HONOUR'S ACADEMY. OR THE FAMOUS PASTORAL, of the fair Shepherdess, JULIETTA.  
A work admirable, and rare, Sententious and grave: and no less profitable, then pleasant to peruse.  
Wherein are many notable Discourses, as well Philosophical, as Divine: Most part of the Seven Liberal Sciences, being comprehended therein: with divers Comical, and Tragical Histories, in Prose, and Verse, of all sorts.  
Done into English, by R. T. Gentleman.   printer's device of Thomas Creede 
BELLUM HIT AVARITIA CONTRA  
Imprinted at London by Thomas Creed, 1610.   

TO THE TRULY HONOURABLE, AS WELL FOR VIRTUE, AS NOBILITY, THE LADY ANNE HERNE: Wife to that worthy and generous Gentleman, Sir EDWARD HERNE, of the thrice Ancient and Noble ORDER of the , KNIGHT.  
BOund by desert, not meriting the same,  
Words (still) to give for deeds, doth make me shame.  
Yet (Beauteous) pardon, since the pover Man  
Gives, (though not what he should) yet what he can.  
Thanks yield I you, (the pay of younger Brother)  
Let Heirs be frank, and not their Riches smother.  
What you request, I wish you would command,  
For so my duty to your virtue's pawned.  
Vouchsafe this modest Book, fraught full of wit,  
A subject chaste, a Lady chaste doth fit.  
Then, honoured ANNE, grace HONOURS ACADEMY,  
Since HONOUR honoureth you, as much as any.  
Your Eaglets high Conceit, too well doth know,  
My Swallow MUSE, flies (for your pitch) too low.  
This stuff is shepherds GREY, spun course and plain,  
Unless that you this work, (to grace) shall deign.  
But as your outward shape is lovely fair,  
So inwardly, you're Courteous, Debonair.  
Your disposition mild, all faults will cover,  
And (as unseen) you gently them do smother.  
My hope is then, that you will sweetly look,  
With your all-pleasing Eye, upon this Book.  
Resolved whereon, your Votary I rest,  
Live happy, since many through you are blest.  
The Phoenix fair, sprung from your Ashes sweet,  
As you, so her, in duteous sort I greet.  
Ever devoted unto your matchless Virtues, Robert Tofte.   

TO THE CURTEOUS AND JUDICIOUS READER, AND TO NONE OTHER.  
PArdon to crave of Sottish MULTITUDE,  
That saucy giddy-headed Monster rude.  
Who knows not when ought well is, or amiss,  
Of shallow shickle Brain, a token is.  
I'll not so much, as (wind to beg it) spend,  
None grossly more, than Find-faults do offend.  
A golden Calse, I cannot worship, I,  
An Ape in purple, Ass in scarlet Die.  
My Muse (as yet) I never Merchant made,  
Who fells ●●s wit for Gold, is LEARNING'S JADE.  
My Scope is fair, and virtuous is my Field,  
Then pleasure great, this subject needs must yield.  
Nor I, of any, fear to be disgrac're,  
As is my Muse, so is my Mistress chaste.  
No word obscene, ●o phrase lascivious,  
You (here) shall read, to taint a Virgin's blush.  
Hence (Envy) then, go get thee down to hell,  
My sun's so oright, all mist● it doth expel.  
(LEARNED) to you, my Book, and self I yield,  
Against those Gorgon's, hold forth Pallas Shield.  
Chief against an other worse Crew,  
(Oh pardon passion, when it speaketh true)  
Against such idle thieves, as do purloin,  
From others Mint, what's none of their own Coin.  
These buzz about, like Drones, and Beetles blind,  
Whilst (in them) Honey none, but gaul you find.  
Against these Cheaters, and their shifting Rout,  
Vouchsafe your Crystal Shield for to hold out.  
Ye, royal Marchants-like, in th'Ocean deep,  
Of endless Knowledge, venture, wealth to seek.  
Nor fear you (when you utter it at home)  
Those barbarous BROKERS, that each where do room.  
And do their force (though weak God knows) advance,  
Conducted by their blind guide Ignorance.  
Base Ignorance, the Foe most capital,  
To Wisdom, Learning, and good Manners all:  
Oh do but you, in your RIALTO rich,  
Of COURTESY, (nor is this Favour mich.)  
Give out, this Trash of mine, is like (no Like's the same)  
Your precious Wares, and I, shall malice shame.  
Do you (but once) commend this my poor wealth,  
And MOMUS strait (for grief) will hang himself.  
Yours evermore, R. T.   

THE PRINTER TO THE READERS IN GENERAL.  
GEntle Readers, briefly and ingeniously (in a word) thus. This Book hath been kept from the Translator hereof a long time, since when (until it was in a manner throughly Printed) he never had sight of it, and therefore could not possibly peruse it over, as his desire was, meaning to have corrected, what you perhaps may find amiss. Some faults (no doubt there be) especially in the Verses, and to speak truth, how could it be otherwise, when he wrote all this Volume, (as it were) Cursorily, and in haste: Never having so much leisure, as to overlook one leaf, after he had scribbled out the same. It therefore must needs be little better than a confused Chaos, Rudis indigestaque Moles, not much unlike the Bears ugly whelp, before it be licked over by the damn.  
But there is no remedy now, but patience, he can be but sorry for the same. And yet to speak indifferently, the errors herein committed, are not so gross and so many, but that they may be easily let slip, and pass unespied: and this is the petition, which I am bold to put up unto you; which if my Fortune be so good, as it may pass, and be granted amongst you, you shall animate the Gentleman henceforward, to be more careful to please you, and bind me in double bands with him, to labour hereafter, in what I may, to make some better satisfaction, for this your kind patience towards us both. And so I rest,  
Always yours to by poor power, T. C.   


THE FIRST PART OF JULIETTAS' PASTORALS.  
A MOST EXQVISITE PIECE OF WORK, wherein are set down, divers excellent Discourses, as well Moral, as Philosophical: Intermixed with many Histories, both pleasant and Tragical: set forth in sundry sorts of verses fitting the Humour of every one whatsoever.  
AFTER so many strange cruelties, inflicted upon the wretched Shepherd A RCAS, by unpitifull Fortune, in the end, he found himself all alone, in the midst of a most fearful desert, being a place, agreeable to his grief, and not a little fit for his sharp and stinging misery. Horror, in steed of light, made there her abode, neither did any other comfortable Beam of pleasure shine there, than such as joyless solitariness draweth from pining sorrow. No cheerful Sun in this place used to cast forth his gladsome rays, it being the ordinary abiding of the black daughters of fatal death. The chiefest riches, the poor Shepherd found there, was Bushes, Thorns, Brambles, and briars, hard flinty Rocks, and huge senseless stones. No other creatures entertained he for his Guests, but brute Beasts, withdrawing himself from the company of men, as if they had been devils. Thousands of Rocks, of which, some being eaten with time, other some blasted with lightning, and some set out with sharp pointed Thorns, kept him as a Bulwark, safe on the one side, and the perjured waters of the changing Sea, growing white with stormy Billows, preserved him secure on the other. There sometimes was the melancholic abode of still sleep, there the resting place of pale death, and there the lodge of such Spirits, as like vacabonds, wandered up and down the world, being worthily punished by the great and just Gods. Many ghastly Caves, were (there) to be found, but so horrible were they, as the only sight of them brought trembling fear to the minds, and sudden amazement to the eyes of such as should behold them. No running Fountain was there that gave forth crystal water; no shadowing grove, to keep men from parching heat; nor any green coolie grass with fair coloured flowers, to delight the senses: only in this uncouth wilderness, did sojourn such sad, and old angry men, as by there nightly Charms forced the Spirits of the earth to obey their wills and to be at their command. In steed of Nightingale and Lark, was there found the Screeching Owl and night Raven, with such other dismal Birds, whose flight, nature, and cry, did serve for sinister prophecies unto the miserable Inhabitants thereof. All thrice woeful and lamentable dwelling, in comparison of the joyful woods of Arcadia, the first witnesses of the chaste Loves of this disastered Shepherd: and yet fortunate enough for him, seeing, that he being deprived of all his wished for hopes, soughtby many pitiless Accidents, to end his loathed life. Those fair and goodly troops of Shepherds, and Shepherdesses, which were wont heretofore to be a comfort unto him, were now most pitifully taken from his sight. There the learned Iul●tta was not to be found, neither there could his dear friend Philas be heard of, who, with others were wont most sweetly to record and sing of their overhard fortunes in their loyal Loves. O poor Shepherd, if solitariness may bring to the malcontented, any delight at all, no doubt but then, thou dost participate with the same; for amongst millions of savage beasts, thou livest alone; amongst thousands of ghastly rocks, and amongst infinites of deserts, without any clear light, or cheerful Sun: And yet the sharp feeling of his inward griefs, overcame and drowned the sad apprehension of this solitary seat: 
A Simile.  no otherwise, then great and desperate mischances, slake, and quench those that are little: or as most violent diseases, hinder the feeling of such as are less unrecoverable. Not smally fortunate did he think himself, to have found this unlucky R●ceptakle, making unto himself a false joy of that sour Subject, which was the ca●se of heause sorrow unto others. And herein might he witness full well, that in respect of the ●ll that happeneth in Love, all other evils are right pleasures, and that, that only torment, brought with it a certain sure knowledge of misfortunes unto men. O how easy a matter is it to resist all worldly troubles, and to pass through the pikes of the same But how hard or rather impossible a thing is it, to vanquish and overcome love? 
A Sentence.  Of all the fanites that wise men commit, none is more excusable, than such as Love forceth then, to do. Who was more learned than Plato, who more inditiall than Aristotle, who more godly than Da●ad, who more wise than Solomon, and who more strong than Samson? Surely none: and yet never have any been more overcome by love, than they, of which Tyrants slavish yoke, this poor Shepherd also had felt the heavy burden. His rare constancy bore patiently the loss of his goods, took gently his banishment from his country, endured quietly the cruelty of time, and brooked wisely, the injuries of the envious; but unto this Love, it yielded quickly, and as it were without constraint. Thrice blessed was he, in that be knew how to make choice of so beauteous and rare Subjects, but yet quadruple unfortunate, for that he could not reap the sweet fruits of the same in this world. 
A Sentence.  The remembrance of things lost, is forgotten through length of time, the pain of deadliest sicknesses, is appeased by Physic, and the deepest conceited sorrow, weareth away with often sighing; but alas, his love was always living, without end, and without truce, as a substance everlasting. Too, too cruel was that star, that shun at his birth, but far more remorseless, the care and grief of his continual vexed life. And in respect of him, happy are all other whatsoever, who are tormented with the loss of their kind friends, dear country, loving families and acquaintance, all which though they be much grievous to support and suffer, yet are they not to be compared in rigour, unto the least passion of Love; for the Soul findeth in them, some one comfort or other, and the body some ease of grief, or (at the least) an end of all: but in the pangs of Love, neither the one nor the other are ever out of trouble. Wretched then is the man that leaveth, therefore, wretched this Shepherd, and yet more happy than such contented persons, who live always fearing death: whereas, the approach of the same, was the only haven and heaven of his unhappiness, Such, and so great was the extremities of his woes, as it hindered him, to mark or conceive the fearfulness of this desert, & to apprehend the horror of so frightful a dwelling. He thinketh of nothing less, then of the horribleness of the same. Such condemned Souls, as are drawn unto the place of execution, dream not of any thing else, then of the bitter death they go to suffer. Even so, sought not he any other journey in this wilderness, than such as his passion led him on to take, his eyes not being employed in any office at all, whilst he himself seemed to be both deaf, blind, and dumb. O sage and prudent Poets, who to express the nature and effects of Love most properly, feign Lovers to have been changed into insensible shapes: for certainly, they are but Stones, Trees, and Rocks, in their actions and behaviour, although they retain and keep with them a human shape. A long time did this miserable Shepherd walk thus, without knowing which way he went, until at the last for very weariness, he was forced to rest himself at the foot of a mighty high Rock. There, being set upon the ground, his arms a cross, his eyes lifted up, his lips close shut together, leaning his head upon the stone, which hung on the one side, he seemed as if he had been another very Rock; for, as a Rock, so were his gestures, movelesse, his spirits gone, and all the parts of his body without force and vigour. And to say the truth indeed, how could he once stir, if his Soul being the life of his body, was as then absent, and at that time retired into the bosom of his fair Mistress? Thus sat he senseless a great while, with a heavy settled countenance, until at last, looking down low with his eyes, he espied certain verses to be carved most curiously within the Rock, which made him resemble the Hunter, 
A Simile.  who despairing of his Prey, and having (as it were) quite forgotten the same, upon the sudden spieth his game, which forceth him to begin a fresh the pursuit thereof, and so followeth the chase again. O how great power hath our desire over our Souls, that it is of force presently to revive our senses, to awaken our thoughts, to pluck up our Spirits, and to change and alter our countenances! The great longing he had to read that large writing, awaked him out of his dream, recalled home his former wits, & brought him again to be a right man. He turned his eyes too and fro, busying himself, about the reading of those lines, but little pleasure conceived he of the same, because he could not understand them, by reason they were carved in letters of Arabia, which made him fret and fume; Not unlike unto one, who seeking to pass over a River, 
A Comparison.  cannot find the lowest and shallow est place through which he might wade most safest; so as, being in great collar against Nature, he burst out into these speeches. Ah cruel Stepdame, when wilt thou be glutted with the miseries of mortal men? At too high a rate dost thou sell that little advantage and benefit, which they have over other living creatures. To what end serves it them to be more perfect than beasts, if this perfection, taketh from them their most desired rest? and what profit is it for one to be rich, if that treasure of his, engendereth travail, and care, which most cruelly weareth away his life? far happier by odds are the bruit beasts, for ignorance taketh away from them the apprehension of misfortunes, the thought of riches, and the sorrow that is incident unto this life: whereas the mind of man, is tossed too and fro, not only with unquietness of such things as are present, but also for such as are before passed, and are yet to come: yea (and that in such strange wise, as man is thought to be still miserable, excepting only, in that small time, wherein he is freed and released from those mortal cares and knawing Corrosives. Alack, 
A Simile.  alack, as with the tree, the rind groweth, and sprowteth up, the one not being able to continue without the other; so with Man, is carefulness engendered, which as a most unfortunate evil Angel, followeth him in all his actions he taketh in hand. Who is he, that ever hath been living without the feeling of grief or sorrow, or without the taste of vexation and unquietness? The morning's hour frameth and plotteth one misery or other against the evening, as the extreme rage of ardent heat maketh a storm, or tempest, which halleth fire and water together. For one taste of pleasure which he enjoyeth, a thousand desires of death seize on his spirits, to the end he might quench all his heavy disasters, by such a speedy means: for more happier are senseless creatures, than they, whose bodies are only put to travail, and not their minds at all: and in respect of the unfortunate plagues of this life, a thrice blessed companion is death, who ought to be counted a remedy and help, rather than any pain, or trouble. And therefore thrice happy indeed, are you most valiant Spirits, who of your own brave courages, have dared to shorten by violence the miseries of your loathed lives, thereby to abridge and cut off the multitude of sorrows belonging unto the same. Unkind Nature, what gifts dost thou prodigally bestow upon man, but bitter wail and salt tears? No sooner are we borne, but tears come forth with us, following us in all the course of our lives, and not leaving us until our latest death. Of earth dost thou frame our bodies, and to earth dost thou turn the same again; And yet alas, not before thou hast made us to take the aslay of many miserable calamities. Neither hast thou made rightly perfect any one man, there being always in his life, one fault, or another; for seldom or never find we an excellent and quick Spirit, in a well shaped and comely body, nor an exquisite well made body to contain in the same a rare and admirable mind. But it is no wonder at all, that those, who are thy Subjects, children, and vassals, want their perfection, when thou thine own self, 
A Simile.  hast failed and dost come behind of the same. Hardly can the people of a cruel king, be brought to be gentle and mild, and as hardly can men thy creatures attain to come to be perfect, when thou thyself, on whom they depend, art naturally full of defects and wants. I pray thee tell me, what charges had it been unto thee, if thou hadst given unto every one an insight and skill in foreign languages? and why dost thou deprive so many minds desirous of knowledge in all things, for want of understanding strange tongues, in which thou givest a plain testimome, either of thine own imperfection, or else of thy overmuch cruelty? if thou art imperfect, then can nothing, that is fair, excellent, or perfect, be found amongst us: for of the seeds of thistles, can never corn spring: and if thou be cruel, then miserable is the estate of man, to be governed and subjugated under the yoke of such a bloody and inhuman Stepmother. Both which vices (I doubt not) but abound in thee; Certainly thou art imperfect, rendering so many bodies empty and void of all perfection, as Monsters, fashioned without form; And cruel thou art, making men more wretched, or rather farreworse, then rude and savage beasts. Thus exclaimed the poor Pilgrim, mad for anger that he could not understand that strange writing. And as a small matter of loss bringeth more damage unto him, who cometh from going about a far greater, whilst the same is a doing, and feeleth the cross thereof, to be more than if the said little mischance had happened whilst he was in prosperity; So this petty despite galled the Shepherd more, by reason he was as than plunged in a bottomless pit of discontentments, them if it had chanced when he had lived most at ease and pleasure. But now, as he was laying himself down to make his prayers unto the morning sleep, to charm and close up his eyes and travail for a while, he might perceive on the sudden a certain aged man, standing hard behind him. This good old Father, had a long beard, as white as snow, his hair of his head was hoary and grey, his forehead wrinkled, his face furrowed, his eyes sunk in his head, his lips great and black, his eyebrows thick as bristles, his hands riveled, and nothing but skin and bone, his apparel a bears case, his feet bare and naked, having in his right hand a staff, and in his left a book. The complaint of the Shepherd had, he heard, and he being one that was assisted and helped by the benefit of Nature, in the charms and enchantments which he used, was not a little moved to hear her so sharply blamed. Whereupon he resolved to take her cause in hand, and as a friendly counsellor to plead in her behalf, insomuch as without once saluting or greeting the discontented Arcas, in a friendly manner he thus began to answer him. Alas poor silly soul, to what end dost thou show thyself to be like unto the fire, that burneth that that nourisheth her, or to the viper that knaweth her mother in pieces, or to the ungrateful churl, that murdereth his best benefactor? Darest thou so impudently speak against her, that is the Mother, the Queen, and the Nurse of all things? Most mortal enemy of the Gods, who acknowledge her for their vaiversall Mother, whom thou blamest, with so great blasphemy. Who giveth their essence and Being, unto living creatures, but she? who maketh them to live, and move but she? Should not this great obscure Chaos, (but for her) turn again into his confused form, & the Elements be confusedly mingled one with another? Who hath given Soul and life unto man, but she? When the expert Physician hath done all he can to the uttermost of his Art, to heal the sick patients; if he than casteth away his medicine, and refuseth wilfully his own health, is it the Doctor's fault if he be taken away by death? If thou hast received both a soul and sufficient vigour and force of Nature, and for default of using the same wisely, ill fortune hath seized and taken hold upon thee: canst thou justly lay the cause of thy mishap upon Nature? O fool as thou art, know thou, that our Spirits and our bodies have received all perfection that may be, and the very best of every virtue that is in any other living creature, 
A Sentence.  is bestowed upon us. Unto a wise man nothing is unpossible, neither can the stars themselves prevail aught against him. But if he will needs lose himself, if he will employ his good gifts, against his own self, as the surious man, who woundeth his heart with his ownesword, can the blame thereof be attributed unto Nature? That vassal that hath received all good and kind entertainment and usage of his Lord, and yet afterward will fail of his duetic, 
A Simile.  doth he bring his Master to be guilty of his offence, or can he make him to be the Author of this his so gross tollie? I think not. If so, why hast thou then suffered thyself so foolishly to be deceived, cheated, and deprived of that force, and virtue, that Nature hath lent thee, laying upon her, all the blame for the loss of the same? Thou affirmest that man is miserable, and therefore little beholding unto Nature, but upon what Foundation, upon what Rock, or upon what sure ground canst thou prove her to be the cause of his misery? Doth he want any thing that is convenient and fit for him? hath he not the form and shape of the Gods? Is not his Soul divine? and doth it not participate with wisdom, knowledge, and understanding? and if thou wilt not allow, Wisdom, Knowledge, and Science, to be in the number of the best things, than dost thou deface every virtue, and by this means thou makest men, to be no better than brute and senseless beasts. But knowledge (sayest thou) bringeth unto man, care, and vexation of mind, which like a worm, eateth and knaweth him continually, and (yet) doth the same understanding, make him to approach nigh unto the Gods, bringing him to be far more perfect, then when he knew nothing. O what an unspeakable joy doth he conceive in his soul, when he is once able to attain unto the discovery of those admirable effects of God? being able through his knowledge to prevent such mischiefs as are at hand, and to deliver others from present shipwrecks of imminent misfortunes? Thou addest, that these things increase and engender sad thoughts in his mind: but what pain, what grief, what molestation, or trouble, is there found (be it never so sharp & stinging) which can once countervail, or compare, with the ambrosial sweetness of that renowned glory, which that man swalloweth down along time, who rightly and perfectly doth but judge & conceive of celestial actions, & by his prudency & skill, maketh himself most profitable and necessary unto his commonwealth? All those other bad conceits, pass and vanish away, as a sudden storm, but most durable and for everlasting, is that glory, which man buildeth and establisheth upon the rocky ground of never failing virtue. Great Hercules, (as now, 
An example. ) feeleth no more the pain of all those huge labours which he once endured in this world, for that is dead and gone, but his glorious renown, his worthy name and fame endureth still, and shall for evermore. But thou castest thine eyes, upon such things only as are present, which are flitting and not durable, fortifying thy complaint upon a vain and light shadow, without bethinking thee once of that substance of Eternity, that is to come hereafter. 
A Sentence.  True glory is never gotten but by great labour and travail; and virtue best shineth through deadliest dangers, as the Sun showeth clearest, amongst the darkest clouds. Hadst thou but any high courage in thee, or wert thou bravely pricked forward with the spur of honour, thou wouldst never regard so much as thou dost this present time, but wouldst rather have respect to what is like to come hereafter; for right wretched is he, that with his dying body encloseth and burieth his name, his glory, and all his exploits, all within one obscure tomb. Blame not Nature then, who hath made man perfect in all parts and compliments, and hath given him the direct means to enter into the right way which leadeth him unto the place of Eternity. And if thou canst not understand these Arabic letters, the fault is thine own, and not Natures, who hath given thee a mind to conceive, and a tongue, to learn to practise and speak. But there is no reason, that without labour and taking of pain, we should come to purchase our desires, since through this travail, the perfection of Nature is the better known, producing many fair effects within our souls, first form and invented by her, which without industry would remain quite extinguished, and of no force, not unlike unto senseless stones. The Shepherd wakened with this biting discourse, began to take heart at grass, replying upon the old man in this sort. Whatsoever thou art, that showest thyself so charitable and devout, in thy devoir and duty towards Nature, christening her with the name of perfect; I must needs tell thee, thou art wonderful wide from the truth, and not a little deceived in this matter; For if such perfection were found in her (as thou speakest) why then doth she not make every man perfect alike? whereas (quite contrary) from some, she taketh away their health, through long and strange Maladies, which by her own name, are termed natural; from others, she curtalleth and loppeth off their best members, whereby they grow deformed and misshapen; some others she abridgeth, and taketh away from them their right wits, and senses, making them become innocents, and fools; and from others again, she withdraweth her liberal hand of plenty, forcing them to live in great want and beggary. Now what perfection is here found in these so divers contrary effects? for of that thing which is perfect, nothing can proceed but what is perfect, like unto itself; As it happeneth amongst Lions & Lionesses, which always resemble one another: but from Nature, divers effects do happen unperfect, and therefore is not she herself perfect. Now, badly (quoth the old man) herein do you conclude, for both Nature herself is perfect, and so are her works also. Perfect are her works, in that she doth distribute unto every one, that which she knoweth to be most necessary for him. Some doth she cause to be sick, to the end she may smother and kill the force and power of such vices, as they have over greedily swallowed down. From others she taketh away their right wits and memory, to make them forget the conceit and thought of high and aspiring designs, and to bring them to think of base and low matters; upon the conservation of which, dependeth the estate and safety of their Superious: and from others, she keepeth back her treasures, to the end she might acquaint them with the ordinary labour and tillage of the earth; which rendereth a most sacred and diume testimony of her perfection, without which, the most worthiest Spirits, addicted wholly unto glory, should be constrained to forsake and yield their bodies unto death, as being famished for want of sustenance: and as her perfection is exquisite, so is her puissance incomprehensible, and the effects of the same most admirable; so as who solloweth her steps always orderly, shall never grossly err, nor offend shamefully. And yet (replied the Shepherd) divers that have offended, erring through Nature, have by Art much amended their defects: whereas never hath there been knonwe any one that hath been found to be perfect, through the benefit of Nature: As we see the Sages & wise men, (that lived heretofore in the old world,) spent many years to correct, by knowledge and experience, the defaults of lame Nature. But that knowledge (answered the old man) proceeded from the self same Nature, in such wise, as she is not to be blamed at all for the same, nor to be thought any thing the more unperfect for it; seeing that as she was the cause of that ill, so she brought a remedy for the same; and that so wholesome a one, as the wound being once cured, 
A Simile.  the whole body ever after was the better, being clear purged of all his defects. Not unlike unto the body of man, which being purified, through a comfortable potion, is not only freed of that disease which as then infected him, but ever after is the better in health for that wholesome Physic. We see that sometimes the Surgeon maketh incision, and cutteth off flesh, to the end the whole body may be the more healthful and sound: so this experieece which Nature hath bestowed upon man, is so perfect and necessary, as he may judge himself to be right happy, to have found some such small defect of Nature in himself, since they have been of force to learn him how to help himself, and how to use this excellent knowledge unto his great advantage, which not only cleanseth him from his faults present, but from such likewise as are to come hereafter. What is that you said (answered Arcas) as though there be not many faults and imperfections of Nature, and those of so high a quality, as no experience nor skill, be it never so great, can ever amend them, or once be able to do good of them: how many incurable diseases are there that no Physic can help them? and how many cruel and desperate inconveniences, that no Art can withstand them? No, no: Nature herself can never deliver unto man any one knowledge sufficient, (no, although we would grant that wisdom proceeded from her, as it doth not) which were of force and power enough to amend and correct her own faults, and imperfections. I will demand but this one question of you, whether you think there be any natural prudence, or foresight strong enough, to help that sickness which proceedeth from Love? and whether Lovers have not good reason, justly to complain of Nature, who without any succour or help, halleth themso cruelly unto such inexpiable miseries? Nay then (quoth the old man) if you come to encounter against me, with the power of Love, I must needs have the field, and yield the prize unto you. For I myself, although I have drawn thousands of treasures from Nature, all which are sufficient proofs of her beautifulness, of her power & virtue; yet could I never find by her means any remedy against this incurable disease. Incurable, may I call it, since it hath made me to abandon the world, to live this solitary kind of life, whereby I might beguile my unsupportable pains, and so (in the end) find death the only right Sovereign cordial and help to ease and end this hellish disease. And if the selfsame accident, hath brought thee hither to be a companion unto me in my miseries: I shall be very willing to discourse unto thee, the disastered adventures of my Love; and as gladly every way to understand the hapless course of thine own. It is the only thing I most desire (replied Arcas) although I doubt shrodely, that the memory of my bitter troubles, will hardly afford me free utterance of speech, to recite and repeat at full, the discourse of mine infinite misfortunes; and, I fear me, lest the sad remembrance of my renewed griefs, will interrupt and break the slender thread of my feeble voice. But before I begin, let me entreat you to expound and to interpret unto me, these Arabic verses, & the substance of the same. Withal my hart answered the old man, but first let us take our places for our more ease, under the shade of this coolie rock, that the fair coloured green of these sight pleasing odoriferous herbs, may be partakers of so lamentable an History. Whereupon, the old man (with Arcas) sat him down, where he thought fittest for himself, when having now already cast his eyes upon the Characters, ready to report them in the French language) a sad accent of a heavy voice, caused him (on the sudden) to stop, & be silent: not unlike that Merchant, who travailing on the way to go his voyage, 
A Comparison.  suddenly turneth back, leaving his company, with whom (before) he had journeyed, being given by the way as he passed to understand, of the too too untimely death of his dear & loving Spouse. This voice ravished the souls of both our Pilgrims, reviving a fresh memory of their loves within their hearts, took away from them all other thoughts, the better to make them dream of their passions, and brought them into their former estates of their Loves, in which they were at the first. And this following, was the Song, which that sweet breast breathed forth most sweetly, accompanied with thousands of deep and profound sighs.  
WHen wilt thou weary be, of sighing forth my pains,  
Poor heavy heart? whose tears extinguished have thy heat  
Why doth not this strange fire, which filleth all my veins,  
My grief consume (my corpse consuming) though 'tis great?  
With care and cries, to feed my soul, is my desire,  
No hope to heal my wounds within me bide:  
Alas I curse myself, yet honour I the fire,  
See then how far, Love draws me on from Reason wide.  
Thrice happy Nature, of each mortal man in this,  
For they (in dying) of their ills, an end do gain:  
But Spirits divine cannot; Divine their essence is,  
Venus' immortal was, immortal was her pain.  
What said I? No. LOVE cannot die through deaths despire,  
For in the soul he lives, and soul can never die:  
On earth below, no creature is that takes in love delight,  
And jove (himself) his awful power hath felt on high.  
Woe is me in this strange sort, I perish (languishing,)  
I wish for death, yet how to perish do not know:  
Wretched that wight, whose burning griefs aye doth him wring.  
Nor can them quench, nor die, to rid himself from woe.  
But since, I to this mischief am predestined,  
Nor can death, to remorse, or pity nothing move:  
Of Gods i'll crave, I may be metamorphosed  
Into those hapless Birds, that still bewail their love.  
Thus sung the troubled Nymph Orithia, amorous of the foresaid ARCAS; who passing on her way, sweetly held on her dulcet tune: but she being gone, the old man once more began to report what he before intended, reaccounting this History following.  
Most unjust law of partial LOVE, 
The lamentable Tragedy of chaste Floretta, and kind Plaindor.  which with thy malice sly,  
Thousands of faults with justice vail, dost hide maliciously.  
Thou that thy traitorous self, dost feign, to be asacred thing,  
And by a coloured greement, thousands unto death dost bring.  
Most cruel law of loathed LOVE, that under friendship's show,  
Dost paint thy bloody Massacres, and mak'st them holy go.  
Thou that with vain allurements fond, and with fair smiling gloze,  
So many faithful Lovers in their fatal tombs dost close.  
Who cuttest off so soon of men on earth the vital thread,  
Of such as for their loyalty, and faiths, are honoured.  
Who (fiendlike) suckest their blood, and as if thou still destned were  
To plague the world; the flesh of these poor murdered souls dost tear.  
Hast thou then this fair worthy Brace of constant Lovers slain?  
Whose memory still flourishing for ever shall remain.  
Hast thou them stifled through mischance, without remorse or ruth?  
Their flowering years, their days, their years, in prime of their green youth.  
Ah too too cruel law of thine, and happy thrice our life,  
If that it were not subject to thy over-ragings rife.  
But what is he can live exempt, from these thy amorous laws?  
When every puissant God what ere, this yoke as forced draws.  
Then who can Love command, when jove himself full oftentime,  
By him hath roughly been controlled, although his powers, divine?  
And yet some comfort small it is to us, though little gain,  
The Gods to have companions with us, in this our pain.  
Then read this more than woeful verse, believe it as your Creed,  
True Herold's of a message such, as hearts to hear will bleed.  
Though in this uncouth desert cold, LOVES hateful enemy,  
Death keepeth his abode and court, and sleep doth here aby.  
Where horror doth inhabit still, and fat all sister's three,  
Who to untwist our thread of life, most willingly agree.  
Where hundred thousand huge Rocks, sore bruised with thunder's might,  
And torn through long continuance, of times injurious spite.  
Are to this place chief ornaments; though many a hollow cave,  
And deepelesse ditches, soundlesse pits, as glories chief it have.  
Although in steed of corn, with thorns & brambles it be sown,  
And with the chilly spring of Icy waters 'tis ore-flowen.  
Although it be environed, with monstruous hedges thick,  
Of blood drawing brambles, and although wild beasts abound in it.  
And that the sweelling perjured sea, most fearful to our eyes,  
The same doth compass round about, with foam which thick doth rise.  
So as no one delight at all (though little) doth appear,  
Or seems that ever Venus sowed her seed immortal here.  
That never here for to repose, did rest the beauteous sun,  
When he his daily course, in course, with Majesty had run.  
In brief, although this Island be, of gastfull lands the worst,  
Where only damned despair doth seek for to abide accursed.  
Yet lived there (here) not long ago) a lovely Shepherd fair,  
Whom cruel Love, did vex and gripe, more than with monstrous care.  
A Shepherd sweet in every point he was, and complete right,  
But that too soon his tender years cut off, were through despite.  
A perfect Shepherd fair he was, his mind and valour such,  
As all the rest of Swains that lived in woods, he passed, by much.  
The spoylle of 〈◊〉 Bears, the rough sharp skin of tusked Boars,  
O● Lions sell and greedy Wolves, hang up, upon his doors.  
Strange hideous Serpents ugly heads, and Griffons Talent claws,  
Sharp poisonous teeth of Dragons huge, with their most ugly paws.  
About the little closing walls of his small house was set,  
As honourable witness of his valour more than great.  
Those were his hangings rich, and these his pictures set in gold,  
Which intermixed in sundry sort, you still might fresh behold.  

* A Sentence.  No such brave furniture as is a deadly enemies spoil,  
‛ Whose colour near is marred with dust, nor length of time can foil.  
‛ So is the battered harness rich won from our vanquished foe,  
‛ Which hung upon our walls more fair, than gold doth make them show.  
‛ For with the same the honour of the owner's victory  
‛ Is there installed and registered, nor can it ever die.  
Thus, than this gallant Shepherd fair, not little to his fame,  
Adorned his house with savage spoil, which he abroad had slain.  
His armour, was his bow, his club, his She pheards' wreathed hook,  
For harness he of musket proof, a leathren breastplate took.  
Yet nothing couldore-cme, his more than usual common power,  
Still from the chase, and fight he returned conqueror.  
Thrice happy, fortunate was his first bringing up and birth,  
Not any gifts more excellent, Nature gave on this earth.  
Valiant he was, and strong in limbs, well made and trim withal,  
So fair as every Shepherdess in love with him did fall.  
Blessed therefore was he in his first green youth as he deserved,  
Whom honour did accompany, whom fortune always served.  
Thrice happy he, in his young years, till 'twas his luckless sat,  
That dismal Love, his reason and his sense did captivate.  
For than he lost his wont force, and courage every ways,  
And of his more than brave exploits, the memorable praise.  
He only studied then alone, to nourish his sad grief,  
To sighthe his secret sorrows forth, and wail without relief.  

* An invective against love.  O more than cursed caitiff Love, thou wisdoms dost annoy,  
Debashest reason sound from mind, and valour dost destroy.  
Wise men, thou makest worse than fools, and mak'st them only fit  
To hurt themselves, whilst obstinate, they stand well pleased in it.  
No pleasing object likes their eyes, but what doth threat them ill,  
What evil is, that love they best, their ruin fostering still.  
They blow the glowing coals, that burns them with o'er what desire,  
As doth the foolish sly, that spoils himself within the fi●e.  
Poor souls bewitched a thousand times, each man in careful wise,  
Doth seek to shun what may him hurt, and from the same he flies.  
Each one doth deadly poison hate, which doth abridge his life,  
And being pained, straight doth hunt with speed for secure rife.  

