mind and will,  
But that her hope must ever be her hell:  
So of this hope, that flatters me, I find,  
And do confess, that with the same I live,  
But still in fear, and therefore I would give  
It for despair, to ease my doubtful mind:  
I wish not this false hope, my iotes that scanteth,  
But evermore despair, that grief recanteth.   

If any whit of goodness ever came  
By vile despair, it comes to me in prime:  
And it could never come in better time,  
Then to be hoping still to have the same:  
The wisest and most prudent man at last,  
Wanting the good, that long he doth attend,  
(Which, nourished by hope, he did suspend)  
Seeing the time, that fed his hope, is passed,  
And all his joy, by hope that is decaying,  
From former course of mind doth cause estraying.    
The Shepherds importuned Diana to proceed in her song, or else, if it pleased her, to take some new matter, for it was to be thought, that Diana's song pleased them well: but they could not obtain it at her hands, for she rather requested them to sing something whilst they were going towards their flocks. Firmius then remembering that which a little before she had told him, that he loved her not so much as he might, began thus to tune his voice.  
Fair Shepherdess, jean no more,  
But feign I would  
Love thee more, if that I could.  
As this made also for Faustus' purpose for the same cause, he likewise sung to the same effect. And so Firmius and Faustus sung by turns, and answered one another, as followeth.  

Firmius. 
OF mine own self I do complain,  
And not for loving thee so much,  
But that indeed my power is such,  
That my true love it doth restrain,  
And only this doth give me pain:  
For feign I would  
Love her more, if that I could.   
Faustus. 
Thou dost deserve, who doth not see  
To be beloved a great deal more:  
But yet thou shalt not find such store  
Of love in others as in me:  
For all I have I give to thee.  
Yet feign I would  
Love thee more, if that I could.   
Firmius. 
O try no other Shepherd swain,  
And care not other loves to prove:  
Who though they give thee all their love,  
Thou canst not such as mine obtain:  
And wouldst thou have in love more gain?  
O yet I would  
Love thee more, if that I could.   
Faustus. 
Impossible it is (my friend)  
That any one should me excel  
In love, whose love I will refel,  
If that with me he will contend:  
My love no equal hath, nor end.  
And yet I would  
Love her more, if that I could.   
Firmius. 
Behold how love my soul hath charmed  
Since first thy beauties I did see,  
(Which is but little yet to me)  
My freest senses I have harmed  
(To love thee) leaving them unarmed:  
And yet I would  
Love thee more, if that I could.   
Faustus. 
I ever gave and give thee still  
Such store of love, as love hath lent me:  
And therefore well thou mayst content thee,  
That love doth so enrich my fill:  
But now behold my chiefest will,  
That feign I would  
Love thee more, if that I could.    
They would not (I think) have made an end so soon for want of copy of their theme, but that Diana went away from Firmius, because her sheep were in one place, and his in another. Faustus went with her, who had nothing else to do, but walk up and down those fields in corrivalitie with Firmius, and waiting on Diana, and staying to see when she would come forth to them. If Faustus, accompanying Diana, did any thing or sing, I know not, for seeing my Firmius all alone, I made haste to him. I will not tell you, what joy we both felt, what embracing & courteous & loving speeches passed between two such dear friends, meeting so joyfully together. Partheus went prosecuting his tale, when they heard a voice not far from the place where they were, & as they thought to have gone thither, Syrenus said. Here abouts we found the Shepherd Faustus; and truly if that which he now sings, be no less commendable and delightful, then that, which he then sung, it would not grieve us to stay here a little, and lend him a gentle ear. But approaching near, because the song went very low, for that it was mournful, and full of lamentation, they saw it was a Shepherdess, who espying them again, held her peace. They came to her, and saluting each other, prayed her courteously, not to leave of her singing. You may better say sorrowing, said Cardenia, for this was her name. Be it as thou wilt, said Delicius, and overcome us by entitling it as pleaseth thee, and let us overcome thee in doing that which we request thee. In being conquered by such brave young Shepherds, as you are (answered Cardenia) I shall carry away the victory. If I brought not so much company with me (said Partheus) thyself being all alone, Shepherdess, I would endeavour, that with thine answers thou shouldest not get the palm so soon: But because thou mayst advantage thyself with saying, that I took courage by the countenance which I bring with me, I will hold my peace. Whereupon dost thou repose such assurance, said Syrenus, laughing, that we would favour thee, and not take this fair Shepherdess her part? Let these amorous jests cease for a while, said Delicius. And gracious Shepherdess, deny not I pray thee our requests. Because I would not be thought worthy of reprehension, answered Cardenia, by denying that which such jolly and fair Shepherds have requested of me, I will enforce myself to it. And because my sorrow (not my song) you may better understand,  
Know that it is not long since that Faustus a Shepherd rich in sheep, and more in the treasures of nature, and good graces (whom the heavens favour) did once love me. Who in very deed I think, went never about to deceive me, although he hath now opened the door of oblivion to his former love: because I am informed (accursed be these ill news) that he is caught in the love of deceitful Diana, whom (for my ill, and his own) he went to see: and yet I fear that Diana, though she be so full of guiles and subtleties with others, cannot prevail with them by entertaining my Faustus, because he goes beyond her in deceit, and also because I have such an affiance of my hard and cruel fortune, that Diana (only for my harm) will be enforced to lose her wont fashions. These words grieved Syrenus to the hart, who now by little and little began to renew his old decayed love. And this is my grief, said Cardenia, that the more I procure to lay his ingratitude before mine eyes, the more doth his love penetrate my soul. Wherefore harken to that which you requested of me, and which I came singing all alone complaining of my injurious Faustus.  


Faustus' in faith thou nill deserve  
A Shepherd's name, or keeping sheep,  
Since thou so ill thy faith dost keep.   

O that inpassed time of late  
Myself had passed with that as fast,  
Then of this time I had no taste,  
Having enjoyed so sweet a fate,  
Once was I in a happy state,  
Which want, mine eyes in tears must steep,  
Since thou so ill thy faith dost keep.   

joyful I was, and well content,  
Because I saw (unto my will)  
Thy love so well thou didst fulfil,  
Which answered mine in sweet accent:  
But now I smell thy false intent,  
Which is, with subtlety becleepe,  
Since thou so ill thy faith dost keep.   

Thy faith and more thy solemn oath  
Then to me firmly didst thou give  
Not to forget me, while I live:  
But now thou hast committed both  
Unto the winds, that also loath  
Their little worth abroad to sweep,  
Since thou so ill thy faith dost keep.   

If thou dost think that to beguile  
Her that doth love, it is a glory,  
Alas I cannot be but sorry:  
With thousand such thou mayst defile  
Thy credit, and triumph each while  
Of all that here do feed their sheep,  
Since thou so ill thy faith dost keep.   

Behold my matchless love most dear,  
And mark thyself, and who thovart,  
For if thou wilt, with guileful hart  
Thou mayst deceive a thousand here:  
Then greater doth my love appear,  
Then thy disloyalty so deep,  
Since thou so ill thy faith dost keep.   

Musing I am, both night and day,  
And sundry ways my fancies move,  
How that I might forget thy love:  
And then unto myself I say,  
That since thou dost me so betray,  
My love shall in oblivion sleep,  
Since thou so ill thy faith dost keep.   

But at the time when I decree  
To practise it, than love doth more  
Renew his forces then before:  
So that if love abounds in me,  
And that the same doth want in thee,  
What shall I do, shall not I weep?  
When thou so ill thy faith dost keep.   

A remedy, and very short  
In th'end to take I will not fear,  
Which shall be less for me to bear,  
Then thus to live in such a sort,  
And death it is, mine only port,  
To which my shivered bark doth creep,  
Since thou so ill thy faith dost keep.    
Her syllables were not so many which she pronounced by singing, as her tears which she powered forth by weeping. The which by little and little she wiped away with a crystalline hand, which made the Shepherds not a little to marvel, when they saw it, wherefore Syrenus said. If thou hadst not told us any thing (fair and forlorn Shepherdess) thy sovereign hand had been enough to have made me know thee. O that they were cut off, answered Cardenia, since they were the cause of my miserable hap. All of them being moved to compassion of her sorrow, sometimes accompanying her with tears, and sometimes helping her with their comforts, at last Syrenus said unto her. It is not possible but Faustus, if he knew thy firmness and constant love, would mollify his hart, and take pity on thee, when above all things thou deservest to be loved, though he had as much in him as a man might have. Speak not of his deserts, said Cardenia, for in them he hath not his equal, and as to the first thou speakest of, that if he knew in what estate I were, he would have had some compassion on me, I answer thee, that since he went hence, I informed him in what pain I remained for his absence. And being ignorant of that which now (to mine own harm) I know, because he promised to come back again, as a woman joyful to hear such an answer, I sent him this Sonnet.  

THerest is sweet to him that wearied is,  
Succour and aid poor wretches wish for fast:  
The doom of death from him, that now is cast  
With favour to revoke, is thought a bliss:  
The shade in chiefest heat is not amiss,  
Pleasant of sheep and shepherds to be passed:  
The water joys the mead, with dryness waste:  
The frozen ground with joy the sun doth kiss:  
But yet the glory, joy, and sweet content,  
The wish of wishes, when the Shepherdess  
Stays for her lover, these do far exceed.  
Tongue hold thy peace, and thought tell my intent,  
How great a lightning hope is in distress  
Unto the breast, that loving flames doth breed.   
Not long after, seeing his tarrying there was longer than I desired, I wrote this other unto him.  

NOw do I know at last (though to my smart)  
How far the grief of absence doth extend,  
But that this knowledge never any friend  
Of mine may learn, and wish with all my hart:  
Thus have I lived deceived with this art,  
Esteeming small of presence in the end:  
But woe is me that proof doth now commend,  
And tells me clear of this erroneous part:  
Come Faustus then, with speed and stay no more,  
For staying wounds my soul and every sense,  
Longer thy absence I cannot endure:  
Mark well what they were wont to say of yore,  
That by and by a hope, and confidence  
After an absence doth succeed most sure.   
A little while after that the bitter news of his unjust change came to my knowledge, being mad with the extreme passion of love, I wrote him this letter & Sonnet.  


Faustus', if thou wilt read from me  
These few and simple lines,  
By them most clearly thou shalt see,  
How little should accounted be  
Thy feigned words and signs.  
For noting well thy deeds unkind,  
Shepherd, thou must not scan  
That ever it came to my mind,  
To praise thy faith like to the wind,  
Or for a constant man:   

For this in thee shall so be found,  
As smoke blown in the air,  
Or like quicksilver turning round,  
Or as a house built on the ground  
Of sands that do impair.  
To firmness thou art contrary,  
More slipp'rie than the Eel,  
Changing as weathercock on high,  
Or the Chameleon on the die,  
Or fortunes turning wheel.   

Who would believe thou wert so free,  
To blaze me thus ench hour:  
My Shepherdess, thou liv'st in me,  
My soul doth only dwell in thee,  
And every vital power.  
Pale Atropos my vital string  
Shall cut, and life offend,  
The streams shall first turn to their spring,  
The world shall end, and every thing,  
Before my love shall end.   

This love that thou didst promise me  
Shepherd, where is it found?  
The word and faith I had of thee,  
O tell me now, where may they be,  
Or where may they resound?  
Too soon thou didst the title gain  
Of giver of vain words,  
Too soon my love thou didst obtain,  
Too soon thou lov'st Diana in vain,  
That nought but scorns affords.   

But one thing now I will thee tell,  
That much thy patience moves:  
That, though Diana doth excel  
In beauty, yet she keeps not well  
Her faith, nor loyal proves.  
Thou than hast chosen, each one saith,  
Thine equal and a shrew,  
For if thou hast undone thy faith,  
Her love and lover she betrayeth,  
So like to like will go.   

If now this letter, which I send  
Will anger thee: Before  
Remember (Faustus yet my friend,)  
That if these speeches do offend,  
Thy deeds do hurt me more.  
Then let each one of us amend,  
Thou deeds, I words so spent,  
For I confess I blame my pen,  
Do thou as much, so in the end  
Thy deeds thou do repent.    

Faustus', it needs must be a wondrous case,  
And such a deed as one would not conceive,  
A simple soul so slily to deceive,  
Who quickly did thy faith and love embrace:  
Thy firmness she had tried a little space,  
And so she thought the same thou wouldst not leave,  
Which made her still unto thy liking cleave,  
Because she thought it free from double face:  
If of this conquest (Shepherd) thou dost boast,  
With thousand such in time thou mayst be crowned,  
If thousand times thou meanest to undermine,  
If high renown is got for credit lost,  
Only of me a subject thou shalt find  
With guiles to be a thousand times proponed.   
To any of these I never had an answer, whereupon I think he never made account of them, and of the last especially, because he had now quite forgotten me when that came. Of one thing I will advise thee, said Syrenus, if thou wilt take it at my hands. This thou mayest be sure of, said Cardenia, for I think there is none, that would not wish to have some remedy of her ills, if there were any means for them. The means said Syrenus, are easy enough for thee, that haste such liberty, as I understood by Faustus. And it is to accompany us to the place where he is, because our ways lie thereby. For I cannot believe, but thy presence will make him, with craving pardon, acknowledge his fault. This counsel Syrenus gave her, to remove such a block out of his way, as Faustus was. All of them liked his advise well, but Cardenia best of all, and therefore answered thus. It is therefore needful for you (my friends) if you will show me so much friendship, and use this pity towards me to tarry for me, if it please you, while I take some order for certain kine, which I keep hard by here, and commit them to the keeping of a Shepherd, that (certes) loves me more than Faustus, who, I hope, will take the charge upon him with a good will. But I must in no hand tell him whither I go, because with patience he cannot endure it: wherefore I will feign that I go to some other place. In the mean time I will give you such entertainment as my poor ability can afford, though not good enough for your deserts. Upon this request they determined to stay, and she went to seek out the Shepherd, whom she found out by and by, for she knew where he was commonly wont to feed. Carisus, for this was the Shepherd's name, seeing Cardenia coming to him contrary to her wont custom, went with no little joy to meet her, and saluting her, said thus unto her. What novelty is this, my dearest Shepherdess, from whence comes so much good, that this happy soul of mine deigneth to come to visit this miserable body of hers? Cardenia, who would rather have heard those words in Faustus mouth, then of Carisus, interrupted him, saying. Necessity, which, to leave my kine in thy keeping, while I go hard by to see a kinswoman of mine, brings me to seek out such a Shepherd, that they may not feel my absence, and as I put no greater trust in any for this matter then in thee, I come to know if thou wilt take this charge upon thee. Carisus putting some strings on his Rebecke, that he had in his hand, and tuning voice to this that follows, answered Cardemas request thus, taking for his ground (because it made so fit for his purpose) that common castilian country dance, that saith in Spanish.  
GVarda milas vaccas  
Carillo, por tu fe,  
Besa mi primero,  
Yo te las guardaré.  


I pray thee keep my kine for me  
Carillio, wilt thou? Tell.  
First let me have a kiss of thee,  
And I will keep them well.   

If to my charge or them to keep  
Thou dost commend thy kine, or sheep,  
For this I do suffice:  
Because in this I have been bred:  
But for so much as I have fed,  
By viewing thee, mine eyes,  
Command not me to keep thy beast,  
Because myself I can keep lest.   

How can I keep, I pray thee tell,  
Thy kine, myself that cannot well  
Defend, nor please thy kind,  
As long as I have served thee?  
But if thou wilt give unto me  
A kiss to please my mind,  
I ask no more for all my pain,  
And I will keep them very feign.   

For thee, the gift is not so great  
That I do ask, to keep thy neat,  
But unto me it is  
A guerdon, that shall make me live:  
Disdain not then to lend, or give  
So small a gift as this.  
But if to it thou canst not frame,  
Then give me leave to take the same.   

But if thou dost (my sweet) deny  
To recompense me by and by,  
Thy promise shall relent me,  
here after some reward to find:  
Behold how I do please my mind,  
And favours do content me,  
That though thou speakest it but in ●est,  
I mean to take it at the best.   

Behold how much love works in me,  
And how ill recompensed of thee,  
That with the shadow of  
Thy happy favours (though delayed)  
I think myself right well appaide,  
Although they prove a scoff.  
Then pity me, that have forgot  
Myself for thee, that carest not.   

O in extreme thou art most fair,  
And in extreme unjust despair  
Thy cruelty maintains:  
O that thou wert so pitiful  
Unto these torments that do pull  
My soul with senseless pains,  
As thou show'st in that face of thine,  
Where pity and mild grace should shine.   

If that thy fair and sweetest face  
Assureth me both peace and grace,  
Thy hard and cruel hart,  
Which in that white breast thou dost bear,  
Doth make me tremble yet for fear  
Thou wilt not end my smart:  
In contraries of such a kind,  
Tell me what succour shall I find?   

If then young Shepherdess thou crave  
A herdsman for thy beast to have,  
With grace thou mayst restore  
Thy Shepherd from his barren love:  
For never other shalt thou prove,  
That seeks to please thee more,  
And who, to serve thy turn, will never shun  
The nipping frost, and beams of parching sun.    
Cardenia that was musing more in her mind of the love she bore to Faustus, then that she heard by Carisus song, after a while that she had leaned her hand upon her sheephooj, said. But what dost thou say to my demand? But what sayest thou, said Carisus, to that which I crave of thee? What cravest thou said Cardenia, for truly I gave no attentive ear unto thee, I was thinking so much of my departure. Is this the reward answered Carisus, that I looked for at thy hands, for keeping thy kine? Yet do what thou wilt, and go whither thou wilt, for in the end I cannot choose (as ever more I do) but obey thy command, and think myself sufficiently appaide (if thou wilt not condescend to any other thing) that with thine own mouth thou hast made me the herdesman of thy kine: for since I have passed so many troubles for thy sake without any guerdon, I will also pass away this grief without any further denial, so that thou receivest contentment hereby; and this shall be enough for the reward which I expect, wherein I find no small joy and contentment. I thank thee Carisus, said Cardenia, for thy good will: I pray God give thee more rest than I have at this present hour. And with this, because I go to set other things in order, I take my leave of thee: thou shalt find my kine to morrow in the place where thou knowest they are commonly wont to be. When she had dispatched this business, she went to the Shepherds, that were nearer to her, than she was aware of; for when she went from them, they followed her to see what passed between them, whereat they took no small delight, and laughed not a little when Carisus said in his song, that if she was ashamed to give him a kiss, he would with her leave take it himself. Having therefore prepared all things necessary for her journey, she went her ways next day in the morning in the company of those three young Shepherds, whom we will now leave, since they know (without us) how to find out this way, so often trodden by Syrenus, coming back again to sage Felicias palace.  
Where they were all very glad with the coming of Danteus and Duarda the Portugal Shepherds, who came out of their country to do their duty to Felicia, and to thank her, that by her favour and good means Duarda had pardoned Danteus for the offence be had committed against her, by seeing him so penitent from his hart; who brought a wandering pilgrim with them, that had bestowed many days in vain, in seeking out his Master and Mistress. Whom as Danteus and Duarda had met very much afflicted, after telling them part of his long travel, they requested to go with them thither, where if in any place he might hope for remedy and news, he could not choose but have it at her hands, that never denied it to any, that had need thereof. Danteus, Duarda, and the Pilgrim called Placindus, were received by Felicia and the rest with great joy, making divers sports, dances, plays, and pastimes for their coming. From the which Stela, and Crimine were ever absent, who could not be merry for the absence of their beloved Shepherds: Parisiles was seldom or never in these sports, for commonly he came not out of the Temple, where daily he made his sacrifices and orisons. Felicia knowing that the end of all those luckless Shepherds and unknown Shepherdess' misfortunes was near at hand (for Crimine, and Stela returned again to their pastoral habit, because they would not have Parthenius (if he came) find them in gorgeous and festival attire, he being clad in sorrows and cares) took Parisiles, Stela, and Crimine, on a day when dinner was done by the hands, and spoke thus unto them. Now Fortune begins to smile upon you, Parisiles, and my daughters, and will now lift you up to her triumphant chariot, and desist not to carry you in it, until she hath placed you higher than you may imagine. Happy was the hour wherein you saw the young Shepherds Parthemus and Delicius, and happy that time, when first they saw you, for that you by them, and they by you shall on joy a supreme and joyful estate. And because you may know who these young fortunate Shepherds are, presupposed they are the sons of Corineus and Dinia, of whom Partheus began to tell you so many strange things: The right name of this Shepherd, & Shepherdess is Disteus & Dardanea. Who these be, you shall by & by know of this Pilgrim their servant, who hath sought for them many years together, besides many others that have made the same journey; amongst the which, the young Prince of Aeolia wandereth up & down seeking out Delicius and Parthenius, for the which no mean joy shall befall to all: So that whatsoever you shall hear of Disteus and Dardanea, you must know that they are these Shepherds, whose counterfeit names are these aforesaid, and parents to Delicius and Parthenius. And I assure you, that if you three think that you have deserved the crown of unformnate and hapless weights, Disteus and Dardanea, & their company may presume, that the palm of disastrous men should not be denied them. But because you may know who they are, and for what cause wandering from their country they pass away their life in so poor an estate, tarry for me here, and I will bring you one hither, who shall tell you all the whole matter, which I promise you, though it touch you, will not make you a little glad to hear the strange discourse thereof. Parisiles therefore, Stela and Crimine, remaining there all alone (you may now imagine, if desirous to see him, that should tell that, which so feign they would have known especially Stela, and Crimine, that without comparison cared not to know any other matter then this) Felicia sent a Nymph to call Placindus to her, who was now gone to view the sumptuous Palace, who being come before her, she said thus unto him. O worthy example of a loyal servant, doubt not but that thy good deeds (though lately) shall be rewarded by the highest, assuring thyself that the deferring thereof shall more augment the requital: For otherwise if good deeds were not requited by some ways, we might have just occasion to complain of his divine power: I say by some means, as touching that he hath promised us, because otherwise he oweth us nothing, but we are rather perpetually obliged to his divine essence, not only that he hath made us rational creatures (the highest estate in nature) when it lies in his celestial power to fashion us to that, which is accounted the lowest & most servile in the world: unto the likeness whereof though he might have made us, who was besides no less able to leave us without being, which is the greatest infelicity, next after eternal damnation. But leaving this aside, as well because larger time than that we have, were necessary for it; as also because the place doth not require it, I will (according to this) tell thee in brief, that here in this house thou hast made an end of thy great journey, finding in the same that which thou couldst not find in so many countries. Here shall thy travels end, and all the troubles of these Gentlemen, and with greater prosperity you shall return to your desired heaven. Here you shall shortly see how many of you wander up and down like banished men, and more than you think of. In conclusion, in a few days thou shalt see in this Temple of chaste Diana thy loving Lord and Lady, and thy dear Aunt. Placindus, at so joyful news, breaking off so sweet a speech, and not knowing how to requte her, prostrate upon the ground, kissed her hands. Felicia took him up again, saying. It is therefore needful for thee (as a thing that concerns thy Lord and Lady) to tell the beginning of their banishment, and the cause of thy long travel, to two fair Nymphs and a reverend old man, whom thou shalt find attending thy coming in a great broad court before the Palace hall. Placindus to obey the sage Felicias command, without any answer went to the place, where she appointed him. She that now had caused Lord Felix, Felismena, sylvanus, and Seluagia, Danteus and Duarda, and the Nymphs to be all together whiles she was speaking to Placindus, being gone to them, said. Fellow you me all. None then refusing, went after her, and came where Placindus, Stela, and Crimine were just at that time that Placindus began to tell his discourse. To whom Felicia said. Because thou mayst not want an auditory for so noble a tale, behold myself that comes with my company to take part of it: Wherefore let us all sit down, and thou Placindus without any more courtesies, do that, which I did of late request thee.  
The end of the sixth book.   

The seventh Book of the second Part of Diana of George of Montemayor.  
THey were all now silent and set down in order, when Placindus, being place in the mids, began thus to say.  
Of the descent and famous pedigree of Aeolus king of Aeolia, (whom afterwards they called the God of the winds, and of whom that country took the name) sprung out two illustrious houses. Of the one a most mighty man called Sagastes was chief: The other a virtuous young Gentleman called Disteus, made most famous; who, though in possessions and revenues he was not equal to the other; yet in virtue, wherewith his mind was bountifully enriched, far surpassed him. Between these two houses was an ancient quarrel and emulation, by reason that neither of them would allow any equality, both still contending for superiority, which to him that desires to bear rule and command is a great and heavy burden. Truth it is, that in the time of these two principal men, Disteus his partiality went somewhat by the worse, because king Rotindus that then reigned, favoured not a little the contrary part, only for that Sagastes resembled him so much in his bad conditions and disorder of life. For both of them were proud, cruel, libidinous, enemies to virtue, and imbracers of all kind of vice, whereunto Disteus was a mortal enemy: So that the king with continual favours enriched Sagastes, and favoured his followers, and with perpetual hatred procured to impoverish Disteus, and persecute his friends. There were but few in the whole kingdom that for fear did not whatsoever Sagastes commanded, though they hated him in their minds, and none that by their good wills would have denied to fulfil Disteus pleasure in all things, who loved him dearly in their secret hearts. So that they obeyed Sagastes openly for respect of the king, and loved Disteus secretly for his own deserts: Who yet with virtuous and sincere love was not a little enamoured of Dardanea Sagastes sister, a young gentlewoman passing fair and rich, she being also adorned with all those gifts of nature, and mind, which only install that noble sex in immortal praises. For in her did every virtue shine as in their proper place. Her love likewise to him was chaste and pure, being only grounded upon Disteus his noble virtues, and singular goodness, that was then the common subject of every mouth; whose love though in her chaste breast it was with all kind of honest affection entertained, yet might his comely parsonage & goodly features have well procured a wanton thought in the most modest mind. This noble Lady had been married but three months to a knight of her own house (but in many degrees removed) (called Fenubius) when Atropos before his just time did cut off his vital thread, and in the flower of her age made her a young widow. Who bearing no small affection to Disteus when she was a maid, would feign have married him; but neither by words nor signs durst once declare the lest thought thereof unto him, because she would not for all the world transgress the due limits of her honour and virtuous reputation; as also because she thought it impossible to conclude a marriage in two such contrary houses: Whereupon without more a do she was constrained to take such a husband, as her brother did give her (for her parents died when she was but eight years old) with whom she lived so content (or at the least feigned it) as if she had never thought of any other matter, a thing no less beseeming so brave a parsonage, as she a most worthy example for them that take this honourable estate upon them. Dardanea being therefore a widow, it fell out that Sagastes upon a small occasion did (to her great grief) put away her steward, who had been an ancient servitor, and well esteemed of her parents, denying to pay him that, which was his due for his late service. In regard whereof, and for his other deserts, this noble Gentlewoman did not only satisfy Anfilardus (for so he was called) but also bestowed bountiful rewards upon him, excusing herself to him and saying, that his departure was much against her will. There was not one in all the city of Sagastes party, that would give him entertainment, because they would not offend so mighty a man: the which Anfilardus perceiving, and how unjustly he was rejected, he laboured to be with Disteus, whose favour, because he deserved no less, as also because it was an honour to Disteus to relieve Sagastes old servants, he soon obtained. Though yet on the sudden so unadvisedly he entertained him not, without first taking his word and faith of a Gentleman, not to go from him again, upon no wrong, nor injury offered him. The which thing Disteus thought good not to forget, because he might not (after he was placed with him) once offer to forsake him, thinking the disgrace that resulted to him by such a departure would be greater, than the honour that he got by receiving him. All this and more with solemn oath did Anfilardus avow; of whose word, as also of himself (because he knew him well) Disteus made no small reckoning. The which to accomplish, Anfilardus never failed, though he had been often molested to the contrary. But before he came to dwell with Disteus, he forgot not to ask Dardanea leave, because he would not give her any occasion of discontent, if perhaps (by means thereof) she felt any at all. But she consented the more willingly thereunto, when she understood, that he was to be entertained by Disteus: For as her brother could not choose but be offended thereat, so she therefore hoped, that he would work the means to place him with her again; But Anfilardus told her not of the faith and promise that he had given Disteus for his abode and true service, which if she had understood, she would not (doubtless) have given him any such leave, knowing that Anfilardus would not do any thing repugnant to his word and promise. It grieved not Sagastes a little to hear what the steward had done, knowing, that only he himself deserved blame for it; but more, when he perceived that neither fair entreaties, nor fierce threats could reclaim him to Dardaneas service. Who therefore perceiving the remedy thereof impossible, bethought himself of one more prejudicial to him then any other, which was by gifts, and fair promises (or for that which afterwards fell out) to entice from Disteus, the woman whom he most tenderly loved, a nurse of his (for from the teat she had nursed him and brought him up) and an Aunt of mine called Palna, to bestow her on Dardanea in am and recompense of her late departed steward: of which revenge he was so proud in mind (for he had soon brought it to pass) that he thought he had done Disteus the greatest injury he could, by bereaving him of his nurse, and besides wounded his mind with greater grief, than the joy that he conceived at Anfilardus coming, whose fact made none to marvel much, knowing well what great occasion he had to do it. But mine Aunts departure filled every one full of wonder, thinking that she had no just cause to make her blameless, but that she was a woman, because Disteus (as they all knew) rewarded every one so well, that there was not the meanest in his house, whom he injuried, and gratified not, especially Palna, whom he loved above all the rest, and honoured as his mother, never knowing her by any other name. Which thing grieved him so much, that it made him almost besides his wits: for first he would have thought, that all the world would have left him, before mine Aunt would have forsaken him. Disteus therefore being very sad and pensive, and sometimes complaining of his Aunt, Anfilardus came unto him and began thus to say. If my person had not been exchanged (my good Lord and Master) for so dear a price, I had then great reason to be glad and vaunt, that I am the servant to so worthy a gentleman: but considering that in the cause of my gladness the effect of your sadness doth consist, let my joy be drowned with your discontent, and ever remain so cold, that it may seem rather dead, then live without the sight of your wished good. I would it had pleased the immortal Gods, that I had never enjoyed the perfect knowledge of your goodness, because you might not then have tried the unkindness of ingrateful Palna. I was marveling at unstable fortune, that so on a sudden deined to give me so sweet a potion: but because she would not have me fall from the common opinion that I ever had of her, she by and by distempered it with a bitter taste. Only one thing comforts me, and joys my thoughts, that you (my Lord) shall know what difference there is between a man and woman, though I wish you had not tried it by this example. And though in truth you have reason to be sorry for Palnas change, yet you have no cause to marvel at it, in that she is a woman, which name the ancient writers, Philosophers, Poets, and Painters did not vainly impose to Fortune. Pardon me (good sir) if I am so bold with one, whom you love so well, since I have just occasion to do it, by reason of the great and grievous charge that she hath left me. For if I was then bound of mine own self to obey you to my power, now by her occasion I am constrained to serve you more than my forces can well attain to. And if I being placed in your service, she had remained still, the little that I could do, might (perhaps) have seemed something; but she going away for my cause (but not thorough my fault) for all that ever I can do, I shall be yet obliged to more, being exchanged for her, whom you so greatly loved. And the worst of all is, that if any thing (which not by my will, but by some negligence I may commit) shall be open to the popular eye, it will be a common byworde in all the city, That it was a good exchange of Palna for Anfilardus. Wherefore I beseech you my good Lord, that omitting this, you would accept of my good will, which is sufficient enough, if in my deeds there shall be any defect, and that my fault, which must needs proceed from my small ability or ignorance, be not attributed but to the one or other. To this did Disteus answer thus. As I neither can nor will deny (Anfilardus) that I have not greatly felt the ingratitude of my mother (Palna my nurse I mean) by not thinking of that mutability, which (thou sayest) is naturally incident to women, by reason of the love that I did always bear her, and do yet (to speak the truth) which is not so little, that in so short a time I may so easily forget the great injury, which I have received at her unkind hands: So must I needs confess, that it is a great lightning to my hart, that it was done for thy sake, of whom I hope it shall be well considered, since the greater part thereof is already requited with the good will, which at this present thou hast discovered, though thy works also have seemed of no less effect: both which (when opportunity shall serve) I will not hereafter forget to reward. The beginning whereof shall be this, That I promise thee (because I perceive how heavily thou takest the great grief which I have felt for her absence) and swear never to show myself aggrieved for it in thy presence, although (perhaps) I be in mind, nor in thy absence to impart it to any but to myself. They being in these speeches, I came to Disteus house, and speaking with one of his men, willed him to tell his Master, how I was come with a letter from mine Aunt unto him. The page did my errant, and as Disteus was in suspense whether he might receive it or no, Anfilardus said unto him: Sir, send for the messenger in, for by this you shall the more signify your goodness, hearing with one countenance the just and culpable person, and not do Palna so much glory as to make her know, that her absence hath grieved you very much. Disteus liked his counsel well, and thereupon commanded me to come in. With thy good leave (Lady Felicia) and of all the rest, said Parisiles, I would ask how being without, you might hear these speeches between them within. From henceforth answered Placindus, you must understand, that we told one another all the matters that passed, and with this advertisement I will proceed. In the end I came in, where Disteus and Anfilardus were, and doing my duty, began thus to speak. Your nurse Palna with her remembered duty to you (my Lord) doth most humbly beseech you to read this letter which she sends you. Disteus took the letter, and dissembling his grief, as Anfilardus had counseled him, said: If thine Aunt doth write to me to the end to excuse herself, she needed not have taken these pains, for she might have done herein according to her own mind, as in that, which shall like me best, I will do to mine own will and pleasure. Thou shalt tell her that I will read it, wherein, if there be any thing for me to do for her, I will hereafter bethink me of it. I not perceiving this kind of dissimulation, marveled not a little to see how soon he had shaken off the love that he bore to mine aunt. Truth it is, that as I was then ignorant of that, which afterwards succeeded, so I esteemed his coy answer for a point of wisdom, and was no less ashamed at that she had done. With this answer I went my ways and they remained all alone. Anfilardus praised not a little his feigned answer, & commended his wisdom, in that he would not call her mother, as he was wont to do, nor name her by her own name, in token of contempt. But Disteus opening the letter, saw it said thus.  
Palnas letter to Disteus.  
PAlna thy mother from thy milk, and from the love of her inward soul, to thee her loving Son Disteus sendeth greeting. Because as I know thou wouldst condemn me for a very fool, if I went about to show, that I had just cause to forsake thee, that wert mine only comfort, and to whom I am so much bound; so will I not excuse myself herein, which if I should do, and say, that I am not worthy of reprehension, I might then seem in a manner to charge thee therewith, since something must be attributed to so great a change. But if any fault be committed, I am content that it be only imputed to me; for it shall grieve me less, that the whole world should condemn me for it, then that any should suspect the least defect in thee that might be. Wherefore let this only serve to entreat thee by the amorous milk, that thou hast sucked out of my breast, to have so much patience, until the success shall manifest the cause hereof; which to the end I will pass with the ill opinion that the world hath on me for leaving thee, to an effect that shall result to thy profit, whereby thou shalt affirm thyself satisfied, and me acquitted (with thee at the least) whereas for the rest it shall not greatly skill. I know well thou wilt object & say, That if there were any hidden thing, whereby I might have procured thy content, I had no reason to conceal it from thee. I answer, because I knew thou wouldst by no means give me leave to departed, I would not tell thee of my purpose, until (seeing the good success of it) thou mightest know my great love to thee, since (without making thee privy) I have enterprised so great and difficult a matter. And now because I have spoken more, than I thought, I will conclude with this, That I am in good health, and not a little glad, that my good Fortune brought me to Dardancas service, whose beauty and golden virtues are the wonder of our age.  
When Disteus had read the letter softly to himself (for he would not read it aloud, before he had viewed the contents of it) he said to Anfilardus. I would have read this letter unto thee Anfilardus, if I had thought it would have made thee glad or sorry; and also because it is so obscurely written, that I can scarce understand one clause thereof. The contents of it persuade me not to be careful, nor trouble my wits by enquiring out the cause of her departure, until time doth manifest it, when as then (she saith) she shall be as free from fault, as I from complaint. With this also she writes me, that she is content with Dardaneas service; for proof whereof, she extols her highly with only two words, saying: That she is the wonder of our age. She that is of such excellent beauty (said Anfilardus) enchased with all precious gems of virtue, deserves no less, assuring you Sir, that Palna (if with so much truth she justifies that which she hath done, as she hath reason for that she hath spoken) may be blameless and excused to all the world: wherein I must needs say she hath been wise (having no good discharge and excuse of her fault) by putting you in a doubtful love and hope of a thing you know not, to the end that in (the mean while) you might forget and overpass your anger by such thoughts, and that she might not need hereafter to excuse herself. I told thee not long since (said Disteus) that though I feel Palnas absence very near, yet I must dissemble it with thee; by means whereof, hap good or ill, I will still show one semblant, provided that I know the cause of it, for indeed I could never persuade myself, that this was no more but a dream, since I had ever so great confidence in her love and fidelity: Whereupon I think some just cause must needs move her to do it for my behoof and benefit, as she writes unto me, which (though it were not so) I will not (Anfilardus) otherwise conceive nor imagine. In that which toucheth the favour you do me (said Anfilardus) by imparting to me the contents of the letter, I am bound to kiss your hands: And in the rest, as in this, you show (my Lord) yourself what you are, and maintain the title of your noble mind. In these and like speeches they spent a pretty time, though Disteus sometimes altered his talk, ask him of Dardaneas qualities, beauty, and wit; for he took a great delight to hear, that so many good parts in so high a degree were jointly found in one woman: which Anfilardus did so bravely set forth, as one that knew them well, and to whom he was so much bound, that the eloquence of the golden mouthed Lord of Ithaca had been needless there. All which was to cast an amorous and secret powder into Disteus foul, that he might thereafter have been set on fire. On the other side, mine Aunt Palna with great respect of duty and discretion discoursed sometimes unto Dardanea (but with far fet circumstances) of Disteus his honourable disposition and noble virtues, which she so wisely insinuated, as if she meant nothing less than to praise him Disteus now gave leave to his imaginations, to be only employed in Dardaneas beauty, so that he loved melancholy & sadness, & abandoned all sports & public places. He now delighted only in solitariness, & not only the company of strangers, but of his own friends & serunats was troublesome unto him, who never suspected that any amorous thought had so forcibly reigned in him: but rather attributed this alteration to the grief that he had for Palnas absence, which if they had not believed, they would not have left to ask him the cause thereof, though it had been but in vain, when he himself did scarce know it. Disteus spent some days in these considerations, wherein his fancies being not meanly occupied, he used these words. O God, how needless is it for thee (my mother) to tell me what reason thou hadst to leave me for this excellent Lady. O ten times art thou happy, that hast before thee (as often as thou wilt) the clearest mirror of our times. Only heerem, from this day forth, I will not cease to blame thee, for leaving me so late, if any fit occasion had been offered thee to defend thee with the shield of Dardaneas bounty and beauty, for both which all mortal men are bound to serve and obey her. Thou hast soon performed thy word, that at length I should see thy just cause. Pardon therefore (good mother) my error by reproving thee, although the same (if thou dost mark it well) was not my fault, but the great love, that I did ever bear thee. But wretch that I am, what have I done by not answering thy wise and loving letter, and thrice unhappy me, if thy nephew returned the sharp answer from the venomous mouth of thy unworthy son? Ah than thou shalt have more reason to detest the unfruitful milk thou gavest him, than he had to condemn thee for thy just departure, and with greater cause to curse the ungrateful nouriture that thou hast bestowed on him, than he hath now to blame thy forced absence. O Disteus, inconsiderate youth, how rash wert thou in answering Palna thy grave and wise mother, and how ill hast thou deserved to advantage thyself by her gentleness and help. And thus, thinking he had done a heinous offence by not answering her, in haste he called for ink and paper, and going about to write, he was a good while in suspense, and knew not how to begin: for feign he would have showed her how willing he was not only to forgive her, but also to have craved pardon of her, both which he durst not do, neither was it wisdom, before Palna had clearly made her justification. And therefore he wrote in such sort, that my Aunt might take no offence thereat, and did what became him, the tenor whereof was this.  
Disteus his letter to Palna.  
Because thou mayst have no defence, whereby thou mayst not be bound to show that innocency (which thou sayest thou hast) and mayst also understand, how I have better played the part of an humble son, than thou of a loving mother, I have strained myself to take pen in hand to answer thee. By and by after I had read thy letter, I would have settled myself to this task, wherein I had so many contraries of (I) and (no) that not knowing what to determine, or to which of both to adhere, I have till now suspended it. If the love I bear thee, did solicit me to do it; the anger thou gavest me did forbid it. If the faith which ever thou foundest in me did admonish me thereof; the disloyalty, that then I saw in thee, did dissuade me from it. If my good mind towards thee did force an (I) thy impiety to me did forge a (No.) So that if I was bound by the one, I was restrained by the other: whereupon in this doubtful pretence, not knowing what way to choose, that which persuaded me to write had been overcomed, if the desire that I had to hear of thy excuse, and the weighty hope (I know not whereof) thou gavest me, had not succoured & helped it, which did drive me from the doubt I had, and forced me to write unto thee, though I must needs confess, that, albeit I read thy letter never so well, yet I know not how to answer it, since in no clause therein I find good construction: for that which seemed most clear, was most obscure; where, in manner of a consolatory letter thou tellest me, That thou art well, and content in mind, as if my comfort depended thereon: Whereas thou hadst pleased me better by affirming the contrary, because by being discontent, thou mightest repent thee, and by repentance amend, and by amendment, come back again unto me. But with that, which in proof of thy content thou sayest, That thou art with Dardanea, etc. thou pleasest me as little. For what have I to do with any thing touching her, whereof thou dost write unto me: So that I must either affirm, that I understand it not, or think it was not to the purpose, which shall be a greater inconvenience than the first, since it must redound to condemn thee for a fool (a thing far unworthy thyself) if with this change thou dost not lay fault upon fault. The Gods take account of the intent thou hadst to leave me: And as for other greetings in the beginning hereof, or requests in the end I will not give thee, until I hear of thy excuse, if thou hast any at all.  
After he had written this letter, he caused me to be sought out in all haste, and, being come before him, requested me to carry it forthwith to mine Aunt. The joy was not small that she received with the letter that came to her from her son Disteus, although it was to her confusion and shame: For she that doth perfectly love, desires (though it be to her own harm) to see the things of her beloved; but she was a great deal gladder, when she saw with what mildness and humanity it was written. The solitary life that Disteus (as I told you) did so much love and lead, was now grown to such a second nature, that all company was irksome unto him, but only Anfilardus, as well for that it was represented to his thoughts, that he had been Dardaneas servant, as also because he ever answered sincerely to his purpose, by telling him continually of her sovereign graces. This kind of sad and private lise of Disteus came to the ears of his beloved Palna, which grieved her not a little, thinking that it was only for her absence: for remedy whereof she wrote him a letter, wherein she accused him of want of faith, since he fulfilled not his promise, which was, Not to entertain nor make any show of grief, until he knew the cause of her departure; and requested him by all possible means to shake off all that sadness, by the exercise of his person in arms and courtly sports, as he was wont to do. Disteus answered her again, protesting with solemn oath that he was rather glad she was with Dardanea, from whence (he said) the cause of his solitariness did not proceed; but that, without knowing the reason thereof, he found himself more altered in mind than he was wont to be, after he had received her first letter, and had heard her name Dardanea; & that on the one side he delighted in hearing it, and on the other (not knowing the cause) trembled when he heard it: in the end he requested her, if she would ever do him any pleasure, to work the means that he might see Dardanea, for though he had seen her when she was a maid, yet was it not as it should be, according to the great and renowned fame that now was bruited of her. All this that he wrote to her, was her great joy, seeing how he drew towards the end, that she pretended: but it troubled her mind not a little to think how she might satisfy Disteus (though it was her only desire to show him fair Dardanea) because she found no fit opportunity by reason of her regular modesty and private life. The daily care and study that both of them had to bring this to effect, discovered a secret way to put both their desires in practice, which was, that on a night (whereon they had agreed because it might be the more secret) if any fit occasion or opportunity were offered, mine Aunt should send for me, as though she had some business for me; and that Disteus in my apparel should go in my steed, whereof they both advised me, feigning that it was only to go see mine Aunt, who would not yet trust me with such secret affairs. Mine Aunt stayed certain days, before she took this business in hand, though opportunity was many times offered, and deferred the time so long, that he began to complain on her, and thought that all were but words and promises (for he that with earnest desire is attending that whereon his mind doth ever run, doth hardly believe any thing) though indeed it was not so: who (pondering the matter well) should have rather considered, that some great obstacle occurred in her mind concerning the performance of his request, which made such a stop in the means and furtherance of it, that holding her for a great while in suspense, she knew not what to do. And this it was, that if Disteus on the sudden had seen fair Dardanea, the first sight of that excellent beauty, & the extreme joy thereof might have caused some sudden alteration and trance in him, to have made Dardanea suspect something: which mine Aunt would not for all the world had happened, lest her Mistress might have taken some displeasure at them both, which thing made not a little for their good beginning. But as mine Aunt was very discreet and wise, so did she obuiate this doubt with a sudden remedy; for to prevent any such extreme passion, that by such a sight and joy hemight have had, she thought to moderate it with some present thought of no less grief and sorrow. And thus it was, that now performing that that was agreed upon between them, he should come when the night began to wax somewhat dark in my apparel; but sending for him in my name, she feigned that it was to go for a Chirurgeon to heal Dardaneas arm, the which by opening a great chest, the lid by chance fell down on, and bruised very much. The grief that he conceived by these heavy news, was so great, that he would now have changed the joy that he expected by Dardaneas sight, in am that this mischance had not happened unto her. For he felt it so sensibly, that he had almost no hart to go, but yet encouraged himself, lest I might have perceived it: and so hiding his grief the best he could, he left off his garments, and putting on mine, went strait to Dardaneas house. Where, without knocking at the door (for so he was willed to do) he went up (as I was wont) into a broad chamber that was next to Dardaneas withdrawing chamber, where he no sooner knocked, but a waiting maid coming to the door, but not to the place where he stood, went back again, and told mine Aunt that I was there, who willed her to bid me come in, for so had her Mistress commanded, and true it was indeed. Because you may therefore understand wherein Dardanea would have in ployed me, you must know, that Sagastes her brother was in love with a young Gentlewoman well descended and rich enough (called Marthea) but she requited him not with like again, for his bad conditions and intolerable pride; and also because she was more affected to another Gentleman, though not so rich nor so highly borne in respect of him; but one that was virtuous, noble, and valiant, and of whom she was truly beloved and served again. But yet for all this she showed Sagastes a good countenance in recompense of the great and continual services that he had done her: For how much doth not interest & gifts prevail, which are the only tamers of affections? So that being glad to be served by so mighty a man, and because it is the fashion of women to glory in themselves by seeing men howsoever (they care not) appassionate for them, she gave him as many superficial favours as he desired, and more indeed, than her honour required. Wherein Sagastes taking no little pride, believed that she loved him from her very hart. The which opinion confirming in his breast with this also, That he was in favour with the King, of great authority in the city, and more nobly borne, and richer than her parents; thought that at the very instant when he purposed to demand her for his wife, he should not have any denial: Whereupon he did ask her Father's good will, who thanked him for his, and for his part gave his consent, but alleging that it was not amiss to leave some part to his wife and daughter. Whereat Sagastes like a proud and disdainful man by his angry countenance showed some impatience, who would not have had the matter deferred any longer. But the love that he bore Marthea, did so bridle it, that (contrary to his natural and wonted inclination) it pacified him well at that time: And therefore answered, that it was well remembered. This marriage pleased Martheas' mother well, to see her daughter so highly advanced (a property most natural to the ambitious and covetous minds of women) but disliked Marthea altogether, for that which is abovesaid. Who answered them, that as she was their daughter, and thereby bound to obey their command; so they should have good regard to that they did, & for so weighty a matter as this, crave some time and respite of Sagastes, wherein they might determine with due consideration what was best to be done, and that then she would give them her answer of the matter. And because Sagastes in the mean time might not think himself disgraced while they were concluding this matter, to tell him that she was resolved first to make an end of certain Pilgrimages and devotions, which she had of late begun, and so in the mean time to feed him with hope, whereby he might not think himself aggrieved for staying so long. This respite of time Marthea took to try, if in the end she could dispose her thoughts to love Sagastes, and forget her beloved Beldanisus (for so was the Gentleman called, who served her, and whom she loved.) And Sagastes was well content, since that her parents had left the conclusion of the matter to Marthea, in whom he had placed his liberty. She with the consent of her parents (not giving him to understand any such matter) spoke unto him, as often as he would, but feigning that she did it by stealth. But as Sagastes every day, & more by night walked up and down before her door, Beldanisus could not choose but perceive it (for what doth not a true lover suspect and find out) and this he surmised by the cold affection that Marthea had showed him of late. Whereupon wrath and jealousy seizing upon his hart at once, he resolved to be well revenged of him, though it cost him his life; and therefore certain nights together lay in secret wait for him, accompanied with his brother and three of his cousins, all three sufficient men to defend him in any broil. And though sometimes they met him, yet they durst not assault him, not for fear, but because there was ever so much people in the streets, that if they had killed or wounded him, they had suffered (if it had been known) no less than cruel death: So that they only attended fit time and opportunity to do it to their own safety. By some of Sagastes servants, it came to fair Dardaneas ears, that her brother used not to stay at home in the nights, whereupon incited with desire and fear, she would feign know whither he went: And talking with mine Aunt Palna her nurse about this matter, thought that there were no better means to know it, then by my secret diligence to spy him out. Dardanea therefore for this purpose commanded mine Aunt to send for me: and because Disteus might have a sight of Dardanea, she caused him to come thither in my name. I left you (if I remember) when they bade me come in, or else Disteus (to say better) disguised like me. Mine Aunt being well advised in every thing she took in hand, a little before Disteus came in, as if she had nothing to do, did set the candle before her Mistress for two causes: The one, by the opposite brightness of the light, to dazzle Dardaneas eyes, because she might not know Disteus; and the other, to show Disteus the more light whereby he might behold Dardanea better. He was now come in (and if joyful to see her, or sorrowful for her mishap I know not) when the bright reflection of her fair face smit against his greedy eyes, wherewith he was not only amazed, but knew that her beauty was greater than the report that was spread abroad if it, and that Fame had injuried her by publishing it less, than it was indeed: which not only he (in favour of his affection) but any other (free from like passion) might easily have judged. And without all doubt he had been in danger of some sudden ecstasy, if his mind had not still run on her mischance, that mine Aunt had seyned: who, thinking that he had now seen her enough, which so much he desired, came to him speaking somewhat aloud, to hold him still in that opinion, saying. Placindus, my Lady must employ you about her business, and therefore commands thee to go thy ways: And so of purpose she came to Disteus, to speak with him alone. In good faith (said Parisiles) the coming of Palna to Disteus was very pretty, for I was now half sorry with myself, not knowing what Palna would have said, when he spoke aloud, that both might have heard. For Dardanea knew that she would send him to spy out Sagastes, and Disteus understood that it was to go for a Chirurgeon. And so with great discretion she spoke that out aloud, which answered both their intents, in that he was sent to go his ways, and so to deceive them both by these means. Dardanea, because she might not know, that it was Disteus; and Disteus, because he might not then sinell out the deceit that Palna used with him, by making him believe, that Dardanea was hurt: but she came to him (having told him that Dardanea bade him go his ways) fit to the purpose, for than if he had passed further, his speech might have marred all the matter, and discovered the fine deceit. Truly (said Lord Felix) she must needs be wise in allthings, and well she manifested the same by setting the candle before Dardanea. For these favourable notes, Gentlemen, which by the way you have gathered of mine Aunt, to confirm them (said Placindus) I give you my word, that she was accounted for such an one; and because I am her kinsman, I hold my peace, concerning that which might be spoken more in her praise, and also because by the process of my tale you shall see it. To proceed therefore: As she came near to Disteus, turning to Dardanea, she said, Do you command him any other service, and I will tell it him: No, said Dardanea, but he shall do me a pleasure if herein he do his diligence. Mine Aunt then took Disteus by the hand to bring him forth, whereat he seemed to make some small resistance, unloosing his hand from hers, as though he would have put on his cloak that fell down: which when mine Aunt perceived, with an angry countenance, she said softly unto him. You shall come no more hither I promise you. Who hearing her sharp threatening, with the tears in his eyes, answered. Pardon (good mother) the body, that is loath to departed from the soul: whereupon they went out, and mine Aunt went talking with him, and asked him, if he was now cleared of the fault, that she made by her departure. Whereunto he answered not a word, for by contemplating of that sovereign beauty, he was so much distraught in mind, that he heard not what she said. But afterwards being come to himself again, with a profound sigh he said. O what shall become of thee Disteus: wherewith he held his peace. She blamed him for this speech, and reproved him for that he had done, telling him plainly, that these were not the means to deliver him from his passions. Some speeches being passed between them, she opened unto him the whole deceit, which she had feigned of her Mistress breaking off her arm, and why she did it, and telling him all, even to that point, when I, or rather he, was sent forth, she said. You must now therefore, because my mistress Dardanea commands this to be done, go by and by to your lodging, and give my cousin his garments, and tell him what I said to you, that Dardanea doth pray him (not making mention of any other matter) and I cammaund him to go about his errant with all diligence. But Disteus answered, God never grant, that another fulfil that which was commanded me. In mine own person I will do that, which my Mistress commanded me, being but disguised and counterfeit: Do as you think good, said mine Aunt, but in such sort that it may be thought that my nenephew did it. Leave that to me, said he, and take you care for the rest: And with this they took their leave of one another. He went strait to his house, where he found me waiting for him, and said unto me. here thou mayest safely stay Placindus this night, for I will go walk a little up and down the city, and wear thy garments: And though thine Aunt commands thee to go of an errant, which she gave me in charge to tell thee, because my way lies thereabouts, I will myself do it. And because thou mayest not be found with my garments on, if any come to seek me, thou shalt lock thyself in: for I will bid my servants (if any ask for me) say that I am a sleep, and open the door to no body, unless he say he is Placindus, because when I come they may then let me in. With this advise that he gave me, he went into an inward chamber and took a buckler, and a good broad sword, (that many days since was hung up against the wall, because it was somewhat too heavy for his hand, though now Dardaneas love had added more strength & force to his arm) & did put on a shirt of mail, & a good headpiece. Being thus armed, he went to look when Sagastes came forth, and in this sort went, least in the night any harm might have happened unto him. When he came to Sagastes house, he heard a tuning of certain instruments, for it fell out that he went that night to bestow some music on his Mistress Marthea. After a little while that he had stayed there (which might be about eleven of the clock) he heard them coming down; and because h●●oulde not be seen, as though he stood there to watch them, he passed over the street, going his ways. Sagastes had so great a presumption of the authority and countenance, that he had by the king's favour in the city, that he thought none durst offend him; and therefore went accompanied but only with a page that carried his rapier, and the musicians weapons. Disteus (lest by the brightness of the Moon he might have been descried) followed aloof off to Martheas' house, where all of them staying, one of the musicians began to sound a cornet aloud, I think, to awake the people and to call up Marthea; and after that every one playing on his sever all instrument, as on a Lute, a Harp, a Recorder, a Bandora and others with such consent and melody, that it seemed (as in their song they said) to stay the course of the night. To which melodious notes not long after a boy with a passing sweet voice, did sing this Ditty, which Sagastes caused to be made for his own purpose.  

LEt the silence of the night  
At my will her duty show:  
hearken to me every Wight,  
Or be still, or speak but low:  
Let no watching dog with spite  
Bark at any to or fro,  
Nor the Cock (of Titan bright  
The foreteller) once to crow.  
Let no prying goose excite  
All the flock to squeak a row:  
Let the winds retain their might,  
Or a little while not blow:  
Whilst thy ear I do invite  
On this ditty to be slow.  
In the which I nill recite  
Thy deserts, which ever grow:  
Nor thy beauties so bedight,  
Fairer than the rose or snow.  
Nor how with thy grace (of right)  
Thou dost conquer others so:  
Nor thy virtues exquisite,  
Which no wight deserves to know.  
For into seas infinite  
With small bark it were to go,  
And that labyrinth sans light,  
Wherein Theseus they did throw.  
I not having in this plight  
Thread as he (his guide from woe)  
I will only sing and write  
How in happiness I flow,  
That thy servant I do height,  
Praising Fortune and loves bow:  
Thanking him, that so did smite:  
She, because she was not slow  
In her throne my pains to quite:  
Love, for (like a friendly foe)  
Wounding thee with golden flight:  
And for shooting many more  
Into my soul, whose pains shall seem but slight,  
If with thy grace their wounds thou wilt requite.   
Sagastes would have the ditty make mention of this last point, because as Marthea gave him to understand no less, so he believed not any thing to the contrary. This song being ended, he began to do that he promised, which was to praise God Cupid and Fortune, with so great delight of the hearers, as the end of the first had taken it away from them. But their beginning (as it was told me) was not without the unpleasant jarring of their discording instruments. I believe it well (said Lord Felix) that this discord was not any whit pleasant to them there when the recital thereof here is displeasant to mine ears: and therefore I pray thee, without any more circumstances, tell us what was sung besides, for I do greatly desire to hear how he praised Fortune, an apt subject of blame, then fit to be praised. If it be your pleasures (said Placindus) give ear to my words, and note the meaning of it, for this is the song.  


HE that doth Fortune blame,  
And of God Cupid speaketh ill.  
Full little knows he that his will  
Is subject to the same:  
And that he doth procure his proper shame,  
Held for a fool, and one of simple skill.   

Who speaks he knows not what,  
Is thought to be a very Sot:  
For good of them who speaketh not?  
And I suspect that that  
Same simple one, doth lay a formal plat  
To be reputed for an Idiot.   

He knows not Fortune's might,  
Nor knows the mighty God of Love:  
She rules beneath, and he above;  
For she doth sit by right  
Amongst the Goddesses with shining light;  
And he amongst the Gods his might doth prove.   

The Boy I will omit,  
Since that his great and mighty name  
Gives him great praise and worthy fame,  
Being (who knows not it)  
The God of Love, whose praise I will forgit,  
To sing of Fortune that most noble dame.   

The fool on Fortune rails,  
Because she never doth repose,  
The first and highest sphere, and those  
Adjoining, never fails  
In that, which all the world so much avails,  
I mean in motions which they never lose.   

In their perpetual course.  
Their essence and foundation lies,  
And in their motions never dies:  
Our life from them their source  
Doth take, and unto death should have recourse,  
And cease, if they should cease to move the skies.   

They use to paint her blind,  
Because the highest, and the low  
She rears, and after down doth throw,  
Respecting not the kind  
Of persons, nor the merits of the mind:  
The King she doth not from the Collier knowe.   

Fortune herein they take  
For agreat Goddess (and with right)  
For Goddesses do not requite  
With partial hand, and makes  
No difference of persons for their sakes,  
And partially do never use their might.   

They call her also mad,  
Because her works they do not know,  
Nor any path, where she doth go,  
But all her ways so bad:  
That to exempt themselves they would be glad  
From them, for fear of their ensuing woe.   

But such are made indeed,  
That make a reason so unfit,  
For when did ever human wit  
Know what the Gods decreed?  
Or how they meant with power to proceed,  
Or their intents? which men could never hit.   

t fitteth not my song  
o deign to answer with direction  
en of such wit and small perfection:  
hat offer her such wrong;  
For Fortune doth only to those belong  
That have the use of reason and election.   

The Ancient otherwise  
Did think, for they did make of her  
A Goddess, and they did not err:  
To whom sweet sacrifice,  
And temples in her name they did devise:  
As in their books they do no less aver.    
When this song in the praise of Fortune was ended, then in dispraise of time (for now as I told you the answer of his marriage was deferred for one month, and every short hour seemed a long year unto him) he sung this Sonnet. But I will go on with my discourse, and will not tell it you, because I shall but trouble you (I think) with recital of it, as it hath done me by seeing it so imperfect, and not ended. In faith thou art too extreme in thy opinions (said Lord Felix) and though I had divers occasions offered me to ask thee many questions, yet I have held my peace unto the end, because thou mightest proceed without interruption, and it seems of purpose thou seekest many digressions to deprive us of that, wherein we take no small delight. Then do us so great a pleasure, as to tell us the song that was begun, and why it was not ended, and here we will endeavour (if we can) to supply the wants of it. Since you offer me so fair (said Placindus) I will tell it you, but I think it will be somewhat hard for you. Then lend a patiented ear to the unhappy Sonnet, which I think will not please you so well.  

ALl you that have unworthily complained  
Of Love, and Fortune, each a mighty power:  
On Time, that doth your sweet contents devour  
Turn them: For more hereby is to be gained.  
For time is false: For if content unfeigned  
It giveth thee, it passeth in an hour;  
But still it stays if it gins to lower.  
It comes not wished for, nor doth stay obtained:  
Time hath no friend in any thing created,  
For every thing it wasteth and consumeth,  
And doth not spare so much as any body etc.   
The Boy was yet redoubling the foot of the last verse, when Beldanisus, who served Marthea, came suddenly upon Sagastes, and marred all the music, having left his brother and three of his cousins in rearward to help him, if any came forth in Sagastes defence. Disteus that now, etc.  
Stay a little (said Lord Felix) for it shall not be amiss (with leave of this good company) that I cut off the thread of this discourse, when as so often it hath been broken off. And before I forget it, declare unto me but half of one of those verses above, that gins thus: 
It fittteth not my song, etc.   
The meaning whereof I do not understand no more than the words. To answer your demand Lord Felix (said Placindus) it is requisite I had been brought up in the Academies of the Grecian Philosophers, and (as it is in proverb) in the Peripatetic schools. But since you will so feign know the exposition of it, I will show it you written with his own hand, that made the verses, who at my request did it, and I carry it always about me, because I like it well. And here it is. But will you hear me read it unto you, or read it yourself? Thou hast wisely asked me this question (said Lord Felix) for of this point I have seen divers good conceits, and from whence the cause proceeds I know not, but let it go: For of conceits and opinions (they say) there is no disputing. But I take more pleasure to read it myself, to stay and study upon that which likes me best, and to understand it the better. Read it therefore aloud (said Placindus) that every one may understand it, and that I may tell you when you must leave. I read it, said Lord Felix, and therefore give attentive ear, for thus it saith.  
It fitteth not my song  
To deign to answer with direction  
Men of such wit and small perfection,  
That offer her such wrong:  
For Fortune doth only to those belong  
That have the use of reason and election.  
For declaration whereof we must presuppose the learning and opinions of the Peripatetics, That Fortune is an accidental cause, which doth seldom happen, and comes only to them that work by election, ordained to some end. It would be too long a labour to expound every particular part hereof, and tell how it is understood, and if it be distinguished from the four causes, which the Philosophers do assign; and if it be not distinguished (because then there should be five) to which of the four it is reduced; and what difference there is between Chance, Fortune and Fate, and many other things touching this subject. But to fulfil our purpose, it sufficeth to understand: That if one did dig, or turn up the ground to sow, or bury some thing, and digging did find some treasure, this digging should be termed Fortunate, which was the cause of finding the treasure. And it is called the Accidental cause, because that digging was not ordained to find treasure, but to bury a dead thing: For if it had been known that it was there, and he had digged to that end, it could not be termed Fortune. It came to one that used election; for it lay in his choice to dig, which he might have left undone if he would, considering besides how finding of treasure doth seldom happen. It must be called good Fortune, if the effect be good, as finding of treasure; ill, if the effect be nought, as when he found treasure, he found a viper that bitten him. It may be called great, if the effect be great; little, if the effect be little. Whereupon it may begathered for our purpose or intent (for they use all in one signification for this present disputation) that it may be called Fortune. So that in fools and children, that have no reason, there is no Fortune. Whereupon you shall understand, that if the stone, whereof they make the altars, or the wood, whereof they make the statues of the Gods, they poetically call Fortunate, it is by a figure called Metaphora, or likeness, that those stones and wood hath in respect of others with fortunate men, and those which are not. But there is one thing to be noted, that insensible things participate of Fortune passively, as objects, by means whereof men are fortunate.  
Give it me again (said Placindus to Lord Felix) for you go too far, that which is read is sufficient for the understanding of the foresaid verses. Truly (said Parisiles) it is learnedly handled, and I think that the point which Lord Felix desired to know, is sufficiently understood, and that he clearly showed it by that which he read, considering the obscurity of the matter. I am satisfied (said Lord Felix) but I should take great pleasure, if now the sense of the verse (taken with the intent) were quadrant to my mind. I am content (said Placindus) to tell it. Having said in the beginning (if you remember) that whosoever speaketh ill of Fortune was a fool, answering to his reasons, he proves himself to have no reason, whereupon that it is inferred in that staff which you ask, that since they have no reason at that time, when one entreats of Fortune, it is not meet to talk with them, nor they to meddle with things of Fortune, Since Fortune only cometh to him that hath reason. Now that I am resolved (said Lord Felix) return to your History again. You made an end in telling how Beldanisus had interrupted the music, leaving his brother and cousins in the rearguard: I broke it off at this word Distcus that now. And since I interrupted your continued discourse, it is reason that I help you to knit it, and reduce you to it again. Well then from that place I will begin, said Placindus.  
Disteus, that now had come somewhat near, desirous to taste of that dainty music, even then when he saw violent hands laid on Sagastes (although he hated him mortally, yet to do his Lady Dardanea service) he ran in, and stepped between Eeldanisus and Sagastes (for he had now also drawn his sword) saying. Keep out Lord Sagastes, and receive this small piece of service for my Mistress Dardanea your sister's sake. Beldanisus was so wroth to see Sagastes taken away, that like an angry Bear despoiled of her young ones, with enraged fury he ran upon Disteus, to wreak his anger wholly upon him; and thinking he had been but of small courage, and partly incensed with violent despite and choler, without any fear he ran within him, and lifting up his sword with all his strength did manfully discharge it upon him. But Disteus like a stout and courageous Gentleman, knowing it was no time to dally when he saw such a furious blow coming, before it was discharged, by closing with him took it upon his buckler, wherewith he thumped him so strongly on the breast, that he felled him to the ground; where, having knocked his head by the terrible fall, he lay senseless for a space, and was not able to rise up again. Sagastes and his page would have come in to help Disteus, but that Beldanisus brother, and his cousins seeing sword drawn in Sagastes favour, two of them fell upon Disteus, thinking it had been Sagastes, with intent to have made but a short piece of work of it, because they could not stay long about that business (for so the four had concluded between them) and the other two fell upon Sagastes and his page, whom they thought to be Sagastes men. But it fell out clean contrary, and in vain came they in so soon, for Disteus had now smitten Beldanisus to the ground, where his brother seeing him lie, without a word, thought verily that he was slain. Wherefore determining either to die, or to revenge his death, with one of his cousins he assailed Disteus: who without any sign of fear or cowardice manfully received them both. But yet he saw himself narrowly beset, because they were both hardy youths; besides that the wrath and desire of revenge, to see Beldanisus on the ground, made them desperate. But they were not able to control Disteus his courage, nor to abate his strength and dexterity, that had by this time wearied them, and ended their lives, if they had not been well armed with defences. But when at his pleasure he lifted up his good sword to smite one of them, he did so hardly entreat them, that they thought it best not to come within his reach, wherewith he had now broken their mail, and wounded them lightly in some places. The two cousins made Sagastes and his page fly before them, and had killed them, if they thought Sagastes had been there, being also ignorant in what case Beldanisus and his cousins were. But now when Disteus had brought them to an ill pass, Beldanisus came to himself again, (for he had no other harm, but that only by the blow in his head he had lost his sense) and knowing what a great shame and dishonour it was unto him, and seeing besides how valiantly the man that came in between them, had behaved himself with two of them, he fell fiercely upon him, of purpose to take just revenge of him, assailing him more advisedly then before. Disteus though he saw himself encountered by three, did not yet lose his manly courage, but as if the effray had but then begun, wounded them cruelly, not escaping himself without some small wounds & cuts in his garments, because their sword did not cut like his, nor their arms had the strength as his had; the chiefest cause whereof was, that Disteus did not let them wound him at their pleasure: albeit one of the cousins did put him to much trouble: For as two of them did set him well a work, he with a long tuck did thrust at him mortal stocadoes, whereupon Disteus thinking that all the victory consisted by overcoming him, he endeavoured to close with him; for he perceived well, that if he had thrust but one to his mind, it had been enough for him. But the other two perceiving his intent, prevented him of his purpose; whereupon the other in the mean time reached him a desperate thrust, the which with a ready eye avoiding, he requited with such a sturdy blow, that he felled him to the ground: And to Beldanisus, who had wounded him in the shoulder, without any pause at all he gave an overthwart blow on the left arm, that he cut the mail from his sleeve, and the flesh to the bone. With these two blows they were put in such a fear, that they thought it best to give back, studying rather to defend themselves, then offend or hurt their enemy. Disteus seeing the victory in his hands, did not cease to ply them still in such sort, that he made them by one and one retire. But now by this time there was much people gathered together, to part the effray, though by the darkness of the night one knew not another. Whereupon Disteus, taking up his cloak, that he had cast down, got himself out of the press: and Sagastes to seek the man out, that had helped him so well in that encounter, cared not to pursue his enemies, so that they escaped then away unknown, without getting any thing of their purpose. Disteus perceiving, that with so great desire they sought him, to do his feat the better, and that which hereafter you shall hear, came to Sagastes page, and putting a corner of his bandkercher in his mouth, because he would not be known by his speech, said unto him. Let not thy Master take any care to know who I am, for to morrow I will go myself to kiss his hands. The page went with this errant, but Sagastes not content therewith, would have gone himself to have spoken with him, if the page had not dissuaded him, saying. Sir, it is no reason to molest him, that hath done you no less a good turn, than the saving of your life. It seems he would not now be willingly known, let him therefore alone and trouble him not, since he hath given you his word to come to morrow and visit you. Thou sayest well (said Sagastes) and till than I shall not be quiet in mind: for it hath put me in a great wonder and confusion to know who he might be, that so valiantly defended himself against three; but in a greater, when I call to mind the words that he spoke, when he stepped in to help me, That I should take it for a piece of service due to my sister and his Mistress Dardanea. For they were such, that (had I not known Dardanea well) would have put me in a great suspicion and jealousy of her. And besides this, it comes also to my mind that if he be wounded (for he could not otherwise escape) it shall be ill beseeming me, if I do not the best I can to procure his health and revenge, although by the last he hath sufficiently accuited himself. Go tell him therefore from me what my desire and good will is towards him, and that (before he be gone in haste to help himself) I will not departed from this place. The page went, and being come to Disteus spoke thus unto him. Sir, whosoever you be, my Lord Sagastes doth kiss your hands, and by me gives you to understand, that he prays the Gods may grant him but the lest occasion and opportunity to serve you in any thing he may, and to requite the great good turn, which he hath this night received at your hands; who would have come in person himself to thank you, but that the understands it is your desire to conceal yourself. He is also no less desirous to know who you are, but he is loath to entreat you to any thing against your will, lest perhaps, you would deny to do that you shall think good, although you have forced him to be ever bound unto you. But for all this he would urge and oblige you to fulfil your promise, to see him to morrow according to your word. He prays you moreover to look well to yourself, if you be wounded, and to take some speedy order for your safety, saying, that until he see you go hence, he will not departed from the place where he is. Tell thy Lord, answered Disteus, that if I have done any thing for him, it was no more but a due debt which I own him, only for that he is brother to my Mistress Dardanea: and because he may not be grieved in mind by not knowing who I am, tell him that I am Placindus, nephew to Palna, free from wounds, and I must needs stay here all alone about certain business that I have agreed upon, and that therefore he may departed, since I am grieved in nothing, wherein his care may prevail me, assuring him that to morrow I will stand to my word and promise. The Page marveled much that I had so valiantly helped his Lord and him, and as he esteemed me in his mind for a tall man: so thought me to be ill brought up by giving him so rude an answer. For Disteus of purpose would not answer him with more humanity, though he could do it well, because there was no cause as I told you to use him well, but only that he was brother to her, that was his only joy. But the page thinking it proceeded of ignorance & want of good education, mended (I think) the matter with his Lord touching my homely answer. Sagastes wondered (and not without great reason) when he heard that it was I, that had so manfully taken his part, and with that false opinion which from that time he had of my valour, he went home, thinking still it was I, by whom he received so great a benefit. Disteus also when he saw Sagastes gone, went home to his own house, where he found me with fear for his long tarrying, & carefully attending his return. But when I saw him so ill entreated, I began to change colour, thinking he had been hurt, and therefore said unto him. What means this Sir? How come you home in this sort? Trouble not thyself, said Disteus, for I have no hurt: and now that thou hast seen, how in thy apparel (because I would not be known in Dardaneas house) I went to see thine Aunt and my mother: So I also told thee that thine Aunt was to send thee of an errant, the which because it lay in my way, I would also dispatch. The errant therefore that Dardanea did will thee to do was this: But give good ear, and lose not a word of that, which I will tell thee, because it behooves thee much, and also because we may not both be taken in a lie. I say Dardanea requested thee to go watch her brother, who (as it was told her) was accustomed to go night by night out of his house, and to see whither he went. But it fell out, that this night myself doing that, which was committed to thy charge, after a good while that Sagastes came forth, I followed him, and after this he told me particularly all the success, as you have now heard, and somewhat more. When I heard of the singular favour and help that Disteus had done to Sagastes, I was astonished to see that with so great zeal and courage he had succoured him, who was his mortal enemy, and therefore said unto him. You have filled me Sir full of wonder, for it is beyond all sense and conceit that you should be moved to put your life in danger for one, that would bereave you of yours. Stay (said Disteus) and harken how the matter falls out, & thou shalt know the whole cause, whereby thou shalt understand how much thou art beholding unto me. Thou must therefore know that to hear the music the better (as I told thee) I came somewhat near, thinking that by wearing thy apparel, I might not have been known, and because Dardanea might not think of thee the worse, that being present there, thou didst not help her brother in so great danger, I thought good not for any love I bore him (whom I would rather have pursued to death, then to defend him from it) but for thy sake Placindus, to put my person in hazard. And therefore because it might be thought, that thou wert the man that came to help him, when I stepped in before him, I said: Accept this small token of good will Lord Sagastes for my Mistress Dardaneas sake, your virtuous sister. And now therefore that thou knowest how all hath happened, and that I charged thee not to forget the least part thereof, give ear to the end, whereunto this particular discourse of mine is addressed. To morrow thou shalt go to my mother and carry her a letter from me, and tell her what thou hast done, touching that business which she had given thee in charge, wherein all the whole matter shall consist. First, because she may advise thee how to behave thyself with Dardanea, and with any other that perhaps may ask thee how this matter passed. Secondly, because she may set down some good order for that which is needful to be done. After this, thou shalt go and speak with Sagastes, to stand to thy word (or rather mine to say better) where, (as thine Aunt shall instruct thee, and as I have advised thee) thou shalt speak unto him. Thou shalt also carry this sword with thee, because I think he will ask for it, for the good proof that it made on the rapiers and daggers there. If he would know where thou hadst it, tell him that when thine Aunt was with me, I gave it thee, and so I am sure he will bestow some suits of apparel on thee in recompense of thine which were spoiled and defaced in his defence. But thou must do me so much pleasure, not to take them at his hands, but rather tell him, that thou carest not for any other recompense, then that thou didst it for Dardaneas service, being Mistress to thine Aunt. In doing whereof, thou shalt not only bind me, to bestow this, and more on thee, but also her (when she shall know how thou didst adventure thy life for her sake) to requite this good turn, and ever hereafter to make more account of thy manhood and fidelity: And, by denying to take any reward at Sagastes hands, oblige her moreover to thine Aunt. The next day in the morning I carried the letter that Disteus had written that night to mine Aunt, and told her all that had passed.  
As Placindus went on thus telling the pleasant discourse of Disteus and Dardaneas loves, they all bend their cares to a certain noise that a horse and his Master made, he to take him that ran up and down without his bridle, and the horse unwilling to be caught, because he liked his liberty better. Which when Placindus saw, with a merry countenance he aroseland said. I beseech you sage Lady, and noble company, pardon me, for it shall ill become me if I go not to help that Gentleman to get his horse again. And without more ado he went and left them all laughing, and somewhat grieved to see how abruptly he left them for so small a matter. To whom Felicia spoke thus. Think it not a small occasion that hath made him leave you thus, for it should ill beseem him indeed (as he well considered no less) if he did not help him, that ran after his horse, because he is a great friend to Disteus, called Martandrus, who as you must know went out long since in company of Delicius and Parthenius, to seek out Disteus and Dardanea: wherefore you should be the rather glad of his coming at this time, because better than Placindus he can tell you out the rest of these loves that Placindus hath begun. If it be so, said Lord Felix, and the shepherds, it shall not be likewise amiss for us all to help him. And so rising up, they helped Martandrus to get his horse again. But Martandrus, who thou dost bring me, I am not so: for I know not whether I may reckon them in the number of good, or consort them amongst the ill. On the one side, by giving credit to thy words, I see my brother free from harm (which I pray the Gods may be true) and on the other, see not wherein thou meanest to place mine honour with thy pretences, which the Gods also permit may not be hurtful. It likes me well to see my brother in health and safe from wounds; but it would grieve me more to have mine honour (only in thought) called in question. I am glad to know that my brother hath been defended in so great danger, but sorry that it was by Disteus. Thou mightest have pleased me well Palna, and no less contented thyself, if with these good news, thou hadst only told me that Sagastes was free from danger, and not proceeded further to tell me, by whose means he escaped it. There was no cause I think (for that which toucheth me so near, will not give me leave to understand it otherwise) why Disteus help should be hidden from others, and only made known to me. And because I find the thought thereof so highly to offend mine honour: I will therefore not only speak of it, but, as though I had heard it in a dream, quite forget it, commanding thee (if now thou meanest not to go to thy Disteus again) never hereafter to open thy mouth in any thing touching this matter, or that hath but a taste thereof, upon pain of my high displeasure, and abridging of that good will, which I have hitherto borne thee. And that Placindus besides offer not to put foot in my house, or else not to enter in that where Disteus dwells. When she had said thus, without tarrying any longer to hear the feigned excuse that Palna had already prepared, in a great anger she went up to her chamber, where musing more deeply upon the matter, the noble virtues of Disteus, and his bounteous mind was presented to her tender thoughts, since for her man's sake and in defence of his mortal enemy, he exposed himself to so manifest danger; and his approved manhood and brave courage, whereby he got the victory of his enemies, occurring jointly to her mind, and therewithal the golden praises which Palna had so many times insinuated in her ears, all which she knew his general fame did confirm, made her so content in mind, as that to a new borne passion accompanied with sweet joy (but of what she knew not yet) she gave a friendly welcome. Who being in these mild considerations, Sagastes came in with Placindus (for assoon as he had spoken to his Aunt, he went to kiss Sagastes hands) to comfort her, if perhaps she had known any thing of that which was passed: And as he found her all alone, and very pensive, he thought that the late danger of his life had driven her into that sad and melancholic mood, whereupon he deferred not to tell her all in order what had passed, thinking she had not known it. To all which she gave an attentive ear, for she took great pleasure to hear him tell it. But when he told any thing of Placindus (whom as I said she knew to be Disteus) her colour went and came; but especially when he told that with valiant speed (when they had both drawn forth their rapiers) he stepped in between them, desiring him to keep out, and to accept that small token of duty and good will for the service he owed to his Mistress Dardanea. The often changing of her colour in her face gave him no occasion of suspect, who thought it rather proceeded of fear, and of thinking in what great danger he had like to been. After a few speeches past, he took her aside, and charged her to gratify Placindus, telling her that he would take nothing of him, and so he went his ways. Palna was not present at any of these things, because she would not be an eye sore to her Mistress with her presence, until her anger was somewhat past, who did not for all this lose her hope; but meaning to handle the matter wisely, warned Placindus not to go openly into Disteus house, excusing the matter to him, and that it was to no other end, but that none might suspect, that it was he that helped Sagastes: And because Sagastes and Dardanea (if they did know that he resorted thither) would not bear him such good will as they were wont. Palna by no means would make Disteus privy of Dardaneas answer and command, because she would not give him so bad news, knowing that without great grief of mind he could not suffer them. It is not needful (Gentlemen) to tell you here what Sagastes did, until he knew who those were that assailed him: Let it suffice that they were reconciled to Sagastes, who pardoned them because they might do the like to Placindus. And Beldanisus could not choose but pacify himself, seeing that Marthea had cast him off, and was married to Sagastes. At whose marriage, which with sumptuous and solemn feast and all kind of courtly sports (too long to tell) was celebrated in the City, Disteus in disguised sort was ever present: And in Tilt and Tourney (which for the greater honour thereof Sagastes had ordained) got so much glory and reputation, that as his heroical deeds and gracious demeanours were the common speeches of all the kingdom; so did the praises of his valour and prowess importune so much Dardaneas cares, that she was forced to love him a little more, especially when by some secret means she understood that she was the only cause why all those triumphs were done in honour of her love & service. The which also in particular by Disteus countenances and shows she not vainly guessed, although with great regard of modesty and reverence he so behaved himself, that whatsoever he did to make his fervent passion known, to his discredit, nor to her dishonour did any ways redound. And now was she sorry and wished that she had not so sharply chidden Palna, because she might have sometimes spoken to her of Disteus, and durst not go forth to meet her in the way, because she would not acquaint her with the secrets of her hart. And needless it was to speak to her of it, who by secret and hidden signs conceived more than by words Dardanea durst utter. For Palna like a wise and subtle woman made as though she did not understand that, whereof she yet doubted, lest thereby she might have fallen into some new error, being not fully assured of Dardaneas mind. And this she did to make her more gentle, and to discover her mind more apparently, thereby to conduct her affairs to a better end. Disteus in the mean time made all possible haste with Palna to bring him again to the sight of his Mistress, or at least to manifest his pain unto her, or else to give her a letter from him. All which Palna considering to be somewhat hard, did choose the least, advising him therefore to write, and promising him to find out some way or other to convey his letter into Dardaneas hands, without any suspicion or danger at all. For the better effecting whereof she devised (because Dardanea might not think that they had any conference together, or written to one another, and also because she might repose more trust and have the better opinion in her) that he should also write to her, as if that letter had been the first, wherein he should charge her to give Dardanea the other letter that he wrote unto her, and to leave the care of all the rest to her good endeavours, promising him to bring the matter to a good end; but upon such a condition, that he would have a little patience, if perhaps the answer were deferred for some few days. Disteus, as Palna did counsel him, did write, whose letters being received & come as fit to her mind as could be, she durst not (for the reason abovesaid) deliver either of them to her Mistress, as also because she would work her purpose more sure: which was, that knowing when Dardanea had most need of her, or at such a time when she least thought of such a matter, to withdraw her into an inner chamber next to her Mistresses to read the letters, or to make as though he read them, because Dardanea at one time or other (seeing her occupied) might take occasion to follow her, or set some to spy what she did, thereby to come to the sight of them: Which fell out so fit to her mind, as she could wish, for as often as she perceived her to go out of her sight, she sent her waiting maid secretly after her, to see what she did: wherein she was not to seek, who told her Mistress that she was writing, and because she perceived her coming, did let certain papers fall down by her. The desire that Dardanea had to know what she did write in so great secrecy, was not small, and Palnas no less to have her see it. Whereupon Dardanea went up and down musing in her mind by what means she might see it. Palna (for this was her only desire) knowing her mind, did hide Disteus letters, and with them another, wherein she answered him, with denial of his demand to give his letters to her Mistress, and grave advise to forsake that fond mind and purpose; and did put them in such a secret place, where she thought they might not be easily found, to make her Mistress think that by no means she would have them come to any bodies hands. The more she made a show to the contrary, the more did Dardaneas desire increase, although she kept it secret to herself. Whereupon to come to the end of her designs, one night after they had supped, she feigned herself to be drowsy, & that slumbering would not let her employ that time in any other thing; & thereupon withdrew herself to take a nap, commanding that none should come in, nor make any noise at all, and to make ready her pallet, that lay beside her bed, and to shut up the windows close. All which being done she went in, and when she thought Palna and her waiting maids were gone back again to their work, she rose up, and opening Palnas chamber door very softly, sought for the letters not so closely laid up, but that she found them out. Opening the first that came to her hands (which was that which Disteus had sent to Palna) she saw that it said thus.  
Disteus his letter to Palna.  
DIsteus to thee Palna sendeth health: After thou went'st from me (if unjustly I know not) I only conceived one harm that thy absence procured me, by finding myself deprived of her, whom I ever accounted for a mother, and this amongst the rest I always thought the greatest. But how more dangerous it is for me to have placed thyself with fair Dardanea, my hart only knoweth. For seeking reasons to condemn thee for that, which in all men's eyes made thee culpable, I found out good cause to give judgement against myself in that, for which, I know not, if I deserve to be punished. I accused thy disloyalty, and blamed thee for leaving me in such sort; but when I came to consider for whom, I was not able to utter a word. O how many times would I have forgotten this, and how many more have lost my life, not to have thought thereof. How often did I endeavour to cast off such amorous fancies from me, thinking to quench the flame that was kindled in me; and how many times did I find myself enwrapped therein, the fire, that had already taken full possession of my soul, reviving itself more in me. I will speak no more hereof, because all is to mine own cost: but by the amorous milk that I have taken from thee, most humbly pray thee, and for that great portion of amity and good will which thou dost owe me, to give this letter to my Mistress Dardanea, (happy were I if she would accept it.) And with this I end, hoping that either my passions or life will do no less.  
Dardanea having now the letter in her hand that Palna sent to Disteus, she first thought it best to see what Palna had written to him again in answer thereof, and when she had opened it, she saw that it said thus.  
Palnas letter to Disteus.  
TO thee Disteus, thy servant Palna sendeth health. Thy virtuous and magnificent mind hath been no less manifest unto me by the late and passed entertainment, which thou ever gavest me, not being constrained thereunto, then by this present letter, and by writing first unto me, not being bound to do it; whereby the bounty of thy brave mind is apparent to me, and the worthiness of thy high and noble blood (from whence thou art descended) well shown, and my base condition not made unknown. I speak it not for that I have forsaken thee for my Lady Dardanea, for of this I will never ask thee forgiveness, nor repent me, but because (as I was bound) I wrote not first unto thee. And though I have sufficient matter to excuse me, yet I will not allege it in mine own behalf, because I do not desire to be pardoned. Thy sweet and loving letter had afforded me no small pleasure, if it had commanded me to do something, wherein my poor ability might avail thee, though it had been to the cost of my life. But I could not be but sorry, when I saw I could not pleasure thee, of which fond request and oversight, in plainer terms (if by regard of due obedience I were not restrained) I would flatly reprove thee: In denial whereof (for I will not for all the world do any thing willingly, whereby I might give my Mistress occasion of offence) I send thee thy letter again which thou hast sent me to deliver unto her. But because I may by something pay that great debt which I own thee, I would counsel thee (if I might) to leave of such a thought, the contrary whereof shall be no less dangerous than troublesome to thee, and without any profit at all. If in any other thing thou wilt try my good will and fidelity, I would take it for a special favour at thy hands. The Gods keep thee in their protection.  
Then she opened the letter that Disteus sent to her, to the grave style and judicious conceit whereof, I pray you Gentlemen give an attentive ear.  

Disteus his letter to Dardanea.  

TO thee the comfort of all mortal men,  
Of all men living the most comfortless,  
Health (if discomfort any such can send)  
If any left, doth send with happiness.   

I wish no ease of all my ceaseless pain,  
If that a thousand times when I did take  
In hand to write to thee, I left again  
My pen as oft, when hand and hart did quake.   

I launched into the main and broadest seas,  
Knowing no port, nor friendly land, or coast  
To sail unto (my shaken bark to ease,  
With raging waves and furious tempests tossed)   

For on the one side if I thought to write,  
To make thee know my pain which thou hast wrought:  
Thy high deserts on th'other came in sight,  
To beat down such a far unworthy thought.   

My wearied torments did command an I,  
Thy sooner aine highness did for bid a No,  
And that command with reason did deny,  
Such worthiness and glory it did show.   

But after this proud boldness came in place,  
Persuading me I should do well before  
To write to thee: But fear did him disgrace,  
And said I should but anger thee the more.   

And therefore now as fear did over come  
Brave boldness, and had thrown it to the ground,  
And now that all my senses waxed numb  
By fear, which did my feeble hope confound.   

Courageously the God of Love came in,  
And said, unworthy fear pack hence, away:  
And come no more, for now thou shalt not win:  
I do command, Love doth command I say.   

And turning to me in this sort he said,  
As by command, nor gently by request,  
The fire (when once it is in flames displayed)  
Hides not itself, but makes it manifest:   

Even so it is impossible to hide  
My fiery flames, from being sometimes known,  
And though I would not, yet on every side  
They issue out, that easily they are known.   

Since than thy Nymph celestial must know,  
Either too soon or late thy cruel flame,  
Let first thy mouth declare to her thy woe,  
Then to thy hand and pen commend the same.   

I answered (God wots with fainting hart)  
To write to her, it is my chief desire;  
But if she chance to frown at this bold part,  
O God defend my pen should cause her ire.   

Thus Love at last perceiving what a faint  
And heartless coward I was, in the end  
He wrote to thee, by pitying of my plaint,  
And in my name Love doth this letter send.   

And now because thy mind it may not move  
To anger, by receiving of the same:  
And if thou thinkest thy honour I do prove,  
Know from a God, and from no man it came.   

Even from the God of Love, who is a God  
Of highest birth, whose power doth extend  
In heaven, and earth, where he makes his abode,  
Both paying tribute to him without end.   

So that it is the mighty God of Love  
That errs (if that in writing he doth err)  
Against Love therefore all thy anger move,  
(If this to wrath thy modest mind may stir.)   

Hark well (my dearest Mistress) what I say,  
That if this letter breedeth thy offence,  
Be thou revenged of Love, which did assay  
To write, and not of me for this pretence.   

But by the way I tell thee as a friend,  
That if with Love thou dost begin to strive,  
With nature and her laws thou dost contend,  
For making thee the fairest one alive.   

For if she have of purpose given thee  
Beauty, and grace, and in thy breast hath framed  
The only pattern of gentility,  
That beauty's Paragon thou mayst be named.   

And to lay up her riches all in one,  
Of all her treasure she hath now despoiled  
The world, and made it poor in leaving none,  
And to make thee the only one hath toiled.   

Hath she not reason then to be offended,  
If by the gem, where she her utmost tried,  
She would have seen and known how far extended  
Her passing skill, which thou dost seek to hide?   

Hath she not reason to be angry, when  
The pattern of her skill and only one  
Hides from the world and buries in a den  
Her treasures, which so feign she would have known?   

For sure I know, if that thou meanest not  
To love, thou buriest all her parts in thee:  
And dost thou think, that anything is got  
By flying Love, and nature's best decree?   

And if thou thinkest herein to do amiss,  
Or hurt thyself by loving, yet at lest  
Suffer thyself to be beloved. And this  
Fond error drive out of thy tender breast.   

O suffer of thine own accord and will,  
For forced thou shalt be to this for ever:  
While thou and I do live, and shalt be still  
After thy death and mine, and ended never.   

Then will me not (Dardanea) to forsake  
My perfect love, which now I have bewrayed:  
For more thou dost command the less I make  
Account of it, and less shalt be obeyed.   

And think thou art not wronged any whit,  
Because what thou (fair Mistress) dost command  
Is not obeyed, for here it is not fit  
Where life for love and love for life is pawned.   

Leave thou if that thou canst the same thou hast,  
Yielding to nature, what so much on thee  
She hath bestowed, and change thy life that's past,  
And leave moreover what thou meanest to be.   

Then shalt thou see thy most unjust desire  
Fulfilled, and will performed without defect,  
Although thou didst the contrary require,  
As fearing colours with some vain suspect.   

But now why shouldst thou leave a perfect being,  
By taking that which more imperfect is?  
As first men's eyes the like was never seeing,  
The second void of comfort, joy and bliss.   

So that (sweet Mistress) it becomes thee not  
To anger Love, and Nature to offend,  
For thou art bound (whom they have not forgot)  
Their laws to love, their essence to defend.   

Since that thy beauties in the world resound,  
And dost in virtue hold the highest place,  
And dost in knowledge and in wit abound,  
In modesty, and every other grace.   

Make them illustrious then by thy requiting,  
Take heed, Ingratitude is full of hate,  
Hate to revenge is ever more inviting,  
And so revenge waits at oblivions gate.   

And think not, that I speak these words in jest,  
For to a cruel Goddess it belongs  
This vice (which all the world doth so detest)  
To punish, and torment ingrateful wrongs.   

And Nemesis the angry is her name,  
Whose unresisted might who doth not know?  
Equal she is and never but the same,  
Impartially to deal with friend or foe.   

Alas I would she might not find in thee  
So great a fault, as none more great than this,  
Since from all other faults thou shalt be free,  
If but this fault alone thou wilt dismiss.   

But thou mayst say, why should thy hapless fare  
Trouble my mind, or thy good please my will,  
Or what have I to do to take such care,  
Whether thy fortune fallout good or ill?   

To answer this, I cannot well reply,  
Let it suffice thee, that the lest suspect  
Of any harm thou hast doth make me die,  
And worse than death torments me in effect.   

Dear Lady, than I would not have thee prove  
The cruel shaft of angrte Nemesis:  
For first let each infernal power move  
Their plagues against me of eternal Dis.   

But now I would be glad if thou wouldst taste  
The sweet and golden flight of Cupid's power,  
Because my torments, which are gone and passed,  
Pity thou mightst and those I feel this hour.   

For if thou knewest my pains and piteous case,  
With pity and tears thou wouldst my life deplore,  
Not for my merits, which are very base,  
But for my love, which well deserveth more.   

Each thing that is created here so fit,  
An equal having in a divers kind,  
In such like kind a payment doth admit,  
By measuring the debt that is behind.   

But as fell love no equal doth contain,  
In such a divers kind and different,  
By self same thing it pays itself again:  
Love must be paid with love of good intent.   

Then since it is most evident and clear,  
That I do prize thy love at such a rate,  
Thou must requite my love again so dear,  
If Nemesis ingratitude doth hate.   

But if thou dost not purpose to requite  
The love, that I have borne, and bear thee still;  
And with like love to ease my heavy plight,  
And grievous pains for thy procuring ill:   

My hands of life shall then undo the chain,  
But not of love (by death to ease my death)  
And so requite me, when no other mean  
Is left, to make me still enjoy this breath.   

For sure if that my life be of this sort,  
My life is death, and dying is my life:  
My death is sweet, a pleasure, joy and sport,  
Lining in such a world of amorous strife.  
But now I cease, my tears fall in such store,  
And painful soul for grief can write no more.    
O how wisely hast thou done Martandrus (said Lord Felix) by warning us to be attentive, for this letter doth well beseem the person of a discreet and enamoured Gentleman, with what modesty and fear did he write it. And how true is that (said Danteus) which is almost in the end of it, That all things in this world in a different kind may be paid, as grass with sheep, sheep with cloth, and finally all with money; but only love, the which, because with no other thing it hath neither equality nor proportion, cannot but with love be recompensed again. For touching myself I know, that though my Shepherdess Duarda would give me all that she hath in the world; yet she could not pay me that she owes me, if she denied me her love. Felismena preventing Duarda that was about to answer him, said. Let us leave this for this time: And as you love yourself (Sir) tell on, because we may know what this Lady did with such a letter; for I know not what she was able to answer again, but to yield herself to his love, whereupon I think she durst not take in hand to answer so wise reasons. Not so Lady (said Martandrus) for I assure you that Dardanea is not such an one, that the high sense and stile thereof could put her to a nonplus; in proof whereof you shall see it by her answer. But because we may not discontinue so sweet a discourse I will proceed.  
This letter was of so great effect in Dardaneas tender hart, that now in every point she perceived herself yielded to Cupid's forces: The which her crystalline tears that issued out of her clear eyes, did make so manifest, that she was unable to stay them, although many times in vain she laboured the contrary. But as she could not satisfy herself with reading it once or twice over, the more she read it, the more her love increased: For knowing Disteus his virtues and valour to be great, and therewithal considering the quality of his person, and with what mild modesty and discretion he wrote this letter, the well conceived words thereof were so forcible in her mind imprinted, that they strangely disposed it to entertain most loving thoughts of him that wrote them. Her kind and tender hart was no less pierced with pity, and compassion when she understood in what extremities his love consisted, since by the sequel of his letter she perceived how abruptly he ended; whereby he manifested the forcible passion that he had in writing of his pains and sorrows: To all which no mean motives in her conquered mind this moreover occurred, that he offered to expose himself to any danger of death for Sagastes his mortal enemy, only to do her service, that never yet had showed him the least favour in the world. So that love assailing her on the one side (which till then had not notably signorized in her) and her honour and virtuous reputation (which she had ever religiously observed) pressing her on the other, drove her usetled thoughts into such suspense, and troubled her doubtful mind, that being ignorant what course to take, or what remedy to choose out for the best, since she would neither offend this, & could not choose but obey that, she was between two contraries so mightily assaulted, that to yield to one without prejudice to the other, she would in a manner have lost her dearest life: which sorrowful thoughts hiding in her secret breast, and the letters in her amorours' bosom, she went to her chamber, where casting herself upon her bed, and lying flatling upon her pillow, thus she lamented to herself.  
O what shall become of thee Dardanea, being assailed by two such opposite enemies! O heavenly Diana! O invincible Venus! How have you both with your divine powers seized on my yielding soul? How could you, being so great Goddesses, make your habitation and seat in so humble a sublect, and in so base and little a house as this is? And being so contrary and capital enemies, how have you determined to your content, and my loss to deraigne a hard and mighty battle in such a tender and weak field? Why will you execute your unresisted forces in the feeble breast of a yielded and captive woman? feign would I not open the gates Diana, whose name I honour to thy contrary; but pardon me, since I have not my wont forces: for importunate Venus knowing how strongly this tower of thinc was defended, & being driven many times from it, hath now employed all her force in the enterprise, and conquest of it. O noble Disteus, if thy words be feigned (which the Gods forbidden) then is my death certain. But why should I think so when as thou are Disteus, whose name includes all generous virtues: and I Dardanea, whose mind such thoughts doth ill beseem. Alas poor Gentleman, how ungratefully doth Palna thy nurse requite thy favours which she confesseth thou hast bountifully bestowed on her, since from thy first desire (a matter but of small consequence) she so bitterly repelled thee by denying to give me a letter, which to her hands, next to my hart thou didst so earnestly commend. What wilt thou say, nay what shall I do, since she that was the soul and only means, will have nothing to do with the matter, which she herself did first begin. Couldst thou not (Disteus) or wert thou afraid to open thy grief unto me, or was I unable or too timorous to manifest my passion unto thee? Tell me cruel Palna, what leave hadst thou to send back again the letter, that was only directed to me, by not letting me once see it. Was it not meet thou shouldest do that, thy master commanded thee, and that which was expedient for me? But alas thou art not in fault but I, and therefore will I only take the punishment on myself, and excuse thee from blame. For since I have entreated thee so sharply, when thou didst speak to me of Disteus, and in such things, which did not any ways offend my honour, thou hast then reason to use me cruelly in that, wherein my help and remedy doth chiesly consist.  
And thus putting silence to her grief, she went musing what means she might use, to make Palna give her the letter, whereby she might have some good occasion to write unto Disteus, and in the end resolved to take Palna on the sudden with the letters in her hand, and to see them against her will, as she could not otherwise imagine: Whereby the means to answer him again might be fitly offered her. This determination being put in practice, when Palna had the letters in her hand (for as I said, she read them many times of purpose to be seen) Dardanea came into her chamber, and she feigning as though she would hide them, Dardanea importuned her to see them, commanding her in the end to tell her to whom, and what she wrote. But she that desired nothing more, making some simple excuses, as though she were not content therewith, at last showed them: which, when Dardanea saw, feigning that she was angry with Disteus, she commended her that she had so wisely answered him, though it sufficed not (as she said) for so presumptuous and bold a part, and that she would therefore answer him with another letter to supply the want of hers, to warn him, not once in thought to imagine, speak, or write of it again. In the end whereof she purposed to tell him, by what means the letter came to her hands, because both of them might be blameless. The which thing she did put immediately in practice, and so began to write: The letter being ended, she read it to Palna, and thus it said.  