* The true disposition of a right Lover.  Only, the perverse Lover doth all hope of help refuse,  
He likes his pining grief, and what doth hurt him still doth choose.  
He blest himself accounteth that, not healed is his disease,  
His sickness he doth honour, and to die it doth him please.  
Hard fortune, is this to him, yet his haps far harder more,  
He waileth his mischance, and yet, his grief he doth adore.  
His woes near die, but still revive; Then happier live you fair,  
You that be dead, in better case, than Lovers plagued, you are.  
LOVE then our shepherds courage stout, did weaken with his rage,  
And reaped the sprouting fruit, scarce ripe, of his first happy age.  
Ravished his senses, and to thousand dangerous harms him drew,  
And after these disasters all, most cruelly him slew.  
This Shepherd, Plaindor called was, no creature like to him  
For force of arm s for beauteous shape, or virtues, half so trim.  
But hear I pray, how Cupid proud, in most malicious wise,  
Transforms himself to poison strong for to deceive our eyes.  
Who though he seemeth unto us as courteous, meek and kind,  
Yet but a poisoned wine (though sweet in taste) you shall him find.  
Which we no sooner drink, but that it doth us much harm,  
Bereaves us of our vital spirits, and doth our Reason charm.  
This deadly draft who doth but taste, to die is certain sure,  
And yet before his death longtime, he must strange griefs endure.  
Hara by this darksome desert sad, there was a place most dainty,  
Where Autumn, in his season brought forth fruits, great store and plenty,  
Rich was it of all worldly things, but yet amongst the rest,  
For richest good, a Damsel fair surpassing, it possessed.  
Most famous (for this beauteous maid) was registered this place,  
Though at that time few men had had the hap to see her face.  
Her stature tall, made her in show like to a Princely Queen,  
Rather than one that in the woods and groves brought up had been.  
Her flaxen hair which calmy winds did gently blow full soft, 
A description of a beautiful maid.   
Hung dangling down, more fine than gold, in thousand curl wrought.  
Oft (when she any leisure had) she twisted in the shade  
Those hairs as nets, which marry souls (to bow unto her,) made.  
Her forehead of fair ivory, was, even, pure, and large,  
No furrow there (degrace to form) the flesh dia frowning charge.  
No bending wrinkle there was seen, nor painting to deface,  
The snowy whiteness, which is used to make more fair the face.  
Her eyebrows, purest Ebony, kept their proportion right,  
No pleasing show so prettily, the fancy did delight.  
Sweet shadows for her spherelike eyes which with their twincklings calm,  
From sunn●● beams did them defend, which burned overwarme.  
Her diamond sparkling ●y●s were such, and did so brightly shine,  
As those two lamps ●h● Sun and Moon most glorious and divine.  
Her piercing glances full of power, like to swift lightning were,  
When as the slash inflam'd from heaven, itself on th'earth both bear.  
So rolled they in her head, as greatest hearts they forced decay,  
And valiant spirits of men as slaves did bring unto their bay.  
Dan Cupid's darts they were, with which he used men to cross,  
Who being vassals made most bate, did glory in their loss.  
Dire Comets were they, like to such that danger do portend,  
And such were hers, for death they gave to her and to her friend.  
Yet they of shame fastness did show to be the bashful Call,  
Where chaste delight did d●●ly use for his disport to dwell.  
Her pure vermilion sh●●ts, when she did smile had force and power,  
To show more perfect fair by odds than daintiest gillyflower.  
How sweet and cruel waist at once to touch so holy thing?  
What mortal grief was it that took (but once asay) to him?  
Poor Plaindor can true witness be, one kiss unto his cost,  
Was cause that he his precious life, and all his good days lost.  
Her cherry lips, did closely hid●, right Grient Pearl of Ind,  
No precious ●●●lls half so rich, you in that land can find.  
From which P●rcul●●s vaiul●s, a pleasing scent did come,  
More sweet than Musk, more dainty far than rightest Sinamum.  
Her lovely cheeks (Suns' blemish) were as Alabaster fair,  
Whose roseal colour mixed with cream, did show beyond compare.  
Her dimpled chin was full and round; her breast the milky way,  
Where Cupid, (when that he was hot,) a bathing often lay.  
Two Apples fair thereby was seen, as sprung from paradise,  
The Graces, in that garden used to sport in wanton-wise.  
Her matchless hand was long and straight; her fingers white and small,  
The mountain snow refined, to them, was nothing white at all.  
Such was this peerless virgins fair, and she FLORETTA height,  
Blessed perfectly, but only that bad destiny ded her spite.  
One day as in the warming sun, with much curious care,  
She did divide and tide in knots, her shining bright gold hair.  
The hearts of worthiest Demigods, here on the earth to trap,  
As Plaindor came from woods, to view her (thus,) 'twas his hard hap.  
And being weary, thought a while to rest him by her side,  
But this reposing afterward be dearly did abide.  
For vading pleasure over small, he too too dear did pay,  
But 'twas his fortune bad, and down along by her, he lay.  
Where he such poison sucked, as 'twas, within a while his bane,  
And where he rest did think to find, he found recureless pain.  
Thrice happy he, had he not laid himself upon that green,  
Or if that forward he had gone, or, her he had not seen.  
For though his weary coarse did rest, his mind did travail sore,  
Whilst his bewitched eyes, apace down swallowed venom store.  
His gazing eyes n●re from her face, one jot at all did stir,  
His eyes made only to behold, and gaze on none but her.  
He marks with more than curious view, her for head and her cheek,  
Her hair, her breast, and other parts which he too well did leek.  
So rests attenively and still, leaping as 'twere for joy  
The conqueror proud, when he beholds his prey which him did noy.  
So standeth still the greedy jew, to mark with heedful eye  
Such precious lewells, passing rare, which he doth long to buy.  
Then, then, the hapless Shepherd (first) perceived the flame begin,  
To spread alongst his heart, and to consume his soul within.  
He then perceived, of liberty he was deprived and sense,  
By those bright beams of that strange glittering beauties excellence.  
Then of his ill, the silly wretch, had knowledge at that hour,  
Yet to resist, or to withstand the same, he had no power.  
He felt his captive heart attached, and roughly reached away,  
And yet for all this would he not, make of the same a stay.  
All means of help he banished thence, and yet he felt the grief,  
He saw, he was as one undone, yet would not seek relief.  
He was in prison, yet he did refuse his liberty,  
He found his error, yet not once (Peccavie) would he cry.  
He never sought to drive from him, this ill iveuitable,  
Though, through the same, he found himself (for ever) miserable.  
Cruel effects of Love; such Lovers, as quite senseless be,  
Cannot avoid their hurt, although with eyes they do it see.  
So in Florettas' beauteous eyes, Plaindor now captivate,  
Where he should have resisted, is proud of his lost estate.  
He counts himself thrice fortunate, that he thus vanquished is,  
By so divine a beauty, which he vows his chiefest bliss.  
He, this his hurt doth better love, than all his former health,  
His bondage, fore his liberty, he doth prefer and wealth.  
Ah Lovers more than wretched right, worse, hundred times then hell  
Is your estates, and worse than death, (were it but death 'twere well).  
To th'enemy of your sweet lives, yourselves you do devote,  
Your hangman you do honour still, who seeks to cut your throat.  
You are not able once to shun, to hate or to detest,  
That which doth make you languish, and you, tortureth with unrest.  
You love, what works your miseries, and beauty (chiefest sore,  
To peaceful minds of worthiest men) as Gods you adore.  
Each one (excepting Lovers) wronged, revengement seeks by law,  
Defends himself, and (being hurt) upon his foe doth draw.  
Each one (except the Lover) wars, against his Enemy makes,  
Hath reason to detest him, and against him vantage takes.  
He only yields himself as slave, unto his own distress,  
He honoureth his tormentor fierce; his prison he doth bless.  
Who remedy doth seek for him, him he accounts no friend,  
He rather hates him mortally, as if he were a fiend.  
But were not Lovers obstinate, 
Good counsel unto Lovers.  did reason rule their mind,  
Thus perverse still 'gainst their own good, they would not be unkind.  
And thus doth Plaindor now quite change, from his first happy state,  
That beauty, worshipping, which he ought rather for to hate.  
As sensual beast bereft of sense, his heart he offereth free,  
To her who seeks for to abridge his joyful liberty.  
As sacred, her, he doth account, and holds her for a Saint,  
Who is the motive of his moan, and subject of his plaint.  
With great devotion dotard like, he vows to reverence  
That, which unto his life doth seek to offer violence.  
Thus from a man unto a beast, he is transformed right,  
Whilst he doth seek to gain by loss, and Love, which he should spite.  
Yet only in this thing, his luck was not o'er passing bad,  
Since one, to bear him company, he in his sorrow had.  
Floretta felt somewhat the darts of Love, though not so keen,  
Which justly seemed divided right, these two young souls between.  
A little she did feel the heat, of this hot amorous fire,  
Which in the loyal shepherds heart was kindled through desire.  
His parsonage, and valour now, her liberty had won,  
And as she, him, before, so now, he, her, had overcome.  
Her mild behaviour showed the same; her colour, and her grace,  
And her two eyes which still were sixth upon his manly face.  
Which ravished with selfelike Love, like to a mirror true,  
The one the others heavy case beheld, and sad did view.  
The stealing glances which they both cast forth alike did show,  
That in lemma selfsame Sea of Love their hearts were drowned with woe.  
Their uncouth heats, their scalding sighs, their amorous soundings sweet,  
Foretold that of lemma selfsame cup, they both had drunken deep.  
Shame only then withheld their tongues from silence to untie,  
And fear, lest one, the others suit, unkindly should deny.  
Both knew they loved, yet, both did doubt, lest they not loved were,  
They only thought upon that Love, which both did willing bear.  
No signs between them yet had force (although) enough were shown,)  
To make the truth of both their minds unto their souls be known.  
Floretta building on her beauty fair, thought Plaindor loved,  
And that to yield himself her thrall, he easily might be moved.  
Her greatest doubt was, lest he should not constant be, nor true,  
But in the end would give her o'er, and cause her so to rue.  
Plaindor, again could not persuade, himself so blest to be.  
As for to be beloved of her, he thought she near would 'gree.  
He not so much, as think so, durst, but rather did despair,  
Ere to enjoy the thing he held, so dear, and thought so rare.  
He durst not oncedesireed, for fear, least being the same denied,  
He therefore should the greater grief, in his success have tried.  
Yet in the end this Shepheah poor, quite wearied with his pain,  
took heart at grass, though little life within m did remain.  
His eyes fixed on the ground full sad, his eyelidds closed tho,  
And in his gesture many sighs forced from him too and fro.  
His ●●●mbling soul full of pale dread, tears trickling down o'er warm,  
His mind● tormented diversely with many a fierce alarm.  
His bl●●●ing heart priest down with woe, which throbd and sobbed through fear.  
And 'gainst all hope of future good, in combat as it were.  
His arms a cross in woeful wise, (unarmed he alone;  
Thus to Floretta in few words, his case he doth bemoan.  
Divine and rarest beauty; if the Gods have heretofore  
Been as I am of liberty, deprived, and which is more,  
L●ft their chief rest, whilst in themselves they bore as open sign,  
Such earthly beauty, as did seem more like themselves divine.  
Leaving the heavens, their darts and fires, their fortunes for to prove,  
Disdaining nought as soldiers brave, to march in Camp of love.  
If that their souls were scorched with this Archers fire so hot,  
As for their wounds to find some salve, to seek they shamed not.  
If they, as I felt thousand plagues, for loving as I do,  
DEAR, then, that I endure the like, let not be strange to you.  
Each seeks the steps of these great Gods to follow, and though he,  
Do somewhat err in following them, yet ought he pardoned be.  
My heart (as theirs) I wounded find, with darts most mortally,  
Which thou 'gainst me discharged haste from thy commanding eye.  
The self same fire that was in them, is seized upon my soul,  
From sparkels now, 'tis grown to flames, and lordlike doth control.  
 are my senses all, my powers consumed unto nought,  
My reason is enchanted sore, and I to ruin brought.  
If thee I see, I die, If not, I then do pine a way,  
Thus by no means my sickness strange, I suage can or allay.  
To quench this raging fire, I done have what I can, alas,  
But 'twill not be, although I would, I cannot bringed to pass.  
This only now remains for me, my life is in thy hand,  
If I shall live, or die, the power as now, within thee stands.  
By thee alone I hold this life, for thee I die as now,  
That hope I have thou nourishest, my fear engendrest thou.  
Sweet then take pity of this Love, like Chaos so confuse,  
And grant my heart's request, who there his advocate doth choose.  
Mine, be't not any more, thine eyes from me the same did take,  
Then being thine do pity it, and much of it do make.  
Destroy not what is in thy power, but rather it preserve,  
In man, great wisdom 'tis, what is his own, for to conserve.  
I crave not that thou me my captive heart again restore,  
To live with so brave conqueror as thou, 'tis happier more.  
My wills (if any interest, longs to me in the same,)  
(As much I doubt since it I lost, no more I may it claim.)  
It still within thy lovely bands, as prisoner true be bound,  
Nor in my breast his wont place no more henceforth be found.  
Then since it is thine own, and that an amorous sweet desire,  
To have respect unto his health and life doth thee require.  
Unless thou on his fortune hard, dost take some kind remorse,  
In thy chaste amities pure heat, he needs must die of force.  
Ah then relent, be pitiful, in favourable wise,  
And deign for to accept from him, this duteous sacrifice.  
For what can I offer more dear to thee, than my dear heart,  
Which near would yield to Love before, he felt this bitter smart.  
Which scorned his utmost force, and laws did utterly reject,  
And of his manly stomach stout, did show full many effect.  
Then of so brave a vanquished Foe, o'ercome by beauty thine,  
Take pity, and him gently use, in this his captive time.  
Such gallant soldiers as be took in field by chance of war, 
A Simile.   
Be much respected; kindly used, and honoured much they are.  
And whilst as prisoners they remain, and till their ransom come,  
All friendly courtesy to them in loving sort is done.  
Then to my humble heart (fair Dame) who thee doth honour dear,  
Not cruel be, as if thy foe whom thou shouldst hate, he were.  
Ah gently use him, or without thus suffering him to lie  
Still languishing, give verdict straight, and he shall willing die.  
For if thy grace he may not gain, he cannot live on earth,  
Whose wounds are deadly, happy he, if ease he finds by death. 
A Sentence.   
Speak then Floretta fair to me, nor by thine answer sour,  
Be thou the cruel cause to force me leave my life this hour.  
SWEET speak, for by their Oracles, contented are the Gods  
To answer men, yet greater far than men they are by odds.  
So said the Shepherd, who in fear the summons did attend,  
Offortune good or bad, if he should live, or life should end.  
Like to the guilty criminal, who is of hope deprived, 
A comparison.   
Whilst judgement with great terror he expects to be disliued.  
His heart did paint full sore and fast, his face for fear did sweat,  
Mistrust did show in his sad eyes; fear in his soul was set.  
Disgrace and shame to be denied, his body galled throughout,  
Who doth attend for what he longs, and languisheth in doubt.  
Thus wandered too and fro his vital spirits in this state,  
Whilst that his life did seem to him as over desperate.  
Tide was his tongue, and now it irk him that he ought had said,  
Wishing that he his secret wound to her had not bewrayed.  
So doth a brave and gallant mind, by famine forced to beg  
Repent him, after that an alms, demanded thus he had.  
But at the last, the Shepherdess dissolved these doubts confuse,  
Cheering somewhat the Shepherd, by these words which she did use.  
The time hath been, that Venus (though loves mothers she) hath loved,  
Whilst self same plagues which she inflicts, on others she hath proved.  
Great jove, the Precedent and chief, of all the Gods above,  
Did think it no disparagement at all to be in love.  
Both Gods and Goddess have loved, then why should I be blamed,  
Since but with selfsame spot I am (as they have all been) stained.  
jove, life hath given unto us, that we should follow him,  
To err as Gods, 
A Sentence.  is no offence, so praise, not blame, we win.  
Then may I without scandal love, as they before have done,  
So as my love in chastest path of loyalty do come.  
With such love (Plaindor) thee I like, and hope this love so strong,  
Shall be of force thy constancy to make endure more long.  
I love thee; yet no power thou hast o'er body mine at all,  
If once presume unmodestly, 
A Sentence.  ought to request thou shall.  
For no love is that love indeed, but rather furious rage,  
That seeks our honour with disgrace, or infamy t'engage.  
Then I will love thee, yet of me, thyself nought else assure  
But my chaste faith, which i'll reserve to thee unspotted pure.  
Until that happy time shall chance to hap to us at last,  
When we by sacred marriage rights, may coupled be more fast.  
And with this Plaindor, be content, for what more canst require,  
Then of my love to be assured, which is thy chief desire.  
The loyal wish of lovers true, is love reciprocal,  
For where good meaning is and plain, there, none is mocked at all.  
But for to 〈◊〉 for pl●●●ure send alone, in sensual wise,  
Is brutish, 〈◊〉 to beast's who show all reason to despise.  
Did I but thinks (Shepherd) thy Love, not sober were, or chaste,  
Or that within thy breast bla●k thoughts (stain to my state) were placed.  
That from thy heart all honour thou and credit didst reject,  
And more of 〈◊〉 (m●●t ●nlike) than virtue didst respect,  
Assure thyself I will arguing myself on thee, so sore,  
As for thy boldness thou shouldst di●, although I died therefore.  
And I soon p●●ish would my 〈◊〉 for that I was so vain,  
To love a friend, so small of worth a my chaste mind to stain.  
My blood shed by my hands should wash my fault and error baed,  
Since I to maker hoyce of my Love, no better foresight had.  
Floretta, near shall live to morn, by taking such disgrace,  
Floretta, sooner flourish shall by death, which i'll embrace.  
Then Plaindor, live, and think thyself, thrice happy for to be,  
Since of a virtuous Love, thyself assured thou dost see.  
M●a●● time, look to thyself, (attending that same blessed day,  
The haru●st of our chastest Love, when Hymen gather may.)  
To die, or say aught that unto discredit mine may turn,  
For which death purging me, too late, thou then for me shalt mourn.  
He, that is wise, seeks to be Lord o'er his affections,  
And he a conqueror is right, that conquers his passions.  
Be thou such one (dear friend) for who with prudency doth cope,  
Finds his desires soon riven dare, and nourished his hope.  
Thus wisely spoke Floretta fair whose golden speech so grave,  
Made Plaindor in his entrails hot, a greater burning have.  
Her sage discretion he admires her faith he doth adore,  
As sacred, he doth honour her, and likes her chaste love more.  
He could not ●●st, nor rightly give a guess, which did surmount,  
Of these two so ●re qualities in her, if so great count.  
Her beauty fair, or wisdom grave, which most did her advance,  
He was with them so ravished and out of countenance.  
For heavenly Al●●rs we d●e use, to virtue to erect,  
And so, cause beauty conquereth men's spirits, we respect.  
Each of these twain, 〈◊〉 by themselves, or, by themselves divided,  
By men are raised to highest rate, and as divine are praised.  
But in one body, when alone this Twin of virtue light,  
That coarse the beauty of the Gods, as then resembleth right.  
'tis heavenly, then, as they, and for to Love doth willing draw  
The hardest hearts, and senselest Rocks of Epyr with great awe.  
With this rich jewel precious, is Plaindor ravished,  
And without stirring, thinks that he up to the heavens is fled.  
Immortal, and most i● finite his glory he doth think,  
More than the Gods themselves which do of flowing Nectar drink.  
His heart in pleasures sea swims fast, as he himself requires,  
His soul doth melt through sweet conceit, in flames of his desires.  
His joy doth keeps him tongue tide, and he thinks he dreams as tho,  
Whilst in his mind, he divers thoughts doth canvas too and fro.  
What he doth see, he credits not, nor can he easily deem,  
That so rare beauty once will deign of him for to esteem.  
He stands amazed like to that Prince from captive bonds unthrald,  
Who is from prison took to Throne, and there, anew installed.  
He thought Floretta, flower of all, would near have stooped so base,  
Nor that she ere meant him to write in Checkroll of her grace.  
Sad sorrow oft the constancy of man doth much annoy,  
And good things unexpected, quite confound the mind with joy.  
Thrice happy who the Centre keep, nor near exceed the mean,  
Where neither good nor bad doth them torment with such extreme.  
Plaindor, then waked out of his tra●se, with lovely discreet cheer,  
Million of condign thanks doth give, to his Floretta dear.  
Den●●tly, he his faith protests, strictly to keep to her,  
And that beyond loves sacred bonds he never means to stir;  
To serve her faithfully, and that himself heel sooner slay,  
Then to commit what should offend her humour any way.  
Fair flower, quoth he, light of my life, do not me doubt at all,  
Thy will a Ln●, thy word, command, be unto me still shall.  
Thy wish my chief desire I'll hold, thy glory shall be mine,  
Thou wholly shalt be unto me, and my soul only thine.  
I never will forget myself, and when I first offend  
Against thy dainty self, I pray my life have shameful end.  
When, as unconstant wavering wight, I shall like Haggard range,  
Of all the hellish torments fierce, then let me have the change.  
Most wicked I, and most unfit to live upon the earth,  
If when thou life to me hast given, I should thee quite with death.  
HE sowler fault cannot be named, nor that deserves more shame, 
A Sentence.   
‛ Than th'ungrate L●uer, when he is unthankful to his dame.  
‛ For there's no evil that so much craves succours speedy need,  
‛ Then that which Lovers doth molest, and makes their hearts to bleed.  
‛ Nor is there any cruel pain, as is the loving grief,  
‛ For Love consumes both soul and corpse, unless it find relief.  
Then (Lady) as thou merciful hast been thus unto me,  
So I my service dutiful, for die assure to thee.  
And if my fortune chance to prove (by envious destiny set)  
That I myself by doing what undecent is forget)  
My blood shall wash my fault away, and rather this offence  
Shall end my life, then perjured like with fault I will dispense.  
Do so (replied) Ploretta, and thou soon shalt see the day,  
When as our Loves shall happy preouc, though now they us delay.  
But chiefly have regard ('bove all) that thou the cause be not,  
That my chaste meaning through thy fault be stained with vicious blot.  
For should this ill chance hap, thou then (as I before said) soon,  
Shall seem (slain by mine own hands) to sleep within my Tomb.  
Thus did these Lovers twain, themselves, one th'other oft conjure,  
And thus between themselves, their faiths (in secret) did assure.  
As whilom was Dan Paris, 
An example.  with forsooks Enone seen,  
To plight their loves most covertly amongst the leaves so green,  
But after they had to idea while, with many a pleasing word,  
After a thousand pastimes as the year did then afford;  
With thousand lovely glances quick●, one to the other cast,  
Which forced the amorous fire within their entrails burn more fast.  
After a thousand petite Oaths with sports before near found,  
To see, if of their fancies fi●t a like were not the ground.  
After a thousand sugared smiles, and toyings delicate,  
Which more the minds of Lovers true doth rightly recreate.  
After a thousand small disd●●nes. 〈◊〉 d for the nonce,  
And discontents, proved merriments, between these dove-like ones.  
By which, from cinders, unto flames, there heat did more increase,  
By reason of this w●nton war, and amorous angry peace.  
After much wooing (but no doing) the evening being come,  
And that the S●re of Ph●e●on, his course that day had run;  
At last, Plaindor, nigh surfeiting, with joy and mere content,  
Kissed her fair hand with much ado, yet prettily was shent.  
That done, (though loath) he bids adieu unto his Lady bright,  
Being angry not a little, that so soon was come the night.  
And laden richly thus with hope of her, whom he loved best,  
He home doth go, where quietly he takes his wished rest.  
O rare beginning, fair commencement of two Loves so chaste,  
O happy couple, whilst their days so luckily were graced.  
O blessed Lovers, if against your fortunes, heavens rage  
Not traversed had to ruin you, in your best youthful age.  
But when we think (puffed up with hope) that we do fly aloft,  
Then soon clipped are our wings, by angry stars full oft.  
Then jealous of our glory, they do seek us to destroy,  
Thinking, they gain chief victory when us they can annoy.  
Thus, these two Lovers unto dire misfortune destined,  
By cruel Fates, in midst of their joys were ruined.  
Yet hear this woeful tale of them, and you will justly say,  
That nothing long in this vain world, continueth at one stay.  
Because Plaindor, for properness, and strength, others did pass,  
He of another Shepherdess, extremely liked was.  
His two black eyes, made her eyes show, how nigh she was to death,  
Her colour for the love of him, was like the fall of leaf.  
She fancied none but him alone, he was her only treasure.  
And that she was thus thralled for him, she counted it a pleasure.  
But Plaindor, never thought on her, nor, for her ought did care,  
Already all his Rest was up, to like none but his FAIR.  
He had no leisure for to judge, if she did love or no,  
So much for fair Floretta, did his strange affection grow.  
And so should be true Love indeed, where two, should be but one,  
A loyal Lover should but serve his mistress, sole alone.  
For never hath it yet been seen, that constant amity  
Would ere digest, that in the midst it should divided be.  
This caused Plaindor not to love, this wretched maiden poor,  
Who for his sake, perplexed was, and well nigh at death's door.  
Thus languishing, she followeth him, with pale and piteous look,  
Still seeking for to take that course which she should have forsook.  
She followeth him in Quest, and still she after him doth trace,  
Like to the Bloodhound good, the dear that followeth with great pace.  
Whilst he (good soul) full little thought that she ought to him meant,  
He, on his own affection, so earnestly was bend.  
Nor could he scarce endure to hear her speak, or talk to him,  
Nor once to look on her, although she proper was and trim.  
None but Florettas' stainless shape, as beautiful he deemed,  
All other favours whatsoe'er, as Masks unto him seemed.  
His souls sole joy, and life's delight, she was, and chief repose,  
She was his first choice, and the last, that he through fancy chose.  
Yet in the end, this pleasure, which him liked so, him deceived,  
For she whom he did thus contemn, at last his love perceived.  
Seeing herself disdained so oft by him, now grown so acquaint,  
She doubted lest (whom he did serve) he had some other Saint.  
Which was the cause that hindered her, his favour to obtain,  
Resolving with herself to seek, till she had found the same.  
Imagining (but to no end) by some devise herein  
To wade so far, as at the last, she Plaindors' grace would win.  
But 'twas the ruin of the one, and th''others overthrow,  
By too too soon untimely death, as I to you will show.  
Plaindor expecting still the hour, when storms should once be passed,  
To re●pe with joy (what he had sown with sorrow) at the last.  
Building upon Florettos faith, as on a rocky shelf,  
Whom he more than the better part accounted of himself;  
Did yield his heart into her hands, in most obsequious wise,  
Breathing by her sweet breath, and taking life by her bright eyes.  
So as that hour he saw her not, he found himself to die,  
For then, the Lovers cheered, when as his Mistress he is by.  
Sometimes he would be with her, in the thick and muddy shade,  
Sometime sit with her by some spring, which pretty murmuring made.  
And there while by fountain cool, the heat from them to keep,  
Or in some grove be tapistred, with flowers surpassing sweet.  
Then, in some Bower, by Nature framed, where they did often use,  
Upon the gr●sse in steed of beds, their lodgings for to choose.  
Or (for to see the wanton fish) about some crystal pool,  
Or by some Icy river clear, the mor themselves to cool.  
Or in some hodow Rock, the heat of scorching sun t'avoid,  
Whose sparkling beams their tender flesh, too much oft times annoyed.  
Or in some fresh and low deep Cave, environed about,  
Like Baricadoes made for fence) with brier sweet throughout.  
In such like place as these they used, without suspect always,  
In this same sort, to spend of their green youth full many days.  
Devising many a loving toy, as harmless wantoness do,  
Which honour doth permit, whilst they their honour, honour toe.  
One while they merry Roundelays together both do sing,  
And with their cheerful chanting, make the woods throughout to ring.  
another while with blushing cheeks, like to two Turtle Doves,  
One doth unto the other tell, their first chaste modest Loves.  
Then one the others beauty doth commend, and then again  
They praise their plighted constancy, exempt and free from stain.  
And now, they pretty Babies look, one, in the others eyes,  
Whilst love, new subjects still of sport, to please them doth devise.  
For bearing always, ne'ertheless, by proffer, or by show,  
Once to attempt, what any way might to dishonour grow.  
Whilst they poor souls, bare burning coals, yet quench them durst they not,  
Lest their good fame they should abuse, and their pure honour, spot.  
This made them sound through hope, and sigh for want of their desire,  
Not daring reap their loves sweet fruits, as much they did require.  
They wish and yet are wide from it; feign, if they durst, they would,  
They will not do (through virtue) what they think in sense they should.  
Sweet thoughts they have, they sweat for hope, and yet they die through grief.  
They have at hand the remedy, yet will not take relief.  
Half dead, half live, they gasping stand, disiesting this sour drench,  
Whilst water in their hands they have, this fire yet will not quench.  
Bright mirrors of rare modesty, crowned glory you have won,  
That having time and place so fit, your passions did o'ercome.  
And now they fell to their repast, which was of savage Boar,  
Which Plaindor had in hunting slain, with cheese and fruit good store.  
In steed of dainty wine full strong, to drink glad were they than,  
The water of a river clear, which from a Rock forth ran.  
But their chief food and daintiest meat, were lovely glances cast,  
Which from their eyes like swiftest shafts, were shot and darted fast.  
Thrice blessed they; 
A Sentence.  No fortune like, ● although they feel some smart,  
 such true Lovers, as in bodies twain, have but one heart.  
‛ The wealth of all this huge world, not worth the half of this,  
‛ None, (lest they have experience had) can comprehend such bliss.  
‛ But as we see, the sun oft times, through over sweltrie heat,  
Changing the weather fair, great storms, and thundercraks doth threat;  
So likewise we do find full oft, that of most precious things  
Some great misfortune groweth, which us to our destructions brings.  
For every thing is framed so, and in such fashioned guise,  
That what is good, here on the earth, doth find his contraries.  
Of perfect Elements of divers natures, here vnnam'de,  
Are bodies formed and fashioned, and living Creatures framed.  
The heat engendereth chilly cold, cold water, Thunders crack,  
War, Concord, Concord Peace, & Peace War, where all goeth to wrack.  
So, of the pleasant sweet success, of Lovers these, did come  
That which did breed their dismal ends, and laid them in their Tomb.  
The Shepherdess, which Plaindor loved, disdaining in her mind,  
To be disdained, and reap repulse, where she thought Love to find;  
Did dog him as an envious Spy, that no way he could walk,  
In wood, nor grove, but after him, full slyly she would stalk.  
And one day (by ill luck) it was, her fortune to espy,  
How (with Floretta) he a Cave did enter secretly.  
Which, when she saw, her love she cursed, the author of her strife,  
She band the day of her sad birth, detesting sore her life.  
She saw her labour all was lost, her time was spent in vain,  
And there withal she well perceived, recureless was her pain.  
Yet, thought she, she would see the end, of this their Love so chaste,  
And their discourse to hear, herself close in a bush, she placed.  
Who, thinking they were (then) alone, for so they made account,  
Th'one toying with the other stood, as was their usual wont.  
And after many lovely tricks, Love from their eyes did thrill  
So many Darts, hitting their souls, more heat increasing still.  
That Plaindor, being overchaft with this fierce amorous rage,  
His lips upon the cheeks and mouth, of his fair Saint did gauge.  
Now, of himself not master, he, her in his arms doth take,  
And thousand times did kiss her, though resistance she did make.  
As hard it is for him that dieth through thirst, and want of drink, 
A Simile.   
For to abstain, when he draws nigh, the Crystal rivers brink.  
So, 'tis as insupportable, for any Lover much  
To be in presence of the Dame he loves, and her not touch.  
When he hath Fortune time, and place, the leisure and the mean,  
He cannot hold, his blood's so hot, his heat is so extreme.  
When he is near his health, his health to have, he needs must seek,  
When he seethe what he longeth for, he needs the same must like.  
〈◊〉 were he senseless as a stone, and lifeless as a block,  
Like to a lump of heavy earth, and worse than flinty rock.  
So Plaindor takes his pleasure then, forgetful of his oath,  
Whilst he, her lips with kisses seals, respecting nought his troth.  
But welladay; those kisses sweet, to poison sour did turn,  
And was the cause, that to his death, they forced him for to mourn.  
Floretta chafed apace, that he, thus on her lips had seized,  
But Plaindor, this her rage, at last, in sugred-wise appeased.  
The sneaking Shepherdess, the while, withdrawn herself now had  
Out from her hole, where she did see, what made her well-nigh mad.  
And seeing that so many kisses twixt them given had been,  
These Lovers, loved but wantonly, she straight begun to win.  
Away she goeth, nor for to see the end she durst be bold,  
But much astonished did departed, then frosty Ice more cold.  
She is resolved to be revenged, and vexed mightily,  
With sundry passions, her hot love, doth turn to cruelty.  
The Love of these two souls, she means to tax with foul reprieve,  
And of the kissing close, to cast Floretta in the teeth.  
Her Honour to accuse, and of these virtuous Lovers twain  
To seek with infamy, and with reproach, their lives to stain.  
O how disdain is (in her kind) more violent of force:  
And what great damage hath it brought to men without remorse?  
O how it power hath for to change the hearts of vanquishers,  
And how to alter dearest Friends in mind, she her bestirs.  
Mean time Floretta understands, that her Renoums disgraced,  
And that her Honour (undeserved) is wrongfully defaced.  
Her Fault, (if chaste love may be termed a Fault) this woman base  
One morning fore the Shepherds all, reproacheth to her face.  
Which when Floretta heard, she vows, ore-charg'de with furious Ire,  
Against herself, against her health, and life for to conspire.  
No longer will she live (as now) revenged for to be,  
For Honour hers, by Treason stained, as she with grief doth see.  
So for to purge herself of fault, 
An Example.  (not faulty) ne'ertheless  
In ancient Time, unto her Fame, did die the chaste Lucrece.  
Thus doth Floretta, destined too hard, with heavy look,  
Swear with herself, upon herself, Murder to execute.  
Her dainty hands, she aimeth now, against her proper corpse,  
Her hands, which too too hasty were, to wrong, without remorse.  
Ah, how much, honour's dear unto a chaste and modest sprite,  
Who seeks by vice, to slander such, accursed be that Wight.  
The fear of Death can never cool Desire, 
A Sentence.  that's resolet,  
To save his good name, by his life, if he thereon be set.  
Floretta, then changing her former use, from sweetest joy,  
To uncouth plaint, and passions sad, surcharged with annoy.  
Bewailing her disaster hard, and sighing forth her pain,  
Unto a savage mountains top, gets up with speed amain.  
Where sprang a certain Water strange, or rather poison fell,  
By which strong venom, she did mean, her woes for to expel.  
This water of such nature was, as nothing could it hold,  
It broke Glass, Iron, Brass, Lead, Steel, it was so deadly cold.  
But she that knew the property thereof, in hoof of Ass,  
Close did the same conserve, and then away from thence did pass.  
And carrying it about her still (until she Plaindor found  
She never left, that done, she down sits, by him on the ground.  
Where she withouten show of grief, like Cignet that doth sing  
Before her death) these words worth Note did use, thus greeting him.  
Ah Plaindor dear, dear may I say, if thy Floretta poor,  
Hath given thee any proof of Love, most perfect, or most sure;  
If ever of her friendship kind, thou care hadst heretofore,  
As not long since, she in thy Love, with pity thee did store.  
By that same loyal love of thine, she now coniureth thee,  
Permit her Honour, to revenge her on her injury.  
Floretta (now) can live no more, since that she, through thyself,  
Hath lost her good Fame, which she priz'de above all worldly wealth.  
Ah Plaindor, 'tis (for ever) lost, and by like luckless Fate,  
Floretta thine, now goeth the way, her life to ruinated.  
Alas, how often told I thee, when first thou didst me woe,  
That still, mine Honour to preserve, thou shouldst respect have due.  
Mine Honour, which Florettas' life, after the same doth draw,  
And which I justly forced am, to follow now by Law.  
How we do live, here in this world, God knoweth is reckoning small,  
Nor flourish can our Names, 
A Sentence.  or deeds, immortally at all.  
Unless our Honour, 'mongst ourselves, do live immortally,  
For that alone keeps us alive, that we can never die.  
But if the self same blood as yet, remaineth in thy heart  
Of such, so many savage beasts, by which thou richer art;  
If in the prime of thy best Age, and pride of thy youth's flower,  
Thou hast not lost thy courage old, through loves ore-conquering power;  
Then Plaindor, I pray hearty, nay more, beseechen thee,  
To live, when I am dead, and that thou wilt suruiven me.  
And think dear Friend, I merit not the half part of the grief  
Which for my death, I know that thou wilt take without relief.  
For I was, but a shadow plain, transformed in body thine,  
Besides, fairer than I, thee loves, whose beauty is divine.  
Who, with affection like to thine, in fancy being set,  
The thought of me, and memory, shall make thee soon forget.  
So that no sooner Death shall me, from my lives chains dislinke,  
As thou stalt forced be, no more on me at all to think.  
Mean time, since hasty Death, doth me, of all my hopes deprive,  
To have for my sore wound a Salve, whilst I shall be alive;  
And that (sweet Shepherd) I no more (shall now) of thee have need,  
I'll thee acquaint, how much, how dear, I loved thee indeed.  
Most zealous, yet more chaste, I loved, such was mine amorous flame,  
My heart was thine, and in thy breast, mine own Soul did remain.  
My thoughts, did wholly run on thee, my body aye was thine,  
Thy will, as 'twere, a penalt Law, to thee, did me combine.  
To please thee (not myself, (I lived, nor did I think at all,  
That ere my credit had received a foil, much more a fall.  
Nav more, I could have been content, that thou shouldst tasted have,  
That sweetest sweet, that Lovers seek, and still is, that they crave.  
But that mine Honour did o'er me, with greater puissance seize,  
Then my desire, o'er senses had, (as sensual) them to please.  
This selfsame honour (now) although some (wrongfully) have touched,  
Because it too much honoured thee, and suffered thee, too much.  
Demands, my body offered be, to him, my fault to purge,  
And for to have it sacrificed most bloody, doth it urge.  
And so it shall; Floretta, (than courage) take heart at grace,  
And this vile blot of hateful shame, let's wipe from off our face.  
For though I through this poison strong, of life deprived be,  
Yet my good Fame, taxed wrongfully, it shall restore to me.  
Adieu, my dearest Plaindor, but must I, myself absent  
From thee? and from thy presence, needs must I alack be sent?  
I, I; Ah, hellish grief, yet me my heart again restore,  
That I may live below this earth, with quiet mind the more.  
Ah, render me, my heart again, which I'll in pieces tear,  
Nor for to see the same to die, be thou abashed with fear.  
Sweet Plaindor, if that ere thou lov'dst Floretta, thou mayst vaunt,  
Vouchsafe this one request to her, (now dying) for to grant,  
Which is, me to survive, that thou, as Testis, witness may,  
How wrongfully some thought (too much) my Glories pride to slay.  
I call thee, for to speak the truth, of my chaste Innocence,  
And to the Heavens I do appeal, who knows my true pretence.  
Then (Friend) if ever in that sight of thine, this body have  
Been gracious, when it dead shall be, provide for it, a grave.  
Close these mine eyes, cashirde from light; shut fast this mouth so pale,  
And this my Coarse, below in ground, to bury, do not fail.  
(Dear, this is all I crave of thee, since now my course is run,  
That kindness, is but worth small praise, that by the halves is done,  
But, how now Plaindor? what? dost weep? thou sighest amain, me think,  
Nay, than thy grievous Martyrdom, I soon will ease and stint.  
Let's die, let's die, more than high time 'tis, I were gone from hence,  
And saying so, she swalloweth down, that hateful poisonous drench.  
That done, upon the greeny grass, herself she softly throws.  
And holding of her arms across, her pretty mouth doth close.  
When lifting up her last seen eyes, she Plaindor might behold,  
How he his manly breast for grief, did beat with courage bold.  
Whereat she weeps afresh, so great a Corsie to her 'tis,  
And dying now, she strives to give to him her latest kiss.  
That done, she yieldeth up the Ghost; Ah heavy spectakell,  
But now the dire Catastrophe, of this sad tale, I'll tell.  
When Plaindor saw his Mistress dead, with looks most furious  
He draweth his sword, which 'gainst himself, he bends as barbarous.  
And raging like a bedlam mad, distraught of wit through wroth,  
Minding himself to massacre, these words he sigheth forth.  
Floretta, ah Floretta, speak, speak fairest of all Fair,  
Where's now thy faith, that did protest, of me to have such care?  
Where's now thy oaths and promises? They (now) have me deceived,  
And my green youth, long fed with hope, they have of joy bereaved.  
Cruel Floretta, and yet cruel, to none, except unto  
Thyself, when for another's fault, thyself thou didst undo.  
To bring me to my dismal end no way couldst thou devise,  
But for to slaughter thus thyself, in such a monstrous guise?  
O, fair, but chaster Coarse by far, what hast thou done or said,  
To be, untimely, fore thy time, consorted with the dead?  
And thou pure soul, within that Coarse, what sin didst thou commit,  
That thou so soon, from that fair Inn, away shouldst pass and flit?  
Thine Honour thoust kept undefiled, then if you this, do call  
A fault, how then hast thou offended? Else hast thou not at all.  
Fair beauties spotless Temple, thou dost die for mine offence.  
And I, the essence of thy ill, to live seek to dispense.  
Ah wretched me, and which is worse, white liuered sop I am,  
Unworthy of such calling, as to bear thy servants name.  
No, no, I needs must die, my blood, pardon, for fault shall win,  
And I will satisfaction make, for this my cruel sin.  
Yet fore I die, I humbly grace, and pardon, beg of thee,  
Who hast the power, that this my soul, remaineth thus in me.  
Ah pardon me, what be't I say? this pardon which I crave,  
Argues my fault, more monstruous, that worse I sinned have.  
I see, the Murderer I have been, of thy fresh flowering youth,  
Thy healths, chief Homicide, and foe, unto thy faith some ruth.  
For me, (not for thyself) thou diest, and shall I then be cause,  
To see those eyes & mouth closed up, which Death unto them draws?  
O, of all virtue, golden mean, of loyalty, bright son,  
Whom as my Saint I have adored, must thou for me be undone?  
O hell, O black despair, of Stars most spiteful in such wise,  
To incense so many boisterous storms, 'gainst my small bark to rise;  
Ay me, why died I not, when first I saw this face of hern,  
Then like an exile. from all joy to be exposed and driven?  
But soft, my Tongue runs too too fast, and words be nought but wind,  
I know not where I am, nor am I now in my right mind.  
Yet at the least, let me once bid my dearest Dame adieu,  
And let me of her take my leave; Ah speak; what, will not you?  
No, no, I am unworthy I, unworthy of her grace,  
I not deserve, that have destroyed such favour, so suit face.  
And hast thou then, the heart to see, that beauty be disliu'de,  
The only cause, that thou long since, of life wort not deprived!  
And canst thou breath without her sight? thou canst not I do know,  
Unto Th'Elysian golden fields, thou needs with her must go.  
Myself, my young years cutting off, will rid me of annoy,  
Since such a black tempestuous storm, hath shipwrecked all my joy.  
I'll die, i'll di●; but yet what kind of death might I invent  
Cruel enough for my vile fact; me justly to torment?  
Since that the fait! falst m●●de alive, through me her death hath found,  
To whom, more than to all the world, I was obligde and bound.  
Divinest beauty, thou, through me, dost perish, and dost die,  
Whose chief delight was to restore, my nigh lost liberty.  
Plaindor, thy death's wound hath thee given, whilst he forgot himself,  
To whom he owed his life and goods, and more than all his wealth.  
Ah hapless man, ah lovely Nymph, great reason sure thou hast  
To give m● over, since over thee, so small care I have placed.  
And misely didst thou guess, that I unto thy glorious fame,  
Should be small credit, rather one, that thee and thine should shame.  
But woe is me, thou wrongest me, if so of me thou judge,  
Since for thy sake nought to attempt, as yet I ●re did grudge.  
Fair, thou shalt know, that since my heart, a widower is through thee,  
He can no joy what ever take, nor longer living be.  
Much less, that I can like again, I am no Lover such,  
If so thou thinkest, thou art deceived, and wrongest me oremuch.  
Thy servant, whilst I lived I was, dying i'll be thy slave,  
To make some mends for mine offence, thou ready me shalt have.  
I'll die, as thou hast done, as one, of thy praise envious,  
Because thou purchased haste for me, thy rest from sorrow thus.  
I will not beg, that I may touch, that pretty cherry lip,  
Whilst I am dying, I confess, myself deserve not it.  
Yet gracious Goddess of my thoughts, if those thine eyes so bright,  
Have not already quite forsook their wont cl●eerfull light;  
Ah then, do but once open them and Plaindor thine regard,  
With one small glance, who now doth leave his life through fortune hard.  
Bright stars, your Plaindor, you shall see, loow quickly he will die,  
If you so much do grace him, as to open but half an eye.  
And now in leiu of recompense, for wrong that done I have,  
This blood accept, my heinous crime, to purify and lave.  
Sweet Lady, now at last receive this blood, this blood of mine,  
And suffer my dead coarse, repose and rest itself by thine.  
Thus said, with courage great, his sword, he thrusts into his side,  
And being dead upon the ground, his body faint doth glide.  
Which with his lukewarm struaming blood, the ground did make to fa●●●  
Of colour, whilst it flowing ratine, and died it over all.  
Floretta all this while was not stark dead, the poison strong  
Was not enough, which was the cause, her life it did prolong.  
Her he avie eyes she casteth up, and rolleth here and there,  
Whilst in her face, a show of death, half smiling doth appear.  
And seeing Plaindor, fallen by her, she, him doth fast embrace,  
And with her feeble force doth wipe, the blood from off his face.  
His head, with dying hand she doth hold up, to ease his pain,  
And having given to him a kiss, rekisseth him again.  
Wherewith he gaspeth, yet once more, and thinks himself the most  
Blessed, that in his Mistress arms he yieldeth up his ghost.  
Thrice happy Plaindor, fortunate, eternal is thy glory,  
For thou hast gained over death, a precious victory.  
Thou diest in the clasped arms, of fair Floretta thine,  
Whilst with her eyes, thine eyes, thy face with hers do close conjoin.  
She striving for to die, that she amain might thee pursue,  
Whom thou dost see, though 'gainst her will, thee to survive so true.  
And now death had already ta'en her speech, nor could she speak,  
Yet these few words she sighthed forth, with hollow voice most weak.  
O Plaindor, sweet friend, Shepheard mine, our Loves though miserable,  
To ages that hereafter come, to live shall aye be able.  
Since through the virtuous paths they trod, untainted chastity  
Serves unto them to be the ground, to their Eternity.  
And though we now die, yet ourselves, thus let us comfort rife,  
Thou diest form, and I for thee, am pleased to end my life.  
Like faithful friends we die, the one forth ' other's well paid,  
And in one Tomb our bodies both shall be entered and laid.  
Thou goest (my Love) before me, and I follow thee most blithe,  
As fast, as fast I can, for, thee I mean not to survive.  
Yet happy we in dying thus, since (kissing) we embrace,  
Which (living) we durst not attempt, for fe●re to have disgrace.  
But now I come to thee; Thus said she, on the face doth fall  
Of her blessed Plaindor, whilst her soul, doth, ●lit away withal.  
Their corpses be within one grave, where the ● do quiet sleep,  
And in this Rock, unto their fame, this verse was graven deep.  
ARCAS, having heard this piteous Tragedy, could not choose but weep, dreaming a fresh upon his ancient Loves, when the old man, thus awaked him. Shepherd, Shepheard, love is never satisfied, nor appeased with tears, which is an or dinarie use with him, being always a child, as he is. In the tears of Lovers, doth he temper his Arrows, the harder to freeze the hearts of their Ladies against them. The more he findeth us to wail, and want courage, the more he doth taunt and revile us: Not unlike unto that General of a field, 
A Simile.  who more hostly pursueth his enemies when they begin to shrink back and recoil, then when they ●valiantly and stoutly stand to bear out the brunt. If Cupid hath not yielded unto the tears of his Mother, much less will he be moved at thine. True Lovers, seldom or never weep, because their heat consumeth the moisture which is within them; 
A Sentence.  no more than dry wood can yield forth wet water. Cease then to wail, and in steed of these tears, take courage against this fierce enemy. If the Gods themselves (replied the Shepherd) could not resist him, how then shall any man be able to encounter with him? And what other thing can such miserable wretches do, as be out of all hope, but bewail and lament their untimely misfortunes? It is for hearts of steel, resembling blades over hardly tempered, which rather break then bow, not to be moved with grief at all. Tears are signs of a pitiful Nature: whereas such as are cruel, never weep, because they are quite void of all compassion. Though Love hereat will not be moved, yet will gentles hearts relent at the same. I know, he maketh no account hereof, neither do I pretend to sacrifice unto him with them, but rather with mine own decrest blood. How wonderfully art thou deceived quoth the old man. The altars of Love, as those of the Gods ●ere upon the earth, never distil nor drop with blood: for can Love, be encountered and met withal, amongst brawls, quarrels, and bloodshed? No, no: but where amity and friendship is, there doth he frequent and keep company: 
An excellent discourse of the mightiness and power of love.  such only being to be counted right Lovers indeed, and worthy to enjoy Love itself, who bear no malice, nor seek one another's death. O, how sweet, and pleasing a thing, is this kind of amity, which keepeth the Gods in perfect unity, and under whose puissance, is the hollow giving vault of heaven guided? Men, (after the example of the Gods) by the advise of Love, first assem bled themselves together, uniting and incorporating themselves, within Cities, and walled Towns, leaving the savage wildernesses unto wild beasts, wherein, they before did inhabit. Why then dost thou offer blood unto him? O Father of these nocturnal Deserts (answered the Shepherd) I know thou thinkest otherwise then thou speakest. Canst thou compose, and frame a gentle and mild Nature, 
An example.  of nothing but murder and cruelty? How many massacres love hath commenced, Troy can witness. How many cruel griefs, and insupportable miseries are in the hearts of Lovers Ariadne knoweth; And how many false Treasons, and blasphemous perjuries, Oenone feeleth. Why then wilt thou justify him, he having these foul faults? Every body that lodgeth not reason within itself, is blameworthy. And what reason I pray you, is their found in Love? He is a traitorous Drogerar, and a Physician of men's hearts, for some he healeth and comforteth, and othersome, he vexeth, killeth, and tormenteth; He is blindfolded, which is enough and sufficient proof to make thee know his imperfections. Think not the worse of him for that (said the old man) for justice is united, which brooketh no comparison, in perfection, and virtue. Love is blinded, because he should have no respect of persons, to the end, greatest Kings may be no more exempted from his power, than the poorest beggars. He is blind, to show, that he walketh without craft or dissimulation: for that is no true and sincere amity, where falseness of heart lodgeth, and where treason and disloyalty lurketh. If Love, (seeing clearly with his eyes) should spare Princes and Potentates, what profit then should the poorer sort receive through this friendship? For Love compelleth the rich, and haughtiest courages, to affect and honour the poor & basest creatures, and to do them all service possible they can; And this is the reason that Love is veiled, and not mere folly. For he shall never be counted unwise, who without any sudden alteration, or passion whatsoever, taketh his way and course directly and justly, without sparing great personages, who are made for the support and help of the meanest and poorest sort of people. Yet this vail (answered Arcas) taketh away the light of knowledge, hindering him from seeing, what he ought to do; So that as a blind man (without a guide) falleth into the ditch. Even so Cupid for want of sight, committeth many thousands of gross enormities, which being put in practice, christian him with the name of a fury, in steed of love. Is that right love, which altereth the minds of men, quite topsic turvy in all their proceed? in such wise, as one shallbe forced to love her, who hateth him; and another, shall be beloved of her, whom he cannot in any wise abide? Are not these effects, mere enmities & despites, plain rage, and fury? If so, why then, most unworthy is Love of this name, attributed unto him. Though justice be veiled, yet most loyal, just, unpartial, and sacred, are her proceed: whereas those of Love, are quite contrary. Therefore you conclude ill, to affirm that Love is blinded, like unto justice, which though it be all one thing, yet is the cause different, for the one carrieth her vail to a good end, and the other to a bad purpose; I report me unto the unjust behaviour of this little blind Infant. Alas poor souls (replied the old man) what more showeth the admirable puissance of God, than the diversity of effects, proceeding from himself? what giveth so much glory unto the Painter, as the variety of fair Pictures, which he doth most cunningly portray forth and embollish? Even so, why, doth Love bring forth so many and contrary causes, but only to show himself the more wonderful? & to lay strong, the divine foundations of his mighty power? He bringeth forth effects, which, although they are all differing, yet be they always such, as are agreeable with the diversity of the natures of man, governing every thing with a kind of prudent policy unknown, far above our reaches. For else, it might peradventure so fall out, that it might be more worse for him that loveth to be beloved again, then if he should be hated; the wisdom of the Gods, cannot be comprehended within our feeble spirits. But this is the shallow conceit that mortal men have, rather than to think that to be firm, holy, just, and good, which the Gods themselves go about to enterprise: For it is not to be thought otherwise, but that they who are perfect, (as the Gods themselves) and are no way spotted or polluted with vice, can do any thing, that is unjust, imperfect, or foolish. In respect of the Gods (answered the Shepherd) I avow, what you affirm: yet by your leave, I deny that love may be admitted amongst this troup. Those insolent Tyrants, who use their licentious will, in steed of rightful Love, (whose constraining force, maketh them to be feared,) although they be puissant & mighty, yet cannot they entitle themselves with the names of just and prudent Princes. And so, I allow of the greatness of the power of Love, but not of his Deity. God taketh no pleasure in the fall of man, his creature, but Love seeketh the same; God establisheth all things in good security, by a certain sacred order: but Love dismembreth, scattereth, separateth & breaketh the peace and quietness of man, and therefore he is no God. Most damnable persons are those who being troubled, with some supernatural and violent power, attribute most wickedly unto the Just, Sacred, and divine God, the furious and raging fits of brainsick love. Therefore, let us never pronounce this broad blasphemy; for so far off is Love, from being a God, that mortal men are able to conquer and take him (as it were) prisoner.  
If this be true (replied the old Sire) who then is it, that maketh thee thus to stoop? who hath yoked thee, and made thee bow thy neck unto this God? and wherefore dost not thou trample and tread upon him, he being but a man?  
That Captain that is conquered by a brave victorious enemy, is worthy of blame, but far more is he to be condemned, that suffereth himself to be led away Captive by a weak & feeble adversary. If Love be a thing of so small worth, why then, dost thou not chase him away from thee? In vain therefore be these tears, which thou now shedst: in vain thy complaints, and in vain these sorrows, which thou still makest. Fond is that sick body that may help himself, and who (because as one self-willed, will not) suffereth himself to be infected with a disease, too weak for him, if he were willing to strive & wrestle with the same Even so art thou fond, to languish as a vassal unto this God, so long a time in this manner, when (if thou wilt) thou canst vanquish him.  
O foolish Slave, 
A Sentence.  that being able to free himself without danger, from servitude, yet nevertheless, continueth so, all his life! But the bragging Soldier may always threaten, his foe being absent, against whom appearing once in sight, he dareth not once so much as draw his sword. So thou seemest to contemn Love, yet in the mean time, darest not for thy life to resist him: and being valiant a far off, thou yieldest at the first encountering together. But this one thing I will tell thee, that amongst all the deadly passions, that do ruinated and overthrow man, there is none so strong, nor violent, as this of Love; death itself being far more sweeter than that is.  
How often do we see men sing, when they are at point of death, esteeming themselves right blessed for to die? whereas the Lover (not beloved again) butchereth and killeth himself, running headlong into all dangers, and as one furious, looseth all patience, and all good hopes to come.  
Man endureth resolutely, all other accidents of misfortunes, which ordinarily happen unto him, but being plagued with Love, it ravisheth and bereaveth him, of his virtue and valour, and of his constancy and welfare. Therefore is he more mighty than all other things, which either descend from Heaven, or proceed from forth the earth.  
Mighty indeed, must I needs say he is, (quoth the Shepherd) yet I esteem him but as unwise, that maketh any account of unjust puissance. Without justice, kingdoms are but robberies, and without reason, the Gods also, are but sinners: and therefore unworthy of that name.  
If every one were just, what need should we have then, of Laws and compulsions? Dost thou make account of Love, because he is strong and violent? why so is the Sea, tempestuous, strong, violent, rough, and of great power: but are his waters, as wholesome, fresh, sweet, and good, as are those of springs and lesser fountains.  
Knowledge is a glory to him that possesseth the same, in serving himself wisely and discreetly, but as he maketh it a refuge for vice, and a support to such wrongs and injuries, as he putteth in practice, it is his utter ruin and overthrow. Bad force for a time, may compel to be obeyed, but it is quickly gone, the fear thereof also, dying with the same: where contrariwise, justice purchased without compulsion, to Signorise, and domineer over men's souls, is always highly honoured. Nothing that is built upon rigour, can long endure, the selfsame force, driving forcibly away the first violence: but justice never overthroweth the works of justice, 
An Example.  for that they are upright and worthy of life. I confess indeed, not a little to my grief, that I am the slave of Love, for sometimes a Prince happeneth to be the vassal of a simple & mean Captain, and in as much as men (borne to suffer) are bondmen by Fortune, & vassals of the earth, God disposeth of them according unto his own will. But the sick patient often blameth his disease, which he feeleth, & imagineth, to be little or nothing dangerous at all; and yet neurethelesse, cannot he rid himself of the same, when he feignest would.  
The Bear, for want of knowing his own strength, yieldeth unto a less force, for man is perfect in knowledge, yet because be wants the right use thereof, he is but as a burning Candle under a bushel. And as for Love, my conceit is, that yielding unto him, I obey the least power that is in heaven, or on earth. And I am of an other opinion, answered the old man, for I think it can no way turn unto discredit, to render service unto him, whom the greatest Gods devoutly honour. The Servant ought not to scorn to attend upon him, to whom his Master himself doth belong.  
The Gods (replied the Shepherd) honoured Love, whilst he lent them his hand, 
A Sentence.  and assisted them in their voluptuous pastimes. Profit, oftentimes is the cause, that a man doth reverence unto such a one, as he esteemeth to be a far worse man than himself.  
We cannot (said the old man) term that thing less than ourselves, which hath power to command over us; And if we be obedient unto Love, then is he more divine and great then we ourselves are.  
Indeed (replied the Shepherd) he is mightier in malice, but lewd behaviour and mischievousnes, cannot be registered amongst the Catalogue of Famous enterprises. Then is not he mighty, that maketh men illustrious in this point, but rather weak, and of no reckoning, inas-much as puissance, with the defect, is as dross, and base trash: and Virtue, though it be poor, is an eternal treasure.  
And yet for all this (answered the old man) the most learned erected Altars heretofore unto him, enterprising more for his honour, then for any other Celestial God whatsoever. And we being less wise than they, we cannot as I guess, much fail, to follow their footsteps.  
The property of gold (replied the Shepherd) is sometimes changed. Sugar, now and then becometh bitter and sour, and the brightest day, is often darkened with thick clouds: even so, the wisest, now and then forget themselves, yet their faults ought not to be, as a warrant unto the posterity hereafter to come; because, that vice, which the ministers of any virtue do commit, shall never be allowed of by her voice, the same being as personal, and not public. The Sages, then having erred, we must likewise needs acknowledge their offence, which taxeth them, for committing the same. Yet in the mean time (said the old man) see how Love is here noted, to be over-powerfull and mighty, seeing he forceth and compelleth the wisest to do amiss.  
Truth (quoth the Shepherd) but as out of a heapeof corn, we make choice of our wheat, and leave the cockle: So of the actions and proceed of most discreet persons, we should choose the best, and leave the worst. For as they are men, they are subject to err, and wander astray. Virtue, being always a good precedent unto us, but not vice: In as much as such as follow the virtuous shall be commended, where those that imitate the bad, shall be as much blamed and condemned.  
Well then, my good Shepherd (answered the old man) let us give over, from arguing any further about this LOVE, & recount unto me the subject of thy grief, & the cause of this thy strange wandering, or miserable exile, amongst these solitary dwellings.  
Ah my dear Father (replied Arcas) more dangerous is the second sickness, than the first, it being of the self same quality, and happening not long after; and so cruel shall I find my troubles, in imparting unto thee my misfortunes, as I have heretofore, felt bloody, the effects of the same. Cease therefore, to inquire of me about that, where of the remembrance alone killeth me to think thereupon: For what good can it do unto the whole, to demand of the diseased, the cause of his sickness? and what profit will it be unto thee, to hear me recite my dreary Fortunes? No, no, rather do I think it meetest to conceal them, lest I should provoke men, to exclaim against the Gods, when they shall perceive how partial, and unnatural, they have been always against me.  
Woe is me, excepting my mischance, every malady, all pain, and every sorrow, have their proper remedy. The Eternity of the Gods, is not more sure, than my hapless disaster, (still to continue) is most certain. It is far from the nature of all other diseases, for that which healeth others, woundeth me. O Heavens, what hope of health resteth for that miserable wretch, who when he hath embraced all the wholesome Altars of the Gods, is yet as unfortunate, as ever he was before? But what is violent, cannot by the course of Nature be long permanent: And if it be so, why then am I exempted from this rule? Never was any evil more violent than mine, and yet in the mean time, it thus continueth still extreme.  
O deceitful sentence! Alack, alack, double do I feel my grief, the one, in suffering it, & the other, in living to endure it: and yet what should let me from murdering of mine own self, but even the selfsame charge, which the Master gineth unto his slave, over whom he hath command, both of life and death? The only Physicians which carefully assist me in my disease, are Death and Despair: Comfortable is the remedy of Death, but damnable is the syrup of Despair. The one hindereth the other, not unlike unto two contrary winds, which hold and keep in, a tottering Ship in the main Sea, it being not able to sail, neither of the one side, nor of the other.  
Thrice welcome should death be unto me, if naturally, and without despair, it would come on the sudden, to rid me from this trouble: So thrice happy despair, if without death, it could chase away this my more than intolerable anguish from me.  
Between these two contrary winds do I float, not that I will deny, but that sometimes, the Sunshine of my soul, hath made mine eyes clear and bright, but yet in such sort hath it been, as the light thereof presently after, hath caused my darkness to show more ghastly, fearful, and horrible. Ah sweetest Sun of my soul, where dost thou now at this present, dart and cast forth thy heavenly barns? And what happy Country is at this hour, warmed with the gladsome Luster of thy beauteous light? In respect of the fair continuing day, long and tedious are the nights, though short and in Summer, unto the sickly creature, even so long and ●rksome is my darkness, in respect of the cheerful day of thy oft-wisht for presence. Wretch that I am, I wander without thee, in midst of the horror of a continual evening, whilst black and gloomy shadows are always before mine eyes.  
O God, if our sins inflict upon us these plagues, wherewith we are tortured, yet at the least, when we have patiently endured them, draw us from out this heavy yoke. The guilty person, condemned to die, conceiveth no greater disquietness in his mind, then to think of that kind of punishment, which shall take away his life from him. Ah then, take him away, take him away, I beseech you, out of this world, who can do nothing but cast forth complaints and laments, and whose importunate voice, pestereth without intercession both heaven and earth, calling still to mind the afflictions without number, which he is forced overmuch to bear. But I see I must yet languish somewhat longer, if so, what remedy, but compelled content?  
Let me then languish thus, and pine away, and let mine usual sorrowful tune, pursue my days, even unto my very grave, to the end, that so bewailing my cross destiny, I may at last give up my wearied Ghost.  
But I see dear Father, I do but trouble thee, and therefore in respect of thee, I will give over this mournful melody, only I will recite unto thee an answer of a certain false Echo, who not long since deccived my hopeful expectation. And thus it was.  
ECHO 
Great Goddess of these woods, that in these woods art honoured right,  
Speak, wilt thou lend thine ears to one, that is in woeful plight?  
With thy last sweet sound amorous, wilt thou my grief abate?  
Importuning my Fortune hard, to me unfortunate?  
O Goddess answer my complaints, which I before thee power,  
And pity my outrageous pain, by sweetening of my sour.  
Comfort me in my torments and my griefs, that choketh me,  
With hope that from this dismal plague, I one day may be free;  
To th'end that I devoutly may, bless thy thrice blessed Grace,  
Ah, then if thou (as now) within these hollow Rocks hast place,  
Answer my Cries: say, which of these two shall I prove,  
To make an end of all my woes, or Death, or Love? Echo. LOVE.  
After so many crosses, which we force and drive,  
Shall I then die, or they being dead, shall I survive? Echo. SURVIVE.  
But, shall I stilithen live, deprived of my pleasure?  
In ponsivenes thus languishing, and in displeasure. Ec. PLEASURE.  
May it be, I should be graced, with her, who doth excel,  
In all rare shows, so base as I, can I deserve so well? Ec. SO WELL.  
But, in mean space, for these my griefs, I have no other scope,  
But death to end them, since I live without all hope. Ec. HOPE.  
Alas despair encour treth still, my rising hope, and truth,  
And o'er me this proud power, will reign and rage sans ruth. Ec. SANS RVTH.  
If so, thrice miserable is the wretched lovers state,  
And mine what can it be, but most unfortunate? Ec. FORTUNATE.  
After so many brunts, borne, which in my soul breeds strife,  
Which shall I call to help me then, or death, or life? Ec. LIFE.  
But if I under this hard law shall live most cruelly,  
Who, then will pity me, whilst in these pangs I lie? Echo. Echo. I.  
If so, then still i'll hope, and O ye Gods I you adjure,  
Not to deceive my future hopes, nor glories mine obscure.  
Ah, keep your promise unto me, and after so much grief,  
Extinguish quite, the fury of my cares which beg relief.  
So will I bless for evermore, your Deites most true,  
And 'mongst, the most renowned in world sing praises still of you.   
See (my good Father) the cozening hope, that the Gods of the Forests bestowed upon me, or rather to say more truly, abused my wretched life. O notable false & deceitful Oracles of the Gods, as Pyrrhus, and others may well testify the same. But why should men be condemned for deceiving one another, when they are cozened by the Gods themselves? Long time, did I hope well of this mine answer, but in the end I found it had deluded my conceit, by which my sorrow increased not a little the more. Alack, if it be so, that I am altogether unworthy of this good, why then should the Gods thus promise me the same? He that hopeth for nothing, languisheth but little, but hope, deferred, most mortally afflicteth the soul. Besides, I have (long since that time) found by experience, not smally to my cost, that the will of the Gods, is called back, either by reason of our sins, or for our virtues sake. Because of our sins, they deface and blot out the good intended unto us, perceiving that our faults, make us unworthy of them: and for our virtues, they call back their cruel executioners, finding us to be worthy of grace, for that we repent us. And certainly, I believe they pronounced the best for me, but my default afterward, made me unmeet to enjoy the benefit of their sentence, which they have now razed out, and out quite in pieces, continuing still my misfortune against me. But I commit all unto their grave and secret providence. Mean space, hear I pray you the first borne song of my wailing Muse, since my first arrival into this darksome tabernacle. And thus it gins.  

Since, from my sad life, taken is my clear light,  
What should I live now, longer in this bad world?  
Faint hearts, their deaths wail, where the braver courage  
Glad to their ends, runs.   

What serves this light me, if what most mine eyes pleased,  
Flies like a shadow, when I seek the substance?  
LOVE, not the day, but that rare beauty seeketh  
Which makes him more shine.   

Stars, by their Influence, joy and grief do bring us,  
Whereas that beauty which our souls doth worship  
Is our sweet Mistress never working us ill,  
But pleasure ever.   

Ah how I feel this pain for to torment me,  
Being deprived of this so worthy beauty,  
When that I found my liberty so dear, lost,  
And from me taken.   

Kept from thy fair sight, which my soul did nourish,  
Thinkest thou (sweet Lady) that I longer can live?  
Being but a picture, where thy beauty's painted  
For to please LOVES eye.   

Like to a pale coarse do I seem, in shape, now,  
Laid all along right, in a Tomb or Grave low,  
Whilst to my loss, I stray like him that wanders  
Dark in a Desert.   

Not any pleasure in the huge Heavens,  
Can my misfortune, (near so little) sweeten,  
Lost have I her that was mine only solace.  
Woe to me therefore.   

I without life do live, for that I want her,  
All that I have, she seizeth on, as her own.  
Now my Physician I do want, I needs must  
Be very sickly.   

In the respect of this so lively hot flame,  
Which heretofore, hath burnt mine inward entrails,  
Dark seems the Sun, so gloomy are my sad thoughts,  
Fit for despairing.   

But if I long must live, without her presence,  
Sweet death dspatch me, let me no more linger,  
For, far more blessed is the dead, than he that  
Wants his fair Mistress.   
See, here my first Notes, in which I have employed my voice, since my first coming into this wilderness. But if my verse, run not smoothly, excuse I beseech you mine invention, from whence, the discontinuance, for want of exercise, hath reft (what was best before) from her. I commend thee Son (replied the old man) the matter whereof, not being (in my mind) altogether unsavoury. But to what purpose doth the Lover sing, being disjoind, far off from his Mistress? Songs & Dances, were appointed (long agone) to be used, in certain solemn public Feasts, only to breed contentment and pleasure, and not to increase sorrow, 
A Comparison.  as are these of Lovers. For I account that sick man but a sot, who through bad medicines, nourisheth his disease the more; and for that he will not lose the remembrance thereof, taketh a toy to continue the same still in his body. And so I esteem that Lover but foolish, that increaseth his consuming cares, by his passionate complaints and sighing Sonnets: For such kind of fuel, doth but increase the fire: The only forgetting of grief, being that, which delivereth us from the same; Inasmuch, as those, that never think of their hurt, are soon freed from the apprehension and feeling of the harm itself. (Father) answered the Shepherd) can it be, that the fettered prisoner, (bound and laden with chains, and cast into a deep dungeon) should exempt himself, from thinking of his hellish servitude? Or can the eyes, see any thing that is supernatural, and yet never love it, nor once as much as think of it? This is for bruit beasts to do, and not for man, who being beautified with the knowledge of all things, cannot escape without the apprehension of such, as are most like to him, & touch him nighest. Either he must bring himself unto this point, in despite of his will, or else he must needs fall out of his right wits. But we will not now dispute, whether fools, free from apprehensions, human, and void of sense of any evil, are to be thought more happy, then laudable, or allowable. But we will come unto the Songs of Lovers, which are two ways profitable unto them. The one, because of the comfort which they bring unto their minds; the other, by reason of the pleasure, which their Ladies take in hearing the same, who by nature are given to be greedy of honourable praise. For although these kind of Sonnets yield forth, a heavy, and not a joyful sound, yet in some sort, do they seem to accord, and to have a kind of affinity, and agreement with those that sing them; as well, in respect that they be sad and mournful, as their Masters themselves are; As also, because they renew afresh, the memory of their sweet Mistresses. We must then (quoth the old man) change this name of Sonnet, into woeful sorrowing, although in this wise to lament for the griefs of Lovers, doth lessen the same no more, than the piteous cries of the poor Bondslave doth help him, in importuning the air with his continual howl. This Rock, which thou seest without ceasing, to weep upon the Mountain Cyrillus, doth teach us, that tears are unnecessary, and weeping without profit; for his continual tears do no good unto him, nor his usual weeping avail him aught, which distilleth, without any profit at all.  
The ancient Sages, jested at those fainthearted & whitelivered men, that used to bewail their disasters, because a right courageous mind indeed, will rather die, then be forced to weep one drop, it being in the liberty of man, to shorten and to out off either his griefs, or his life, as best him liketh. And I again (replied the Shepherd) imagine quite contrary, esteeming it not to be any exploit, either of honour or virtue, of courage, or Magnanimity, for a man in misery to kill himself. For if virtue, proceedeth from patience, (as it doth indeed) and that one be borne, to endure the crosses and troubles of this world, why then will you repute him to be valorous, who for want of constancy to endure these bitter brunts, goeth about to massacre himself. The least anguish of the heart which men feel, seems as forcible in the tempest thereof, as the pangs of death, & he that with a Magnanimous, and courageous spirit, and by the fortitude of his actions, resisteth not the violent assaults, of his inward & outward passions, can be reputed no other but a coward, and not seemly to be registered in the Chronicles of honour. All the actions of our mind, if not tempered and husbanded by reason, do presently mutiny, against the faculties and noble empire of the body, forsaking their obedience, making misery of that, was instituted for mankind: and so bearing up their violence, against the supreme power of the soul, they combat against virtue, under the ensign of vice, & never see the deformity of her colours, under whom they serve. If Cato had survived, valiantly encountering with his hard fortune, opposing himself, withal the utmost of his power, against the damage of the Roman commonwealth; Had he not been far more commended, then for want of courage to have slain himself so timorously as he did.  
Indeed, he wrought his own happiness, as he thought, but this his happiness, because it was hateful unto his own native country, ought rather to have been counted unhappiness, than any felicity at all: for where the public good is extended, not any man there should seek his own particular quiet, but rather most cheerfully endure the selfsame torment, with which his country is afflicted. But, O how worthy of all praise are such, who as resolute Sailors, show like courage and cheer, as well in adversity as in prosperity, being every way thoroughly armed, and resolved to abide the very shock & push of fortune, not losing their spirits or stomachs any thing at all, at the first arrival of the same, but rather are the more strengthened and animated thereby, yielding through their invincible patience, infinite rich testimonies of a most perfect and obsolute virtue indeed? Amongst which number, well may Lovers be admitted, who being at liberty to kill themselves (as infamous, and degenerate minds do) and having the self same means and excuses that they have;) yet will not perpetrate nor put in practice, so vile and horrible a fact; to the end, they may the better show the fruits of their constancy, and perptuall virtue, in all places wheresoever they shall chance to come. For as he is not excusable from blame, who because he cannot be good, therefore giveth himself to what is bad, inasmuch, as (herein) it is our parts, to force our nature itself. No more is he to be commended, who, for that he can no longer bandy with his afflictions, and with the painful labours of this world, maketh away his own self; because we being the creatures of God, are bound to take part of all such sinister accidents, as it shall please him to send upon us, without shaking off the same from us, by destroying ourselves; which the divine law forbiddeth us to do: As that of the civil, prohibiteth Bondslaves to fly from the hands of their Lords and Masters. 
A Sentence.  They therefore, are more to be commended, who suffer and sigh forth their griefs, than those, who because they want force to resist the violence thereof, slay themselves; For virtue shineth most, amidst hard and difficult matters, no glory at all harbouring amongst base and abject spirits. What's that you say (answered the old man?) Tell me I pray you, is there any thing more sweet, or dearer unto man then life? What can make him more renowned, than to lose that, which he holdeth most dearest, to follow virtue, and to do nothing unworthy of his own honour? And if your speech were true, then, O ye brave martial spirits, and Captains of war, most miserable, and far from glory are you, who for the public benefit and good, amongst thousand battles, have yielded forth your blood and souls together. What worthy exploits had men showed abroad? what generous acts? what valiant deeds, and what works of Eternity? If they had been such diligent preservers of their lives, when for fear of losing the same, they should have left behind them, millions of virtuous stratagems, being the children of praise, & Fathers of commonwealths; in the enterprising of which, they stand in peril of their most precious lives. A great credit is it for a man to give over all desire of riches, of greatness, of all pomp and estate, and to deprive himself, of all delicate and delicious kind of living; but far greater commendation is it unto him, to abandon all these foresaid pleasures, to follow virtue in quest, and to give over that, which is more near unto us, than all these worldly felicities, I mean, our sweet life; for not to be borne at all, is the greatest ill fortune, that can commonly happen unto men: as to have life, is the sweetest and most comfortablest thing, 
A Sentence.  that can be imagined. That it is happiness to be borne, and to live in this world, I deny (said the Shepherd) for how blessed had it been, and far better for many a one, never to have tasted of this life at all, as by their luckless ends hath well appeared? Life is good, and pleasant, to such as know how to use it well, but most miserable unto others; for the end of every action, doth crown and make perfect the same: and no man is said rightly to be fortunate, until his death be come. What happy, good, or virtuous end, can such make, who have always lived most ungodly, when by being so borne, they become most wicked sinners, being continually troubled in their conscience, which like a worm, still gnaweth their souls? whereas those that live well and justly, and whose behaviour is holy and unspotted, make most happy ends. I say therefore, every man's birth is not happy, but rather that it is oft times more miserable unto some men, then pleasant or fortunate: for better were it for such a one never to be at all, then to be borne, and so to lose his soul and glory, his name and memory, through his lewd and wretched misdemenor. 
An example.  The Spartans' (far wiser than we) were of mine advise, who made so light account of life, as the least natural imperfection that their children brought with them into this world, was the cause they threw them into their common shore, or privies, thereby taking from them their human essence, and their lives. How many miserable wretches shall a man find in this world, to live in such extremity and want, as they wish they never had been borne, desiring nothing so much as to have their days abridged and out off, and to lie full low in their quiet graves? Therefore to be borne, and to live in this world, are not such precious things as you account them, but rather most grievous and troublesome: so as a man, coming to lose the same, looseth no great matter; Virtue being his pledge for so small a loss. Neither will I deny the worthy deeds which the virtuous bring to pass, they not standing any thing at all in fear to lose their lives: and yet the very selfsame consideration, which maketh them esteem so little of their health, witness sufficiently enough, that it is not prized by them at any high rate, seeing they are content to exchange it for death. If the good job, (before he had suffered what he did) had ended his life, he then had been deprived of that praise, which his rare patience, purchased unto him, 
An Example.  as we find in the sacred Scriptures. And yet (quoth the old man) what good did all these complaints unto job, which he so often repeated in his miseries, they not being any thing lessened or assuaged by the same? And so, to begin where we first left: What availeth the miserable to lament? For more is he to be commended, that with discretion concealeth his grief, and with mild constancy, beareth out the same, than he that maketh proclamation of it by wailing, bewrayeth it by sighing, and by his condoling, maketh it more apparent every way. Not so neither (replied the Shepherd) but rather it is quite contrary: 
A Sentence.  For is not that sick patient to be noted for unwise, who will not disclose unto his Physician the cause of his disease, but persisting most obstinately, rather to feel the pangs of death, then to declare where his grief is? And so he, that manifesteth his sorrows by lamenting, receiveth some kind of consolation, if not present remedy. For as the small drops of water, falling by little and little upon the hard Rock, in time, do make it hollow; So likewise the hearts of women, be they never so strongly armed with the splints of Steel, and Adamant: yet in the end they will wax tender and soft, as the hard Iron is made to bow, by the stroke of the hammer. Besides, oftentimes the perverse judge doth justice rightly, through very importunity, which by no other means, he could ever have been brought to have done. It is a thing that I have seen Lovers ordinarily put in practice; of whom the passions are so violent, as they have not been able, neither to conceal nor to restrain them within themselves, when they have most coveted to do the same? I myself have made trial of this remedy, have passed this strait, ventured this hazard, and in conclusion, have found to have done good of it. In witness whereof, I beseech you, once more to give me the hearing of another of my passionate Sonnets. With right good will (answered the old man) upon condition, that thou wilt promise me afterward, to unwind the Bothome of thy loves thread. Whereupon the Shepherd began to sing in this sort.  
Before myself I do dislive, hear these my plaints  
O FAIR, which ravished hast my sweetest liberty,  
If thou before, hast deigned of my religious Love;  
My loyalty (after my death then honour thou.  
Nor fear that Heavens, shall by my death be proud,  
Because (ending my days) extinguished is my Fire,  
Death only can cashier me from this wretched life,  
Where, in the sacred Throne of Love, seats my pure Soul,  
Whilst I do breath, whilst hart, through 1000 sorrows sobs,  
It shall be servile vassal to thy Deity.  
And, 'mongst the Ghosts (being dead) thou shalt my Lady be,  
For in my soul, thy Beauty is caractered;  
There do I see thee still, and as mine Idol chief  
I'll sacrifice to thee, great store of cries, and tears:  
Ah, then plight me thy faith, for to accept my vows  
As late thou seemdst to rue, at my sad heavy griefs,  
Leave him to die, to die, who lives withouten life  
Being far from thine Eyes, his chief divinest light.  
For say, (alas) wherein can I stand thee in steed,  
When I am but a shadow in a withered Corpse?  
Spent have I all my tears, bewailing thy long absence,  
In losing thee, the Heavens have reft my vigour quite;  
I nothing am become; Most wretched he that thinks  
To live, deprived of that chief good his heart doth nourish.  
Then whilst I look my fatal day of death to see.  
No voice, sounds in mine ears, but of laments and cries,  
Mirth is for those are fortunate, rot for a soul  
That feels more horrors strange then Limbos frightful Ghosts,  
Then welcome pining Care, and sorrow sour to me,  
For with my thoughts, despairing still, you best agree.  
Thus have you heard another of my woeful ditties. O happy Arcas, if being deprived of so sorrowful a subject of lamenting as this is, thou couldst enjoy the sight of thy fair and dear Diana, as heretofore thou hast done. Alas, that the separation of the soul, from a fair body, should be far more pleasing, then that of two loyal hearts, most stricklie chained, with the strong bond of faithful love; for with this first dissolution the remembrance of all grief and dolor passeth away, like a flash of lightning that is suddenly come and gone. But alack, how long are the sorrows, how wearisome the troubles, & how unsupportable the miseries that the separation of his Mistress, bringeth unto the wretched Lovers? Poor Oenone, too well knowest thou this to be true, who didst die for very heaviness, because thou wert disjoined and withheld from thy dear Paris.  
Death itself is more welcome unto Lovers, than the long absence of their Ladies, and yet dare they not die, because they fear their displeasures: which (when they go about to free themselves from this bondage) snatcheth the weapon out of their hands, whilst the hope which they conceived once to behold them, delayeth from day to day the execution of this cruel arrest of death, 
A Simile.  being so profitable unto all Lovers. That traveler findeth himself in great perplexity, and is not a little pensive and angry, who after he hath journeyed all the day long, by the comfortable light of the Sun, is constrained to wander in the dark all the night after. For as the coming forth out of bad into good, is lucky, sweet, and fortunate; so hard and troublesome is the loss of joy, to enter from thence into misery, and as it were into the very gates of destruction.  
And as mortal men desist not from offering sacrifice unto the Gods, although they be far off from their sacred presence; So my dear and divine Diana, though my fortune hath removed me far from thy beauteous sight, yet will I not leave to dedicate all my writings unto thee, to present my sighs unto thee, and to render thousand piteous oblations of my tears, as unto my chief Goddess, whose I wholly am; my verses, my cries, and my complaints, shall all be addressed unto thee. O fair Diana, in what place soever thou now displaiest forth thy radiant beams, do not I beseech thee, despise the slender vows of the religious votary, who living only through thee, oweth unto thee, both his labours and his life.  
How wisely have the learned set down, that the only presence of the Divine Essence, bringeth all contentment that may be, unto those blessed spirits that continually behold the same, seeing the only countenance of my Mistress, brought my soul to be happy, and satisfied mine eyes at full, with perfect joy? I now excuse you, O ye lean and yet rich covetous churls, who content your minds with often gazing upon your rusty old gold; because there is nothing comparable unto that pleasure, which the sight bringeth unto the soul, in respect of that thing which so much delighteth him.  
And who then with reason may blame me to love so fair a jewel, seeing beauty, is found to be a gift come from God, made only to render himself the more admirable in the eyes of the world? Who can justly find fault with that man, that shall love a thing rare, perfect, and surpassing in perfection, such as are ordinary and common? So likewise, who can rightly condemn men for honouring such a one, as beauty herself, yieldeth a most excellent perfection, amongst those that are most perfect of all?  
Then thou O Diana do I honour: thee do I love: thee do I respect: sorrowing always for the want of thee: and whilst my vital blood shall boil within my veins, will I worship thee: as long as my bones shall be joined unto this flesh, will I reverence thee: as long as my soul shall be martyred within this body, will I dutiously regard thee, bewailing thy loss, whilst I shall have liberty to breath, and to be able to make sensible things gentle, give ear unto my complaints. But I see (reverend Sire) that I do but weary thee, and trouble thine ears overmuch, to importune them with these piteous discourses of my hard fortune; now therefore will I change my note, resolving to do, what it shall please thee to command me. Yet before we proceed any further, spare me I pray thee, so much leisure, as to hear a Sonnet of mine, which (I, being deprived of my Lady, cast off, and quite left of mortal men, & clean for gotten of such as have been beholding unto me) my sad or rather choleric Muse indited for me, whilst I wandered up and down this darksome Forest. Read it quoth the old man, for both thy prose, and verse, are pleasing unto me: serving me, in steed of sweet Roses, to revive and refresh mine ancient heat: And think not, but that thy speeches, are worthy to be hearkened unto. Whereupon the Shepherd read this Sonnet following.  
Beyond the Stygian Styx, hath Charon reft  
Thee, O divine Faith, and for company,  
Friendship with thee, who must not here be left,  
For faith is nothing without amity.  
Alas, why lettest thy Muse live in disdain,  
To thee and her (a fortune usual seen,)  
Thou men believest, 'tis they that thee have slain,  
Abusing her through oaths, as thou hast been.  
Thy comforts this, thou diest at this hour,  
Her end was languishing, long ere she died,  
A speedy death is sweet, a lingering, sour,  
She starved died, by flowing plenty's side.  
You Mortals then, let in one Tomb remain,  
Faith, Love, and Muses, since they were of prize:  
For, fond is he that calls them back again,  
And you not Loyal are, friendly, nor wise.  
This Ditty of thine (said the old man) is pithy, and grave, but yet the Subject thereof is somewhat displeasing unto me. For I cannot do men that injury, as to think or imagine, that they should become enemies unto the Muses, considering, but for them, their memories and names, should rest and lie buried with their bodies in the selfsame grave. And although age hath cooled, and frozen in me my first Tragic fury, (Mother of all good verses); yet will I answer thee as well as I may. Hear me then awhile. Whereupon he began thus.  
If in one coffin, FAITH, LOVE, and the MUSES grave,  
By earthly creatures hand, informed close do lie:  
And think their deeds and name, immortal so to have,  
They do abuse themselves, with o'er much Surquedry.  
If FAITH no more lives, and if (hence we banish LOVE,  
If MUSES, have on earth, no sacred Altars here;  
Heavens than must (perish;) And the supreme Gods above  
With essence theirs (divine) confused must appear:  
But heavens (as yet) stand firmly, Gods do reign,  
And mortal men, by living on the earth below,  
So, FAITH, LOVE, and the MUSES, still alive remain,  
The sins of men cannot exile them unto woe.  
Astormie Tempest, may the Sun, sometimes obscure,  
Yet afterward, his Beams show forth more bright and grave.  
See (Shepherd) quoth the old man) if this Sonnet hath as yet any smack of this gallant heat, which en flameth youthful spirits with the hot cinders of glory. And if my Muse, shall so much vouchsafe, as to favour me, with some small conceit to accompany my trembling old age, which although she do not, and that my verses be rude and ill shapen: yet of this, I am well assured, that the Subject is both good and true. For how (O Shepherd,) can heavens and earth continue without Love? If the Gods should fall at variance, and Love should be driven away from them, who then, during this confused dissension, and tempestuous hurly burly, should guide the course of the heavens, and give order about the government of terrestial matters? What good rule and order, and what upright justice or policy, is there found in that city, 
An example.  wherein the Magistrates are at variance, divided into factions, and quite discrepant in opinions? No no, Love of necessity must live amongst the Gods, to the end he may maintain union, amity and friendship one with the other; he giving directions as well for divine, as earthly businesses.  
Father (answered the Shepherd,) this question of thine is very easily resolved, and thou as quickly to be contented, and satisfied in this point: There is no need at all, to have the company of Love, in the heavens, to be as an assistance or helper, in the maintaining and governing of celestial causes: seeing amongst us, there is but one God, whose only divine providence alone, ruleth both heaven and earth, he being not disvnited at all; for it is a Substance simple, not subject unto division, and therefore hath nothing to do with Love, to bring him to agreement, seeing he can never be divided. And this is for the ancient Paynims to discourse upon these natural reasons.  
God then, 
A simile.  doth not meddle, nor hath not to deal with this Love (I mean such as is wanton) but dearly doth he affect perfect amity, inasmuch as he loveth mankind, which are his children, he demanding the selfsame love of them again.  
The Sovereign Magistrate, upon whose commandments, the government of the whole city dependeth, cannot be at controversy with his Subjects about the ordering thereof, (because they do not participate with his power) he himself commanding alone, by his absolute will and authority.  
So God, being without equal, and only perfectly puissant, and mighty, cannot fall at square with any of his servants; which thing if it be so, he than hath no need of Love to make them agree together again.  
Thy reason is (good replied the old man) in respect of that which belongeth unto God, but as concerning men how can they live without Love? For if a building cannot remain firm and sure without a strong foundation, how then may men continue without Love? which serveth as a fortress, unto their rest and pleasure, and as a chief nourishment unto their lives. For can men live quietly, who are always quarreling, and as it were at daggers-drawing, and who for want of Love, are still ready to stab one another? What assurance of life can that soldier promise unto himself, who most courageously goeth to the field to combat with his enemy, man to man, 
An example.  alone? Even so, what kind of life should men lead, one with an other, if their quarrels should cause them try their valours with their swords, staining the ground with the loss of their dearest blood? For into what bottomless gulfs of misfortune and overthrow, did civil dissension for want of Love and friendship, bring the Romans, who with their own proper weapons, revenged the injuries and wrongs, they had done unto foreign Nations, upon their own selves, which those barbarous strangers, with all their force could never have been able to have done? Into what great losses and damages, did the quarrels of the Spartaines and the Atheniaus plunge all Greece? And what monstrous cruelty (for default of Love) did those two Theban brethren, exercise one against the other, who with one stroke, stabbing one another, and cast into one, and the selfsame fire (so mortal was their hatred) as the very flame thereof divided itself, till it consumed those bodies (which whilst they lived were divided) and sundered in disagreement always? I say therefore, that men cannot live without amity, and that the Sonnet is false in that point: for either Love must yet be living, or else the world must perish: mortal men must be swallowed up, and the earth be left fruitless and barren.  
Reverend Father (answered the Shepherd) I will make thee a short answer, which is, that Friendship as thou affirmest, is most necessary, for man who cannot live without it; no more than the fish can be without the water: which was the reason induced me to say, that Love was dead amongst them.  
For what do we see now a days, but murders, troubles, controversies, debates, quarrels, and perverse opinions, which after the chase away of Amity, with the same whip, have also driven away men out of the world, being rooted out, with continual brawling and fight, whilst they wanted the comfortable support of Friendship to assist them.  
The golden world of our Forefathers is gone and passed, and that of Iron is come in his place: so that we may truly say; All Courtesy, all kindness, all justice, and all Piety, are dead and extinct, and so by the same means, the Essence of all mortal men must needs decay and die.  
The chief Governor of an Army Royal, minding to change his place, and to remove all his Camp, sendeth his Marshal of the field before, 
A Simile.  to provide convenient lodgings for him. So earthly men, intending to change this field of the world, have sent before them (as their Harbinger) mild Amity, to provide better dwellings for them in another Climate.  
And surely, surely, most happy art thou, that thine eyes have been kept from the view of so many miseries, that thy tongue is seen to be exempt and free from recounting so many mischiefs, usually lighting upon men, and that thine ears are found to be shut close from the cries and complaints of afflicted persons, in this most wretched Age. For amongst worldlings, fortunate now are Fools, blessed are the blind, and rightly contented are only such as be deaf.  
I speak by experience, who most miserably every way, have found so little commiseration and comfort, in these my calamities amongst men, as I persuade myself verily, that Friendship liveth no more amongst them.  
Although thy speech (said the old man) as touching the first be found to be true, yet cannot I believe, that the like may be proved in Faith: For I confess, it may be that Amity peradventure, is wanting amongst men, which is the occasion of so many dissensions, quarrels, and debates. But I think not so of Faith, which findeth room, even in the selfsame place, from whence friendship hath been driven. As amongst Wars, Battles, Combats, and contentions. For those that Discord and want of Love force to arm themselves, one against another, ought not for all that, to fail of their faith: inasmuch as Faith itself is requisite, and required in an Enemy, and because without the same, not any just War can be waged.  
For it is lawful for us to hate our foe, and to persecute him with any naked sword in our hands, but not to deceive him, with our Faith given unto him: seeing nothing should make one to go from his solemn promise, except the bad dealings of other men, and the treacherous wrongs, wrought against him, by his enemies: which is of force, to make him detest and loathe.  
With such a Faith the ancient Romans waged battle against Phineus, whom they advertised of the poison, which his Physician would have ministered unto him in a Potion.  
How true of his word, was Marcus Regulus, who with the price of his blood, preserved his Faith, whole, entire, and unblemished? I hold then for a truth, that friendship liveth no more now adays amongst men, but that in his place, war and dissension govern and reign: and yet for all this, I will not grant that Faith is also fled from hence, as the other is, seeing she is not only necessary in time of quietness, but also profitable, during the storms of brawling discord.  
But should this mischief happen, that Faith were quite banished away by men, yet cannot I think that God would suffer such as are the cause thereof, to live one hour, in as much as he reserveth the punishment of Perjury, to himself alone, and that he being the Father of Truth, the enemies thereof are as much odious unto him, as the pride of those Giants was, which would have scaled Heaven.  
Indeed (quoth the Shepherd) I confess, that heretofore very Faith lived amongst Wars, and warriors, and that she was hearty welcome unto those places, from whence amity was quite exiled: but the times wax every day worse and worse, men growing more and more in badness, that first sacred and just Nature of man, being daily ccorrupted, by reason of the sharpness of vice, as wine becometh tart and sour, with overmuch heat of Summer.  
Lysimachus, 
An Example.  being prisoner unto a certain barbarous King, gave good trial of his Faith, being sent home unto his Country without ransom. Loyal and faithful was Camillus, in his wars, who sent that traitorous School master home, well whipped unto his foes, whom he had besieged, whose City he offered to betray unto him. But the world is now changed: In steed of the Lion, the Fox wageth battle: whilst men (as the followers of Lysander) make use of their Faith, studying to cousin and deceive one another.  
Vice (in this age) borroweth the place of Virtue, 
A Sentence.  receiving the selfsame vows, and Sacrifices, which before times were offered unto that sacred Goddess, they being (by antiquity) only ordained for her. In steed of Faith, false disloyalty maketh herself to be adored: and he is most commended, feared, and respected, that knoweth best, how with subtlety to overcome others, and hath put in practice no small number of base and treacherous effects. In times past, prisoners taken in Battle, might (upon their promise given) retire, 
A discourse against unhonotable Soldiers.  whether they best pleased, and such great courtesy received (by their adversaries) they recompensed again, with a firm and faithful assurance of their word, never failing to perform, as much as they had before protested. But now upon the warrant of their Faith, they will out the throats (if they can) of such as have taken them: and if the same Faith hath given them such free passage, as they may have leave to retire themselves for a certain time, yet will they never return back again, but had rather, that their promise so pawned, should remain as prisoner, than their miserable Carcases should come to be in durance, never to be redeemed. Besides, men have found now adays many kinds of shifts, to violate and break their Faiths, as some, 
Note.  by betraying of their masters: others, by selling such places of importance, as are committed unto them in trust: others, by being (never) masters of their own word: and others, feigning themselves, of deadly enemies, to become sound and dear friends; to the end, that under the colour of this faith, they may the sooner beguile such as repute most confidence in them.  
We must therefore talk no more of Faith. But God who is the revenger of all outrages, and enormities committed against him, punisheth those persons with such extreme rigour, that there is not so much as one of them exempted from public misfortunes, whereas peaceful quietness, being the companions of Love and of Faith, hath followed after them, leaving men in a most miserable plight, and wretched taking: For this is most certain, 
A Sentence.  that the wicked languish always in misery, being always in continual fear, horror and frighting, although they be followed by none other, than their own faults alone.  
And thus you see, how Love and Faith, are quite expulsed from out the world. Although (quoth the old man) these two goodly virtues be driven from hence, yet see I (as yet) no sufficient subject, by reason of which the Muses should be exiled, as thou hast set down the other be: and therefore in this point thy speech is false. For glorious renown, is a passion so sweet, and of so pleasing a taste, that it maketh herself to be wished for, not of the good and virtuous only, but also of such as are Infidels and ungodly: For do the lewd man never so badly, 
A Sentence.  yet would he willingly be commended for the same: Praise is a certain odoriferous sent in the noses of men, and an amorous kind of thundering in their tickling ears. Have you ever seen creature, were he never so much corrupted with vice, that would refuse such glory as you seemed willing to attribute unto him? 
A right Simile.  For as every parent thinketh his own child fairest, and every workman, his own work finest, even so every man, be he never so wicked, esteemeth his deeds most just, and his actions worthy of most praise.  
If therefore, both the good and the bad, hunt thus after this glory, and strive so much for praise (although the world) at this time be inhabited only with the wicked. And if the sacred Muses be of so great perfection of themselves, as they give sufficient testimony every where of the same, who then can be able to chase them away from men? For much good, can they do, for the good, in commending their proceed, 
Praise of Learning  and in animating their courages to follow the same still: And much hurt can they do to the bad, in dispraising their actions, and in dissuading others to leave and give over such undecent, and most unseemly fashions. In good therefore, and in bad, the Muses ought and may always have an interest, and a perfect continuance, as best them pleaseth.  
Denis the Tyrant, loved Plato, & divers learned men, have tendered, succoured, cherished and favoured the Muses and Learning, and therefore do they still live amongst them. And I am flat of another mind (replied the Shepherd) being of opinion that the Muses have never had to do with the wicked, that their fortunes have not been like the others, neither their carriage at any time alike. Therefore the Muses (as things contrary unto them) hate them, fing of none, but of the virtuous: whereas the others shun and detest the Muses, doubting lest they should reveal their vices, and reprehend their faults overmuch.  
The upright judge hateth the highway Robber, because he troubleth the quietness of the Country, of which his charge maketh him the preserver: and the felon, hateth the good judge, because he both knoweth he can and aught to punish him for his demirrits. And so is it, between the Muses, and such as are wicked. Never hath it been known, that between them, there hath been found any perfect friendship (of force sufficient to have tied their hearts strongly together: for if the bad have at any time made any show of Love unto the Muses, yet no sooner came they to have knowledge of their true & just, and of their pure and liberal nature, but that suddenly, they conceived against them a greater hatred, then if they had never been acquainted with them. For as two agreeable natures happening to encounter and unite themselves so strictly together, as it is not possible for death itself to separate them asunder; So likewise two contrary humours, confronting one against another, after they perceive now much they disagree, detest and loath one another more, then if there had not been any habit of acquaintance between them before. For although Denis loved Plato, yet when he understood of his plainness, and bold frankness in his speech, and how he abhorred all flattery, he then pursued him unto death, sending him home again most shamefully into Greece. So was that worthy Philosopher Anaxagoras, hated so much of that Tyrant, as nothing could appease and explat his cankered rage and fury, but only the hart blood of this grave and prudent wise man. It is now an ordinary custom amongst men, who because they are vicious, therefore they become adversaries unto the Muses, whose divine and immortal pen they greatly fear. So as I may well say, that neither Faith, neither Amity, nor the Muses, are now living amongst men.  
To this, the old man began to reply (when on the sudden they might hear a voice, which sweetly sighed forth these words following. O Love, and the Sea, alike, and agreeable in power, which force men against their wills to take what course they best please!  
Love compelleth to like in despite of our own hart, and the Sea, driveth miserable wretches out of their way, half dead, and half alive, which float on her waves. Twice hath Love made me love, contrary unto my mind, and twice hath the sea, driven me far from my journey against my desire. But alas, which of these twain, can any mortal creature resist? of both, I guess the sea is best able to be encountered withal. For if the Gods tremble at the commandments of Love, who then, can set men free & at liberty from his yoke? whereas the labour and industry of the Mariners, the Mast, the Rudder, the Cable, and the Anchor, may sometimes bridle the boldness of the sea, and withstand his raging violence.  
The first place into which the sea maugre my will, threw me, was, when I arrived (being driven by the swelling surges) upon the banks of the deserts of Arabia, where I saw that thrice renowned julietta, of whom, Love on the sudden, forced me to become exceeding amorous: since which time, long have been my pains, cruel my travels, & scalding hot my cares in this my liking, these being the goodliest Weapons that Love hath, & without which, he is never rightly found. All these sorrows as yet remain in me, I bringing them with me into my Ship, instead of such precious Merchandise, as the Merchant ladeth his vessel withal, in a far and foreign Country.  
But, O how sweet unto Illustrious spirits, are such travels as they endure, to purchase glory? For that labour, do we not call any toiling at all, which we suffer for a most beauteous thing, when with the same, we may recompense ourselves for the pains which we have taken. Sweet and kind, have I found the sorrows, which the love I bore renowned julietta, hath made me feel? Inasmuch as the remembrance of her rare perfections, shadowed the thought of my griefs, as a bright burning torch, doth a little small candle. 
A Sentence.  For how many are there, that judge the pain more sweet and pleasing which they endure, for the respect of some worthy subject, than the quiet repose, and gentle rest of their own souls? How many are there to be found, which give themselves unto great pains taking, of which (if they pleased) they might be soon rid, by loving better that kind of life, 
A Simile.  than any rest at all? The Husbandman calleth not that travel any labour, which he taketh to sow his ground, because he hopeth thereby to reap a good Harvest. So likewise, cannot any one that loveth, term his traucls any troubles at all, if he endure the same for a worthy respect, especially hoping to find some grace or favour in the end. The Fruits of Love are so delightful, as the only sent of them alone, 
A Sentence.  without any further taste, extinguisheth, and cureth the toilings, & turmoils of Lovers. That labour being most blessed, whereof the recompense is ready and at hand, and not long, neither slow in coming. With Love may the Lover be requited of his kind Lady & mistress, if she so pleaseth, and therefore most happy the pains of love. But woe is me, I talk of fortunate Lovers, and not of myself, for without any show or sign, that my love is cured or healed, am I returned home again, bringing nothing with me, but the Image of my fair Saint imprinted in my soul, with thousand sorrows to accompany the same: yet, wheresoever the cunning Painter passeth, he leaveth some show of his skill, 
A Simile.  and every famous Poet some sign of his Muse's excellency. So I, before my departure, from forth this solitary abode, whilst the angry sea waxeth calm, and the blustering winds grow to be mild, wandering up & down and singing, we will afterward engrave, in some Oak or other, some of my verses, as true Testimonies of my zealous labours. To the end, that my divine Goddess may flourish, even in the most uncouth and utmost parts of all the world. Whereupon he sung these Verses following.  
'mongst the cries of the dead, amidst sighs heavily groaning  
Of such Ghosts as are damned, frighted with Fiends and with hags,  
Long have I forced forth, the accents of my too hoarse voice,  
Yet, nor the dead, nor the damned, answered have any word,  
My cruel Mistress, nor the Heavens will understand me,  
Ah solitary wood, answer me then, I thee pray.  
Ah do receive, & mark the woeful tune of my sad Song,  
And make all for to know, my clamour over piteous.  
Draw with at tractive voice the stony Rocks for to hear me,  
O groan, speak thou for me else, all, do scorn at my cries;  
Thus for to sigh, and to complain (alway ') is a hard case:  
But worse it is for to see, who sighs, and cries, to be scorned.  
What should I then, O ye woods, for Sacrifice to you offer,  
But my laments, to you, agreeable, and very fit?  
Since that you kindly deign, to answer unto my wailings,  
Nought have I now left else, only my sad tongue I have.  
But 'tis enough, too much, for such, as Cupid abuseth;  
For true Lovers good hap, lies in the Tombs of the dead.  
Oh that (of woes weary) some great God would but exchange me,  
Into some ancient Beech, or to some wild savage Elm;  
Should not my linelesse Trunk, be welcome than to your Forests!  
Tears should so fast from me fall, like to a christ all eye-spring,  
As they your faithful plants still should make more abounding,  
And of power be to force, half dying trees to revive;  
Ah most sacred Groves, (the time hath been,) in your cool shade  
As one ravished for joy, I saw the heavenly face  
Of my cruel Fair; the deadliest foe to my good days,  
Of which, since that the stars, as jealous have me deprived,  
O give me leave (so much) as I may but write with my starpe knife  
Deep all about your Rocks, the stories of my dear love.  
Then will I write, how heavens have made daintily perfect,  
'mongst thousand beauties, juliet, more than the rest.  
I will write of her chaste worth, more than rightly renowned,  
What do I say? Will I write? O, no, not I, as I should.  
Yet dare I writ of my dire pains, the Destiny cruel,  
Writ will I of my hopes, looked for of me, but in vain.  
I will tell how mine eyes are blind, with weeping I use still  
And to death, will I leave (deaf to my plaints, that hath been  
A defying challenge, for to prove that he could not  
Kill me, without that he kill my miseries therewithal.  
I will write, how my tears could move no more with their weeping  
Those fair eyes I adore, Eyes, which I love as my soul,  
Then the waves of sea do move the Rocks that do scorn them:  
Rather, I writ will, how into my tears there are fallen  
Her leaden shafts, tipped hard with disdain, for to cool them,  
And by the same, hath she power, me for to wound, when she please.  
Writ will I, thi'll hap of my youth, the spring of my chief tide,  
Of such venial faults, as by ill luck we commit:  
Which when they seize on us, they end our lives most entire:  
But more loud will I cry, that mine own hurts and my harms  
After so many crosses, near could make me become wise,  
Cursed is the wight that is plagued, yet by his plagues nothing wise.  
But yet (as, who power hath over a power of the rest,  
He complains without sense, that by a God's ore come.  
More for to strive, or do than we can, the laws do forbid us.  
LOVE o'er Gods and Kings, I'll say I take but the use,  
If the cause why I have offended any do ask me,  
Of great Gods and Kings, I'll say, I take but the use.  
If to have thus groaned forth my painful grief I be blamed,  
If condemned I am, thus to bewray my true Love;  
If I be taxed for my crying, for my plaints and my wailing,  
Then for myself, thus I say; Love that doth wound every man  
One himself being wounded, straight complains to his Mother,  
And Mars, oft did grieve, when that he first was in love.  
Wretched (so that they justly plain) no man may for bid them  
Reason, t' have to cry, till that each one doth them hear,  
Unto the end they may entreat all men for to help them;  
He that is sick, yet scorns him that his pain can assuage,  
Near can he cured be, lest that he seek some means for his sickness.  
Better 'tis to complain, then like a fool for to die.  
Therefore my grief, to you O Deserts have I recounted,  
Which since you listened too, well will I wish unto you.  
That gentle Zephyrus, may calmly blow on your heads still,  
So will I pray for you, then for my sake do the like.  
Pray that the cruel one, may take on me little pity,  
So may you happy be: So may my Love be as sweet.  
As he that is confined within some fodorne I'll, quite out of hope, ever to return unto his sweet country again, is not a little moved, seeing a ship to arrive at his shore, which by the language of the passengers, he perceiveth to be of his own country. So was Arcas. much amazed, hearing one to speak of her, who gave life unto his infant writings, whom he honoured as a most excellent and exquisite creature, and who for her virtue, was renowned throughout all the world. And as forsaken Ariadne's being left alone, upon the dirty shore of the Sea, ran up and down, beholding a far off in the Ocean, any ship that seemed to bend his course towards her, to understand some good news from her disloyal husband: even so did Arcas run here and there to find out him, who so often pronounced the name of his dear julietta. Away went he then to seek this stranger, whom ere long he found, and who, being tired with his overmuch travail, and chilly cold, with lying so long upon the waters, had betaken himself unto his rest, being fallen into a little slumber, loath was he, neither durst he to awake him, when marking of him better, he might perceive two tables to lie by him, which strait he called to mind, remembering them to be the fair and true counterfeits of Phillis and julietta: whereupon he thus spoke softly unto himself. O happy Painter, that tookest in hand so laudable a piece of work as this is. In former ages our predecessors did consecrate Statues to such as were valiant, by reason their countries were beholding unto them, but unto none, more rare personages than these, could any man give any, whom these pictures do represent. For if virtue hath power to make the virtuous live in the hearts of men, then with greater reason ought such as those, he drawn by the cunning Painter. Ah beautiful counterfeits, how much do you delight me, and how much is the memory of those which you present, sweet and pleasing unto me? And now I approve and allow, that action of his, who made so great a journey to travail to Rome, only to see that famous Historiographer Livy: For much pleasing unto the mind is the sight of excellent creatures. Blessed and religious Ministers of jehovah, who to refresh the memory of man, (prone by nature to forget,) have judged that the pictures of Saints (after they had merited a crown of eternal glory, for their spotless living) were very necessary, and thought commodious unto men, to the end they might be, not worshipped, yet be admired of every one: For if with our seeing virtue corporally, we suffer ourselves sweetly to be drawn away by her means, than how much more should we like of her, seeing the very faces, of such as lodge and dwell in her always.  
O prudent Alexander, who didst take so great delight, to see the most famous Painters of thy time, to be busied about limming thee, with all the skill they had, and so, happy art thou whosoever thou wert, that hast set thy last draft of thy pencil, unto so fair a piece of work as this is.  
Ah, would to God, I saw as lively shadowed, the fair face of my divine Diana, for then, should I receive some ease in these my griefs, having by me the likeness of her, whose absence, absenteth and keepeth away the clear light from my dim eyes. But where froward destiny shooteth her arrows; there never mingleth she so much as one sweet one, amongst so many sour & venomous shafts. Seldom or never amongst any ill fortune, doth there happen any good chance: for man being driven away by the worst, and wholly possessed of the same, as then is wide and uncapable, of feeling or finding any pleasure at all, be it never so little. Needs then must all sorts of miseries abound in me, to the end I may have the more praise by reason of enduring the same; or else, far more witnesses, of the anger of the heavens against me, for the more the travail is great, the fairer is the glory, and he that doth participate with dangers, hath likewise a part and share in renown. As he that without intermission feeleth himself to be struck with the piercing darts of heaven, beareth in this world, the punishment of his sins. But, O how perfectly do I see painted forth the valour, the brave grace, and the sweet Majesty of Phillis. That statue of Scanderbag, placed upon his Tomb, as yet is a terror unto the Turks, whom he so often overcame; And so goodly doth this portraiture seem unto me, as me thinks (yet) I see him alive, whom it resembleth: Being comely, wise, & valiant, as another Roman Caesar. In the other, so lively shadowed, by those dainty flaxen hairs, by that beauteous and large forehead, by those diamond eyes, resembling two bright rolling spheres of heaven, by those roseal cheeks, and those lips of gilly-flowers, by that pretty dimpled chin, by that breast, a bank of whitest Lilies, by those small and long hands, with that dainty slender and clean foot, with other parts matchless by Nature, and therefore not to be mended with Art, do I behold the divinity of that admirable beauty of peerless julietta. And therefore must I needs say, the Painter hath showed his skill to be excellent, in drawing these our bodies. But to set down with life, the rare qualities of these two worthy personages, nor Painter, nor Poet, nor any in the world, is able to do. Under these two fair counterfeits, were written two Quartraines, and that of Phillis was thus.  