Dardaneas answer to Disteus.  
TO thee the most presumptuous without leave,  
Counsel, not health, by these few lines I send,  
That am more fearful than thou mayst conceive:  
If that I thought mine honour to offend  
By answering thee, constrained as thou mayst see,  
Or answering not, it might the more extend,  
Rather than I would thus much pleasure thee,  
Or would vouchsafe to take my pen in hand,  
First would I take a sword to murder me.  
Mine end is good, and doth with virtue stand,  
And if thou dost think otherwise then so,  
Thou art deceived as much as any man:  
For if my reason sound thou wilt know,  
And weigh my words but with attentive mind,  
And note each sentence that herein I show:  
By all the foresaid thou shalt only find,  
How I pretend to give thee sound advise,  
And wholesome counsel fit for one so blind:  
Which is, that thou leave of this enterprise  
(If that thou canst) and fly a thought so vain,  
Or at the least conce ale it from mine eyes.  
I know not, and the ground cannot obtain,  
That made thee write to me this other day:  
Nor yet from whence such boldness thou mightst gain.  
But now I do remember thou didst say,  
That love, not thou, those loving lines did write,  
Because it did thy mind too much dismay:  
Fancies they are, like to the dreams by night,  
Common to lovers (if there any be)  
To manifest his childish toys so light.  
Poor God of love, thy servants all agree  
As many as do wait upon thy train,  
To lay their faults most commonly in thee:  
If childish toys I said: do not disdain:  
For this God, whom thou dost so much obey,  
Is but a child, thy words do show it plain.  
Thou seem'st to show the same by words, I say,  
By deeds I know not, nor I do pretend  
To know, though deeds by words thou dost display.  
Which last of all in men I comprehend,  
Which are more words than works in plain effect:  
In case this God of love their minds offend,  
If that your hearts so plainly could detect  
That, which your mouth expresseth by her voice,  
We should not hold your loves in such suspect.  
But truth it is, I do no whit rejoice,  
For nothing it concerneth me at all,  
To hear thee vaunt thee of thy love and choice:  
And that as firm as any brazen wall,  
And more than rocks upon the shorie sands,  
In fortune's favour or in fortune's thrall:  
That like an Oak against the wind it stands,  
Like hardest Diamond to the beating steel,  
Like Salamander in the flaming brands.  
And that again it turneth like the wheel,  
And wavers more than beams of shaken glass,  
More than the waves, that tumble still and reel,  
More changing then the weathercock (Alas)  
In towers, and more than Cynthia in her sky:  
And more than men in love their lives that pass.  
This hurts me little, nor I care not I,  
Wherefore it shall be better for thy ease,  
Not to love her, that doth thy love deny.  
Then seek some other with thy love to please  
Against thy love that will not so rebel,  
And where thou mayst swim in contented seas:  
For (sooth) thy person hath deserved well  
To be beloved of some other dame,  
For many gifts in which thou dost excel.  
There is no Lady, but would wish the same,  
Nor scorn thy love, but ever think her blest  
That she might call thee by her lovers name.  
And sooner shalt thou want (to match thy breast)  
A Lady fit (respecting thy desert)  
For none come near (though yet accounted best)  
Of purpose he ere thy praises I insert,  
For thou didst so much wander in my praise,  
That only this for thanks I do revert.  
And words for words do give thee now in poise,  
And if thou hast extolled me much better,  
So all thy gifts in every place I blaze,  
Ingrateful thou didst call me in thy letter,  
And there the proof was false and very vain,  
And therefore thou must yet remain my debtor.  
Although it were not so, thou saidst again  
That I was bound to love, in being fair,  
So worldling like thine argument was plain.  
But see how reason doth the same impair,  
For brighter doth each woman's beautte shine,  
The more she shines in praise of virtues rare.  
So that I shall make nature more divine,  
In following Diana's honest train,  
Then Venus steps, or her fond discipline.  
To please her son I ever thought it vain,  
Since him I cannot, and Diana please,  
For she is chaste, dishonest is his chain.  
To serve Apollo's sister, sweetest ease  
And greatest honour by her love is got.  
Who serves fond love is drowned in doleful seas.  
If after Venus' son thou art so hot,  
And dost intend to follow his desires,  
If so it please, then how mayest thou not?  
I do not mean to love what he requires:  
And let this God even work with me his fill,  
He never shall consume me in his fires.  
Let him not seek but her, that seeks her ill,  
Let him not wound but those that love his wounds,  
Nor subject those that care not for his will.  
But now I know not to what purpose sounds  
These reasons, that dissuade me to embrace  
Cupid thy God, that reason still confounds.  
Since that unto my will he giveth place,  
And on the same his liking doth depend,  
Reason in me his colours do deface.  
'tis therefore reason, to the which I tend,  
And great it is, since it doth satisfy  
My mind, and doth the same so well defend.  
Thou writ'st, that if to love thee I deny,  
That I would suffer thee to love me yet,  
Against my will for love yet wilt thou die.  
A pretty means procoeding from thy wit,  
To pray me not thy dear love to prevent,  
Yet will I nill I thou to practise it.  
I grieve I cannot hinder this intent,  
But if (in fine) perforce unto my pain  
thou wilt love me, perforce I must consent.  
If that from being loved, I could remain,  
(As from all love) in faith I never would  
Have left it to thy choosing to abstain.  
For he that loved me with such rigour should  
Be punished, that he should have thence no soul  
To love me, if his love prevent I could.  
But I'll do that which no man shall control,  
Which is that none presume to manifest  
His love to me so wanton and so bold.  
Let therefore punishment thy mind suggest,  
To move this fancy from thy idle mind,  
A fancy first conceived within thy breast,  
Of no good ground where hope thou canst not find:  
Hope is exiled where honour taketh place;  
Honour is dear to women of my kind:  
Virgins I mean, and living in the face  
Of all the world with honour and renown.  
Which if it be but stained, each other grace  
She hath, with no recou'rie falleth down.  
If then these few persuasions cannot make  
Thee change thy mind, nor now this present frown,  
Nor trembling hands, which now for anger shake  
By writing of these lines with little rest,  
Nor fear of punishment make thee forsake  
This fond conceit nursed vainly in thy breast,  
When thou mayst never hope to have a day;  
Then let mine honour move thee (at the )  
To make thee hide this fire (if you may)  
Wherewith thou sayst thy breast is so inflamed:  
Mark this, and let thy wits not so estray.  
If that thou sayst, that hardly is reclaimed  
The fire of love, and hardly hid again;  
To tell it Palna less thou shalt be blamed.  
But since thy hope incertain is and vain,  
And all thy harms most sure, then open the door  
(To help thee) to oblivion and disdain.  
And thus I end in hope to hear no more.   
Martandrus interrupting Felismena that would have praised the letter, and have noted some things in it, prosecuted his tale thus. Dardanea having made an end of reading the letter, was not yet so quiet in mind, but that she gave true tokens of that which remained in her breast. Whereupon, and by the gentle and mild words in her letter, Palna understanding how fitly it made for her purpose, did finely dissemble the matter, and praised her for answering his letter so well, harping still upon that string, that she was obliged to her honour and good name. But because the severe stile of the letter might not daunt Disteus, she secretly sent him another, wherein she advised him what he had to do, after so good a beginning: which might be gathered by some words of the answer: for proof whereof, he might perceive that she had written no austere and sharp letter, wherein if any bitterness had escaped her pen unawares, she did strait moderate it with a hidden temper of mildness. Advising him besides to note, that when she warned him to surcease his love unto her, she said unto him (if thou canst) correcting herself in a matter, that made so greatly for her own mind; and to consider how greatly these affairs did trouble her, who was continually thinking on them, and that she was not persuaded that he loved her from his hart; but above all things, to take heed how much it stood him in hand to keep this secrecy, which she committed unto him. Palna moreover persuaded him to hope well, since Dardanea took delight in hearing these affairs, whereof she made her her only secretary. Finally not to be tedious to you with so long a discourse, a few days after Palna used so great diligence, that she got that out of Dardanea, which she kept so secret in her breast; but could never win her to speak with Disteus, unless he would first promise and swear to marry her, which was so joyful news to him, who thought he wanted nothing more to make him the happiest man alive. So that this being done, Dardanea (though at the first she made it somewhat coy) gave him leave to come to her house, where they enjoyed a little while each others company in sweet and pleasant conversation, with all respect of reverence and modesty that was requisite in such a case: At the end whereof (the pleasanter the biginning was, more bitter was the sequel, since at the first love seldom affords one little pleasure without distempering it in the end with sorrow and care) it fell out that Disteus having gone very early to Dardanea, and Palna not remembering to shut the door after him, they lay together in one bed which was made ready for them in a fair and large Summer chamber beneath, where they had before sometimes lain together: For Palna (when Disteus was come in) was warned to shut a certain door, which was a passage into all the house, because no maid nor servant might come down and go thorough that way. But as she remembered not also to shut the street door, which they thought was safe enough, Sagastes by chance came in suspecting least of all any such matter. Disteus perceiving a greater noise in the chamber than a woman's treading could make, covered himself the best he could with the clothes of the bed. If Dardanea was not altered by seeing her brother (judge you Gentlemen) though then it stood her in hand to dissemble it. Sagastes sat him down in a chair at the bed's feet, and asked her what the matter was that she went to bed so soon. Who answered that she was not well at ease, and was therefore minded to take some Physic. Sagastes hearing this, would have been gone, but turning his face (for now he was on that side of the bed where his sister lay) and seeing a little stirring in the bed, asked her who was a bed with her. Dardanea answered it was her Niece (for she kept a little child of one of her gentlewomen, the which (because she loved it well) she called her Niece:) but Sagastes thinking it was more than a child's stirring, did thrust up his hands between the sheets to feel the feet, Disteus as softly as he could drawing them up. But as Sagastes thrust up his arm so far, that Disteus knew he could not keep himself any longer hidden, with both his hands he lifted up the clothes of the bed, and cast them so happily on Sagastes, that they covered him all over, and therewithal leaping out of the bed, as though he would have laid hands on him, Dar danea made him signs to be gone. Disteus followed her counsel, who being in his shirt ran out a pace, whom Sagastes (after he had unfolded himself from the clothes) laying his hand on his rapier followed with might and main not knowing him. Disteus by dark and secret places thought to convey himself away, but as the night was somewhat clear, he could not: So that what way soever he went Sagastes, followed him. And if he was sometimes out of his sight as in some narrow and by lanes, the people told him which way he went. Disteus therefore running in this sort, and Sagastes after him, he took a house, because he would not be known of the people that made a great clamour to see a man run away in his shirt, and another following him with a naked rapier in his hand. Scarce had he recovered the house, when Sagastes came to the very door. But Disteus kept him out by shutting of a door at the stairs foot, & sought something to defend himself being naked; yea, and to hurt his enemy if he could. Sagastes laboured to burst the door in pieces to come in, & cried out so loud to them within, to open him the door, that if they did not, he would so cruelly punish them, that they should know what it was to harbour an unknown thief, of whose fact he made them no less guilty than the principal: Whereupon the Master of the house that by this time was come to see what a noise there was, (fearing Sagastes threats) came to lay hands on his guest & to deliver him into Sagastes hands. But perceiving it was Disteus, whom all the city and country so much loved, he fell down on his knees, beseeching him to convey himself out of a window at the backside of the house, because he durst not but open his door to Sagastes; and therefore gave him an old cloak and a sword, for he had no time to give him any more. Disteus by this counsel which he held for good, and by necessity, as the case required, being forced to fulfil his friends request, yielding him great thanks for his courtesy, went out. Sagastes was melting in his own heat and anger, that they would not open the door, and swearing he would kill as many as he found in the house. Whereat the Master of the same, (after he had showed Disteus the way to escape) feigning as though he had not known what the matter was, came down, and ask who knocked, opened the door. Sagastes caused him strait to be taken and bound, and searching every corner of the house, but not finding him, whom he sought, came to him again, swearing by the life of the king, that if he told him not where the man was, or who he was that came into his house, he would presently hang him up at his own door. At which words the good man being afraid, told him (as he heard) that it was Disteus. Sagastes did easily believe it, for he thought none durst have been so bold to injury him in such sort but only he: So that seeing he had escaped him, without staying any more, he went to Disteus house with a great number of people following him. But no sooner did Sagastes run out of his sister's house to follow Disteus, but she locked her door and told Palna what had happened, requesting her best and speedy advise in that matter, and to bethink her of some remedy, that was best for them. Palna at these unexpected news was in such a maze and confusion, that she could not answer her a word: But weighing the danger that Disteus was in, and love encouraging her (for she accounted him as her son) she answered. Do you dear Mistress what you think good; for I mean in every peril to follow my son Disteus, for whom I shall arm myself with no less courage and constancy to suffer grief and sorrow, than I did to give him contentment and pleasure, so that in few words my resolution is to know what is become of him: For if his person (which the Gods forbidden) hath suffered any harm, I will not enjoy mine, nor live in this world without his company. Wherefore you must pardon me (good Lady) for laying all fear aside, I will either die or know what is become of my beloved Disteus. It grieves me that I am forced to leave you in such a trance and extremity all alone, & in a time of so great need, but dear Lady there lies no more in my power to perform. Dardanea with more tears & sighs, than well ordered reasons said. Time will not give me leave to answer to that which thou hast spoken, nor to make thee know my mind, and whether the love which I bear to Disteus my loving husband and almy joy, be of less weight than thine towards him, who was thy nurse child and all thy comfort. It would grieve me thou shouldst have such an opinion of me, if I knew not to manifest it by and by. For this thou mayst at least believe of me, that since for the greatest I had courage enough; for the lesser, I will have no less. Lady, said Palna, here is but little time, as you said, to use many words, & therefore determine what you mean to put in practice, for I will do all that you command me, upon condition that it be not to forsake my son. I will not command thee any such thing (answered Dardanea) but that which I have determined to do, is that as well for the great love I own unto my loving Lord (for without him I will not live) as for the fear I have of my brother, I will not stay here. Then if it be so (said Palna) I think it best for me to carry Disteus some garments, & for you to get the best jewels you have together, and then for us both to go to my nephews house: for we being escaped and hidden, we shall not only prevent this present danger; but time and mature consideration shall discover to us what course is best to be taken. Whereupon putting this in practice, they went to Placindus' house: To whom disclosing the foresaid loves (for to that time they were known to none but Palna) and telling what happened the same night, they prayed him to go and inquire what was done. Sagastes understanding it was Disteus as I told you, went to seek him at his own house, where finding the door open, knew he was not come, and therefore stayed for him there until he came. But when he had awaited there a good while in vain, he suspected he had taken some of his friends houses, and therefore went home again to his sister's lodging, vowing to be well revenged of Disteus; though he would feign have that night satisfied his unruly anger, which was not a little augmented, when he found neither Dardanea nor Palna, marveling very much to see how quiet all his sister's servants were, and how strange they made it all, when Sagastes demanded the matter of them. Disteus that was going home to his house, when he saw a far off a great number of people before his door, it made him think (as it was true indeed) that Sagastes was waiting for him, whereupon he went to my house; whereby he made me know what great affiance he had in my friendship, which I accounted no small credit unto me. I doubt not Gentlemen, but any (that hath been attentive to my tale) will ask me, how Sagastes came first to his enemy's house, since Disteus went before out of the man's house, which he was constrained to take for refuge. Whereunto it may be easily answered, that Disteus going (as you know) almost naked, and therefore leaving the open and common streets to go about by lanes and secret places, came later than Sagastes. But when Disteus unlooked for came into my house, without calling, but shutting the door after him, lest any had followed him, he came into my study: And his hap was so good that he found me all alone. I did not a little wonder to see him in such sort, and therefore demanded the cause of his coming & in such a manner. Who answered me that he had no time for so large a report, but prayed me to give him some apparel, and a horse, and what else was needful for him, which I only denied him not, but also preparing myself to bear him company, he would in no wise let me, for he meant to conceal (until he could no longer) his secret love and affection from me. He therefore being appareled, and furnished with the best offensive and defensive weapons he could choose out, went to help Dardanea, lest her harebrain brother in his fury might have laid violent hands upon her, or else to die in the quarrel, before she should suffer any harm at all. Going therefore about this matter, he met with Placindus, that was coming to seek him out, by his Aunt's commandment, whom he asked if he knew any thing. Placindus told him, how he should find Dardanea and Palna in his house, and that he should go thither quickly, because Dardanea was the most sorrowfullest woman in the world for his danger. Disteus went thither out of hand: but knowing that place to be nothing so convenient and secret, as their present necessity required, because (by missing Palna) Sagastes would out of hand come thither; he brought them to my house, willing Placindus to lie still and take his rest, because he might thereby make them believe, that he knew nothing of the matter. All three might come secretly to my house, because as siths that was not far from Placindus' lodging, so were they both out of the concourse of people and walk of neighbours; and also because Sagastes was gone to the King to complain of the injury that Disteus had done him, whom he requested to command a search to be made in all suspected houses that were thought most fit to harbour him, and Dardanea and Palna. The King not only granted hereunto (for as you know he desired to have the least occasion, whereby he might throw down Disteus party, to pleasure Sagastes) but took this matter upon him as his own, and swore to behead Disteus, and as many as were culpable, and every one that afterwards helped him And therefore (to favour him the more) made Sagastes himself judge in his own cause, because he might take the greater revenge at his own pleasure. Who, when he saw so good a means for his desire, without more ado beset Disteus house with a privy watch, having first searched it all thorough, where missing him, he went strait to seek out his sister. They employed all diligence and labour they thought needful to bring their purpose to effect; but my house they overslipped, because as it was not pliable enough to Disteus his party, nor I myself held for his friend, so was I free from all suspicion that I kept him. But when they could not find him, he commanded a proclamation to be made, that every one upon pain of his head, that harboured them, or knew where they were, should bring them forth: and afterwards apprehended Anfilardus and Placindus, and as many as they suspected could tell of them, threatening them to cruel torments, yea, and putting some in practice, though all in vain to their purpose. It could not choose but kill Disteus his hart to see the ruin of his house, and the imprisonment of his friends and family, who did nevertheless comfort himself not a little, because it was for his Lady and Mistress sake, whom he had now in happy possession, the which thing he forgot not by many sweet and loving words to manifest unto her: who could not for all this be comforted, (though she made him not privy to her inward grief) when she thought of the unjust and ill name (a thing that grieved her more than death) that was spread abroad of that, which she esteemed more than life, and when she entered into consideration and fear of the imminent danger wherein her beloved husband was, by means of the great searching and awaits that Sagastes had laid in all places to find them out: Wherefore taking him aside, she said thus unto him. I know well my Lord, that my Fortune would not leave me without some sorrowful occurrent in so sweet an estate, nor to do less with me then ever turn most bitterly against the pretence of my content. It grieves me to see thee take and taste some part of my sorrow, wherein yet I do comfort myself again, that I shall not be the last in offering up my life for the least danger for thy sake, since I was the first in sacrificing my soul to thy will, obtesting almighty God that as I had no force with my feeble judgement to gainsay thy desire, I had also sufficient valour with my life to deliver thee from these most wrongful turmoils. I see thee here in great extremities (for mine own I account but small) and therefore my opinion concurring with my desire is, that since for many days we are neither safe here, nor in any other part of the kingdom are like to be no less, thou wouldst resolve to convey us into any place, where we might in more safety over pass this cruel storm of Fortune, assuring thee my dear Lord, that if I saw thee free from danger, I would not take care for the rest. I might well pass over this new bond, my sweetest Lady answered Disteus, with many more already past, wherein after that I was thine, thou hast so much obliged me, since I was never able yet to discharge them, the which (unless the unspeakable love which I have borne thee, and wherein I mean to die doth not with favour come in part of their account and satisfaction) must still remain (the more my grief) in their former force, when as the disproportion of my small ability can never countervail their increasing value. I have remembered and weighed that with myself, which thou didst command me, but would not hitherto tell thee so much, fearing to give thee any occasion of sorrow by absenting thyself from thy friends and kinsfolks, and from thy house, and quiet rest, to carry thee to some uncouth place amongst strangers to live in poverty and unrest. If you regard this my Lord, said Dardanea, you do also forsake this and much more. But admit I leave all this, and you nothing at all, in not leaving you, I might well think I left nothing at all. No more of this said Disteus, but were it not fonfeare of thy trouble and harm, I would desire no other heaven in this world then to have thee continually in my presence: But let us make my mother privy of it, who will counsel us as she hath done, what is best for us, and direct us in all our matters. They therefore calling Palna unto them, and telling her their minds, she said. And know ye my good son and daughter, that Martandrus and I were also talking of the same matter, who is no less troubled in mind, fearing there will be a search made in his house, whereby great harm may befall us, and no good to him at all. I would not tell you of it, because you might not think he did it for any fear that concerned him. When she had said thus, she called me before them, and Disteus began to say thus unto me. If I knew thee not to be a faithful friend Martandrus, I would not have put the weight of so great affairs in thy trust and secrecy, nor omit with words (since I cannot with deeds) to gratify that which thou hast done for me. But as I have experimented, and do yet try the contrary, I hope, thou wilt not blame me, if I make not some outward and apparent show of thanks for it: But for the present remedy of our dangerous estate, we are determined to fly the fury of our king with the absence of our persons; for which escape we crave not only thy advise, but assistance, and how it may be done without our discovery. Concerning that supposed debt (said I) which you my good Lord confess you own me, I will not answer you, but only touching that, which you have committed to my charge, since it hath pleased you to make mine the greater, by having amongst all others, chosen me out for your only friend, which I esteem more than all that I did ever for you in my whole life, all which were it ten times more, is nothing in respect of this favourable trust which you repose in me. As for the rest let every one of us think what we have to do, and how to take the best course. All four of us therefore laying our heads together in counsel, after a great while every one having told his opinion, as mine was thought the best, so was it allowed & chosen, which was, That since Sagastes had placed watchmen in the city gates, & especially by night, that none might pass, unless he were known what he was, the best way to get out was, that I should cause three carts to come that evening from my farm (for they knew I had a Farm but three miles out of the city) to bring certain provision from thence for my house, & other things, though I had no need of them: So that the carts might come thither at Sunset, & go empty back again the same night when it began to wax dark, because seeing them to go home again without any thing, they might not suspect our drift, and yet (though they had looked narrowly into the Carts) might as little have suspected any such matter; for under them I had devised to bind certain great sacks at length, with their mouths open, in each a piece every one to put themselves, and to send the Carters after they had unladen (because they might not be privy to it) to some place or other, while in the mean time I dispatched our secret affairs, having made means before in my Farm that it might not be known of any: All which was done in such sort, that there was not as much as any suspicion of the matter. The same night that I carried them to my Farm, we all went to counsel what way we might best devise for three of them to go out of the kingdom to some solitary place, where they might not be pursued, and live unknown. And our conclusion was, that Disteus should take one of those Carts, and make himself a Carter, and Dardanea and Palna in poor apparel go out of the kingdom, and in the best manner they could, in habits clean different from their estates pass into Tynacrta, and that from that place, where they made their abode, writ to me of their success. Still did Sagastes set watch and ward in every place (for it was his chiefest desire to catch Disteus) that none of them might escape, whose cruel purpose yet (and not without reason) the fury of his anger did change. For as he knew that all men loved Disteus, and that all his friends (if without just cause he apprehended and punished him) would discover themselves and bandy against him, and by these means (perhaps) draw himself into great danger: So was he not a little content to see the head of the contrary side taken away, and his capital enemy absent, whereby he thought to do well enough with the rest. But yet he knew not that his sister was likewise gone with him, but thought she was in some of her kinsfolks houses. So that Disteus being absent, Sagastes might confiscate his goods and condemn him for a traitor, since he appeared not at the Kings call, by whose command Sagastes seized indeed upon all Disteus lands and his Sister's goods, which were not a few. here is no time to tell you, gentlemans, of the tears, that were spent between me and my noble guests at their departure: But that Disteus prayed me by myself or by my friends to help Anfilardus and Placindus the best I could, and to get them out of prison, for this was the only thing (he said) that did trouble him. So that they being gone from me, and I from them in body, Disteus went, as I told you, to Tynacria, where (as afterwards I understood) buying a little flock of sheep to dissemble his noble condition with this base estate, they were some days there, perhaps with more hearts ease then in Eolia, because they enjoyed there, without any fear and danger, their sweet contents, and were well beloved and reverenced of all the Shepherds thereabouts, who endeavoured to do them all the pleasure they could; sometimes with rural sports and games; other times with dances and pastoral music. To all which Disteus so well applied himself, that in a short time he far excelled them all. And so for this respect, as for his affability and mildness, by knowing how to converse with all, that Shepherd thought himself unhappy, that had not some private friendship with Coryneus (for so he named himself after he had changed his habit:) and Dardanea that named herself Dinia, was no less acceptable to all the Shepherdesses, and Palna called Corynea, like her son, was reverenced of them all. When all three went from me, Dardanea was gone two months with child: but what God sent her, or what became of the child she brought forth, I know not, for they had not dwelta whole year in that country, when they went away for what cause, or whither, I also know not. The cause whereof (considering the time wherein they went away) I suspect was this. That in this mean while King Rotyndus married with the King's sister of that Province where they were; whose wifes brother a little while after being dead, an uncle of hers (called Synistius) aspired to the kingdom, as Competitor with her. For the which cause Rotyndus making war against him, with little loss of his men got the victory, whereupon a peace was concluded between them; and the government of the kingdom, by the intercession of Agenesta his niece (for so was the Queen called) given frankly to Synistius. So that Disteus as soon as the noise of this war was bruited abroad, went as I conjecture (because he would not be known) from that country with his petty family. From which time I could never hear more of them, though many days have passed since Ansilardus and Placindus went out to seek them: And omitting mine own travels (Gentlemen) and many troubles that I passed in the like enterprise, because they make not any whit to the purpose of your demand, I will only tell you, how these two servants of theirs went out so soon, being (as I told you before) imprisoned, and I so late, being, as you have also heard, at liberty. When King Rotyndus married his Queen, in joy of the feast, all the prisoners were let go, amongst whom Anfilardus and Placindus came out, and six months after (to make Sagastes suspect it the less) by venturing their lives (for upon pain of death it was commanded that none should go seek out Disteus) they went to the place, where I told them they were. At which place when they could not find them, they concluded, by severing themselves to seek them out, appointing to meet at that place a year after, to know how they had sped; and because the one might not go that way, or take in hand that the other did. Whereof as of all things else, though they for the space of six years from time to time informed me; yet I know not how nor by what sinister means it came to pass, that in more than twelve years after, the end of the foresaid time expired, I never heard any news of them, nor of their master. Whereat being greatly grieved in mind I endeavoured to seek out some good means (or rather feigned occasion) to go about the same errant, whereunto by the Kings most straight edict I could never directly accommodate myself, in regard of which journey, if hope might have persuaded me to find them out, I would not have neglected both that, and all pains abroad and affairs at home whatsoever. But being in this impatient desire, two brave young youths (most highly favoured of Agenestor Prince of Eolia, with whom they were both brought up) were also determined to seek out their parents, knowing that those were not the same, for whom they had till then taken them. These young Gentlemen Delicius and Parthenius (for so they were called) leaving aside how much for their rare gifts and virtues they deserved the love of all, of purpose I endeavoured to make my special friends to this effect, that as they were in great favour with the King and Queen, by their means and intercession to the Prince, I might find such favour with them all, that if Disteus and his company were perhaps found out they might get their pardon, and be restored again to their former estates and reputation, which we thought might easily be obtained, since King Rotyndus, by the good examples of his virtuous Queen Agenesta (whom God preserve for many years) & by her holy life & conversation, had almost now forsaken his old conditions. Whereby (gentlemen) we may note, how the good examples of a virtuous wife, do oftentimes work to amend and correct the lewd disposition of a vicious husband: And therefore it is said, that the wise is the mirror of the husband, and the woman to the man, because the man looking into her, as into a clear glass, may frame his life and mind to her modesty and semblance: And contrary, the man is the woman's glass for the selfsame cause and reason. Wherefore Rotindus loved not now Sagastes so well, as in times past, and liked less his lewd conditions, which savoured nothing of virtue, whereon if any human thought or action be not grounded, it is not durable any long time: for as vice is nothing, being the privation of virtue, so is that of no stability and permanence which is grounded upon it. The fame of Delicius and Parthenius departure, and the end thereof was in a few days spread over all the city, whereat though most were sorry, yet some, who envied their deserved favour (for noble virtue is ever accompanied with base envy) were not wanting that joyed to see that day. This fit occasion therefore for the effecting of that which you shall hear offering itself to my semblable designs, coming unto them, I used these words. As I cannot be sorry, Gentlemen, and my dear friends, for your departure, since it is a thing that concerns you so much: So am I not a little glad, that it hath so happily fallen out for my determinations, if in this journey my poor company (for only yours herein I desired) shall not be any ways troublesome unto you: And because you may know the forcible cause that moves me hereunto, I will (upon that fidelity and trust, which with all men, but especially with me you have always used) most frankly tell it you. As it is not unknown to you (I think) what great friendship hath been between Disteus and me, and (for my part) shall ever be while my soul shall rule this earthly body: So must you know again, that I concealed and kept him close, until I found out the means to put him in some safety of his life; and (not content with this) would (if he had given me leave, or if it had not been prejudicial to his secret departure) have accompanied him to the extremest danger of mine own: since which time I have had a great desire to seek him out, the which for two causes I have left of: The one, because two of his servants, who had no little care of that business, have many days since gone from hence to seek him out. The other depending of this, because it behoved me to remain here still to procure his pardon, and leave (if he had been found) to come to his own again. When Anfilardus and Placindus went hence, there was an agreement between us, that they should advise me of all they knew; the which thing being not performed certain days after, I conjecture that they are either dead, or not at liberty. With this hope (or to term it better despair) I have (though meanly) to this point fed my thoughts: The which being of late so mightily increased; and Fortune presenting to my desires so good an occasion for my secret departure; and occasion taking away all suspicion that I go to seek Disteus, but only to accompany you, tells me, that there remains nothing else, but your favourable acceptance of my company into yours, only to pass out of the city, and afterwards if it please you, to divide ourselves, or do as likes you best. To this (like discreet and advised youths, being faithful to me their friend, and loyal to Rotindus their king) they answered thus. As Disteva and Dardaneas misfortunes (although we know them not) (Martandrus) have not a little (as yet they do) most justly grieved us, for their rare virtues and goodness, that thorough out this kingdom we have always heard of them; so if our service might in any thing avail either you or them, we would most willingly show the arguments of our good will, which covets nothing else but fit means, to make some trial thereof; yet not denying that small service wherein our slender abilities do consist, provided, we do not any thing in private or public against that, wherein we are bound to our sovereign Lord the king, without whose countenance and wonted favour we are no body. But we have thought of a better and more convenient way, whereby more than your request shall be performed, and wherein we will not fail in our duties to our king, nor to you, nor in friendships holy laws. And it is, That as the young Prince (as it is well known unto you) doth not meanly love us: and is not well content (by as much as I can perceive by him) with those extremities which are done to this Gentleman; so by these, as also by the Queen's means I hope, to get leave of the king for you not only to departed in our company, but to seek them out, assuring yourself, that after they are found all shall be well enough: for though we come not so soon again, yet we will leave a supplication in his behalf with the Queen and the young Prince; which favour if we cannot obtain, we will furthermore so handle the matter, that you, nor any else shall take no harm or blame for this. For by committing the matter into the Queen and Princes hands, we will travel & take such pains therein, as though from us & from no other, it only came. Do Gentlemen (said I again) as it please you best, and heorewithall believe me that (for their sakes) I would not be sorry for any harm that might redound to me, so that it might fall out to their good. They are much beholding to you (said they) but I more bound to them, said I. In the end; after a few days they got leave to seek whom they would, the which being bruited over all the city gave no small content to Disteus his friends. And thus without staying any longer, I went with Delicius and Parthenius out of Eolia, all three of us providing necessaries for so uncertain and long a journey, wherein (after a while dividing ourselves) such hath my fortune been, that in two years space since I went out, I never heard any news of them, but only those which Placindus (when I found him here) hath told me of Delictus, and the best of the Lady Felicia, that hath assured me, that shortly I shall see them all here, whereof I have no doubt, since she hath said it. That which hath happened to me in so long a travel, and the troubles that I passed, as well for that I account them light for so good a cause as this, and that by the favours of the Gods, I shall soon enjoy their wished company, as also for that which you commanded me to do, it makes so small to the purpose, that I will with your good leave omit to report. So that Sir (speaking to Don Felix) you plainly see, who Corineus, Dinia, and Corinea are, and the cause of their exile, and of our long journey. And pardon me if I have been too long, since your demand required no less.  
Parisiles and all the rest yielding him great thanks for that he had told them, answered him, that the fault was rather greater, by making so short an end to so pleasant a history, and that he did not prolong it with recital of his travels and adventures, which befell to him in seeking out Disteus. Let it not trouble you now (said Felicia) for not only this, but the success of Disteus life and his mishaps and theirs that did participate his company and fortunes in this journey, with those occurrents that befell to Plactndus in his travels, and that which happened to others that went out to seek Parthenius and Delicius, shall have their fit time, wherein you shall take no small delight to hear them. With this hope (said Lord Felix) we will content us, although it will be later, than we desire. Whereupon returning now to the Temple, and eight days being past, Felicia said to sylvanus and Seluagia. It is now time my son & daughter, that the friendship, which to this hour you have borne Syrenus, be shown: and because you may know, & that it may be made manifest unto you, what great need he hath both of his friends and of you, you must understand, that when you shall come to your fields, you shall find many Shepherds doing their last duties to Delius as this day dead, who (as I told you) was many days since very sick. And as of purpose I sent Syrenus before now, by virtue of a new drink, which at his departure I gave him, to rekindle that quenched flame of Diana's love in his breast (a thing no less convenient to his weal then consonant to my will) so would I not, that in the mean time, while he was with us, the two foresaid Shepherds (being not a little enamoured of her, and not worthy to be cast off) should be preferred before him, both which have been, and are yet not a little entered into her good liking. Now therefore is the time, wherein he needeth most of all your help, and no less requisite for you to go find him out; assuring you, that it will not a little grieve you to see Syrenus matched with such dangerous corrivals as these two Shepherds are. sylvanus and Seluagia (though Delius death did a little grieve them) forgot not most humbly to thank Felicia, not only for her good will, and friendly advise, but also for the approved affection and desire she had to help their beloved friend Syrenus; And thereupon said unto her. We cannot but obey your command (good Lady) although we would be feign here, when Coryneus and his company comes. Well well (answered Felicia) this Shepherd is not so nigh, nor cannot come back so soon, nor you so far off, but that you may be certified when they are to come. Since it is then so (said Lord Felix) with your leave (good Lady) I will take Felismena with me, and accompany these Shepherds, in whose amorous strife and rivality which you but even now spoke of, I shall take no small pleasure and delight. The same affirmed Martandrus, Placindus, Danteus, and Duarda with one voice. If it please you so (said Felicia) on God's name let it be: but it behooves you (Gentlemen) and thee fair Felismena no less, lest the bashful Shepherds estrange themselves from your company, to borrow for a while their pastoral habit, and condition: the which being no sooner agreed upon, but put in practice, they went to sylvanus, charging him to carry all in remembrance that passed between the corrivals, the better to report it afterwards, when they should meet all together.  
Whosoever therefore is desirous to see the funeral of Delius, the rivality of Syrenus, Firmius, and Faustus, and be at all their meetings, and takes any pleasure to know who Stela is, and would feign know what her troubles, and those of Crimine, Delicius and Parthenius, have been, and to what end they came, as also the love of Agenestor, prince of Eolia and of Lustea daughter to Disteus and Dardanea, let him attend me in the third part of this work, which shall come to light out of hand.   
La vita il fin, e'l di loda la sora.   

THE FIRST PART OF ENAMOURED DIANA, made by Gaspar Gil Polo.  

To the most noble and virtuous Lady. Donna Maria de Austria y fuentes.  
IF you were (my singular good Lady) that heavenly muse and divine fire from whence this little creature hath borrowed life and light, being most happy that it was borne under such a constellation, whose beams and influence have guided and endued it with those perfections, which now it presumeth by virtues thereof to possess: Reason and duty than it were to offer up unto your worthiness all the service it may, and humbly to crave of the same, That since now it cometh abroad to every one's view, it may in the forehead carry the imprinted golden character and warrant of your noble and renowned name: wherewith being protected, it feareth not any malignant spirit that may bite it. And little though this be which my zealous and dutiful affection, which I have ever borne to you and your honourable house (from whence many gallant personages, and rare and learned wits have sprung out) can present to such great bounty and virtue, the which nature having placed in a most beautiful and crystalline figure, in every part spread forth their beams with love and admiration: Yet respecting the mind of him that offers it, and the good will wherewith like books have been received by Kings and great Lords, I hope fair Lady, you will not condemn me of too much presumption by dedicating this unto your high patrociny, when as the affiance which I have in your gentle Graces, noble mind and sweet perfections enforceth me hereunto, the which duly to be recommended and recounted, require a finer wit and fit place. Which if at any time hereafter my happy fortune shall grant me, in nothing else so justly it shall be employed, then in the deserved praise and service of your Ladyship, whose illustrious person and house our Lord defend and prosper many years with increase of all happiness. From VALENCIA the ninth of February 1564.   

The first Book of Enamoured DIANA.  
AFter that appassionate Syrenus by the virtue of the mighty liquor which sage Felicia had given him, was now delivered out of Cupid's hands, Love (working after his accustomed manner) wounded anew the hart of careless Diana, reviving in her breast forgotten loves, because she should be captive to one that was free, and live tormented for the love of one, who from the same was most exempted: her grief being thereby the more augmented, when it occurred to her thoughts that the small regard that in times past she had of Syrenus, was now an occasion of his forgetfulness, & of that great contempt that he did bear her. She was not only with these griefs, but with many more so fiercely assaulted, that neither the holy bond of matrimony, nor the reins of seemly shame and modesty were able to stay or mitigate the fury of her immoderate love, nor remedy the sharpness of her cruel torments, until with lamentable complaints, and pitiful tears she mollified the hardest rocks, and savage beasts. Wherefore being by chance on a summers day at the fountain of the Sycamores, about that time when the Sun was elevated to the Meridian point, and there calling to mind the great content, that in that very place she had many times received of her beloved Syrenus, and counting her passed delights with her present griefs, and knowing that the beginning of her sorrows, and the fault was only in herself, she conceived thereof such grief and anguish of mind, and was with such dangerous affrights sursaulted, that even then she thought desired death would have made an end of all her troubles. But after she had recovered some small vigour, yet the force of her passion, & the violence wherewith love reigned in her breast, was nevertheless so great, that it compelled her to publish her torments to the simple birds, which from the green boughs were listening to her, and to the branchy trees that seemed to take compassion of her grief, and to the clear fountain, that with the solemn murmur of the Crystalline waters accorded with the notes of her doleful song: And so to the sound of a sweet Baggepipe, which commonly she carried about her, she began to sing these verses following.  


LOng have I felt a silent pain of sorrow,  
Cruel, by that my senses it importunes  
To such extremes, that I am forced to borrow  
This last relief against my heavy fortunes,  
To publish them unto the winds, that stay them  
Thorough out the world with pity to convey them.   

Then gentle Air, perform this due of pity,  
Let every region know my grievous anguish,  
Breath out my pains, and tell in every city  
The life of her, that in loves want doth languish:  
Forgotten of a Shepherd that disdains her,  
Who once did die even for like love that pains her.   

O that this ill (death to my vital powers)  
Hardly maintain'd amids these cruel fashions,  
Springs of my late oblivion and those hours,  
Which I bestowed, and thought not of his passions:  
And that the fault, that heretofore did blame me.  
Causeth my pain, and with my pain doth shame me.   

Hart break in two for grief when thought assails thee  
Of those fell torments which thou once didst lend him,  
Thou lov'st him now, but little it prevails thee  
To pardon that, wherewith thou didst offend him.  
Who cried once for that which now I cry for,  
And died once for that which now I die for.   

These present griefs of passions that confound me  
With ceaseless pain, torment not in such measure,  
As thoughts of my late cruelty do wound me,  
Or when I think, I lost so dear a treasure:  
For they are heaven, to think that now I prise him,  
And these are hell, to think I did despise him.   

For if my little love (more fitly named  
Injurious hate) (whereof I now repent me)  
Were not in fault (alas too lately blamed)  
Of all these present griefs, that thus torment me;  
Then with complaints I would not cease t'importune  
Ungentle love, and rail on cruel Fortune.   

But I so proud for my admired beauty  
That flattered me, of sense was so bereaved,  
That careless of my fault, and forced duty  
I owed to Love, I never once perceived,  
That Love did take revengement at his pleasure,  
And Fortune change without all mean or measure.   

But loves revenge wrought never such a wonder,  
Nor to so great despair did ever drive one,  
As thus on every side to break a sunder,  
And ruinated a hope that might revive one:  
And Fortune in her change made never any  
So great, as from one life to deaths so many.   

Syrenus then, how art thou now assured  
Of thy revenge, which thou hast deeply taken  
In my disgrace, which I myself procured:  
That since of late my love thou hast forsaken,  
No remedy for any grief is left me,  
That of my wonted comfort hath bereft me.   

For heretofore as thou hast even, and morrow,  
Seen me disdain thy sight with so small reason,  
So mayst thou now take pleasure in my sorrow,  
And with thy scorns my feeble comforts season:  
For now to love me, lies not in thy power,  
Though I must love thee till my dying hour.   

So far from Cupid's force thy haps have blest thee,  
And in thy liberty thou tak'st such glory,  
That (gentle Shepherd) I do not request thee  
To cure mine ill (which cannot make thee sorry)  
But to beguile these pains by Love or dained,  
With one poor favour, though it were but feigned:   

And though mine ills, which thou art not contented  
To remedy, nor dost pretend to cease them,  
When to thy careless thoughts they are presented,  
Whose hot revenge have vowed to increase them:  
Yet turn thine eyes, and see how mine are flowing  
With rivulets of tears, that still are growing.   

Behold my ruin, and my life decayed,  
My little hope, which in despair I borrow,  
My tears, my sighs, my senses all dismayed,  
Though not to take compassion of my sorrow,  
Yet see how with them all I am affreighted,  
In thy revenge to be the more delighted.   

For though with grief, wherewith I still am calling  
To mollify thy hart, and have no power,  
Nor that my tears, which evermore are falling,  
Cannot excuse my death one little hour,  
Then will I die for love of thee and never  
Enjoy this breath without I love thee ever.    
Enamoured Diana had not so soon made an end of her delightful music, if on the sudden she had not been interrupted by a certain Shepherdess, which behind a tuft of Hasels was hearkening unto her: Who therefore espying her, gave a pause to her sweet voice by cutting off the substance of her song, and was not a little grieved (which by a natural blush that tainted her fair face, might easily be conjectured) that her song was heard, and her grief unknown; especially perceiving the same Shepherdess to be a stranger and never seen in those parts before. But she, who from a far off had heard so sweet a sound, with silent steps drew near to enjoy such dainty melody; and understanding the cause of her dolorous song, made on the sudden so goodly a show of her excellent beauty before her, as the Nocturnal Moon is wont to do, when with her shining beams it pierceth and overcomes the foggy thickness of the dark clouds. But seeing Diana to be somewhat troubled in mind at her sight, with a merry countenance, she thus began to say unto her.  
I have not a little (fair Shepherdess) with my interrupting presence (which to small purpose hath thus disturbed thee) offended the great content, which I had to hear thee; but the desire I have to know thee, and to give thee some lightning for thy grief, that causeth thee so pitifully to moan, may serve (if it please thee) for my excuse, and make me blameless herein. For the which grief, though it is bootless, as some say, to seek any comfort; yet by a free will and reasons devoid of passion there may be sufficient remedies applied. Dissemble not therefore with me thy sorrows, and think it not much to tell me thy name, and the cause of thy sad complaints, since for this I will make no less account of thy perfections, nor judge thy deserts to be of less value.  
Diana hearing these words, stood a while without answering her again, having her eyes fastened on the rare beauty of that Shepherdess, and her mind occupied in a doubtful construction of that, which she should answer to her gentle offers and loving words, and in the end answered her thus again.  
If the great pleasure, which I take in beholding thee (unknown Shepherdess, and courteous without compare) and the comfort, which thy sweet words do promise me, might find any small kind of confidence or hope in my afflicted hart, I would then believe that thou wert able to remedy my sorrows, and would not doubt to manifest my pains unto thee. But my grief is of such tenor, that when it gins to molest me, it seizeth in such sort on my heart, that it stops up all the passages against remedy: Yet know (Gentle Shepherdess) that I am called Diana, known too well in all the fields and villages hereabouts; and so let it content thee to know my name, and not to inquire further of sorrows, since thou shalt profit thee no more, then to make thyself compassionate and condolent for my tender years, seeing them oppressed with so many cares and troubles.  
Thus are they deluded (answered the Shepherdess) that make themselves slaves to fond Love, who but beginning to serve him, are become so much his vassals, that they desire not to be free, and think it impossible to be manumitted from his servitude. If love be thy grief (as by thy song I am sure it is) then know (fair Shepherdess) that in this infirmity I have no small experience: For I myself have been many years a captive in like bondage, but now am free; blind I was, but now have found out the way of truth: I have passed in the amorous Ocean many dangerous storms and tempests, and now am safely arrived in the secure haven of content and rest: And though thy pain be never so great; yet hath not mine, I dare boldly say, been less: And since for the same I found out a happy remedy, banish not hope from thy mind, shut not up thine eyes from the truth, nor thine ears from the substance of my words.  
Are they words (said Diana) that shall be spent to remedy my love, whose works exceed the compass and help of words. But yet for all this feign would I know thy name, and the cause that hath brought thee into our fields; the which if thou wilt vouchsafe to tell me, shall so greatly comfort me, that I will for a while suspend the complaints that I have begun, a thing perhaps which may not a little avail for the lightning of my grief.  
My name (said the Shepherdess) is Alcida: but the rest which thou demandest of me, the compassion which I have of thy voluntary grief, will not suffer me to declare, before thou hast embraced my wholesome remedies, though (perhaps) unsanerie to thy distempered taste.  
Every comfort, said Diana, shall be most grateful to me that cometh from thy hands, which nevertheless is not able to root out the strong love in my breast, nor to remove it from thence, without carrying my hart with it burst in a thousand pieces: And though it might, yet I would not live without, because I would not leave to love him, who being once forgotten of me took so sudden and extreme a revenge of my unjust cruelty.  
Nay then (said Alcida) thou givest me no little hope and confidence of thy recovery, since now thou lovest him, whom thou hast heretofore hated, having learned thereby the pathway to oblivion, and acquainted thy will with contempt, and the more, since between these two extremes love and hate there is a mean, which thou must embrace and follow.  
To this Diana replied and said. Thy counsel (fair Shepherdess) contents me very well, but I think it not sure enough for my safety, nor the best in common reason for my avail. For if my will were put between love and hate, I should sooner yield to love then to hate; because being nearer to it, mighty Cupid with greater force would assail, and overcome me.  
To this Alcida answered. Do not honour him so much, who deserves it so little, calling him mighty, who may be so easily overcomed, especially by those that choose out the mean above said: for therein doth virtue consist, and where that is, all hearts are armed with force and constancy against love.  
Thou mightest better term those heart's cruel, hard, untamed, and rebellious, said Diana, which pretend to repugn their proper nature, and to resist the invincible force of love. And yet when they have oppugned it as much as they list, in the end they have little cause to brag of their stoutness, and less help to defend them with their foolish hardiness. For the power of love overcomes the strongest holds, and makes most way thorough, where it is most resisted: of whose marvels and memorable deeds my beloved Syrenus did on a day sing in this very place, at that time when his remembrance was so sweet, as now most bitter to my soul. The which Sonnet, and all his other Ditties, which he then made and sung, I well remember, having ever a great care not to forget them for certain causes, which persuaded me to register the words and deeds of my dearest Syrenus in perpetual memory: But this which entreats of the mighty force of Love, saith thus.  

THat mighty Love, though blind of both his eyes,  
Doth hit the Centre of the wounded hart:  
And though a boy yet Mars he foils with dart,  
Awaking him, where in his net he lies:  
And that his flames do freeze me in such wise,  
That from my soul a fear doth never start  
Most base and vile: yet to the highest part  
(Strengthued by land and sea) of heaven it flies.  
That he, whom Love doth wound or prisoner take,  
lives in his griefs, and with his gives content:  
This is his might that many wonder at.  
And that the soul which greatest pain doth shake,  
If that it doth but think of loves torment,  
The fear of such a thought forgetteth that.   
No doubt, said Alcida, but the forces of love are well extolled: But I would rather have believed Syrenus, if after having published the fury of Cupid's arrows to be so great, and after having commended the hardness of his chains, he had not also found out the means to set himself at liberty: And so I marvel that thou wilt so lightly give credit to him, who makes not his word and deed all one. For it is very clear, that the Songs and Sonnets are a kind of a vain and superfluous praises, whereby lovers sell their ills for dangerous things, when that so easily of captives they become free, and fall from a burning desire to a secure oblivion. And if lovers feel passions, it proceedeth of their own will, and not of love, which is not but a thing imagined of men; a thing neither in heaven, nor earth, but in his hart, that entertains it: whose power (if any he have) only by the default of those he usurps, who of their own accord suffer themselves to be overcomed, offering him their hearts for tribute, and putting their liberty into his hands. But because Syrenus' Sonnet may not so easily pass without an answer, give ear to this, which as it seems was made in countermand of that; and long ago it is, since I heard a Shepherd called Aurelius, sing it in the fields of Sebetho, and as I remember, thus it said.  

Love is not blind, but I, which fond guide  
My will to tread the path of amorous pain:  
Love is no child, but I, which all in vain,  
Hope, fear, and laugh, and weep on every side:  
Madness to say, that flames are Cupid's pride,  
For my desire his fire doth contain,  
His wings my thoughts most high and sovereign,  
And that vain hope, wherein my joys abide:  
Love hath no chains nor shafts of such intent,  
To take and wound the whole and freest mind,  
Whose power (than we give him) is no more,  
For love's a tale, that Poets didinuent,  
A dream of fools, an idol vain and blind:  
See then how black a God do we adore?   
Dost thou therefore think Diana, that any one endued but with reasonable understanding, will trust to things in the air as thou dost? What reason hast thou so truly to worship a thing so unruly and false, as the supposed God of love is, who is feigned by fond and vain heads, followed by dishonest minds, and nourished in the brains of idle wantoness? These are they, who gave to Love that name which makes him so famous thorough out all the world. For seeing how fond men for loving well did suffer so many sursaults, fears, cares, jealousies, changes, and other infinite passions, they agreed to seek out some principal and universal cause, from whence, as from a fountain all these effects should arise. And so they invented the name of Love, calling him a God, because he was of many nations and people feared, and reverenced, and painted him in such sort, that whosoever saw his figure, had great reason to abhor his fashions. They painted him like a Boy, because men might not put their trust in him; Blind, because they might not follow him; Armed, because they might fear him; with flames of fire, because they might not come near him; and with wings, because they might know him vain and inconstant. Thou must not understand (fair Shepherdess) that the power which men attribute to Love is, or may be any ways his: But thou must rather believe, that the more they magnify his might and valour, the more they manifest their weakness and simplicity. For in saying, that Love is strong, is to affirm, that their will is weak, by suffering it so easily to be overcomed by him: To say, that Love with mighty violence doth shoot mortal and venomous arrows, is to include that their hearts are too secure & careless, when that so willingly they offer themselves to receive them. To say, that Love doth straightly captivate their souls, is to infer, that there is want of judgement and courage in them, when at the first brunts they yield; nay when sometimes without any combat they surrender their liberty into their enemies hands: and finally all the enterprises which they tell of Love, are nothing else but matter of their miseries, and arguments of their weakness. All which force and prowess admit to be his, yet are they not of such quality, that they deserve any praise or honour at all. For what courage is it to take them prisoners, that are not able to defend themselves? What hardiness to assail weak and impotent creatures? What valour to wound those that take no heed and think least on him? What fortitude to kill those that have already yielded themselves? What honour with cares to disturb those, that are merry and joyful? What worthy deed to persecute unfortunate men? Truly fair Shepherdess, they that would so much extol and glorify this Cupid, and that so greatly to their cost serve him, should (for his honour) give him better praises. For the best name that amongst them all he gets, is to be but a coward in his quarrels, vain in his pretences, liberal of troubles, and covetous in rewards. All which names, though of base infamy they savour, yet are those worse which his affectionate servants give him, calling him fire, fury, and death, terming (Loving) no better than to burn, to destroy, to consume, and to make themselves fools, and naming themselves blind, miserable, captives, mad, inflamed, and consumed. From hence it comes, that generally all complain of Love, calling him a Tyrant, a Traitor, unflexible, fierce and unpitifull. All Lovers verses are full of dolour, compounded with sighs, blotted with tears, and sung with agonies. There shalt thou see suspicions, there fears, there mistrustes, there jealousies, there cares, and there all kinds of pains. There is no other speech amongst them but of deaths, chains, darts, poisons, flames, and other things which serve not but to give torments to those, that employ their fancies in it, and fear when they call upon it. Herbanius the Shepherd famous in Andolozia, was troubled too much with these terms when in the bark of a Poplar, with a sharp bodkin, instead of his pen, in presence of me wrote these verses following.  


HE that in freedom jets it proud and brave,  
Let him not live too careless of himself:  
For in an instant he may be a slave  
To mighty Love, and serve that wanton elf:  
And let that hart, that yet was never tamed,  
Fear at the last by him to be inflamed.   

For on that soul that proudly doth disdain  
His heavy laws, and lives with lofty will,  
Fierce Love is wont t'inflict a cruel pain,  
And with most sharp and dire revenge to kill:  
That who presumes to live without his power,  
In death he lives tormented every hour.   

O Love, that dost condemn me to thy jail,  
Love, that dost set such mortal coals on fire,  
O Love, that thus my life thou dost assail,  
Entreated ill, tormented by thine ire:  
Henceforth I curse thy chains, thy flames, thy dart,  
Wherewith thou bindest, consumest, and killest my hart.    
And now let us come to Syrenus' Sonnet, whereby he seems to make men believe, that the imagination of loves enterprises sufficeth to overcome the fury of the torment. For if his operations be to kill, to wound, to make blind, to burn, to consume, to captivate, and to torment, he shall never make me believe, that to imagine things of pain doth lighten the grief, which must rather (as I think) give greater force and feeling to the passion: For when it is more in imagination, it remaineth longer in his heart, and with greater pain torments it. And if that be true which Syrenus did sing, I much marvel that he receiving so deep a taste in this thought, hath now so easily changed it, by means of so cruel oblivion, not only of loves operations, but also of thy beauty, which ought not for any thing in the world to be forgotten.  
Alcida had scarce finished these last words, when Diana lifting up her eyes (for she suspected somewhat) perceived her husband Delius coming down from the side of a little hill bending his steps towards the fountain of the Sycamores, where they were together: whereupon cutting off Alcidas discourse, she said unto her.  
No more, gentle Shepherdess, no more; for we will find fit time hereafter to hear out the rest, and to answer thy weak and common arguments: For behold my husband is coming down yonder hill towards us, and therefore I think it best to turn our talk to some other matter, and with the tune of our instruments to dissemble it: and so let us begin to sing, because when he is come near unto us, he may not be displeased at the manner of our conversation: whereupon Alcida taking her Cytern, and Diana her Bagpipe, began to sing as followeth.  

provencal Rhythms.  
Alcida. 
WHile Titan in his Coach with burning beams  
Over the world with such great force doth ride,  
That Nymphs, and their chaste companies abide  
In woods, and springs, and shallow shadowed streams:  
And while the prating grasshopper replies  
Her song in mourning wise,  
Shepherdess sing  
So sweet a thing,  
That th'heavens may be  
By hearing thee  
Made gentle, on their own accord to power  
Upon this mead a fresh and silver shower.   
Diana. 
Whiles that the greatest of the Planets stays  
Just in the mids between the East and west,  
And in the field upon the mower's breast  
With greater heat doth spread his scorching rays:  
The silent noise this pleasant fountain yields,  
That runs amids these fields,  
Such music moves,  
As wonder proves,  
And makes so kind  
The furious wind,  
That by delight thereof, their force they stay,  
And come to blow as gently as they may.   
Alcida. 
You running rivers pure and crystalline,  
That all the year do make a lively spring,  
And beautify your banks and every thing,  
With Cowslips, Lilies, and sweet Colombine,  
The cruel heat of Phoebus come not near  
To heat this fountain clear,  
Nor that such sweet  
Liquor, with feet  
Troubled be not  
Of sheep or goat:  
Nor that the tears, which fatthlesse lovers wast  
In these fine waters never may be cast.   
Diana. 
Green flowery mead, where natures curious die  
Hath shown her colours divers in their kind,  
With trees, and flowers, whereto they are combined,  
Which paints thee forth so fair unto the eye:  
In thee thy boughs of verdure may not know  
The blustering winds that blow,  
Prosper, and give  
Flowers, and live:  
Not to be lost  
By heat or frost:  
Nor angry heaven in fury do not sloile,  
Nor hurt so fair a mead, and fertile soil.   
Alcida. 
here from the hurly burly, and the noise  
Of stately courts sequestered, every one  
Reposedly lives by himself alone,  
In quiet peace, in harmless sports and joys:  
In shades sometimes, laid down on Flora's pride  
near to some rivers side,  
Where birds do yield  
Sweet notes in field,  
And flowers fine  
Odours divine:  
And always with an order souer●…ne  
The meadow laughs, the wood the hill, and plain.   
Diana. 
The noise made here by silent gentle winds  
In flowery boughs, the leaves that softly shake,  
Delighteth more, then that the people make  
In great assemblies, where their sundry kinds  
Of proud demeanours, and high majesties,  
Are foolish vanities:  
Their solemn feasts  
Breed but unrestes,  
Their honour's name  
Blind errors frame:  
And all their holy words clean different  
From that, that in their hearts was ever meant.   
Alcida. 
Ambition here no snares nor nets regards,  
Nor avarice for crowns doth lay her bats:  
The people here aspire not to estates,  
Nor hungers after favours, nor rewards:  
From guile and fraud, and passion, as we see,  
Their hearts are ever free.  
Their faith's not vain,  
But good and plain:  
Their malice small,  
They just to all,  
Which makes them live in joy and quiet peace,  
And in a mean sufficient for their ease.   
Diana. 
To new found worlds, nor seas, that rage and swell,  
The simple Shepherd never sails in vain:  
Nor to the furthest India's, for his gain,  
thousands of leagues, and ducats there to tell:  
Unto the field he comes as well content,  
With that that God hath sent;  
As he that spends  
Rents without ends:  
And lives (perdie)  
As merrily  
As he that hath great flocks upon his hills,  
And of good ground a thousand acres tills.    
Delius from a far off heard the voice of his fair wife Diana, and perceiving that another answered her, made great haste to go see who was in her company: wherefore hiding himself behind a great Mittle, near to the fountain, he listened to their singing, as one that still sought occasious of his wonted jealousy. But when he understood that their songs were far from that which he suspected, he was well pleased in mind: But yet the great desire he had to know the other, that was in company of his wife, made him draw near unto the Shepherdesses; who courteously saluted him, but especially Diana, whom with a smiling and angelical countenance she most sweetly entertained. And being set near unto them, Alcida said.  
I think myself (Delius) greatly bound to Fortune, who hath not only favoured me, by presenting to mine eyes the excellent beauty of thy Diana, but also by making me know the man, whom she hath only chosen, and thought most worthy to possess so rare a gem, by yielding her liberty so frankly into his hands; which choice no doubt (as she is wise) cannot be but deemed most high and sovereign: So I marvel much again, that in am thereof, and of that entire love which she bears thee, thou makest so small reckoning of her, as to let her go one step without thy company, or be a minute out of thy sight. If she be so firmly rooted in thy hart, which I may well presume, how can that love thou owest her be so small as only to content thyself with her lively figure engraven therein, and not feed thine eyes with the continual sight of her singular beauty.  
The Diana (lest Delius by his answer might have hazarded his blunt wit and rude education) took him by the hand and said unto her.  
Delius hath but little reason to think himself so happy (as thou sayst) to have me for his wife, or so much in his presence, as by means thereof to forget his flocks, and granges, matters of more consequence, than the poor delight which he may take by viewing that beauty, which thou dost unworthily attribute unto me.  
Do not to so small purpose (said Alcida) prejudicate thy comely graces, Diana, nor offer such injury to the general voice the world hath of thy perfections, since it is no less beseeming a fair woman to have some small conceit and opinion of herself, than a point of rash judgement to term her proud and arrogant, that doth moderately acknowledge the same. Therefore hold thyself (Delius) for the happiest man in the world, and with pride enjoy this favour that Fortune hath bestowed on thee, who never gave, nor can give any thing, that in felicity may be comparable with the husband of Diana.  
These words so sweetly delivered by Alcida, and that fair face, and eyes of hers, which (all the while she was talking) Delius both marked and gazed on, made so deep an impression in his hart, that at the end of her gentle and discreet words, he was so greatly enamoured of her, that, like a senseless and astonished man, he had not one word to answer her again, only giving, with a new burning sigh, a manifest token of the green wound, that Cupid had made in his conquered hart.  
But now about this time they heard a voice, the sweetness whereof delighted them marvelously. They gave therefore attentive ear unto it, and casting their eyes from whence it resounded, they saw a Shepherd coming with a weary pace towards the fountain, and going like one that was surcharged with grief and anguish of mind, singing as followeth.  

I Cannot be by loves wrath more tormented,  
Nor Fortune can to me be more unstable:  
There is no soul in hope so little able,  
Nor hart that is with pain so much contented:  
Love doth enforce my fainting breath, that striveth  
The better to endure my hard rejection,  
And yet with hope my sufferance, and affection,  
And life will not consume, that yet re●tueth:  
O vainest hart, sad eyes, whose tears have spent me,  
Why in so long a time, and with such anguish,  
End not my plaints, and spirits deadly languish?  
O woes, sufficeth it not what you have sent me?  
O Love, why dost thou thus my torments nourish,  
And let Alcida in her freedom flourish?   
The Shepherd had scarce ended his song, when Alcida knowing who he was, trembled like an Aspen leaf in every part of her body; wherefore she rose up in great haste to be gone before he came to them, requesting Delius and Diana not to tell him that she had been there, since it was as much as her life was worth, if that Shepherd whom she hated more than death, did either find or had any knowledge of her. They promised her so to do, though very sorry for her sudden and hasty departure. Alcida as fast as she could high her, recovered a thick would not far from the fountain, and fled with such celerity and fear, as if she had been pursued by some hungry and cruel Tiger.  
Immediately after the Shepherd wearied with extreme travel and trouble, came to that place, which Fortune (it seemed) condolent for his grief, had offered him, and that clear fountain, and Diana's company for some lightning of his pain: who being faint after his painful journey, and seeing the Sun in the pride of his heat; the place very pleasant; the trees casting forth cool shades; the grass fresh and green; the fountain clear & crystalline, and Diana passing fair; thought good to rest himself a while, though the earnest care and haste of that he went seeking, and the ceaseless desire he had to find it, gave his wearied body no place of rest, nor ease to his afflicted mind: The which Diana perceiving, showed herself as courteous towards him, as Delius jealous eye (who was present) would give her leave; and yet entertained the strange Shepherd with sweet words, as well for his own deserts, which she deemed not small; as also for that she perceived him tormented with the like grief that she was. The Shepherd cheered up by Diana's friendly welcome and seemly favours, of a miserable man, thought himself happy by finding out so good a chance. But they being thus together, Diana by chance casting her eye aside, could not see her husband Delius, who newly surprised in Alcidas love, when Diana took lest heed of him, and while she was entertaining the new Shepherd, pursued amain the Shepherdess that fled away, and took the very same way with a strong resolution to follow her even to the other part of the world. Diana not a little perplexed to see her husband wanting so on the sudden, called and cried a good while together on the name of Delius, but all in vain to get an answer from him in the wood, or to make him leave of his fond pursuit, who rather running after her as fast as he could, thought at the last to seize upon his beloved Alcida. Whereupon when Diana perceived that Delius appeared in no place, she showed herself a most sorrowful woman for him, and lamented in such pitiful sort that the Shepherd to comfort her, said thus unto her.  
Afflict not thyself thus without reason (fair Shepherdess) and believe not thine own imaginations so greatly prejudicially to thy rest and quiet: for the Shepherd whom thoumissest, is not so long since wanting, that thou mayest have any cause to think that he hath forsaken thee. Pacify then thyself a little, for it may be that when thy back was turned, he having some desire to change place, secretly got away, unwilling (perhaps) that we should see him go for sear of staying him, being invited by the cool shades of those green Sycamores, and by the fresh and pleasant wind that is gently blowing them; or else perhaps discontended for my coming hither, thinking my company troublesome, whereas now without it he may merrily pass the heat of the day away.  
To this answered Diana. By these words (gracious Shepherd) which thy tongue hath uttered, and forced cheer which thou dissemblest, who cannot conceive the grief that consumes thy life? Thou showest well that love is thy torment, and art accustomed to deceive amorous suspicions by vain imaginations. For it is a common trick of lovers, to work their thoughts to believe false and impossible things, because they would not credit things that are certain and true. Such comforts (gentle Shepherd) avail more to quote out the sorrow of my grief by thee, then to remedy my pain. For I know well enough, that my husband Delius is fled after a most fair Shepherdess, who went but even now from hence, and in regard of the great and fervent love wherewith he beheld her, and sighs, which for her sake came smoking from his hart, I do verily believe (knowing moreover how steadfastly he performs that he imagines or takes in hand) that he will not leave following that Shepherdess, though he think to come never in my sight again. And that which grieves me most is, that I know her disposition to be so rigorous, and her hart so great an enemy to Love, that she will not only show him no pitic, but with great despite contemneth the most sovereign beauty, and greatest deserts that may be.  
At these very words the sorrowful Shepherd thought that a mortal dart pierced his i'll hart, and therefore said. Unhappy me most wretched Lover, what greater reason have not these hearts (not made of stony flint) to be sorrowful for me, when thorough out the world I seek the most cruel and pitiless Damsel that lives on earth? Ah fair Shepherdess, thou hast good cause to be sorry for thy husband, for if she whom he follows, be so cruelly conditioned as this, then must his life be in great danger.  
By these words Diana clearly perceived, what his grief was, and that the Shepherdess that ran away at his coming, was the very same, whom in so many parts of the world he had sought. And so she was indeed; for when she began to fly from him, she took the habit of a Shepherdess, by that means not to be known nor discourered. But for that present time Diana dissembled with the Shepherd, and would tell him nothing of the matter, to keep her word and promise which she had given Alcida at her departure: And also because it was now a good while since she was gone, and ran with such haste thorough the thick wood, that it was impossible for him to overtake her. All which if she should tell the Shepherd, she thought would serve for nothing else but to add a fresh wound to an old sore, and to trouble his mind more, by giving him some little hope to attain to his purpose, when by no means he was able to obtain it. But because she desired to know what he was, the sum of his love, and the cause of her hate, she said unto him.  
Comfort thyself (Shepherd) in these thy complaints, and of courtesy tell me their cause: for to lighten them, I would be glad to know who thou art, and to hear the success of thy mishap, the report whereof will be no doubt delightful to thee, if thou be'st so true a lover as I do take thee.  
He then without much entreaty, both of them sitting down by the clear fountain began thus to say. My grief is not of such quality, that it may be told to all kind of people, though the good opinion I have of thy deserts and wisdom, and the confidence which thy virtues and peerless beauty do suggest to me, urge me to lay open before thee the total sum of my life (if so it may be called) which willingly long since I would have changed for death.  
Know therefore fair Shepherdess, that my name is Marcelius, and my estate far different from that, which my habit doth testify: for I was borne in Soldina, the chiefest city in Vandalia, of parents for birth and blood renowned, and in all wealth and power abounding. In my tender years I was carried to the king of Portugals court, and trained up there, where, not only of all the chiefest Lords and Knights I was beloved, but especially of the king himself; insomuch that I had never his good will and leave to departed from thence, until at the last he committed to my government a charge of certain men of war, which he had in the coast of Africa. There was I a long time captain of the towns, and fortresses that the king had on the sea side, remaining with my chiefest garrison in Ceuta, where the original of all my hard haps was first commenced. For in that town (to my great harm) dwelled a noble and renowned Knight called Eugerius, who had also a charge by the King, and government of the same town, whom God (besides that he had adorned and enriched him with the gifts of nature, and Fortune) had blessed with a Son called Polydorus, valiant without compare, and with two daughters, called Alcida and Clenarda, women of most rare and excellent beauty. Clenarda was very skilful in drawing of her bow and in shooting; but Alcida which was the eldest, endowed with incomparable beauty: whose virtues so inflamed my hart with burning love, that they have caused me to lead this desperate kind of life, which I now pass away, wishing for death, which every day I call upon and attend. Her father was so tender and chary over her, that few times he suffered her to be out of his sight, which thing was no small impediment to the opening of my grief and great love I bore her, except sometimes when it was my fortune to see her by an appassionate eye, and many sighs (maugre my will) came forcibly out of my breast, I signified my pains unto her. At one time among the rest, I wanted not opportunity to write a letter unto her, which fit occasion by favourable fortune granted me, I omitted not but wrote to her this letter following.  

Marcelius his letter to Alcida.  
THat majesty so princely, grave, and sweet,  
That modest blush, that gentle seemly grace,  
Those looks so chaste, and haviour so discreet,  
Those golden virtues, that thou dost embrace  
(Besides thy beauty, which the world resounds  
With famous name) from heaven that brought their race,  
In such a narrow straight, with bleeding wounds  
Have set my hart (Alcida heavenly fair)  
That every thing my wonted rest confounds;  
For that which breeds my love, is my despair,  
And so restrains my soul, that feign it would  
Say nought, although it cost my vital air.  
What man of flint, that ever did behold  
The burning beams that thy fair eyes do cast,  
But waxed dumb, and died with mortal cold?  
Who ever saw those beauties rare and chaste,  
More perfect than the starry sky above,  
Or any living now or gone or passed,  
That presently felt not a fervent love?  
The cause whereof his senses so would use,  
As not to let him speak for his behove:  
So much I pass by silence, that I muse  
That sad complaints my hart do never kill,  
Nor break my breast with anguish so confuse:  
My joys are none, my woes continue still,  
My pain is firm, and all my hope is vain,  
I live alas, and die in grievous ill:  
And take revenge upon myself again,  
That which I most eschew, doth take me strait:  
And what I most desire, I lest obtain:  
For that, that lest behooves me, I await,  
Not comfort for my grief, that never ends,  
joying in pain, wherewith my soul I freight:  
Yet my delight and life so far extends,  
As thought of that great distance doth abide,  
That twixt thy beauty, grace, and me depends:  
For in my soul I do conceive a pride,  
That I have put it in so high a place:  
Where constancy and hope my hart do guide.  
But yet thy gentle, and sweet Angel's face  
Against my soul such mortal war do threat,  
That thousand lives dare not abide the chase.  
To fear me yet the passage's not so great,  
Nor way so steep, nor craggy, that shall stay  
My forward steps with aanger, or deceit:  
I follow then my ruin and decay,  
The path of pain, and seek not to decline  
From grievous plaints, that force me every day.  
Yet endless joy my heavy hart doth shrine,  
And glads my life, by wished pain oppressed:  
That glories strangely in these griefs of mine.  
pain's my delight, my plaints my sport and jest,  
My sighs sweet sounds, my death my glory makes,  
My wounds my health, my flames my happy rest,  
Nothing I see, which stirs not, and awakes  
My furious torment and her endless wheel;  
But happy fortune by the same it takes:  
These ills (sweet Mistress) for thy sake I feel,  
And in these passions live, and die tormented  
With equal pain, and sufferance, well contented.  
Let then a man despairing of relief,  
Who to thy love his doubtful life assigns,  
Move thee to some compassion of his grief,  
By reading of these hartbreake written lines,  
Since that he craves no help for all his moan,  
But only that his torment may be known.   
This was the letter I wrote unto her; the penning whereof, had it been as fine, as the purpose fortunate, I would not have changed my skill in posy for famous Homer's. It came to Alcidas hands, in whose hart (when finally she knew the sum of my grief, though at the first the contents of my letter with my too great presumption did somewhat offend her) it made deeper impressions than I imagined, or hoped for. Then I began to manifest myself for her open Lover, by making many brave Iustes, and encounters at Tilt and Tourney, running of wild Bulls, and juego de Cannae, by celebrating for her sweet sake and service Moresco sports on horseback in the day time, and masks and stately dances in the night, causing consorts of sundry music to delight her, and making verses, impresas, and Anagrams of her love and name, and many other gallant shows and inventions more for the space of two whole years together. At the end whereof, Eugerius thought me worthy to be his son in law, and by the request of some great Lords in those parts, offered me his fair daughter Alcida for wife. We concluded that the espousal rites should be solemnised in the city of Lysbone, because the king of Portugal might with his presence honour them: and therefore dispatching a Post with all haste, by him we certified the king of this marriage, and requested his majesty to give us leave (having commended our charges and affairs to persons of trust) to celebrate it there. Whereupon the report of this solemn day was published thorough all the city, and places far and near, which caused so general a joy, as was due to so fair a dame as Alcida, and to so faithful a lover as myself. Unto this passage my good fortune conducted me, thus high she reared me up to throw me down afterwards headlong into the depth of miseries, wherein (wretched man) I still remain. O transitory good, mutable content, vading delight, and inconstant firmness of mundaine things! What greater joy could I have wished for, then that I had already received, and what greater cross am I able to suffer then this; which I now carry about me? Oh fair Shepherdess, entreat me no more to molest thy ears with so large and lamentable a history, nor to pierce thy compassionate hart with recital of my ensuing calamities. Let it content thee, that thou hast known my passed felicities, and desire not to search out farther my present griefs, because I assuredly know, that as my long and pitiful history will be tedious to thy ears, so will my continued disgraces alter thy reposed mind.  
To which Diana answering said. Leave off (Marcelius) these excuses, for I would not desire to know the success of thy life, only thereby to rejoice my mind with thy contents, without sorrowing for thy calamities, but would rather hear every part of them, to bewail them also in my pitiful hart.  
How greatly would it please me, fair Shepherdess (said Marcelius) if the good will I bear thee did not force me to content thee in a matter of so great grief. And that which grieves me most, is that my disgraces are such, that they must needs fill thy hart full of sorrow, when thou knowest them; for the pain that I must pass by telling them, I reckon not so great, but that I would willingly suffer it in am of thy contentment. But because I see thee so desirous to hear them out, although they shall force me to make thee sorrowful; yet I will not seem to leave thy will herein unsatisfied.  
THen Shepherdess, thou must know, that after my unfortunate marriage was agreed upon, the King's licence being now come, her old father Eugerius, who was a widower, his son Polydorus, and his two daughters Alcida and Clenarda, and the hapless Marcelius, who is telling thee his grievous accidents, having committed the charges left us by the King to sufficient and trusty Gentlemen, embarked ourselves in the port of Ceuta to go by sea to the noble city of Lisbon, there to celebrate (as I said) the marriage rites in presence of the King. The great content, joy, and pleasure which we all had, made us so blind, that in the most dangerous time of the year, we feared not the tempestuous waves which did then naturally swell & rage, nor the furious & boisterous winds, which in those months with greater force & violence are commonly wont to blow: but committing our frail bark to fickle Fortune, we launched into the deep and dangerous seas, heedless of their continual changes, and of innumerable misfortunes incident unto them. For we had not sailed far, when angry Fortune chastised us for our bold attempt, because before night came on, the wary Pilot discovered apparent signs of an imminent and sudden tempest. For the thick and dark clouds began to cover the heavens all over, the waves to roar and murmur, and contrary winds to blow on every side. O what sorrowful and menacing signs, said the troubled and timorous Pilot? O luckless ship, what perils assail thee, if God of his great goodness and pity do not secure thee? He had no sooner spoken these words, when there came a furious and violent blast of wind, that puffed and shook the whole body of the ship, and put it in so great danger, that the routher was not able to govern it, but that tossed up and down by this mighty fury, it went where the force of the angry waves and winds did drive it. The tempest by little and little with greater noise began to increase, and the raving billows covered over with a foamy forth mightily to swell: The skies powered down abundance of rain with throwing out of every part of it fearful lightnings, & threatened the world with horrible thunders. Then might there be heard a hideous noise of Sea monsters, lamentable outcries of passengers, and flapping of the sails with great terror. The winds on every side did beat against the ship, and the surges with terrible blows shaking her unsteady sides, rived and burst asunder the strong and soundest plaunchers: Sometimes the proud billow lifted up us to the skies, and by and by threw us down again into deep gulfs, the which also with great horror opening themselves, discovered to our fearful eyes the deep and naked sands. The men and women ran on every side to prolong their ensuing and hapless death; and did cast out, some of them doleful sighs; other some pitiful vows; and others plenty of sorrowful tears. The Pilot being appalled with so cruel Fortune, and his skill confounded by the countenance and terror of the tempest, could now no more govern the tottered routher. He was also ignorant of the nature and beginning of the winds, and in a moment devised a thousand different things. The mariners likewise aghast with the agony of approaching death, were not able to execute the Master's command, nor (for such lamentations, noise and outcries) could hear the charge & direction of their hoarse and painful Pilot. Some strike sail, others turn the main yard; some make fast again the broken shrouds; others mend and calk the riven planks; some ply the pomp apace, and some the routher; and in the end, all put their helping hands to preserve the miserable ship from inevitable loss. But their painful diligence did not help them, nor their vows and tears profit them to pacify proud Aeolus and Neptune's wrath: but rather, the more the night came on, the more the winds blue, and the storm waxed greater and more violent. And now dark night being fully come, and angry Fortune continuing still her severe punishment, the old Father Eugerius being past all hope of help and remedy, looking on his children and son in law, with an appalled and altered countenance, felt such great sorrow for the death that we had to pass, that his grief and compassion for us, was more bitter to our souls, than the thought of our proper and present misfortunes. For the lamenting old man, environed on every side with care and sorrow, with a pitiful voice and sorrowful tears, said thus. Ah mutable fortune, common enemy to human content, how hast thou reserved so great mishap and misery for my sorrowful old age? O thrice blessed are they, who fight in the mids of bloody battles, with honour die in their young and lusty years, because not drawing forth their line to wearied old age, have never cause with grief to bewail the untimely death of their beloved children. O extreme sorrow! O baleful success! who ever ended his days in so heavy a plight as I poor distressed man, that hoping to have comforted my natural death, by leaving them to the world, that might have survived, not only to perform the due of my last obsequies, but to continue my line and memory, must now (miserable man) perish in their dearest company. O my dear children, who would have thought that my life and yours should end at one time and by one misfortune! feign would I (poor souls) comfort you; but what can a sorrowful father tell you, in whose hart there is such abundance of grief and want of consolation? But comfort yourselves my children, by arming your invincible souls with patience, and lay all the burden of your sorrow upon my back, for besides that I shall once die for myself, I must suffer so main deaths more, as you have lives to lose.  
This did the old and sorrowful man abruptly deliver with so many tears and sobs, that he could scarce speak, embracing first one and another, and then altogether for his last farewell, before the very point of danger and death was fully come. But now to tell thee of Alcidas tears, and to recount the grief that I endured for her sake, were too difficult and long a narration. Only one thing I will not omit to tell thee, that that which did most torment me, was to think, that the same life which I had offered up for her service, should now be jointly lost with hers.  
In the mean while, the forlorn and tossed ship, by the force and violence of the fierce western winds, which by the straits of Gibraltar, came blowing as they were mad, sailed with greater speed than was expedient for our safety, and being battered on every side with the cruel blows of envious fortune by the space of a day and a night (unable also to be guided by the skill and ceaseless labour of the mariners) ran many leagues in the long Mediterranean sea, wheresoever the force of the waves & winds did carry her. The next day following Fortune seemed a little while to wax more calm & gentle, but on a sudden turning again to her acccustomed cruelty, she drove us into such danger, that now we looked not for one half hour of life. For in the end a fierce and mighty tempest came so suddenly upon us, that the ship driven on by the force of a boisterous blast, that smit her on the starboard, was in so great danger of turning bottom up, that she had now her forepart hidden under the water: whereupon I undid my Rapier from my side (espying the manifest and imminent danger) because it might not hinder me, and embracing my Alcida, leapt with her into the Sciffe that was fastened to the ship. Clenarda, that was a light and nimble damsel, followed us, not forgetting to leave her bow and quiver in the ship, which she esteemed more than any treasure. Polydorus embracing his old father Eugerius, had also leapt in with him amongst us, if the Pilot of the ship with another mariner had not been before him: But at that very instant when Polydorus with old Eugcrius were next to them, preparing themselves to leap out of the ship, a mighty great blast of wind smiting on the larboard, broke the cockboat from the ship, and drove them so far asunder, that those miserable men that were in her, were constrained to tarry there still, from which time (unless a little while after) we lost sight of them, and knew not what became of the ship, but do verily think, that it was either swallowed up by those cruel waves, or else smiting upon some rock or sands near to the coast of Spain, is miserably cast away. But Alcida, Clenarda, and I remaining in the little Sciffe that was guided by the industry of the Pilot, and of the other mariner, went floating up and down a day and a night attending every minute of an hour apparent death, without hope of remedy, and ignorant in what coast we were. But the next morning finding ourselves near to land, we made towards it amain. The two mariners that were very skilful in swimming, went not alone to the wished shore, but taking us out of the boat carried us safely thither. After that we were delivered from the perils of the sea, the mariners drew their Sciffe to land, and viewing that coast where we arrived, knew that it was the Island Formentera, wondering not a little that in so small time we had run so many miles. But they that had so long and certain experience of the casual effects, which outrageous tempests are wont to cause, marveled in the end not much at the preposterous course of our navigation. Now were we safely come to land, secure from the dangers of passed fortune, but yet surcharged with such sorrow for the loss of Eugerius & Polydorus, so ill entreated by grief & care, & so weakened by hunger & cold, that we had no less sure hope of our safety, nor recovery of our lives, than joy of our passed perils. I pass over with silence, fair Shepherdess, the great complaints that Alcida & Clenarda made for the loss of their father & brother, because I would quickly come to the period of this lacrymable history, & to the hapless success that befell to me since I came to that solitary Island: For after that in the same I was delivered from Fortune's cruelty, Love envying that poor content of mine, became my mortal foe so extremely, that sorrowing to see me escaped from the tempest, with a new and greater grief (when I thought myself most safe) he tormented my scarce revived soul. For alas, wicked love wounded the Pilots hart (whose name was Sartofano) and so enamoured him on Clenardas' beauty, that (to come to the end of his desire, by imagining and hatching in his wicked hart a strange and inopinate treason) he forgot the law of faith and friendship. And thus it was: That after that the two sisters had with bitter tears and lamentations offered up the sorrowful effects of their loving hearts as obsequies to the ghosts of their deceased parents, it fell out that Alcida, wearied with the long grief and troubles that she had passed, laid herself down upon 〈◊〉 sand, and being overcome with deep melancholy, fell fast asleep. The w●… when I perceived, I said to the Pilot.  
My friend Sartofano, unless we seek out something to eat, or if in seeking, our hard fortune will not conduct us where we may find some food, we may make full account that we have not saved our lives, but rather changed the manner of our death. Wherefore I pray thee, my good friend, to go with thy fellow mariner to the first village thou canst find in this Island to seek out some victuals for the sustenance of our hungry bodies.  
Whereunto Sartofano answered. Though Fortune hath sufficiently favoured us by bringing us safe to land, yet think not (Marcelius) to find any thing here to eat; this being an Island, of towns desert, and of people inhabited: But to comfort you again, I will tell you a remedy, how to save ourselves from dying for hunger. For, see you yonder little Island right over against us, and so near to this? There is so great store of venison, coneys, and hares, and many other wild beasts, that in great herds they go together without fear or danger at all. There also dwelleth a certain Hermit, whose cell is never without, bread, oil and mole. I therefore think it best that Clenarda (who is cunning in shooting, and having her bow and arrows here so fit for the purpose) pass over in the boat to the Island to kill some of those wild beasts, whom my fellow and I will transport whilst you stay here to bear Alcida company: for it may fall out that we will return before she awake, and come hither again with good store of fresh and savoury provision.  
Although Clenarda and I liked Sartofanos' counsel well, least of all suspecting his subtle & secret treachery, yet she would never consent to go into the Island without my company, for sear of committing herself alone to the rude mariners; whereupon she requesting my company, I made many excuses to stay behind, telling her that it was not meet to leave Alcida alone and sleeping in so solitary a place: Who answered me again, that since the distance of the place was but small, the game much, & the sea somewhat calm (for by that time that we were a little while on land, the tempest began to cease) we might go hunt and come again before Alcida (who had not slept so long before) awaked. In the end she showed me so many persuasions, that forgetting what I had to do in such a case, without more ado I agreed to go with her; which thing grieved Sartofano to the hart, who had rather had Clenardas' company alone for the better effecting of his wicked purpose. But yet the Traitor for all this wanted not subtlety to prosecute his devilish pretence. For Alcida being left asleep, and both of us got into the Sciffe, and launched into the deep, before we came to the Island all unawares and unprovided of weapons (for I had left mine in the ship, when I skipped out of it to save my life) I was assailed by both the mariners, and unable to help myself, bound both hand foot. Clenarda seeing their treason, for sudden grief would have leapt into the sea; but she being stayed by the Pilot, and carried from the place where I was to the other end of the boat, he said thus in secret to her. Trouble not thyself (fair gentlewoman) to see us so rudely entreat this Traitor, but quiet thy mind, for what is done, is all for thy service. For know (fair Mistress) that this Marcelius, when we arrived at the desert Island, had some private talk with me, and prayed me to persuade thee to go a hunting into this Island; and when we should be at sea, to steer the boat directly from that place, telling me, that he was greatly in love with thee, and that he would leave thy sister in the Island, only and without impediment to enjoy his pleasure of thee: And the denial of his company with thee to this place, which faintly he used, was but dissembled to colour his wicked intent the more. But I considering with myself what a vile and barbarous a part it was to offer violence to so singular beauty, and to so good a Lady, to prevent this inhumanity from thy great goodness, even at the very point when he would have committed his treason, resolved to be loyal unto thee, and so have bound Marcelius as thou seest, with determination to leave him in this case at the shore of a little Island which is near at hand, and afterwards to return with thee to the place where we left Alcida: This is the reason that makes me do thus, and therefore consider well what thou meanest to do. When Clenarda heard this smooth tale, which the wicked Traitor so cunningly had told her, she believed it so truly, that presently she bore me mortal hatred, and was well pleased, it seemed, that I was carried to the place, where Sartofano did mean to land me. For with a frowning countenance she beheld me, and for very anger could not speak a word, until she had a pretty while rejoiced in her secret hart to think of the revenge and punishment, that should light upon me, not telling me one word of that brave deceit, wherewith she was so much abused. All which when by her joyful countenance I perceived, & that my bonds did not grieve her, it made me say thus unto her. What means this sister, dost thou esteem so lightly of both our pains, that so soon thou hast ended thy complaints? Perhaps thou art in good hope to see me by and by at liberty to be revenged of these villainous Traitors? Then like a fierce Lioness she told me, that my imprisonment and bonds where for no other cause, but for the cruel intent I had to leave Alcida, and to carry her away, and the rest, whereof the false Pilot had wickedly informed her. When I heard these words, I never felt like grief in my life, and instead of laying violent hands upon these Traitors, with vile and outrageous words I railed upon them; and with good proofs so well persuaded her of the truth, that she perceived by and by that it was a manifest piece of treason, sprung up of Sartofanos' vile and filthy love: Whereupon she made so great lamentation, that she fell forthwith into the pitiful discourse of their deceit, which was forcible enough to have mollified the craggy rocks we passed by with ruth and compassion, though it wrought nothing in the hard hearts of those two wicked monsters. Imagine then now how the little sciffe that floated up and down the wide seas, was in a small time carried a great way from the Island, when unfortunate Alcida awaking, and seeing herself all alone, and forsaken, turned her sorrowful eyes to the main sea, and not finding the sciffe, how in every part of the shore thereabout, she went seeking up and down and found no creature at all. Ah thou mayst conceive (fair Shepherdess) what anguish of mind she felt in these crosses of unjust Fortune! Imagine besides, what plenty of tears she powered forth, in what extremities and wants she was, how sometimes (perhaps) she would have cast herself into the sea, and how often in vain she called upon my name. But alas we were gone so far, that we could not hear her pitiful outcries, and might only perceive (how by shaking a white scarf up and down in the Air) she incited us to turn back again, which the wicked Traitor Sartofano would never agree to. But making the greatest haste away that he could, he brought us to the Island of Yuiça, where disembarking us, they left me fast bound to an anchor that was pitched in the ground. That way by chance came certain Mariners of Sartofanos' acquaintance, companions like himself, whom though Clenarda never so much informed of her estate, innocency, and misfortune, yet it availed her nothing to make them take pity on her, but they rather gave to the Traitor sufficient provision, who went to embark himself again with Clenarda, whom poor soul (at her peril) she must needs follow; from which time hitherto I never saw nor heard any news of them. There was I left all alone bound hand and foot, and pinched with intolerable hunger. But that which most of all grieved me, was Alcidas want and sorrow, who was likewise left alone in the Island Formentera, and in am thereof regarded not mine own, which was presently remedied. For at the noise of my loud and lamentable outcries, certain Mariners came to me, who being more pitiful than those before, gave me some meat to stanch my extreme hunger. And at my incessant request, they armed for my sake a Fregantine, and carrying with them some store of meat and wine, with weapons, and other necessaries embarked themselves in my company, and within a short time, with swift and speedy oars it came to the Island of Formentera, where Alcida was left a sleep. But for all that I could do by seeking up and down in it, and hallowing in every place, and calling aloud on Alcidas name, I could neither find her, nor by any sign perceive that she was there. I than thought that she had desperately thrown herself into the sea, or else that she had been devoured of wild beasts. But yet seeking up and down the plains and shores, and all those rocks and caves, and most secret corners of the Island, in a piece of a rock, made in form of a quarri●… found these verses with a sharp point of steeled knife, engraven, which said thus.  

O Sandie desert, and dry barren mead,  
Thou that hast heard the sound of my lament,  
O swelling seas fierce wind to changing bend,  
Changed with my sighs, that are in sorrow bread  
Hard reck, wherein for ever may be read  
My torment herein graven, and permanent:  
Truly report my pains which you present.  
For that Marcelius here hath left me dead,  
My sister stolen, he hath forgotten me  
His faith, his sails, and then my hope forlorn  
Commend I to the winds, and witness ye  
That love I will not any man that's borne,  
To scape those seas where calms are never any,  
Nor combat foes, that are so fierce and many.   
I cannot tell thee (fair Shepherdess) how deep a wound my soul felt, when I read these letters, knowing that for another's fault and vile deceit, and by the hard event of cruel fortune I was so suddenly abhorred of Alcida: wherefore resolving with myself not to lead a life replenished with such woes and miseries, I would forthwith with one of their sword have pierced my heavy hart, had not one of those mariners who suspected such a thing, by main force hindered me from it. With comfortable words therefore they brought me back again half dead into their Fregatte, and being moved at my importunate and pitiful prayers, for a piece of money carried me towards the coast of Italy, and landed me in Gayeta in the kingdom of Naples. Where inquiring of every one that I knew and met, after Alcida, and publishing certain tokens of her, at the last by certain Shepherds which came thither in a ship of Spain, I heard some news of her, which ship passing by Formentera, found her there all alone, & took her in; and that she had taken upon her the habit of a Shepherdess; with as strong a resolution to hide herself from me, as strange to live unknown in those disguised weeds. Which when I understood, I also appareled myself like a Shepherd, the better to find her out, and wandering up and down, and seeking her throughout all that kingdom, could never find her, nor hear which way she was gone, until a long time after I understood that she knew how I had notice of her, which made her fly the farther from me, and to pass into Spain in a ship of Genua. Then I embarked myself presently to follow her, and hither I am come into Spain, where having trodden the greatest part of it in seeking her up and down, have not yet found any one, that could tell me any news of this cruel one, whom with so great grief and trouble of mind and body I am continually seeking, and can never find.  
This is (fair Shepherdess) the tragedy of my life, this is the cause of my death, and this the process of all mine ills: In which so sad discourse if I have been too tedious, the fault is thine, since my unwilling tongue, by thy importunate requests was constrained to tell it. And that which now I crave of thee (gentle Shepherdess) is, that thou wouldst not trouble thyself to apply any remedies to my sorrow, nor comfort my cares, nor to stop the tears, which with so just cause are due to my cordial grief. Marcelius having ended his sorrowful history, began to make a most doleful complaint, and to sigh so forcibly, that it was great pity to behold him. feign would Diana have told him tidings of his Alcida, which was not long since in her company; but to perform her word, which she had promised not to discover her unto him, and also for that she saw it would but have tormented him more, by giving him notice of her, who extremely hated him, held her peace: And rather wished him, to comfort himself by entertaining an assured hope and confidence of his future gladness, since she herself doubted not before it was long to see him very joyful in the presence of his beloved Mistress. For if it was true (as he believed) that Alcida went wandering up and down in the company of Shepherdesses and Nymphs of Spain, she could not then (said Diana) be long unhidden from him, and so she promised him to cause an enquiry and search to be made in the strangest, remote, and solitary places, and in the fields most frequented by them, but especially charging him to have a regard to his own life, and promising him to perform that which she had offered. For which unexpected courtesies, Marcelius yielding her infinite thanks, would have taken his leave, saying, that after a few days he thought to return thither again, and to give her a full account of all those accidents that in seeking out Alcida might happen unto him. But Diana staying him, said. I will not be so great an enemy to mine own content, to let thee go out of my company, but would rather (because I see myself forsaken of my husband Delius, as thou art of thy Alcida) have thee stay and eat (if it please thee) a little of my simple cheer to refresh thyself, who hast (it seems) no small need thereof. And after when the shadows of the trees and hills wax greater, we will both go home to our village, wherewith that rest (which continual grief will suffer us to take) we will pass the night away, and in the morning betimes hasten us towards the Temple of chaste Diana, where the sage Lady Felicia makes her abode, whose secret wisdom will minister remedies to our painful passions. And because thou mayest the better enjoy the rural conversation and country plains of the Shepherds and Shepherdesses of our fields, it shall be best for thee, not to change thy pastoral habit, nor to discover thyself, but to name thyself, and in apparel and fashions live wholly like a Shepherd. Marcelius being willing to do that, which Diana told him, did eat a little of that which she had taken out of her neat scrip, and quenched his thirst with the savoury water of the clear fountain, both which were so needful for him, as for one that traveling all the day before, had neither eaten nor drunk: and then they went on their ways towards the village. But they had not gone forth many paces, when in a little thicket not far from the path way, they heard the resounding voices of certain Shepherds, who sweetly sung to the tune of their merry Bagpipes, and because Diana was delighted much in music, she prayed Marcelius to go to the place where they were, who being come near unto the wood, Diana knew the Shepherds Taurisus and Berardus, two great corrivals in her love, and commonly wont to go together in company, and sing in emulation the one against the other. Whereupon Diana and Marcelius not entering into the place where the Shepherds were, but yet hiding themselves behind certain Okes so nigh, that they might hear the sweetness of the music, listened to the Shepherd's songs, being not perceived of them at all, who though they knew not the cause and effect of their songs, was so near at hand, yet divining (as it were) that their enemy was hearkening unto them, by cleared up their pastoral voices, and making most delicate and different stops with them, they began to sing this Eglogue following.  

Taurisus. 
NOw that the sun doth hide his golden beams  
Behind the hills, whose shadows do increase:  
And labouring men unyoke their weary teams  
And leave of work, their wearied limbs to ease:  
My sheep forsake your pastures, and attend  
Unto my fainting voice and hollow cries,  
Which without stint or pause of time, I send  
Disorderly unto the careless skies:  
Hark how my poor and miserable hart  
Is in the deepest of a burning flame,  
And how my bowels and every inward part  
Are melted with the scorching of the same:  
That flame I mean and heat, wherewith my senseless soul doth trace  
Th' Angelical and peerless beauty of Diana's face.   
Berardus. 
Before the sun in radiant Coche doth glide  
down to the West, to leave our Hemisphere,  
And suffers not the dew of evening tide  
To fall upon the meadows any where,  
Thou simple Sheep that oft hast heard my voice,  
And gentle lambs which all the summer long  
With merry glee do in these meads rejoice,  
Now lend a gentle ear unto my song:  
My ruthful song and verse shall not entreat  
(Though all the same within my breast I bear)  
Of any flames, or coals, or burning heat:  
But of that mortal cold and frozen fear,  
Wherewith doth bridle and correct the senseless soul apace  
Th' Angelical and peerless beauty of Diana's face.   
Taurisus. 
When that my painful thoughts and pensive mind  
Do but imagine of her comely graces,  
Then burns my soul so strangely, that I find  
My vital spirits to leave their proper places:  
Love doth enforce this sufferance, weak by kind,  
And hope, that's flown away with feathered paces,  
To make my flames still burning in my breast,  
Which gives me not one hour of wished rest.   
Berardus. 
When I consider of my base estate,  
And high perfections of my Shepherdess,  
Then doth my hart retire with fearful gate,  
And pinching frost my timorous soul possess:  
Love will I live in hope of happiness,  
And so I do sometimes, but fortunes hate  
To quaking fear subiecteth every power,  
Which makes me not enjoy one happy hour.   
Taurisus. 
In such ill time, I saw the burning light  
Of those clear stars, whose like was never seen,  
That face, that grace, those virtues infinite,  
With which Diana reigns as fairest Queen:  
That my desires are kindled by those bright  
And shining beams, that I do never ween  
To hope for ease of these excessive flames  
That burns my soul, and breeds a thousand blames.   
Berardus. 
In such ill time I saw those dainty hands  
Of whitest ivory, framed for thousand smarts,  
And those two eyes, where little Cupid stands  
Wounding the freest minds with mortal darts:  
That my small forces with his mighty bands  
Confounded, foiled, and fearfully departs,  
And then remains so weakened with his ire,  
That shivering fear doth conquer my desire.   
Taurisus. 
Didst ever see a lightning from the skies  
With mighty force to rend an aged Oak?  
So strong is that and terrible, which lies  
Within my breast, all smothered in the smoke:  
Didst ever see the violent force of brooks,  
That from the highest rocks fall headlong down?  
So proud, so fierce, and angry in her looks  
Diana seems, when she gins to frown:  
But her pretences are too far  
To make me sad by base and servile fear,  
For greater that the dangers are,  
The greater is the firmness which I bear.   
Berardus. 
Didst ever see the snow in any hill  
To lie, and melt before the sunny beams?  
So do I waste with sighs and tears distil  
Before those lights that from her beauty streams:  
Didst ever see in any bloody broil  
Some simple Shepherd put to fearful flight?  
With no less fear (poor man) I do recoil,  
Leaving my sheep (whilom my best delight)  
And in this cold and frozen fear  
I merit more, and in my trembling breast  
More comfort and content do bear,  
Then in that heat so bold and manifest.   
Taurisus. 
My grief (Berardus) which I feel, is of such sutell Art,  
That it doth trouble still my soul and every part consume  
Thereof, which never to resist, durst once presume for fear,  
But even as gently as it may, and must with mere consent  
Yield up her life into the hands of him that's bend to tame  
The proudest hearts: And joyful in his burning flame I lieu:  
And as they do of comfort give me store  
For more content, so would I wish for more.   
Berardus. 
The Gods (Taurisus) and the heavens have made so passing fair  
This star Diana, whose golden gleams of glittering hair and face  
Do with their lights illuminate my life, and chase away  
The darkest clouds, restoring to mine eyes a day so bright,  
That if I am beholding her the shining light and blaze  
Of those two stars, mine eyes and senses do amaze and blind,  
That casting them unto the ground, my hopes I find so bare,  
That, though I would, not once I dare complain  
Or see, or sue, or tell her of my pain.   
Taurisus. 
This lovely Nymph would never list  
Unto my woeful cries,  
But in her rigour doth persist  
And from my succour flies:  
And pitiless to see my death would never turn her eyes.  
O cruel eyes, O cruel pain,  
O beauty, cruel foe:  
Yet doth my faith so firm remain,  
That all my cares and woe  
It doth encour age in such sort, and fears doth overthrow,  
That like a sturdy rock it stands  
Against the cruel raves  
(Though fenceless in the naked sands)  
Of beating winds and waves.  
And how much more with conquering hand my hart she doth control,  
By so much do I add more heat unto my burning soul.   
Berardus. 
The woods and mount aines do not bear  
Wolves of such cruelty,  
Whose howling threats I fear not there,  
And yet aiealousie  
Doth make my hart to quake for fear,  
And yield most cowardly.  
I am not able to defend  
My weak and feeble breast  
From thousand fears, where they pretend  
To build their strongest nest:  
And with their entrance drive away my hopes, my joy and rest.  
There they command and govern all,  
And proudly tyrannize,  
And there my soul to endless thrall  
And body sacrifice.  
O cruel Love, whom cruel death must needs at last succeed,  
O why with such consuming tortures die I not in deed?   
Taurisus. 
near to this crystal fountain on a day  
I saw Diana sitting with her spouse,  
And as by chance I crossed the woods that way,  
Espied them behind these hazel bows:  
Dying with grief impatience, and despite  
To see (which I would not have seen) that sight.  
Nothing he spoke, but with his clownish hand  
Did rudely touch, and clasp her round about:  
(Her tender corpses, the smallest in this land,  
Too dainty and fine for such a homely lout.)  
And so he sat, and did not stir  
In this unseemly sort with her.  
But when my jealous eyes so bas●… thing espied  
With mortal rage I burned and cruel enute died.   
Berardus. 
To walk the woods in sweetest month of May  
When winter hides his hoary head for shame,  
Diana with her husband on a day  
The glory of the fairest women came.  
A vail of Lawn upon her golden hair  
With silver pin's enfolded every where,  
A thousand sports and pastimes did I see  
How she found out, his mind to recreate:  
And as I lurked behind a Poplar tree,  
How lovingly she dallied with her mate:  
Whom I did see reach forth his hand  
Unto her neck as white as swan,  
Wherewith he did undo her vail and lose her shining hair,  
Which sight did kill my hart with fear enwrapped in despair.    
The Shepherds after they made an end of singing, began to gather their flocks together, that went feeding up and down the wood. And coming towards the place where Marcelius and Diana were, they could not otherwise choose but see them, for they had no handsome shift to hide themselves, although they would feign have stepped aside. At which joyful and unexpected sight, they received no mean content & gladness. And though Berardus was somewhat altered and appalled thereat, yet inflamed Taurisus to see the cause of his grief before his eyes, kindled more and more his hot desire. They curteoufly saluted the Shepherds, and requested them not to deny them their company to the village, since good fortune had made them all so happily meet together. Diana, whose custom was never to be coy nor discourteous, was well content to do it. So that Taurisus and Berardus prayed the other Shepherds that were with them, to come after by little and little with their flocks, that they had now gathered up together, towards the village, whilst they in company of Diana and the other Shepherds went on before; which they willingly performed. Taurisus' by the way as he went, prayed Diana to answer verse for verse to the song that he would sing, which she denied him not to do, and so they sung as followeth.  

Taurisus. 
THe cause why that thou dost deny  
To look on me, sweet foe impart?   
Diana. 
Because that doth not please the eye,  
Which doth offend and grieve the hart.   
Taurisus. 
What woman is, or ever was,  
That when she looketh, could be moved?   
Diana. 
She that resolves her life to pass,  
Neither to love nor to be loved.   
Taurisus. 
There is no hart so fierce nor hard,  
That can so much torment a soul.   
Diana. 
Nor Shepherd of so small regard,  
That reason will so much control.   
Taurisus. 
How falsit out Love doth not kill  
Thy cruelty with some remorse?   
Diana. 
Because that Love is but a will,  
And free will doth admit no force.   
Taurisus. 
Bebold what reason now thou hast,  
To remedy my loving smart?   
Diana. 
The very same binds me as fast,  
To keep such danger from my hart.   
Taurisus. 
Why dost thou thus torment my mind,  
And to what and thy beauty keep?   
Diana. 
Because thou call'st me still unkind,  
And pitiless when thou dost weep.   
Taurisus. 
It is because thy cruelty  
In killing me doth never end:   
Diana. 
Nay for because I mean thereby  
My hart from sorrows to defend.   
Taurisus. 
Be bold so foul I am no way  
As thou dost think, fair Shepherdess:   
Diana. 
With this content thee, that I say,  
That I believe the same no less.   
Taurisus. 
What after giving me such store  
Of passions, dost thou mock me too?   
Diana. 
If answers thou wilt any more  
Go seek them without more ado.    
It greatly contented Taurisus that Diana sung with him, whereby though he heard the rigorous answers of his Shepherdess, yet he was so glad in his mind, that she deigned to answer him, that it made him forget the grief, which by the cruelty of her words he might have otherwise conceived. But now timorous Berardus forcing his heavy hart, and casting a pitiful eye on Diana (not unlike the sorrowful Swan, that a little before her death singes sweetly in the clear and crystal brooks) lifted up his faint and fearful voice, which came forth with great pain out of his panting breast, and to the sound of his Baggepipe sung these verses following.  