Brave Phillis, 'tis not for to save thy fame,  
About these woods thy portraiture we cast:  
Who in the sisters of the woods lives, doth disdain  
All pictures, for in them his name, shall last.  
Only the harmless good, most need and crave,  
The shadows of the valiant sort to have.   
Under that of julietta, was this written.  

Not for to show thy beauty excellent,  
Thou art most (fairest Dame, drawn lively here)  
But that all might behold thee still I meant,  
Since thou for rarest Thews hast not thy peer.  
Glory alone, must juliets rightest Painter be,  
Honour her pattern, Virtue, her attire to see.   
These were the verses which were written under the two pictures, and he that was Master of them, was the hard destined Philistel, the most affectionate servant of the fair julietta, who being pressed upon, to return into his own native soil, was forced much against his will, to leave her, bringing away with her licence, these two Tables, to the end he might still contemplate and behold her, as well with the eyes of his body, as those of his soul.  
And now I marvel no more of that self-conceited Painter, 
A History.  who fell in love with his own picture, or of fond Narcissus, who grew extremely enamoured of his own shadow, seeing the Shepherd Arcas, found the thoughts of his misfortunes to be sweetly assuaged, with the continual regard of these counterfeits gazing upon them, without moving a long time: In the mean space, Philistel, awaked the other Swain, not perceiving it at all, having now called to mind poor Arcas, and how he had been heretofore corrival in his Love; and imagining that he was as yet touched with his first passion, by reason his senses were ravished, in staring so much upon the picture of julietta; to awake him out of his dream, he began thus to accost him.  
Arcas, the excellency of beauty, consisteth chief in this one point, which is not to bear envy unto those that exercise the same, but rather to imitate them in what we may, for happy is that country which as a thick and shadowing Forest, is sowed, and filled, with a great number of worthy and virtuous men. Thyself, and I, strooken with one and the selfsame dart, have loved her, whose shadow thou here seest, and because this Love of ours was laudable, yea and worthy of reward, therefore hath it never altered our minds, nor separated our good liking, one from another.  
The Spartaines heretofore loved (but yet chastened) the fair and pretty children of their city, this liking of theirs, never breeding any falling out, or jealous conceit, 
An example.  one against another, although three or four of them loved but one of these youngest boys alone: But contrariwise, they rather forced themselves, and strived one with another, who should best teach these youths, some rare quality or perfection, whereby they might come to more estimation and credit. And such was our love towards the divine julietta, we both having loved her, and yet not hated one the other, forcing ourselves to try, who could do best, in chanting abroad her fair virtues, seeking still, to render that worthy honour, unto her perfections, as they of right deserved. And seeing this Love, did part us at that time (for a while) asunder, we ought as now of our own accord, to reunite ourselves again together. For the Master of a ship, who hath had but hard fortune, having made a bad voyage at sea, hath need after his losses, to get other, the relics, and remainders of his Shipwreck, and to make account of that which (before this mischance) he would have disdained to have done. And so we, if any small conceit overpartiall, hath passed twixt us about our Loves, now, at this hour when all is lost, and that scarce we ourselves, are escaped from the cruelty of the waters, let us forget, and sorgive what is past, and let the (joy in that we have once more met again before we die) master for a while, this our overmuch sadness. Friendship never bestoweth her divine brightness, 
A Sentence.  where abundance of pleasures flow; for they hinder us fro discerning the same; being the occasions, that it is not adored according unto her deserts. But when affliction and sorrow approacheth, then doth she best appear, her wholesome effects, as then being most prised and commended. For at such a time, necessity forceth men to have more need one of another, then when they are in prosperity, it being the only cause, that love showeth itself more lively, hot, & comfortable. My mind prognosticated unto me, the coming into this place, whilst I not knowing the good and happy meeting, that I should have here, did murmur against the Seas, for casting me upon this shore: but now I have found by trial, that human matters being ordered by divine providence, happen oftentimes contrary unto the opinion of men; to the end, they may know, that in respect of God, they are but vessels of earth, by him ordained for shame, and that unto him only, appertaineth the disposing of all things.  
O Philistell (answered the Shepherd) of great folly should he be condemned, who finding himself all alone, would imagine to be able to carry away some great victory amongst the midst of a huge number of enemies: For it is not courage, but rather mad fury, for one to undertake more than he is able to bring to pass, inasmuch, as it is no less virtue to know himself, then to vanquish and overcome his adversaries. These considerations, are sufficient to move me, to extinquish all bad conceits, which I might have conceived against you, about the love of sweet julietta: For could I hope, to have any recompense of her, whom hard misfortune, wretched poverty, the malice of nature, and a thousand other hindrances, have set me up, as it were for a mark, to discharge their deadly arrows at me? Whereas you, (who to serve her, have left your country, and your realm, and who carry beside, the ancientness of your birth, and the greatness of your race, a brave and generous spirit endued with as unseemly qualities) may well hope for that, which I not so much as dare to name, or think of in my heart. Behold then the cause, why I cannot bear any malice unto thee, as touching that thing, which I judge myself unworthy to possess: & which for the same cause, I reverence & adore. For my Loves have been but shrill trumpets, to sound the glory, of this fair & superexcellent virgin: my labours, but her heralds, to blazen forth in right colours, her rich perfections: and mine amorous travails, but loud Chanters of her rare and divine virtues. But you my dear Philistell, easily and sweetly may you obtain her good will, by the sacred bond of Nuptial hallowed right; Nature having made you her equal in blood, 
How men ought truly to love.  power, authority, credit & command. divers ways may a man love, for in loving, are many effects. Some lay the foundation of their Love, upon the weak and feeble ground of pleasures: Others, upon that of marriage; but the wisest, place it upon the inexpugnable Rock of virtue. Voluptuous love, passeth slightly, and lightly away, with the pleasures themselves: for we love no more, that thing, which we have no more occasion to use, by reason we have drawn from thence all the contentment we desired. The affection which marriage engendereth, endureth longer, and yet is there oftentimes in the same, many contrarieties and disagreements, between the Husband and the Wife: but that liking which is settled upon the firm Rock of virtue, never dieth, because the cause thereof remaineth everlasting: The foundation whereof, can never be overthrown. With such religious amity have I sought divine julietta, yea with such amity, as shall never die in me, no more than virtue, which is to me, in steed of a strong Pillar, and therefore can never be removed. Now if that Bandit, may count himself happy; who seethe to arrive before him, such as are come to restore him unto his former honours, and to bring him home again into his wished for native soil.  
Then may I, seeing thee (most generous Knight) half persuade myself, that mine exile beginneth to end, granting me for thine only sake, a certain Truce unto my over-tedious griefs.  
But tell me I beseech thee, (if too too importunate I be not with thee) what now doth that fair Creature, whose likeness thou hast here, doth her Virtues still continue, pursuing to glance forth her divine beams? doth her Altars as yet smoke, with so many Sacrifices which those brave Spirits offered unto her? and doth her learned vain, sigh forth such sweet verses, as were wont to Enchant and Charm, so many thousands of lovely souls?  
Ah Shepherd (answered Philistel) the alteration, and the changing of the Planets, 
A Simile.  change and turn, by the selfsame manner, the nature of all creatures, and the course of every mortal thing. The Prince that meaneth to remove his Court, where he stays, causeth all his household likewise to do the same, because they depend wholly upon his command: and so are men, servants unto the will, and powerful command of the Stars. All things are altered, and quite turned topsy-turvy, in our Deserts of Arabia.  
The Heavens who before regarded them with a gracious eye, perceiving how all Faith, all Piety, all justce, & all Learning, was banished from thence, have therefore banished from thence, all their gracious favours, raining upon other countries, that sweet pearly dew of Mercy. They have turned their sight from those parts, which (being unworthy of their so great bounty) they have bestowed upon more thankful Lands. Well dost thou know, that since that time, wherein men have left the nature of men, to take upon them, that of the Wolf, investing themselves, with both skin, and conditions of that beast, there hath been no other conceit, nor study amongst them, but villainy and mischief: As those that are virtuous, hunt after Glory, having no other thought, but of Honour, which they set before them, as a reward for their labours. The wicked sort to do wickedly, put in practice and use, divers means & devices. That which they are not able to execute, by plain force, that do they perform, through devilish Treason. For they hold this general Maxim, as an Oracle, that the skin of the Fox, 
Note.  must cover all that part which the Lion leaveth bare, and unhidden: and that subtlety, should supply and help Force, Rage assist Valour, and Treason support Virtue, at a dead lift. We are now no more of that Humour, which this brave Prince was of, who refused to Combat with his enemy, by advantage or subtlety, for fear lest he, seeing himself so overcome by chance; should once more venture, to try his Fortune again, to find if he could as well be overcome by Virtue, as by false and sly Treachery.  
Deceit at this day, is the chief ground of every man's actions, 
A Sentence.  which showeth sufficiently, that they have no more access unto Virtue, that they make no more account of Glory, and that nothing which is good, should henceforth be looked for, to proceed from them. Thou knowest, how Phillis having courteously received certain miscreant Infidels, to be as his companions with him, and how they, (as jealous of his renown, and envious of his virtue, being greedy to enjoy his goods, and more desirous than any way deserving, his happy Fortunes) most cruelly and damnably slew him on the sudden, this being the ordinary death of the valiant, valour itself, not being able to resist the same, they themselves still venturing where danger always bideth.  
So juliius Caesar, the wonder of the world, was traitetously slain, 
An Example.  whom the bloody hand of Mars could never subdue.  
So died Sertorius, slain by his own followers, after he had spoiled, and brought to nought the great strength and forces of Pompey, of Metellus, and of all the Roman people. So died Eumenes, sold most basely, by his own men, he having so often before conquered the kings of Asia, his deadly foes. And in such sort died Dyon, (having overthrown Denis, the Tyrant of Siracusa) find himself to be massacred, by his own household servants.  
Thus than we see, that it is the common course of the greatest Conquerors, to die after a strange manner. And although to make away any man, in this base fashion, it is counted dishonest, cruel, and detestable, yet is the same accounted of now adays, in the World, it being as an ordinary practice, daily put in use, more than any other policy. Custom is another nature, and preventeth overmuch many times: for hardly or never, can we reclaim a thief from stealing, although we threaten him never so much: So men using themselves (as now) to commit Treasons, will not stick to glory in the same (that so much) and as it seemeth, Deceit was the principal matter, of which they were compact and made.  
Phillis being dead, his divine sister would needs follow him, she giving quite away so many dainty and worthy gifts, wherewith she was most sweetly adorned and embellished. She now desireth to live no where so much, as in the dark and solitary woods, the company of mortal creatures, are troublesome unto her, all pleasures disagreeable, all joy refused, and unwelcome, all hope displeasant, and all cheerful mirth, most hateful unto her. Salt tears are only sweet unto her, sorrow and heaviness, her best comforts, and piteous laments, are most dear and welcome unto her.  
Women have no other weapons (being crossed by hard destinies) then bitter tears, not that they are able* through weeping to remedy their griefs, but because through them, they show signs of their affected minds and good will towards them, who being persecuted by unkind Fortune, are the occasion they lament so much for their sakes.  
For true tears are so dearly bought, 
A Sentence.  & cost so much to draw them from the moistened springs of the eyes, as none can with reason, think they distil from thence, but for the loss of some one thing or other, which we tender, as much as the better part of our own selves.  
So her dreary Muse, (after his death) addicted herself unto nothing else, then to bewail the loss of her Brother, sighing forth thousands of lamentable verses, and singing mournful Anthems over his grave, whilst she powered forth whole Oceans of more than affectionate tears. Of these mournful Ditties, had I great store, but the Tempest upon the Sea, took them from me, yet hope I one day, to recall them again unto my former memory, at what time, I mean to make thee partaker of them.  
Not long after my parents deceasing, and I being called upon continually, to return home unto my people, was forced much against my will, to take my leave of her, for a certain time, leaving her my heart: in easing of which, I brought away this her table. My hope is, shortly to return back again, after I have set in good order certain of mine affairs, of great importance: at what time, if thou shalt remain here, as than I will take thee with me, as I pass, to the end I may restore thee unto thy sweet Country, unto thy dear acquaintance, and unto thy loving friends, who remain not a little heavy for thine absence.  
Ah Knight, 
An excellent discourse, in praise of a Contemplative kind of life.  (answered the Shepherd) what need hath he that is resolved to die, retiring himself from the company of men, to return into their society again?  
What need of a Chirurgeon had Cato, when after he had wounded himself, he was determined with himself to die. Next after the dead, are men only happy, who as these that are dead unto the world, never use to frequent the world more.  
And seeing thou thyself confessest, that Vice doth reign and rage amongst men, why shouldest thou envy at this small parcel of contentment, which mine Exile yieldeth me, tumbling me down (as it were) from the very height and top of the same?  
The right happiness of man, doth not consist in greatness of Honour, nor in the vain pleasures of this world: for how can you term such accidents to be happy, when they have no assurance of continuing, wherein the chase of Virtue is to be followed, without tracing the paths of Vice at all?  
For what trouble can there arise unto a virtuous man? can the loss of goods humble him? no, for he hath none. Can the death of children? no, nor that: for he finding by Virtue, that they were borne to die, vexeth not himself at all, in that they have paid the debt which they did owe unto Nature. Can the want of friends? no: for, if he judge the time to be miserable, in which we live, (and as it were, the father of all misfortunes,) he will then think his friends most fortunate, to be departed out of this vale of misery. Can the afflictions of his body? neither, for he knowing the goodliness of virtue, will soon find that glory is gotten with patience, and that it is far better to suffer for a little while, then to see himself mingled with the troops of unworthy persons, whose memory & good name dieth, even with their bodies. What then may grieve the virtuous? Can the loss of his virtue? No, nor that likewise. For it being a Treasure, far beyond the power of Fortune, and as it were wholly divine, is not subject unto any mortal decaying.  
bias was of the same mind, who carrying his learning with him, wisely affirmed, 
An Example.  that he bore away all his chief wealth with him.  
If then, neither all the spiteful devices of envious Fortune, neither all the bloody cruelties of stepdame Nature, can ever force, or offer violence, unto a virtuous man, what need hath he at all, to crave aid of men, or to enter into their society? when by their vices, they shall corrupt his virtue.  
Diogenes was of mine opinion, who being content with his own virtue, very boldly refused those Magnifical proffers of Alexander the great. And so did Photion, the Grecian, Fabritius the Roman, and Pyrrhus, that famous king of the Epyrotes. Besides, what fear of punishment for his fault, doth trouble the wise man? what sudden apprehension of losses? what frightfulnes of pain? what doubt of death? or what thoughtful care, for worldly matters to come hereafter? Anacharsis, being pounded to death in a mortar, jested at death. Socrates, bought the same, and Plato, forced his own self to take the like. That Rock that is founded most strongly, within the midst of the Sea, cannot, nor ought once to fear, lest the weatherbeaten Barks, or Ships, should break it in pieces; when contrariwise, it is the same that splitteth them in sunder. Even so, the wise man hath no need to doubt, lest the force of any worldly accidents, should carry him away, seeing in all his Actions, he goeth beyond them, and vanquisheth the puissance, both of the Heavens and of Fortune. But this power hath he not, whilst he shallbe ranging, and running up and down amongst men, spoiling himself through their vices, but rather, when he is retired alone by himself, to entertain virtue, which as now, keepeth and abideth in the woods, since she hath been banished from Towns and Cities.  
Our Saviour CHRIST, being to encounter with Satan, chose not a battalion-field, in the magnifical temple of Solomon, nor in the public Market-places, of most populous Cities, but in a solitary and frequentles Desert, within which, whilst S. john Baptist kept, he never saw the incestuous adultery of proud Herod, nor felt his own head cut off from his shoulders, for speaking nothing but the truth. He then, that will be counted wise, let him forbear and fly from Cities, where grow nothing but contentions, and troubles: for so did Ciccro & Seneca, very often lament, because they were drawn from their solitary abidings, to be employed by the Roman Emperors, about matters of Estate.  
But now, what vice can the wise man encounter withal, here in these Deserts, which may be offensive unto his Virtues? Doth he find here any Injustice? No: for such as have nothing to lose, and offend not the Laws, have nothing to do with a judge. Doth he find ambition? no: for poverty is never hated, but rather pitied, then spighted. Doth he find murder? no: for uncouth wildernesses never breed quarrels. Doth he find falsifying of faith, and lying? no: for here, being nothing to be gained, we need not to make ourselves rich with lying. Doth he find disloyalty, or subtle treachery? no, nor that neither. For the deceitful devices of the wicked, and their aspiring hopes, to become great, doth not combat with the truth and honesty of our contented souls. Seeing then, all accidental causes of sin, are here prevented, driven back, and quite taken away, that may trouble the virtuous, in his quiet rest, deface his virtue, offer violence unto his constancy, and bring hurt unto the calm contentment of his own mind.  
Did ever any such man repent him of what he had done? not any, for of well doing, 
A Sentence.  repentance never cometh: Repentance being one of the most sensible, sharp, and cruelest whips, wherewith men are much scourged, because it never marcheth alone. without shame and great hurt.  
He only is right blessed, who at the very period of his life, and at his last gasp, sorroweth not for any thing that he hath done, finding himself to have no more to repent him of his former actions passed.  
A blessed and holy abode then for the wise, are these harmless deserts, which banish all vice, and give entertainment only unto virtue.  
Unto such a place did that godly Saint, Duke William of Aquitaine, withdraw himself, when he was determined to leave the world, to follow God: to renounce all vice, to love virtue, to abjure all sin, and to honour pure innocency. If only natural passions bring men to be miserable, because the success of natural things, happeneth much against our will: what then contrariwise, can make them more happy, then to be delivered from the same? Of innumerable troubles doth he discharge himself, who retireth himself from the world, and betaketh him to live in uncouth wildernesses: where the mortal cares of worldly matters doth not traverse him, nor the continual businesses of Commonwealths trouble him, nor the fear of any loss disquiet him at all. That man who of long time before, is prepared for some certain kind of Exploit, or who long since is resolute, to encounter against the shock of Fortune, is far less miserable, 
A Simile.  than he, who without ever dreaming of any such thing, findeth himself (on the sudden) entangled within her knotty Nets. Even so, he that many years before, hath wisely prepared himself, to entertain Death, calling for it, and as it were, still marching to meet it, findeth the same, when it cometh, nothing cruel at all: where on the other side, he that is filled up to the very throat, and as I may say, choked with delicious pleasures, suffereth most unspeakable torments, tormenting and vexing of himself with hellish griefs, when he (never so much as thinking thereof before) heareth Death knocking hard, at the gate of his heart, to seize upon him, and to kill him on the sudden. And yet, it is not enough for a man to be wise, and virtuous, unless he learn the skill, how to continue and keep his prudency and virtue; for to no end is it to get, 
A Sentence.  unless we can keep, what we have gotten: the consernation of which, is as laudable, as the labour to gain it, is commendable.  
The only best means for a wise man, never to lose his virtue and wisdom, is to shun as near as he can, the subject of vice, every occasion of blame, and all causes of sin, which may very easily be done by him, if he shall give over, and wind himself out of the subtle snares of the world: As S. jerom did, conversing & keeping company with wild beasts, who are far less viciously given then men. For the perfection of Glory, consisteth in the end of the work, it being no reason at all, that that wiseman should be commended, who hath but begun (as it were) to do well, no more than that craftsman ought to be paid for his labour, who doth finish and make perfect, but the half of the task he took in hand to do. It is a small matter for a man to be counted for to have been wise, and not to continue the same still; for so, better were it, (like Socrates,) to have been a fool, and viciously given at first, and afterwards, to prove most grave and virtuous.  
Let man then seek the means to continue his prudency, to nourish his Wisdom, and to retain still his virtue, and then shall he be called wise indeed, and a most happy man, in that he hath the end of his life, according unto the beginning. Not any one is (in right) to be praised, but after his death, because we know not, whether it shall please the Almighty, to continue his good grace towards him, of which he maketh (a show) until his dying day.  
So that if a rich Prince hath need to demand aid of a poorer than himself, to assist him, then less occasion hath the wise man (who is rightly rich indeed) to request the succours of poor vicious creatures, to do him any pleasure. He that needeth not any thing to finish the contentment of his life, hath as little cause to crave, beg, or entreat the help of any other person. The wise man then, who is rich in virtues, contented in mind, and rightly happy, hath no need to seek the company of men, through which, he can receive no other good, than displeasure and unluckiness, when he hath enjoyed the same. All that time which a man liveth, busied in worldly affairs, of which, the society and company of men is the occasion, he cannot truly vaunt to have had one small whole day of his life particular, and private unto himself, his whole time and years being employed to the public benefit, whilst in himself, he is full of sorrow and grief, despite, and waywardness, but no sooner is he let lose from the world, and that he is alone, without being hindered by any person, living in some odd recluse Desert or other, but that than his Life, and Time, begin to be his own indeed; for than may he boldly dispose of the same, according unto his own mind, having no body to control him, but his own self. What is so precious in this world, as is our sweet liberty? The little Bird desireth rather to die for hunger abroad, as free, and without the cage, rather than to enjoy every dainty thing, 
An Example.  whilst she is enclosed within her hateful prison. Whilst we live amongst men, we shall not only feel ourselves to be forced to do against our own minds, but which is worse, constrained to submit ourselves, unto the unjust commandments of mighty men, being compelled to offer ourselves as executioners of their most wicked desires.  
For if bondage, may in any thing, be termed sweet and tolerable, then must it be such, as dependeth upon a just and lawful Master, unto whom reason is in steed of self-will and desire: whereas to serve & follow, the unjust will of a wicked Lord & Sovereign, is to make himself more wretched, then condemned guilty creatures are, whom dying, are suspenced from all their pain. But this solitary receptacle in these woods, taketh away all these ills, removeth from us these miseries, hindereth us of these misfortunes, and doth countercheck, all these sour disasters. In this wilderness then (to enjoy all these benefits) do I desire to spend the short remainder of this my life, that when I am dead, a small piece of ground may serve to shroud my harmless Carcase: which is the only cause sweet knight, of the refusal of thy gentle offer, which thou makest unto me, to return again into the world. In requital of which, I beseech the immortal Gods, to send thee all good fortune, & to make thee as happy and fortunate, towards thy chaste, divine, and fair julietta, as thou thyself wouldst wish: whose rare virtues have served for worthy subjects, unto every brave spirit of this our age. Live them happy with her, & may the Heavens be propitious unto thee in thy voyage, to the end thou mayst return fortunate, like Caster and Pollux, to behold once more those lights of thine own eyes, and leave the miserable Arcas, to die here most discontentedly, seeing he is deprived of that sacred Sun, whose beams only, conserved his languishing life.  
This said; the Shepherd kept silence, when Philistell thus replied unto him. In truth (kind Shepherd) I cannot choose but approve what thou hast spoken, yet are there very few now adays to be found, that will follow thy counsel. Although I must needs tell thee, that he that devoteth his years, and life, unto the service of this common wealth, is more to be commended, than that virtuous man, who withdraweth himself to live privately and alone, without the company of men: For herein, he taketh pains but for himself: his firends, nor country reaping no commodity by the same. We are not borne, only for ourselves, but as well for our Country, friends, and parents, who for this cause may challenge a certain interest in us. Cincinalus, and Fabritius, two worthy Romans, had more respect unto the good of their City, than thou, who being chosen & commanded to show their best service for the same, most joyfully and willingly gave over their house of pleasure in the country, with all their quiet, ease and delights, to follow the dangerous march of tumultuous wars, taking infinite pains therein, without ceasing.  
If every one were of thy humour, what commodity, profit, or advantage, should our native soil get, by bringing us forth? good turns done kindly, must be recompensed with courtesy: which if we cannot do by the help of Fortune, because we want the means, yet ought we, by our service, to show our affectionate good wills. For the Murderers, yea the very Homicide, is not so much to be detested & abhorred, as is the ungrateful wretch.  
How rightly and justly may that father complain of his children, who in steed of doing their duties unto him, and succouring him in his old age, leave him, being not able to help himself, unto the rage of fortune, & to the uncharitable times of this hard world? 
A Simile.  Such children, are by the Law deprived of their inheritance. How much more than are we obliged unto the devoir and service of our country? For it is our first Parent, without whom, neither our predecessors, nor we ourselves, could ever have enjoyed this life. May that child, which may stand in steed to help his distressed Sire, retire himself apart unto his private pleasures, forsaking, and absenting himself from him, without his permission and leave? I think none will say he can. Indeed, I will not deny, but that the living in solitary places, and in the sweet Air of the wholesome country, is far more pleasing, more blessed, and more godly, then that of the cities. But yet in all our actions, we must have this consideration, that a public good, is to be preferred before a piruate. 
A Sentence.  For the good we do for the commonwealth, extendeth unto the benefit of many persons, it being both godly and immortal: whereas that which we do for ourselves, dieth with us, because nothing is found to succeed us, but what ought or should be bound to leave some good memorial of the same, after we are dead and gone.  
Virtue itself, consisteth not alone in leaving the field unto vice, and in withdrawing herself from thence, because she dareth not combat with her. But it is her part, rather patiently and openly to encounter with the same: For those are properly said to be without courage in virtue, who dare not offer themselves before vice, and who fly, in what they may, to avoid the fight with her. But as the Sun is discerned even in the thickest of the clouds, so is virtue perceived and known, although in the midst of vice. Neither can he be holden for virtuous, that having no bad subject to try himself, withdraweth himself all alone out of the lists, because virtue, doth spring from danger, and those that wage battle, carry away the prize. And seeing he cannot be accounted virtuous indeed, but rather fainthearted, and whitelivered, who for fear to encounter with vice, doth relinquish, both the defence of his own country, and of truth itself. For it is not enough to say, that a man is fortunate and contented, because he is so, unto his own self only, seeing he cannot rightly attain unto that title, until such time as virtue hath first brought him home unto his country, by such happy means. Nor is he worthy the name of virtuous, who seethe vice to call and challenge him unto the Combat, and yet dareth not for his life, to try his valour with her. It is not virtue, but rather self-love and liking, for one to procure his own proper ease, but when he forsaketh all his pleasures, to come to res●ue and secure his commonwealth, troubled with viciousness and disorders, then is it virtue indeed.  
Had not Hercules, 
An Example.  left his own home; and as a Knight Errand, ventured abroad in the world, he had not left such remembrance of his wonderful valour as he did, making every Land and Region acquainted with his honourable exploits. And therefore he took the best course, searching and seeking out in every place, for the enemies of his virtues, to the end he might try his force with them, making himself glorious by their overthrow, rich by their defeit, and as it were immortal, by their fall and deaths.  
The torch which the traveler carrieth in the night, if he lighteth not the same to guide him in his way, doth rather hinder him, then help him. Even so, virtue is found more hurtful in a man, then reverend, and worthy of praise, if he do not employ the same for the public commodity of all, and for the foundation and strengthening of his own glory and renown.  
A brave man at arms, 
A Simile.  taketh no little pride to be counted valiant, to show his strong limbs, and warlike body, yet if he fight not with his foe, neither goeth about to show some proof of his valour; he shall not be accounted, neither courageous, nor valiant. No more shall he, be esteemed as virtuous, who withdraweth himself from the society and fellowship of men, to live privately and alone, without having once dared to combat with vice, whereby he might give a sign and testimony of his assured virtue. Cato could have given over the Roman commonwealth, spoiled and corrupted with viciousness, and wild disorders, 
An Example.  if he had would, and might have addicted himself wholly unto his ease. But he, the more he saw, that it had need of stoutness, and virtue to resist those enormities, the more he exposed & thrust himself forward in her quarrel, animating himself the more resolutely to take her defence upon him, and to lay all the burden upon his own shoulders. Whereas on the other side, Lucullus was to be much discommended, who being glutted with voluptuous pleasures, and possessed of infinite riches, left all the care of his country, to live without trouble, not so much as once to thrust forth his hand (as it were) to save the commonwealths vessel, from dangerous Shipwreck.  
And if that Soldier, which the unjust law of war, hath brought to live as a slave under the yoke of a strange master, cannot departed from him, without his permission and love,  
Then far less reason have we, to give over the service, which we own unto our Native soil, we going about to discharge ourselves from the same, at what time she hath most need of our help. For force only bindeth the Slave, whereas we are bound, both by Nature & honour, in a more perfect & indissoluble chain, to stand in her defence.  
Hath not that Prince just cause to be angry with his Vassell, (nay rather, 
A simile.  may he not worthily put him to death) who leaveth him in his most extremity, when he hath most greatest and most dangerous affairs, such as concern his whole Estate & Land, about which, when he should be busied, he getteth him away, and giveth him quite over, either for fear lest he should be put to too much labour, and taking of pains, or else because he is loath to hazard his life, for the safety of his Sovereign? If so, then is he worthy of far more punishment, that doth abandon his Country, when it is in most misery: For offering our bodies unto her, we offer but the least duty that may be: seeing we do but discharge us of that debt, which is due unto her, and which, but for a time, we borrowed.  
Of a better mind (O Codrus) wert thou, who to serve thy Country, 
An example.  wert content to sacrifice thyself to death, being willing for the good of thine own Land, not only to lose thy pleasures, & thine Imperial Crown, but also thy own sweet and Royal self.  
So likewise did Themistocles, merit great commendations, who thought it better to dispatch himself, by swallowing down a draft of deadly poison, then to draw his sword against his native soil. He therefore is not worthy the name of Honour, who in respect of his own private contentment, and safety, renounceth and abiureth the troubles of his City, rendering by such bad means, his virtue without fruit or profit, and without any merit at all.  
For most seriously shall he be punished of God, who hath not employed his calling to some good use, which was lent unto him, and as a bad servant, hath hid the same under ground, without profit at all: Inasmuch as he showeth himself unthankful unto God, yea and deserveth no goodness at all, if he shall not make a commodity of that virtue & good gift, which he hath bountifully given unto him, more than unto others. Not unlike unto him that maketh the world laugh at his folly, who being diseased and sick, carrieth the remedy of his malady in his hand, without once tasting or taking the same, unto the benefit of his health.  
In old time, such as lived as unprofitable members unto their Commonwealths, were taxed at a very great Fine, to the end, that if their bodies would do no service unto their Countries, yet at the least, their purses should supply the defects of that fault. For there is no reason that we should live, without bestowing somewhat of our substance, unto the relief of our Commonwealth.  
Such then, as for fear of taking too much pains, for the Commonwealth, and as loath to oppose themselves against the abuses of the same, withdraw themselves apart, to live to their own selves, are much to be blamed, and are far wide from being to be called or accounted virtuous. For it is not a valuable excuse, to say, I cannot do any good service, because I am of no account, and reckoning. No, no, this is not enough, we must do as much as we may, to the uttermost of our power: for many little faggots laid together, make a huge and great Bonfire: At the least, we must seek as much as in us lieth, to quit the debt we owe.  
But as such slothful men as these, are to be condemned, so far more, are some others, to be hated and detested, who stick not, as damned Traitors, to conspire against the safety of their native soil, raising factions in the same, consuming them with civil dissensions, and utterly overthrowing them, with mutinous Seditions. Such vipers as these, are borne to the detriment & damage of the Commonwealths, coming of the race of Timon of Athens. These kind of men being only such, as the further they are off from their Countries, the more profitable it is for the same.  
But amongst many children which a good Father bringeth up, it cannot be chosen, but that some one or other of them, must be found to be bad: 
An example.  In as much as the earth itself, producing many plants, of which, some are good, and some are bad, doth likewise engender such strange and diverse Natures. Yet as she teacheth the Gardener, by skill, to set and graft his best fruits, in such a season as he may bring them to full maturity and ripeness, at their fit time. And they devise how to cut off, and to pluck up by the roots, such as be ill, & nothing worth. So hath she also both ordained rewards, and glory, for the best, and most virtuous Natures, in recompense of their worthy and honourable deeds, and sharp and severe punishments, for such as are badly inclined, to punish them, for such lewd faults as they shall commit.  
Now, as a King, who is to wage battle with a strong and puissant enemy, hath need of all his Forces together, valiantly to give him the overthrow; So that Realm which perceiveth some of her own proper children, to rise, and to take Arms against her, seeking (like the sons of Absalon, to destroy their Father) hath great need of all her good and faithful issue, who at such an extremity as that is, neither may, nor aught to leave her naked and alone, because as then, such an one doth as much hurt, that will not seek to hinder this conspiracy against her (and yet is of power to do it) as he, that is the first Author and motive of the same.  
This time then, will not suffer thee (my dear Shepherd) to take thine ease (thus) thou must return again into thine afflicted Country, take thy Fortune as shall happen, participate with her in her miseries, and sail with her in the selfsame dangerous voyage.  
For those are known to be true friends, that help at a dead lift, 
A Sentence.  and in greatest extremity, because they do good, without ever hoping for, of any reward.  
Change then thy advise, and like another Camillus, return from thine exile, to bestow upon thy Country, these thy last devoires, & deprive not thy Native soil of thy bones, being to be pitied, as much as great African was: to the end, that either thou, being buried within the bowels of the same, thou mayst leave a glorious remembrance of thyself, when thou shalt die: Or else, that thou offering thy service unto her, thou now bindest her unto thee, although all the services which we are able to render unto our Country, cannot bind her unto us, by reason we are far●c more beholding unto her.  
Think not as yet, that thou art (as it were, a dead tronk, which is cast into the grave) because it is unprofitable, and to be put to no good use: yield unto thy Country what good thou canst, and any brave quality thou hast, to stand her in steed, bestow it cheerfully on her. For in giving her that which is thine own, thou shalt deserve as well at her hands, as those who are far mightier than thyself; unto whom the heavens have given better means to secure their Countries, than they have unto thee: For every one is discharged, after he hath paid what he doth owe, and having performed what he can, to the utmost of his power. But it is not a sufficient discharge for the bad debtor, 
An example.  to say, he hath nothing, and yet in the mean time, can find wealth enough to supply his own need. Change then thy mind, & take thy journey with me, and I will think myself fortunate, if I may restore thee unto thy Country again, because of the great want she hath of such of her children, as are good, natural, faithful, and valiant: Amongst which number, I account thee as one of the chief.  
To this speech Arcas was about to reply, when the sound of a most piteous voice, overdrowned his, so that to understand the same, he was hushed and silent. This voice sighed forth this Sonnet following.  
Accursed wretch, and shall my blubbered tears  
Near mollify my Mystris flinty heart?  
O no, for these strange heats my body bears  
My tears to fire do change, to breed my smart.  
Shall I no more behold her beauty bright,  
Which wont was alone, me so to please?  
No, no, for now I live withouten light,  
Since her I see not, cause of my disease.  
In double wise (alas) I find my grief,  
Whilst treble still surmounteth my disgrace:  
First, cause I am a Thrall, without relief,  
And next, for that I see not her fair face.  
Thrice blest the dead, far happier than myself,  
Death makes an end, of all their martyring pain:  
But I still toiling, keep on sorrows shelf,  
Then, is my life, the worse of the twain.  
Half dead, half live, I languishing do lie,  
Under the beauteous eyes of my proud FAIRF:  
Whilst I more cruel find my destiny,  
Exiled from her, the essence of my care.  
Oh what cold passions in strange uncouth wise,  
Thy woeful absence breeds, through woes dispenses?  
Since that thy sight, made smile my weeping eyes,  
The loss whereof, deprives me of my senses.  
DEAR, what am I? poor I, withouten thee?  
But like a coarse, quite void of vital breath:  
Accursed Fate, that such a Law should be,  
To force men live, against their wills on earth.  
Of thousand griefs, the least and smallest cross  
A Lover, loving, doth in Love endure:  
Is worse by odds, then is of life the loss,  
Which we by gentle death, (our friend) procure.  
Compared unto the passions which I feel,  
O happy Fate, that so wouldst end my life,  
To rid me of my troubles every devil,  
A Cordial wore, and comfort passing rife.  
What, shall I not, from these plagues be released?  
Never, before expired be my life's date:  
Of blessings all, 'tis not, 'tis not the least,  
To die, whom Heavens, (whilsts that the lives) doth hate.  
O heavens, when will you 'gainst me quiet cease,  
And for a while take truce to do me spite?  
No, no, I see with me you'll have no peace,  
Yet virtue after storms, doth show most bright.  
You than do mean, thus still my heart to rack,  
On tenters yours, to sound my constancy:  
But to what end, do you the same alack,  
When I it know, and bear it patiently?  
Then cease ye Gods, to grieve me still with plagues,  
Ah whither carry you my vexed soul?  
But 'tis no matter: show your utmost rage,  
Not you my dame alone, can it control.  
As long as she to accept it please, in show  
You cannot have't, nor for you shall it care:  
For duty less, to heavens and Gods I own,  
Then to my life's sweet death, my cruel FAIR  
He that sung this, was the Shepherd Coridon, whom (as Arcas) wilful banishment had brought by chance into this Desert, and who calling to mind his Love, sung this doleful Ditty: which being ended, and perceiving Philistell, Arcas, and the old man together, he runneth straight unto them, and most joyfully saluteth them, praying them to hear a certain woeful history: of the truth of which, his own eyes had been witnesses, in this his travalie. Whereupon they granted his request, and every one of them taking their places to sit down, they began to listen unto him most attentively, when the Shepherd spoke as followeth.  The Tragical end of chaste Floretta. 
Although the Almighty, through his divine providence, hath most prodigally bestowed upon the soul of man, many fair and goodly perfections, making him capable, to know and understand every thing; Nevertheless, if there be not some striking motion to awake him, or some strange accident to prick him forward, he remaineth oftentimes, as senseless, without showing any effects, of his power and might at all. For a horse, although he be by nature, quick, light, and full of life, yet if he be not spurred forward well, he will neither run orderly, nor yet keep any pace rightly at all. Now the sharpest spurs of the soul, are Glory, and Love, being the first devisers of his actions, and the chiefest causes of all his enterprises. A brave General or Commander of a field, egged forward with desire of glory, will with the price of his blood, amidst thousand of dangers, in despite of all hazards, venture to show a proof and sign of the braveness of his mind: A witness whereof, is Themisticles, who was envious of the glory of Milliades. So likewise, a Lover will make show of a thousand proofs of a gallant spirit, devising all the best means he can to bring himself in credit with his Mistress, to the end he may thereby obtain the sooner his desire.  
And of such inventious, jupiter is found to be the first inventor. War then and Love, are the two most necessary spurs for the mind, although they are sharp and violent, as a comfortable potion though bitter, to heal the sickelie body. And when by chance, the spirit of man is touched unto the quick with these two hot spurs together, then is the time when we shall see the same to discover all her perfections, & worthy qualities at the full. For when the valiant champions, begin once to love, then do they become most rare and admirable in their actions, as well, by their valiantness to get the good will of their Ladies, as also because they less esteem of their lives, than they have done heretofore. Of which number were Hercules, Troilus, Achilles, & infinities of other more. And if the Roman writers speak truly, we find not any brave cavalier without a Lady or Mistress. This being the occasion, that I have used this little preamble, before I come unto my history, which is a mixed discourse both of Mars and Venus. For you shall understand, that a certain Duke of Banier, had (not long since) a most fair and virtuous daughter, but yet most unfortunate, as most commonly the virtuous are, because they being envied for the same, always find a number of enemies, to conspire and work their overthrow. This Princes being of an excellent beauty, her bringing up, being according unto her birth, and instructed in all convenient qualities, fit for so noble a Virgin, grew to be famous and admirable in every strange country.  
Such one divine Cassandra was,  
The Pearl of Phrygian land:  
Her learning such as it did pass,  
Whose Sire, it could not understand.  
divers foreign Princes amazed at the renowned report of this fair Lady, found themselves taken with a certain great desire to see her: amongst others, was the King of Danes son, one, who was young, gallant, and courageous, whose chief delight was in the sweet exercises of love. He being driven by the same of this peerless Paragon to pass the Seas, and to come unto the Court of her Father, to see her, was received and entertained according unto the greatness of his calling, with large testimonies of contentment every way, on the old King's side, for that he took it most kindly, that the young Prince vouchsafed in his own person to come and honour him with the nobleness of his presence.  
Having seen this Princess, he judged Fame to be envious, in that she had not bruited abroad, the half part of her perfections, being of conceit, that all such rare qualities as ever have been, were all assembled and met together in this one body: and that Nature hath made this as a superexcellent piece of work, to bring herself to be admired and wondered at in the eyes of all men. For the effecting of the same, 
Thus whilst the Lover burneth in this flame,  
No beauty's like to that of his fair dame.   
This caused him to think, that she was to be courted with some extraordinary means, and not with any trivial or usual discretion, required in such affairs; Because such Maidens as are beauteous, both in body, and in mind, are not so easily courted and obtained, with such facility as others are: by reason, a man findeth nothing to proceed from them, but what is found to be grave, prudent, and of great understanding and judgement. In the mean time, love daily grew more and more in the young Prince, which was the occasion he imagined the perfections of his Mistress, to increase likewise in her. 
A Sentence.  Such is the strange force of Love, as it changeth the nature of men's eyes, making them behold black for white, forcing them oftentimes, to adore such a one for celestial and divine, which amongst others (generally) is of no account.  
But what marvel is it to see him master the eyes of our body, if he be able to control our very souls, as he himself best pleaseth? And herein may Lovers be compared unto such as walk in the night, who can discern nothing, but what pleaseth their torch to make them see. Even so, they esteem nothing to be fair, but what their Love alloweth them to think of. So the flame of a fire, the more it spreadeth ábroad, the more it maketh the fuel to burn. And so the Prince, the more he found his soul to be powered out upon the beauty of his Lady, the more he still viewed and beheld her, always courting and devising with her, thinking still that he should find one new perfection or another in her. Resembling herein right students, who the more they read, the more they are desirous: because their reading bringeth them some new contentment or pleasure, causing them more and more to be ravished with the admiration of wondering at the bottomless depth of divine Learning. But the young Damsel, who through some secret and inward motion of her mind, prophesied the end of this Love to be miserable, although the beginning seemed to be sweet and goodly, carried herself herein, as the wise husbandman, who commendeth not the day overmuch, 
A Simile.  until he see the evening to be come, especially, when he seethe the Sun rise too timely, and to burn too hot, at the beginning, which made her hardly to be brought unto any thing, being the cause that moved him to use these speeches unto her, having found her one day at convenienient leisure.  
Most excellent Princess, the greatest contentment that a man can wish for in this world, is, to see his opinion and conceit, confirmed with experience: and he that believeth, and seethe, the effect of his belief to take place, esteemeth himself thrice Fortunate, as well of the good conceit he hath of his own sense, as for the pleasure and contentment he findeth therein, when he beholdeth his soul to be fully assured of that, which he so much, and so long desired. Amongst the number of which, I may well place myself, esteeming my fortune most happy, in that I (having seen you), have seen the effect of my belief, & the full assurance of mine own infallible judgement: The renown of your rare virtues, hath driven me hither, desirous to understand, if it were true or no: But I find it not so, because it hath forgotten to speak of you, as you have deserved, which parts in you, are far more commendable, than all the reports that have as yet been made of you. And this is the cause you ought not to wonder, if I (seeing you far more accomplished every way, than was bruited unto me) do love, honour, and affect you, as I do; Seeing that before ever I beheld you, I honoured you deeply in my heart. And if the God's recompense the pains which mortal men take to visit them, to receive their Oracles, and do answer them according unto their desires; Then, (dear Sovereign of my thoughts) I shall desire you, I may not be frustrate of the hope which brought me hither, which was to be graciously accounted of, by a fair Princess, like yourself, (who being perfect in all good gifts, cannot I trust) want neither mercy nor mildness. And if the just prayers of men, are heard up to the heavens, though they themselves are in condition, base, and unworthy to offer the same, yet mine, being of an other nature, (in that I crave nothing but what is lawful and honest, should me thinks, be accepted of you.  
Such demands as proceed from a foolish and undecent Amity, 
A Sentence.  are to be rejected, as dishonest and beastly: but such as belong unto a sacred and unspotted Friendship, aught to be accounted of, because without CHASTE LOVE, both Gods and men quickly perish. The prayer which I most humbly desire to offer unto you, is to beseech you to entertain me as your faithful servant, to the end, that if my loyal, constant, and long services, may deserve any merit, it might please your gracious and most sacred Love, to find some place for me in the same; who hath vowed to make you, and only you, the Queen of mine own person, Royal Crown & Realm. For this I will be bold to say, that if you shall grace me so much as to bestow the Title of servant on me, I will not doubt but to show myself worthy of some reward: in that I think, 
An Example.  having once obtained this favour at your hands, nothing can come impossible unto me. Suffer me (divine Princes, to enjoy so rare a name, which shall be more pleasing unto me, then to be Prince of Dace: For no Realm, do I value at so high a rate, as I do your admired beauty.  
The Gods (they say) esteem most, of the pure good wills, of men their creatures, and love them for the same, perceluing themselves to be loyally served, and faithfully honoured by them. Imitate them, I beseech you, for you can never affect or like any man that loveth you, in that deep measure that I do, which I always will maintain with the loss of my dearest blood, against all such, as shall make show to love you: And I will dare to avouch, that their devotion towards you, being far inferior unto mine, doth not merit such, or the like guerdon, as mine of right deserveth.  
To be brief, I beseech you (good Madam) vouchsafe to accept (as a deed of gift) the whole person, and the entire possessions and Realms of the Prince of Dace, who doth not account nor imagine, his famous glory, nor his good fortunes, to depend upon his own valour, or brave exploits, but only on the faithful service which he hath vowed unto you. For far greater honour shall it be unto him to serve so rare and exquisite a creature as you are, then to command, and bear sway, over ten thousand nations, were they never so generous.  
The young Princes little or nothing moved with these sweet speeches, & yet somewhat loath and unwilling to anger so great a Prince, whose affection she found to be wonderful towards her, whose proceedings she could not much mislike of, seeing they did spring from a virtuous and loyal hart: and withal, perceiving how greatly he was honoured by the Duke her father, resolved with herself (seeing she could not much affect him) to carry herself so wisely, and to give him so politic an answer, as he should scarce tell what to judge of the same: & that in such sort, as it should neither make him despair, nor force him to conceive any great good hope at all: which she delivered after this manner of speech.  
My Lord, if my weak and shallow judgement were worthy to take place amongst such as are learned, & could make difference and distinction in matters of importance, I should then think, that this word of Perfection, is no way proper nor convenient unto mortal things: for that which cannot be changed from his first Essence & Being, his omnipotent power, and almighty authority (as God himself) is only perfect indeed. But contrariwise, that which is not certain to rest, or to keep as much as the space of one short hour, in one and theselfe same form, because it is subject unto alteration and change, 
A Sentence.  it taking after the uncertain course of the Stars, and the chances of this world, cannot any way be called perfect. Which seeing it is so (I beseech you Sir, use not this word, proper unto God only) towards her, whose fairest perfections that she hath, is the assured knowledge of her own imperfections. I am noble Prince too base a creature, and of too small account to be beloved of you: the Gods love not any thing but what is rare, and worthy of their friendship.  
Princes are Gods here upon the earth, and aught to imitate them, not searching for any thing, but such (as differing from the vulgar conceit of the common people) carrieth in itself some excellent particular grace, and extraordinary excellency with it. But these worthy qualities wanting in me, what should move you to cast so great affection and liking upon me, as you would seem to parswade me you do?  
Let me alone I pray you, I pray you let poor justinai alone. Let not her defects be, as a laughing stock unto your youthful years: Nature hath made her wretched enough already, without farther increasing of her miseries, to make her the table talk, & common laughter.  