ENd now my life, with daily pains affrighted,  
Since that for all that I have wept and grieved,  
My tears are not requited,  
And trusty faith not any whit believed.  
I am in such a hapless state of sorrow,  
That I would be content (and so relieve me)  
Unjust rewards and scorns of her to borrow,  
Only that she would credit and believe me.  
But though my life is thus with woes despited,  
And though to be most constant, never grieved,  
My pains are not requited,  
And trusty faith not any whit believed.   
After that Berardus had ended his song, both the Shepherds cast their eyes upon Marcelius, and because he was unknown to them, they durst not entreat him to sing. But in the end bold Taurisus prayed him to tell them his name, (and if it pleased him) to sing them a song, wherein they would think themselves beholding to him for either courtesy. At which words Marcelius looking upon Diana, and making her a sign to touch her instrument, without giving them any other answer, with one song pleased them both, and satisfied their desire. Whereupon fetching out a great sigh, he began thus.  


AH such an one I ever was, since that  
My Shepherdess so cruel I did see,  
That now I know not who I am, nor what  
My hap shall be, or shall become of me.   

I know right well that if I were a man,  
Grief had my life consumed long ago:  
And if a stone, I am most certain then,  
That dropping tears had melted me like snow.   

Marcelius is my name, who knows not that?  
And I am hers, since first I did her see,  
That now I know not who I am, nor what  
My hap shall be, or shall become of me.    
Now did the light begin to give place to darkness, and the country villages with their domestical fires began to smoke apace, when the Shepherds being near to their town made an end of their singing. Every one went to his own house, as men not meanly glad for their passed conversation: but Diana found no rest at all, especially when she remembered that her beloved Syrenus was not in the town. She lodged Marcelius well in M●libeus house, cousin to Delius, where with great kindness, and their best country cheer he was welcomed: and after coming home to her own house, she called her husbands and her own kindred together, and told them how Delius had forsaken her at the fountain of the Sycamores by following a strange Shepherdess, that by chance came thither. At which words she seemed to make so grievous complaints, and indeed to be so sorry, that in the end she told them all, that early in the morning she was purposed to go to Diana's Temple, to inquire of sage Felicia some news of her husband Delius. They were all well content, that she should go, and offered her all the favour and help they could in her journey, but the intent thereof was for no other end but to see Syrenus, whom she knew assuredly to be there. Wherefore with many thanks she remained very glad, that her determination had so good success; and so with hope of her future joy, she gave some rest that night to her wearied body, and felt in her heavy hart a touch of unwonted pleasure and content.  
The end of the first book.   

The second Book of Enamoured DIANA.  
Unjust and lawless love is of such force, that, to augment his cruelty, it hath the help of all things in the world, his enterprises being favoured and maintained by those things, which are of most might and valour, but especially aided so much by Fortune, and by her mutabilities, as for bestowing his pains and torments abroad, he needs no better friend nor furtherer. All which is verified by Marcelius disgraces, since Fortune wrought so hard a conceit in his betrothed Alcidas breast, that she was forced to give credit to such a suspicion, that (though most false) she held for an assured, or at least an apparent ground of his inconstancy, whereof ensued the hating of her husband, who loved her dearer than his own life, and who in any thing had never offended her. Hereupon it may be gathered, how strong and certain a presumption ought to be, to make a wise and discreet person give faith and credit to it, since this, that had but a colour of certainty was so far indeed from the truth of the matter. But now though Love and Fortune so ill entreated Marcelius, yet in one thing they highly pleasured him, which was, that Love wounded Diana's hart, and Fortune conducted him to the fountain, where he found her, whereby they might go both together to sage Felicias house, and pass away his sorrows with less annoy in her comfortable and delighfull company. But the time being come, when the red morning with her golden habit did overcome the stars of the passed night, and the birds with their chirping noise gave warning that day was come, Enamoured Diana, wearied with the long and tedious night, rose up, to walk the path of her desired journey: and committing the charge of her flocks to the Shepherdess Polyntia her friend, she came out of her town accompanied only with her rural Baggepipe, (the deceiver of her sorrows) and with her scrip stored with some few victuals. She came down from the side of a hill, which led from the town to a thick wood, where in the bottom of it she sat her down underneath a row of green Sycamores, attending for Marcelius company, as she had promised the night before. But in the mean time, whilst he came not, she began to tune her Baggepipe and to sing this song following.  


AWake a little, light of clearest day,  
With calm aspect, with mild and gentle grace,  
A poor soul to beguile in sorrows plight:  
Stretch out that light Apollo from thy face,  
That joys the desert Champions in decay,  
And driest plants with life and secret might:  
In this most pleasant wood, that doth invite  
To sweetest rest,  
Tormented thou shalt see my breast  
With careful grief (my heavy lot)  
To see itself by him forgot,  
Who for my scorn a thousand plaints did waste,  
The fault is Cupid's taste,  
Who gives and takes on purpose discontent,  
Where he perceives he may the more torment.   

What beasts with mildness do not complaints acquaint,  
What stone by sighs is not to softness wrought,  
The which a wearied breast doth yield with pain?  
What Tigers, or what lions are not brought  
To ruth and pity, hearing a complaint  
Which hath almost undone my soul in twain.  
But to Syrenus I recount in vain  
My sorrowful mishap,  
Who doth as little care for that,  
As furious winds in raging seas  
The tears, that all to little ease,  
The mariners with careful hart do shill:  
For more they cry, the more it rageth still.   

Thy love Syrenus was not fine and good,  
Which in these fields to me thou didst once bear,  
When as my error might offend it so:  
Remember (Traitor) what thou then didst swear,  
near to the river sitting in this wood:  
What then doth now thy hardness seem to show?  
Shall not a small oblivion long ago  
Be helped by extreme love?  
And such, that shall be far above  
My passed hate, and fault before?  
Then since I cannot love thee more  
Nor satisfy the same with greater heat;  
For remedy, my death I will entreat.   

Live yet in pain, the which I feel at last  
For thee who makest my sorrows less appear,  
Though more it hurts my wretched soul, I see,  
Because to have thy present figure here,  
Gives to her thought a sweet delight some taste,  
Who paining for thy sake doth think on thee.  
But bend thy hart a little unto me,  
Ardent in my request.  
Thou seest I live in pain oppressed,  
Sustained by this desire alone,  
In all my life to hear but one  
(No) if thou wilt, in that I most do love:  
But from a man so fierce what shall I prove?   

Tell me, the favours how canst thou requite  
In that time past, Syrenus, when thy hart  
Thou hadst more tender, now in hardness dead:  
When (Traitor) for my cause, with envies smart  
A thousand shepherds thou didst kill outright:  
O joyful time, and life that I did lead:  
The vale shall witness, and the pleasant mead,  
Where I of Roses white  
And sweetest flowers, with delight  
Brave garlands for thy head I had  
Compacted, and sometimes did add  
(Only for thy content) some of my hair,  
Which grievous thought my life doth now impair.   

Now free, thou dost abhor me, in the end,  
Who, for thy sake herself in pain consumes:  
But yet take heed of Cupid's fine deceits:  
For that proud hart, that overmuch presumes,  
From cruel love his senses to defend,  
The more he yields, the more to strive he sweats:  
O that thou wert so wounded in his heats,  
As now myself I see:  
But ever it is unto me  
The best advise, no good to crave:  
For whatsoever it would have,  
Though heaven, and earth the more it doth importune,  
It ever was denied by Love, and Fortune.   

My song, in pine I will no wise engrave thee,  
Nor hardened Oak, but rather will commend thee  
Unto the winds, where they will toss and wave thee,  
And to the deaf and desert Champion send thee:  
Because my torments, of their hope deprived,  
And memory of them, which makes me sorry,  
May be forgot, and never be revived,  
Now that my life is lost and chiefest glory.    
The delicate voice and excellent graces of Diana, surmounted far the praises of the fairest and most skilful Shepherdesses of her time. And the quavers and fine conceits wherewith so sweetly she broke her voice, and adorned her songs, made her to be the more admired: For they were so rare and singular, that they rather seemed to be fetched from some majestical court, then known in the homely country. The which ought not to be so much wondered at, nor thought so strange, since Love is able to make the simplest Shepherds discourse of high and learned matters, especially if it find a lively wit and spirit, which in those pastoral cottages is seldom wanting. But as the enamoured Shepherdess was now ending her song, about that time that the clear Sun began to lessen the shadows of the high hills, despised Marcelius taking his leave of his pastoral lodging, to come to the place where he had appointed to meet Diana, came down from the hill above, at the foot whereof she was sitting to attend him: whom when she had espied a far off, she held her peace, because he might not understand the cause of her grief. When Marcelius was come to the place where Diana stayed for him, he said unto her. The clear light of this day (fair Shepherdess) which with the more resplendent beams of thy shining beautic did arise, be as joyful and happy to thee, as to me most sorrowful, if in thy good company I pass it not away. Truly I am ashamed to see, that my slowness hath made thee stay here all alone so careful for my coming; but this is not the first fault that (fair Diana) thou must pardon me during the time that I shall converse with thee. As that pardon should be vain (answered Diana) where there is no fault; so thou art not to be blamed for any such small care, but rather the earnest desire that I had to rise so early, and to come hither, where I have passed away the time in sundry fancies, and in thinking of the effects which belong to a troubled mind. But here is no time nor place for us to stay, since the desire I have to be at Diana's Temple is great, though the way is very short: as also for that the morning being somewhat fresh, we may before the Sun gins to power down his beams with greater heat, begin to take our journey, the better to refresh ourselves, & in the heat of the day to rest our wearied bodies. When she had said thus, they both went on their way, crossing over a thick wood that was before them, and for lightning of their journey, began to sing that which followeth.  

Marcelius. 
INconstant love and cruel, which hast lately  
Settled my happy thoughts, my love and fire,  
In such a place so famous, high and stately,  
Where mortal men's deserts cannot aspire:  
Well hast thou show'd thy power  
By quailing of my sorrow,  
To double it each hour  
And make my torments greater even and morrow:  
Thou mightst have left my hart in former sadness,  
Because lesser harm it were to die with anguish,  
Then to receive a gladness  
So full of pain: And so by fits to languish,   
Diana. 
Thou must not think it strange, and must not wonder  
That thus the mighty Boy of pain and pleasure  
After one small delight, doth send a hunger  
Nay thousand pains and torments without measure:  
For firm repose to any  
He yet did promise never,  
But cruel deaths, and many  
Sobs, sighs, and tears, complaints, and chains for ever:  
The Lybian sands, and April's fairest flowers  
Pass not the griefs, with which fierce love doth murder  
Each heart, and into showers  
Distrains the eyes: And yet proceedeth further.   
Marcelius. 
Before that ever Love my soul inflamed,  
His slights, wherein he most of all abounded,  
I knew right well, wherewith men's hearts he tamed  
And captives made, and after deeply wounded:  
Our lives with great offences  
Not only he annoyeth,  
But yet our wits and senses  
And soundest judgements wholly he destroyeth.  
And so torments a soul, and so encumbers,  
That one poor joy it hardly doth recover:  
So by ten thousand numbers  
Most grievous thoughts surcharge a wretched lover.   
Diana. 
If loves deceits and his dissembling proffers,  
Wherewith he takes us, are so known and tried,  
Why then presents the soul itself and offers  
So easily to be taken, and applied?  
If that the hart so tender  
The troubles intertaineth  
That Cupid doth engender,  
Why after then laments it, and complaineth?  
Reason it were in love he should be pained,  
That to his darts doth yield, and is consenting  
With fetters to be chained:  
For ill affords us nought but pains tormenting.    
They sung this song and many more, the which having ended, they were now out of the wood, and then they began to walk over a pleasant and flowery mead, which caused Diana to use these words. They are no doubt marvelous and strange things, which the industry of man hath invented in populous and great cities, but yet those, which nature hath produced in the wide and solitary fields, are more to be admired. For who would not wonder at the lively green of this wood? and not be amazed at the beauty of this goodly meadow? For, to behold the diversity of coloured flowers, and the pleasant melody of chirping birds, is a thing so full of content and delight, that the glorious pomp and wealth of the bravest and most famous Court is not comparable to it. There is indeed (said Marcelius) in this pleasant solitude great store of content and joy, and namely for those that are free from passions of love, since they may lawfully, and when they list, enjoy such rare sweetness, and abundant pleasures. And I am certain, that if Love, (which is now so much my mortal enemy, remaining in these sequestered places) had in the village where I was of late, given me half the grief, which now I feel, my life durst never abide it, since with such like delights I could not have mitigated the cruelty of my torment. To this Diana answered not a word, but putting her snow white hand before her eyes, and therewith supporting her golden head, she stayed a great while very sad and pensive: and after sending forth now and then a sorrowful and painful sigh, said thus. Then woe is me (unfortunate Shepherdess) that can find no remedy sufficient to comfort my sorrows, when those, which take away from others a great part of their pain, do bring to me a continual and burning grief. I can now (Marcelius) no longer hide the pain which I suffer, the force whereof, though it compels me to publish it, yet for one thing I am bound to thank it, that it constrains me to tell it in such a time & place, where thou art only present, since thy noble mind and experience in like passions will not (I hope) condemn it for a mere & trifling folly, especially when thou knowest the cause thereof. I am (to be plain with thee Marcelius) tormented with the like grief that thou art, and am also forgotten (as thou art) of a Shepherd called Syrenus, of whom in times past I was greatly beloved. For cruel Fortune, which overturneth human intents, married me to Delius (enforced more by the hard commandment of my parents, then by mine own will) and to my great grief, made me a bondslave to such a husband, the intolerable thought of whose continual jealousy (besides the sufferance of many other griefs more) is only sufficient to kill this miserable soul. Whose injurious suspects I could be content yet to suffer, if I might but enjoy the presence of Syrenus; who, taking a just occasion by my forced marriage to forget me, forsook our town, (because he would not see me) and (as I understand) is in the Temple of Diana, whither we are now going. Whereupon thou mayest imagine what kind of life I lead, being always troubled with the jealousy of my husband, and tormented with the absence of my lover. Then Marcelius said. I cannot choose but pity thy grief, now I know it (gracious Shepherdess) and am sorry that I have not heard it till now. God grant I may never enjoy any happy content, if I wish it not as well to thy hart as to mine own. But because thou knowest how general loves arrows are, & with what small partiality they hurt the stoutest hearts, and most free and virtuous minds, then blush not to manifest his wrongs, since it shall never the more be an impeachment to thy good name, but an occasion to make me esteem the better of thee. And that which comforts me herein is, that I know, that the torment of thy husbands jealousy (a greater corsive to the hart than the absence of the thing beloved) will suffer thee to take a little rest, since Delius, who is following the flying Shepherdess, shall now be separated from thy company. Enjoy therefore the time, and occasion that Fortune presents thee, and comfort thyself, for it shall be no small ease unto thee, to pass away the absence of Syrenus, being now free from the importunous trouble of thy jealous husband. I would not esteem these jealousies so hurtful to me (said Diana) if Syrenus had them aswell as Delius, because I would then think that they had their foundation and beginning of love. For it is manifest, that they that love, would be glad to be loved again, & must esteem the jealousy of the thing beloved, to be good & lawful, since it is a manifest token of love, springing from love, incident to love, & ever accompanied with it. And for myself I am able to assure thee, that I never thought myself more in love, then when I was a little jealous, & never judged myself to be jealous, but when I was ascertained that I was most in love. To the which Marcelius replied thus, I never thought that a pastoral plainness was able to allege such wise reasons, in so difficult a question; whereupon I must needs condemn that for an old approved error, that maintains, that only in cities and in the court the finest wits, and exquisite conceits do dwell, when I find them as well to be amongst the thick woods, and in country and plain cottages. Yet for all this I will gainsay thy opinion, whereby thou wouldst seem to prove that jealousy is the messenger and companion of love, as if love could not be where jealousy is not joined with it. For though there are few lovers but are a little jealous; yet we must not therefore say, that the Lover that is not jealous, is not a more perfect and truer lover. For he rather showeth (being exempt from jealousy) what valour and force he hath in love, and the quality of his desire, which is pure and clear, and not troubled with the mist of jealous imaginations. Such an one was I (with modesty be it spoken) in my most happy and passed times, and so highly then prised my good Fortune, that with my public verses I did manifest the same. And amongst many other times that Alcida marveled to see me so much in love, and free from jealousy, I took in hand on a time to write this Sonnet to her to that effect.  

A Sonnet.  
THey say Love swore, he never would be friend,  
If mortal jealousy were not in place:  
And Beauty never be in any face,  
Unless that Pride did on her thought attend:  
These are two hags, which hideous hell doth send,  
Our sweet content to trouble, and disgrace:  
The one the joy of love to pain doth chase,  
The other pity from the hart defend.  
Beauty and Love were both for sworn, by me  
And thee, by making my unsure estate  
In joy and happiness so fortunate:  
Because smce first thy figure I did see  
Being so Fair, yet Prouder waist thou never  
Nor I in Love, that could be jealous ever.   
The pleasure that my Alcida took when I rehearsed this Sonnet to her, was so great (perceiving thereby the integrity of my love) that a thousand times she would sing it, knowing that I had well pleased her fancy with it. And truly (fair Shepherdess) I hold it for a great error, that such a horrible monster as jealousy is, should be accounted a good thing, as to say, that it is the token of Love, and that it is not but in an enamoured hart. For by this assertion we may say, that a fever is good, because it is a token of life, for it is never but in a body most likely to live. But both are manifest errors, since jealousy affords no less pain than a fever: For it is a plague of the soul; a frenzy disturbing the thoughts; a madness that weakens the body; an anger consuming the spirits; a fear abasing the mind, and a fury that fills the will with folly. But because thou mayst the better judge of jealousy to be most abominable, imagine the cause of it, and thou shalt find that it is nothing else, but a little fear of that which is not, nor shall be, a vile contempt of ones own deserts, and a mortal surmise, which calls the faith and sincerity of that which is beloved, in doubt and suspicion. The pangs of jealousy with words (gentle Shepherdess) cannot be deciphered: for they are such that do infinitely exceed in quantity and quality the pains, that are incident to love. For all the rest (saving they) may be converted in the end to a great sweetness, and content. And as the burning thirst in the hottest day makes the cold and fresh fountain water to taste more sweet and savoury, and as the danger and garboils in war and sedition, make us esteem the more of quietness and peace; so the torments of Love serve us for greater pleasure, whensoever any small favour is granted unto us, and when we enjoy but the least content and happiness. But this frantic jealousy powers such bitter poison into men's hearts, that it spoils and drives away all delights that harbour in it. To this effect I remember that an excellent Musician in Lisbon did sing this Sonnet on a day before the King of Portugal, which said thus.  

A Sonnet.  
Wen cruel absence wounds a soul with pain,  
Then thought is fed with fancies in their kind:  
For further of the good remains, the mind  
Receives more joy, when that it comes again:  
He that on hope his ground doth yet sustain,  
For all his grief a remedy shall find,  
And for his pains rewards shall be assigned:  
Or dies at lest in love content and feign:  
A thousand pains away one joy doth chase,  
And to a thousand scorns revenge presents  
The only viewing of an Angel's face:  
But when a soul vile jealousy torments,  
Though thousand joys do afterwards succeed,  
Yet bitter grief and rage the same doth breed.   
O how true was his opinion, how sure was this conclusion? For in very truth this pestilent jealousy leaves not one part of the soul whole, nor the least corner of the hart unsearched, where any small delight may hide itself. There is no content in Love, where there is no hope; and hope will never be there, where jealousy is a mean between them both. There is no steadfast pleasure where jealousy is, no delight which is not consumed with it, and no grief but jealousy torments us with it. The enraged fury of poisoned jealousy is so extreme, that it grieveth the hart infected with it, to hear the praises of the thing beloved, and would never have the perfections of that which one loveth neither seen nor known of any but of himself, offering great injury by means hereof to the worthiness of that gentility, that holds him in captivity. And the jealous man doth not only live in this slavery and pain, but to her also whom he loveth, he giveth such incessant grief, that more he could not give her, if he were her mortal enemy. Wherefore it is very clear, that a jealous husband (like thine) would rather have his wife seemefoule and loathsome to the world, & that she might be never seen, nor praised; no, not by the most virtuous and modest minds. What grief is it for the wife to have her honesty condemned by a false suspect? What greater punishment, then without all reason to be locked up in a secret corner of her house? What hart break sorrow with austere words, & sometimes with unseemly deeds to be continually checked? If she be merry, her husband thinks her dishonest; if she be sad, he imagines himself loathsome in her eye; if she be musing, he judgeth her full of fancies; if she look on him, he thinks she deceives him; if she looks not on him, he thinks she hates him; if she use any dalliance with him, he thinks it to be but feigned; if she be grave and modest, he thinks her a counterfeit; if she laughs, he thinks her to be lose; if she sigh, he counts her nought: And in the end jealousy converteth every thing that is poisoned with it, to an endless grief and misery. Whereupon it is very clear, that there is no pain in the world like to this, and never out of hell came fouler Harpies to contaminate and putrify the sweet and savoury food of an enamoured soul: wherefore care not greatly Diana for the absence of jealous Delius, for it avails thee not a little to make thee suffer the pain of Love more gently. To this Diana answered. Now am I thoroughly ascertained, that this passion which thou hast so lively depainted, is a most ugly and horrble thing, which deserves not a place in amorous hearts; and also believe, that this was the very same grief that tormented Delius. But I must tell thee by the way (Marcelius) that I never meant to defend the like grief, & that never it found harbour in my breast: for as I never thought amiss of Syrenus worthiness and deserts; so was I never tormented with such like passion and folly, as thou hast told of, but I had only a certain kind of fear to be rejected in respect of another. And in this suspicion I have not been much deceived, for to my great grief I have tried Syrenus forgetfulness. This fear, said Marcelius, cannot be properly termed jealousy, which is rather an ordinary passion in the best and wisest lovers. For it is verified, that that which I love, I esteem & hold it for good, and think it deserves to be beloved: which being so, I am afraid lest another might know the goodness, and worthiness of it, & so love it like myself. And so it falls out, that a lover is put between hope and fear. That which the one denies him, the other doth promise him; and when the one doth cast him down, the other lifts him up again. And in the end, the wounds that fear makes in this contentious quarrel, hope heals again, until one of the two remains conqueror. And if it happen that fear overcomes hope, the lover than becomes jealous; but if hope conquers fear, than the lover lives in a joyful and happy estate. But in the time of my good fortune I had ever so strong and sure a hope, that fear was unable, not only to overcome it, but durst never attempt to assail it; whereby, I ever enjoyed so great delight, that in exchange of that, I never cared to be troubled with continual griefs. And I was so greatly in her favour, that I sustained my hope in such firmness, that there was no grief that came from her part, that I accepted not for a singular joy, & pleasure. I accounted her cruelties, courtesies; her disdains, dalliances; her angry answers, amiable promises. Diana and Marcelius going on their ways, had these and divers other speeches together. And having passed over the green mead in sweet communication, and going by the side of a little hill, they entered into a pleasant wood, where the thick Sycamores did spread abroad fresh and cool shadows. There they heard a passing clear voice, which joined with the tune of a sweet harp, sounded forth strange melody; and coming near to hearken to it, they might perceive, that it was the voice of a Shepherdess, that sung in manner following.  

A Sonnet.  
AS many stars as Heaven containeth, strive  
To frame my harm, and luckless hap to show:  
And in th' Earth no grass nor green doth grow,  
That to my grief may any comfort give:  
Love unto fear subjecteth, ever drive  
A soul to coldest ice: O bitter woe,  
That he, whom Fortune did contrary so,  
Continually with jealousy must live.  
The fault I must (Montanus) lay on thee,  
And all my grief: on thee I do complain  
(O cruel soul) that pity dost disdain;  
For if thou hadst but taken part with me,  
I would not care though 'gainst me did conspire  
Heaven, Earth, and Love, and Fortune in their ire.   
After that the Shepherdess had sweetly sung, enlarging the rains of her bitter and doleful complaint, she powered out such abundance of tears, and gave so many sighs, that by them, and by the words she spoke, they knew that a cruel deceit of her jealous husband was the cause of all her grief. But because they would know better what she was, and the cause of her passion, they went to the place where she was, and found her sitting all alone in the shadow, which the thick boughs made on every side upon the fine and green grass, near to a little spring, which rising out of the foot of an oak, ran by divers ways thorough that little wood. They courteously saluted her, and she (although it grieved her that they had interrupted her lamentation, yet judging by their countenances that they were Shepherds of good regard) was not greatly discontented at their coming, hoping to have had the fruition of their good company, & therefore said unto them. To my remembrance (fair Shepherd and Shepherdess) I never received so great contentment that might be compared with this in seeing you now, since the time that I was unjustly forsaken of my cruel husband; which is so great, that though continual grief compels me to ceaseless plaints, yet will I make a pause of them a little while to enjoy your peaceable and discreet company. To this Marcelius answered. I pray God I may never see my torments cease, if that it grieves me not to see thine, and the same mayest thou also believe of fair Diana, whom thou seest in my company. The Shepherdess hearing Diana's name, running unto her, did with the greatest gladness that might be, embrace her, showing a thousand loving signs, and making the most on her in the world, because she was desirous long since to know her, for the great report that she heard of her wisdom and beauty. Diana marveling to see herself so entreated by a Shepherdess, whom she knew not, requited her yet with like courtesies again, and desiring to know who she was, said unto her. The great favours that thou hast done me, and the pity which I take of thy complaints, make me desirous to know what thou art, wherefore tell us (fair Shepherdess) thy name, and discourse unto us the cause of thy grief, because that after thou hast told it, thou shalt see how our hearts will help thee to pass it away, and our eyes ready to bewail it. The Shepherdess then with a gracious speech began to excuse herself, from telling the substance of her own fall, yet urged in the end by their importunate requests, she sat down again upon the grass, and began thus to say. By the report of Seluagia that was borne in my town, and in thine too fair Diana, which is now married to the Shepherd sylvanus, thou hast been told (I think) of the unfortunate name of Ismenia, that is now beginning to tell her sorrowful tale. And I think that she told thee at large when she was in thy town, how against my will I deceived her in the Temple of Minerva in the kingdom of Portugal, and how by my own deceit I was overtaken; then perhaps she hath also told thee how I feigned to love Montanus her mortal enemy, to be revenged of Alanius, who for the love that he did bear her, forgot me quite, and how this feigned love with the riper knowledge of his virtues, and accomplishments fell out at last so true, that by means of it, I suffer this intolerable sorrow & grief, which even now I complained of. Therefore passing on farther in the history of my life, thou shalt understand, that when Filenus father to Montanus came sometimes to my father's house about certain of his affairs, and bargains that he had with him for flocks of sheep, and had espied me on a time, although somewhat aged, yet he was so extremely enamoured of me, that he became almost out of his wits. A thousand times a day he wooed me, and every hour reckoned up to me his griefs, but all in vain, for I would neither hearken unto him, nor regard his words. Yet because he was a man of more sufficiency, and of fewer years than many other in his case, I did not altogether forget him, and the rather for his son Montanus sake, whose love had made me now his captive before. The old man knew not of the love, that Montanus did bear me, for he was always so careful and dutiful a son, and so discreetly handled the matter, that the father had not any notice thereof, fearing mightily (if it had been known) his father's displeasure, and that with bitter and angry words he might have justly corrected him for it. And as wisely did the father conceal from his son Montanus his own folly; for, the better to chastise and amend what he thought amiss in his son, he was very vigilant not to discover his own and greater faults. Although for all this he never ceased with continual suits to solicit my love, & importuned me to take him for my husband. He discoursed to me a thousand odd matters, and made me as many great offers: he promised me many costly garments, rich jewels, and sent me many letters, thinking by those means, if not to overcome me, at least to mollify my hard refusals. He was a Shepherd in his flourishing age no less commended for all youthful sports, then cunning in all pastoral exercises, one that could tell a smooth tale, and with great wisdom and discretion bring his purpose to good effect. And because you may the better believe me, I will rehearse unto you a letter that once he wrote unto me, the which although it altered my mind nothing, yet it greatly contented me, and thus it said.  

Filenus letter to Ismenia.  

Fair Shepherdess, The cause was Love,  
Who (to acquaint thee with his pain)  
This fault and blame in me did move  
To write to thee: But to be plain,  
Who would not be both shent and blamed,  
In thy sweet loves to be inflamed?   

But if my letter do offend  
Thy modest ears, as to too bold:  
Then understand, that in the end  
The fear I have to be controlled,  
My soul with pain and grief hath filled,  
And hath the same already killed.   

I have to thee ten thousand times  
My torments told, wherein I live,  
Sometimes by speech sometimes by rhymes,  
Which first to me thyself didst give,  
The which no more thou dost requite,  
Then mock, unto thy great delight.   

With open mouth thou laughest at me,  
And makest it thine only game  
To see me die for love of thee:  
And I do joy to see the same:  
Although thou laughest at my pain,  
Which laughter is to me no gain.   

And so when that in me I find  
The grievous ill, which makes me die,  
I think (when that comes to my mind)  
No remedy thou wilt apply.  
Because to see thou ici'st thy fill,  
How much my comforts thou dost kill.   

A remedy thou dost disdain:  
And then my soul with hope to feed  
I see it is as much in vain,  
When as it is by love decreed  
To have my life lie in thy hand,  
And death in thy desire to stand.   

I saw thy shining beauties beams,  
Fair Shepherdess, upon a day  
near to great Duerus crystal streams,  
Making the fields so fresh and gay,  
And goodly banks to joy and flourish,  
The which thy beauties feeds & nourish.   

And there I saw thee lean and stand,  
Among those banks not long ago,  
Upon thy sheephooj with thy hand,  
With naked neck as white as snow,  
And to thine elbow (seeming grieved)  
With naked arm, that was unsleeved.   

Where if there had been any one,  
That well had viewed every part,  
Admit he were as hard as stone,  
And had not loved thee from his hart:  
Reason would move me then to say,  
That he his folly did bewray.   

And therefore thus when I had known  
Thy goodly gifts, and beauty rare,  
From thinking of them one by one  
No time, nor rest I did not spare:  
Thus I began loves force to try,  
And in his torments thus to die.   

But if against me thou dost move  
Saying, It is to me a shame  
Being an old man thus to love  
So young amaide, and so to blame:  
O give me no advice at all,  
But remedies for which I call.   

For I will never think this part  
Of mine hath made so great acrime,  
By loving thee with all my hart,  
As having lost so long a time,  
Before I ever came to know  
Thy beauties which adorn thee so.   

Alas I know that I am old,  
And that my prime long since did fall,  
Which now I wish I had not told:  
But that which grieves me most of all,  
Is that my loving pain appears  
Not equal with so many years.   

Because since first I came into  
This life, I would in all that space  
Have loved thee as now I do,  
Since first I saw thy sweetest face,  
And as I must with Cupid's power  
Unto my last and dying hour.   

And let it not thy mind dismay  
To see my hair so grey and white,  
For it is ill to take away  
The place from any, that of right  
Belongs to him in any reason,  
Though it comes out of time and season.   

And though my valour not my hart,  
And force, not will thou dost exceed,  
It is not yet so just a part  
That any man should lose his meed  
For being old, or be unpaide  
Because a soldier now decayed.   

The buildings newer that they are,  
And lately built in any sort,  
By no proportion may compare,  
For stateliness and princely port,  
(The which antiquity doth show)  
With those of Rome built long ago.   

And so in things of worthiness,  
Of prime or goodness any way,  
Of profit, joy or happiness,  
Commonly unto this day  
They say (and yet do say most true)  
That th'old is better than the new.   

love wise in that he went about,  
Till now gave me no sense of pain,  
Because he saw it did fall out,  
That for the most part did remain,  
In aged men, and like to me,  
More firmness as we daily see.   

To love thee more than I can tell,  
I am resolved till I die,  
And in my firmness do excel  
Of all loves torments which I try:  
But old again and not to prove  
In all my life, the sweet of love.   

Young youths that most of all do feign  
Themselves to burn in Cupid's heat  
Are false and double, but to train  
Believing women to deceit:  
For when they say, That they do die  
Then do they live most merrily.   

And so their false and changing love,  
And pains alleged in the same,  
And all the torments which they prove  
Is but their pastime, sport and game,  
It is their jest and common fashion,  
It is no will, nor any passion.   

Besides, Ismenia do not fear  
That I am like to one of those  
Young lovers, that do every where  
Their favours openly disclose:  
For sooner they receive not one,  
But strait to many it is known.   

For though I do receive at   
Three hundred favours one by one,  
Yet in my love I do protest  
To be as much a very stone  
In hiding favours which I gain,  
As that I am in suffering pain.   

But yet as far as I can see,  
Resolved as thou art in mind  
To kill me with thy cruelty,  
Sure I am that I shall find  
Much to endure to be revealed,  
Little enough to be concealed.   

For now ingrateful Shepherdess,  
The greatest favour which I miss  
And feign the same would here possess,  
Of all the rest is only this  
To die, because I would no more  
Complain against thee, as before.   

Time only will I thee accuse,  
O time that art so great a friend  
To griefs, and makest her refuse  
My love, who loves her without end.  
For he that hath most part in thee  
Is little worth in love we see.   

Alas that ever I did love  
Too late a thing so passing fair,  
And reason therefore that I prove  
To die for her in deep despair:  
Since when her birth day did appear  
I was not borne that very year.   

If I had been, fair She pherdesse,  
With thee, when I was in my prime  
As now thou art, then more or less,  
I had not wanted any time,  
Delights and pastimes to present thee,  
Nor thy sweet favours to content me.   

For as for playing on a Pipe,  
Or Rebecke with most sweetest sound  
To touch with many a dainty stripe,  
And dancing best in all the town,  
Amongst the youths to win the prize  
All in my favour did arise.   

And therefore marvel not a whit,  
If that in song I do excel  
Famous Amphion, as unfit  
(Compared with me) to bear the bell,  
Since that my singing hath surmounted,  
Better than he was ever counted.   

Of fields that goodly grain do bear  
I plough more acres than the rest:  
And all my mountains every where,  
And plains that are for pastures best,  
With flocks of sheep and goats I cumber,  
Marked with my mark that have no number.   

But now what boots my present store  
(O cruel hap) for my delight?  
Or that that hath been heretofore?  
Since now it is forgotten quite.  
Nay which is more, scorned and despised,  
And unto cruel death devised.   

Then (sweetest foe) let this avail  
To make thy hardest hart relent,  
Strike down of pride thy puffed sail,  
When to thine eyes age shall present,  
That in the same thy brave perfection  
Shall vade, and be in times subjection.   

O Shepherdess, thou art more hard  
Then sturdy rock consumed in time:  
But yet perhaps for thy reward  
When thou hast lost thy golden prime,  
Then freedoms want shall be thy pain,  
Wherewith thou dost me now disdain.   

Wherefore let Love take such de spite,  
Revenging one so much unkind,  
That when all hopes forsake thee quite,  
And comforts for thy troubled mind,  
Then he may give thee store of grief,  
And make despair thy best relief.    
These and many other letters and songs he sent me; the which, if they had wrought their effect so much as my delight, he might then perhaps in his own conceit have thought himself a happy man, and I have been by this time an ill married wife. But there was not any thing able to blot Montanus image out of my hart, who apparently also satisfied my will with like words and deeds. We passed our lives away certain years in this joy, until we thought with holy marriage to accomplish our happy days, and rest. And though Montanus would have told his Father of it before, to have showed the duty of a good son, yet he would not do it, when I told him, how hardly his Father would think of it, by reason of the doting desire that he had to marry me himself: Having therefore greater respect to the contentment of his own life, then to the duty he owed his Father, without making him privy, we performed our unlucky marriage. Which was done by the consent of my Father, in whose house there were great feasts made in solemnity of it, besides other pastimes, as dancing, plays, & such great sports, that the noise of them was bruited in all the country towns about. Whereupon the loving old man understanding his own son had deceived him of his love, he became so incensed against us both that he hated us like death, & therefore would never after that see us, if he could otherwise choose. On the other side there was a certain Shepherdess of that town called Felisarda, that died almost for the love of Montanus, whom (in regard of his great love to me, and of her bad conditions and declining age) he could never abide: When she perceived that Montanus had married me, she had almost hanged herself for grief, so that by our unfortunate marriage we got us two mortal enemies. The wretched old dotard, because he would disinherit his son, purposed to marry a young and fair wench, to have had children by her. But though he was rich, yet did not any Shepherdess of our town love him, Felisarda only excepted, who, because she thought by these means to enjoy the dishonest love of Montanus (the which she bore yet fresh in memory) married with old Filenus. And being now his wife, she practised divers ways to win Montanus to her love, and especially by means of a maid she had, called Sylueria, sending him word, that if he would condescend to her will, she would make an atonement between his Father and him, offering him besides many great rewards, & gifts. But she could never corrupt his mind, nor pervert his chaste intent: Seeing herself therefore so much contemned, she began to bear such mortal hatred to Montanus, that by and by she instigated his Father against him; and not content with this, wrought more over this vile piece of treachery against him. For she in such sort overcame Syluerias' mind with flattery, gifts, good cheer, and other favours, that she was content to do whatsoever she commanunded, although it had been to the prejudice of Montanus, whom sometimes she respected greatly, for that she had been a long time servant in his Father's house. Both of them agreed secretly together upon that they had to do, and upon the hour of putting it in practice: Whereupon Sylueria went out of her town, and coming to a forest near to the river Duerus, where Montanus was feeding his sheep, she came to talk with him secretly, as though she had been troubled much in mind about the weightiest matter in the world, saying. Ah, Montanus, how wise wert thou in despising thy wicked Stepdame's love, though I myself by her importunate request did what I could to bring thee to it. But since I know what hath passed, she shall never make me any more the messenger of her dishonest lusts. I have seen, and know certain things by her, which touch thy Father's credit and thine too near, and such, that, if thou knewest them (though thy Father is so cruel to thee) in such a case thou wouldst not care to lose thy life for safeguard of his honour. I tell thee no more but this, because I know thee to be so wise and discreet, that I need make no longer discourse unto thee. Montanus was amazed at these words, suspecting by and by some dishonest trick of his Stepmother: But because he would be thoroughly informed of the matter, he prayed Sylueria to tell him all that she knew concerning that matter. The more she was entreated, the more she denied, making it very dainty, and no less dangerous to discover so secret a thing; but in the end satisfying his request, and her own desire, she told him a notable and cunning lie, saying. Because it is a thing that so greatly toucheth thy credit, & Filenus my Master's good name, I will therefore tell thee truly what I know, hoping that thou wilt tell none in the world, that this secret treachery was discovered by me. Thou must therefore know, that Felisarda thy stepmother is working a great disgrace against thy father, with a certain Shepherd, whose name I will not tell thee, because thou mayest hereafter know him, if thou wilt: for if thou wilt come this night, and follow me where I will lead thee, thou shalt find the adulterer and the traitoress together in Filenus house: for so they have appointed, because Filenus lieth this night at a Farm he hath, by reason of some business there, & cannot come home again before to morrow at noon. Wherefore look well about thee, & at eleven of the clock at night come to me, for I will bring thee in, where thou mayest do that, which may turn to thine own credit, thy father's honour, & perhaps greatly to thine own profit by obtaying pardon at thy father's hands. This tale Sylueria told so smoothly, and with such cunning dissimulation, that Montanus was resolved to put himself in the greatest danger to be revenged of him, who should offer any dishonour to his father. And so the vile and wicked Sylueria very glad that this deceit which Felisarda hatched, had so good success, went home again, where she told Felisarda her Mistress what was agreed on between Montanus and her. Now had the dark night overspread the earth with her black mantel, when Montanus being come to the village, took a dagger with him which his uncle Palemon the Shepherd had given him, and just at eleven of the clock went to Filenus his father's house, where Sylueria was staying for him, as she had appointed. O wicked treason, the like never seen, nor heard of before! Oh traitorous wickedness, such as was never thought of before! She took him by the hand, and going very softly up a pair of stairs, led him to the chamber door where Filenus his father, and Felisarda his stepdame were a bed together, and when she had set him there, she said unto him. Now thou art come to the place Montanus, where thou must show that thou hast courage and no abject mind, that is requisite in so good a cause: go into this chamber, and there thou shalt find thy mother a bed with the adulterer. When she had said so, she ran away, as fast as ever she could. Montanus being thus deluded with Syluerias' falsehood, gave credit to her words, and in a fury plucking his dagger out of the sheath, broke open the chamber door with a thrust of his foot, like a mad man with these loud exclamations rushed into it, saying: Here must thou die (traitor) by mine own hands: now shall the strumpet Felisarda's foul loves help thee nothing at all: And speaking these words, he was so wroth, that he knew not who he was that lay in the bed, and thinking to have slain the adulterer, he lifted up his arm to stab his Father as he lay a bed. But yet good Fortune awoke the old man, who knowing his son by the light that was there, thought verily that for the austere words & unkind disgraces, which he had done him, he came to kill him; wherefore lifting himself quickly out of the bed, with holding up his hands he said. O my son! what cruelty is this that makes thee the butcher of thine own Father? For God's sake remember thyself, and spill nor now my innocent blood, nor end my life before the appointed hour from above doth come. For if I have heretofore used any rigour against thee, here upon my knees I crave pardon for it, with protestation, that from henceforth I will entreat thee as lovingly and gently as any father in the world may use his son. When Montanus perceived the treachery that was wrought, and the danger that he had almost incurred, by killing his own Father, he stood there so astonished, that his hart and arm so failed him, whereby the dagger fell out of his hands and never felt it. Being thus stricken in a maze, he could not utter a word; but ashamed and confounded in his own enterprise, he went out of the chamber, and out of the house wonderful sorry for the treachery that Sylueria had buzzed into his ears, and for that which he had almost done, but that his fortune was the better. Feltsarda, who knew all the matter before, and how it would fall out, when she saw Montanus come into the chamber, she leapt out of the bed, and ran into another inward chamber, and locking the door after her, saved herself from her son in laws fury. But when she saw herself free from danger (for now Montanus was gone out of the house) she came into the chamber again where Filenus was yet shaking for fear, and then she incensing the Father against the Son, with loud vociferations began thus to say unto him. Now Filenus, thou knowest well what kind of Son thou hast, and now canst tell if it be not true which I have so often told thee of his wicked conditions and nature. O cruel wretch! O vile Traitor Montanus! why do not the heavens confound thee? Why doth not the earth swallow thee up? Why do not the wild beasts devour thee? Why do not men persecute thee to death? Accursed be thy marriage, thy disobedience, thy loves, and thy Ismenia, that hath brought thee to this barbarous cruelty, and to commit so horrible a sin. Traitor as thou art, thou dost not punish Alanius, who to thy shame and disgrace, hath too familiar company with thy Ismenia using her dishonestly, and whom she loves more than thyself; and carest not to kill thy own Father, who with tenderness of thy life, and credit hath ever made account of thee. Because he gave thee good counsel, wouldst thou therefore kill him? O woeful Father! O unfortunate grey hairs! O grievous old age! What fault didst thou ever commit, that thine own son should kill thee for it, even he, whom thou hast begotten, brought up, and for whom thou hast passed a thousand cares? Pluck up thy hart now; leave of thy fatherly love; give place to justice; let him be duly punished: for, if he, which perpetrated such wicked cruelty, hath not his describe punishment, disobedient sons will not be afraid to do the like, nor thine own hereafter to murder thee once again with his own hands. Old Filenus full of fear, grief, and despite, hearing the speech that his wife told him, and considering his sons treason, took so great displeasure at it, that taking up the dagger that Montanus had let fall, early in the morning he went to the market place, & there assembling the chiefest men of the town, & the justices together, after many tears and sobs, said thus unto them. I invoke God for witness (most worthy shepherds) that the discourse, which I must tell you, torments my soul so much, that I am afraid it will fly out of my body before I have told it out. Let not any therefore think me cruel or unnatural, by coming to publish my sons wickedness openly in this place, since it is so strange and detestable, that the greatest punishment that I am able to give him, is not sufficient for the enormity thereof. The which for that I am unable myself to remedy it, I will lay open before your eyes, that you may see, how just and needful a thing it is to give him condign punishment, and to forewarn all other sons by his grievous example. Needless it is to tell you, with what tender love and affection I have brought him up, how carefully I have kept him; with what diligence I have instructed him in commendable qualities; what thoughts I have suffered for him; what good counsel I have given him, and how mildly I have chastised him. To my great grief he married Ismenia; and because I found fault with him for it, in am of being revenged of Alanius the Shepherd, who (as all the country knows) lives dishonestly with his wife Ismenia, turned his anger towards me, and this night would have done me to death. For this last night he found the means to get into the chamber where I was a bed with my wife Felisarda, and with this naked dagger would have killed me: And had done it, but that God did cut off his strength, and abated it in such sort, that being half astonished and afraid, he went out from thence, not able to put his damnable intent in practice, leaving the dagger (that fell out of his hands) in the chamber. This is the true report of that which this last night passed, whereof you may be better informed by my loving wife. But because I certainly know that my son Montanus would never have committed so foul a deed against his Father, if his wife Ismenia had not persuaded him to it, I therefore beseech you all to consider well of this matter: First, that my son may be sufficiently punished for his wicked attempt; and then, that false Ismenia, especially for the treacherous counsel she gave her husband, as also for her dishonest love, and life that she leads with Alanius, may likewise receive due correction. Filenus had scarce ended his tale, when there arose such a noise amongst the people, that all the town seemed to have sunk: And the hearts of all the Shepherds and Shepherdesses were so much altered at these words, that they conceived a mortal hatred against Montanus. Some said, that he deserved to be stoned to death; others, to be thrown into the deepest place of the river Duerus; others, that he should be cast forth to be devoured of hungry wolves, so that there was not one almost amongst them all, who allotted not his doom and manner of his death. It moved them also not a little to despite to hear that which Filenus falsely reported concerning my life: but they were so incensed with anger and hate against Montanus, and his pretences, that they had no leisure to think of mine. When Montanus understood how his Father had openly before all the town accused him of this deed, and of the hurly burly and await, that was laid to catch him, he fell into a wonderful desperation. And besides this knowing what his Father had told of me before them all, he took such a deep conceit and grief thereat, that the like was never heard of. From hence did all my sorrows rise, this was the cause of my perdition, and here did my painful life begin. For my beloved Montanus knew that in times past I had loved Alanius, and was beloved of him again; and imagining that old and mortified loves might oftentimes be revived, & seeing Alanius (whom now for his sake I had quite forgotten) to be in love with me as much as ever he was, by making daily suits to me for my love, with those kind of pastoral feasts and sports, that lovers are wont to please their Shepherdesses withal, he vehemently suspected, that the false report which his Father Filenus had told of me was true; and the more he thought of it, the more he believed it to be so indeed: In so much that waxing almost mad and desperate for the treachery that Sylueria had wrought him, and for that which he suspected I had done him, he fled from the town and country thereabouts, and since was never more heard of. And I then, who knew of his departure and the cause thereof, by the report of certain Shepherds his friends, whom he fully acquainted with his unfortunate estate, left also our town to seek him out, and while I live will never leave seeking, until I have found my dear husband, to acquit myself of this crime which he suspectes, although I should die by his own hands for my labour. It is a good while since I have gone up and down wandering and inquiring after him, and for all that I have sought in the chiefest towns, and amongst all the shepherds and cottages, Fortune never yet gave me any notice of my Montanus. The greatest accident, that in these my travels chanced unto me, since I forsook my town, was, that I found the traitoress Sylueria, who knowing the voluntary exile of Montanus, went up and down following, to tell him the plot and drift of the secret treachery that she had done him, and to ask him forgiveness for it, being very penitent that she had committed such abominable wickedness. But as yet till then she had not spoken with him, and when she saw me, she told me openly how the matter stood, which was no small ease unto my mind, to know the manner how we were betrayed. I thought with mine own hands to have killed her, though I was but a weak woman, yet I did it not, because it lay in her only to help my grief by confessing her own wickedness. I prayed her, to seek out my beloved Montanus in all the haste she could, to certify him of the matter, and how it stood, and so I left her to seek him out some other way. I came hither to day to this wood, where being invited by the pleasantness of the place, I rested me to pass the heat of the day away. And since that Fortune (for my great comfort) hath brought you hither, and that it is now the hottest part of the day, I beseech you let me enjoy your gracious company, while the heat of the sun shall last. Diana and Marcelius were glad to hear the history that Ismenia told them, and to know the cause of her grief. It pleased them also well to hear the discourse of her life, who then gave her some comfort to ease her grief, promising her all the favour and help, that they might possibly bestow on her for remedy of her pain and travels. They prayed her also to go with them to Felicias palace, because it was most like that there she should find out some kind of comfort to make her glad again. And they both thought good to pass the time away there, while the heat of the Sun did last, as Ismenia requested them. But because Diana was very skilful in that ground, & knew very well the woods, fountains, forests, and the pleasant and shadowed places of it, she told them, that there was not far from thence a more delightful and pleasant place than that was, for it was not yet full midday: So that all three of them rising, went a little way, and came by and by to a forest, where Diana led them, which was as pleasant, cool, and delightful a place, as any of those hills, or fields that ever was with fame renowned in the pastoral Arcadia: There were in it fair and green Sycamores, Sallowes, Ashes, Byrch, and Beech trees, which round about the brinks of the crystalline fountains, and in every part thereabout, being softly blown with a cool and sweet wind, made a pleasant and gentle noise. There the air did so sweetly resound with the tuned melody of the little birds, which went skipping up and down the green boughs, that it cheered up the mind with a gracious kind of welcome. It was covered all over with green and small grass, amongst the which were many fair and coloured flowers, which painting the place with knots in many places, did with their sweet sinell recreate the most sorrowful and melancholic spirits. There were the Hunter's wont to find Herds of fearful Hearts, wild Goats, and of other little beasts, in which games and sports they took no small pastime and delight. They came into this forest following Diana their guide that went in first, for she went before to seek out a little thick grove of trees, that she had marked out in that place (where she was wont to resort) to rest and refresh herself many times. And they had not gone far, when Diana coming near to the place, that she thought the most pleasant of all the wood, and where she minded to have passed away the heat of the day, putting her finger to her mouth, she made signs to Marcelius and Ismenia to come on softly without making any noise. The reason was, because she heard amongst those thick trees certain Shepherds singing. By their voices they seemed to be Taurisus and Berardus, both extremely tormented in pursuit of her love, as it is said before. But because she would be more sure of it, stealing on nearer unto them between certain bushes, she was hearkening to them, to see if she knew them, and she perceived that they were the very same, and that they had in their company a fair young gentlewoman, and a gallant and worthy gentleman, both which (although they seemed to be somewhat troubled in mind, and wearied by much travel) showed nevertheless in their gesture and disposition notable tokens of valour and virtue. After she had viewed who they were, she went back again because she would not be seen. And now was Marcelius and Ismenia come, and all three together began to sit them down behind certain Hasels, where they might not be seen, but where they might distinctly hear the Shepherd's songs, whose voices resounding over all the forest, made a singular sweet melody, as you shall hear in the Book that followeth.  
The end of the second Book.   