Besides, say that your tongue did agree with your hart, and that they two did not differ in affections, you being as willing every way (as you make show of) to abase your greatness so low, as to love me unfamedly indeed. Yet what assurance can you have of her, who hath no absolute power over herself, who is under the subjection and rule of a Father, whose commandment is her will alone?  
A man can never get any benefit of a Servant that hath nothing at all of his own, 
A Simile.  and whose only good dependeth upon the pleasure of his Master. Even such is my case, and so fareth it with me, and therefore if you mean to obtain, what you seem so earnestly to desire, you were best to make suit unto him, who hath interest over me, without whose permission and leave, I neither can, nor aught, to promise any thing unto you at all.  
If this be all (answered the Prince) and that there is no other let, I doubt not but to have a good issue in the pursuit of this my business I have taken in hand, (for I assure myself for certain) that my Lord, the Duke your Father, will never refuse the alliance of my house, nor that we shall not be married together. But neither his consent, neither our alliance, no, nor the marriage itself, will I account of, unless I have your own good will. For what good would it be unto me, to enjoy you as my spouse, when you as my mortal enemy shall mislike the same? The consent of parents, maketh not the marriage, but the amity and liking of both the parties, who are willing that their two bodies shall be bound in so inseparable a bond together, as death itself, can scarce sunder them. Only assure me of your liking: for as concerning the obtaining of your father's good will, which I already persuade myself of, I will follow it, as effectually, as speedily. And then will I think myself the most happiest Prince in the world.  
I am not so simple, (answered the Lady) neither so void of discretion, but that I know that a wise and dutiful daughter, aught to love what her Father is willing she should like, not being ignorant how faithfully, loyally, and dearly, a lawful and honest husband is to be accounted of. This is all, I can as now answer you: If you would crave more of me, you must pardon me. To talk with my father, you may do as you please: In your business, I will neither further nor hinder you, you know best what you have to do. And so with your licence, for this time, I will take my leave.  
The Princes, being departed from him, he straight went unto her father, with whom he was so earnest and vehement, in setting forth his amorous passions, as he promised him his daughter, assuring her unto him before witness. Whereupon the Danish Prince made all the hast he could to be gone, to the end he might carry these happy tidings unto the King his father, and that he might with the more convenient speed prepare every thing ready and fit, for so worthy and so Royal a Marriage.  
But cruel fortune (in the end) did lie in wait,  
Too soon so fair beginning for to ruinated.  
But before he took Shipping, he would needs bestow this Sonnet upon his Lady, who received the same, more for fear of offending her Father, then for any pleasure she took in these his new proceed. And this it was.  
Lady (I parting) leave with thee my soul,  
Carrying with me, nought but my captive corpse:  
My captive corpse proud that you him control,  
Through those fair darts, your eyes, loves strongest, force  
Whilst I shall draw, this airy vital breath,  
I still will keep within me, this strange fire:  
Which in the furnace of my heart on earth  
My heart doth try, my hopes to make more higher.  
My soul from death sweet Madam you do keep,  
That you may it restore to me again  
When at that heavenly harbour we shall meet,  
Where our chaste Loves shall querdoned remain:  
There shall I need it, for to make him taste,  
After so many troubles freed from grief,  
That happy joy, which Lovers hearts makes waste  
Until thereof they find the right relief.  
Then (Sovereign) pray we that some heavenly power,  
May hasten for our good, this blessed hour.  
The Prince taking his leave of his fair Mistress, delivered these verses fairly written unto her, who was neither glad nor sad at his departure, as well for that she was not as yet wounded with the golden darts of that little blind God, as also, because she feared (I know not what luckless end would chance in this constrained love unto her; yet nevertheless, she resolved to follow the advise of her father, making account, and that very wisely, whatsoever should happen, yet should not she be blamed, nor found to be faulty at all; since she did but that she was commanded by him.  
Now the Danish Prince, having only the bare promise of the Duke, without being able to get any small grant at all of his daughter, leaveth the Court of Bavier, and scouring through the Seas with a merry gale of wind, returneth home to Denmark, where the King his Father, with all the Nobles of his Realm, received him with great joy, they all being marvelous desirous to see their young Prince married, for the hope they had to see some brave and worthy issue to proceed from so forward and Princely a Gentleman as he was.  
But as great and Noble personages, are the occasions, either of much good, or of much evil, according unto such proceed as they take in hand, even so, marriages oftentimes bring with them, either much happy fortune, or else exceeding great misery.  
There is no so happy an encounter, 
A Sentence.  as is the chaste, loyal, and sacred marriage of two bodies united together, with one and the selfsame good will. Neither is there any thing so miserable and unlucky, as that marriage, where nothing but debate, discord, dissension, and all other mischiefs meet together. For the hatred of a stranger is in some sort tolerable, because it cometh but now and then; but that of the husband and the wife, is insupportable, because it is contrary unto the nature of marriage, and is continual and ordinary. This being the reason, that in many countries, the people rejected and despised marriage: yea even amongst Christians, and such as were heretics, was it had in no account, they maintaining the community of wives, and bringing up the children so begotten, of the common and public charge.  
But yet as we must not give over a sick creature, because we perceive in him an extraordinary feebleness and weakness throughout his body; even so, although we find certain defects in marriage, yet ought we not to conclude against it, or to condemn it for the same. For though we see one corrupt member in a sound body, yet must we not command to kill the body for the same, but rather seek how to cure it: And so should we use marriage, being both sacred and just, which if by chance it hath sometimes imperfections, we must study how to help them, such faults being naturally incident unto all sorts of creatures.  
But leaving this, let us come unto this wished for marriage, which chanced to be the overthrow, both of the Prince of Denmark, of the Princes of Baviers, and many others, they being in no sort blameworthy at all.  
And now the Danish young Lord, having the consent of his Father, and all the Nobility of his Realm, to go through with this match, and all things being in a readiness for the entertainment and receiving of his new Bride, he sendeth certain of his chief Barons to bring her home into his country, they being furnished at all points with six tall ships, richly set out on every side, not wanting any thing for so honourable a Convoy.  
No sooner were these Lords are 〈…〉 Duke of Baviers Court, but they were most joyfully received, and most Princery 〈…〉, of the Duke, and of his daughter (though somewhat against her will) whose beauty was such, and so rare, as it seemed most admirable in the eyes of these strangers, they not a little commending their Prince, for that he hath so well and wisely made his choice.  
After they had been feasted, highly to their contentments, the Duke according to his promise, appointing his daughter a Royal ship, and endowing her with many precious jewels, with rich treasure, and exceeding sumptuous suits of Princely apparel, delivered her, with her whole Train, unto the Nobles of Denmark, who (embarking her in her own ship) attending on her, with all the courtly solemnities that might be: whilst she standing upon the hatches, and taking her last farewell of her Father, country, and friends, she seemed rather a Goddess, than an earthly creature.  
But O how short of mor● all worldlings is the glory:  
Her fortune is unconstant, and their lives but sorry.  
The ships being lanced from the shore, the Music sweetly began to sound, the sky was clear, the weather fair, and the Sea most calm, as they began to sail, seeming as it were to be ravished with his enchanting harmony.  
But what more wavering did you ever find,  
Then Seaish waves, what more fierce or unkind?  
This brave company found this to be too true, not a little unto their cost, for about some two days after their embarking, Aeolus opening his hollow caves, suffered the blustering winds to come abroad, and the Sun hiding his glorious face, gave place unto tempestuous storms, to cover the whole giring vault of heaven. The angry Seas began to boil, to rise, and like a Savage wild Boar, to set up his bristles, hissing and roaring most terribly, as one disposed to plague all such, as at that time had too too credulouslie committed themselves unto his mercy. The whistling winds began afresh to bluster, to rage and take on, and as it were to be mad for very anger. The azured sky, (clear and bright a little before) now received down, hail, thunder, and lightning, being all over eclipsed with a dark and gloomy cloud: no more was now seen the comfortable day, whilst the unwelcome night brought with him his obscure frightfulness, desperate danger, his despairing fear, and iveuitable death, his cruel amazement, presenting these Tragical shows before the eyes of the poor distressed passengers.  
No sweet Music was now heard, nor no sign of joy or pleasure was amongst them. Only the Seas and the winds spoke, made a noise, and roared most horribly, which was the cause that cold fear began as then to take possession of their souls, and death to seize upon them, whilst salt tears fell down like swinging showers upon their shaking hands, held up to heaven for mercy. Most woeful were their cries, most heavy their sobbing and groaning, and most mournful and pitiful the complaints which they made in this their extremities.  
Their leaking ships were tossed and tumbled here and there, some in one place, and some in another, as pleased the uncertain winds, not unlike the conqueror, who deviseth and separateth his prisoners as he thinks best, according unto his own mind, some of them were carried unto one strange cost, and some unto another, every one of them having a contrary fortune, most of them in the end being drowned, and few or none of them saved, and safely come to land.  
That vessel, in which the poor Princes remained, was by chance cast upon the cost of Spain. Alas, how were her eyes swollen with tears, her heart broken with grief, and her very soul galled with sorrow, to see what hard fortune was happened unto her, and unto all her company and train, 〈…〉 ●●●es were all fallen into the bottom of the Sea, whither she looked 〈…〉 follow after, complaining most heavily of her partial destinies, that had brought her to be a prey unto the watery Monsters.  
The wearied Mariners, and tired Sailors, had wrought all the means they could, both by cunning and force, to withstand the rage of this storm, but all in vain, for the pump was not able to deliver forth one quarter of the water which the billows of the Sea continually beat in: in the end, the winds drew this ship upon the coasts of Spain (as I said before) and in such a case as was most dangerous, by reason of the Rocks, that were there all about, which was the cause (in despite of all the Sailors) it ran upon a hard shelf, being with the blow broken, and split all in sunder.  
A woeful spectacle was this to behold, and as dreary a Tragedy for to report. What eyes could see this, and not weep? what ears can hear this, and not tingle? And what tongue can read this doleful story, and not falter in his speech?  
Then, then, every one cried out for mercy from above, one catching a board, an other a chest, this one thing, and that, another, and all to save their lives, their sweet lives, which all do hold so dear: but yet for all that, all of them in a manner notwithstanding were cast away and perished: only justina, by the grace of God, and assistance of Fortune, happened upon a casket, in which were her jewels, which she grasping fast within her arms, the unmerciful winds, weary of their cruelties, through the help of a great wave of the Sea, threw her upon the sandy shore; but yet in so miserable estate, as most pitifuall it was to behold her: she being pale, heavy, and more than half dead, through fear and sorrow, insomuch as she moves no more than a senseless stone, representing the form of a dead coarse, rather than of a living creature, in which dreadfulness, was found as yet some small spark of life.  
Thus long time did she live, as one breathless and lifeless, not being able to call, or to recover her vital spirits again.  
In the end, (though it were first long) she came unto herself, beholding with a piteous eye, so many drowned corpses to float upon the water, and so much costly stuff, and rich treasure, to be cast here and there upon the shore, and how having somewhat recovered her former senses, lifting up her moistened eyes, and trembling hands unto heaven, she began thus.  
O Sage Roman, that rightly didst blame such, who when they might take their journey by land, will foolishly commit themselves unto the mercy of the waters. And thou prudent Philosopher, who wert of opinion, that a man sailing in a boat, had but two fingers (as it were) of life.  
Alack alack, too true were your words, I having proved the same, not a little unto my cost, and misfortune. O God, what vice, what fault, or what sin hath brought me unto this remediless mischief, into which I now see myself plunged over head and ears? was this my doing? or did I ever go about to labour, or seek for this unfortunate alliance, which hath cost me and my company so dear? No, no, I rather sought how to resist the same to the uttermost of my poor power, and to shun and avoid (as much as lay in me) this fatal and ominous marriage.  
Ah unfortunte children, from whom the respect, and duty they own unto their parents, taketh away all the power and authority they have, to dispose of their own persons, as themselves do chiefly covet and desire: my mind did prognosticate this misfortune unto me, yet could not I avoid it, and as another unlucky Cassandra, I advertised myself before hand of a mischief to come unto me, yet would I not give credit unto the same.  
Woe is me, woe is me, because I see myself delivered now from one danger, and for that I am exempt and freed from the malice of the spiteful Seas; Am I therefore more happy, than these breathless trunks, which lying before me, are deprived of life by these unmerciful Surges? No, no, for they by this means are cleared from all debts: and whereas I am (yet) to pay mine, and that perhaps with greater miseries, and mischiefs, and after a worse manner far (by odds) than they have any ways done.  
For what can I hope for in this strange Country, where I find myself comfortless and alone, but either to starve and die for hunger, either to be dishonoured by the rude inhabitants and people, here remaining, or else to be devoured with the jaws of some one wild beast or another?  
Yet Heavens (I pray) to grant me rather that I may satisfy the famlne of these savage monsters, then to be ravished, and to lose mine Honour, it being the chief and only jewel which I desire to conserve in this world.  
O hapless Ariadne, and yet far more fortunate than I, 
An example.  for thou being left in an uncouth Island all alone, didst doubt nothing but death, being thoroughly assured, as concerning the preservation of thy virginity, and good fame; whereas I, alack, fear greatly both the one and the other.  
To whom may I utter my complaints? of whom may I entreat for comfort? whom may I crave to assist me? and from whom may I purchase to obtain remedy, for my so great grief, and anguish?  
No, I would think my Fortune to be marvelous good, if living hardly upon the roots and fruit within these woods, I might be sure to keep my Chastity untainted, and unpolluted: but who can or will assure me of such exceeding favour? Cruel, & over-cruell Sea, of thee do I complain most of all, in that thou hast cast me upon thy shore, and not drowned me: for this do I complain of thee more, then for the loss of all my friends, cast away most cruelly by thine only means alone.  
Why didst not thou send me to death, as thou didst them? and why did I not take the same course, following them as they did: seeing we were all embarked in ships alike, and were to pass all unto one place and Country?  
Well, well, yet in despite of thee, will I seek to die, comforting myself with this good, in my last misery, that so doing, my body shall not be a prey, neither to vicious men, nor to any deformed monster. Nothing doubting at all, but that some one pitiful man or other, will vouchsafe to bury me after I am dead, and that the same earth, from which it came, will not stick to accept and receive it again into her own bowels.  
Thus complained the doleful justina, despairing as it were, of all succour, 
A Sentence.  hardly persuading herself, and scarcely believing that God would ever deliver her from this woeful estate, in which she found herself, as then to be in.  
But as his power is far above the capacity of man, so doth his succours come quite contrary unto the hope and conceit of them, and as it were, by an extraordinary kind of means.  
For even then, when the unfortunate Princess, resolved within herself, to make herself away, behold, she might perceive a young Gentleman to come towards her, attended on with two servants, whose custom was, to walk oftentimes unto the Sea side, for his disportand pleasure, his Castle being seituate, and lying hard by the same, upon the top of an high hill.  
No sooner had he cast his eyes upon the sorrowful virgin, but that he thought presently, she was the hapless remainder of some shipwreck of the Sea, and the rather, because he saw her environed and compassed round about with dead corpses; which he perceiving, suddenly began to lament the hard hap of this despairing Damsel. And as the bravest and most generous minds are soon subject to pity and compassion, he resolved to help and secure her in what he could.  
Coming near unto her, he might perceive her most pitifully to sigh for her disasters, holding her head between her hands, which leaned upon her lap, and her dropping eyes, looking down very wistly upon the ground, which was the cause she saw not the Knight, until he was come right before her.  
But now his presence, coming as he did, bred a new combat within her thoughts, freezing her heart with a novel fear again. For whereas before she only doubted the cruelty of some ravenous beast: Now seeing so fair and goodly a young Gentleman by her, she began to apprehend in her mind, the loss of her Honour, which nevertheless, she resolved to maintain the same, unto the uttermost of her power, and to plead what she could in her own defence, before he should seize upon her as his prey. Whereupon with a good courage, she flingeth herself down at the Noble man's feet, and with an assured confidence (which through his mild countenance, she persuaded herself of him, began thus to speak.  
If GOD (moved at last, by mine incessant prayers, to be gracious unto me) hath caused thee to come hither, to the intent to secure and help me, I know then, thou wilt forbear to dishonour me. But if not, and that thou art here arrived to work my utter ruin and overthrow; Ah then, I beseech thee, without more ado, cut off, and shorten this my loathed life.  
Whatsoever thou art, 
An Example.  I beseech thee remember, that the glory of Alexander the great, was greater, in that he vanquished his own will, preserving untainted and untouched, the honours of Darius' daughters, then in conquering Dariuses himself. And think that the chaste continency of Scipio, brought more renown and fame unto him, than the defeit and overthrow of Hannibal: and that his modest behaviour, purchased him more faithful friends, and servitors, than the triumphing Conquest of that huge Africa.  
Thus (noble Knight) to vanquish our enemy, is the gift of Fortune, and not our own proper force, 
A Sentence.  but to surmount and overcome our own selves, is a glory due unto ourselves alone, and to none other. Because neither Fortune, neither the assistance of our friends, have any interest or part herein: for only from ourselves it doth proceed, and from none else. Whereas contrariwise, if thou please but to call unto thy mind, thou shalt soon find, what blame, dishonour, and disgrace, the beastly and vicious life of Tarquin of Pacis, of Theseus, and divers others, brought them unto: who because they durst presume most cruelly, to ravish and deflower illustrious and virtuous Ladies, felt the heavy hand of the heavens, to inflict most grievous plagues upon them.  
So perished ajax Oillius, plagued most justly, for forcing the sacred Prophetess Cassandra. For more fowl was his fault accounted, and more was he condemned, for abusing this Virgin, then proud Pyrrhus was thought cruel, in sacrificing the mild Polixena, upon the tomb of his father Achilles.  
I am now thy slave, as Cassandra was his, yet I hope I shall not be so hardly used, as she was by him, lest the Gods punish thee, as severely as they did ajax. I rather persuade myself, that I have met with another Alexander for chaste continency, & that my hap shall be as fortunate, as was that of Slutinas, the wife of Darius. But if not, & that I am deceived in mine expectation, yet at the least, show me the favour, that I may succeed Lucretia in her fortune, and lend me some weapon or other, with which I may open my breast, and leave this my life, 
A Sentence.  which I have so much and so long disliked. For it is not life, but rather death, for a modest woman to live without good name and fame, seeing we properly call that life indeed, which never dieth at all, and that is Honor.  
Then worthy Lord, I commit and commend mine into thy hands, it is for this only, that I so much entreat and beg, and not for life. For so little do I account thereof, as I would think it time ill spent, and worse employed, to demand or desire the same at all.  
The Knight hearing this note, wondered at her beauty, and not a little, at her brave mind, & rare constancy. And so much was he amazed at her excellent oration, but far more at her virtuous and stout resolution, that in steed of having her to be his slave and Captive, he found himself to be overcome as her prisoner, and to be wounded with her sweet countenance, and pleasing behaviour, which was the occasion he replied thus unto her.  
Fair Gentlewoman, I know no beast, were it never so savage, but would willingly help and assist you in your misery. And fear you then, that any man hath the power, as much as once to offend you? especially, such as have taken their oaths, and whose ordinary exercise extendeth chief to conserve and maintain the Honour, and welfare of all Ladies and Gentlewomen whatsoever?  
My condition bringeth me within the number of such: Heavens only grant, that my proceed, and mine endeavours, may by the fruits thereof, testify the same. And as for yourself, you need not doubt of any thing: for I assure you, you have more power to command me, than Fortune hath given me authority over you. 
A Sentence.  In what base or abject state soever, virtue encounters and enters, she always shineth bright, the cruelty of Fortune not being able to darken her beams, nor to oppose herself against her divine clearness.  
Persuade yourself then, not only of your life, but also of your Honour, which this my hand shall preserve, against all the men in the world, even until the last drop of blood in my body.  
That prisoner that by miracle hath escaped out of prison, 
A Simile.  is not more glad at the meeting of his dearest friends, who are come to convey him away safe and sure, than this poor Princess was joyful, seeing herself thoroughly assured of the safety of her Honour: Insomuch as she resolveth to take her Fortune, and to repose herself upon the promise of the Knight: who sweetly kissing her hand, and helping her up from the ground gently, with all courteous ceremonies, and duteous respects that might be, conducteth her, (his attendants following him) unto his Castle, where being arrived, he delivered, and recommended her, unto his own mother, an aged Lady, who received and entertained her, with the greatest courtesy and kindness that might be, as if she had been her daughter.  
So, as she found herself to be honoured and respected, as greatly, as if she had been in the Court of her Father, without being as much as once urged, or demanded, any thing that should be occasion of mislike unto her.  
Thus when from Heavens of succour we despair,  
We find that then they take for us most care.  
So miraculously was joseph the chaste delivered, so holy Susanna, 
An Example.  so virtuous judith, and many other such. Neither is it without great reason, that high jehova should come for to assist us, but even then, when we have most need, when we are in greatest extremity, and when we have wholly retired ourselves, from all expectation of worldly hopes.  
For if we should be delivered after a human manner, and by the hands of men, (when we are in exceeding great danger) we then should never acknowledge the puissance and power of GOD, to be so mighty and immortal as it is. Neither should we be bound unto him as we are, when by his only special grace alone, he doth deliver us from such infinite troubles.  
justina then, being so starngely freed from all dangers, began by little and little, to forget her sorrow, being (in time) content to receive some comfort and consolation, in these her grievous mischances, whilst in the mean while, her fair eyes recovered again their former attractive force; her colour, beauty, and grace, reviving again in her, as fresh as ever they were before, having caught as Captive, the heart of her agenerous Host.  
Valiant Achilles, so was slave to Brisseis Beauty, fought for her, and became her servant, with great duty.  
By which we find, how profitable Love is unto Slaves and Servants, making them, 
An Example.  many times, Lords and Commanders, over their own Masters. And such was Theseus to Phedra, Paris to Helena, Anthony to Cleopatra, with other more.  
All which, showeth a prudent kind of recompense in Love, to requite with so great an advantage, such as Fortune hath turned topsy-turvy, and utterly in a manner overthrown, in giving them authority, to control over such as are their Sovereigns.  
Yet this good which he doth, is rather to make himself seem admirable, excellent, and divine, in his power, then for any good will he beareth unto any man, being for all this, merely ignorant, and stark blind, how to find the means through which he may become rightly just, and pitiful indeed.  
But leaving justina for a while, to pluck up her spirits, to take heart at grass again, and to begin to be as merry as ever she was: we will return to the young Danish Prince, who had now gotten a certain intelligence, and true knowledge, of his betrothed Spouses shipwreck on the Seas, and as he thought, her utter ruin and overthrow. For one of the company of their Ships, escaping by the benefit of the winds, was driven back upon the coasts of Denmark, by whom he was thoroughly ascertained, of the casting away of his fair Mistress, and all her Fleet.  
If hope of future things being prolonged and deferred, rendereth the soul misery and trouble, how much more than doth Despair afflict and torment the same? The furious assaults whereof, this young Prince but too too well felt; having lost that which he esteemed most of in this world, and seeing himself quite frustrate, and void of the only delightful hope of his life: Oftentimes went he about to imbrue his own hands with his dearest blood, if he bade not been prevented, and persuaded to do otherwise: he being of the mind, that it was impossible for him to live, after the loss of that, which was the only occasion of his life. Nor did he grieve alone, for all his Country did participate with him in his sorrow: not so much for the death of the Princess, as for to see the exceeding passions and torments he still endured. For so much did he take on, and so impatiently did he bear her loss, as not only he forgot the office & the devoir of a Prince, but also of an ordinary poor creature, offering himself through the extremity of his passions, to become the spoil of Fortune, as the most miserable wretch in the world. For all joy became irksome unto him, all state and pomp, loathsome and odious, and all pleasure, displeasant and wearisome; his grief made him forget his condition, his health, and his welfare.  
So faithful Pyramus with grief was tossed,  
When he had thought his Thisbe fair was lost.  
His walks were solitary, his purmenadoes melancholy, and the savage beasts of the woods, his only company. How often would he sit roaring, within the bowels of some hollow Rock or other, and complain him in the shady deserts of his too hapless disasters?  
How often would he run unto the shore side, looking here and there (like Ariadnne) to see if the selfsame Ship in which his Lady was embarked, would appear unto his sight, or no? yet could he see nothing, but the soming surges of the Sea, and the swelling billows, beating on the banks too and fro. All the news that he could understand, was the loss of his Mistress, for that was the general brute that ran for currant throughout all the Country. One while he condemned his overrash fondness (as wánting advise and discretion) in that, through the same, he had hazarded upon the ungentle waves, so fair and sweet a Creature, as she was. Another while, he acknowledged and confessed himself to be the author of her death, and the cause of her destruction. Whilst this opinion of his, drew whole floods of tears from his eyes, thousands of sighs from his heart, and millions of heavy complaints from his soul. Two cruel conceits did always afflict him; the one, was the loss of his Love; the other, the constant belief, that he had been the occasion of her utter overthrow.  
Commonly we bear with more patience the misfortune which happeneth untous, 
A Sentence.  by the despiteful malice of the angry Stars, than we do that, which through our own default doth fall upon us. For the one, we can no way remedy, because we cannot resist against the heavens: but the other, we imagine, we might by some devise have prevented, if in due time, we would with discretion have looked unto the same.  
All the Court, as well the highest as lowest, endeavoured what they could to comfort him, but he esteemed that as a double grief, to be persuaded to be comforted by any, having lost her which was his chiefest comfort. In the end he devised these doleful Ditties, in which kind of exercise, he spent most part of his wearisome time.  
This then, was the woeful Song, which he used oftentimes to sigh forth, when he was in his Chamber all alone, or walking amidst the uncouth Forests, or when he was retired unto some private place, along the solitary Seashore.  
Now I have lost the dear light of mine eyes,  
What should I do, but end my weary days?  
That Lover which with Mistress his doth die, 
A Sentence.   
dieth not (Alas) but rather lives always.  
So Pyramus and Thysbe, did dislive  
Themselves, and lived together like two Doves:  
That servant which his Lover doth survive,  
No faithful Lover by loyalty proves,  
So great a loss tears cannot countervail,  
The rate hereof at so high price is set:  
Base minds it fits (for life) to weep and wail,  
That so at length their griefs they may forget.  
Not death itself though stung with his sharp sting,  
Their loyal hearts can parted make remain:  
Th'one dying, doth death to the other bring,  
Making but one for to become of twain.  
As sweet that happy life of Lovers was,  
When th'one the other joyfully did prove:  
So seems it sweet to them from life to pass,  
When they together end their Life and love.  
Love doth renew, and so like Phoenix shall  
In the Elysian fields, below the earth:  
Chaste Amity, not mortal 'tis at all,  
As is our fatal end, and flitting breath.  
Ah how can one live in this world of woe, 
A Sentence.   
When he hath lost the best part of himself?  
Who seeks not after Mistress his to go,  
In Friendships' chequer hath but little wealth.  
Divorce me then from life ye Destinies,  
To rid me from this labyrinth of noy:  
The FAIREST shall not plain in righfullwise  
Of me, since I have lost her, (my chief joy.)  
Ay me, I see, Death no remorse will take  
On me, whilst slow he hearkeneth to my cry:  
The Heavens, our plagues the greater for to make,  
Will not permit, Death should approach us nigh.  
Shall I then live in grief, myself to ban?  
Even in despite, and 'gainst my souls own will:  
Alas I must, for I unworthy am  
To be, where bides my Lady, freed from ill.  
Am I not wretched then, more than the rest,  
To cause her death, for whom I ought t'have died?  
Then why should I imagine me so blessed,  
As for to look for comfort at this tide?  
No, no, I must (and I deserve to find)  
Thousands of crosses, ere I end this life:  
Who ill hath done, deserves no usage kind, 
A Sentence.   
No gentle death, but direful sorrows rife.  
My hope is this, that after thousand plagues,  
A lingering death shall seize upon my Coarse:  
Whilst thousand griefs throughout my veins shall rage's,  
The more to punish him without remorse.  
Then let none comfort, or once counsel me,  
Since this my wound is mortal sans recure:  
A mad man never will persuaded be  
By reason, what is best for him t'endure.  
Unhappy I, and treble cursed my state  
Wherein I live, a death o'er desperate.  
Thus wailed this sad Prince continually, and to say truth, just were his wailings, and but rightful his complaints, considering how great his loyalty was; and yet if he loved justina well, our Lovesick Cavalier, honoured her as much, if not more: for as he liked her for her beauty, so did he as much admire her for her virtue.  
To seek to obtain her, in hope to carry away that which many a Lover proposeth as a guerdon for his travail and pain which he hath taken: he knew full well that it was in vain, and against his word and promise: and to espouse and marry her, being altogether ignorant of her birth and estate, every one knowing in what wretched taking he found her upon the Seashore, all alone, he durst not, both for fear lest he should do injury unto his house, from whence he descended, and also, lest he should provoke the just displeasure of his best friends and nighest kindred, in attempting so rash an enterprise without their consent.  
Thus was he troubled with many doubts, still running in his head, not knowing what way to take, or which course to resolve upon: No more than the Pilgrim, who being unskilful in his journey, 
A comparison.  and coming to a four crosse-path-way, knoweth not which of them all rightly to choose.  
Mean space, Love got the advantage of him daily, yea, and in that sort, as in the end, he became absolute master of the Fort, and chief Lord and Conqueror, over the soul of the poor Gentleman. In so much as he could no longer now conceal this hidden fire any more.  
The burning coal, covered with hot cinders, is more fresh, ardent, and full of heat, than the fiery flame itself. Very willing and feign was he, to have bewrayed his sickness, but he knew not to whom, he being not ignorant, that none could ease him of his pain, but only she, who was the cause thereof, of whom he looked to reap but small, or no comfort at all.  
The day and night was all one with him, for he slept no more when the Moon gave light, then when the Sun shined: his greatest contentment being, to be always in the company of his dear Mistress, not remembering how the more he resorted unto her, the more his heart was enthralled, and caught in the nets of loves pleasing servitude and bondage.  
The often and dutiful devoires he always used to do her service, his stealing glances, and pitiful looks he cast upon her beauteous countenance, and his continual burning sighs, coming like smoky exhalations from his breast, were the only secret messengers of his mind unto her.  
All which, the Lady well perceived, (although she wisely dissembled the same) beginning as it were, now to participate with him, in the selfsame pain, and during in a manner, the selfsame that he did.  
But the fear she had, lest this good will should force him to forget his promise, and his honourable ●arriage unto her, was the cause she very hardly entertained this kind affection which she bore him.  
Yet is it lawful for an honest woman to love, for nothing is more sacred in the whole world, 
A Sentence.  than Love: but yet so must they like, as they must seek to conserve their Honour's chaste and untainted: such was the love that fair justina cast upon this Noble Spaniard.  
But as a subtle Tyrant, having set foot into some place, although at the first entrance (because he hath not as yet planted strongly enough sufficient forces, to serve his purpose) carrieth a show of mercy and mildness to every one where he cometh, by which means (at the length) he getteth to be absolute Lord and master over the same: which authority afterwards, he exerciseth with all kind of cruelties, injustice, and all other horrible faults that may be. Even so Love, having gained one of the gates of the heart of the Princess, in the end, made himself chief ruler over all the Fortress of her fair body.  
She now began to take liking unto the sweet looks of the Gentlemen, to praise and make account of his services, and to lend a listening ear unto his pleasing speeches: and as a sick person, leaving his bed and chamber, doth give testimony unto every one, of his welfare and recovery, by reason he findeth his stomach again, and can digest his mere well: even so, the delight and contentment, which she took in the company, and in the behaviour of the Knight, was a sufficient and assured sign of the great good will, and singular affection which she bore him: yet was her fancy nothing like unto that which (Alfonso) for so was the Spaniards name, bare unto her: it being of such strange force, as it not only governed over his health and welfare, but also it held in subjection his very soul, which most miserably languished: Not unlike unto such, who having taken a determinative kind of poison, consume away by little and little.  
He now thought, that there could be no such rare contentment in this world, as to enjoy the company of his Goddess, which could not be too dearly bought, although it should cost him his dearest heart blood. Neither was he of the rained he had been before, to make a doubt what she was, or that she was of a more base or inferior house then himself was of.  
Love now had drowned all such doubts in him, he only studied how he might work the means to be gracious in her sight, and to enjoy her as his lawful bedfellow and wife; knowing too too well, that her virtues would oppose themselves against all other sinister and dishonest means, that should be attempted against her: but this could he not do, except he took a new course, neither ever come to be master of his desire, without opening his mind unto her, in such sort, as he resolved to give his Mistress to understand of the whole matter at large.  
Whereupon, as he was one day walking alone with her, after thousands of sighs sent forth from his heart, with thousands of piteous love-lookes, most sweetly glanced on her, and with millions of sweet alterations in his mind, his tongue trembling, and his voice fainting, his countenance and his colour altering and changing, and a cold Fever running through all his bones, doubting lest he should be repulsed with a sharp denial, with a low and faint voice, he began thus to accost her.  
Sweet Charge, for (so she requested him to call her) the assured report of certain things, amazeth oftentimes the spirit of man very much, but the experience of the same, giveth sufficient testimony, that it is most true.  
I speak this unto this end, for that I have heard manieto discourse often of Love, who have reported infinite strange effects, which he hath with great wonder brought to pass: so that I, for mine own part, have not a little admired him, in mine inward soul, yet could I never judge rightly thereof, until experience had acquainted me with an infallible proof, as concerning the same.  
Since which time, I (have found afterward) that he is more wonderful, than I have been given to understand, there being such a certain thing in Love that none are able to express, having more divinity in him, than one can imagine, with which, only such as are strooken with his dart are acquainted withal, and none else.  
And certainly, he may be well called DORDE, and liberal disposer of mortal men's fortunes, seeing he is able to make such as are Conquerors to yield, and force masters to become slaves unto their own servants and vassals.  
Besides, he ought by great reason to be termed a God, especially amongst such as are most wretched and miserable, who being ready, (as it were) to fall into the pit, are by him helped out, and lifted up, giving them command and power over their Superiors.  
This which I speak is not by roate, nor by hearsay, but only by good proof, as I myself can best justify. For I find myself vanquished by you, (fair Gentlewoman) whom envious Fortune had sometime (though most unjustly) brought into a most pitiful estate.  
Then am I your slave, and yet none of these which seek the dishonour of their Ladies, to satisfy their sensual desires. But such a one I am, as beareth more affection unto your Honour, then love unto your beauty.  
Needs must I confess, I love both the one and the other, endeavouring in what I may, for to conserve them both, wishing to die a thousand times, rather than suffer the least wrong or injury to be offered unto them. For your virtue do I love you; and for your beauty do I honour you: for your modesty do I seek you: and reverence you, for your chastity. If I were found to affect you, but for one of these good qualities only in you, may be, it were subject, and likely to fall to ruin and decay: but having so many goodly and sacred foundations, and all united one unto another, making it to be of an invincible strength; Methinks it is impossible, that ever this my love should be shaken or removed from his first place.  
The hope of your goods, of your Nobleness of birth, or your riches, are not occasions of the good liking I have of you, in that I am not acquainted with any such matters, but only with your Nobleness: I rather hating such friendships, because they are lost and ended, as soon as possession is taken of such things, upon which they were founded. I then love you, with a sacred and chaste kind of love, beseeching you, that I may be recompensed with the like affection again.  
For no woman can any way offer injury unto her reputation and credit, to love those, that seek to conserve the same: neither shall that love which is loyal, be ever defrauded of his due, because it hath always a greater respect unto the conservation of that thing which the woman loveth chief, then to the pleasure he taketh in the fruition and enjoying of her beauty.  
But if my spotless amity be of any merit or worth with you, I then most humbly entreat you, so much to favour me, as to make me acquainted with your estate, the cause of this your misfortune, your parentage, and house you come of, and what your inward conceit is of me, to the end I may either live in assurance of some sweet hope, or ever after pass my time in most wretched and remediless despair?  
The Princess who (already in her conscience) acknowledged herself much beholding unto the Knight, and who thought him to deserve the better, in that he loved her with so great consideration and respect, she being sick of the same malady that he was diseased, and finding the desires of her mind, (to cope and jump with those of the Gentleman's) they agreeing both in one alike, with a low, yet a sweet speech, returned him this gracious answer.  
Noble Governor, if I had no other assurance of your excellent virtues, than your faith, which you have most strictly kept, and the respective care you have always had most reverently of mine Honour, I cannot think, your intention and meaning, to be otherwise, then most chaste, honest, and laudable every way: For should you have any other worse pretence towards me, I cannot see what profit might redound unto you thereby. I confess you may (if you please) I being now in your power, force my chaste will, but yet, this pleasure should be both dishonourable, in that you have falsified your faith, and offered violence unto a silly maiden, who hath nought but tears to defend her, and also short & bootless, because this hand should purge and wash clean my body of this fault, with the loss of his best blood, which I would offer unto mine Honour, to appease his wrath and anger. As for this sacred amity which you assure me of, I hold it most dear and agreeable, because it being such as you tell me, I know it will always love that which I tccount of most chief, which is my reputation and credit, studying, by all possible means to conserve the same, to the end it may still preserve me alive.  
And this is is a true sign, and an infallible testimony of faithful and loyal Lovers indeed: For if they love their Ladies entirely, then will they never offer violence, nor seek to wrong that thing which they account of most, which they esteem of, as precious as their lives, & of which they make reckoning of, as of their only glory & renown For as we cannot rightly call that friendship true love, which a thief maketh a show of, to hear unto an honest man, because it is a colour only to rob him of his goods and wealth: 
A Simile.  even so, that love is no love, but rather a most disloyal fury, which a man professeth unto a woman, when through the only shadow of the same, he seeketh to take from her, her sole and only treasure, which is, her high priced Honor.  
For what law can bind a man to think well of such a Felon as hath stolen from him all the riches he hath, under a counterfeit show that he loved him? And what Subject can a woman have, to make account of the love of such a man, who under this counterfeit mask, hath reft her of her credit, glory and reputation.  
I can never think, that ever there can be any orderly form of proceed of love amongst such persons, and that woman, that doth not repute him for her mortal enemy, that would with violence, seize upon her chastity, is the only murderer of her own self, yea far worse than he, that killeth his own parents. For what law can bind a man to credit, to affect, and to entertain friendly, him, that openly seeketh to take away his life forcibly from him? So likewise, who can compel a woman, to love and hold him in esteem, that seeketh by all means he can, the overthrow of her honour?  
More reason is it, that the robber by the high way side should die, than the true man, that standeth upon his own defence: And so is it more necessary, that the woman should rather suffer the enemy of her chastity to perish, then to conserve him alive, to the utter ruin and destruction of the same: in as much as the death of one man, is but a loss unto one alone, where the shipwreck of a woman, is not only hurtful unto herself, but also unto her whole kindred.  
As for mine own part, I will never think, that that man loveth me, (what show soever he carrieth,) what cunning devices soever he useth, and what signs of grief soever appeareth, who hath an intention to despoil my chastity, loving more his sensual pleasure, than my good name or fame: but rather accounting him for my deadliest enemy, will I enforce myself always to revenge me of his villainous mind towards me, arming in what I can, both heaven and earth, against him.  
I neither mean, nor seek this of you, being already thoroughly persuaded of the innocency of your soul, and of your chaste, and right honest good will towards me, which maketh me the bolder to bewray my estate and condition unto you, without concealing any thing that is of importance from you.  
Know then (most courteous Knight) I am the unfortunate daughter of arnold, Duke of Baviere, betrothed by him (but yet without my consent every way) unto the King of Denmark's Son, who sending a company of ships for me, as we were sailing upon the Seas, suddenly a storm happened, which for a long time raged so cruelly, as in the end, all our fleet was cast away, and I by fortune thrown upon your shore, in such estate as you found me, whom nevertheless I cannot much accuse, in that she hath brought me to be under your protection, you being for your fidelity, honesty, courtesy, and continency, which I find in your virtuous and liberal Spirit, not a little to be commended.  
Thus have I discovered mine estate unto you, according unto your desire, & I conjure you, by all the Gods, that in requital of the same, you will always remember your promise, and seek to preserve that which you cannot bereave me of, without loss of my dearest life.  
All those, not a little amazed at the solemn discourse of the Princes, admiring more and more her beauty, her house, and Princely descent, kneeling down before her, humbly craved pardon for the neglect of honour, which was due unto her, excusing himself, in that he was ignorant of her quality, and promising (hereafter) to amend the same (and to have respect unto her) according unto her Royal degree.  
But she, that desired not to be known (for fear least being discourered, she should be conveyed unto the Prince of Danes, and so by that means forced to leave the company of the Spanish Knight, whom now she dearly loved (although she somewhat dissembled the same) most earnestly desired him, not to bewray what she was unto any man, until she should find a fit time to be known. Which he most willingly promised, giving her more honour from that time forward, and using her with greater respect, than he had done before: very much discondemning his own judgement, in that he could not perceive this Lady to be nobly descended, seeing so many rich proofs, and apparent signs of the same, as her courtly demeanour, her rare virtue, her stately Majesty, her learned discourse, and excellent beauty gave forth sufficient testimony which every one did admire at.  
Mean time, these virtuous Lovers twain, did burn in oneselfe fire,  
And languishing, did pine away, for want of their desire.  
But alas, no remedy could be found to ease their passions; for the gentleman knowing the Prince's descent to be so great and worthy, durst not as much as once presume to think, she would vouchsafe to accept him for her husband, choosing rather to die a thousand times, then to be very troublesome unto her, or to receive so bitter a pill from her, as a sharp repulse, which he knew he should never be able to digest, but only by death. This conceit bred such a melancholy apprehension in him, as by little and little, he began to languish away, his blood was dried up, his colour gone, and his strength decayed, so as he seemed rather a dead coarse, ready to be laid in his grave, than a man likely to live.  
This sudden accident troubled every one, all lamenting the misfortune of this gentle Knight, especially woeful justina, who knew herself to be the only cause of this sorrow, and which was worse, knew no means how to remedy the same, without disparagement unto her credit; yet in the end, she resolved with herself, if otherwise then well should happen unto Alphonso, to die for his sake, so dearly did she love him; who now was grown, to be in such a pitiful taking, as he could neither rest, sleep, eat nor drink, so as he was forced (although sore against his will) to keep his loathed bed, where he thought never to have seen his Mistress more.  
A strange thing, Lovers resemble the Basilisk, who desireth to see that within a crystal glass, which is the cause of his own death. So these poor wretches, covet nothing so much, as the presence of that thing, which doth shorten their lives soon, thinking themselves most miserable, when they are deprived of the same. They account no time happy, but when they feel death, and nothing is more agreeable unto them, than that Subject, which taketh away their life from them. Verily, if the law doth most justly condemn such for wilful murderers, as destroy and make away themselves, than ought Lovers, to be placed amongst the rank of these her self-willed murderers, for their only folly, hasteneth the end of their lives, making them to die before their time.  
This poor knight lieth grievously sick, without hope of recovery, and justina resolveth (for company) to take the like course, she thinking it to be no reason that she should live joyfully, when her friend should be dead, through her only occasion. O how bitterly did she curse her cruel fortune, seeing herself environed with two such violent extremities, either to permit him to die, whom she loved more than herself, or else to suffer her honour to be crazed, which she loathed more than death.  
In the end she resolved rather to end her days, then to scandalize her good fame with soul reproach, and to leave the bodies both of herself, and her friend breathless, then to deface her chastity, which she preferred before all things else in the world. Having set up her rest thus, she goeth to visit her sickly friend, who seeing her come, began to open his eyes, to move his body, and to change his colour and countenance: which sudden alteration, she presently perceived, by reason she knew better than any other the cause of his sickness, coming to his bed side, she sits her down by him, and taking him by the hand, with a soft and piteous voice, she began thus to speak unto him.  
What cheer sweet Governor, and how far you? what will you with this your sickness, make so many of your good friends ill, who so much love you, and desire your welfare? If you will not live, for your own sake, at the least yet, (seek to recover for theirs: for what pleasure or delight can they take, seeing you brought into this low estate, in which now you are fallen? We ought more to respect the good of our friends, than ourselves, because we are borne for them: your virtues, your youth, and your valour, are to be profitable unto your country, kindred and friends, neither can they (as yet) well spare them, that death should enjoy them.  
Live my good Lord, live, and let not your private loss, be a general hindrance unto all your country: For unhappy is that man, who standeth in steed of a fire to burn his own proper realm. You that have so often discomfited your enemies, won so many brave victories, and subdued and brought under so many valiant adversaries, will you suffer yourself to be overcome with a little sickness, which you may (if you so please) easily drive away from you? Courage man, courage, and like a good Physician heal yourself, & be not the occasion (lest for want of helping yourself) it be thought that you have been a wilful murderer of your own body. 
A Sentence.  For he may well be termed a murderer of his own life, who shuneth the means for to conserve the same; and who entertaineth for his friends, the executioners thereof. Comfort yourself them I beseech you, and with your recovery, make your friends recover their former joy again, banishing away all their sorrow, with your abandoned sickness. And as for myself, I offer unto you all honest services (as far as honour permits) to help you unto your health again: which I esteem as dearly of, as mine own life, for the many courtesies I have received most graciously of you, which I know and acknowledge so worthy of recompense, as if I thought my life, might buy, and redeem yours, I would think myself most fortunate to have it bestowed upon so rare and worthy a Subject. The poor Gentleman, beholding his cruel mistress, (the only precious Balm for his sickness) with a heavy eye, who nevertheless 
Thrice happy thought himself, to see that beauteous face,  
Although she had brought him into, so piteous a case.   
Clasping her fair & white hand, hard within his, forcing the very walls themselves to yearn and grieve, at his piteous languishing, with a hollow voice, interrupted with many sobs and sighs, perceiving death to approach, he faintly replied thus.  
Ah my sweet Charge, what fault have I committed, that you should envy at this small rest, which I find whilst I am dying? and why do you malice my fortune, when by death I hope to rid myself from these so hellish torments? Let me I pray you, depart hence quietly, who deserve not to live, since whilst I lived, I could not conquer myself. If the brave Cavalier, suffereth himself sometimes to die, for very grief to see himself overcome, and if right generous minds, think scorn to beg life of the victor, choosing rather to die, then to live and carry the mark of a vanquished person in their face; how much more justly then ought he to consent to his own death, and die willingly, who overcharged with ordinary foolish passions, hath not been able to conquer himself?  
It is not for me (Madam) to live any longer, seeing I am not of power to hinder and forbid, loving that, which is the occasion of my death because I find myself, unworthy to enjoy the same. Yet if it be a less disgrace to be subdued by a virtuous and gallant Captain of the wars, then by a base coward and a dastard of no valour, then do I count it a less displeasure unto me, to die for so worthy and rare a Subject as I do.  
judge then (most gracious Lady) and judge but rightly, how sacred and chaste, how faithful and firm my love hath always been, which forceth me rather to die most wretchedly, then to discover it unto you, for fear of offending your more than wonderful virtue. But alas, I, not only sacrifice this my life unto your divine deity, but thousands more would I offer, if I had so many, only to be reconciled unto you. I have done all that I could, before I came unto this my last remedy, to take upon me this woeful resolution.  
But Soldiers that are beggared, and despair of all hopeful succours, 
A Comparison.  are in the end forced (despite of themselves) to yield. So I, seeing myself void of all health and helps, to what end should I longer prolong my dolorous life, to lengthen my cares the more? And yet, if it were possible you might be moved with a solemn protestation, of a just, loyal, and lively affection borne towards you; or if the misfortune of him (who for fear to offend you, most willingly abandoneth his life) might touch you with some small drop of pity; Ah then (Mistress) suffer I beseech you, this wretched carcase of mine, to be interred in your presence, to the end, that even unto his Tomb, he may vaunt to have had your blessed company, who whilst he lived was his only delight, and clearest light: grace this my unfortunate carcase so much, unfortunate to die so soon, without having showed any sufficient proof of his service, nor restored you unto your former happy fortunes. But alas, what good could it do at all? Seeing (as unworthy to serve you) you have (and yet justly) cashired him, and refused his unprofitable service.  
Therefore was it fittest for him to die, seeing whilst he lived, he was found as (Non proficiens) in the service of her, unto whom he was indebted for his life. The only thing I wish for in this world, was but once more to see you, to the end I might certitifie you of my mind, as (now) I have done: and to satisfy my weeping eyes, who would have died most unwillingly, if they had not once beheld your sweet self, before the closing up of their lids: which request, since I have obtained, to what purpose should I longer breath?  
The travailer reposeth himself at the end of his journey. 
A Sentence.  The crafts man giveth over, having made an end of his work: and every one seeketh to rest, having finished what they first took in hand. So I, now the hourglass of my life is run out, now I have seen, spoken, and obtained what I requested so much, why should not I repose myself as well as others, and quietly go down into my grave in peace? I must sweet Lady, I needs must die, and bid you heartily farewell. I must die, for grief to want your presence, and lose your company. But for a mortal disease, no remedy is to be found. Pardon me, if I speak more boldly than becometh me, and think, that he that lieth on his death bed, hath liberty at that time to deliver his mind at full.  
Above all, I here protest unto you, and most humbly, (by the name of God, by your fair virtues, by your Princely descent, by your sacred honour, & by your rare beauty,) I earnestly entreat you to believe me, that I never desired any thing more, than the conservation of your chastity: & that I never so much wished mine own good, as I have always sought to maintain your renown and glory. Yet before I die, let me entreat you sweet Mistress, to hear a few verses, which the remembrance of you, and death together, indited in memorial of your chaste amity: for he dieth not at all, who dying, seethe himself Imprinted in the minds of his best friends, most sorrowful for his departure. And having so said, he called his sad Page unto him, who, being commanded by him, took his Lute in his hand, and with an excellent sweet voice, unto a most doleful tune, sung these verses following, before his weeping Mistress.  
O Death, which unto death my griefs dost consecrate,  
For thanks, my heart blood I will offer up to thee:  
Yet dying, I account myself as miserable,  
That sooner this to thee I had not power to proffer.  
Alas, what gain I longer life for to prolong?  
If I am frighted thus as well by day as night?  
He shipwreck makes not of his rest, that gently dies,  
And his days ending, makes an end of all his griefs.  
O God, what doth it boot me to adore my FAIR,  
Since I unworthy am to serve so rare a beauty?  
And yet an honour great 'tis for me to be loyal,  
My hurts their guerdons have in my fidelity,  
Then must I die I see, and 'tis the common course  
Of bravest spirits, death (gently) to endure,  
Better resolve to die, than always live in woe,  
The shipman toils, till he attains the wished port.  
A due fair beauty, which my soul hast ravished,  
A due, mine eyes shall near more see thy brightness, pure,  
I will entomb with this my sad disastered life,  
My heart, my tears, my coarse, in my most faithful love.  
Ay me, I wail too much, A mind magnanimous  
Distils not watery drops, but floods of gory blood,  
And worse is his fault, who doth unwilling die,  
Then he that from this world doth part, with stomach braus,  
Courage then, thou my soute, leave this sad sorrows cell  
My body; and goerise with those that live below,  
Thrice blessed he that dieth, his Mistress will to please,  
Such end to make, not death, but Glories unto him,  
For Country, Parents, Friends, their lives let others spend,  
I will bestow mine, for my fair and chastest Friend.  
The Page having sung this woeful Ditty, unto a passing mournful note, wrought so much by his excellent cunning, as the soul of the Princess was ravished with the same, so that not being able any longer to withhold herself from weeping, she left her sick Patient, in whose ears (as she was taking her leave) she softly whispered these few, but yet sweet speeches. Courage true Servant, and live in hope, expecting from me all the helps that may be, to recover your grievous sickness, which shall be such, yea, and that in such an ample manner, as I will endanger mine own life, to restore you to yours, and will not stick to lose myself, so I may save you.  
Saying so, she went her ways, leaving Alfonso to muse on this matter, canaussing divers conceits in his brain. By reason of these last words which she uttered, he knew not well how to take them, nor how to understand them, nor scarcely what to make of them. Yet in the mean time, he stayed to see what effects would follow upon the same, and looked for some good Fortune to happen: Not unlike unto the criminal, who expecteth some favour or friendship promised him by the judge. And now he beginneth some what to comfort himself, for that he perceived some pity in the remorseful eyes of his relenting Lady, who being tormented with divers passions, knew not well what to say, what to do, or what to resolve upon. The death of her Friend went near her, his loyal and sincere affection pleaded for some commiseration unto her: Insomuch, as the exceeding great pains & travel he had taken in her behalf, & the innumerable courtesies, & infinite kindnesses she had received at his hands, began to make a breach into her constant breast: so as at the last, do what she could, she yielded, and became wholly his. On the other side, the fear and doubt, lest she should do any thing which might be a scandal unto her Honour, or a blemish unto her invincible chastity, which she had so long, and with so great admiration kept inviolable & untainted, made her give over, and retire from her first determination. 
A Similin.  As we see a floating vessel in the troubled Sea, tossed and tumbled with two contrary winds, neither forward, nor backward, nor to pass one way, nor another; Even so fared the mind of this delicate Virgin, who being overcharged with many conceits and opinions, knew not on which to resolve. Yet in the end, Love got the upper hand: For as a flame of fire, feazing upon a dry piece of wood, covered with green ivy, glideth overth wart the same, and at the last, burueth into ashes, both the wood and the green leaves together. Even so Love, entering at the first, by her eyes, descendeth down lower, and in the end, runneth over all her body, which he holdeth and arresteth as his own goods.  
justina then, having once more resolved what to do, detemined with herself to marry her kind Host, but being risen from her bed, a kind of bashful shame began to break this enterprise, which would never permit, that a modest damosel, her own self, should discover her own Love, neither suffer that the proper tongue of the Princess, should be the trumpet of her own shame. But LOVE, who would in no wise take the foil, and was very ready in advising her, how she should dispatch this business, which much troubled her, gave her counsel to deliver her mind in writing unto her loving Servant, when she should next go to visit him, and so the shame should remain within the paper, which is of too pale a colour to blush. Whereupon, as she was taking pen in hand, she called to mind the place from whence she came, & the doubt lest the Letter coming to light, might be a discredit unto her, which was the cause she stood in a mummering (as it were) a long time before she began to write, & still as fast as she indited, she straightways crossed it out again with her pen. Love thinking that bashfulness could not indite well, and bashfulness thinking that loves penning was as ill. Long stood they disputing about fit terms to serve the purpose, but in the end, the Princess emboldened through LOVE, set down her mind in these terms following.  
The Princess Letter to her Servant.  
IF this manner of writing be of power to bring thee to life again, then know, it is sufficient to take away mine from me: For in seeking to revive thee, I cause mine owme Honour to die. But alas, can I see thee still languish (thus) through mine occasion, and not participate with thee in thy miseries, in the selfsame fashion? Ah would to God we had exchanged our Estates, for than would I presently desire to die as thou dost, & wish thee to live as I do, and so should I not be forced to satisfy thy request, neither should mine Honour then complain of me, in that I have less respect of that, then of the safeguard of one man.  
The fear lest I should have been counted the murderer of thy life, caused me to write this Letter unto thee. Neither had I done any thing at all in thy behalf, but that I have a most assured hope and confidence, that thou recovering (by my only means, thy former life) wilt be a help and aid unto me, to teach me how to make away myself by death.  
What shall I say more unto thee? thy recovery is my death, and thy life mine overthrow and ruin. Yet had I rather perish, than thou shouldest miscarry any way.  
Live then, and be well, except thou wilt kill her whom thou sayest thou lovest with such respect. Or if thou wilt needs die, yet (at the least) term not me the destroyer of thy life, seeing I have offered health unto thee. I know not which I should most desire, either that thou live, or that thou die. If thou livest, I then must needs die. And if thou diest, I may no longer live. What good then shall I get, by letting thee have thy life? (Only this, only) the glory that I have preserved thee from death, the obligation canceled, wherein I was indebted unto thee, and the breakneck fall of that strong opinion thou hast, that thou diest for me.  
Live then, I entreat thee, and when thou shalt be well, GOD I beseech him, if so it please him, open unto us some honest and just means to unite us together, in that sacred band, which of two souls maketh but one. And this I do promise thee.  
Far you well.  
This Letter being written, there was a new Council called, to consult whether it should be delivered, or whether committed unto the mercy of the fire. For in accidences of Love, there is found strange contrarieties every minute of an hour: as we see in a little while, divers sorts of winds to arise in the sky. Yet in the end, Love still prevailed, and so much persuaded, that the damosel herself resolved to go and visit the poor patient, and to deliver the paper into his own hands.  
No sooner was she entered the Chamber, but that she began to tremble like a leaf, when coming towards Alfonso, and courteously saluting him; 
He force and courage takes, 
A simile.  fresh blood comes in his face,  
Nor finds he any pain, whilst she is in that place.   
That done, she sits her down by him, and although she came with set purpose, to let the letter fall down upon the bed (for the nonce) that he might take it up; yet now, she was so ashamed again, as she kept it still in her pocket. But in the end, after much disquietness in her mind, after many discourses of this, or that, far off from the purpose, and after thousands of conceits, that ran in her head, the time being come to departed, as she bade him farewell, she thrust it softly (not being seen of any) into the sick man's hands.  
Who then esteems himself most blessed in his glory,  
More rich, than he had gained a huge and great victory.  
Nevertheless, as he that desireth to understand some good news from his family, seeing the messenger before him, looking neither joyfully, nor sadly, knoweth not well what to guess at the matter, nor whether he should think all well, or no; So this poor Lover, knew not, whether he had in his hand his passport of life or death. O how the souls of Lovers are troubled, when hope and fear, both at one time, combat within them together.  
He doubteth that which he dareth not doubt, and feareth greatly to promise unto himself, that which he most of all desireth. Fear so terribly assaulteth him, that it hindereth him oftentimes, in assuring himself of his fear, by reason of the apprehension it hath, to find things contrary unto his desire. For yet it were better always to continue in one, and the selfsame Fortune, then to change from good unto bad. And commonly Lovers imagine their business goeth worse and worse with them, and that it is not possible for the Heavens, to establish them and their proceed in a better estate.  
In the mean while, after many fearful doubts, and doubtful fears, he openeth a little piece of the paper, and then shutteth it again, and then he openeth the same the second time, that done, he beginneth, first to read one line, than two, and there standing at a stay, dareth proceed no further. 
A comparison.  Not unlike unto him that by little and little wadeth through a bad passage, beginning often to pass along, now retiring back, and then resolving to go through the same.  
But as in drinking, we find the taste of the wine, so he in reading, now a line, and then another, in the end, was assured of all: rejoicing not a little, to find so many blissful hopes, to proceed from the reading of this short Letter. What should I say more? but that he began to comfort himself, resolving (once more to live) daring to hope for many happy Fortunes to come, and chase away all frightful fears and doubts whatsoever.  
I will wonder no more now, if the fair Stratonice, healed the son of Seleucus, he promising to give her unto him for his wife. For our Knight, 
A Simile.  only upon the bare word and promise of his mistress, recovered his health again, growing to be lustier and stronger than ever he was before.  
No sooner came he abroad, but that he remembered to render condign thanks unto his fair Charge, for abasing her gracious self so low, as to deign to vouchsafe, so often to take the pains to visit him in his sickness, through whose gentle pity alone, he confessed to hold his life.  
Mean space, Love, like a cunning Soldier, (that fair and softly stealeth unto the top of his enemy's walls) by little and little had such interest in these two Lovers, that within a while after, they were solemnly married together, with all the pomp and ceremonies requisite in such a matter, to the great contentment, and no little pleasure of them both. But alack, thus was the marriage of Paris and Helena.  
Who filled, with gory blood, and flaming fire fair Troy,  
Whilst as a woeful prey, the Grecians them did stroy.  
Thus were they placed upon the top of the turning wheel of unconstant Fortune, yea, and so surely seated (as they thought) that it was impossible they could be thrown down from thence: but they considered not, that every thing being come unto his last and urmost perfection, doth either altar or decay: because of the ruin, overthrow, loss, misery, and corruption of old things, such as are novel and new, 
A Sentence.  take their Essence and beginning, as of an old Phoenix, is engendered a new one: So as nothing can remain perpetual in this world, seeing the world itself may not always last, but must one day be changed into another manner of form then now it is.  
Besides, Fortune doth not always make choice of mean and base people, for small praise, and lesser glory, should she have to deal with such: she rather choosing the most mightiest, most happiest, and most richest persons, to the end her renown may grow more famous, giving such the overthrow, whose haughty pride, and high prosperity, seemed to threaten, even the Heavens themselves.  
The terrible falls of divers Emperors, Kings, and Princes, are sufficient testimomonies, that this is but too true; Of which, some have been thrown down so low, from the top of her Wheel, as they have never been able to rise again: which mischance hath never happened unto the poorer sort, who can never fall from high, because they are wretched, and are always moulled allow.  
But to return where we left, three years (or thereabouts) did our two Lovers live in all happy contentments that might be, without any alteration at all; for every one imagined justina to be perished in the Sea, in so much, as there was no more search, nor enquiry made after her, to know what became of her.  
But in the end, as (ill Fortune would have it, there was a certain Ship cast by Tempest upon the same place, where the Princess before was driven, in which were two Danes escaped from shipwreck, who seeing her to walk along the shore, (as was her usual custom) presently knew her, and no sooner were they returned home unto their Country, but forthwith they informed their Prince of the whole matter, who (as yet) took it very heavily, and sore languished for the loss of the Princess.  
No sooner was he acquainted with this news, but as one joyful above measure, he resolved to have her again (although with the loss of his dearest blood) imagining in his conceit, that she was already his.  
For Helen, so his force did Menelaus try,  
Resolved herfor to have, or else with grief to die.  
Mean space, it happened that our Knight Alfonso was forced to make a voyage unto the Court of his King, called Ramire. I will leave to your judgement to guess, how loath he was to departed from her, from whom he could hardly be absent, without abandoning his own life. But his Honour forced him, (although sore against his will) to make necessity a virtue, and to show himself amongst the assembly of divers brave and valorous Knights, who all followed immortal Honour, in quest. And now having provided every thing fit for his journey, kissing his fair wife, he taketh his leave, whilst with tears in his eyes, he promised to return as speedily as might be.  
But alack, 
A Sentence.  it is great folly for a man to give his word or promise to perform any thing, seeing he is a servant unto the will of the Heavens, who may dispose of him as they best please. Forwhat assurance can one build upon the faith of a vassal, who wholly dependeth upon the commandment of his Lord, and can do nothing at all of himself?  
No more can men, (who are the slaves of Fortune, the pastime of the Heavens, and subjects unto mortal miseries) promise of themselves, they not knowing what the Destinies will decree shall fall upon them.  
But now Alfonso being come unto the Court, his friends entertained him with all Courtly compliments that might be, as his virtues well deserved the same, each Nobleman saluteth him most kindly, thinking the Court not to be a little honoured with the presence of so brave and valorous a Cavalier.  
Whilst he thus stayed, attending the pleasure of his King, Behold there arriveth an Ambassador from the Prince of Denmark, certifying the King of Spain, that his Lord's wife was held as prisoner, in a certain part of his Realm, desiring his Majesty, to command her to be rendered unto him: otherwise, not to think ill of him, if he should do his best endeavour for to recover her again, by force of Arms.  
Alfonso being present at this Embassage, (for it was all the Country over, how he came by his wife) and therefore it was verily supposed, that she was the same woman which the Prince demanded, (presently replied, saying) that true it was; that not long since he found a Lady half dead, which the waves of the Seas (after she had suffered shipwreck) had driven upon the shore, where he inhabited, and that afterward he married her with her own consent and free will, she having before assured him, yea, and which is more, taking her oath upon the holy Evangelists, that she never betrothed, nor promised herself unto any other man living but himself: Affirming, that as the noble Gentlewoman, was his true and lawful Spouse, so he was resolved to defend and keep her, against all such as should go about to take her from him by force: Vowing to be their death, and utter overthrow, as most wicked enemies unto the majesty of sacred wedlock.  
The King hearing Alfonsoes' answer, and judging his reasons to be both just and tolerable, returned back the Ambassador, with the foresaid speeches, who delivered them unto his Prince, assoon as he came home.  
If the base sort of people, hardly support or bear any ruiurie, and seek not to hazard their lives to be revenged for the same: Then I refer it to your own censures, 
A Simile.  if this Prince being young in years, of a hot metal by nature, valiant & hardy of spirit, and withal, wonderfully amorous of the Lady; could endure patiently, and pocket up the Brava do of a simple Gentleman, seeing no man whatsoever, can receive a greater injury than that which is offered him as touching his wife, as well for the love he beareth her, which oftentimes engendereth jealousy: as also for the great desire he hath to increase his stock and family. Which was the cause that this youthful Lord, went about most rashly and unadvisedly to set upon the Spanish King, to begin most foolishly to proclaim war against him, who quickly would have overrun all his country, had not the Nobility of Denmark crossed the same: For they very wisely, judging that they were not able to encounter well so great an enemy, and that their slender shoulders, were too weak to support so great a burden, would by no means yield unto his choleric and hasty motion, who although he saw himself to be forsaken of his own subjects, yet for all that, would he not give over his first enterprise: determining with himself, to recover his Mistress again, or else to lose his life. Whereupon he sent another Ambassador unto the King, to demand licence of him (according unto the ancient law of Arms) that he might combat with him, who detained his spouse so wrongfully from him, to the end the fortune of war might determine and set down which of them twain should enjoy her.  
The King hearing this motion, entreated Alfonso to condescend thereunto: who knowing that with his credit he could not refuse it, as willingly accepted thereof, as the other earnestly did challenge him: which the rather he did, because he might hereafter quietly enjoy his dear wife, without any more quarrels. The Denmark Prince, having intelligence that the combat was granted, determined with himself, to try the utmost of his fortune, although much against the minds of all his Barons, and Noblemen. But who can shut up and enclose virtue, force the waves of the Sea to stand still, 
A Sentence.  or bridle the stately course of the Sun? Even so, what counsel, persuasion, or wisdom, are able to withhold love, who being turbulent and full of rage, resembleth the furious mad man, that dasheth his own brains against the stony wall.  
Thus the Prince possessed with the spirit of love, taketh in hand the comb at against the advise of all his Nobles, and having provided every thing fit for that purpose, arriveth at the Court of the Spanish King, with a gallant troop attending on him, where he was received according unto his greatness, and as his worthiness well deserved. Great was the desire that every one had, to see this Princely Dane, who was famous for his chivalry, he being come so far to try the combat with his enemy, to revenge him of the injury, which (as he supposed) was done unto him. Having a day of hearing appointed him by the King, he forthwith craved audience, declaring openly unto him, the cause of his coming, reaccounting the equity of his cause, pleading hardly for his right, and in conclusion, demanded to have justice. On the other side, Alphonso discoursing at large in his own defence, showeth plainly, what interest he hath in the Lady, protesting (by the permission of his Sovereign) to maintain this quarrel against all men living, with the peril of his life.  
At the last (these two Cavaliers) not agreeing) the combat is granted unto them, but yet with this condition, that the Lady shall be the prize of the Conqueror: and that the conquered, shall never after make claim unto her. The day is appointed, the field chosen, their armour provided, and judges substituted only for this purpose.  
The King having caused many scaffolds to be erected, as well for himself, as for his own Nobles, & divers other honourable strangers, great was the concourse of people that were gathered together, to see the event and issue of this dangerous battle. And now the time being come, the two Knights presented themselves before the judges, who gave them their oath, upon the holy Bible, that they entered into this combat upon a just cause: that done, they viewed their armour and weapons, and lastly, conducted them unto the lists; making proclamation, that upon pain of life, no person whatsoever, should as much as once presume, either by show, or sign, look or countenance, word or deed, to favour either the the one, or the other; but to let their valour & fortune try who shall be conqueror. 
A Comparison.  As two young Bucks, burning in love of a fair do, take delight to try their strength before her, and being both furious, pierce through their bodies and heads, with their sharp and rough horns. Even so, these two gallant Champions, longing to encounter, and either of them desirous to enjoy that precious prize, which armeth the one against the other, being in place where they may try the utmost of their force, most furiously discharge one against the other, and as two terrible Thunderclaps, meeting together in a cloud, break at the crack, & fall both down upon the earth; So these two Knights, at the first shecke and meeting, tumble both down upon the ground, but their lances being broken, they draw forth their swords, beginning to charge themselves a fresh.  
As did Achilles once, and Hector valiant stout,  
When fore the walls of stately Troy, they fought it out.  
The Dane, animated more with fury, then with force, laid on load without ceasing, flinging forth his fire so furiously, as if his strength had not failed more than his courage, 
A Simile.  Alphonso had been vanquished, but a great fire of straw, is quickly extinguished. In like manner, the blows that despite and rage giveth, are assoon ended. Meanwhile, our Spaniard fought coldly, but yet with great advisement, never striking, but to the purpose, & so still kept himself in breath with great advantage. The Prince redoubling his strokes, supposing his foe was grown feeble, both in force & courage, laid on load, hurting him upon the left arm. This wound, from which the blood issued apace, the remembrance of her who was the cause of this war, the presence of the King, and the flower of Chivalry of all his country, did stir up the Spaniard so much, as now he would combat no more soberly and with discretion, but as a desperate Soldier against his deadly enemy, letting drive at him so lustily, with such quickness, and such dexterity, as the Dane found he was not a little deceived in him.  
But as he was chase of him thus, by chance Alphonso's sword fell out of his hand, he having nothing now but his dagger to defend himself withal, which was the reason every one thought as then, that he was but a dead man, his enemy promising unto himself the victory, the desire of which made him pursue the Spaniard hotly, who knew not which way to furnish himself of a Target, nor how to warrantise his honour, and his life, but only by running in upon the Dane, and so by main force, to get him down; which devise of his, the other fearing, looked more warily unto himself, lest he should get within him, whilst in the mean time, he gave him many a sore wound, which he could not well escape, because he wanted his weapon. In the end, such was the good fortune of the Spaniard, that the Dane thinking to run full but at him with all his force, (which the other avoided by moving his body from that place lightly) his sword also slipped out of his hand, so as they were now weaponed alike: when coming to handy gripes, and to grappell together, Alphonso proved to be the stronger of the twain, flinging his enemy down, and giving him so terrible a knock withal, as both speech and senses failed him. That done, he unbuckled his headpiece, and setting his poniard to his bare throat, willeth him henceforward to renounce all such claim as he before had laid unto his Lady and wife, and to acknowledge himself to be vanquished, or else he should die presently.  
But the Prince, choosing rather death, than shame and utter destruction, than the deprivation of his Mistress, disdained to answer him, looking still when the other would stab him quite through: which nevertheless (as a right Noble mind) he would not, but leaving the Dane wallowing in his own blood, and sore bruised with his fall, he cometh unto the judges, demanding of them, if he had done sufficient to be counted the vanguisher, and to have obtained the glory of the victory or no. Who much commending him for his clemency, in that he had so cutreously pardoned his adversary, told him, he had performed his duty every way: that done, he was conducted unto the place where the King sat, who highly praised him for his valour, and greatly honouring him for his virtue, gave him leave to departed his Royal presence. From thence he road unto the Court, accompanied with thousands of brave Knights, where with great joy, the fair Ladies as the custom was, disarmed him, whilst the Chirurgeons provided for the dressing of his wounds: that done, he was had unto his lodging, keeping his bed, until such time as he recovered: whilst in the mean space, he was every day visited by all the Barons and great Lords of the Realm, who did congratulate with him, for so famous a victory.  
Not long after, the Danish Prince was carried out of the field sore wounded, and well nigh dead for grief and shame; cursing his bad fortune, that he had not been killed out right: who although he was highly beholding unto Alphonso for his life, yet did he most tratierously conspire in his mind to murder him one way or other, suffering himself rather to be transported with base revenge, then with sage reason, or with honesty of the cause.  
So Paris (dastard-like) surp isde with feruile fear,  
Swore stout Achilles' death, to whom he hate did bear.  
But the gallant Spaniard, that meant nothing but well, never suspected any such treachery, but rather that he had surely bound the Prince his enemy unto him in good will, seeing he had showed him so great a kindness as to gratify him with, his life. 
A Sentence.  For so the right valiant man indeed, judgeth by his self, that others are valiant like unto him: and he that is honest, thinketh other men to bear as honest a mind as himself doth. But all creatures, are not framed of one kind of metal, or condition, their passions and desires in loving, being contrary and divers, Nature greatly delighting, and making proof of her mightiness and power, by this diversity of humours.  
Alphonso being recovered of his late wounds, and very much longing to see his fair wife, determined to take his journey homewards, of which his mind, the malicious Dane having an inkling, he taketh his leave of the King in most dutiful manner, making a show as if he would take his journey towards Denmark, riding a day or two onwards on his way, and then turneth back, posting towards Alphonso's Castle, where he and his company being disguised, lay in wait for the Spaniard, not daring for his life to set upon him nigh the King's Court, lest his villanre should be descried, and he well punished for the same.  
About some six days after he was gone, Alphonso leaveth the Court, highly commended and much praised of every one, little suspecting any treason, with a small train following him, when being now within two leagues of his Castle, behold the ungrateful Dane, and his attendants, to come out of a little wood, well armed at all points, and to rush suddenly upon Alphonso, who being of an excellent spirit & courage, carried himself so bravely, as before he caught his death's wound, the Prince was turned off from his horse stark dead, upon the ground, by him, who being the first that set upon him. But in the end, 
What can the valiant Hercules, 'gainst oremuch force prevail?  
Courageous minds will sooner die, then yield themselves, or quail.   
So our worthy Spaniard, had rather be killed manfully, then save his life, by base and ignoble flying away. But after he had fought a long time, having given unto many their death wounds, and receiving many himself, his enemies still hemming him in round about, & setting upon him, with a fresh assault; at the last, he falleth down dead from his horse: which the villains perceiving, and doubting lest they should be followed by the country, they took up the dead course of their Prince in haste, lamenting this hard adventure, and setting spurs to their horse, away they flew as fast as the wind, being never heard of after.  
Behold here one of loves feasts, of a contrary fashion unto other banquets. For his first dishes, presented at the table, are pleasant, sweet, and delightsome; but his last course is bitter, cruel, woeful, bloody, and full of murder. His chiefest companion is quarreling Mars, neither doth he ever march, without having with him, either Rage, Fury, or Follie. Mean space, some of Alphonso's men, who as cravens, retired apart when the skirmish was at the hottest, seeing their enemies fled, came back again, where all the broil had been, longing to know how their Master had sped, whom they found, with a thousand wounds well nigh bleeding through every part of his body, and lying amongst the thickest of his enemies, which were slain by his own hand; whereat they making most piteous moan, began to search, if there were yet any one spark of life in in him or no; At the last, they having done their best endeavour to recover him, he began to come a little unto himself again, when scarce being able to open his eyes, dimmed and dammed up with death, his soul ready to flit from hence unto a better world, with a hollow voice, he throttled forth these few words. My dearest friends, let me entreat you to show me this favour, it being the last which I will ever hope or look for at your hands, to convey this my martyred body unto my faithful spouse, to the end I may be so happy, as once to see her, and to bid her farewell. More would I say, but I am so faint I cannot. His sorrowful servants yearning for very grief, and dissolving themselves into salt tears, cursing now (though too late, their cowardly running away) carried his dying carcase fair and softly towards his house.  
To Cleopatra so, Mark Anthònies dead coarse  
Was brought, which she drew up to her with woeful force.  
O what a spectacle, what a tragic present, and what a bitter encounter was this, for miserable justina to meet withal, who not long before, had heard how happily, and how valiantly, her kind husband had conquered his enemy in the sight of all Spain, which good news had filled all her spirits, with an exceeding kind of pleasing joy and comfort.  
But alas, what a change and alteration was this from the first matter? Ah how much more is that misfortune lively, & toucheth us to the quick, which when we least think of it, surpriseth us, altogether unexpected (we passing our time in jollity and pleasure) than such as we are provided for when it cometh, it being (long) since we looked for the same, and therefore the better prepared to bear the burden thereof. Mean time, the poor Lady must needs taste this bitter potion, & bear as well as she can, this terrible clap of dismal thunder. No sooner had she a sight of this dying coarse, which she thought to be stark dead, But that she took on as one distraught and quite out of their wits. O fair hair (before daintily curled) how cruelly were you then torn? But far fairer face, how wert thou bescratched? and thou beauteous breast, how wert thou be bloodied? So great was her anquish, as she fell down in a sown, upon that body whom she so dearly loved, embracing the same most tenderly, it being that, which she more accounted of then of any thing else in the world.  
Thrice happy had she been, and not a little beholding unto death, if (at that hour) he had bereft her of life: but her fortune was not so good, for she was compelled to live the longer, because her pain should be the greater. And now she being come unto herself again, although it was a woeful mirror to behold his pale & bloodless face, & his mangled flesh all to be sprinkled & washed in his own gore; yet did she not stick to kiss his wan and cold lips, a thousand times and more, whilst her tears served her in steed of water to make clean his wounds, to wash away the blood, and to solemnize his dreary Funeral with the same.  
Careless of her health, she lay long time upon the wet ground, whilst she held the coarse as pitifully in her lap, as the kind nurse doth her little Infant in her arms; neither did she remove her sweet mouth from his, but kept it still close thereon, desirous to die as he had done. Out alas, alas (cried she) where am I? who am I? & what do I see? is it possible that I should yet breathe, having lost the only life of my soul? And you mine eyes, are you so cruel unto my health, that you will abide to behold that which will force you to be more miserable? and yet mine eyes, my woeful eyes, it is no shame to behold your best benefactor: look then, on him your fill, although pitiless death hath closed up his sight with an eternal sleep. But thou art dead for me, (my dear husband) for my cause hast thou lost thy life, and for no other. O wretched journey, and most unhappy that ever thou tookest in hand: yet was it not death that slew thee. No, no, death durst  
But it was I, and even I, 'twas I, and none but I, and I alone, whom thou didst think to be thy loving wife. Ah sweet, sweet Husband, shall I be guilty of this fault, by murdering of myself, which I have committed against thee?  
No, no, for my death cannot countervail thine. Shall it be said, that I do live after thee, and survive him who was the only nourisher of my dolorous life?  
Can I abide to be one minute of an hour from thee, who hast so much always desired the company of hapless justina?  
Ah mine eyes, mine eyes, as much as you showed yourselves cheerful, to delight the heart of my Husband in your Loves: so much, or more, show yourselves full of salt tears, to lament his disaster.  
But tears are the common offerings of every woman, at their husband's buryals, 
A Sentence.  and are too base oblations for so worthy and solemn an exequys. Thy friendship deserveth better than so: And more am I obliged unto thee, then to offer such base trifles. Not my blubbering tears, but my heart blood is due unto thee. For why should it not be thine, when my very soul is at thy service?  
Ah cruel Honour, why hast thou not rendered me again mine Alfonso, in the selfsame manner, as thou tookest him from me to do thee service? And how badly hast thou requited the pains he hath taken, in seeking to preserve thee fafe and sound? Who ever would have thought I should have seen so horrible a sight as I see, before I had died? and who would have imagined, but that my prayers which I made continually unto God, to take me out of the world before my sweet Husband, should not have obtained grace from Heaven?  
But come the worst that can come, there shall not be much difference of time between our deaths, for (so) quickly will we follow one another, that if one hour cannot cut us off both together, yet (at least) one day shall dispatch and make us away. But in the mean space, justly mayest thou complain of me (my dear Knight) in another world: for that I have been the murderer of thy life.  
But I beseech thee, complain not of that, neither of her, who thinketh the time but miserable, in which she liveth exiled and banished from thee. Woe is me, I have killed, I have slain and murdered that which I loved most upon the earth: And unto him, which (I know and acknowledge) I was most beholding.  
But is this possible? Alack, alack, it is but too true. Black and unlucky was our marriage, not unlike unto that of Paris and Helena: the conclusion whereof, was bloody woe, and sorrowful death. Ah my tongue, canst thou yet talk? and thou my heart, canst thou still breath? and ye mine eyes, are you not yet blind? Alas, I live not, for the least anguish that I endure, is a greater hell than death unto me.  
And thou partial death, who art not ignorant that my Husband and I were but one only person, why killing him, hast thou not done the like unto me? Or, if thou than hadst forgotten the same, why dost not thou (now) better remember thyself? Come then (most welcome death) come I pray, and permit not her to live, that so much desireth to attend on thee.  
And yet before I depart, where shall I find eyes sufficient to weep, and lament, bitter enough, to be conformable unto the sorrows of my soul?  
Oh that this my humour, changing itself wholly into tears, and drowning me therewith in it, might be so forth ate, to drown therewith all my torments also. And alack, what intolerable pangs do I suffer? can any savage body endure the same, and yet not part hence? And can mine eyes view my Spouse give up his ghost, and not seal up their lids, with an everlasting slumber?  
Loving and lovely bedfellow, as heretofore our affections were loyal, true, and chaste, so as loyal, sweet, and chaste, shall our entombing be together. Sweet Husband, as long as thou livedst, thou never wouldst deprive me of thy kind and friendly embracings: Ah then, I desire thee, let me not be defrauded of thy death. For I am not worthy to be called thy wife, if I do not as well participate of thy bad fortunes, as of thy good, and take a say of thy sour, as well as I have done of thy sweet: If joy could never divide our fowls, why should they then be untied by death? And as I heretofore have slept with thee in the selfsame bed (as our sacred marriage appointed us) so I beseech thee, deny me not to lie with thee, in the selfsame Tomb that thou dost.  
Whlist we were living, we were perfectly united together, being dead, we will be as kindly joined one unto another.  
As well shalt thou be my husband now thou art dead, as when thou wert alive, neither shall the Destinies themselves hinder me from following thee still, to assist and help thee, according unto my bounden duty.  
But now alas, before I come unto thee, how shall I pay the last remainders of my Love which I own thee? By what testimony shall I render sufficient proof of mine ardent affection towards thee? and what perfect signs shall I show of my true dolour, as thou too too well deservest?  
In times past, 
An Example.  those women that loved their husband's best, used to sacrifice themselves unto the fire, burning their bodies, because they would die with them. And shall I be less dutiful than those? And what, cannot I? for my Love is more perfect than theirs was.  
But yet before I die, let me kiss those eyes, which (living) ravished my liberty: those eyes which were of late the cheerful Sun of my soul: those eyes which once nourished my sad and dulled spirits. So let me touch those sugared lips, whose lively breath was sometimes the chief comfort of my mind, and a precious balm to my grief: And thou fair countenance, wherein sometimes lay all my hopes, whose lovely presence entertained my good Fortune; Never shall I be satisfied enough in kissing of thee: neither can my mortal desires be satisfied as they wish.  
Ay me; was I borne to murder mine own life? and was I so unlucky in my birth, that I could not die, without the loss of that which I held as dear as mine inward soul?  
And thou my soul, how hard is thy trouble? how heavy thy languishing? and how wretched thy estate, whilst that of mine Espouse liveth glorious by me herein? I can no longer talk, and too long have I prolonged my life, and it may seem my grief is the less, in that I have had such liberty of speech. But how?  
The Swan singeth sweetly at the hour of her death, 
An example.  then let none wonder though I wail and lament so much, mine end being so nigh. Dispatch then, miserable justina, and perform the last vows, which are due unto thy Alphonso, to the end thou mayst hasten the more to follow him.  
And therewithal she so often kissed and rekissed him, as his Ghost for a while once returned again into his body, whilst having heard what piteous moan she made for him, he striveth even in the midst of his death pangs, to open his closed eyes, and pale mouth, a little to look (once more) upon her, and to utter these few words unto her.  
Ah my dear soul, and dearer than my soul, if it were possible. Why afflicting thyself thus, dost thou add more misery unto my pain? If ever I have merited any thing at thy hands, than I conjure thee, by that most faithful amity I have borne thee whilst I lived, forbear to lament or grieve any more.  
And suffer I pray poor Alphonso to die quietly, who accounteth himself most fortunate, in that he seethe, he dieth in thy good grace and favour.  
Most fortunare doth he die, having been brought to his end by base treason, and not through brave valour, having before revenged himself of thy mortal enemy, my dear and lovely Lady.  
Now if I shall find that thou seemest to envy at my glory, shall I not then have reason to complain of thee? to accuse thy friendship, to think hardly of thy promise, and lastly, to condemn thy most loyal Love?  
Alas justina, wilt thou make me so miserable, as I shall hear myself to be the cause of thy death, now I am dying? Ah do not that injury or wrong unto him, who hath loved thee dearer than the apples of his own eyes.  
How dearly, and at what a high price dost thou sell to me this last pleasure which I find in dying before thy presence?  
Didst thou think justina, when thou marriedst me, that thou hadst wedded some God or other, that was immortal?  
(Dear heart) Death is common and natural to all men, without sparing of any: 
A Sentence.  we must all die, at one time or another: and if my days were shortened sooner than thou wishest, what remedy canst thou find against the will of the Heavens? Then content thyself with my death, without making me die again, through the unpleasant report of thy overthrow.  
Live then, live long and happily, to the end I may die the more pleasingly. And here I most earnestly pray, desire, and adjure thee, by our former mutual love, by all our chaste pleasures, by our sacred band of wedlock, and by the selfsame affection which maketh thee so heavy and joyless for mine occasion, seek not to offer any violence unto thy fair self, after I am dead. Speak (my sweet Charge) wilt thou give me thy word, as thou hast held me dear, to hold this promise with me?  
Ay me, I see thou disdainest to answer me, as unwilling to yield unto this my last request. Oh most disconsolate, and comfortless my death. And wilt thou then (mine only joy) refuse to grant me this my last boon, which I so earnestly beg of you?  
Thou that for my sake art willing to leave this world, and who of late didst please to offer it unto me to save my life; Be not so unkind now, nor offer me this injury, to refuse me in this point, otherwise, I protest, I will curse my birth, my cruel Fortune, and the froward Heavens themselves.  
Speak then (sweet Spouse) for till then I forbidden thee, to touch my dying face and lips. Ah speak yet at length, and I beseech thee, be content with the hellish pains which I endure to lose thy company, without aggrevating any more, my more than endless torments.  
Ah cruel Husband, replied the pensive Princess, what offence have I done thee? what injury have I committed against thee? and how have I wronged the bands of our sacred marriage, that thou shouldest forbid me thy presence? Where is now the time, in which thou hast so much desired to have me about thee? Where are those wonderful caresses, those sweet embraces, and those affectionate kindnesses used unto me of late, that thou shouldest now, thus reject, condemn, and disdain me? If I am unworthy of thee, then why didst thou accept of me as thy companion and friend? And if I have not merited to follow thee, then why hast thou joined my soul so strictly unto thine? Thinkest thou I would be thine living, and would not be the same unto thee after thou wert dead?  
My dear Lord, remember, that since I first was wedded unto thee, I have always fulfilled thy commandment, and that I served and obeyed thee, and thy will in all things. In leiu of which perfect obedience, grant me (once) what I shall desire of thee. But if thou wilt not, not only be content to leave me a most wretched Creature after thy departure, but also to make me more miserable, wilt not permit me to follow thee, then to render a new proof of my great affection towards thee, for the great good will I have always had to be dutiful unto thee, and to satisfy thy dying Spirit at this hour; Behold I here vow, not to lay any violent hands upon my person, but to attend with patience, until it shall please the Destinies to call me unto thee from hence. Then my kind Love, answered the Knight, let me embrace thee once again cheerfully: and let me kiss thee once more, since thou art so pleasing unto me.  
O how much do I acknowledge myself beholding unto thee? how blessed dost thou make my death, and how willingly do I departed from out this world? And seeing thou hast made me this faithful promise, I most humbly beseech thee, to have always in remembrance poor Alfonso, thy loyal Husband.  
heavens grant, that if thou hast a mind to take a second choice, that thou mayest happen upon such a one, as may love thee, no worse than I have done. I feel my speech beginneth to fail me, and death knocketh at my heart's door, to enter in. Farewell, my fair, sweet, loving, kind, chaste, and loyal wife.  
Adieu my heart and life, close up these mine eyes, and this my mouth, which once was thine: and cause my body to be carried unto his last home, whilst I receive for vows, thy plaints: thy tears, for oblations, and thy Faith, for friendly assurance.  
That little land and wealth I have, I wholly bequeath unto thee: I will that all my goods whatsoever, be thine, although I doubt not, but that thy virtues are able to purchase thee more great and precious riches. Only bestow a little piece of ground upon his body, who whilst he lived, was unworthy to enjoy so gracious a Princess as thy worthy self.  
Farewell my good Friends, and faithful Servants, whom I desire and command, to honour and make account of my dear Lady and wife, as you would of mine own self, if I were living: whom I know will not be unmindful of you, for your good services done unto me. And cease you your womanish tears, for not with effeminate tears, but with shrill Trumpets, and warlike Drums, the corpses of brave Soldiers are used to be conducted unto their graves. Once more farewell my sweet Princess. Remember what thou hast promised unto me, and LORD receive my soul into thy heavenly King.  
Alas, this word Kingdom, he could not thoroughly pronounce. Death with one stroke, cutting off his voice and his life, both together at once. But why hold I you so long with this Tragical discourse? or what should I report unto you the unspeakable sorrows of despairing justina, when she saw her noble husband give up the last gasp in her arms?  
I will now be brief. After the Princess found Alfonso dead, she remembered her plighted vow unto him, and therefore sought neither venom, sword, nor am other extremity to end her days; but having sweetly embalmed his carcase, and placing it in a monument of Crystal, because she might the better behold it; she never departed from the same, until that after a certain time, what with hunger, sorrow & grief, she finished her weary and loathed life. Her fasting and weeping, had so changed her, as her nearest servants and acquaintance scarce knew her.  
Now had she (no more) that sweet face, for the beauty of which, so many Princes had so often combated and fought, nor were her eyes such, as had ravished so many souls, neither was her hair, that passing golden hair, whose tresses had served for nets, to catch and entrap the Courtliest and greatest hearts that lived: And to be brief, she was no more that fair and lovely justina: who indeed had no need of such comely favour, when her only desire was to die.  
Her face and cheeks were now become pale and yellow, her eyes dark, and sunk deep into her head, her hair fowl, unkempt, and almost all torn off, her breasts dry, and lean, her arms shrunk and brawnfallen, her hands without flesh, or whiteness, and finally, she resembled the very portraiture of a Ghost, or rather of Death itself.  
In this misery did she live some few months, when at the last, perceiving the date of her life to be expired, she came unto the Tomb, where taking the embalmed carcase up, and embracing it in her arms, she used these pitiful speeches unto it, as followeth.  
O sole remainder of all my good Fortunes, O only chief treasure of all my goods, O sole pawn, furuiving of my true Love, the only comfort I have in these my languishing griefs, and the goodly body, which sometimes revived the fair soul inhabiting therein, which now liveth in eternal glory for ever.  
To thee I appeal, as the only thing which I most love, honour, and praise, praying thee to assist me at mine end, and to bear witness with me, that I have kept promise most faithfully. As thou (when thou didst die) wert willing that I should not malice or annoy thee at thy death; So let not mine, (I pray thee) be any way displeasing unto thee.  
All whatsoever thou didst crave, did I yield and accord unto: then blame me not, if having performed what I protested, I come unto the Heavens to find thee. In thy life time I have lived, for fear to displease, but now thou livest no longer (fair and beautiful Coarse) and that I have taken order for thy burial, what thinkest thou should keep me here any longer? It is reasonable I should die, seeing I can now no longer live, and that I go to make a search for thee (most chaste soul) in what place soever thou art.  
Die then (sorrowful justina) and (leaving of to lament,) change these thy rears, thy miseries, and cares, into this eternal repose, where resteth thy husband quietly. I have lived but too too long, and my miserable life, hath been too irksome unto me. It is (now) more than high time, to make an end thereof (and making an end of myself) to remove myself unto him, who whilst he lived, had command over my soul. Thrice blessed Instina, to be quit and rid of these unspeakable torments, to live in everlasting quietness, which is the only hope of the miserable. Let us go then, let us go, & I humbly beseech that great God (who as a just judge of the innocency of our hearts, knoweth the secrets of our thoughts) to open that sacred gate unto me, which he hath promised unto his faithful children. This said, she kissed the dead coarse of her husband again, giving charge unto her Gentlewoman, to enterre and bury her body hard by his side: that done, she layeth herself along by the same, which she still embraceth: and having dressed her head, and appareled herself for the same purpose, she rendied up her spirit: A spirit, right meritorious, and worthy of eternal glory. Her body according unto her last will, was buried in the self same sepulchre which she had caused to be made for her husband before.  
Herewith Coribant held his peace, being hindered to speak any more, by reason of his tears, tears which bearest the others of their voices, who without being able to discourse any more one with another, for that time departed, every one to their senerall homes, so to pass away the dark and gloomy night. As they were walking fair and softly onwardsupon their way, Arcas heard one sing this song following.  
love fare thouwell, live will I now,  
Quiet amongst, the green-wood bow.  
Ill betid him that love seeks,  
He shall live, but with lean cheeks:  
He that fond falls in jove,  
A slave (still) to grief shall prove.  
Love far thou well, live will I now,  
Quiet amongst the greene-wood bow.  
What an Ass, and fool is he,  
That may serve, and will go free:  
In worlds not a wench so fair,  
But I for my life more care.  
Love far thou well, live will I now,  
Quiet amongst the etc.  
I like not these Dames so smooth,  
As would have men court and lous,  
For as constant I them find,  
As the Sea is, or the wind.  
Love far thou well, live etc.  
Once I loved one that was kind,  
But she did what pleased her mind:  
Better 'tis near to be borne,  
Then live, as another's scorn.  
Love far thou well, live well, etc.  
Then Love, thee I do defy,  
I hate thy bad dealing I,  
He is a fool that lives in pain,  
A toy so small for to gain.  
Love far thou well, live will I now,  
Quiet amongst the greene-woodbow.  
After the Shepherd had made an end of this merry Sonnet, another came unto them, demanding if some of the company could expound his Riddle, which he proposed in this manner.  
Nor life, nor virtue have I, lest I die,  
I borrow of my buried trunk chief strength,  
Though I am dead, o'er time yet triumph I,  
o'er time, that every thing consumes at length,  
What's dead, disdained is, yet all afford  
Me honour, and their chief preservers name,  
All men may rightly call me their best Lord,  
Since they (Sans me) the world cannot maintain,  
Yet though so much good doth from me proceed,  
These thankless worldlings do not stick at all  
To cut me off in Summer with great speed,  
And beat me into little powder small,  
Yet had I rather cruelly thus perish,  
Then live a longer space, for many time  
The season doth but badly oft me cherish,  
Offering great hurt and wrong to virtue mine.  
This Riddle was interpreted to be corn, which being sown in the earth, and seeming dead, casteth forth a green blade, and in time groweth to be ripe, in despite of all storms and foul weather whatsoever; It nourisheth mankind, and therefore is honoured of them as a father, not forbearing for all that, to reap him in Harvest, to thrash and grind him, and so to make flower thereof, which he had rather should be done, then to be over long kept, for many times it groweth musty lying in garners.  
This Riddle being thus expounded, the harmless Shepherds retired themselves for that night, as also did melancholy Arcas. Where we will leave them until the next morning.  
The end of the first days meeting of juliettaes' Shepherds.   