The third Book of Enamoured DIANA.  
THe treachery and malice of an injurious and envying stepdame is commonly wont to enterprise so detestable acts, that it would discourage the stoutest hart, not only to do them, but make it tremble to think of them. And that which is worst, is, that Fortune is so great a friend in changing good and prosperous estates, that she showeth them all the favour she may in their unjust attempts: for she knoweth that most of them endeavour to stir up strange novelties, and mutinies, and to be the occasion and means of much sorrow and trouble. The cruelty of Felisarda was great, when by her vile and subtle slights she made the father so mortally abhor his own son, and a husband to forsake his loving wife; the one deceived by an apparent show of love and duty misconstrued; the other by a false report, and with a vain and simple suspect stinged: but yet her hap was the better, that brought her malicious and wicked purpose to that effect, that she herself desired. And I speak not this, to make men think the worse of all such kind of women, but because every one may live advisedly by taking good heed of such as Felisarda was, which are but few (I hope) since so many of that noble sex are the glory of the world, and the lanterns of life, whose sincerity, faith, discretion, and virtues with golden verses deserve to be eternised. For proof whereof, Diana and Ismenia may give sufficient testimony, Shepherdesses adorned with singular beauty, chastity, and wisdom, whose histories do blazon forth their infinite and worthy praises. In following the discourse whereof, you must understand, that when Marcelius and they were sitting behind the Hasels, they heard that Taurisus and Berardus did sing as followeth.  

Berardus. 
THe cool fresh wind, Taurisus, that inviting us  
Amongst the trees, the leaves is gently shaking,  
Our senses joying, and with ease delighting us:  
The Coats, and Sycamores sweet shadows making:  
The Crystal fountains, that in copious swelling  
do flow, our thirst with savoury liquors slaking:  
The coloured flower, whose sweet and fragrant smelling  
To banish melancholy griefs sufficeth,  
Which makes the hart from sweet content rebelling,  
His might, that all despiseth,  
Cannot subdue, nor malice, nor the bravery,  
Of that most cruel king, whose sway doth weary us,  
Whose punishment, and slavery  
Is absolute, unjust, and mere imperious.  
For amorous griefs, to hells of pains that ferry us,  
No remedies have yet been salutiferous,  
But still the poison fuming  
Infects my soul with torments most pestiferous.   
Taurisus. 
He that in love is evermore consuming,  
Is never glad, for such an evil tires him,  
Living in grief, in grief his death resuming:  
Love gives him pains, and most with torments fires him,  
When most he seeks his pastime and his pleasure;  
For then with furious thoughts he most inspires him:  
Those few times when a soul entoies her treasure,  
Grief doth succeed in place, whose baleful sovenaunce  
Makes it return to plaining without measure:  
Love will enjoy his covenants:  
And whom he conquers, kills, or prisoner taketh,  
He thinks by him to get most famous glory:  
His prisoner now, that quaketh,  
He giu●… to Fortune, with his Fortune sorry,  
Or sells to grief, whom evermore it shaketh,  
And paints in him her dire and tragic story,  
And him that's burning in his hottest fires  
He quite consumes, the cruel he retires.   
Berardus. 
The whole man waxeth sick as he entreats him,  
He turns each hart from former joy to sadness,  
Still killing him, that living is, and threats him,  
That is most free, with bonds, the scourge of gladness:  
Since then (my soul) thou knowest too well how cruel  
This Tyrant is, be patiented, and content thee,  
That such a place contains thy amorous fuel:  
(So high a place) Take griefs, and now present thee  
To all those harms, and pains he shall enure thee:  
Enjoy thine ill, and in thy griefs maintain thee,  
Because by how much more thou shalt procure thee  
A means, to rid thyself from that that pains thee,  
The more thou shalt enwrap thee in his briars,  
And shalt be furthest from thy chief desires:   
Taurisus. 
Love finds in me so well disposed matter,  
And such a mind to amplify his glory,  
That 'mongst all those, whose mournful flocks do scatter  
On both Hisperias plains, in love so sorry,  
My daily griefs are ever more augmented:  
Salt showers of tears mine eyes have ever reigned:  
And more, then wretched Biblis malcontented,  
When turned to a fountain she remained.  
Strange is my good, my pain is proper to me,  
Feign would I see Diana's face, but twenty,  
And twenty deaths in seeing her undo me,  
I die for want near to the fount of plenty:  
Her presence doth with pains and torments fill me,  
Her absence doth with desperation kill me.   
Berardus. 
The woods do murmur, and the meadow smileth,  
And iugging nightingales are sweetly singing:  
But death to thousand woes my hope exileth:   
Taurisus. 
The blooming trees smell sweet, that now are spinging,  
The grass grows green, with many a painted flower:  
But I remain (O woe) in sorrows stinging:   
Berardus. 
My woes my wits have slain in such an hour,  
That now I have no power  
To say by hart ten verses all along:   
Taurisus. 
My tongue doth cleave even in my very song,  
Wherefore (my friend) prolong  
The time no more, but sing that sweetest ditty,  
Which interrupted with thy sighs of pity,  
And tears, in every city  
And country town, so highly did commend thee.   
Berardus. 
Singing with thee, it shall no whit offend me,  
But ease and pleasure lend me:  
Then answer me. But now what shall I sing?   
Taurisus. 
Sing that that saith. The radiant star doth bring?  
Or that: Loves tears do spring. etc.  
Or that: I know not well how it doth say,  
Which thou sung'st on a day,  
Dancing with fair Diana on a green.   
Berardus. 
No Tigress nor no lioness have been,  
But with compassion moved  
Of all my torments, able to despair one:  
But not that cruel fair one,  
The fierce devouresse of my life approved.   
Taurisus. 
The fierce devouresse of my life approved,  
My peerless Shepherdess,  
As fell in hart, as she is fair in face:  
How then in such a case  
Can I escape (O grief) but die without redress?   
Berardus. 
Can I escape (O grief) but die without redress  
With deaths of racking passions?  
But when I see Diana fair, her sight my griefs assuageth,  
Yet than my soul enrageth:  
The more I have to do with love, the less I know his fashions.   
Taurisus. 
The more I have to do with love, the less I know his fashions,  
His servants he neglecteth  
And he, that flying seeketh to escape his mortal chain,  
With thrice redoubled pain  
He wounds, and with his furious plagues his wretched soul infecteth.   
Berardus. 
Fair Shepherdess, whose face the heavenly powers  
Have graced with more beauty, than the Roses:  
And sweeter than the purple golden flowers,  
That decks our meads and virgins breasts with poses:  
So may the heavens power down in copious plenty  
Upon thy flocks their favours most abounding:  
And thy fair ewes, with double twins not empty,  
In numbers swarm, in profit still redounding:  
That to my soul, which my demerit pesters,  
Thou wouldst not show stern looks, nor angry gestures.   
Taurisus. 
Fair Shepher desk, that with thy neighbour dwelling,  
Dost clear thy fields bedight with Daffodillies,  
The driven snow in whiteness far excelling,  
In beauty Gilloflowres, and stately lilies:  
So prosper may thy fields in every season  
In corn, and fruit, which thou mayst taste at pleasure:  
Thy pears, and plums, and apricocks so geason  
By handfuls mayst thou pull in plenteous measure:  
That thou wouldst look upon thy swain so sorry:  
For of thy sight depends his chiefest glory.    
About this time the young Gentleman, and Gentlewoman that were hearkening to the Shepherd's songs, did cut them off, and gave them many thanks for the delight and recreation, which with so sweet music they had given them. And after this the Gentleman turning to the Gentlewoman said. Didst thou ever (sister) in the magnificent and stately Cities hear music that pleased the ear, and delighted the mind like this? Truly (said she again) these pastoral and country songs, being full of simplicity and plainness, please me more, than the delicate voices set together with curious skill, and full of new inventions and conceits in the brave palaces of Kings and Princes. And when I think this melody to be better than that, you must the rather believe it, because I have been present at the best music that in any City of the world or King's Court, was ever heard. For in that happy time, when Marcelius was a suitor to our sister Alcida, he did some nights sing to the tune of his Lute so sweetly, that if Orpheus made so solemn music, I did not marvel then if the Birds, and Beasts did follow him, and that he brought back his dear wife Eurydice from dark hell. Ah Marcelius, where art thou now? Ah where art thou Alcida? Ah most hapless woman that I am, how often doth Fortune surcharge my memory with objects of grief, when she sees me enjoy the least content and pleasure in the world? Marcelius heard the talk of the Gentleman and the damosel, which were with the Shepherds behind the shrubs and bushes, and when he perceived that they named him and Alcida, he began to be somewhat altered. He scarcely believed his own ears, and was doubting with himself whether it was another Marcelius and Alcida whom they named. He rose up by and by out of his place, and to clear himself of all doubt, coming nearer, he knew that they were Polydorus and Clenarda, brother and sister to Alcida: Whereupon he ran suddenly to them, and with open arms, and abundance of tears, sometimes embracing Polydorus, sometimes Clenarda, he stood a great while before he could speak for inward grief. Polydorus and Clenarda wondering at this novelty, could not conjecture what accident it was, because Marcelius going in a Shepherd's habit, was unknown unto them, until his sobs and tears giving him leave, he said. O dear brother and sister, care not now for my ill fortune paste, and to come, since I am the happiest man in the world in seeing you. Ah, why is not Alcida in your company? Is she perhaps hidden in any part of this thick wood! O let me know some news of her, if you can tell me any, to ease my cruel grief, and to satisfy my desire! In speaking these words, they knew Marcelius and embracing him very affectionately, and weeping for pleasure and grief, they said unto him. O happy day! O unexpected joy! O dear brother of our souls, what cruel Fortune hath been the cause, that thou dost not enjoy the company of Alcida, nor we her sight? Why dost thou dissemble thyself with this new habit? O cruel fortune, in the end there is not full content of any good. Diana and Ismenia on the other side, seeing that Marcelius had so on the sudden gone to the place where the Shepherds did sing, went after him, and found him talking with Polydorus and Clenarda, as you have heard. When Taurisus and Berardus saw Diana, the joy, that at so sweet and sudden a sight they took, cannot be told. And so Taurisus showing a marvelous kind of gladness in his hart, and words, said unto her. This is no small favour of fortune (fair Diana) to make her, that continually flies our company, by unexpected and happy chances to come so often where we are. That is not the cause of Fortune (worthy Shepherds) said Diana, but rather because you are so excellent in singing & playing on your instruments: for there is no place of pleasure where you are not, and where your sweet music & songs are not heard. But now, since I am come hither, though ignorant of your being here, and that the parching Sun is now in the highest way, I shall be very glad to pass away the heat of the day in this pleasant place, and in your good company: and though it stands me upon to go quickly to Felicias palace, yet will I not think the time long to stay here with you to take part of the cool and green grass, and to hearken to your delightful music. Prepare yourselves therefore to sing and play, and to all kind of honest mirth, for it will not become this place, and brave assembly to be without such kind of pleasure. And you Gentleman, and fair Gentlewoman, surcease your tears a while, because you shall have time enough hereafter to tell to each other your Fortunes and adventures, and to bewail, or rejoice at the ill or good success of them. All of them liked well of Diana's speech, and so they sat them down upon the fine green grass round about the Fountain. That was the pleasantest place in all the wood, and more than any of those, that were celebrated by the clear Bagpipe of Neapolitan Syncerus in famous Parthenia. There was in this place a broad quadrant forty paces of every side, and compassed about with a great number of thick trees. So that in a manner of a walled castle, they, that went to recreate themselves in it, could not go but by one way into it. It was covered all over with green grass and sweet flowers, never trodden down with the feet of sheep or goats, nor mangled with their slicing teeth. In the mids thereof was a goodly clear fountain, which, issuing forth at the foot of an old Oak, rose up four square and deep; not made by skilful hand, but placed there by provident nature to such purposes, as with the abundance of the waters it made there a delightful meeting, which the Shepherds named the fair Fountain. The brinks of this fountain were of white stone so even, that none would have thought, but that it was made with artificial hand, if the natural stones growing there, did not deceive his sight, which were fastened in the ground as hard, as the craggy rock, and flint in the wild mountains. The water that came out of that sweet fountain, issuing out of two narrow pipes, did water the grass and trees about it, making them continually to spring, and fertile, and keeping them in a pleasant and fine verdure. This fair Fountain for every goodly pleasure about it was so much visited of the Shepherds and Shepherdesses, that there was never wanting about it pastoral mirth and joy. Who likewise had it in such veneration and account, that when they came to it, they left their flocks without, because the clear and sweet waters might not be troubled, nor the fine little meadow fed, nor trodden down by the hungry and careless sheep. About this fountain (as I said) they all sat down, and taking necessary food out of their scrips, did eat it more savourly, and with greater content, than the greatest Lords their variety and number of dainty dishes. At the end of which repast, as Marcelius on the one side, and Polydorus and Clenarda on the other, were greatly desirous to hear, and make relation of their passed fortunes, Marcelius first began to say to the other two in this sort. It is great reason (brother and sister) that I know something of your adventures and accidents, since last I saw you, because seeing not your Father Eugerius, nor your sister Alcida in your company, it makes a great alteration in my hart, not knowing the cause thereof. To whom Polydorus answered.  
Because this goodly place might not be injured (me thinks) with reports of dole and sorrow, and that these Shepherds with hearing of our hard haps might not be also grieved, with the fewest words (that possible may be) I will report the many miseries and disgraces that we have received of Fortune.  
After that I was hindered by the mariners from leaping into the sciffe, having attended fit time and occasion have delivered my father Eugerius (being faint and half dead) out of the dangerous ship, and that of force I was constrained to remain (to my great grief) with my fearful father in it, the sorrowful old man was overcome with such bitter anguish and pain, as may be imagined of a loving father, who in the end of his aged years, seethe the violent perdition of his own life and of his loving children. He took no heed now to the main blows, which the cruel waves did beat against the ships sides, nor to the rage of the angry winds that did bluster on every side, but casting his eyes to the little boat wherein thou wert Marcelius with Alcida and Clenarda (which at every float of the hoisting billows seemed to turn over) the more he saw it going from the ship, the more his hart burst in pieces. And when he lost sight of you, he was in danger of yielding up his decayed spirits. The ship driven on by the cruelty of Fortune, went floating up and down the main seas five days together, after that we parted; at the end of which time, the Sun going down towards the West, we were in ken of land. At sight whereof the Mariners were very glad, as well for recovery of their lost hope, as also for knowing the coast whither the ship was driven. For it was the most fertile country and most abounding in all sorts of pleasures, as far as the Sun doth heat with his beams: In so much that one of the Mariners taking a Rebecke out of a chest, with the which he was wont to cheer up himself in long and dangerous voyages, began to play and sing to it in manner following.  


WElcome thy friends from swelling seas that roar  
With hideous noise, and tossed by Neptune's toil,  
O fortunate and fair Valencia shore,  
Where nipping frost doth never hurt thy soil,  
Nor Phoebus with his wonted parching beams  
Doth burn thy meads, nor heats thy crystal streams.   

Thrice happy he, who living without fear  
In swallowing seas and billows to be drowned,  
Enjoys thy golden beauties every where,  
Of thy sweet meads green banks and fruitful ground,  
Thy ground bedecked with flowers so fine and fair,  
Maintained with heavenly dew and pleasant air.   

With greater toil the ship doth cut the seas,  
Then weary plowmen doth thy gentle fields,  
Then happy Earth, the joy and wished ease  
Of traveled souls, that to thy succour yields,    

Nereas' Song.  

IN those most happy fields and plains,  
Where Guadaljar in goodly veins  
With crystal streams doth glide,  
Leaving the sweet and pleasant fields,  
Unto the sea his tribute yields  
And runs with hasty tide.   

Fair Galatee full of disdain,  
And joyful of the woes and pain  
To Lycius that she gave,  
Played upon the sands and shore,  
The which the sea sometimes before  
Doth wash with wallowing wave.   

Gathering amongst the sands alone  
Fine shells, and many a painted stone,  
As she went up and down:  
And singing many songs so sweet,  
The which the roaring billows yet  
Did alter much and drown.   

near to the water side she hies,  
And there the waves that fall and rise  
She viewed with great delight;  
And fled, when that they came amain,  
And sometimes could not, but was feign  
To wet her feet so white.   

Lycius, who had in suffering pains  
No equal in those fields and plains,  
His torments there suspended,  
Whiles that he viewed with great content  
His Shepherdess so excellent,  
For beauty most commended.   

But now comparing his unrest  
With all the joy that she possessed,  
The Shepherd half decayed  
With doleful voice his sad complaints  
To shores and champains he acquaints,  
And in this manner said.   

O fairest Nymph, if that thou please,  
Play not about the roaring seas,  
Although thy chief delight  
Consist therein, yet Galatee  
As thou dost Licius, so the sea  
Eschew with hasty flight.   

And now (sweet Nymph) leave of to play,  
For it doth grieve me day by day  
To see thee on the sands:  
O do not now torment me more,  
For seeing thee upon the shore  
I fear false Neptune's hands.   

And this doth fill me full of doubts,  
That I must credit these my thoughts,  
Because it is most clear,  
That if he die not now for thee,  
He will no doubt thy lover be  
When that he sees thee here.   

And this is sure: For love doth know,  
Since first my soul he wounded so,  
That I should never want  
A stronger rival, and more stout,  
Then I, who daily would seek out  
My true love to supplant.   

Leave then the barren sands and shore,  
Forsake the cliffs, come there no more,  
Fly from that dangerous coast:  
Take heed no monster of the sea  
Surprise thee not (fair Galatee)  
Where many have been lost.   

Fly now, and see how I endure  
Ten thousand griefs to see thee sure,  
Because with double pain  
je alous I am of thy content,  
And for thy dangers imminent  
Great cares I do sustain.   

In seeing thee so merry and glad,  
My jealous thoughts do make me sad,  
And think of Europe fair,  
Deceived by a milk white bull,  
As on the sea banks she did cull  
Fine flowers to dress her hair.   

And more, my ordinary cares  
Make me to think, how unawares  
Disdainful Alnade was  
Dishivered and devoured by  
A huge sea monster, that did lie  
Hard by where he did pass.   

But well away, that I do see  
Signs of no fear nor grief in thee,  
For this my sorrow knows,  
That he, that's not of love afraid,  
Can with no dangers be dismayed,  
And fears not where he goes.   

O then (my peerless Nymph) take heed,  
Lest Cupid do revenge with speed,  
To see himself contemned,  
For being such a God of might,  
He will not suffer, but will smite,  
When he is once offended.   

Come go with me unto the woods,  
Where every plant sprout forth her buds,  
And to the goodly fields,  
Where we will spend the pleasant hours,  
Amongst the fair and redolent flowers,  
That nought but pleasure yields.   

If waters please thee, I will bring  
Thee to so fair and fine a spring,  
That to be first in praise  
Amongst the rest, thy body white  
To wash within her waters bright,  
For thee it only stays.   

Disporting in this naked place,  
Thou hast no vail to hide thy face,  
Nor shade from parching sun,  
Pity it were thy beauty's blaze,  
Which enutous Titan fears to gaze,  
By him should be undone.   

here hearest thou no melodious voice,  
But still a huge and fearful noise  
Of monsters hideous raves,  
And seas, that roar like tumbling thunder,  
Tossed with the winds, that beat asunder  
The proud and raging waves.   

What joy and pleasure canst thou take,  
To see the tossing billows shake  
A ship upon the sand?  
And then to see the broken planks,  
And carcases in piteous ranks  
Come swimming to the land.   

Come to the frithes, and forests tall,  
Where nature hath been liberal  
With many a pleasant seat.  
Come to the cool and sweetest shades,  
Where in green paths and open glades  
We pass away the heat.   

Fly, fly, those proud and swelling seas,  
Come, come and thou shalt see what ease  
We take, and how we sing  
Ditties so sweet, that in suspense  
We hold the rocks, and every sense  
Of every living thing.   

And though that some be full of pity,  
Love forceth them to such a ditty,  
For love is full of pain:  
Yet all the shepherds will I move,  
To sing no mournful songs of love,  
Only to please thy vain.   

There mayst thou read in evety tree,  
And every mead that thou shalt see  
The loves in knots disguised  
Of jolly shepherds, and the names  
Of chiefest Nymphs, and country dames  
In curious sort devised.   

But it will make thee sad, I fear,  
To see thy name engraven there,  
By knowing it was carved  
By him, whom thou didst ever blot  
Out of thy mind, and hast forgot,  
And with disfavours starved.   

And though thine anger will be such,  
Yet wilt thou marvel not so much  
To see thy carved name,  
As thou wilt wonder then to see,  
That he doth love and honour thee,  
That there did write the same.   

Not to be loved, and to love,  
It is agreevous grief to prove:  
But what a grief or pain  
Can it in thee (fair Nymph) procure,  
To be beloved with love so pure,  
And not to love again?   

But now despised I reckon small  
Fair Galatee my torment all  
So that thou wilt forsake  
These swallowing sands, and seas so high,  
Where monsters bellow out and cry,  
And daily prays do take.   

What better pastime canst thou find  
near to the seas of blustering wind,  
Then in our woods and mountains  
To listen to the nightingales,  
And gather flowers in our vales,  
And bathe in crystal fountains.   

I would to God thou livedst here,  
In our fair fields and rivers clear,  
And for to love them more,  
I would to God thou wouldst but see  
Before I should report to thee  
How they excel the shore.   

Because I know, the more I praise  
These woods, meads, springs & lovely lays,  
The less thou wilt believe me;  
And wilt not come where thou dost know,  
That part of my content doth grow  
Which most of all doth grieve me.   

Poor Lycius would have spoken more,  
To win her from that hapless shore,  
But that she bade him cease:  
For with an angry face and scowl  
She turned unto the wretched soul,  
And bade him hold his peace.   

Then went she to her sports again,  
He to his plaints and wonted pain:  
And in the self same sort  
He still remains in wonted sorrow,  
She in the sea banks even, and morrow,  
Contented with her sport.    
The fair maids song, and our supper ended all at one time, which being done, we demanded of Clenarda what had happened unto her since our last departure from her, who told us what villainy Sartofano offered unto her, in what case Alcida was left, of thy imprisonment, her captivity, and in the end all that thou knowest at large. We bewailed bitterly our hard Fortunes, which when the Fisherman heard, he comforted us up as well as he could, and told us especially how that in these parts there was the sage Felicia, whose wisdom was enough to remedy our griefs; giving us also notice of Alcida, and of thee, to the which our desires principally tended. And so passing away that night the best we could, assoon as morning came, leaving the mariners there that came with us in the ship, we three alone went our ways, and not long after came to the Temple of Diana, where the wise Lady Fecia keeps her court. We saw there the admirable temple, the most pleasant gardens, the sumptuous palace, there we knew the great wisdom of the most grave Lady, and other things that filled us so full of wonder, that we have scarce any breath to tell them again. There we saw the fairest Nymphs, examples of chastity, many Lords and Ladies, Shepherds, and fair Shepherdesses, and especially one Shepherd named Syrenus, whom every one there made great account of: To him and many more besides, did sage Felicia give divers remedies for their loves and griefs. But the pleasure, which but hitherto yet she hath done us, is, to keep our Father Eugerius in her company, commanding us to go towards these parts, and that we should not return until we had found out some content or good Fortune. And for the great joy that we have received by thy sight, I think we have good occasion to go back again, especially for that we have left there our Father all alone and comfortless: I know well that in seeking out Alcida is no small ease to his careful thoughts; but because Fortune hath not these many days given us any news of her, we shall take the better course to return back again, then to suffer our old Father to be deprived so long of our company. After Polydorus had made an end of his discourse, every one was astonished to hear such strange accidents; and after Marcelius had wept for Alcida, he made a brief relation to Polydorus, and Clenarda of that which had happened to him since he saw them last. When Diana and Ismenia heard Polydorus make an end of that sorrowful history, they desired to go the sooner to Felicias court, the one because she knew assuredly that Syrenus was there; the other, because she conceived a certain hope (hearing of the wonderful wisdom of Felicia) to have also some redress for her griefs. Being therefore possessed with this desire, Diana (although she was minded to recreate herself certain hours in that pleasant place) altered her determination, esteeming more of Syrenus sight, then of the green hue of that goodly and fine wood. Whereupon rising up, she said to Taurisus and Berardus. Sat ye (merry Shepherds) still, and enjoy the delight and sweetness of this pleasant place, for the desire that I have to go to Diana's temple, will not let me stay any longer here. We are right sorry to forsake so delightful a shade & so good company, but we are forced to follow our Fortune in this behalf. Wilt thou be so discourteous (fair Shepherdess) (said Taurisus) to departed so soon from our doleful eyes, and to let us so small a while enjoy thy sweet sight & speeches? These Shepherds have great reason (said Marcelius to Diana) to demand such a gentle request, & it is therefore as great again that their demand be not denied them in reward of their constant faith & true love, which deserves to enjoy thy company a little while in this pleasant place, especially when thou hast time enough to be at Diana's temple before the Sun will hide his light. All of them were of his opinion, and therefore Diana would not seem discourteous to any of them, but sitting down again in her place, she would not rather please herself, then displease so brave a company as that was. Now then loving Shepherds (said Ismenia to Berardus and Taurisus) since fair Diana doth not deny us her presence, it is not reason that you deny her your songs. Sing jolly Shepherds, that in your songs & roundelays show so great cunning, and so perfect love, being for the one commended in all the towns and countries hereabout, and moving the hardest hearts with the other to love and pity. True (said Berardus) all hearts, saving Diana's, and began to weep, and Diana to smile. Which when the Shepherd saw, to the sweet sound of his pipe with the swollen tears standing in his eyes, he sung a gloss upon this Ditty.  

MY grievous sighs and sorrowful tears  
In stones do make their lively print,  
But not in thee harder than any flint.   

The gloss.  

Let not thy Grace's rare,  
Be with my service any whit offended,  
Since that my grievous fare,  
And torments past, to thy devotions tended,  
Where never yet with grief of thee lamented,  
Nor with my sighs thy cruelty relented.  
Thy hart was never changed with my cries,  
With which I was importunate always  
To wearied earth and skies:  
Though thou dost see not only nights and days  
spilled and consumed with many fears,  
My grievous sighs and sorrowful tears.   

In thy conditions strange thou art,  
That dost not cease with stranger deaths to kill me:  
But strangest is my sorrowful hart,  
That suffering pains wherewith thou dost so fill me,  
And huing in so strange and cruel passion,  
It dies not in most strange and cruel fashion.  
For if an ill a little time relents,  
(Although it be the hardest to sustain)  
It openeth yet some vents  
To ease, and doth not give such mortal pain:  
But grief that hath no end nor stint,  
In stones do make their lively print.   

Love is a dainty mild, and sweet,  
A gentle power, a feeling fine and tender,  
So that those harms, and pains unmeet,  
Which I do pass, thou only dost engender:  
Only to him his torments love deviseth,  
That scorns his laws, his rites, and love despiseth.  
And this is now my mortal pain and death,  
That, love (since first thy beauties I did see)  
Like to my proper breath,  
Wherewith I live, hath ever been in me:  
In me it lives, in me it makes his print,  
But not in thee, harder than any flint.    
Berardus song pleased Diana well, but perceiving by it, that he made her hart harder than the stones, she would for her credit have answered him again, & therefore said. It is a merry jest (by my life) to call her hard that is modest, and cruel, that is careful to keep her honesty, I would to God, Shepherd, my soul were no more sorrowful, than my hart is hard. But O grief! Fortune hath made me captive to so jealous a husband, that I was many times constrained to show discourtesy to gentle Shepherds in these hills, dales, and fields, because I would not have added more sorrow to my troublesome life with him. And yet for all this, the knot of marriage and reason oblige me to seek out my rude and ill conditioned husband, although I look not for any thing else at his hands, than sorrow, care, grief, and many more annoys in his froward company. Taurisus' taking now occasion at Diana's complaints, which she made of her unfortunate marriage, began to play on his Baggepipe, and to sing, speaking as it were to love, and descanting upon this common song that saith.  

The Song.  
A Fair maid wed to prying jealousy  
One of the fairest as ever I did see,  
If that thou wilt a secret lover take,  
Sweet life, do not my secret love forsake.   

The gloss.  

Beware good Love, beware it is not well  
To let blind Fortune have a greater part  
In women, that in Beauty do excel,  
More than thyself, since such an one thou art:  
For Beauty being commended to thy power  
To grace the same,  
Thou dost thyself dishonour every hour,  
And art to blame,  
By suffering, that this thing should ever be,  
A fair maid wed to prying jealousy.   

Thou dost but ill, since thou didst ever make  
Beauty thy friend, who therefore had prepared  
Sorrows for him, (that viewed her) for thy sake,  
Which otherwise she would have kept and spared:  
And so my firmness, and my faith so pure,  
And all my pain,  
A simple sight did not the same procure,  
Nor did maint aine,  
But sight of her, and it was only she  
One of the fairest as ever I did see.   

O Love! thou kill'st so many without end,  
(For murdering is thy pastime and delight)  
That once I hope thyself thou shalt offend,  
For want they shall on whom to work thy spite.  
Oh then how seemly shalt thou seem to groan,  
And wounded see  
Thyself with thine own griefs, and then thine own  
Captive to be.  
For thou at last thyself shalt not forsake,  
If that thou wilt a secret Lover take.   

Then mayst thou give to lovers double smart,  
And then I will forgive thee all the care  
And amorous pains, thou didst to me impart,  
When that thyself (fond Love) thou dost not spare:  
And if I blame thy deeds or do reprove thee,  
Then shalt thou say,  
(But to thyself) that reason yet did move thee  
To make away  
Thyself, and for thyself thy death to take,  
Sweet life do not my secret love forsake.    
All of them liked well of Taurisus' song, but Ismenia especially. For though it touched Diana most of all, because it spoke of those women that were ill married; yet the comment upon it (which were complaints against love) was common to all those that were tormented with it. And therefore Ismenia, who blamed Cupid for her pains, did not only like of those reprehensions that Taurisus gave Love, but she herself to the sound of her Harp, sung a song to the same effect, which Montanus was wont to sing, when he was a suitor unto her.  

A Sonnet.  
Having no cause, why in the deepest sound  
Of amorous seas my frail bark dost thou swallow?  
O Love! I'll make thy cruelty to sound  
Swifter from East to West then flying swallow.  
Though gales of winds do bluster in my stern,  
Yet from the gulf my ship shall never part  
Of thy brave might, so furious and so stern,  
Until my sighs do help to blow a part.  
If being in a storm, my face I turn,  
Then my desire is weakened by thy might:  
Thy force controuces my force, that strives in vain:  
I never shall arrive with happy turn  
Into the port, and therefore, if I might,  
I would let out my life in every vain.   
Marcelius deferred not his answer long after them, with another song made to the same purpose, and of the same form, saving that the complaints that he made, were not only against Love, but against Fortune, and himself.  

A Sonnet.  

STep after step I follow death in sight  
Through every field, and hill and trodden vale,  
For every day my spirits he doth cite,  
And warns myself, to shroud me in his vale.  
O death, that once thou wouldst consume this light,  
That still deducts my life in blisselesse bale:  
Now that my hope hath passed away so lgiht,  
And joys condemned to torments without bale.   

That Goddess, whose continual frowns I bear,  
And love, that all my joys asunder tears,  
And I myself, are foes unto my hart:  
She praying on me like a hungry bear,  
He chase me like to the wounded Hart,  
And I, that do increase my bootless tears.    
The desire that Diana had to go to Felicias palace, would not suffer her to stay any longer there, nor hearken to any more songs, but when Marcelius had ended his, she rose up. And so did Marcelius, Ismenia, and Clenarda, understanding Diana's mind, although they knew that Felicias house was nigh at hand, and that they had time enough to be there before night. After they had taken their leave of Taurisus and Berardus, they went from the fair fountain that way that they came in, and walking thorough the wood at their leisure, enjoying the pleasures and delights of it, at last they came out of it, and then they began to go thorough a great and wide plain, passing goodly to behold, where they went thinking how they might recreate their minds with some mirth, while they were going on their ways, and every one told his opinion concerning that matter. But Marcelius, who had ever the figure of Alcida engraven in his hart and thoughts, took no greater delight nor other joy, then to mark the sweet behaviour of Polydorus and Clenarda, and to hearken to their talk. And therefore to delight himself fully with this desire he said. I believe not (fair Shepherdesses) that all your pastimes are comparable to the delight that you may have, if Clenarda would discourse unto you any of those things that she hath seen in the fields and banks of Guadalajar. I passed that way in my peregrinations, but took no pleasure in those delights, because my mind went musing on other matters. But because we have two large hours (our journey being but half an hours work) to go to Diana's temple, we may therefore walk on softly, and she (if it please her) may tell us something of that goodly and pleasant country. Diana and Ismenia seemed to be very glad, showing by their amiable countenances, that they longed to have her begin, although Diana was very desirous to come betimes to the temple; but because she would not make it known to them, she concealed the great passions of her desire, by accommodating her will to their pleasures. Clenarda then entreated by Marcelius, following on her way, began to say in this manner. Although I shall offend your dainty ears, and offer great injury to the worthiness of the kingdom of Valentia, with a rude and disordered relation, to recount the ornaments, rarities, and pleasures of it; yet because I will in some part fulfil your gentle requests, I will say something that I have heard and seen therein: I will not make any particular narration of the fertility of the yielding soil, the pleasantness of the flourishing fields, the beauties of the shrubby hills, the shadows of the green woods, the sweetness of the clear fountains, the melody of the singing birds, the coolness of the fresh and calm winds, the riches of the profitable flocks of sheep and goats, the fairness of the populous towns, the good nature of the loving people, the strangeness of the sumptuous temples, nor of many other things more, for which that country is famous thorough out the world, because it requireth larger time, and a better tongue: But because you may know the chiefest glory of that country, I will tell you that, which I heard renowned Turia the principal river of that land sing. Polydorus and I came on a day to his banks, to ask the way to Diana's temple of the Shepherds thereabouts, because they could best tell it in those parts, and coming to a cottage where certain herdsmen were, we found them sweetly singing. We asked them that we desired to know, and they very lovingly informed us at large of all we demanded, and afterwards told us, that since we came in so good an hour, that we should not departed from thence, until we had heard a most sweet song, that the famous Turia would make not far from thence after half an hour. We were well content to hear it, and so we stayed to go with them. After we had stayed a little while in their company, we went up along the river banks, until we came to a wide field, where we saw a great company of Nymphs, Shepherds, and Shepherdess's, every one attending when famous Turia would begin to sing. Not long after we saw old Turia come out of a deep cave, with a great pot (very curiously wrought) under his arm, his head crowned with a garland of Oak and Laurel, his arms all hairy, his white beard long and slimy: And sitting down on the ground, leaning upon his pot, and pouring out of it abundance of crystalline waters, he cleared up his hoarse and hollow voice, and sung as followeth.  

The Song of Turia.  

WAter (fair Springs, and purest running streams)  
This fortunate and most abundant soil,  
Comfort the meads and trees, and pleasant air,  
Defend the flowers from Titan's burning spoil,  
So with the favour of the highest beams  
I will maintain my banks so fresh and fair,  
That these shall have great envy of my crown,  
The Father of floods, Rosne, Myncius, and Garoune.   

Whiles that you go thus hastening of your course,  
Winding your streams by many a crooked way,  
And joy Valencia fields that sweetly smell  
With savoury liquors in the hottest day:  
My weak and feeble breath I will enforce  
With my divining spirit to foretell,  
And sing of those good haps, that shall befall  
By favour of the heavens unto you all.   

Shepherds, and Nymphs, within these lovely dales  
Whose names resound unto th'Arcadian fields,  
Give ear to me: But of the painted flowers,  
Nor pleasure, that the springs and meadows yields,  
Nor woods, nor shades, nor warbling nightingales,  
I will not sing, nor of the country powers:  
But of those famous men and worthy peers,  
That shall be here not after many years.   

And now I see two Shepherds first in place,  
Calixtus, and Alexander, whose fames  
Surmounting the great Caesar's chief renown,  
From Atlas unto Maurus sounds their names:  
Whose lives the heavens adorning with their grace,  
Shall make them both to wear a reverend crown:  
And save from loss with their industrious heed,  
As many flocks as in the world do feed.   

Of whose illustrious stock I see arise  
That man, whose hart base fear cannot rebuke,  
Well known for arms, and many martial feats,  
The Roman Cesar, and Valencian Duke:  
A mind that mounts above the haughty skies,  
Whom yet a cruel fate with murder threats,  
That that rare strength, brave hart, and noble breath  
Must have an end by raw and bloody death.   

The same likewise must in a moment end  
The glory of Don Hugo de Moncades,  
With valour, good success and happy praise,  
Leaving the Moors subdued by Spanish blades:  
For Charles his blood most willing he shall spend,  
After the winning of a thousand days,  
And fight he shall with strong and conquering hand  
Against the French and barbarous African.   

But ill it doth be fit to talk of those,  
Whom furious Mars doth kindle with his heat,  
When learned lamps do gravely come in place:  
For here they shall arise, and shine in great  
And glorious blaze, as far as Europe goes:  
The darkest corners shall their lights embrace.  
vives shall live as long as Daphne's lover  
Above the world with golden wings doth hover.   

Whose highest skill and learning shall inherit  
john Honorate, and climb to honour's hill,  
Teaching the mighty Emperor of our land:  
The Muses with great wonder he shall fill,  
Whom now (me thinks) I see with greatest merit  
Bearing a Bishop's Crosier in his hand:  
O that such famous Shepherds, all my sheep  
And lambs might feed, and plains and pastures keep.   

About that time Nunnez with praise shall flourish,  
Who for deep learning in his tender years,  
Shall be compared unto the Stagarite:  
Demosthenes gives place where he appears  
And doth declaim, whose eloquence doth nourish  
His own and strangers: But O vile despite,  
And most ingrateful place, whom thou shalt make  
For Ebrus banks, thy country to forsake.   

But who shall tell you of that musical,  
Which many a Poet straining forth his voice  
Along my banks so sweetly shall resound?  
here do I see how all of them rejoice,  
With favours that Apollo gives them all,  
For singing with a spirit most profound,  
They shall enlarge this happy country's name,  
From Pole to Pole with endless golden fame.   

And now I see that man, whose name shall be  
Bruited with living praise in every part:  
Whom I may well for golden verse compare  
To Phebe, to Mars in arms and martial art,  
Ansias March, who (flowering mead) of thee,  
Love, virtue, and death, shall sing with verse most rare  
Taking for honourable and his just emprese  
To celebrate the virtues of Terese.   

Well shall he show himself to be the son  
Of Peter March, who both in peace, and war,  
Learned in verse, in arms most mighty here,  
Shall make his country famous very far:  
Whose noble lineage (when that they are done)  
Where in renowned valour doth appear,  
Shall give a jayme, and Arnau in those days  
Poets, whom heaven shall favour many ways.   

Giorgio del Rey with verse most high and stately  
My banks shall honour, and with garlands crowned  
By all my fairest Nymphs, that shall embrace him,  
His name with double echoes shall resound:  
The gentle Planets favouring but lately  
His fellow Poets, in such sort shall grace him,  
That Italy shall wonder at his verse,  
And die for spite his sweet songs to rehearse.   

Now Frances Oliver, that with thy voice  
Lifting thee up unto the Azur'd heaven,  
Dost wound the same: And thee renowned Figueres  
Whose verse shall be most pleasant, fine and even,  
And thee Martin Garcy, that mayst rejoice,  
That (maugre death) thy fame time never wears:  
And Innocent of Cubels I do see,  
Who well deserves a crown of Laurel tree.   

shepherds, you shall have here a man of worth,  
That with the virtue of his secret skill,  
And herbs, shall help your languors and your smarts,  
And mend your lives with verses at his will:  
Then Nymphs strew flowers and sweetest herbs power forth  
Unto great layme Royg with thankful hearts,  
Crown him with Bay, with Parsley, and with Time,  
For famous skill in physic, and in rhyme.   

And great Narcis Vinnols, that to the sky  
With lofty verse did blaze his worthy praise,  
Make him a crown of Laurel fair and green,  
Whose fame shall not (though all the world decay)  
Another for a parsonage most high,  
Whose verse shall reach as high as may be seen:  
He shall be matched with him that loved Laura,  
His name, the famous Crespi Valladaura.   

Me thinks I see an Earl most excellent,  
The noble Lord surnamed of his Olive,  
Which, while the world shall last: amongst his own  
And strangers, it shall flourish and survive:  
His comely verse shall shine most orient  
With perfect light, which he derives alone  
From heat that from his Centelles do arise  
Shining as bright as stars in clearest skies.   

And Nymphs, when that the heavens shall joy you all  
With john Fernandz, as now but with supposes,  
There shall no place be void in all this land,  
Where sow ye may not Lilies and fine Roses:  
And thou (light fame) stretch out thy flight, and call  
Thy mighty powers, and use them here at hand:  
And give him that surname most sovereign  
Thou gavest unto the famous Mantuan.   

And now I do behold that Poet rare,  
jayme Gaçull, who in Valencian rhyme  
Did show his pregnant and his lively wit,  
Which mounted to the highest clouds in time:  
And Fenollar, whom I well to compare  
To Tityrus my thoughts cannot omit:  
For sounding here his sweetest verse along  
These banks, the world shall hear his solemn song.   

Pinedas songs so copious and so fine,  
Shall also make my sweet banks to resound,  
By whose brave verse Pan conquered needs must be,  
Tigers made gentle: and they shall rebound  
His famous name, which never shall decline,  
Unto the highest spheres in dignity.  
I hope by him more honour to obtain,  
Then proudest Smyrna did by Homer gain.   

Behold the stayed, mild, and sweetest grace,  
Wherewith Vincent Ferrand, a man most grave,  
Shall show his highest judgement, and his skill:  
Being in his time a Poet rare and brave.  
His verse shall hold king Aeolus in his place,  
And stay my streams from running at their will,  
Hearing the sweetest sound and harmony,  
Of all his verses gracious, grave, and high.   

The heavens will not, nor reason will consent,  
That I should speak with humble stile and plain  
Of that choice squadron, and without compare,  
Above man's reach an office to obtain:  
Ferran, Sans, Valdelloes, and excellent  
Cordero, and Blasqo a wit most rare,  
Gaçet, more shining lights then fair Aurore,  
Of whom my spirits now shall sing no more.   

When of so great a Master I do think,  
As excellent Borja of Montese,  
Who shows his valour, as his wits divine,  
As well in verse, as any high emprese:  
methinks, my fields, my rivers, and their brinks  
Shall with more hap and greater glory shine,  
Then Tybur hath, though he within her womb  
Was borne, that built the stately town of Rome.   

And thee who of same father, place, and name,  
And of the self same highest lineage bred,  
Most excellent Don joan, whose surname shall  
In Pindus, and Parnase be honoured.  
For every one to rear his verse shall frame  
With pen above the globe celestial.  
The Muses that do dwell in Helicone,  
Make for thee there a crown and stately throne.   

The Roman people with their heroes  
Was not so proud, when they did all despise,  
As my most fertile soil, and I shall be  
When that great Aguilon shall once arise,  
Whom both in war, in counsel, and in peace,  
In verse, and valour, his dexterity  
Shall to the highest top of honour rear,  
Where Marius yet, and Fabius never were.   

Now Seraphin Centellas I do see,  
Who lifting up his high and lofty song,  
And military art unto the sky,  
Builds for his verse a fort most sure and strong.  
And shows himself so brave a man to be  
In courage, skill, and true nobility,  
That now gins my sweet content of hart,  
To see his valour, and his great desert.   

But now I fear me that I cannot praise  
Don Lewis Milan, even as I do desire,  
Who shall in music to such skill attain,  
That to Orpheus' wreath he shall aspire:  
His vain shall be so stately in his days  
In heroic verse, that I believe in vain  
That they will name before this Adamant  
Cyno Pystoya, and Guido Cavalcante.   

Thou that shalt get so great a part, and taste  
Of Pegasus fount, that mighty dew and sweet,  
And whom the dwellers of Parnassus hill  
Shall with a standard of brave poesy greet:  
(Noble Falcon) here words I will not waste  
In praising thee, for fame shall that fulfil:  
And shall be careful that thy learned name  
In all the world with praise she will proclaim,   

Praising always the famous Emperor  
Charles the great King, Fame makes the world to know him;  
And though above the stars she doth commend him,  
Little it is to that that she doth owe him,  
You shall behold him to excel so fur,  
With favour that the Muses all will lend him,  
His surname shall the world so much delight,  
That Hesiodes name shall be forgotten quite.   

He that declares the stately Roman laws,  
He that a fine and dainty verse compounds,  
He that the wise Lycurgus doth excel,  
And all the Poets of Verona grounds,  
Comes next in place, whose golden chariot draws  
Fame with her trump, his praises to foretell:  
And this is Oliver, whose memory  
Controls the old and newest history.   

Knowing fair Nymphs, your good days to begin  
Make thousand outward signs of inward joy,  
For now (me thinks) I do behold even then  
Two famous men who shall their minds employ,  
The one to war, the other still to win  
Salvation for the souls of sinful men.  
Ciurana and Ardenol, who shall raise  
Their highest verse to heaven with endless praise.   

What? Will you see a judgement sharp and sure,  
A general skill, a grave and settled mind,  
A lively spirit, and a quick conceit,  
A sweet consort, poetical and fine,  
That savage beastesto mildness doth enure?  
Of Philip Catalan behold the great  
Wisdom and wit, who therefore hath no mean  
A portionin the fountain Hippocrene.   

here shall you see a high and lofty wit,  
Who shall bring honour to our pleasant fields,  
Endowed with a brave and noble sprite,  
Cunning in all things that good letters yields,  
The learned Pellicer, whose brain shall fit  
For poems, making them his chief delight:  
In which his skill and met hood shall be great,  
His judgement deep, a sweet and quick conceit.   

Behold the man whose noble breast contains  
Knowledge most rare, and learning general,  
Orpheus seems with him to be combined,  
Apollo's favours on his head do fall:  
Minerva gives him wit in plenteous veins,  
And Mars a noble hart and valiant mind:  
I mean Romani, coming now addressed  
With all the best, that learning hath professed.   

Two suns within my banks shall now arise,  
Shining as bright as Titan in his sphere,  
And many spring tides in one year shall be,  
Decking my banks and meadows every where:  
The hurtful snow, nor hard untempered ice  
Shall hide my plains, nor cover any tree  
When echoes in my woods or greene's rehearse  
Vadilles and Pinedas sweetest verse.   

The meetres of Artiede, and Clement, so  
Famous shall be in their young tender years,  
That any thinking to excel the same,  
But base to them and humble shall appear:  
And both amongst the wisest sort shall show  
Quick and reposed wits with endless name.  
And after give us from their tender flowers  
Fruits of more worth amongst more learned powers.   

The fount, that makes Parnassus of such prize,  
Shall be john Perez of such worthy fame,  
That from swift Tana unto Ganges source,  
He shall dilate his admirable name:  
To stay the hasty winds he shall suffice,  
And rivers running with most swiftest course,  
Filling them all with wonder, that shall throng  
To hear his verse, and grave and solemn song.   

The man to whom a worthy name is due  
Of right, for his ability and skill,  
Whom all my sacred Nymphs in time shall know,  
And all my shepherds shall with praises fill  
For verse most high: amongst the learned crew  
His honour and his praise shall daily grow:  
Almudevar it is, whose shining wing  
Unto the stars his golden praise must bring.   

In vulgar tongue the famous Espinose  
Shall make the history of Naples clear,  
After he hath reviv'd the memory  
Of the Centellas highly linaged here  
With such a lofty style: That fame bestows  
His praise abroad, the which shall never die:  
And make this Poet, second unto none,  
To be renowned in worlds but lately known.   

But now I feel a certain joy of mind,  
That makes mine aged hart to leap apace,  
But only thinking of that great content,  
That Bonavida brings into this place:  
In gravest learning he shall leave behind  
The rest, whose glory he shall still prevent:  
●…is fine and pithy verse, with Laurel dressed,  
In every age shall sound from east to west.   

Now Don Alonso comes in place, who shall  
The Rebolledoes surname much increase  
In all the world, to raise his worthy name  
Above great Maro he shall never cease,  
And seem to have no human wit at all  
But singing with most lofty verse: the same,  
His fine conceit, his art and vain so high,  
It seems he shall have rob from the sky.   

For end of this most sweet and pleasant song  
And last conclusion of this general skill,  
I give you him, by whom dame Nature shall  
The Circle of the world with wonder fill:  
My simple praises should but do him wrong  
And all his virtues most heroical,  
His valour, wit, nobility which graceth  
His bounty, faith and zeal which he embraceth.   

This is Aldana monarch of such might,  
That jointly soldiers and brave verses makes:  
That (with great reason) the most famous men  
As far as Phoebus with his light awakes  
Do doubt if he be Petrarke Tuscans light,  
Or Petrarke he: But yet admiring then,  
To see that where fierce Mars doth show his face,  
Apollo mild should have so great a place.   

After this captain there is none whom I  
With my poor verse may honour and commend,  
For next unto the golden sun that star  
That brightest shines, in darkness must depend:  
And yet besides the short time doth deny,  
To praise each one for poesy and war:  
Farewell, farewell, for unto you the rest  
Hereafter I will sing with clearer breast.    
This was the song of the river Turia, to the which the Shepherds and Nymphs gave great ear, as well for the sweetness of it, as also for that the most famous men which were foretold in it, should be afterwards in the kingdom of Valentia. I could tell you many other things, that I saw in those happy fields, but the trouble that you have taken by my tediousness will not permit me. Marcelius and the Shepherds marveled much at Clenardas' report, who having made an end of it, they perceived that they were near to Diana's Temple, where they began to discover the high turrets of it, most stately reared above the tops of the trees. But before they came to the great Palace, they saw a fair Nymph gathering sweet and fine flowers, whose name, and what succeeded by seeing of her, you shall know in the book that followeth.  
The end of the third Book.   

The fourth Book of the third Part of Diana.  
THe complaints that men do ordinarily attribute to Fortune are very great, which would not be so many nor so grievous, if they considered well the good that cometh oftentimes by her mutabilities. He that now rejoiceth (having been in a miserable estate before) that Fortune is changed, hath no reason to check her, nor to call her wavering, when some contrary event doth happen. But though she hath both in good, and in ill inconstancy incident unto her, as part of her proper nature; yet a wise man (how much soever he is touched with her) should not live with affiance in the possession of worldly felicities, nor with despair in suffering adversities; but should rather moderate himself with such wisdom, to entertain pleasure as a thing not permanent, and grief and sorrow as things that may have an end in time. Of such men God hath a particular regard, as of sorrowful and painful Marcelius, delivering him from all his cares, by the means and help of most wise Lady Felicia; who, divining (as it were) in her mind, that Marcelius, Diana and others, should come to her Palace, caused in a manner that fair Nymph to go forth into that sweet meadow, to give them certain news and signs, that strange things should come to pass, which by her divine wisdom she did foresee were very expedient and necessary to be done. When Marcelius therefore and the rest were come to the place, where the Nymph was gathering flowers, they courteously saluted her, and she them again. She asked them whither they were going, and they said to Diana's Temple. Then Arethea (for so was the Nymph called) said unto them. My Lady Felicia, whose Nymph I am, will be very glad of your good company for the apparent signs of your good deserts, which by your personages you seem to testify. And now since that the Sun hides itself in the West, I will go back with you thither, where you shall be welcomed and feasted in the best sort that may be. They gave her most hearty thanks, and went with her towards the Temple, recovering great hope by the words and promises of the Nymph: and although Polydorus and Clenarda had been before in Felicias house, yet they never remembered that they had known or seen her before: And the reason was, because of the great number of Nymphs that the wise Lady had ever at her commandment, diversly employed in divers parts of her Court. Therefore they asked her her name, & she told them that she was called Arethea. Diana asked her what news she knew in those parts? And she answered. The latest news that is here, is, that not two hours since there came to Felicias house a strange Lady in habit of a Shepherdess; the which, being seen by an ancient old man, that is also there, he knew her for his daughter; and because she had been a long time wandering up and down the world, and thought to be dead, the sudden joy was so great that he received at her sight, that it caused a great wonder amongst all those that were in the house. The old man's name (as I remember) is Eugertus, and his daughters Alcida. Marcelius hearing these words, remained so senseless with joy and fear assailing him both at once, as any wise man may conjecture, and at last said. O happy travels, and fortunate troubles, which come to their end with so prosperous accidents! Ah ah, and desiring to have passed on farther, his hart was so overcome, and his tongue so tied, that in a trance he fell down to the ground. Diana, Ismenia, and Clenarda, being next unto him, took him up again, and with comfortable words of hope recovered his dismayed soul: And so coming to himself again, he thanked them many times. Polydorus and Clenarda were not a little glad at those news, seeing now that all their sorrows should have an end by the happy coming of their sister Alcida. And Diana and Ismenia were also very joyful, as well for their companions good hap, as also for the hope they had of their own good fortunes and help to receive it at her hands, who wrought such miracles and wonders. Diana, because she would know something of Syrenus, said thus unto her. The great hope of content that thou hast given me (fair Nymph) by telling me of that, which is in Felicias Palace for Alcidas coming, is not small; but yet greater should I have, if thou wouldst tell me what Shepherds of account are there also. There are many worthy Shepherds (answered Arethea) but those that I do best remember are sylvanus and Seluagia, Arsileus and Belisa, and one other more principal than these, called Syrenus, whose virtues and deserts Felicia hath in great estimation; but he is such an enemy to love, that he makes all the rest that are there to wonder at him. Alcida is of like quality and condition, in so much that ever since she came thither, both of them have not been asunder, discoursing of hate, oblivion, and disdain. And so I am very certain, that Felicia made them come to her Court to marry them together, being both of one mind, and their conditions being so semblable one to the other. For though he be but a Shepherd, and she a noble Lady, Felicia yet by her supernatural powers can give him valour, force, riches, and wisdom, which is the truest nobility of all the rest. And Arethea following on her speech, turning to Marcelius, she said thus unto him. By this (Shepherd) thou seest how thy joy is in hazard to fall to another's lot; defer not therefore the time, because if thou comest betimes, thou mayst prevent Syrenus of his match. But when Diana heard these words, she felt the greatest grief that might be, and had showed it by tears and outcries, if bashfulness and modesty had not been an impediment to it. Marcelius suffered the like pain for the same cause, and was so tormented with it, that he thought to have died for very anguish of mind. So that on knife wounded Marcelius and Diana's hart, & one jealousy molested their souls: Marcelius feared Alcidas marriage with Syrenus; and Diana the marriage of Syrenus with Alcida. The fair Nymph knew Marcelius & Diana very well, & those that were with them, but she disembled it very cunningly, as Felicia had told her how, telling Marcelius first a true tale, to give him an unexpected joy; & after a feigned matter, to kindle his desire, & Diana's more; & also because by these bitter news, the gladness that they afterwards received, might be greater & more sweet. Being now come to a broad & most fair Court, which was before the palace gate, they saw a reverend old Lady coming out of it, appareled with a long gown of black velvet, having a vail on her head of white tynsell which hung down over her shoulders, being accompanied with three most fair Nymphs, representing a most venerable and divine Sibyl. This Lady was Felicia, and her Nymphs were Dorida, Cynthia, and Polydora. When Arethea was come before her Lady and Mistress (but first telling her company that she was Felicia) she kneeled down and kissed her hands, and so did all the rest. Felicia seemed to be very glad of their coming, and with a merry countenance said unto them. Worthy Gentlemen, Lady, and famous Shepherds, although the joy that I have of your coming is great, yet the same that you shall reap by my sight hereafter shall be no whit less. But because you are somewhat weary with your journey, go and take your rest, and forget your griefs, because you cannot want the first in my house, and the second with my great knowledge shall be soon amended. They all humbly thanked her, showing themselves very glad of their loving entertainment, and at last Felicia left them. She made Polydorus & Clenarda to stay there, saying, that she had to talk with them; and the rest being guided by Arethea, went to a chamber in the rich Palace, where they were seasted that night, and served with all things needful for their rest. This house was so sumptuous and magnificent, and so full of all kind of stately riches, & of curious and costly gardens, that there was not any other comparable unto it. But I will not trouble myself in making any particular recount of the beauty and riches of it, since that was declared at large in the first part of this work. I will only tell how Marcelius, Diana, and Ismenia, were lodged in two chambers in the Palace, hanged all about with rich tapistry, curiously wrought with gold and silver, lodgings unacquainted to simple Shepherds. They were there entertained with a dainty and plenteous supper, served with plate of gold and crystal, and when they went to sleep laid in stately beds, whose bodies yet (though with travel & pain they were not a little wearied) with the softness & sweetness of them, & with the hope also that Felicia had given them, were invited to a sweet & reposed sleep. On the other side Felicia in company of her three Nymphs, and of Polydorus and Clenarda (telling them by the way, that they should say nothing of Marcelius, Diana's, and Ismenias coming thither) went to a most pleasant garden, where they saw Eugerius passing the time away with his daughter Alcida. Don Felix and Felismena, Syrenus, sylvanus, and Seluagia, Arsileus and Belisa, and another Shepherd were sitting together a pretty way off them about a fountain. Alcida had yet on the same pastoral weeds, that she came appareled with that day to the palace, but she was presently known by her brother and sister. The joy that the brother and two sisters had to see themselves altogether, and the gladness that the father had to see himself and them so well and happily met, moreover the great affection wherewith they embraced each other, the loving talk that passed between them, and the sundry questions that they asked of one another, cannot be with words nor writing declared. Alcida was rapt with joy to see her brother and sister; but was gladder to see Polydorus, than Clenarda, for the great presumption that she had, that Marcelius went away with her, leaving her in the desolate Island all alone. But Felicia purposing to clear all these mists & errors, & to make an end of so many hard fortunes, spoke thus unto them. Though Fortune hath never so much (fair Alcida) by many kinds of injuries showed herself thy mortal enemy, yet thou canst nor deny, but that with this content, that thou now enjoyest, thou art fully revenged of all her wrongs. And because the false imagination and deceit, wherein thou hast lived hitherto, hating (without cause) thy loving Marcelius, if thou livest still in it, is enough to alter thy hart, and to give him much sorrow and grief; it shall be therefore very needful for thee to shake off this conceit & injurious fuspition out of thy mind. That which thou thinkest of Marcelius, is clean contrary, because it was not his fault when he left thee in the Island, but the deceit of a vile traitor and of Fortune, who now to satisfy the injury that she hath done thee, hath brought thee hither unto me, which thou shalt find to be as true as my mouth (never accustomed to feign and lie) hath plainly and sincerely told thee. Thy sister Clenarda can make a large report unto thee of all that hath passed about this matter, hearken to her, and believe her words, because I swear unto thee, that all that she shall tell thee, is most true. Then Clenarda began to tell the whole matter & how it happened, purging Marcelius and herself, and reciting at large the treason and villainy of Sartofano, and all the rest, as you have heard before. Which when Alcida heard, she thought herself very well satisfied, and then the long hatred, which she bore to Marcelius, went out of her hart with the deceit, the only occasion of it. And then the smothered love, and hidden fire began to revive in her breast, being clearly rid of her old suspicion, as also by the operation of those charming words that Felicia made in her soul, and being in that mind, she said unto Felicia. Mine error I acknowledge (most honourable and sage Lady) and the great benefit that you have done me, by delivering me from it. But if I love now Marcelius (the mist of unjust suspect being driven from mine eyes) and he being absent as he is indeed, I shall never the more for this happiness attain to the top of that joy which I hope for at thy hands; but shall rather be afflicted with so great grief of mind, that to remedy the same, I shall stand in need of new favours at thy gracious hands. It is a good token of love (answered Felicia again) to take thought for the absence of the beloved, but let not this grieve thy mind, for I will be careful for thy contentment: Now hath the Sun hidden his beams, and it is good time to take some rest. Go therefore with thy father and sister to repose thyself, because we will to morrow take order for these affairs. When she had thus said, she went out of the garden, and so did Eugerius and his daughters, repairing to the chambers that Felicia had appointed for them in her palace, which were separated from that where Marcelius lay, & the rest of his company. Don Felix & Felismena with the other shepherds and Shepherdesses tarried a pretty while about the fountain, & then went to supper, appointing to meet there the next morning following one hour before day, to take the fresh air of the morning. So therefore as the hope of the pleasure of the next morrows meeting made them pass away the night with sleeping but a little, they rose up all so early in the morning, that before the appointed hour they were ready at the fountain with their tuned instruments. Eugerius with his son and daughters advertised of the music, did also rise up, and went thither. They began to play and sing, and to make much sport and pastime by the light of the Moon, which with a full and bright face gave them as clear light as if it had been day. Marcelius, Diana, and Ismenia, lay in two chambers one joining to the other, whose windows looked into the garden: And although they could not see the fountain thorough them, by reason of the high & thick Laurel trees which were about it, yet might they hear well what they said. So therefore when Ismenia (lying awake) heard the noise they made, and the merriment and songs of the Shepherds, she awaked Diana, and Diana knocking at the wall that was between both their chambers awoke Marcelius, and so all of them went to their windows where they were neither seen nor known. Marcelius gave attentive care, if he might perhaps hear Alcidas voice. Diana did diligently listen to hear her Syrenus. Ismenia only had no hope to hear her Montanus, because she knew not that he was there. But yet her Fortune was better than she was aware of, for at that very instant a Shepherd sung to the sound of his Baggepipe this Sextine that follows.  


THe fair, the fresh, the red, and rosy morning  
Doth follow still the long and tedious night,  
And after darkness comes the sun shine day,  
When Nymphs go forth to walk the freshest meads,  
The air resounding with their sweetest songs,  
And cheerful notes of many chirping birds.   

I am less happy than the pretty birds,  
That are saluting of the merry morning,  
With rattling forth their sugared notes and songs:  
For in the morn I mourn, as in the night,  
Be this a desert or most fragrant mead,  
Be this a cloudy or most shining day.   

In such a hapless hour, and dismal day  
So dead I was, that never can these birds,  
Which in the dawning joy both hill and mead,  
Nor the Vermilion face of freshest morning  
Drive from my soul a dark and deadly night,  
Nor from my breast a lamentable song.   

My voice shall never change her wonted song,  
And for myself it never will be day:  
But I will first die in eternal night,  
Though more and more do sing the warbling birds,  
And fairer rise the bright and purple morning,  
To shine upon, and cherish this fair mead.   

O irksome garden! and O doleful mead!  
Since she, that cannot hear my plaining song,  
And with her beams of beauty stains the morning,  
Doth not give light unto my needful day:  
O trouble me no more you prating birds,  
For without her your morning is but night.   

In that time of the still and silent night,  
When in the towns, the hills, the vales, and meads,  
All mortal men take rest, the beasts and birds,  
I most of all do force my grievous song,  
Making my tears even with the night, and day,  
At noon, at night, and after in the morning.   

One Morning only conquer must my Night,  
And if one Day illustrate shall this Mead,  
Then will I hear with joy the Songs of Birds.    
By this time Ismenia that was hearkening at the window, knew that he that did sing, was her husband Montanus, and took so great delight to hear him, as grief in hearing of that which he sung. For she thought, that the pain that (he said in his song) he was troubled with, was for another's sake and not for hers; but she was by and by driven out of this doubt, for she heard him (when he had made an end of his song) give a marvelous great sigh, and said. Ah wearied and sorrowful hart! how ill didst thou abuse thyself and her in giving credit to a simple surmise, and how justly dost thou now suffer the sorrow, that thine own lightness hath procured? Ah my beloved Ismenia! how better had it been for me, that thy zealous love had not caused thee to seek me thorough the world, because when I had come back again to our town (and knowing mine own fault) I might have found thee in it? Ah wicked Sylueria, how ill didst thou requite him, that ever did thee good from his cradle? Alas I would have thanked thee for the discovery of the treachery, which afterwards thou toldest me, declaring to me the truth of the matter, but that it came too late, which then availed no more, nor now, but for my greater pain and grief. Ismenia hearing this, thought herself the happiest woman in the world, and was so glad a● this good fortune, as may be possibly imagined. The tears trickled down her cheeks for joy, and like one that was now near unto the end of her troubles she said. Now is the time of my happy days come, and this house is only made to help those that live in distress and woe. Marcelius and Diana were wonderful glad for Ismenias joy, and had by this, great hope of their own. Ismenta would by and by have gone out of her chamber into the garden, and even then when Marcelius and Diana were persuading her to stay, thinking it better to attend Felicias will and pleasure, they heard new songs about the fountain, and Diana knew that it was Syrenus that sung them. Ismenia and Marcelius held their peace, because they would not trouble Diana, who giving an earnest ear to the voice of her beloved husband heard him sing this song following.  
Syrenus. 

Lovers, with pride enjoy your full content,  
To see yourselves in favour and in grace,  
For I do joy to see my torments spent,  
And joy to see them in oblivions place:  
I joy to see my captive hart so free,  
I joy to see myself in liberty.   

For after suffering worlds of endless thrall,  
The favours of a proud and scornful dame  
So lately come, and seldom do befall,  
That even the best, and greatest of the same  
Is, not to need them, nor to be possessed  
Of trifling toys a fond and feigned jest.   

Now laugh mine eyes, and thank Diana's vain,  
Thank her that brought you to this happy turn,  
Her crew ltie and hate your life did gain,  
By her disdain, by her unseemly scorn  
Your liberty, in bondage led away,  
You have redeemed, thrice happy be that day.   

For if by suffering torments for her sake,  
Ten thousand times more beautiful she wear,  
And dearest love to me if she did make,  
Yet such content, as now in hating her,  
I should not have: And this doth joy my hart,  
That my disdain doth bear so great a part.   

O sovereign God! that once I might but know  
Grief without hope to seize upon thy soul,  
And that the God of love would wound thee so,  
And so thy scornful hart with pains control,  
That fully unrevenged I might not be,  
For that great wrong which thou hast done to me.   

For than I would (and less it were not meet)  
Be to thy grief so cruel and so fierce,  
That if with tears, and lying at my feet,  
Thou didst thy pains and torments all rehearse,  
And at my hands thy life if thou didst crave,  
Answer I would, Thy life I would not save.   

God grant thou mayst for ever seek me out,  
And (Shepherdess) that I myself may hide:  
That thou mightst say: O turn thee once about,  
And look on me: and that I may deride,  
And answer thee, whom now I have forgot,  
Hence (Shepherdess) away and vex me not.   

That thou mayst say for thee I die in paining,  
And on my knees to thee I come a creeping,  
What novelty is this, O what disdaining?  
And I may go, and leave thee thus a weeping,  
And answer thee for pains that I did borrow,  
I joy and laugh to see thee in this sorrow.   

If this thou doubtest with solemn oath I swear,  
That while I live, I will do this and more:  
For now no pains, nor torments I do fear,  
And suffer not, as I did once before:  
And I did never love so much thy name,  
As from my hart I now abhor the same.   

And glad I am he hath forgot thee quite,  
That for thy sake was once so great a fool;  
And for thy love did suffer such despite,  
And such fond lessons in blind fancies school:  
And it is meet that he should suffer shame,  
That in these follies was so much to blame.   

For cruel Love with Fortune doth agree,  
And tickle Fortune like to Cupid wavers:  
Then (jolly shepherds) I would counsel ye  
Not to gape after Loves, and Fortune's favours:  
And if ye mean a sweet life to procure,  
Freedom embrace, and captive Love abjure.   

O that thou heard'st me now (ingrate Diane)  
To under stand, what I do say more clear,  
And how much more my soul doth yet retain  
In plainer terms, if thou wert present here,  
To tell thee, that I might unto thy face  
Degorge my mind unto thy great disgrace.   

But yet it is the best (to joy my hart)  
For thee to shun the presence of my sight:  
For I shall lose (no doubt) no little part  
Of that great joy, that pleasure, and delight  
Of my revenge, for it would pity me  
And grieve me too I think in seeing thee.   

Then do I wish, that I may never see  
Thy grievous presence, nor thy face again,  
Because unto my soul it needs must be  
A greater torment and more cruel pain,  
To see thee, when I swear, I love thee not,  
Then when thou hadst my dearest love forgot.    
It happened to Diana as to those which harken to their own harms; for in hearing Syrenus disdainful resolution, she conceived so great grief in her mind, that I am not able to express it, and therefore think it better to leave it to the judgement of wise men. Let it suffice you to know, that she thought to have died at that present time, and therefore it was very needful for Marcelius and Ismenia to comfort her up, and to encourage her with such good reasons, as were sufficient for such an extreme grief; one of them was in telling her, that the knowledge and skill that Felicia had (in whose house they were) was not so small, but that it had remedied woes of greater pain and consequence, as she had showed but a little before by Ismenia as disdained of Montanus. As they were thus talking together, the golden morning beginning to discover itself, the Nymph Arethea came in to that chamber, and with a cheerful countenance said unto them. I wish as fortunate and good days to you (noble Gentleman & fair Shepherdesses) as are due to your deserts and virtues. My sage Lady Felicia hath sent me hither to know, if you have slept more contentedly this night than you were wont to do, and to bring you along with me into the garden, where she hath to speak certain words with you. But you Marcelius must leave of these Shepherd's garments, and put on this apparel that I bring here, fit for your calling and degree. Ismenia would not stay for Marcelius answer, for joy of the good news, but said. The gladsome tidings that with thy sweet sight thou hast brought us this morning (O happy Nymph) God requite for us, since it lies not in our power to recompense so great a debt and courtesy. The content that thou wouldst know of us, is not little, with being only in this house, and how much happier have we been in it this morning, when Marcelius and I have recovered our lives welnie lost before, and Diana no small hope to the attaining of her desires? But because we must obey the command of so great and wise a Lady as Felicia is, let us not delay the time to go into the garden, and let her wisdom dispose of us at her best pleasure. Then Arethea took the apparel that Marcelius should put on from another Nymph that brought it, and with her own hands helped to put it on, which was so rich, and garnished so bravely with gold and precious stones, that it was of infinite value. They went out of that quadrant, and all of them following Arethea, by one of the Palace gates they went into the garden. This Orchard of the one side was environed with an arm of a goodly river, of the other side of it stood most sumptuous and stately buildings belonging to Felicias Palace, and the other two sides compassed about with two walls, curiously plastered with jesmines, Woodbine, and other herbs and flowers passing delightful to the eye. But of the pleasantness of this place, it is more copiously entreated of in the fourth book of the first part. Now after they were come into it, they saw how sylvanus and Seluagia separated from the other company, were together all alone in a little meadow that was near to the gate. There did Arethea leave them, willing them to stay for Felicia there, because she was to go again to the Palace to tell that she had done the thing, that was given her in charge. sylvanus and Seluagia that were there, knew Diana by & by, and marveled much to see her there. Seluagia knew Ismenia also, which was of her own town, and so there was great courtesy between them and many embracings, joyful to see each other there after so long a time. Seluagia then with a merry countenance said unto them. Fair Diana is welcome, whose disdain was an occasion to make sylvanus mine. And welcome also fair Ismenia, who with thy deceit didst give me so much pain, that for remedy of it I came hither, where I have changed it into a happy estate. What good fortune hath brought you hither? That (said Diana) which we receive of thy sight, and that, which we hope for at Felicias hands. O happy Shepherdess! how glad am I of the content that thou hast gotten here: God confirm thy fortune so prosperous, that thou mayst enjoy it many years. Marcelius offered not to speak any thing amongst them, because he neither knew sylvanus nor Seluagia. But whilst the Shepherds were occupied about their congratulations and courtesies, he was beholding a Gentleman and a Lady, that hand in hand went walking up and down an Alley in the Garden, being very merry one with the other. He took a certain pleasure in beholding the Lady, and his mind gave him, that he had seen and known her before: Wherefore to clear himself of that doubt, coming to sylvanus he said. Although it is a point of discourtesy to interrupt your friendly greetings, yet would I feign know (gentle Shepherd) what Lord and Lady those are that walk there together. Their names (said sylvanus) are Don Felix, and Felismena, husband and wife. Then Marcelius hearing Felismenas' name, altered his countenance and said. Tell me, I pray you, whose daughter Felismena is, and where she was borne, if thou dost perhaps know, because I care not so greatly to inquire of Don Felix. I have heard her oftentimes tell (said sylvanus) that she was borne in Soldina the chiefest city of all Vandalia, her father being called Andronius, and her mother Delia. But I pray you Sir, do me the favour to let me know what you are, and why you made this demand? My name (said Marcelius) and all else that thou seekest at my hands, thou shalt know hereafter. In the mean time do me this courtesy, that since thou art acquainted with Lord Felix and Felismena, crave leave of them that I may speak a few words with them, because I would ask her a question that may redound (perhaps) to much joy and good on both sides. It likes me well (said sylvanus) and then he went by and by to Don Felix and Felismena and told them, that a Gentleman not far off would feign entreat with them in certain affairs if they thought it not troublesome unto them. They stayed not a minute, but came to the place where Marcelius was. And after courteous salutations, Marcelius said to Felismena, I inquired (fair Lady) of this Shepherd thy country, name, and parents, who told me that which by thine own report he knows concerning the same, and because I know a Gentleman which was borne in the same city, who is also son to a Lord (if I be not deceived) whose name is like to thy Fathers; Tell me then (courteous Lady) if you have any brother, and what his name is, because (it may be) he is the same, whom I know. With this Felismena gave a great sigh and said. O noble Gentleman! how much doth thy demand penetrate my hart? Know therefore, that I had a brother, borne with me at one birth, and being but a child at twelve years old, my father Andronius sent him to the king of Portugals court, where he lived many years. This is as much as I can tell of him, and that which I told sylvanus and Seluagia that are here present, on a time at the fountain of the Sycamores, after that I had delivered the three Nymphs, and killed three Savages in the meadow of the Laurel trees. From that time hitherto I have heard nothing of him, but that the king sent him as Captain into the coast of Africa: and because I have a good while since wandered up and down the world, following mine own destinies and fortune, I know not whether he be alive or dead. Then Marcelius could not stay himself any longer, but said. I have indeed (sweet sister Felismena) been dead hitherto, because I have wanted thy good company, and now am revived, in that I have been so happy a man to see thee. And in speaking these words he lovingly embraced her. Felismena remembering well Marcelius kind of gesture and his countenance in her mind, did now clearly see that he was the same indeed, and so was undoubtedly resolved, that he was her own brother. The joyful greeting that passed between the brother, sister, and cousin, was great; and the gladness that sylvanus and Seluagia took to see them so happily met together, not small. There were many loving speeches exchanged, many tears of joy and sorrow powered out, many demands and questions, hopes revived, determinations concluded, and many words and things of joy and rest mutually spoken and done. They spent in these congratulations one whole hour, which was little enough for the large history & accidents that they had to discourse of after so long an absence. But because they might better and more safely talk of those matters, they sat themselves down in that little meadow under a rank of Sycamores, whose wreathed boughs laden with leaves, made a delightful and cool shadow, defending them from the heat of the radiant sun, which was with some heat mounted up the Hemisphere. Whilst Marcelius, Don Felix, Felismena, sylvanus, and the Shepherds were talking together of these matters, at the other end of the garden near unto the fountain (as it is said before) were Eugerius, Polydorus, Alcida, and Clenarda. Alcida had that day left of her pastoral weeds as Felicia had commanded, and was now appareled and adorned very richly with costly garments and jewels that she willed should be given her. But as Syrenus was also there, Montanus, Arsileus, and Belisa, singing and sporting together, they marvel ouslie delighted Eugerius and his son and daughters, that were hearkening to them. And that which did most of all please them, was a song which Syrenus and Arsileus did sing one against another in dispraise and favour of Cupid: For they sung with an earnest will and desire in hope of a brave crystal cup, which Eugerius had promised for a reward and prize to him that did sing best. And so Syrenus to the sound of his Rebecke, and Arsileus to the tune of his rural Baggepipe, began to sing in manner following.  

Syrenus. 
Oeys that are not now as once tormented,  
When first my star enueagled and disguised you:  
O joyful thoughts, and quiet mind absented,  
O careless hart, now will I once advise you,  
That since you made Diana discontented,  
To see, love, think on you, let this suffice you,  
That I do hold your counsel best of many,  
In vain to see, nor love, nor think of any.   
Arsileus. 
O eyes that have to greater light attained,  
Looking upon that sun, your only treasure,  
O toyfull thoughts, in thousand joys distrained,  
O happy hart, the seat of secret pleasure:  
Although Belisa would have once disdained  
To see, to love, or think on me at leisure,  
Yet hold I this a heaven, as like was never  
To see, to love, and think on her for ever.    
Syrenus would have replied to Arsileus answer, if he had not been interrupted by Eugerius, who said. Since you must (jolly Shepherds) receive your reward at my hands, it is good reason that you sing in such sort, as may best content me. Sing thou Syrenus first those verses which thy muse shall dictate unto thee: and then thou Arsileus shalt sing as many again, or those which thou shalt best think good of. It pleaseth us well (said they) and then Syrenus began thus.  
Syrenus. 

LEt now the goodly spring tide make us merry,  
And fields, which pleasant flowers do adorn,  
And vales, meads, woods, with lively colours flourish,  
Let plenteous flocks the Shepherd's riches nourish,  
Let hungry wolves by dogs to death be torn,  
And lambs rejoice, with passed winter weary:  
Let every rivers ferry  
In waters flow, and silver streams abounding:  
And fortune, ceaseless wounding,  
Turn now thy face, so cruel and unstable,  
Be firm and favourable:  
And thou that killest our souls with thy pretences,  
Molest not (wicked love) my inward senses.   

Let country plainness live in joys not ended,  
In quiet of the desert meads and mountains,  
And in the pleasure of a country dwelling:  
Let Shepherd's rest, that have distilled fountains  
Of tears: prove not thy wrath, all pains excelling,  
Upon poor souls, that never have offended:  
Let thy flames be incended  
In haughty courts, in those that swim in treasure,  
And live in ease and pleasure:  
And that a sweetest scorn (my wonted sadness)  
A perfect rest and gladness  
And hills and dales, may give me: with offences  
Molest not (wicked love) my inward senses.   

In what law findest thou, that the freest reason,  
And wit, unto thy chains should be subjecteth,  
And harmless souls unto thy cruel murder?  
O wicked love, the wretch that flieth further  
From thy extremes, thou plagu'st, O false, suspected,  
And careless boy, that thus thy sweets dost season,  
O vile and wicked treason.  
Might not thy might suffice thee, but thy fuel  
Of force must be so cruel?  
To be a Lord, yet like a Tyrant minded,  
Vain boy with error blinded,  
Why dost thou hurt his life with thy offences,  
That yields to thee his soul and inward senses.   

He errs (alas) and foully is deceived  
That calls thee God, being a burning fire,  
A furious flame, a plaining grief and clamorous,  
And, Venus' son (that in the earth was amorous,  
Gentle, and mild, and full of sweet desire)  
Who calleth him, is of his wits bereaved,  
And yet that she conceived  
By proof, so vile a son and so unruly,  
I say (and yet say truly)  
That in the cause of harms, that they have framed,  
Both justly may be blamed:  
She, that did breed him with such vile pretences,  
He, that doth hurt so much our inward senses.   

The gentle sheep and lambs are ever flying  
The ravening wolves and beasts, that are pretending  
To glut their maws with flesh they tear asunder:  
The milk white doves at noise of fearful thunder  
Fly home amain, themselves from harm defending,  
The little chick, when puttocks are a crying:  
The woods and meadows dying  
For rain, of heaven (if that they cannot have it)  
Do never cease to crave it:  
So every thing his contrary resisteth,  
Only thy thrall persisteth  
In suffering of thy wrongs without defences,  
And lets thee spoil his hart and inward senses.   

A public passion, nature's laws restraining,  
And, which with words can never be declared:  
A soul twixt love, and fear, and desperation,  
And endless plaint, that shuns all consolation,  
A spendlesse flame, that never is impaired:  
A friendless death, yet life in death maintaining:  
A passion, that is gaining  
On him, that loveth well and is absented:  
Whereby it is augmented,  
Aiealousie, a burning grief and sorrow.  
These favours lovers borrow  
Of thee fell Love, these be thy recompenses,  
Consuming still their soul and inward-senses.    
Arsileus, after that Syrenus had ended his song, began to tune his Bagpipe, and after he had played a little while upon it, answering every staff of his Competitor in order, he sung as followeth.  
Arsileus. 

O Let that time a thousand months endure,  
Which brings from heaven the sweet and silver showers,  
And joys the earth (of comforts late deprived)  
With grass and leaves, fine buds, and painted flowers:  
Echo return unto the woods obscure,  
Ring forth the Shepherd's songs in love contrived:  
Let old loves be revived,  
Which angry winter buried hath of late:  
And that in such a state  
My soul may have the full accomplishment  
Of joy and sweet content:  
And since fierce pains and griefs thou dost control,  
Good love do not forsake my inward soul.   

Presume not (Shepherds) once to make you merry  
With springs, and flowers, or any pleasant song,  
(Unless mild love possess your amorous breasts)  
If you sing not to him, your songs do weary,  
Crown him with flowers, or else ye do him wrong,  
And consecrate your springs to his behests:  
I to my Shepherdess  
My happy loves with great content do sing,  
And flowers to her do bring.  
And sitting near her by the river side,  
Enjoy the brave springtide.  
Since than thy joys such sweetness do enroll,  
Good love do not forsake my inward soul.   

The wise in ancient times a God thee named,  
Seeing that with thy power and supreme might  
Thou didst such rare and mighty wonders make:  
For thee a hart is frozen and inflamed,  
A fool thou makest a wise man with thy light,  
The coward turns courageous for thy sake:  
The mighty Gods did quake  
At thy command: To birds and beasts transformed:  
Great monarchs have not scorned  
To yield unto the force of beauty's lure:  
Such spoils thou dost procure  
With thy brave force, which never may be told  
With which (sweet love) thou conqu'rest every soul.   

In other times obscurely I did live  
But with a drowsy, base, and simple kind  
Of life, and only to my profit bend me:  
To think of love myself I did not give,  
Or for good grace, good parts, and gentle mind  
Never did any Shepherdess commend me:  
But crowned now they send me  
A thousand garlands, that I won with praise,  
In wrestling days by days,  
In pitching of the bar with arm most strong,  
And singing many a song,  
After that thou didst honour, and take hold  
Of me (sweet love) and of my happy soul.   

What greater joy can any man desire,  
Then to remain a captive unto love,  
And have his hart subjecteth to his power?  
And though sometimes he taste a little sour,  
By suffering it, as mild as gentle dove,  
Yet must he be, in am of that great hire  
Whereto he doth aspire:  
If lovers live afflicted and in pain,  
Let them with cause complain  
Of cruel fortune, and of times abuse,  
And let them not accuse  
Thee (gentle love) That dost with bliss enfolded  
Within thy sweetest joys each loving soul.   

Behold a fair sweet face, and shining eyes,  
Resembling two most bright and twinkling stars;  
Sending unto the soul a perfect light:  
Behold the rare perfections of those white  
And ivory hands, from griefs most sure bars:  
That mind wherein all life and glory lies,  
That joy that never dies,  
That he doth feel, that loves and is beloved,  
And my delights approved  
To see her pleased, whose love maintains me here:  
All those I count so dear,  
That though sometimes Love doth my toys control,  
Yet am I glad he dwells within my soul.    
There was not one there amongst them all but took great delight in the Shepherd's songs. But Eugerius coming to give his verdict, praise, and reward to him that had sung best, could not so soon conclude of the matter: he stepped aside to Montanus to hear his opinion, whose judgement was, that one had sung as well as another. Then Eugerius turning to Syrenus and Arsileus, said. My opinion is (cunning Shepherds) that you are equal in the subject of this contention, and that, if old Palemon were revived, and made an indifferent judge between you, he could not confess (I think) any superiority in your skill. Thou art Syrenus worthy to bear away the crystal cup; and thou Arsileus deservest it as well, so that I should offer you great wrong, if I did not define who is conqueror, and who is conquered. To resolve myself therefore of this doubt with Montanus opinion, I say that to thee (Syrenus) is allotted the Crystal cup, and to thee (Arsileus) this Calcedonian cup of no less value, which worthily thou hast won. To both of you therefore I give cups of like value, both of them of account amongst Felicias treasure, and by her bountiful hands bestowed on me. The Shepherds were well pleased at the wife judgement, and rich rewards of bountiful Eugerius, to whom they gave many thanks. But Alcida by this occasion calling to mind her passed times, said. If the deceitful error, wherewith I have been blinded so long, had endured till now, I would not then consent that Arsileus should be rewarded equally with Syrenus: But since I am now free from it, and wounded afresh with the love of my betrothed Marcelius, for the pain which I suffer for his absence, I like well of that which Syrenus did sing; and for the joy and sweet delight which I expect, I also commend Arsileus song. But take heed careless Syrenus, that these complaints which thou makest of Diana, be not like to those wherewith I blamed Marcelius, because thou mayst not repent thee of thy hardness of hart and disdain, as I have done. Syrenus smiled at this and said: What greater blame may be laid upon that Shepherdess, who after she had forsaken me, married herself to a jealous, perverse, and unfortunate husband. Then Alcida answered. Unfortunate indeed he hath been enough, since he cast his eyes upon me: and because it comes fit to the purpose, I will tell thee that, which yesterday (by reason of Felicias discourses and affairs with me) I could not declare unto thee, when as we were talking about Diana's matters: and to this end especially, because thou mightest forget all injuries past, and shake off thy wrongful oblivion, when thou shalt understand of the strange and unlucky accident, that by my contempt befell to miserable Delius. I have told thee before, how I was talking and singing with Diana at the fountain of the Sycamores, and how jealous Delius came thither, and sorrowful Marcelius after him in a Shepherd's habit, at whose sight I was so grieved, that I fled from him incontinently into a wood that was hard by. But when I came to the other side of the wood, I heard a far off a voice that still cried, Alcida, Oh Alcida, stay, stay: which made me to think that Marcelius followed me; and because I would not fall into his hands, I ran as fast as I could away. But by that which afterwards happened, I knew that it was Delius, husband to Diana, that came running after me. And because I had run a great way, and began to be weary, I then went so easily, that he followed me in sight. I knew him, and stayed to know what he would have, not thinking once of him, nor of the cause of his coming. And when he was before me, what by the faintness of his running, and by the anguish of his mind that troubled him, he was not able to utter one word. At the last with rude and ill form reasons he said, that he was in love with me, praying me after his homely manner to love him again, and many other things (I know not what) which showed his little wit, and simple behaviour. To tell the very truth I laughed at him, and the best I could, endeavoured to comfort him, and to make him forget his folly, but it availed nothing; for the more I dissuaded him from it, the more fool he was. In faith (Shepherd) I swear unto thee, that I never knew man in my life so assotted with sudden love. But as I went on my ways, and he following me at an inch, we came to a village a mile distant from his town, and there, when he perceived my rigour, & that I had flatly denied him, for very grief and anguish of mind he fell sick. He was lodged there by a Shepherd that knew him, who as soon as morning came, certified his mother of his malady. Delius mother came thither with a heavy hart in great haste, and found her son tormented with a burning fever. With much sorrow she lamented his case, and did importune him to know the cause of his grief, but no other answer would he give her, but sob, sigh, and weep. The loving mother pouring forth many a bitter tear, said unto him. Oh my dear Son! what an unfortunate chance is this? Hide not the secrets of thy hart from me, behold I am thy mother, and (perhaps) I know some part of them already. Thy wife told me last night, that at the fountain of the Sycamores thou didst forsake her, running after I know not what unknown Shepherdess, tell me if thy grief doth grow thereby, and be not afraid nor ashamed to impart it to me; for ill may that malady be cured, the cause and beginning whereof is unknown. Oh sorrowful Diana! thou didst this day go to Felicias temple to learn some news of thy husband, and he was nearer to thy town, and weaker than thou wert aware of. When Delius heard his mother speak these words, he answered not a word, but gave a great sigh, and then redoubled his painful agony. For before he complained only of Love, but at these words with love and jealousy he was most grievously molested. For when he remembered that thou (Syrenus) wert hear in Felicias palace, and hearing that Diana was come hither, fearing lest her old and mortified love might be rekindled again in her, he fell into such a frantic madness, that, being assaulted with two most fierce and cruel torments, he ended his life in a furious trance, unto the greatest grief of his sorrowful mother, kinsfolks, and lamenting friends. In very truth I could not choose but be sorrowful for his death, knowing myself to be the chiefest cause of it, but I could have done no less for safeguard of mine own content and honour. Only one thing grieved me not a little, that not contenting him with any comfortable deed, I gave him not (at the least) some gentle words, whereby he might not then (perhaps) have come to so sudden a death. In the end I came hither, leaving the poor soul dead, and his kinsfolks weeping for him, not knowing the cause of his death. Thus have I digressed (yet to the purpose) to make thee know what harm a cruel disdain and forgetfulness procureth, and also because thou shouldest understand of Diana's widowhood, and consider with thyself, if now it were good for thee to change thine intent, since she hath changed her condition and estate. But I marvel much that Diana departing from her town yesterday (as Delius mother said) to come to this place, is not yet here. Syrenus gave attentive ear to Alcidas words, and when he heard of Delius death, his hart began somewhat to alter and change. There did the secret power also of sage Felicia work extraordinary effects, and though she was not present there, yet with her herbs and words, which were of great virtue, and by many other supernatural means, she brought to pass that Syrenus began now again to renew his old love to Diana: which was no great marvel, considering that by the influence of his celestial constellation he was so much inclined to it, that it seemed Syrenus was not borne but only for Diana, nor Diana but for Syrenus.  
The provident and most wise Lady Felicia was now in her magnificent and rich palace, environed about with her chaste Nymphs, working with sovereign and secret verses the remedies, and content of all these Lovers. And as she saw by her divine wisdom, that by this time Montanus and Alcida being by their imaginations deceived, had now acknowledged their errors, and that hard hearted Syrenus had mollified his obstinate and rigorous disposition, she thought it now high time utterly to confound old errors, and to ease the long travels and troubles of her guests, by exchanging them into joyful and unexpected happiness. Going therefore out of her sumptuous palace, attended on by Dorida, Cynthia, Polydora, and many other goodly Nymphs, she came to the delightful garden, where the Lords, Ladies, Shepherds and Shepherdesses were: The first that she saw there, were Marcelius, Don Felix, Felismena, sylvanus, Seluagia, Diana, and Ismenia, sitting in one of the corners of that little square meadow near unto the great gate, as is aforesaid. When they saw the reverend Lady coming towards them, they all rose up, and kissed those hands, in which they had placed their chiefest hope and remedies. She courteously saluted them again, making a sign unto them that they should all follow her, which most willingly they did. Felicia attended on by this amorous train, crossing every part of this great and pleasant garden, came at the last to the other part of it to the fountain, where Eugerius, Polydorus, Alcida, Clenarda, Syrenus, Arsileus, Belisa, & Montanus were. They all rose up, in honour of the sage Matron. And when Alcida espied Marcelius, Syrenus Diana, and Montanus Ismenta, they were all astonished at the sight one of another, and verily thought they were in a dream, standing like enchanted persons, and not believing their own eyes. The wise Lady commanding them all to sit down again, and showing by her countenance that she was to entreat of important affairs, sat her down in the mids of them all, in a chair of ivory, graven with gold and precious stones, and spoke in this sort. Now is the hour come (renowned and fair assembly) wherein with my hands I mean to give you all your long desired and happy contentment: for by divers strange means, and untrodden ways I have made you come to my Palace for no other intent and purpose. Since you are here therefore altogether well met, where the matters and means of your happy love and life to come must be determined, my desire is that you would follow my will, and obey my commands herein. Thou art Alcida, by the true testimony and report of thy sister Clenarda, clearly delivered from the suspicion of thy deceived imagination. And I knew well enough that, after thou hadst forsaken that cruel disdain, the absence of thy Marcelius did not a little grieve thee. Come hither therefore, and offer thyself unto him, for this absence shall not be long, which hath rather been so short, that at that time when thou complainedst to me of it, Marcelius was in my palace. Now thou hast him here before thee, as firm and steadfast in his first love, that, if it pleased thee, and thy Father, brother and sister, he would think himself the happiest man alive, to solemnize this desired marriage long since betrothed. The which besides that it must needs cause great joy and gladness, being between such principal and noble personages, shall make it more perfect and absolute, by reason of Felismena his sister's presence, whom Marcelius after many years past, hath happily found out in my Palace. Thou Montanus by Sylueria herself, that betrayed thee, art rid from thy erroneous opinion. After which time thou didst weep continually for the loss of thy faithful wife Ismenia, who now is come to live & die in thine arms, and to comfort all thy sorrows, after that thorough out all Spain, with many a weary journey, and many dangers, and troubles she hath sought thee out. But now last of all it resteth to remedy thy pains (fair Diana) before which time I mean to advertise thee of that which Syrenus and some of these Shepherds do know by Alcidas report, although it will be but a sorrowful tale in thine ears, and a grievous corosie to thy pitiful hart. Thy husband Delius (fair Shepherdess) as it pleased the inexorable destinies, hath ended the course of his life. For the loss whereof I know well (Diana) that thou hast great cause to lament, but yet in the end all men are bound to pay this tribute to Nature, and that which is so common a thing, ought not extremely to grieve any one. Weep not (fair Diana) for thou breakest my hart asunder in seeing thee power forth such dolorous tears, dry up thine eyes, comfort thy sorrows, and cheer up thyself. Put on no morning weeds, and make no long moan, for too much lamentation & sorrow is not allowed in this house, when as also the heavens have reserved for thee some better hap, then that which thou hadst of late. And since there is no remedy for that which is lately done, it belongeth to thy wisdom to forget what is past, and to my skill & power, to give order to things present. here is thy old lover Syrenus, whose hart by my operations, and by the reason that binds him to it, is become so tender, gentle, and changed from his former hardness, that now for his great contentment, it only behoveth him to conclude a marriage with thee. That which I request of thee is, that thou wilt obey my will in a thing which so greatly concerneth thy happy and joyful life: The which, although it may seem to offer some injury to thy husband that is dead to marry so soon again; yet being a thing practised by my decree and authority, cannot any ways be deemed ill. And thou Syrenus since thou hast begun to give place in thy hart to honest and virtuous Love, make now an end to yield up thy thoughts and deeds to it: and let this merry and happy marriage be put in effect, to the fulfilling of which, all the favourable stars are inclined. The rest of you, which in this delightful garden enjoy your happy content, rejoice in your minds; make merry pastimes; play upon your tuned instruments; sing sweet Ditties, and exercise yourselves in delightful sports and conversation, in honour and memory of these joyful meetings, and happy marriages. Sage Felicia had no sooner ended her speech, but all of them were very willing to do as she commanded them, liking well of her motion, and marveling at her singular wisdom. Montanus took his wife Ismenia by the hand, thinking themselves thrice happy and fortunate; and between Marcelius and Alcida, Syrenus and Diana, at that instant a holy and virtuous marriage was solemnly celebrated with great love, firmness, and sumptuous accustomed ceremonies.  
All the rest exceeding glad for these happy accidents, sung and rejoiced with marvelous applause. Amongst the which, Arsileus for the great good will that he bore to Syrenus, and for the friendship between them both, at the sound of his Rebecke, sung this Carol in memory and joy of the new marriage between Syrenus and Diana.  


LEt now each mead with flowers be depainted,  
Of sundry colours sweetest odours glowing:  
Roses yield forth your smells, so finely tainted,  
Calm winds, the green leaves move with gentle blowing:  
The crystal rivers flowing  
With waters be increased:  
And since each one from sorrows now hath ceased,  
(From mournful plaints and sadness)  
Ring forth fair Nymphs, your joyful songs for gladness.   

Let springs and meads all kind of sorrow banish,  
And mournful hearts the tears that they are bleeding:  
Let gloomy clouds with shining morning vanish,  
Let every bird reiòice, that now is breeding:  
And since by new proceeding,  
With marriage now obtained,  
A great content by great contempt is gained,  
And you devoid of sadness,  
Ring forth fair Nymphs, your joyful songs for gladness.   

Who can make us to change our firm desires,  
And soul to leave her strong determination,  
And make us freeze in Ice, and melt in fires,  
And nycest hearts to love with emulation:  
Who rids us from vexation,  
And all our minds commandeth?  
But great Felicia, that his might with standeth  
That filled our hearts with sadness,  
Ring forth fair Nymphs, your joyful songs for gladness.   

Your fields with their distilling favours cumber  
(Bridegroom and happy Bride) each heavenly power  
Your flocks, with double lambs increased in number,  
May never taste unsavoury grass and sour:  
The winter's frost and shower  
Your kids (your pretty pleasure)  
May never hurt, and blest with so much treasure,  
To drive away all sadness,  
Ring forth fair Nymphs, your joyful songs for gladness.   

Of that sweet joy delight you with such measure,  
Between you both fair issue to engender:  
Longer than Nestor may you live in pleasure:  
The Gods to you such sweet content surrender,  
That may make mild and tender  
The beasts in every mountain,  
And glad the fields and woods and every fountain,  
Abjuring former sadness,  
Ring forth fair Nymphs, your joyful songs for galdnes.   

Let amorous birds with sweetest notes delight you,  
Let gentle winds refresh you with their blowing,  
Let fields and forests with their goods requite you,  
And Flora deck the ground where you are going:  
Roses, and vilets strowing,  
The jasmine and the Gillyflower  
With many more: and never in your bower  
To taste of household sadness,  
Ring forth fair Nymphs, your joyful songs for gladness.   

Concord and peace hold you for aye contented,  
And in your joyful state live ye so quiet,  
That with the plague of jealousy tormented  
Ye may not be, nor fed with Fortune's diet:  
And that your names may fly yet  
To hills unknown with glory,  
But now because my breast so hoarse, and sorry  
It faints, may rest from singing,  
End Nymphs your songs, that in the clouds are ringing.    
When Arsileus had made an end of his song, there was such a general rejoicing, that it would have cheered up the most sorrowful hearts that ever were. Sweet and delightful songs resounded in every part of the garden, the tuned instruments made more than earthly Harmony, and it seemed that the blossomed trees, the gliding river, the pleasant fountain, and the chirping birds rejoiced at that feast. After that they had a pretty while delighted themselves in this kind of exercise, Felicia thinking it time to go to dinner, commanded that it should be brought to the fountain where they were. Whose command the Nymphs obeying, presently busied themselves severally to provide for dinner; and setting the tables and cupboards of plate under the shadow of those green trees, every one sitting in order as Felicia appointed them, began to taste of those delicate and dainty meats that were served in, and most of them in plate of great value. Dinner being done, and returning to their former pleasures, they made much sport and merriment with many feasts and pastimes, which shall be set down in the Book following.  
The end of the fourth Book.   

The fifth Book of the third Part of Diana.  
THese Lovers were so well pleased with their happy estate, every one seeing himself in his desired company, that they quite forgot their former troubles. But we, that a far off behold and mark the pains and troubles that their contentment cost them, the dangers that they were in, and the mishaps and crosses that they had before they came to this happiness, must be well advised and take good heed, that we put not ourselves into like inconveniences, although our after reward and repose were more certain than theirs; and the rather being so uncertain and doubtful, that for one that hath good hap, a thousand there are, whose long and painful lives with desperate death have been rewarded. But leaving this aside, let us entreat of those feasts and pastimes, which were made in Felicias garden for joy of the new espousals, and oblivion of old injuries and deceits, although it is not possible to set them down in particular. Felicia, at whose command all were obedient, and in whose direction the whole order and substance of the feast consisted, willed the Shepherds (for their first pastime) to dance together, to the tune of certain songs that they themselves should sing: And so sitting down with Eugerius, Polydorus, Clenarda, Marcelius, Alcida, Don Felix, and Felismena, she declared unto the Shepherds her will and pleasure. Then they all rose up, and Syrenus taking Diana by the hand, sylvanus Seluagia, Montanus Ismenia, and Arsileus Belisa, began to foot so brave and sweet a dance, as any that the fairest Dryads and Napees with their yellow hair like threads of fine Arabian gold hanging lose and blown abroad with the wind, were ever wont to dance in the green and pleasant forests. There was no courteous contention amongst them, who should begin to sing first: For Syrenus, who was the chiefest man in all that feast, being somewhat ashamed of the small regard he had of Diana till that time, the thought whereof (he also suspected) was likewise a hindrance unto him from justly excusing himself, resolved in song to tell Diana his mind, which shame would not permit him to acquaint her with in familiar talk. Therefore without any more ado (the rest answering him as it was decreed) he sung as followeth.  


I Should have died, and never viewed thee  
(Fair Shepherdess, unworthily forgot)  
Since that I durst presume to live, and be  
Before thy sweetest sight, and love thee not.   

A happy love, and fortune I should prove,  
Both which my pains and sorrows should abate,  
If by remembering of thy dearest love,  
I should forget the grief of former hate.   

For now the fear of death, and losing thee,  
I fear will be my guerdon and my lot,  
Since that I durst presume to live, and be  
Before thy sweetest sight, and love thee not.    
Diana was of a contrary opinion. For having satisfied her old oblivion and disdain that she had of Syrenus with a renewed and entire love of him again, and seeing herself sufficiently recompensed for her passed pains and griefs, she had now no cause to lament the small care she had of him in times past, but rather finding her hart filled with all content and joy that she could wish, and free from all pain, by manifesting her gladness and blaming Syrenus needless excuse, she answered him with this song.  


MY soul doth leap for joy to have  
My wished love again,  
For there's no other joy to crave,  
Nor grief to give me pain.   

I do not think of sorrows past,  
Our love it may offend:  
Of any present grief to taste,  
For hate that hath an end.   

Rejoice (my soul) such bliss to have,  
Since with so high a gain,  
There is no other joy to crave,  
Nor grief to give me pain.    
While Diana was singing her song, there came a most beautiful Shepherdess to the fountain, but newly (as it seemed) come to Felicias Palace, and being told, that the Lady was in the garden, she came thither to see her and to talk with her. Being come to the place where Felicia was, she kneeling down before her, kissed her hands, and said unto her. Pardon (good Lady) my boldness, for coming into this presence without leave, since the desire I had to see you, and the need which I have of your skill and wisdom, was so great, that I was forced hereunto. I bring with me my hart surcharged with grief, the remedy whereof is only in your hands, but it is so great, that it requireth some fit time, occasion, and place to tell it at large, because it is against good manners to interrupt this merry company with matter of sorrow and grief. Melisea (for so was this Shepherdess called) was yet on her knees before Felicia, when she perceived a Shepherd coming along in an Alley of the Orchard towards the fountain, and in seeing him, said. This is an other grief (good Lady) so troublesome and painful unto me, that for the delivery of the same also, I have no less need of your gracious help and favour. By this time the Shepherd (whose name was Narcisus) came in presence of Felicia, and of those Lords and Ladies that were with her, and making low obeisance, he began to make a great complaint against the Shepherdess Melisea that was present there, saying, that he suffered great torments for her sake, and received not from her again one favourable or gentle word: Insomuch that in pursuit of her love and company to that place, he had come very far, and she not suffered him so much as to declare his grief to her cruel and disdainful ears. Felicia commanded Melisea to rise up, and cutting off their troublesome contentions, said. It is not now time to hearken to long and tedious complaints, wherefore be content for this time Melisea and give Narcisus thy hand, and go both into that dance, and for the rest we will hereafter find out a remedy at fit time. The Shepherdess would not gain say the Lady's command, but hand in hand with Narcisus she went to dance with the other Shepherds. And at this time happy Ismenia that was ready to sing, showing by her outward countenance signs of inward content, which after so long sorrow she enjoyed, sung in this sort.  