THE SECOND DAYS MEETING, OF THE FIFT BOOK OF JULIETTAES' shepherds.  
WHAT Frosty Night (never so bitter) were of power sufficient to cool the outrageous and burning heat of the Shepherd Arcas? What obscure horror, could bring a sleep, the watchful thoughts of his waking evils? And what deep slumber, take from him the continual remembrance of his divine Diana? his spirit being always troubled, as well in the night, as in the day, and therefore far more miserable than the bruit beasts. For whereas they repose themselves (sometimes) from their travel, he (always) laboured, and was (still) in pain, he plainly perceived the day beginning to lighten the hollow giering vault of heaven, he viewed the glorious Sun, to gild and adorn the Roseal sky: and he beheld beauteous Anrora, to weep dreary tears, for the death of her dear swarthy child; yet all these brought no comfort unto his griefs. For such minds as are over-cruellie afflicted with cares, 
A Sentence.  are neither su● iect to the coolie rest of the night, nor take pleasure at the glistering lamp, of Allseeing Phoebus. because they receive no contentment, neither in the one, nor in the other.  
Scarce did the break of day appear, when this Swain ariseth from his bed, running up and down the Desert, and searching for some fit place, where he might bewail his sorrows at the full. At length he entereth into a huge deep Cave, environed round about with sharp brambles, and pricking briars, able to terrify and affright any, excepting only such as seek for death, whom wretched and woeful Caitiffs fear not at all, because every hour they feel far worse plagues than death itself: and for that it is rather a pleasure then a torment unto them, to exchange their evil for good, and to leave a sour and severe Master, to follow and serve one that is mild, and debonair.  
Arcas then being gotten into the bottom of this darksome Dungeon, after he had for a certain time been mute, and as one fallen into a sound, in the end, breaking as it were out of a dead sleep, he began thus to complain. Ay me, Alas! What might I think to be the reason, or cause of the misery and unhappiness of man? Is it the heavens, that jealous of their good fortune, scourgeth them with so great cruelties? Or is it their sins, which provoketh the anger of God, forcing him to stretch out his threatening hand against them? No doubt it is this last, for sin only and wickedness, first opened the gate to death, that he might come in amongst us, and so overthrow us. It is for the punishment of such offences as we commit against the holy One, that we are persecuted with pestilence, famine, and with war. So was David plagued for his fault; and Sodom and Gomorrh● with fire overthrown. So were the Ninivites threatened: & so was Ezechias admonished to repent. O thrice happy the Godly, who prosper like the fruitful Laurel, and possess in peace, that land, which is taken away from the wicked with tempestuous lightning and thunder. For so was the good Abraham blessed, and so (after his imprisonment) was the righteous joseph, with many more beside.  
But contrariwise, most unfortunate are the wretched wicked ones, because they grudge and repine, in that they suffer for the faults they have committed, whilst they are stung with Serpents from the heavens: as were the Hebrews heretofore, when they began to murmur in the wilderness. Beware how thou repinest against the Almighty Ichova. And saith the (wise man) for no good nor profit, can come thereof. We cannot then term the heavens, to be the authors of our evils; but it is the only transgressing of the divine commandments; which we cannot truly say, be hath given unto us, to break them, or that he hath given us so hard a law, as that it is unpossible for us to fulfil the same. For it should be a most ridiculous and vain part of a Prince, to establish and appoint such ordinances unto his Subjects, as they cannot any way perform, as to defelid, or fo●●id them to grow, to wax taller, or bigger, or other such fond and unreasonable impossibilities as these be.  
And therefore, O how gentle and easy, are the commandment, of God, be himself affirming the same, when he termeth his yoke easy and ●ight, & his burden little and gentle to bear. For, Is it not as easy a thing for a man to do good as evil? when as in doing good, he enjoyeth the happy and blessed content of the quietness of his mind, without being troubled, either with the fear of the laws, or the doubt of reproach or slander.  
Besides, he doth not dread death, for he withdraweth himself from other hazards, whilst he meditateth upon the same; whereas thieves and Murderers, in robbing and killing, every hour encounter therewith, before they are aware. But say it happeneth unto them, yet do they receive it most meekly: for sweet and blessed is the death of the just, that die in the Lord; where, that of the wicked is hateful and abhommable. Courteous then and gentle, are the commandments of the highest, which his Apostle Saint john approveth in these words; Keep his commandments, and you shall find them, to be neither troublesome, hard, nor difficult to observe. They chase away, hot boiling Avarice, which burneth men with her uncharitable coldness; they banish all mortal ambition, which weareth away the years of man before his time is come; they take from them, all murder and robbing, which stifleth the neck of the wicked with an infamous cord; they smother and kill adultery, which layeth hold as well upon the health of man, as on his honour: and to conclude, they extirp and root out, all those vices which are deadly enemies, as well to the body as to the soul. By which we see, his laws are easy and sweet, yea, and most profitable and necessary for the health and contentment of mankind; which was the cause, the other Apostle Saint Paul, calleth the commandment of the Eternal jehona, a godly, just, and sacred commandment; it being the preserver of justice, the purity of our lives, and the very essence (as it were) of all equity, peace, and goodness; For what crosses overthwart the souls of the godly, who delight in no other thing, then in the law of the Lord?  
And what great and grievous courses do trouble and disturb the consciences of the wicked, who take a pride (as it were) as did Remus sometime in leaping over the walls of Rome) to exceed & go beyond the bounds of the divine ordinances of God? which, because they are not hard to be accomplished, are not the cause of our sins, and so by consequence, are not the occasions of our miseries: For we may live well, if we will, and living well, (and walking rightly in the commandments of God) we may taste of all happiness, without once, as much as feeling the stroke of his heaume hand to fall upon us. Then let us choose the best, and leave the worst, and so shall we be free from wretchedness: where, if we make election of vice, and refuse virtue, we must not think it strange, if God doth justly punish us for the same: for even human justice, which is but a shadow, and a figure of the divine, correcteth, and awardeth death unto such as be malefactors and wicked, violating their laws most injuriously.  
After the same sort did God speak unto Cain, saying; If thou dost well, thou shalt be recompensed for thy well doing: and if thou dost ill, thy sin shall be presently knocking at thy gate: that is to say, the punishment thereof shall not stay long, but it shall seize upon thee, for doing so badly. But under thee, shall the desire of sin be subject, and over it, shalt thou command; So that, if ve be scourged & plagued, we must impute it unto our own faults; or we may avoud and leave to sin so wittingly (as we do) if we will, and so our plagues will cease; but by reason we give over ourselves too too licentiously unto the same, and like beastly Swine wallow still in this filthy puddle, we are afflicted by the heaven from above.  
Thrice blessed (then) is he, that hath not transgressed the sacred laws of GOD: 
A Sentence.  which nevertheless, he hath not done (thinking thereby to reap reward, for his so well doing) for had he done otherwise, he had been tortured and afflicted with many punishments. That famous josuah, one of the nine Worthies, followed this advise, when he spoke thus unto the children of Israel: Worship such Gods, as you list yourselves, it lieth in you, & is in your own power and authority, to sacrifice unto such as you please: As for myself, and all my family, we will acknowledge none for true God, but the HOLY GOD, of our forefathers, Abraham, Isaac, and jacob.  
Thus you see, it is in us to do good or evil: as it is in the power of the Travellerto follow what company he pleaseth, of all the rest he meeteth, whilst he goeth onwards on his journey. If we shall worship the true God, as josuah did, we shall live happily, as did our predecessors before us: but if we shall come to be servants unto Idols, then shall our offences open the door, and make way for our afflictions and miseries, bringing us (at last) unto utter destruction for ever. For our God, hath presented unto us, both good and evil. Yet doth he say, Choose the good, (only) that thou and thine may live in rest and quietness. Which was the reason that our blessed Sautour forgave the sins of Mary Magdalaine the repentant, for that (said he) she chose the better part, which could never be taken from her.  
That servant that doth ill against the consent of his master, can he justly complain, 
An example.  when he is punished for his faults? If so, why then, (seeing we make choice of sin and iniquity, and God scourgeth us worthily for the same) do we murmur and repine against him? when we ourselves, and not he, are the authors of our own misfortunes, in that we commit those sins, which are the first motives & occasions thereof? God, who in his own nature, is uncapable of sin, & who can no way receive the accident of vice, cannot be the author of our offences: otherwise, he himself should sin, (which to think, were mere blasphemy) and sinning so, he should become the sinner, and not we, who should be, but only the simple executioners of his faults: Being a sinner, he could not be God, no more then pure white, can become coal black, because God and sin are so much contrary and different, as they can never be in one self subject, nor one agree, or like of the other. Again, if God should force me to commit sin, 
A Simile.  how then could he justly punish me? For can that Lord rightly punish his slave, who by his commandment hath done that fault, for which he is corrected? In like manner, what just colour can God have, to inflict punishment upon us, if he himself hath not only persuaded us unto the same, but also hath constrained & urged us (as it were) perforce to commit this sin, for which he doth plague us. Besides, God hath not created man to be damned, or lost, hell (being ordained only for devils) neither will he the death of a sinner, but rather that he live & repent. For if you yourselves will (saith the Prophet Esay) hearken unto my voice you shall eat the fruits of the earth in peace, without being touched with any kind of misery. It (then) lieth in us, to be fortunate and happy, in abstaining and forbearing from sin: for our forefathers were blessed, and lived in all tranquility, & peaceful rest of the spirit, as long as thy abstained from doing what was ill: but when they took once a contrary course, than were they overthrown and plunged in an infinity of miseries: As the jews were slain, ransomed, and carried away (as captives) by the Heathen and Pagan Kings, when they had provoked God against them, by reason of the heinousness of their faults, and had purchased his just indignation and displeasure against them. It is our bad and lewd life, and not God, that bringeth us into so many miseries. Who (as the Psalmist saith) is a God that hateth iniquity, a God that hath not appointed death for man, and so merciful, as he taketh no delight in his utter ruin and everlasting damnation. For with his own proper mouth, thus did he speak unto the jews.  
O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, how often would I have gathered thee together, as the hen doth her chickens under herning, but thou wouldst not? And as by our wicked behaviour, we hasten the wrath of God against us, so by doing well, we many times hinder & assuage his anger and his plagues, which he menaceth and threateneth to send upon us. So did the Ninivites, by their hearty prayers & unfeigned repentance, change and alter the divine will and purpose of God, breaking off that which he had meant to have done, which as it is comminatory, so it is not (always) necessary, it should be put in practice.  
So the good King Ezechias, by his contrite penitence, & by his earnest supplications, hindered the Almighty's determination, which threatened him, that he should die within 15. days after, prolonging & lengthening his life, whole 15. years more. And so Moses (oftentimes) through his earnest entreaty, withdrew the predestination of God, which was then resorute, and rosolued to suffer the jews to perish, being then in the wilderness, and murmuring against his holy Name. But the Apostle saith, If we be not of the number of the Elect and chosen of God, yet let us behave ourselves so, as we may be of the same: meaning by these his words, that if we list, we may save ourselves. Then ought I, to fret and fume against the stars, or murmur and repine against the Heavens themselves? No, God forbidden, since my faults and not they, have been the authors of mine own misfortunes.  
Had I not sinned, I had not felt the least touch of these troubles, that thus torment me: I had not been so wretched as to have been despoiled of that little mercy & grace, which I had of the Almighty: I had not been driven from mine own house, banished from my Country, exiled from the presence of my dearest friends, nor scourged with the sharp whip of extreme want and poverty: Neither had this my predestinated disaster (which still followeth me, unto mine undoing) been able to have crossed me in all my designs, as it doth (even at this hour) and will do continually. For alas, how little would I esteem of my losses, and of mine exile (since he cannot be termed a Bandit) who is welcome amongst the wiser sort, and who (yet) hath some friends left him) were it not for this my hard Destiny, which as a ghastly Fury, doth still haunt and follow me. But I see, I see, (as in a glass) my misery to be such, as it will never be separated from me: and I perceive but too well, that Destinies may be foreseeve, but never can be prevented.  
As the Shepherd was (thus) pitifully lamenting unto himself, behold, he might perceive two terrible roaring Lions, to come directly towards the Cave, wherein he had gotten himself, it being the ordinary den, wherein they used to harbour, which when he saw, he quickly started up, drawing forth his sword, with intention to defend himself, & to make them buy his flesh dearly: but they without so much (as once) offering to hurt him, gently passed by him, moved as (I guess) with his more than woeful misery.  
They being gone, he came forth from his melancholic Cell, and as he was walking thus alone, the doleful Nymph Orythia, his old (yet loyal Lover) met him by chance, who was comen (even into this wilderness) to find him out. After she had saluted him, she entreated him to sit down upon a green bank, covered over with shadowing Cypress, and to hear a certain Sonnet, which she had made in remembrance of him. The Shepherd seeing no other remedy, sitteth him down, promising the Nymph, attentiucly, to give ear unto her Ditty, which she most pitifully sung after this manner following.  
Cruel mishap, the Butcher of my life,  
All (thou except) is mortal here below:  
Men are deaths foes, & with him, are at strife,  
And death is that which I do covet so.  
My tongue speaks what with hart agreeth best,  
Death and laments, is of my speech the source:  
Ah judge (then if that I have any rest,  
Loving (of evils all) the very worse.  
If damned souls without en end (always)  
Sharp plagues endure; Alas, I feel like pain:  
A monstrous ill it is, all his life's days,  
To bear the brunt of ghosts in Limbo slain:  
And yet the damned, suffer for their offence,  
Whilst I (for doing good) endure these woes:  
The guilty (to complain of ill) wants sons,  
Wrongly to suffer, patience makes to lose:  
May not my plaints most justly counted be,  
In right the Heavens of cruelty t'accuse?  
What good, ere found I, O ye Gods, (to me  
Unjust) ye slay us, yet to hear us ye refuse,  
Without enfeele, of pleasure or of joy:  
With anguish you our vital spirits fill,  
Enforcing us to entertain annoy.  
So what's good, leaves us, whilst we take the ill,  
Thus 'gainst your fierce, and more than sharp Alarms  
We sickly souls, too weak, must harden strong  
Ourselves, and for to help us in our harms,  
We hope in vain, (the more) ourselves to wrong.  
" Alack, Cowards that fly, and followed are orefast,  
" Small leisure have, or none, their Armour off to cast.  
The Nymph having ended this her mournful Music, with a deep sigh, fet from the bottom of her heart, began (thus) to woo the Shepherd.  
O how (justly) do the powers above afflict thee, seeing thou so cruelly dost torment others! Is it not most meet and reasonable, that as we sow, so we should reap? and as we have measured unto others, so we should look for the like measure again? LOVE maketh thee die, without depriving thee of life, whilst thou forcest the selfsame Love (without killing me) to torment me most cruelly. Ay me, what strange kind of Frenzy doth trouble thy soul?  
Thou refusest the friendship of one that is immortal, to seek after the love of a worldly beauty, which is subject unto death, fortune, and change, wherein thou dost show a sufficient sign of the error of men, who follow that that flieth from them, leaving the best, and accepting of the worst. And if they, (committing so gross an absurdity) feel themselves to be plunged in the gulf of most bottomless griefs, by the Heavens, 
A Sentence.  should they, (therefore) complain & lament? He that hath wounded himself, can accuse none for his hurts, but his own self: and the prodigal child, that hath through his foolishness, consumed all his wealth, may blame or thank no body, but his own mere folly. Why dost thou not accept of that present, which willingly offereth itself unto thee? & why dost thou endure so many miseries, to obtain that, which thou wilt never be able to purchase? Is not he unwise, that whilst the storm lasteth, leaveth the dry house (in which he was in) to run to seek another farther off, and in the mean time is subject unto the bitterness of the Tempest? And is not he a fool, who leaveth a thing certain and present, to take what is uncertain and doubtful? Well may he be counted to murder himself, that refuseth what is profitable unto him, whilst he vainly seeketh, (and yet to no purpose) what he is likely never come by. Love then, (sweet Shepherd) love her, that dearly liketh thee. No small punishment do they deserve, 
A Sentece.  who hate such as love & fancy them, in as much, as friendship being not forced, but rather coming of his own accord, deserveth a recompense, no less than that gift which departeth from a frank and liberal free mind, doth merit thanks, because it is not forced any way: Then (I say) dost thou not love her, who esteemeth of thee, more than of her own self? whilst thou (more savage and fierce, than the cruel Tigers (who love their matches) dost refuse the amity of thine equal every way, that sacred amity, (so much) accounted of, both by Gods, and men. Ah change thy self-will and stubborn mind (hard hearted swain, as thou art) and call to remembrance, what dangers I have passed, what hazards I have traversed, and how many countries I have run through to find thee out, resolving with myself, never to leave him who hath my heart, and carrieth the same within his breast always. But why speakest thou not all this while? & why breakest thou not this solemn silence of thine? which cannot be but grievous unto such as behold thee: nay more, as painful as death itself, unto them that think well of thee.  
Ah fair Nymph (replied the Shepherd) what delightful answer canst thou imagine to draw from him, who is not agreeable or pleasing unto his own self? and what medicine canst thou get from a sick person, that is not able through the agony of his grief to help himself any thing at all? Can my discourses be pleasing unto thee, when they are most odious and hateful unto mine own self? he had need to be perfect in health, that will heal such as be sick, to be fully at liberty, that can enfranchise slaves; and to be perfectly content, 
A Sentence.  that taketh upon him to comfort the unserable. Stay but the time, (beauteous Nymph,) I say, stay but the time, until the gracious Heavens, taking compassion upon me, do cure my recureless infirmity, & that I be (once) freed from the heavy and burdensome: bonds, wherein I am now chained, and then will I condescend unto thy demand. For alas, can one loyal and faithful servant, serve at one time two masters, and they (both) differing in nature? Even so, can the true & chaste Lover, (love) with equal affection) two contrary subjects? 
A Sentence.  No, no: for that Love which is sacred, firm, and commendable, can never endure to be divided: Love itself being a simple substance, which participateth with no division, and therefore, such as truly fancy any, do love without the separation of good will, in such wise, as it is as unpossible for the constant Lover to have two Mistresses, as it is for the Element to contain two Suns within it all at one time. If thy fancy were fixed upon some Demigod here below, wouldst thou take it in good part, that a silly Swain should presume to make love unto thee, seeking to force thee to give over thy first love and promise, which never should be forgotten, what devise soever might be wrought? If not, than I beseech thee (immortal Creature) importune no more the despised Arcas. (too too much already wronged by the Heavens,) but rather suffer him to take some breath in his miseries, which he must (perforce) endure, as well as he may. Heap not upon him, stone upon stone, burden upon burden, nor mischief upon mischief, satisfying thyself with this his most heavy extremity, without seeking to make his woes more terrible or cruel than they already be. For (Orythia,) this I will swear, that the Heavens shall fall upon this ground, and the cold frozen Seas shall turn into hot fire, before the heart of unfortunate Arcas shall be heated with any other love, then with that of his Diana: Her beauty will he love alone, (she only) shall be served of him, pale death itself, not being of force to alter this constant resolution.  
Then speak no more of this matter unto me, and let it suffice thee, that I honour thee, for thy Deity, as Numa Pompilius adored the Nymph Egeria: For only Diana do I love, and none but her alone. Command my body to serve thee, in what he is able; call my soul to attend upon thee, at thy will; dispose of my poor power, as thou shalt best please; and bid me do any thing, whatsoever thou likest; Behold me priest to obey thee, (but not to love) lest I should forget my Diana: and say I should go about to do so, yet cannot I, although I would never so feign. Content thee, that I do what I may, that I offer thee all that my soul is able, and be not so unourteous unto me, as to bind me to things unpossible, which no man is bound to perform.  
So dear do I hold thy quietness, (answered the weeping Nymph) that for fear I shoulddisplease thee (to the end thou shalt perceive how unfeignedly I do fancy thee●) I will rather study to overthrow, and utterly ruinated mine own life, then seek by any means, to hinder or force thy desire any way at all.  
So let it be, yea, let it be so, and so let it still continue, since I was borne to be the most miserable of all others. And seeing I see so many mortal creatures preferred before my love (who am immortal) I will use to make mine eyes (perforce) to weep continually, to the end, that they being deprived of their lights, may no longer behold the cause of their inevitable sorrows.  
Thou must then, (O poor Nymph) and wretched Orythia, resolve with thyself, to endure this mischief, and prepare thyself to make an ordinary exercise of thy more than heavy mischances. So lived Venus in woe, long time after the death of her Darling Adonis. So did Phoebus lament the loss of his dear Daphne. And so did jove, wail for the loss of his Io, and his Europa. Even so must I grieve at this mine unlukie denial.  
Yet nevertheless, 
A Sentence.  thou that art the only motive of this my mischief, and the only cause of this my sharp and bitter Corsie, take heed, take heed, I say, lest for this egregious injury, which thou (now) offerest me, the Gods revenge not themselves upon thee, making thine anguish as great, as mine is grievous every way: For never let him look for favour from above, that hath not showed mercy, unto such as sue and seek unto him here below.  
And yet (accursed that I am) mine own grief is not so cruel, but that the care which I take for thine, is far more troublesome unto me. I, seeking (in desire) to be doublie plagued, perplexed, and tormented, so I might see thee quite rid and released from these thy woeful passions; although notwithstanding all this, thou dost badly requite my great good will towards thee. But the Heavens, who are far more just, more excellent, and divine than thou, will yield me some sufficient guerdon: Mean space, dispose of doleful Orythia, who is more thine, than her own, and (reserving her honour) do with her what thou list, she being ready, with her divine power, to assist thee in all thy writings, which thy mournful Muse shall sigh forth, not only (alone) at this time, but for ever hereafter: not demanding any other reward of thee, for her pains, but that she (sometimes) may be had in remembrance in thy works: which already have found place amongst the most commendable Inventions, that have been accounted of by the bravest Princes, and highly prised and esteemed of by many others: and which also, shall be had in request (hereafter) more than ever they (yet) have been, (despite of the envious whatsoever) that go about to seek to deface the same.  
Live then, (sweet Shepherd) and dream as long as thou please, with thyself, of thy so much desired Loves, as I shall do the like of thine. But the day shall come, in which the Heavens shall deprive thee from the pleasure of the same, to the end thou mayest know, by the experience of thine own proper misfortune, how lamentable the state of such Lovers is, that are barted and excluded from all good hope, of obtaining their wish and desire.  
The Nymph having so said, suddenly departed, running as swiftly into the woods adjoining, as the light Hind, leaving the Shepherd all alone, who was as much amazed at her speech, as is the wayfaring man, when in his travail, he seethe the Thunderbolt of heaven, to fall upon some proud Rock, breaking the tops thereof, with his terrible flashie blow.  
Long was he not in this brown study, but that the old man, (wonderful earnest) to understand the discourse of his troubles, came to seek him, whom he thus began to accost. There is nothing that is holden more reverend, either amongst Gods, or amongst men, as is the word of man, which ought to be respected most religious, amongst ones enemies themselves, be the never so cruel or barbarous, and which we ought not to falsify, although it be for the least things in the world: because it is the band, which tieth the society and fellowship of men together, which being dismembered, would most foully and confusedly perish, were it not, but in respect of the great regard that is had, and held of the same.  
I know thou hast not forgotten, how thou hast plighted thy promise, to report unto me thy misfortunes, and thy Loves. Now do I summon thee, to perform the same, praying thee, that thou wilt not be the cause, that this Desert (being the habitation of the Nymphs) be not defiled with infidelity of speech. For as the Gods will not (alone) be free and spotless from all vices, but also clean from suspicion of the same, so will they have the like Ceremonies to be most orderly observed, amongst their sacred abidings, where (as yet) never any fault lodged.  
And if thou imeginest, that this thy discourse will prove irksome unto thee, then know, that the breaking of thy faith, aught to be far more grievous: and that of two evils thou oughtest to choose the least: which is, rather to endure the novel apprehensions of thine old sores, then to violate thy pawned promise: I will crave nothing at thy hands, but what I will hereafter requite again, offering in recompense of thy kindness (after thou hast done) to discourse unto thee the whole story of my life, to the end, that if our Fortunes shall be found to be alike, we may (the better) seek the like remedy to help ourselves.  
Then (courage Son) pluck up thy spirits, so long dulled with sorrow, made overmuch sick with sadness, and almost massacred with extreme melancholy, and begin to recount thy Tragedy, whilst I will listen unto thee, reporting of thy hard Fortunes in thy travel.  
The Shepherd somewhat roused, with this earnest request, replied thus. I cannot deny, but what one promiseth he ought to perform, and so mean I. Yet the debtor who hath given his faith and promise, to pay his money at a certain set day, although he is willing to keep his word, yet will he not stick to get a longer time for the tendering of the same, if he can possible, (especially) if he want the means to satisfy his creditor, unto whom he is bound. 
A Pioverbe.  For it is an old saying: What is delayed, is not unpaide: and such fruits as are longest attended and looked for, are always the better, because they are of better relish, and more ripe than the others.  
Then suffer my mind (yet a little longer) to be in quiet, and make not my mortal wounds so soon to bleed (freshly) again: For, as bloody & cruel are the thoughts of a man's unlucky chances, as the memory is sweet & pleasing, of his happy good fortunes.  
To report the same anew, is as much as to strike the wound again, because we call them to memory, when they are (in a manner) half forgotten, whilst Time itself, that hath somewhat lessened them, seemeth to complain (as it were) that men are abused by his means. Give me therefore some longer respite, (kind Father of these Nocturnal Abodes) to bethink myself better of this matter, to the end I may have space to take breath a little more, being so lately come forth, from so many outrageous Seas of extreme miseries.  
The Sailor, having escaped the danger of waters, leaveth to give over from working, assoon (as ever) his Ship is come into the haven, 
An Example.  without looking unto either his Merchandise, or his vessel: for ease and rest is more sweet than any other thing in the world, seeing for this rest, man traveleth all the days of his life, hoping at the end of his labours to find the same.  
Then give me leave (I beseech thee) some small while to be quiet, and trouble not my mind, with this unwelcome business: otherwise, in steed of consolating my pain, I shall think thou dost aggravate it the more, and makest the same more bitter unto me.  
Ah Shepherd (answered the old man) dost thou make account, that the quietness of a woeful wretch is troubled, when one desireth to understand his grief, that so he may help, and heal him the sooner? Man, as he is courteous and human, is (afterwards) more ready to do good then evil, because he roweth in the selfsame Boat that he doth, whom he seeketh to relieve, being so much afflicted, and for that a good turn doth never come amiss, but is welcome at all times. Thinkest thou, that thy sorrows shall wax worse and worse, 
A Sentence.  by reason of this discourse, which I entreat thee to deliver? The sick patient revealeth his disease unto the Physician, but concealeth his grief, to the end he may find remedy. Why then wilt thou make adversaries, thy tongue and thy face? For, did thy speech fail thee, as not being able to discover thy pain, yet should we plainly perceive it by thy looks. Satisfy thy tongue, and thy countenance, in what they seem to desire, and begin not here in this strange Country, to shift us off with disloyalty, and dissembling.  
Behold, this hour most fit, the time now screws, and this place is most apt and commodious for the purpose. It is in uncouth Deserts, where Lovers use to come, to report their mishaps at large, thinking themselves not a little fortunate, when they can have auditors to listen unto them. I will attend thee, whilst this shade doth invite thee, to perform what heretofore thou hast promised. Then I pray thee dispatch, to the end thou mayst satisfy my mind, which even (as it were, languisheth) with mere desire to hear thee.  
The Shepherd seeing himself so sharply urged to keep his word, not being able any longer to delay him, or to put him off, after he had sent forth a number of scalding sighs, thus began his speech.  
Scarce was I come out of mine infancy, & grown a stripling, my chin (not yet) bearing the mark of a man, when Love enroled me for one of his band, forcing me to love, before I knew what liking meant: whereupon, I being young in experience, and less practised in knowledge, began to set myself to school, to learn the hardest science in the world.  
Nevertheless, as of vipers, (by nature venomous) Physicians draw many wholesome medicines: so Love, depriving me of my liberty, recompensing me with somewhat worth the giving, for having within my conceit, a huge heap, & a great confused mass of verses, he dispersed, divided, broke, and spread abroad the same, in such sort, as in a small time, a thousand young shivers and pieces, came thereof. Know then, I loved a fair and rich Shepherdess, called Magaalis, she not much disdaining my modest affection, for her sake, did I compose many thousand Sonnets, but simple ones, and young (God he knoweth) were they, as young and simple as was mine age, but far younger my knowledge and skill. Yet such as they were, she most curtiously accepted of them, obliging my miserable fortune greatly unto her, whilst she relieved it, by the means she had through the benefit of Nature, so that my verse was recompensed, by reason of the favours which she held of Fortune.  
Long time did this fair maid enjoy my love, till (mine eyes being dazzled with the renown of the most famous julietta,) I longed (exceedingly) to see her, to confirm for truth, the sacred report, which her rare perfections range of her, throughout all the country: whereupon I resolved to see her, yet (sore) doubting the presence of so rare a thing, as the tender Eagle doth the face of the Sun.  
There is nothing galleth the Fox so much, 
A Comparison.  as to be found to be nigh unto the Lion, because his beastliness is known by the excellency of the other. And the bad Painter, will (always) shun the company of such a one as is cunning, for fear lest the perfection of his work, should disgrace the unskilfulness of the other.  
In the end, I was forcedto see this divine Shepherdess, who (as she is divine, and her effects divine also) upon the first sight I had of her, stole (at one time from me, both my soul, and the remembrance of the foresaid Magdalis: yet did she not this by force, but rather with such a sweet violence, as (me thought) I lost nothing, reputing my defait, to be a kind of victory unto me. If Magdalis was rich, and honourably descended, yet this far passed her in these accidences, especially, in wisdom, and in learning, with other rich qualities, aswell of the body, as of the mind. For I verily believe, few Poets did excel her in Poetry: few Orators in the Art of Oratory: few Painters, in drawing of countorfaits: few Penmen, in writing of sundry and fair sort of hands: few musicans in Music: few sage men in gravity: and few learned men, in judicial knowledge, and reading.  
To discourse in all the seven liberal Sciences, was an ordinary course with her, neither had she ever the overthrow of the cunningest and greatest Doctors of her time.  
This fair creature then, (fair both for virtue and for beauty) long time stayed and bridled the folly and licentious liberty, of my forward youth. In all which space, my Muse did nothing else, but chant forth her sacred praises, the rare Thews, and exquisite parts of this lovely Shepherdess being her Subject, and the only efficient courses of all her writings; whilst she in the mean time, disdained not (oftentimes) to answer me. For she hath (always) favoured and respected gentle and towardly spirits, not that I am one of the same number, but because she made account of mine, as if they had been such indeed, they still producing, and bringing forth such fruits, as were to her glory, her honour, and contentment.  
If the name of the BERGERIES of JULIETTA, have (by chance) come unto thine ears, then mayst thou gather the truth of my speeches, by the report thereof, and easily perceive thereby, what duteous respect, and solemn service, I most religiously vowed unto this fair and learned virgin. But as the heavens themselves, 
A Sentence.  cannot (always) continue in one, and the selfsame course, but ever changeth and divideth themselves to an other form; Even so, the misfortune, or rather the punishment of our sins, opposed herself most cruelly against the chaste continuation, of my most modest and respective loves, secluding and separating me, far from my divine julietta, of whom, (notwithstanding all this) I carried away with me, the Teffigies and counterfeit, shadowed within my soul, honouring her, as one, who had most power over me, and ringing loud peals, of her well deserving praises, so long, till at the last, Time, not only changed my nature, but also my fortune and estate.  
And the sooner to finish my ruin and overthrow, he forced me to try so many woeful miseries, scourging me with his severe rods, so sore and cruelly; As (in the end) I forgot every thing, and gave over all; studying only what good means I might find, to warrant and shield me, from the fury of my too too spiteful desires, and to save me from the sharp arrows they darted at me, knowing that one poison expelleth an other, that one nail driveth out an other, and that the greater evil, that is more violent, maketh the lesser to yield and to give over.  
Thus was I compelled to beat my wits, to find the way as well to preserve and save my silly life, laid in wait for, by many envious persons, as to conserve that little which I held, through the grace of Fortune. But (hardly) could I keep safe, either the one, or the other, losing both my goods, and my body, which was drawn into an uncomfortable prison; where (yet for all this, such was my good luck) I found so much courtesy, as I might rather have termed it liberty, than imprisonment, in that it was more profitable, then hurtful unto me, by reason I purchase many friends thereby.  
After this had happened, I wandered into every place, as the Hart that searcheth his companion gone astray, without finding any one place, of sufficient security for this my wretched life.  
In the end, (when I had sometime remained within a certain Castle, with some of my friends) I chanced to arrive at a goodly, rich, and great City, which served as a Sanctuary unto the miserable, and as a safeguard and refuge, for such as were hardly destined, of which number I counted myself as chief. There did I find myself, secure and safe, and therefore did I cast mine anchor on that strand, wishing that I might make an end of my overlong pains, and too too wearisome peregrinations. Now whilst I lived in this place, my Muse was not altogether idle, one while in sighing forth my hard fortune, an other while in lamenting my manifold and irrecoverable losses; and sometimes Heroldizing the praises of those, that maintained my poor life; so that I was not tongue-tied or dumb, neither lay I long in silence, without doing some one thing or an other.  
Mean space, it was my chance (one day) to walk into the Forests adjoining, as well to assuage my griefs, as also to put out of my mind, the thought of my mischances, where I found about a coolie fountain, many fair Shepherdesses, who all danced without fear, but only for fear to be seen.  
Fair were they all, 
An excellent description of a fair virgin.  and (yet) not all liking unto my mind, nor alike agreeable in mine eyes. Amongst the whole troop, one there was that pleased my fancy, above all the other; being taller in stature, straighter of body, and fairer and goodlier than all the company were. Her flaxen hair was daintily bound up, placed under a curious Coif of fine Lawn. Her high forehead, goodly and broad. Her amorous eyebrows, somewhat black, serving as an Vmbrill for her diamond-like-eyes. Her diamond eyes, clear, quick, and sparkling; like unto two suns eyes, which without hurting the body, pierced into the very soul, wounding most cruelly. Ears, which took prisoners, millions of hearts, the virtues thereof, drawing them most sweetly unto them. Eyes, resembling two sacred lamps, being of force, to chase away all darkness, and to bring the bright day with them.  
Her witching lips, werered, like unto the Clove-gilliflower. Her pretty mouth, faultless and little. Her chaste mouth, never touched of any, being as a religious relic, most sacredly reserved for the service and honour of the celestial Goddesses Diana. Her cheeks, vermilion right, resembling the Summer Rose, adorned with a white lily. Her dimpled chin, short, round, and well made. Her throat was clear Alabaster, and her goodly breast composed of pure juprie: in which, were sweetly seated, two rich and precious monuments of mountain snow, disdaining to be compared with any whiteness whatsoever. Her hands with azured veins, resembled the precious stones digged out of the quarry of beauty. And to be brief, her feet were slender and little withal.  
But O how perfectly fair wert thou in all points, beauteous and lovely Diana? How rare and gentle, was thy spirit? How stately and full of Majesty, thy gate? And how sweet and pleasing, thy more than angelical presence? If so admirable a Subject as this, was not of sufficient power, to enthrall and captive me, when far meaner and base (by odds) have made the greatest and bravest personages in the world to stoop, I refer it unto your own censures to imagine.  
O most secret and marvelous, is the puislance of love; No sooner did I behold her, but I felt myself to be wholly changed and transformed into an other shape, as the Serpent changeth his skin in the Springtime.  
The remembrance of all whatsoever I had done before, was slipped and vanished away, no otherwise then a wave of water, glideth swiftly in the Sea. I remained as one bound, and enchained: and yet alack, I could not choose but honour my bonds; neither could I withdraw, or retire myself from this deadly enemy of my rest, which had deprived me already as it were of my life, but stayed still by her. Not unlike unto the foolish fly, 
A Simile.  that buzzeth (so long) about the candle, till at the last he burneth himself in the flame thereof.  
Eagerly, did I suck this sweet poison down my throat, enchanting my spirits with the same. As the thrifty wayfairing man, drinketh with great greediness, whatsoever is presented unto him, to staunch his dryness. With great reverence did I use, and (not a little) did I respect, those arrows, shafts, and darts, that were my death: so much fortunate did I imagine myself, to be vanquished by so sweet and fair an enemy: neither could I once remove mine eyes from her beauteous face, no more than the captive taken in war, who looketh pitifully on him that hath taken him, upon whose will dependeth his dear deliverance. The remembrance of all my forepassed Disasters, was lost with my liberty: this cruel wound, extinguishing all sense of grief of my other lesser troubles, as a great evil doth expel and thrust out a less.  
Thus love covereth all other miseries, his heat, drying all others sorrows; and his force, assuaging all other losses whatsoever. And (as a great broadleafed oak) hideth all kind of mischiefs whatsoever. Like as we see that man, that hath lost soo●e great matter of weight, to take on, and to chafe wonderfully, as often as it cometh into his mind, and when he calleth into his memory, the worth and value of the same, he held so dear.  