Such joy I feel doth in my soul surmount,  
That now again I think it nothing strange:  
If that a pleasure of so great account  
Doth cost two thousand torments for exchange.   

Rtill did I look but still my comforts stayed,  
But when my soul did once enjoy the same,  
With their content and sweet delight I paid  
My staying, and their tarriance did not blame.   

Let pains therefore within my soul surmount,  
Sorrows and plaints to me shall not be strange,  
If for a pleasure of so great account,  
They give me thousand torments in exchange.    
All the while that Ismenia was singing, and before, and after, she never cast her eyes off her beloved Montanus. But he, who was somewhat ashamed of his fond conceit wherein he had lived so long, to the great grief of his wife, durst never look on her but by stealth, and at every turn of the dance, when she could not see him again: the reason whereof was, because when sometimes he went about to look her in the face, he was so much confounded with shame of his folly that was yet so fresh in his memory, and was so much overcome with the light of those two radiant eyes of her, which with great affection continually beheld him, that he was forced to cast his down to the ground. Whereby seeing that he lost a great part of his delight, by not looking on her, whom he accounted his chiefest felicity, and making this the occasion and matter of the song, he sung to his beloved Ismenia in manner following.  


Turn thy fair eyes (wherein my shame  
I see) fair Shepherdess, aside:  
For looking on me with the same,  
To look on thee, I am denied.   

With thy two suns so dost thou give,  
And cast me beams with piercing eye,  
That though by seeing thee I live,  
Yet when thou look'st on me I die:  
Eyes that are of such art and frame,  
Thou must beware to keep aside,  
For looking on me with the same,  
To look on thee I am denied.   

Like as the snow unto the sun,  
And as the mark unto the fight,  
As clouds are with the winds undone,  
As wax before the fires light:  
So do thy fairest eyes with shame  
Confound me, and my soul divide:  
For looking on me with the same,  
To look on thee I am denied.   

Behold what mighty love is bend  
To do, and fortune doth ordain  
To make my sorrows still augment  
By the sweet guerdon of my pain.  
Thine eyes do feed my amorous flame,  
And sight of them my life doth guide:  
But if thou viewst me with the same,  
To look on thee I am denied.    
Melisea, who was all this while dancing against her will with Narcisus, whom she could not abide, with a disdainful song thought to be revenged on this grief, and just to the purpose of those pains and griefs, wherewith the Shepherd said he died every day for her sake, making but a mock and jest of them, did sing thus.  


Young Shepherd) turn aside, & move  
Me not to follow thee,  
For I will neither kill with love,  
Nor love shall not kill me.   

Since I will live, and never favour show,  
Then die not for my love I will not give:  
For I will never have thee love me so,  
As I do mean to hate thee while I live.   

That since the lover so doth prove  
His death, as thou dost see,  
Be bold I will not kill with love,  
Nor love shall not kill me.    
Narcisus took no mean grief to hear the cruel song of his dearest Love, but encouraging himself with the hope that Felicia had given him, and forced by the constancy and fortitude of his enamoured hart, he answered her with two staves, which he adjoined to a certain old song, that said thus.  


IF to beloved it thee offends,  
I cannot choose but love thee still:  
And so thy grief shall have no end,  
Whiles that my life maintains my will.   

O let me yet with grief complain,  
Since such a torment I endure:  
Or else fulfil thy great disdain,  
To end my life with death most sure.  
For as no credit thou wilt lend,  
And as my love offends thee still,  
So shall thy sorrows have no end  
Whiles that my life maintains my will.   

If that by knowing thee, I could  
Leave of to love thee as I do,  
Not to offend thee, than I would  
Leave of to like and love thee too,  
But since all love to thee doth tend,  
And I of force must love thee still,  
Thy grief shall never have an end,  
Whiles that my life maintains my will.    
Melisea was so hardened in her cruelty, that Narcisus having scarce ended the last words of his song, and before another did sing, she replied in this manner.  


ME thinks, thou tak'st the worser way,  
(Enamoured Shepherd) and in vain,  
That thou wilt seek thine own decay,  
To love her, that doth thee disdain.   

For thine own self, thy woeful hart  
Keep still, else art thou much to blame,  
For she, to whom thou gav'st each part  
Of it, disdains to take the same:   

Fellow not her that makes a play,  
And jest of all thy grief and pains,  
And seek not (Shepherd) thy decay  
To love her, that thy love disdains.    
Narcisus could not suffer Meliseas' song to pass without an answer, and so with a mild grace he sung these new verses upon an old song, that said.  


SInce thou to me wert so unkind,  
Myself I never loved, For  
I could not love him in my mind,  
Whom thou fair Mistress dost abhor.   

If viewing thee, I saw thee not,  
And seeing thee, I could not love thee,  
Dying, I should not live (God wots)  
Nor, living, should to anger move thee.   

But it is well that I do find  
My life so full of torments: For  
All kind of ills do fit his mind,  
Whom thou (fair Mistress) dost abhor.   

In thy oblivion buried now  
My death I have before mine eyes,  
And here to hate myself I vow  
As (cruel) thou dost me despise:   

Contented ever thou didst find  
Me with thy scorns, though never (for  
To say the truth) I joyed in mind,  
After thou didst my love abhor.    
The contention between Narcisus and Melisea, delighted them all so much, that the general rejoicing of that feast had been greatly augmented by it, had it not been diminished with the manifest appearance of the rigour that she showed Narcisus, and with the pity that they had of those pains, which he suffered for her sake. After Narcisus had made an end of his song, all of them turned their eyes to Melisea, thinking she would have replied again. But she held her peace, not because she wanted nipping and cruel songs to encounter and vex the miserable Lover with, nor will to reply; but because she would not be troublesome to all that merry company. Seluagia and Belisa were afterwards requested to sing, who excused themselves, by alleging their in sufficiency. Nay that were not well (said Diana) that you should go from the feast without paying your shot. And this must not so smoothly pass away (said Felismena) without the consent of us all here, who mean to participate the sweet delight of so delicate voices as yours are. We will not be slack (said they again) to do you any service (little though it be) in this solemnity; but pardon our singing (I pray you) for in all other things we will be willing to do our endeavours. I will not for my part give my consent (said Alcida) to exempt you from singing, or at the least that some others shall sing for you. Who can better do it (said they) than sylvanus and Arsileus our husbands: The Shepherdesses say well (said Marcelius) and it would be best (me thinks) if both did sing one song, and one answer another in it, for it shall be less troublesome to them, and more pleasant to us. All of them seemed to take great delight at that kind of singing, because they knew, how the readiness and liveliness of their wits would be showed and tried by it. And so sylvanus and Arsileus seeming to be well content, leading their dance about again, sung in manner following.  

Sylu. 
SHepherd, why dost thou hold thy peace?  
Sing: and thy joy to us report.   
Arsil. 
My joy (good Shepherd) should be less,  
If it were told in any sort.   
Sylu. 
Though such great favours thou dost win,  
Yet deign thereof to tell some part:   
Arsil. 
The hardest thing is to begin  
In enterprises of such art.   
Sylu. 
Come, make an end, no cause omit  
Of all the joys that thou art in,   
Arsil. 
How should I make an end of it,  
That am not able to begin.   
Sylu. 
It is not just, we should consent,  
That thou shouldst not thy joys recite,   
Arsil. 
The soul that felt the punishment  
Doth only feel this great delight.   
Sylu. 
That joy is small, and nothing fine,  
That is not told abroad to many,   
Arsil. 
If it be such a joy as mine,  
It can be never told to any.   
Sylu. 
How can this hart of thine contain  
A joy, that is of such great force?   
Arsil. 
I have it, where I did retain  
My passions of so great remorse.   
Sylu. 
So great and rare a joy as this  
No man is able to withhold,   
Arsil. 
But greater that a pleasure is,  
The less it may with words be told.   
Sylu. 
Yet have I heard thee heretofore  
Thy joys in open songs report:   
Arsil. 
I said, I had of joy some store,  
But not how much, nor in what sort.   
Sylu. 
Yet when a joy is in excess,  
Itself it will unfold,   
Arsil. 
Nay such a joy should be the less,  
If that it might be told.    
The Shepherds would have sung one verse or two more, when a goodly company of fair Nymphs (as Felicia had appointed) came to the fountain, and every one playing upon her several instrument, made strange and delightful harmony. One of them played on a Lute; another on a Harp; another made a marvelous sweet countertenor upon a Recorder; another with a piece of a fine quill made the silver stringed Cyterne sweetly to sound; others the strings of the base Vial with rosined hairs; others with Virginals and Violins made delicate changes in the air, and filled it with so sweet music, that in a manner it astonished them that heard it, and made them to marvel no less at it. These Nymphs were strangely appareled, and passing fair to behold, every one in her proper colours, their locks of golden hair hanging lose to the wavering wind, with fine coronets on their heads, and sweet flowers tied together with threads of gold and silver. The Shepherds seeing this melodious quire of angels, left of the dance that they had begun, and sat down, giving attentive ear to the heavenly music, and consent of the sundry sweet instruments that they played on, which joined sometimes with clear and delicate voices, moved strange and rare delight. Then came out by and by six Nymphs appareled with crimson Satin, embroidered with flowers & leaves of gold and silver, wearing rich cawls upon their heads, which were filled and wrought with Rubies and emeralds, from the which hung down upon their fairest brows Diamantes of incomparable value, with pendants at their ears, of the rarest Pearls and richest Diamonds that could be found. They had crymosin Buskins on their legs that were finely printed and gilt, with their bows in their hands, and their quivers of arrows hanging behind their shoulders. In this sort they began to dance to the sound that the instruments made, but with so brave a grace, that it was a rare sight to behold them. And being in the mids of their dance, there leapt out on the sudden a stately white Hart, marked all over with little black spots, which seemed very pleasant to the eye: his painted horns with gold were large, high, and branchy. In brief it was such an one, as Felicia could best devise to make that company sport. When the Nymphs espied the Hart, they ran round about him, and dancing nevertheless without missing one strain of the music that played still, with a brave concord they began to shoot at him, the which leaping from one side to another after the arrows were once flien out, with many nimble and pretty skips did the best to defend himself. But after they had a pretty while sported themselves with this pastime, the Hart began to break out from them amongst the orchards and courts, the Nymphs pursuing him amain, until they chased him out of the Garden, who with their joyful cries and pleasant hallowing made a delicate noise, which the other Nymphs & Shepherds seconded with their voices, taking a most singular delight in this dance. And with this sport the Nymphs made an end of their music. In the mean time sage Felicia, because there should not want some profitable lesson to be gathered out of those pleasures for the direction and instruction of life, meaning to try their conceits about the obscure mysteries and significations of that dance, said to Diana. Canst thou tell me (fair Shepherdess) what is meant by the chase of this goodly Hart, besides the thing itself? To whom she said again, I am not so wise (gracious Lady) that I am able to expound mysteries, nor to dissolve your hard questions. Why then will I tell thee said Felicia, what matter is contained under that invention. The Hart is man's hart, made fair with delicate thoughts, and rich with quiet content. It submitteth itself to human inclinations, which shoot mortal arrows at it, but with discretion removing itself into divers parts, and applying itself to honest exercises, it must defend itself from so many hurtful arrows, that aim so cruelly at it. And when it is pursued of them, it must fly away speedily, thereby to save itself, though those human and frail inclinations which shoot such arrows, will not cease to pursue it, and will never leave to accompany it, until it escapes out of the orchard of life. How can I understand (said Diana) so difficult and Moral a conclusion, as this, when as the questions and Riddles which we Shepherdess's exercise and disport ourselves with (to this but plain and easy) I could never yet dissolve nor expound. Make not thyself so unskilful (said Seluagia) since I have known the contrary in thee, and that there was never any Riddle so hard, but was easy enough in thy understanding. In good time (said Felicia) for now we may well try her cunning, which pastime will afford no less delight than the other before. Propound her therefore every one of you a Riddle, for I know Diana will acquit herself with you all. It liked them all well; but Diana, who had not such confidence in her cunning, that she durst oppose her skill to such difficult questions as she thought they would propound, but because she would obey Felicia and please her Syrenus, who seemed to take a pride and delight therein, she was content to take in hand the charge that they imposed upon her. sylvanus, who was very ready in propounding of Riddles, made the first, saying. Because I know well (fair Shepherdess) that thy pregnant and lively wit is able to discover hard and hidden matters, and that thy skill is no less sufficient to compass and attain to intricate and high things, I will therefore (by thy favour) ask thee a question, by answering which, I know thou wilt manifest thy delicate and ripe wit. Tell me therefore what this Riddle means?  

A Riddle.  
near to a Shepherd did a damsel sit,  
As lean as withered stick by scorching flame:  
Her body as full of eyes as might be in it,  
A tongue she had, but could not move the same.  
her wind she drew above, and eke beneath,  
But from one part she never yet did change,  
A woeful Shepherd came to kiss her breath,  
Then made she plaints most sorrowful and strange:  
The more the Shepherd put his mouth unto  
Her mouth in stopping it, she cried amain,  
Opening her eyes, and shutting them again.  
See now what this dumb Shepherdess could do,  
That when her mouth he did but touch or kiss,  
He waxeth dumb, but she still speaking is.   
This Riddle (said Diana) although it be somewhat hard, shall not trouble my wit much, for I have heard thyself propound it on a day at the fountain of the Sycamores; and because there was no Shepherd there that could tell the meaning of it, thyself didst expound unto us, saying, that the damosel was a Bagpipe or a Fluite played upon by a Shepherd. And thou appliedst all the parts of the Riddle to the effects that happen commonly in music. All of them laughed to see how sylvanus memory had deceived him, and how Diana's so readily found it out; wherefore sylvanus to acquit himself, and to be revenged of his shame, smiling said. Marvel not at my weak memory; for this forgetfulness seems not so ill as Diana's, nor so hurtful as that of Syrenus. Thou hast now paid us home (said Syrenus) and better thou shouldest have done, if our oblivions had not been changed into so perfect affections and happy estates as now they are. No more (said Seluagia) for all is well spoken. But answer me Diana to that, which I will ask thee, for I will try if I can speak in a darker language than my sylvanus did: The Riddle is this.  

A Riddle.  
I Saw a hill upon a day,  
Lift up above the air:  
Which watered with blood always  
And tilled with great care,  
Herbs it brought forth  
Of much worth.  
Pulling a handful from that ridge  
And touching but the same,  
Which leaving near unto a bridge,  
Doth cause much sport and game,  
(A thing scarce of belief)  
Lamenting without grief.   
Diana looking then towards her husband, said. Dost not thou remember (my Syrenus) that thou hast heard this Riddle that night, when we were together in my uncle Yranius his house? And dost not thou remember also how Maroncius son to (Fernasus) did propound it? I remember very well (said Syrenus) that he did put it there, but told not (as I think) the signification of it. But then I remember it (said Diana.) For he said, that the field was that part of the horse from whence they pull out his longest hairs, wherewith the Rebecks being strong, make a tuned noise, although they suffer never the more any pain or hurt. Seluagia said, that it was so, and that Maroncius Author of the Riddle, had told it for a fine one, although he had many more better than that. There are many pretty ones, said Belisa, and one of them is, that I will now put: wherefore call thy wits together Diana, for this time thou shalt not escape scot free: and it is this.  

A Riddle.  
WHat bird is that so light,  
Her place that never changeth:  
She flies by day and night,  
In all the world she rangeth:  
Over the sea at once she flies,  
Mounting above the lofty skies.  
She's never seen by eyes,  
And who doth seek to show her  
Hath been accounted wise:  
Yet sometimes we do know her,  
Only the walls by viewing well  
Of her close house, where she doth dwell.   
Thy Riddle Belisa (said Diana) hath been more unfortunate than the rest before; for I had not declared any of their significations, if I had not heard them before now, and this which thou hast put, as soon as I heard it, I understood it, which of itself is so easy and manifest, that any indifferent conceit (I think) is able to dissolve it. For it is very clear, that by the bird which thou speakest of, ones thought is understood, which flies with such swiftness, that is not seen of any body, but conjectured and known by the outward signs and gesture of the body, wherein it is included. I confess myself overcomed (said Belisa) and have no more to say, but that I yield my reasons to thy discretion and wit, and myself to thy disposition and will. I will revenge thee (said Ismenia to Belisa) for there comes an obscure problem to my mind, that hath posed the wisest Shepherds, which I will propound, and thou shalt see how I will gravel Diana, who shall not be so fortunate (I think) in expounding it, as she hath been in the rest, and looking upon Diana, she said.  

A Riddle.  
TEll me what Master he may be,  
Whose Master is his man?  
Bound like a senseless fool is be,  
Witty, it nothing can.  
Unlearned, yet he doth abound  
In learning grave and most profound;  
When that I take him by the hand,  
Although I hear him not,  
His meaning yet I understand,  
Though him I have forgot.  
So wise is he, though words nor motions showing,  
Yet thousand things he tells me worth the knowing.   
I would have been well contented (said Diana) and thought myself happy to have been overcomed by thee (beloved Ismenia) but since in beauty, and in other perfections and graces thou goest far beyond me, I shall gain no great praise & glory by overthrowing thy purpose, whereby thou thoughtest to have entrapped me with thy Riddle. It is now two years, since a certain Physician of Leon came to attend my Father in his sickness, & as he had a book one day in his hands, he gave it me, & I began to read. And the great profit occurring to my mind that is commonly taken in reading of books, I told him, that they were like doom Masters, that were understood without speaking. Then to this purpose he told me this Riddle, wherein some rare matters and excellent inventions of books are particularly set down and noted. In good sooth (said Ismenia) there can none of us Shepherds overcome thee, wherefore our courage is quailed in passing any farther in this contention, unless these Ladies here mean to give thee afresh assault with their weapons, and to make thee yield. Alcida, which till that time had held her peace, taking great delight in hearing the music, and looking on the dances and sports, and to behold and devise with her beloved Marcelius, being also very desirous to have one part in that sport, said: Since thou hast (gracious Diana) subdued all the Shepherds with thy skill, it is not reason that we should also pass safely away without our Riddles, the which although I know thou wilt as easily dissolve (and mine especially) as thou hast done the rest; yet because it may perhaps delight thee, I will propound it. When I sailed on a time from Naples into Spain, by the way the master of the ship told it me, and I committed it to memory, because me thought it was a pretty one: and this it was.  

A Riddle.  
Show me a horse of such a kind,  
That in the strangest fashion  
Doth never eat, but of the wind  
Doth take his sustentation:  
Winged before, and winged behind:  
Strange things he doth, and wondrous deeds:  
And when he runs his race,  
Upon his breast with haste he speeds.  
His reins with marvelous grace  
Come from his sides that never bleeds.  
And in his course he doth not fail,  
If rightly he doth wag his tail.   
When Diana had heard this Riddle, she was a pretty while thinking with herself how she might expound it, and having framed the discourse in her mind, which was necessary for the answer, and considered well of every part in it; at the last, she said. As it is great reason (fair Lady) that I remain conquered at thy hands: So it is no less, that whosoever renders himself to thy gentleness, he yield himself also to thy discretion, whereby I esteem him not confounded, but happy. And if by the horse of thy Enigma, a ship be not understood, I confess then that I cannot declare it. Thou hast overcome me more (said Alcida) with thy answer, than I have done thee with my Riddle; for to confess it plainly unto thee I understood it not, before thou hadst subtly expounded it. By chance I have hit it, said Diana (as I think) and not by any skill, speaking at random, and not thinking to hit it so near. Howsoever thou didst it (said Alcida) it cannot otherwise be but that it proceeded from thy ready wit and ripe judgement. But I pray thee now (fair Shepherdess) divine what my Sister Clenardas' Riddle is (which I know is no ill one) that she shall put thee, if she can at the least remember it. And then turning herself to Clenarda, she said unto her. Propound to this witty Shepherdess (good sister) that Riddle, which one day in our city (if thou remember'st) thou didst put to Berinthius and Clomenius our cousins, when we were merry together in Elisonias house. I am well content (said Clenarda) for I remember it well, and was purposed to tell it: and this it is.  

A Riddle.  
TEll me (good Sirs) what Bird is that that flies  
Three cabits high, and yet doth never rise,  
With more than thirty feet that mount and fall,  
With wings that have no plume nor pens at all:  
Beating the air it neither eats nor drinks,  
It neither cries, nor sings, nor speaks, nor thinks.  
Approaching near unto her cruel death,  
She wounds, and kills us with the stones she throws:  
A friend to those that spend their dearest breath  
In spoils, and thefts, in mortal wounds and blows:  
Wherein she takes her pleasure and her fill,  
Hiding the men in waves that she doth kill.   
I should never expound this Riddle (said Diana) if I had not heard the meaning of it by a Shepherd in my town, who had sometimes sailed. And yet I cannot tell whether I remember it or not, but I think, he said that a Galley was understood by it, which being in the midst of the dangerous waves, is near to death, and being accustomed to robbing and killing, casteth the dead carcases into the Sea. By the feet he told me, that the oars were meant, by the wings the sails, and by the stones that it threw, the pellets. We must in the end (said Clenarda) go one equal with another, for one deserves no more praise than another. Truly thy great knowledge Diana makes me to wonder much, and thou canst receive no reward sufficient enough for so great deserts, but only by being Syrenus' wife. These and other courteous speeches they passed, when Felicia, beholding the fine wit, the comely grace, the passing behaviour, and sweet actions of Diana, and marveling much at them, took off from her finger a very rich ring, set with a stone of infinite value, which she did ordinarily wear, and giving it her for a reward of her witty answers to those Riddles, said. This shall serve for a token of that, which I mean to do for thee (fair Shepherdess) keep it therefore well, for in time of thy need the virtue of it may not be a little profitable unto thee. Diana & Syrenus both rendered humble thanks to Felicia for so great a gift, with devoutly kissing her reverend hands. Who after he had sufficiently & courteously made an end of his thanks, said. I have noted one thing in all these Riddles, which is this, that the Shepherdesses & Ladies have propounded the most of them, and that the men have held their peace in such sort that they have clearly showed, that in dainty and witty conceits they have not so fine a vain as women have. Don Felix then jesting said. It is no great marvel that in sharpness of wit they excel us, when in all other perfections they come nothing near us. Belisa could not digest Don Felix his merry jest, thinking (perhaps) that he meant it in good earnest, but looking upon all the women, said. We will agree (Don Felix) that men excel us, but therein we show our goodness, and our virtues in our voluntary subjection to their will and skill. But yet know this, that there are women which for their virtues and deserrs may be paragoned to the worthiest and wisest men, for though gold lies hidden & unknown, yet it looseth not therefore any part of that value and prize of that which is currant. For the truth and force of our praises is so great, that it maketh you publish them to yourselves, which seem to be our enemies. Florisia a Shepherdess renowned for great knowledge and wisdom, was not (Don Felix) of your opinion, when in our town on a day at a certain marriage (where was a confluence of many Shepherds, men, and women, that from towns far and nigh had come to that feast) to the tune of a Rebecke, and of two haps, which three Shepherds sweetly plaiedon, she sung a song in the praise and defence of women, which not only pleased them, but also delighted all the men there, of whom she spoke but little good. And if you are too perverse and obstinate in your opinion, it shall not be amiss to rehearse it to you, to make you leave of your blind error. They laughed all heartily to see Belisa so choleric, and made no small sport thereat. In the end old Eugerius and his son Polydorus, because they would not be deprived of that merry song which they expected at Belisas' hands, said unto her. The praise (fair Shepherdess) and defence of women is justly due unto them, and no less delightful to us to hear it with thy delicate voice repeated. It pleaseth me well (said Belisa) if it like you, for there are many sharp and stinging invectives, if I could remember all the verses in it; but yet I will begin to recite them, because I hope that in singing them, one will reduce another to my mind. Then Arsileus, seeing that Belisa was preparing herself to sing, began to tune his Rebecke, at the sound whereof she sung the song, that she heard Florisia in times past sing, which was this.  

Florisias Song.  

Fly storming verse out of my raging breast  
With furious anger, malice, and despite:  
Indigned spirits, once at my request  
power forth your wrath and pen prepare to write  
With scornful stinging and invective stile,  
Against a people brutish base, and vile:  
Avile, perverse and monstrous kind of men,  
Who make it but their pastime, and their game,  
With bar barous mouth and with uncivil pen  
To slander those, who lest deserve the same:  
Women Imeane a work manship divine,  
Angels in shape, and Goddesses in mind.   

Thou wicked man that dost presume too high  
Of thy perfections, but without desert,  
False man I say, accustomed to lie,  
What evil canst thou think within thy hart,  
Or speak of her, whose goodness more or less,  
Doth fill the world so full of happiness,  
But only this, that woman was the cause,  
Though not alone, of one exceeding ill,  
In bringing forth (constrained by nature's laws)  
A man, whose mischiefs all the world doth fill:  
Who after that he is conceived and borne,  
Against his mother proudly lifts his horn.   

Whom if she had not borne, poor silly dame,  
With fewer griefs her life she might have lead,  
For than he should not slander thus her name,  
And such a crow she should not then have bred,  
That being hatched, her dam would thus despise,  
And daily labour to pluck out her eyes.  
What man in all the world did ever know,  
(Although the tenderest father he had been)  
Those cares, and griefs, that sorrow, and that woe,  
Which wives have for their husbands felt, and seen?  
And how the loving mother for her son  
With sorrow hath been oftentimes undone?   

Behold with what affection, and what joy,  
What gentleness, and what intensive love,  
The mother dothintreate her little boy?  
Which after doth a Traitor to her prove:  
Requiting ill her pains and love so kind  
With pouring sorrows still into her mind.  
What jealous fears, what fearful jealousies,  
Do haunt the mother for her cruel son?  
What pain, when that in any pain he lies,  
What grief, when that with grief he is undone?  
What perfect gladness, and what sweet content,  
When that he is to any goodness bend?   

Alas how pensive and how sad they are,  
If that their husbands suffer any pain:  
What sorrow, when they travel somewhat far,  
What moan, when that they come not soon again:  
A thousand griefs to hear their loss of wealth,  
Ten thousand deaths to hear their want of health.  
But men that are so full of false deceit,  
Our daily sorrows never do requite,  
Or think of them, though they be never so great,  
But rather such their malice and despite  
Is; that our loving cares both great and small,  
Unjust suspects, and jealousies do call.   

The cause of which surmise is only this,  
That as these wicked and detested men  
Of custom are inclined to stray amiss,  
And in false love their wits and wealth to spend,  
Do think it now a burden to their lives,  
To be beloved so truly of their wives.  
Then since in loving them we ever find  
Ourselves a paid with hateful scorn and blame,  
I think it best, for easing of our mind,  
Quite to forget their nature, sex, and name:  
Or else to leave our joys in looking on them,  
Or if we look, not once to think upon them.   

But yet it is a pretty jest to see  
Some kind of men, whose madness is so great,  
That if the woman will not wholly be  
At their desires, then in a frantic heat  
They call her Tigress, cruel, and unkind,  
And trasteresse unto a loving mind.  
Then shalt thou see these men unseemly call  
The modest women, whom they would have nought,  
Coy and disdainful to converse withal:  
And her that's chaste, unmannered and untaught.  
Those that be wise and sober, full of pride:  
And cruel those, whose honesties are tried.   

I would to God that those dishonoured names  
Did fit them all, as well as all the rest,  
Then none of them should bide so many shames,  
Nor be deceived by men, that love them lest:  
For being cruel, proud, and rustical,  
They would not love, nay could not love at all.  
For if the thing, which they so feign would have,  
By any means they cannot once obtain,  
Then do they wish for death, or for their grave:  
But yet the same no sooner they attain,  
But make it but a sport and merry game,  
And strait forget that ere they loved the same.   

They feign themselves most sorrowful and sad,  
And wearied with a long and painful life:  
They still do tell the pains that they have had,  
And other lies, which are with them so rise:  
They call themselves unhappy, poor, and blind,  
Confounded slaves, yet all but words of wind.  
O how they can make Oceans of their eyes!  
And term their flames their torments and their pains,  
And breath out sighs, like vapours in the skies,  
And belch out sobs like Aetna's burning veins:   

In many things the greatness of their mind  
They show, contemning base and doubtful fear:  
As those, whose tender love hath been so kind  
Unto their husbands, when they living were,  
That all their moans and sorrows for their death  
They ended soon, by stopping of their breath.   

And if for virtue, and his chaste intent  
Hippolytus deserved any praise,  
On th'other side behold that excellent  
And noble Roman Matron in her days  
With stabbing dagger giving up the ghost,  
I mean fair Lucrece, for her honour lost.  
It was no doubt great valour in the youth,  
As never like hath been in all the rest,  
Who vowing to his father faith and truth,  
Denied his stepdame's foul and fond request.  
All which admit: Hippolytus is but one,  
But thousands of Lucrecias have been known.   

Gifts have we more (our beauties set aside)  
For in good letters famous have we been:  
And now to prove our judgements often tried,  
And sharpness of our finest wits therein,  
Let Sapph and Corynna well suffice,  
Who when they lived, for learning got the prize.  
And learned men doetherefore banish us  
Their schools, and places where they do dispute,  
For fear (if we should argue and discuss)  
With praise we should their arguments confute:  
Too proud therefore, they would not by their will,  
That women should excel them in their skill.   

And if some authors, scorned in their loves,  
Have written ill of women, in their hate,  
Not this our credits any whit disprooues,  
And can as less diminish our estates:  
Since they themselves have writ as ill of men,  
Believe not then their lying tongues and pen.  
Yet this doth cause some small and little change,  
And alteration in our great deserts:  
For they must needs (and sure it is not strange,  
Considering their vile malicious hearts)  
In what soever they do write or say,  
To speak the worst of women that they may.   

But yet among these Authors thou shalt find  
Most famous women, and most excellent:  
Peruse their works but with indifferent mind,  
And thou shalt see what numbers they present  
Of good and honest Dames, before thine eyes,  
Of loving, faithful, holy, chaste, and wise.  
They do adorn the world with goodly graces,  
And with their virtues give it golden light:  
The shining beauty of their sweetest faces  
Doth fill each hart and eye with great delight.  
They bring all comforts, gladness, peace, and joy,  
And drive away all sorrows, and annoy.   

By them (false men of bad and wicked minds)  
You get great honour, glory, and renown:  
And for their sakes, inventing sundry kinds  
Of verses, get sometimes the Laurel crown:  
And for their love, in Martial feats again  
To golden praise and fame you do attain.  
You therefore that employ your wits and time,  
In searching out the course of others lives,  
If that you find some woman touched with crime  
Amongst so many widows, maids, and wives:  
Condemn not all for one poor souls offence,  
But rather hold your judgements in suspense.   

And if so many Dames so chaste, and fair,  
Cannot subdue your proud and haughty hearts,  
Behold but one, whose virtues are so rare,  
To whom the heavens so many goods imparts,  
That only she possesseth in her breast  
As many gifts, nay more than all the rest.  
The bravest men, and most heroical,  
And those that are most perfect in conceit,  
I see this Lady far excel them all,  
With her divine perfections, and so great,  
Which Orpheus did sing upon a day,  
As on his harp most sweetly he did play.   

Saying: That in that happy land, where white  
And chalky cliffs are steeped in British seas,  
A morning star should rise exceeding bright,  
Whose birth will silver Cynthia much displease,  
In that her golden light, and beauties gleams  
Shall far surpass her brother's borrowed beams.  
And such a Lady shall she be indeed,  
That she shall joy each hart with happy chance:  
Her worthy house, wherein she shall succeed,  
With titles of great praise she shall advance:  
And make the same more glorious and more known,  
Then ever did the African his own.   

Make triumphs then for birth of such a dame,  
And let each hart be glad that hath been sorry:  
Retoice Meridian springs from whence she came;  
You lineage her, she honours you with glory,  
Her name from East to West, from North to South  
Is well esteemed and known in every mouth.  
Come then you Nymphs, resign to her your powers,  
Fair Nymphs that follow Cynthia in her chase,  
Come wait on her and strow the ground with flowers,  
And sing in honour of her matchless grace:  
And Muses nine that dwell in mount Parnasse  
Let verse nor song without her praises pass.   

Thou darest not Rome (in seeing her) presume  
With Brutus stately Island to compare,  
But sooner will't thyself with grief consume,  
To see how far she doth excel those fair  
Ladies of Rome renowned in their days,  
In cuery thing wherein they got most praise.  
In bounty Porcia she shall much exceed,  
In wisdom pass Cornelia Pompey's wife,  
In honour Livia, so have her stars decreed,  
And chaste Sulpitia in modesty of life:  
Her beauty and the virtues in her breast.  
Eugeria stains, and conquers all the rest.   

This is the Thought that honours my desire,  
This is my Parnasse and Aonian spring,  
This is the Muse that gives me holy fire,  
This is the Phoenix with her golden wing,  
This is the star, and power of such might,  
That gives me glory, spirit, plume and light.  
Petrarke had left his Laura all alone,  
Folchet Aldagias praise with lofty stile,  
Guilliaum the Countess of Rossiglion,  
Raymbald his Lady Morie Verdefueille,  
To grace his verse, he would be sides refuse  
The Countess of Vrgiel for his Muse.   

Anacreon Euripile defied  
And Americ, Gentile, Gascoignes light:  
Raymbald the Lordof Vacchieres denied  
Of Monferrato Beatrice to delight  
With sweetest verse to win her noble grace  
Sister unto the Marquis Boniface.  
Arnoldo Daniel had as much repent  
Bovilles praise his Lady long agone,  
Bernard had never with his verse contented  
The fair Vicountesse of Ventideon.  
(Though these were Dames of beauty and renown,  
Gracing each Poet with a Laurel crown.)   

If they had seen this Lady in their time,  
Who all their gifts and beauties doth possess,  
They had strained forth invention, verse, and rhyme,  
To celebrate so high a Patroness.  
On her their thoughts and pens they had employed,  
Happy so rare a Muse to have enjoyed.  
This did Orpheus sing with sweetest verse,  
And Echo answered to his silver voice,  
And every time he did the same rehearse,  
The land and sea did presently rejoice  
To hear the joyful news of such an one,  
By whom their honour should be so much known.   

Now then from this day forth and evermore  
Let wicked men their false opinions leave,  
And though there were not (as there is) such store  
Of worthy Dames (as vainly they conceive)  
This only one with honour shall recall,  
And amplify the glorte of us all.    
The praise and defence of women, and the brave grace and sweet note wherewith Belisa sung it, pleased and delighted them all passing well. Wherefore Don Felix acknowledging himself overcomed, Belisa was well content, and Arsileus her husband not a little proud. All the men there confessed all to be true that was said in the song, and sung in the favour of women; and all that to be false that was said and sung in the dispraise and disgrace of men, and especially those verses which inluriously invayed against their falsehood, deceits, and dislembled pains in love; with affirmation rather of their firmer faith and truer torments, than they outwardly expressed. That which most of all pleased Arsileus, was the answer of Florisia to Melibeus, because it was no less pithy than pleasant; and also because he had sometimes heard Belisa sing a song upon that matter which delighted him very much. Wherefore he prayed her to rejoice so noble and merry company as that was, by singing it once again. Who, because she could not deny her dear Arsileus, although she was somewhat weary with her last song, to the same tune did sing it: and this it was.  


Poor Melibee of love and hope forgot,  
Told to Florisia griefs that he hadpast,  
She answered him: I understand thee not,  
And less believe thee (Shepherd) what thou sayest.   

He saith: Mypeerelesse Shepherdess,  
Behold the pain wherewith I die,  
Which I endure with willingness,  
And seek that grief, which I would fly:  
My hot desires do burn and die I wots,  
Hope is my life, but fear the same doth waste:  
She answered him: I understand thee not,  
And less believe thee (Shepherd) what thou sayest.   

He saith: The pale and pinching care  
Hath been so pleasant to my mind,  
That how much more false to my share,  
The more I do desire to find:  
I crave no guerdon for my painful lot,  
But as I love, to be beloved as fast:  
She answered him: I understand thee not,  
And less believe thee (Shepherd) what thou sayest.   

He saith: My death should now redress  
My pains, but for the grievous ill  
Which I should feel (fair Shepherdess)  
In leaving of to see thee still:  
But if I see thee sad, a harder knot  
Of griefs I feel, and greater death do taste:  
She answered him: I understand thee not,  
And less believe thee (Shepherd) what thou sayest.   

He saith: In seeing thee I die,  
And when I see thee not, I pain,  
In seeking thee, for fear I fly,  
I have to find thee out again.  
As old Proteus was wont to change his cote,  
Figure, and shape which long time did not last:  
She answered him: I understand thee not,  
And less believe thee (Shepherd) what thou sayest.   

He saith: I do pretend to crave  
No more good than my soul can get:  
Because with that small hope I have,  
(methinks) I do offend thee yet.  
For suffering for thy sake the smallest jot  
Of wounding grief a thousand joys I taste:  
She answered him: I understand thee not,  
And less believe thee (Shepherd) what thou sayest.    
Whilst Belisa was singing both her songs, Felicia commanded a Nymph to oversee and set in order a gallant sport and pastime, which was prepared before, and which should presently ensue, which she so well executed, that even then, when the Shepherdess had ended her song, they heard a great noise and hurly burly in the river hard by, as it were the beating of oars in the water. Whereupon all of them went towards it, and being come to the river side, they saw twelve little ships coming in two several navies from the river beneath, bravely depainted with divers colours, and very richly set forth. Six of them bore sails of white and crimson damask, and their displayed flags in the tops, & streamers in their poops of the same colours: And the other six, their sails, flags, and streamers of murrey satin with yellow shrouds and tackling to the same. Their oars were bravely gilded all over; and they came decked, strewed, and adorned with many sweet flowers, and garlands of Roses. In every one of them were six Nymphs apiece, appareled with short moresco gowns: they of the one fleet with crimson velvet laid on with silver lace and fringe; and they of the other, of murrey velvet embroidered with curious workmanship of gold, having on their arms a sleeve of gold and silver made fit unto them, and carrying their targets on their arms after the manner of the valiant Amazons. They that rowed these five ships, were certain Savages, crowned with garlands of Roses, and bound to their seats with chains of silver. There arose amongst them a great noise of drums, trumpets, shagbotes, cornets, and of many other sorts of music; at sound of which two and two togigither with a marvelous sweet consent keeping just time and measure, entered into the river, which caused great wonder in them that looked on. After this they parted themselves into two navies, and out of both of them one ship apiece of defiance and answer came out, the rest remaining beholders on either side. In each of these two ships came a Savage appareled with the colours of his own side, standing bolt upright in the forecastle, carrying on his left arm a shield, which covered him from top to toe, and in his right hand a lance, painted with the self same colours. They both at one time hoisted sail, and with force of oars ran one against the other with great fury. The Nymphs and Savages, and they that favoured each party, made great shoots and cries to encourage their sides. They that rowed, employed all their force, the one side and the other striving to sail with greater violence, and to make the stronger encounter. And the Savages being welny met together, and armed with their targets and lances, it was the greatest delight in the world to see how they were encouraged to this encounter, and how they sped in it: For they stood not so surely, nor had not so great dexterity in their fight, but that with the great violence that the ships met one another, and with the bushes that they gave with their lances upon their targets, they were not able to stand on their feet, sometimes falling down upon the hatches, and sometimes into the river. Wherewith the laughter of them on the shore increased, and the rejoicing and triumphs of them, whose side had done best, and the music to encourage them on both sides. The iusters, when they fell into the water, went swimming up and down, until being helped by the Nymphs on whose side they fought, they made a fresh encounter, and falling into the water again, redoubled the laughing of the beholders, and the sport with exceeding glee and merriment. In the end the ship with white and crimson sails came on so fast, and with such force, and her champion so steady in his place, that he stood still on foot, bearing down his adversary before him into the river. Which when the Nymphs of his squadron perceived, made such triumph, with hallowing, and ringing such a strange peal of music, that the other side was half abashed, and dashed from any farther enterprise: But especially one proud and stout Savage amongst the rest, who, being somewhat ashamed and angry at their foil, said. Is it possible that there is any in our company of so small courage and strength, that is not able to abide so feeble and light blows? Unlock this chain from my legs, and let him that hath proved himself so weak a juster, row in my place, and you shall see how I will make you conquerors, and confound our enemies in their own foolish triumph. He had no sooner said the word, but delivered from his chain by a Nymph, with a brave courage he took his lance and target, and manfully stood upright in the prow of the ship. Then the Savages with valiant minds began to row on both sides, and the Nymphs to make loud voices in the air. The contrary ship came with the same force as before, but her Savage had little need to set his staff in rest to get the victory; for the champion that had braved it so much, before they met, with the great force and haste that the ship carried him, could not possibly keep himself on foot, but that with shield and spear he fell into the water, giving a manifest and clear example, That the proudest and most presumptuous fall most often into greatest disgraces. The Nymphs took him up again (who went swimming up and down) although he little deserved it: But the five other ships spoken of before, remaining aside by themselves, seeing their captain overcomed, what with choler, shame, and desire to regain the victory, and their lost honours, came all rushing out at once. The other five of white and crimson did the like, and then the Nymphs bestirred them in throwing perfumed pellets and muskebals of white and red wax, and painted egshels full of orange and rose water, making such a shrill shout, and fight with so good order and valour, that there they bravely figured a ship yielding itself, as if it had been so in good earnest. At the end whereof the ships with the murrey colours showed themselves overcomed with striking sail, & yielded to the other Nymphs, who like valiant conquerors leapt into them by and by, and then with the same music as before, came to the river banks, where they disimbarked the conquerors, and those that were vanquished, with the Savages their captives, making a goodly show with their several and singular beauties. When this sport was finished, Felicia with Eugerius, & the other company following them, went back again to the fountain, where they were no sooner come, but they found a Shepherd, that during all the time of the fight by water, had been in the orchard, and had sitten near unto the fountain. He seemed very comely and gracious in all their eyes, but especially in Felicias, who knew him incontinently, and said thus unto him.  
Thou couldst not have come at a better time (Turianus) for remedy of thy griefs, and for increase of this solace and sport. We will hereafter take care for thy grief, and help it at fit time, as for the rest, thou must show this goodly company, how much thou canst delight with thy sweet singing. For now I see, thee with thy Rebecke out of thy scrip, as though thou wouldst please this fair company, sing something of thy Elumia; for thou shalt for this service see thyself hereafter well satisfied and contented. The Shepherd was amazed to hear Felicia call him by his name, and the Shepherdess his love by hers, and that she promised him some lightning of his pain: Wherefore meaning to requite such offers with rather obeying her command, then only with simple thanks to gratify them, all of them being set, and keeping silence, he began to play a while on his Rebecke, and to sing that which followeth.  

Provençall Rhythms.  

WHen that with thousand particoloured flowers  
The springtide comes in every pleasant mead,  
And glorious Titan, free from winter's showers,  
With golden beams the fields doth overspread,  
The Shepherds rich, and frolic in their bowers,  
With pipes and songs their flocks to fields do lead:  
The nighting all with warbling throat  
Doth jug forth many a pleasant note,  
that makes the woods to ring:  
The fountames clear, as crystal glass,  
About the which, upon the grass  
The Nymphs do sit and sing:  
But let Eluinia turn her eyes from all those sweet delights,  
Then doth continual winter rage with stormy days and nights.   

When that the freezing Northern winds disgrace  
The fragrant flowers, the slately trees and tall  
Of all their pride, and covereth every place  
With flakes of snow, which never cease to fall:  
And nightingales their songs leave for a space,  
And desert fields, that have no green at all:  
The days are irksome short, and sad,  
The cold nights blow, as they were mad,  
With many a bitter blast:  
The clouds as dark as any pitch,  
And thick as loathsome mud in ditch,  
The air do overcast:  
But let Eluinia walk the fields or where it please her best,  
There merry springtide doth return her praises to protest.   

If that the angry heavens sometimes throw down  
A fearful lightning or some cruel thunder,  
The silly Shepherd, far from wood or town,  
Gins to fear, to tremble and to wonder,  
And if the hail fall thick upon the ground  
Like little stones, do beat and burst asunder  
The fruit, and leaves in every place,  
And spoils the flowers of their grace,  
A strange, and piteous sight:  
The Shepherd runs away amain,  
Leaving his sheep upon the plain  
With swift and fearful flight:  
But let Eluinia walk the fields her beauty every where  
Doth clear the heavens, and rids the Shepherd's hart from trembling fear.   

And if by chance I sing or pipe on high,  
Under the shade of Elm or little hill,  
The Song thrush and the heavenly Lark reply  
Unto my songs, with sweetest notes at will:  
And when the fresh and Western winds in sky  
Breath forth an air, so pleasant and so still:  
When every joy, and sweet content,  
And every day in pleasures spent  
Doth give me new delights,  
And free from fear with lively cheer  
In happiness I spend the year,  
The pleasant days and nights:  
But if Eluinia once do frown, I am much more afraid  
Than if a burning lightning had my senses all dismayed.   

If that Diana goeth forth to chase  
The savage beasts, with bended bow to tame,  
With troops of Nymphs that wait upon her grace  
Whose thoughts chaste sports and exercise do frame:  
And with the same with great delight do trace  
The woods and lawns in seeking out some game.  
Hamadryads and Napees fair  
With strowing Roses, do prepare  
The way before their Queen:  
The Nymphs that follow sweetly sing,  
And hills and dales with triumphs ring,  
And woods both fresh and green:  
But if she come unto the wood, where my Eluinia chaseth  
She makes her silent, quails her pride, and beauties all disgraceth.   

And when her body whiter than the snow  
She washeth in the fountain crystal bright,  
If thither Cynthia should but chance to go,  
And see those parts so dainty and so white,  
For shame she would cast down her eyes I know,  
And so depart, confounded at that sight:  
For in those fountain waters clear  
So brave a figure doth appear,  
As like was never seen:  
So fair a face, such golden hair  
With rarest grace are shining there  
As like hath never been:  
And bold Actaeon if he did but see there alone,  
Had not been turned into a Hart, but to a Marble stone.   

A thousand times my song I will reply thee,  
In every place where I do feed my sheep,  
But hence away, for pity now go hie thee  
Unto my Love, and tell her how I weep.  
See if thou canst but move her hart  
To some small pity of my smart,  
And of my little rest:  
Go to my fair and fatal star,  
Tell her what wounding thoughts do war  
Within my painful breast.  
O happy man if that thou mightest this grace of Fortune try,  
To see Eluinia change her mind, or else thyself to die.    
How much the sweet voice and gentle grace of this enamoured Shepherd pleased them all, I am not able to express, whose song was so melodious, and parsonage so fair and comely, that he seemed to be Apollo, who had sometimes taken upon him a Shepherd's shape for the love of a country wench, for they could not judge any more like unto him for perfection in beauty, and sweetness in song: whereupon Montanus marveling much, said, Eluinia (gentle Shepherd) is not a little beholding to thee, of whom thou haste so sweetly sung, not only for the favour she hath got, to be beloved of so gracious a Shepherd as thyself; but by having her beauties, and virtues with thy delicate comparisons and dainty verses so highly commended. And she being beloved of thee, it cannot be otherwise imagined, but that her perfections of body and virtues of mind are most rare and excellent. And that which doth not a little help to the accomplishment of her gifts, is the delight and dexterity that she hath in hunting, for which thou didst compare her with Diana; because it is one of the brave qualities which make both Nymphs and Shepherdesses to be thought more beautiful and gracious, and most worthy of golden praises: For I myself did sometime know a Shepherd in our town, and my Ismenia and Seluagia knew him also very well; who being enamoured of a Shepherdess (called Argia) was with none of her passing graces more captivated, then with her singular cunning in shooting and delight that she had in her bow, which was continually in her hand, and her quiver of steely headed arrows at her back, wherewith she hunted, wounded, and killed, the nimble footed Does, wild beasts, and simple birds. For which delight her loving Shepherd (named Olympius) did sometimes sing a pretty Sonnet, made of the skill, beauty, and cruelty of that Shepherdess, feigning a challenge and contention between her, the Goddess Diana and Cupid, whether of them three should shoot best, a fine and delicate conceit, which sometimes to delight me, I ever have by hart. With this Clenarda stepped forth and said. It is reason Montanus that we enjoy part of that delight with thee in hearing it: And nothing can please me better, then to hear thee sing it for the great love and devotion that I have to that exercise. I am content (said Montanus) if I shall not seem troublesome with it. That cannot cause any trouble (said Polydorus) which with so general delight shall be heard. Montanus then playing on his pipe sung Olympius Sonnet, which was this.  

DIana, Love, and my fair Shepherdess,  
Did in the field their chiefest cunning try,  
By shooting arrows at a tree near by,  
Whose bark a painted hart did there express:  
Diana stakes her beauty merciless,  
Cupid h●…we, Argia her liberty:  
Who showed in her shot a quicker eye,  
A better grace, more courage, and success:  
And so did she Diana's beauty win,  
And Cupid's weapons, by which conquered prize  
So fair and cruel she hath ever been,  
That her sweet figure from my wearied eyes,  
And from my painful hart her cruel bow  
Have stolen my life and freedom long ago.   
This Sonnet was marvelous delightful to them all, and the sweetness, wherewith Montanus sung it, a great deal more. And after they had discoursed of every particular part and matter of it, Felicia seeing the night came on, and thinking she had feasted and sported her guests that day sufficiently, made a sign by her countenance, that she would say something; whereupon they left of their mirth and talk for a while, and with attentive minds hearkened unto her: and silence being kept, with her accustomed gravity, she thus began to speak.  
I am undoubtedly persuaded (noble Lords and Ladies, and you worthy Shepherds) that, since the time that you came to my house, you have no cause to complain of my favours bestowed on you, nor of the diligence and service of my Nymphs employed for your sakes. For the desire which I had to please you all, was so great, and the delight which I take to help distressed men to their contentment, so proper to my nature, that (me thinks) if I had done a great deal more for you, it had been but little in respect of that which your virtues deserve. Only Narcisus with the cruelty of Melisea, and Turianus with the disdain of Eluinia, remain discontent amongst you all. Whom it shall now satisfy to comfort themselves with hope of their future felicities, since that my word (which was never stained with deceit and lie) hath assuredly promised them a speedy and full contentment by those means which shall be most expedient for them. I see old Engerius glad with his son, his daughters, and his son in law, and not without cause, since for love of them he hath passed so many dangers, and suffered such extreme pain, sorrow, and anguish of mind. Felicia having ended her speech, Eugerius wondered greatly at her wisdom, and the rest were satisfied and well content with so gentle and courteous instructions, whereby they gathered out of them profitable lessons to lead from thence forth a virtuous and happy life. And so all of them rising from their places about the fountain, and following the sage Lady, went out of the garden into the Palace, every one to their several lodgings, accommodating their minds to the joyful feasts & princely sports of the next day following: The which, and that which happened to Narcisus, Turianus, Taurisus, and Berardus, with the delectable history of Danteus, and Duarda the Portugal Shepherds (which for certain respects is omitted here) and many other things of great delight, pleasure, and profit, are handled in the second Part of this Book.    
All these three Parts were finished the first of May 1583.  
Boto el amor en Y●…go.  

Faults escaped.  
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