Even so, doth it vex my very soul, when I remember the rare and admirable qualities of my Diana, considering the great loss I have thereby.  
And therefore (good Father) let me here leave (I beseech thee) without urging me to proceed any farther; but rather permit me to go my ways, that I may find out some close & frightful Cave, where I may sufficiently & enough bewail this my inestimable loss. For the very thought thereof, doth take my voice away, pierceth quite through my heart, and disturbeth all my wits and senses.  
Nay (forward) (good Shepherd) answered the earnest old man. A work half done, aught to be thoroughly finished; yet in the mean time, thou mayest if thou thinkest good, pause for a while here, and take unto thee breath again, letting pass this sad apprehension of thy losses, since others have had ill fortune as well as thyself. But well hast thou begun, and therefore I doubt not but thou wilt make as good an end.  
Arcas, having rested a while, began to proceed in his discourse, when Philistell, and Corribant, coming unto them (and having saluted them) sat down hard by them; whereupon Philistell, marking the countenance of the old man very wistly, and judging him to be a Magician, (as indeed he was) began thus to argue with him.  
Father, I am not ignorant, that these Desars, resemble a hot coal of glowing fire, 
A Simile.  which if you fling amongst sweet and odoriferous spices, it shall yield a delightful and pleasing savour: and if you cast it amongst bad, it shall smell loathsome and stinking. Even so, these Deserts serve some to end their years in holiness, such being ravished with the contemplation of the wonderful works of the Almighty: whilst unto other some, they are as a Receptacle, to colour their faults, and as a commodious place, wherein they may hide their bad lives, and lewd wickedness: Nevertheless, the latter of these twain, who help themselves (by their means) to do ill, do offer them the more injury, because these uncouth woods, have ever been fit, for such as do penance, and meditate upon God, then to screw for a retreat unto the wicked: to the end, they may the safer exercise their bad and detested lewdness therein. And to be plain with you, I think you are come hither, because you may the more fit put in practise your black Art here, and have conference with the devils. Now whether this your trade be lawful or no, I feign would know the truth.  
That Master will never account such a one of his servants, 
An Example.  for faithful and good, that shall go about to seek for aid of his enemy. If so, Think you then, that God can allow it for good, that men, who are his servants & creatures, shall enter league, confer, and be familiar with the devils, his odious adversaries? Can the judge, take it for well, and not mislike the reof, that any of his followers, should aid and assist, comfort, and keep company with the criminal, whom for his faults he hath most justly condemned to death? So likewise, if the devils (who for their pride and wickedness have been condemned by the Almighty) are driven and chased away from his divine presence, what excuse can such men allege for themselves? who dare be so bold, as to presume to come amongst them, and to consult with them? It is sharply forbidden, the good to converse with the bad; the faithful, to be acquainted with the Infidels; and the Christians to have truce with the Turks. Then what alliance or league, can there be found between men, the children of God, and damned devils, condemned from the beginning of the world for their most horrible offences? Long since, did God punish the jews most extremely, for offering to marry with the wives of the Heathen, delivering them (for theirpunishment) into the hands of their enemies: because light and darkness can never agree well together. And think you not, that he will give over into the hands of the devils, such men as serve them, and are familiar with them; to the end they may be pumshed, by the selfsame spirits, whose executioners they have been in all hateful ungodliness? Can any Father support and bear so great an injury, 
A Sentence.  that his son shall follow and keep company, with such a lewd and bad servant of his, whom he hath driven out of his house, in that he sought to deprive him of the same, rising up (most rebelliously) against him? Even so, can God take it well at our hands, that we, who are his children, should compact and agree, seeking for the friendship and acquaintance of these ungodly servants (the devils) whom he hath thrown headlong, down from out his heavenly mansion, because they presumed through their arrogancy, to be equal with himself? If devils are (by nature) wicked, and for their iniquity are judged unto hell fire for ever; What then can men learn of them, but malice, envy, evil, blasphemy, and sin? Now these qualitiés being extremely displeasant unto God (who is the mortal enemy of vice) how then can such men sufficiently excuse themselves, who have learned such wickedness of Satan and his angels?  
The old man, angered at the heart, as well to hear his Art blamed, as from being hindered from the discourse which Arcas had began, (half choleric) replied thus.  
My friend (and stranger unto me,) I see well, thou hast a taste of thine old corrupt nature, serving God, according unto the gross custom of thive Ancestors, & only after one fashion. 
An excellent discourse of Inchantuients.  Know then, there are divers kinds of worshipping of God. To take an oath, is forbidden by the divine law; for fear, lest we fall into perjury: and therefore wilt thou say, we ought not to swear at all? So far off from offending, are we by the same, that swearing truly, and before the just face of upright justice, it is a kind of adoration, and worship, which we render unto God, because we charge him (as it were) with the justness of the truth, or with the falseness of the oath taken, in his holy name. So likewise, wilt thou blame exorcism of spirits, and the conjuring of them, which men do to force them to understand, and give care to that which is demanded of them?  
The ancient Hebrews, had not they Enchantments, which chased away devils, commanding them in the name of God? Which our Saviour his Son, when he lived (here) upon the earth, approved and allowed, as authentical and lawful?  
I tell thee, for thy learning, that there are two sorts of Art Magic (as there are two kinds of swearing) the one good, and the other bad. That is good, which is done by the divine power alone, inasmuch, as (only) to him is the glory attributed, to command over devils Is not sin, a most wicked evil? and yet notwithstanding, do not the holy Doctors of the Church, will us to follow and haunt the bad, until we have chased and driven quite away, both themselves and their vicious kind of living also? If so, think you then, that it is forbidden to converse with spirits, when thereby they are bound more surely, and bridled more straightly, as being unable through their malice to hure mankind, as they have done?  
By whose virtue and authority do devils come out of hell? and in whose name, do they speak, obey, and fulfil the desires of men? 
Whether invocation and calling upon spirits, be lawful, or no?  Is it through the puissance of other Devils? No. For, they have no authority one over the other: and every Kingdom divided within itself, shall (quickly) be brought to confusion.  
Is it through the virtue of men? That is unlikelyer than the other: for so far be they off from commanding over them, as they be far inferior unto them in power and might.  
In whose name do they then appear? Even in the Name of GOD; by whose divine power, they come when they are called, which being employed for the benefit of man, unto this purpose, the whole glorse thereof redoundeth wholly unto him, he being the sole Author of this admirable work. For it is no common matter, neither is it a trifle, or a thing of small account, to force, constrain, or command Devils: This being not able to be brought to pass, but by the Omnipotent might of God, the whole honour thereof, is attributed unto him alone. So that to call upon spirits through the power divine (and not to employ them unto any ill, but rather repressing, and keeping under, (more and more) their wicked intentions, is properly an Act, or a kind of worshipping of God.  
The sage Spartans', used to make their slaves drunk, and so to show them unto their Children, to the end they might make them fly that foul vice, detest drunkenness, and love sobriety the better. Even so, when one shall see these Devils (to the end, that by contemplating of their most horrible ugliness, they may be the more inflamed with the sacred Love of God) Is it ill done of them so to do?  
But we (commonly) see, that men condemn that for bad, which themselves cannot have, find fault with that Science, which they cannot attain unto, and dispraise that, which they are no way worthy to enjoy.  
As for the other kind of Magic, which extendeth to consult with Devils, about the knowledge and Nature of wicked simples and herbs, 
A Sentence.  to make most damned poisons, hurtful unto so many Creatures, I cannot choose but confess the same to be passing ill, and that it is prohibited both by the Laws of God and man.  
Neither can the one nor the other be good, answered Philistell. For as by the one, the divine power of God is abused, so by the other, his holy will is (as it were) checked and controlled.  
What need hath any man to confer with hellish Spirits, about the knowledge of things to come? (seeing unto God alone, belongeth the certainty of the same) as long as we have a firm confidence, and a strong belief, that the Almighty taketh protection and care over us, (as he doth of the least Bird that flieth in the air) which also his providence nourisheth?  
Then what occasion have we, that we should have any recourse or speech with Devils, who are the mortal enemies of God? In this we show ourselves, either to misdoubt the divine Bounty and Goodness: or else, to have no belief or confidence in his eternal and everlasting power.  
We are created of God, only to elevate our minds in contemplation, to consider, and to take knowledge of things present, and not to formalize and frame ourselves after that which is to come: the knowledge of which, he his own self refused to participate unto his Apostles; & therefore (except we would presume to be wiser than they) we have nothing to do to talk with Devils, much less to invite or constrain them, to show their puissance or malice, because it is a kind of usurping over the power of the holy one, unto whom is reserved this correction or chastisement, over these most damned Spirits. And to conclude, the history of Saul may resolve us in this doubt, who lost his soul, his life, and his Realm, for that he forced a certain Sorceress to raise up a Devil, who had the form and shadow of Samuel.  
Besides, the Laws of man condemn such to be burned, as meddle with this Art, because they are as well enemies to God as men, which nevertheless, they had never done without just and good considerations.  
The other sort of Magic, (far more wicked than this) is so detestable and bad, as it ought not (in right) to be termed by this word (Science) because it is an usual exercise of ill doing, which these Enchanters borrow of the Devil, with the manner to find out these Venims, which is applied unto the hurt and overthrow of all persons whatsoever.  
Again, it hath been (always) worse punished than murder: for a man may take heed of the one, but he is most miserably betrayed by the other. The sword, being able to destroy, only such souls as have life, whereas this Venom, not only killeth living creatures, but all other herbs, trees, and plants, whatsoever. far then be it from us, to exercise so wicked a study as this is.  
O stranger (replied the old man) is not he worthy of more praise, that yoketh strong and fierce Lions, then if he had done the same to little dogs, and small whelps, that are of no courage? Is not that Prince more puissant, and more to be redoubted, that commandeth over a nation, warlike and generous, than he that hath under him, none but base beggars, and poor whitelivered peasants? Even so, is not that man to be more commended, who by his cunning and industry, commandeth over devils, who for their sin, have lost nothing of their former puissance, in which they were first created, (but only their eternal Beatitude) than he, who for want of knowledge and skill, governeth over troops of fearful sheep only, and over a company of rude and simple peasants.  
That person, who by his art and cunning, shall have made, that which Nature hath hidden, 
A Simile.  (in the deepest bowels of the earth) framing through his rare skill this glorious gold, which so much flourisheth, and is in request throughout the whole world. Is not he, to be praised and esteemed above all other?  
Even so, can that wight merit less, than great commendation, who by his wisdom, knoweth how to signorize overspirits, who term themselves, the Kings and Lords of the world? For thou must understand (for thy learning) that there be divers kinds of spirits, whereof, some are extreme wicked, and sworn enemies unto man, and other some there be, gentle and courteous, serving to do good, in steed of hurting any one.  
But what fault I pray you, can you find, with conversing with such? Solomon, on whom so much wisdom was bestowed, had not he conference oftentimes with them? and in the mean space did he ill? No, for he had received such great knowledge of God, as the virtue thereof, made him worthy to discourse with spirits, and he himself being willing to instruct us in that notable perfect Art, left certain writings of his behind him, which are much sought after by the Magicians now at this day, which are called SALOMON'S KEYS.  
So that, by this we may gather, that if to have communication or a parley with devils, had been thought a thing detestable and unjust, Solomon had never talked with them, neither he himself, would have left unto us in writings, the means how to call upon their names, or to discourse with them.  
Father, Father, (replied Philistel) all these reasons thou allegest, cannot defend this thy bad cause, for neither aught we to follow Solomon in this, because he made an ill end, having forgotten himself (most miserably) in the latter end of his age, and committed so horrible a fault, as the only remembrance thereof, maketh my hair to stand upright for fear) neither is thy cunning herein to be allowed, inasmuch, as every Science, that proceedeth not from God himself, and is not drawn out of the sacred fountain of his immortal wisdom, is not only worthy to be condemned, but also meriteth to be rewarded with fire. That Magic, should be a Science ordained by God, thou canst not maintain, seeing that our Saviour Christ never taught it, neither his Apostles, ever learned it, as they did many other, good, holy, and just Sciences. It is (rather) the Art of Eve, who believed what the Serpent told her, which was the cause, both of her ruin, and of ours.  
For tell me, I pray you, what grace or goodness, can a man expect from his mortal enemy, being not given unto any thing, by the corruption of his nature, but unto bloodshedding, unto wickedness, and unto extreme cruelty? And so, what can one look for, that may be profitable or good, to come from proud Lucifer, and his angels of darkness, they being the most deadliest enemies that may be unto mankind?  
Besides, with what kind of payment, do they pay themselves (in the end) for the service which they have done unto men? Is it not, with the precious price of their souls, which they ought to esteem more dearly, than all things (else) whatsoever? What doth it profit a man, to gain all the kingdoms in the world, if he shall lose his own sole thereby? And who ever knew Magicians to die well, whose bodies oftentimes have been visible seen to have been carried away by these Fiends?  
Ochozias King of the jews, being sick only because he sent unto the Oracle of Belzebub, died most wretchedly, by the just commandment of God, how much (more severely,) had he been punished, if he had, had ordinary conference with the devils, when he was plagued with death, (only) for that, he did (but) send, to ask advise and counsel of him? But say, that God would forgive this sin, yet tell me, I pray you, what truth and certainty can you find, amongst these illuding spirits? First, they are (for the most part) ignorant of such things, (as shall hereafter happen) as well as men be; And beside, there is no truth in them, they being the first authors of lies, and those that first taught us to speak untruly.  
The poor Pamms themselves (over whom they had so great power) for that they were Infidels, and abandoned of God, were continually mocked, deluded, and most grossly deceived, by these malignant spirits. As witness Pyrrhus, Alexander, and thousands more. If then they would cousin their chiefest friends, and dearest servants, how much more will they go about to deceive such as are their enemies, and who, as strangers, give but little credit unto them?  
To conclude, the devils are abjured enemies, against the righteous God himself: and therefore, if we will be counted his true and faithful soruiters indeed, we must not haunt, nor keep company with his adversaries; otherwise he will suffer them, to make a prey of our souls, as being unworthy to appear before his heavenly throne, because we have left him, and followed his foes. Such is the common end, of such kind of people, who, whilst they are living, serving the devils, do the like when they are dead, they being rewarded with hell fire for their pains.  
As the old man was replying again, they might perceive two Nymphs to come towards them, where they sat, each of them, having a written paper in their hands, which they delivered unto the shepherd Arcas, who unfolding the same, found these verses following.  
Love, is a dainty force above all other,  
Which doth enforce our spirits unto good things:  
And without it, our souls were never able  
Any thing to do rightly, that deserveth  
Gloriefor ever.  
Contraries, it doth bring into a concòrd,  
Bloody wars, it (soon) suageth:  
(Being more puissant, than the Gods themselves are)  
Sweet, and the sour, it joineth both together,  
For to agree well.  
Under him (wholly) governed is the huge world,  
Under his laws, the heavens eke are subject:  
Rightly may he be termed a mighty Monarch,  
Whose power extends so far, as 'tis withouten  
Any set limit.  
He doth his might use, only exercising  
It, in the hearts of li●le pretty creatures, (green trees,  
Flowers, plants, herbs, and fruitful springing  
(Under his influence) like true hearty Lovers,  
Love one another.  
Of a brace of souls, he doth make but one soul,  
Which death itself doth hardly make to sunder,  
But man, doth perish, by his destiny fatal:  
Therefore, is Love, more kinder to be counted  
Then is our fortune.  
Simple men's fortunes, he doth (often) raise high,  
Making them, like to those, of greatest Princess,  
Then doth not he (well) merit much rewarding  
That to him submits, marching passing bravely  
Under his banner?  
Hope, to our fainting thoughts he bring to us still,  
And to our hearts he bringeth joy and gladness,  
For unto lovers nothing is so pleasant,  
As when they see, that of their lovely Ladies  
Much they are made of.  
He doth revive our glory, that was extinct,  
Through the displeasure of our perverse Plannees,  
Oh how the pleasure is accounted dainty.  
After laments, and bitter heavy sorrows  
Which one endureth.  
After the brunt, of cruel raging Tempest,  
We find the skies more fairer than before time,  
Lone doth reform us, making us become new.  
And to resist our mischiefs, he doth back us  
Fresh to encounter.  
'tis th'happy haven, of our best assurance,  
The sacred Lodestar, Sailors use in voyage,  
Whilst that his sweetness, all our fornser tranailes  
(Which we endured) in our tedious journey.  
Makes us forget them.  
Never hath he had taste aright of pleasure, 
A Sentence.   
That in the field hath never followed true Love:  
As the dark night, is nothing to the fair day,  
So, to delights of Love, there's not upon earth,  
Aught to be equalde.  
Every joy, must yield unto dainty loves joy,  
Thoughts of all other, what are they but bitter?  
All chief contentment springeth from this kind Love,  
For the conceit (oft) is so sweetly sugared,  
As all, it passeth.  
What we imagine of it, in our minds still  
Cannot be bettered, by our often wishing;  
For it doth (so much) please us in our own thoughts,  
As it revives us, when our soul is passing  
Forth of our bodies.  
Then unto Cupid, as asacrifice fit,  
I, on his altar, offer will my poor heart,  
Nor is it disgrace for to honour rightly,  
One that is counted as a heavenly victor,  
Throughout the whole world.  
These were theverses, which one of the Nymphs had composed, in praise of Love, but the other had writ in dispraise of the same, as here followeth.  
Vain love's, a furious burning force,  
That chastest minds burns, sanus remorse:  
Wretched (that loveth) is that coarse,  
And want shall his desire:  
He hearts, and minds makes disagree,  
Through him great houses filled be,  
With slaughters, treasons, treachery;  
For he of strife is sire.  
Millions of men, he doth betray,  
The Gods he bringeth to his bay,  
Like subtle tyrant he doth slay,  
(Through sloth) all virtue rare,  
The smallest shrubs that grow so trim,  
Do vade and whither through him,  
Poor beasts fly his imprisoning,  
Who lives he doth not spare.  
Such (as in Marriage) holily  
Are knit, which none ought to untie,  
He seeks to lose most wickedly,  
Faith (plighted) to despite:  
Brave Kings and Princes he destroys,  
Mighty and feeble, he annoys,  
Whilst that, with proudest hearts he joys,  
To feed his appetite.  
The Lover oft as desperate,  
He eggs to slay himself through hate,  
Better to be without loves mate,  
Than die, and damned be,  
If any pleasure he doth bring,  
(For that) he (double) doth us sting,  
Love cannot yield forth any thing,  
But what is sorrows fee.  
To comfort us, when storm is done,  
Then shines again the cheerful Sun,  
Where, never joy to Lovers come,  
For they are shipwrecked still.  
Love is of man the fatal Rock, 
A Sentence.   
On which his ship of ease doth knock,  
Whilst on the sands he doth him shock,  
By death him for to spill:  
He nover felt hath any pain,  
That hath not known the lovers vain:  
Each grief hath but his course certain,  
Where Love doth bleed for aye;  
No ill (so nigh) the heart doth sit,  
As doth this fierce tormenting fit,  
Death is more pleasing far than it,  
Which rids our cares away.  
Our souls with hope, it doth torment,  
Whilst nought, but Massacres are meant,  
To die 'tis better far content,  
Then (ay) live languishing.  
Love (then) most cruel, without grace,  
Whom I will curse in every place;  
No God, but devil is in this case,  
God, tha'utor's not of sin.  
These verses being read, before the company, the first Nymph, who wrote in praise of Love, began thus to frame her speech, unto amorous Arcas.  
It is a matter worthy of due consideration, to think how the Glory of virtue, flieth throughout the world eurey where, and how the renowned fame of learning, filleth the ears of all mortal men.  
Never hath there been any virtuous wight, 
A Sentence.  that hath wanted his condign praise, for the more Virtue shuneth Glory, the more it maketh itself famous, Glory following after the heels of the same.  
Many Sages have there been, in the old time, who thought (burying their bodies) to have interred their memory and renown therewithal, but though they sought it, yet could not they bring it to pass. 
A Simile.  For as the lightning, passeth into the vessel without breaking of it, and sucketh up the wine that is therein: Even so, fair Glory entereth into the Sepulchre and Tomb of the learned, and desirous to be at liberty, spreadeth itself abroad, into every coast and country.  
The fire covered close under the cinders, is more hot, than the outward flame: and that Captive, more joyful, who is (newly) come forth of prison, than he, that hath (never) been in durance.  
Even so, more bright, and more lively, is that famous renown, which we seek to smother, and to keep secret, then that which hath liberty to range abroad every where.  
Let never any wise man, then think to be without Glory, no more than the lewd liver, 
A Sentence.  can be without shame and reproach. Virtue soweth her seeds, in travaile, and trouble, which in the end, grow to be Glory and Honour, and which no tempest from heaven can destroy, as it doth other common Plants.  
Thrice happier that labourer, that reapeth the fruits of his travail in peace. And so, right blessediss that prudent man, that enjoyeth the fruits of his Virtue with praise.  
Well have (ye) verified my saying to be true, O (ye worthy persons) who are (here) assembled in this place together. For your rare qualities have brought you forth so many famous Glories, with so perfect and excellent a renown, as it hath come unto our ears (here) within this uncouth wilderness: and long time is it (since) my Sister and I, have expected your coming, to determine upon this our argument, as concerning the great valour, or the poverty and baseness of love.  
Therefore since you (all) are now so happily here arrived, and met; judge (I beseech you) of our writings, which of us twain, shall carry away the praise of victory, sending us, both away from you, thoroughly contented and pleased, with your grave and prudent censure: whilst we in the mean space, will attend (in all dutiful devotion) and with most willing minds, to be resolved of our doubts, by your learned and reverent judgement, in all equity and right.  
Whereupon, Philistel, reading over again the foresaid verses, set open (first) the school unto these disputations, in these terms following.  
No travail, (that is not without end,) or without hope, can properly be called a pain, for he that laboureth truly, doth endure and suffer (in hope) to reap some sweet fruits of his labour, which doth recompense him for the toil he hath taken; And (this) he cannot (rightly) call pains, but rather a kind of busy and stirring exercise.  
All men (every one in their vocation) travail & take pain, and yet (for all that) they think not to suffer pain, in that they make no doubt to receive the reward of their travail.  
For if the labour of such men as receive fruit, were pain, than could they not live, in as much, as very pain indeed, which is, neither comforted, nor appeased, nor guerdoned with any reward, doth bring a man (untimely) unto his end.  
We see in the bodies of such as be diseased, 
An example.  that the very anguish of the sickness, for want of helping the same, bringeth them (at last) unto their grave. But now, we cannot give this name of pain, (rightly) unto Love, because Lovers do live still, neither do they (suddenly) die, for that they always hope well. Is it a pain unto a valiant captain, and an approved Soldier to sleep in the fields under a hedge, to suffer hunger and cold, to endure thirst and dryness, rain and cold weather, using his body to this hardness, (only) to purchase honour? I think not, but rather (judge it) to be a sweet and allowable exercise unto him. Even so, Lovers cannot term that travail, which they endure (for loving) any pain at all, but because (in the end) they either attain unto the scope of what they have so long pursued and sought for: gathering the fruits, which to enjoy, hath cost them so dearly; Or else the continuance of time, purgeth and washeth away the pains from them quite and clean. Therefore, Love being no pain, it cannot be taxed of cruelty: Nay more, I dare avouch, that it is very necessary, and not a little profitable.  
Fabius Maximus, was of opinion, that it was convenient that Carthage should be suffered to continue in her ancient force, and not to be razed unto the ground, that it might serve as a continual exercise unto the young Romans, who for want of wan●es, would spoil themselves through too much idleness, which (afterward) fell out to be too true; For the Romans being Lords over the whole world (by reason they had no more enemies to overthrow) spoiled and overcame their own selves, doing vengeance one upon another, with their own proper swords: in requital of all such wrongs and injuries, as they had offered unto strangers, who could never have been able to have done half so much hurt unto them.  
And so I may say of Love, 
The commendation of Love  for what exercise were able to keep down so great a number of follies attending upon youth, who for the most part are idle and slothful, if Love, did not set him to school, and busy his brains about matters of great moment and weight? He would quarrel, brawl, and fight, delighting in drunkenness, and in surfeitting: He would be arrogant and proud, a great Gamester, and a lewd Dicer, or else become altogether sottish and foolish. But having (once gotten him a Mistress, he must (if he mean to be entertained into her service) cleanse himself of all these bad vices; For seldom or never, doth Love meddle with lewd and ill disposed persons.  
Well may comeliness ravish and win the heart of a gallant Lady: but beasilines, never is able, because it hath no one jot of that divine perfection, resembling the Almighty, which he doth bestow upon such as pleaseth him, to make to be loved, and to make them to be admired for the excellency of his gifts, which are enclosed within them.  
Therefore must such young men as would be beloved, study to come to be grave, curtcous, eloquent, stayed, and secret. These commendable qualities, must they hold of Love in Capite: these being the ordinary lessons he teacheth unto his scholars, in his school.  
Contrariwise, if you but mark these vain young Gulls, that love not at all, you shall find them viciouslie given, Blasphemers, Drunkards, Dicers, arrogant Asses, and swaggering Bragadcchios.  
The young Boy, that is without a Tutor, is he not worse, (and an hundred times more rude) than he, that hath a careful and severe Master, who looketh unto him narrowly, and sharply keepeth him in? For nothing increaseth vice and lewdness so much, as doth wanton liberty.  
The unbridled Colt runneth galloping here and there, committing many foul disorders. The privilege of Evil, taketh away all Virtue, be cause it stifleth the recompense of good deeds, and hindereth the punishment due unto offences.  
The ancient Princes, who would have their Children learn how to obey well, before they should command, sent them to study amongst the Lacedcmonians, to the intent they might be restrained and deprived of this enchanting liberty, through which men draw forth vice, as if it were at a full vessel.  
LOVE therefore, must be governor and protector over youthfulness, which he will purge from bad qualities, (as the Physician doth the sick man, from corrupt humours) replenishing him again, with many excellent and commendable Virtues. Is not then Love very necessary? The wind carrieth the chaff from the Corn, leaving only that, that is good, and fanned clearly. So doth Love, 
A Simile.  crop off vice, cutting it away, as the husbandman doth the superfluous branches of his vine, leaving the inward mind, neat, and quite cleansed from all filthiness of vice. Love can do more than all knowledge, yea, than the Muses themselves can do. For he teacheth learned men (who having a confused mass and heap of thousand Sciences in their brains, not knowing in what good manner to deliver their minds (are full) as concerning these matters, how to set down their meaning orderly, and to discourse of every thing, with good method and judgement: imitating the cunning Goldsmith, who of a great wedge of Gold, forgeth and frameth a great sort of good pieces of plate, right profitable for men. Or resembling the Sun, which breaketh and divideth in sunder the gloomy clouds, which darken the brightness of heaven. He is the lukewarm blood of the Goat, mollifying and sotfning these rocks of Diamonds, turning them to the use of all sorts of people. The greatest Doctors are but Dunces, until Love hath refined them, and that they have felt what his power is, they after that, becoming witty and Courtly enditers, through the sweet vain of love. For necessity findeth out the Art, and the peril sought forth by the Soldier, urgeth him to find the means to save himself. And so is the Lover compelled to please his Mistress, which he doth, either discoursing unto her his true and loyal affection, in smooth and pleasing terms, or else, couching them sweetly, and daintily in writing curiously, and with a Courtlike phrase. And of this perfection, is Love also the author, & shall he then be called a Pain, and not rather the father of all science and virtue? It is reported that the Muses lighted one day upon Cupid, keeping him within a border of flowers, but what could that border bring, but pleasure and contentment unto them, who had enclosed him within the same? The Muses than honoured Love (as Conquerors are wont to be used) placing upon his head, a Crown of green flowers, as also the most wisest in the world, have offered scrifices unto him, and to his celestial Godhead, he being the greatest power amongst the Gods that are in Heaven. Therefore, as I will not dispute against him, so dare I not maintain the cause of any that should not plead in his behalf.  
Herewithal the noble Knight held his peace, daunting very much the other Nymph that had written against LOVE, with these his lively and excellent reasons, which (she thought) were of such efficacy and force, that they could hardly be refelled by any other. But the old man, who found himself to be overcome in the argument he had with Philistell, as concerning Enchantment and Sorcery, willing to recover his lost honour, and to win the spurs again, in this second disputation, replied against Love, in this wise.  
I cannot deny, but must needs confess, that neither the ordinary travails that men use, nor the day lie labours which they usually take, aught to be called Pain, for they are not (always) of one force and nature, they passing away, quiet & rest coming in their place, as the Bow, that cannot always remain stiff and bend, whereas Love only (and that most justly) deserveth well this name of Pain. 
An example.  The labourer being paid for his work, is contented, and taketh his rest, the Husbandman, reaping his corn, taketh his ease, and liveth merrily after: but in Love, what quietness can be found? The poor drudge being weary, reposeth himself in the night, so doth the tired traveler, and every beast whatsoever: but the Lover, what rest receiveth he, either in the night or day? As the day is tedious unto him, so is the night irksome and sad, are they then freed of pain? The hungry desire never taketh quiet ease, but is in continual pain: the greedy covetous wretch, craving still gold, can never so much as slumber one wink: but the tormented Lovers, leadeth a wotses life (far) then both these twain, because that good which he so much wisheth for (and yet cannot obtain it) seemeth more precious unto him, than all the Treasures in the world.  
This doctrine, to KNOW: HIMSELF, doth him no good at all, for it cannot bridle his passions, keep in his head strong will, nor curb or constrain his ardent affections: and he that cannot so do, can never be quiet in his mind. Now the Lover coveteth always, and covetousness is the child of pain: Is not then Love the author of pain? and is it any thing else then mere grief? Nay, although the Lover obtaineth that which he desireth, yet for all that, his torments cease not, because he wisheth still to continued the same: & (for that the sore doubt he hath to lose that, which he hath obtained with so much travel) increaseth the pain (still) in him. The more gold the covetous myzer possesseth, the more continually he wisheth, 
A Sentence.  by reason the contentment of man is without any limit: for being glutted with one kind of meat, he is greedy and hungry after an other. Diogenes gave out, that he was contented in his poverty, but yet he was not, for he did hunt after vainglory. What shall we then say of Lovers? who not only desire to enjoy their Loves, but also a continuation still to gather them. And when, that length of much time, hath quenched this fire of love, yet is there still remaining some hot cinders, which presently is set on fire with the wind of desire, as a flame (when it is out) is revived again, with the breath of the Air: the selfsame Love, being of this property, that after it hath a long space troubled and tormented, overthrown, and ruinated a man, with continual pain and anguish of mind, in the end it taketh away his life, whether he will or no. Achilles knoweth this to be true, who died for loving Polixena, being slain most miserably amongst his enemies. So doth Priam, 
An Example.  the foolish love of incestuous Paris, being the cause he lost his life. And so doth sage Agamemnon, whose disloyal wife cut his own throat, because she might (the more safer) follow her disordinate appetite. O what a pernicious thing is this Love! & how often hath it broke the plighted oath between man & wife, making them amorous of strangers, and causing them to disdain their nuptial bed, with base and filthy whoredom? The good Emperor Marcus Aurelius, remembered this but too too well, who saw so often his wife, over familiar with so many: and poor Samson through love, was deprived of his strength; and made a slave unto others: that Samson I say, who was wont to conquer others, and to make them become tributaries unto him.  
Again, what faith and trust is there to be reposed in Lovers, so cunning are they; and so ready to break their promises, and to swear falsely? that jupiter jesteth and scoffeth at their protestations, as one that thinketh, they neither can nor aught to keep them any longer than they list. For if men (now a days) be so basely given, that they will straight yield unto Love, and that the desire to enjoy a little paltry beauty, or a little coloured complexion, composed of white and red, can make them to forget all duty, all promise, and their own good nature itself; What then should hinder them, but that they may love in another place, to endanger their Faith there, & to swear, and forswear themselves again? For he that once committeth one sin, will easily fall into divers other more grievous: & he that is known to be faulty in one thing, 
A Sentence.  is reputed to have offended in all the rest. Besides, so far is Love off, from standing the learned in any stead, that it hindereth and overthroweth their learning: for it is impossible for a learned man, both to love, and follow his study together, because the mind cannot in one and the selfsame time, intent to hunt after divers matters: and for that, the care which Love engendereth, hindereth a wise man, in profiting himself at his book, and doth withdraw him from the perusing and reading of the same.  
Again, if there be never so mean and little ascience in the world, but is sufficient to employ a man's whole life time, and all his wits therein, and yet for all that, it hath never been found, that any could ever sound the depth of the same: How (then) is it possible, that a wise man should be able to follow both Love and Learning, & (to) prove excellent in both? Nay then, I will see farther, and dare avouch, that the malice of the Serpent, not only spoileth and corrupteth the study of the wise, but also his condition and religion. And that this is true, great David, and his son Solomon, can witness, and the jews themselves, whom the love of the Moabite women, which the traitorous King Balaac sent unto them, moved from the service of the true God, making them become most wicked and abominable Idolaters. What greater mischief can happen unto a man, then to deny his God, his faith, his belief, and his religion: yea, and therewithal, to lose all his wisdom, and authority? If Love (then) be the cause of so many misfortunes unto men, and bringeth them with him unto them, is not he then, the damnable author of our ruin, our perpetual pain, and utter overthrow? heeis far worfe than all the poisonous serpents of the earth, yea, than the Devils of of hell themselves.  
Not so, quoth Coribant, and therefore I pray you make a stop there: for Love is not of that bad nature, neither is he to be compared unto such wicked creatures, as you would have us believe: for were it not for him (whom you revile so much) neither you, nor any man else could live at all. That which maintaineth all things, and giveth life and force unto them, can that be teatmed an evil spirst? So far off is Love from being such a one, as he hath made the Fiends of hell themselves, mild and gentle, when the faithful Orpheus went down thither, to bring back his dear espouse. That which doth not usurp upon public honesty, but hath respect unto every virtuous action, may it be called an enemy of Nature? Love hath preserved, both honour, respect, and virtue, then why should any blame him? The son of Seleucus, falling in love with his stepmother, chose rather to be brought (even unto death's door) then to declare as much as his passion, for fear lest he should have offended the honour, respect, and the obeisance of a Father, through the duty of a loving Son. There is no doubt, but that man is to be commended highly, who rather consenteth unto his own death, ruin, and misery, then to commit a most notorious and unnatural fact. Love forceth the Lover, to choose (rather) to die, 
A Sentence.  then to perpetrate any heinous fault. Is Love then the subject of blame? Love resembleth wine, which taken moderately, and with measure, nourisheth the body, but being used too excessively, it burneth and inflameth the same. Even so Love, being well and wisely applied, may bring much profit & glory, as it did unto the Romans & Sabines, who being ready to encounter, and to kill one another, they agreed so lovingly, as (ever after) they were but as one body, or a City within themselves. Indeed if it be ill employed, than I must needs say, it may do much hurt: but it is the Lover himself that is in fault thereof, and not love. The grape of the vineyard, of itself is good, and was given for a nourishment unto man, yet nevertheless, man sometimes dieth, with taking overmuch thereof: but is this the fault of the grape, or of him that abused the same? Is there any precious treasure to be found, throughout the compass of the wide and spacious world, that is to be compared unto a loyal & faithful friend? What happier contentment can there be, between man and wife, then chaste and perfect love? The greatest blessing that ever Mithr●dates found in this life, was his kind wife, that in all his troubles, still did assist and accompany him, she being attired in the apparel of a man, and doing him all the serurce she could, as if she had been the meanest of his ordinary followers. Many things are there (bestowed upon us) by the Heavens, which of their own natures are good, and yet the malice of man doth alter them, into a bad property: As weapons, with which they kill one another: Fire, wherewith they burn whole Cities and towns: Gold, with which virtue is corrupted: and the cloak of Religion, wherewith they cover their proud ambition, with many such like.  
Yet although these things are (thus ill used) and wrested by the corruption of man, we must not therefore say, they are bad of their own selves: but rather, by reason of the malice of others. Even so, Love being perfect and good (in his own proper nature) and of his own self, be abused and made worse, through the default of men; it is not he, but they, that are to be condemned for the same. Had jupiter never loved, the earth had neaer been cleansed, nor purged of such monsters, as much did trouble it, for then the mighty Hercules had never been borne. Mark I beseech you, how much we all are beholding unto love. Many times when men fall a discoursing, and from words to quarrels, so far is Love off, from being the author thereof, as quite contrary, (were it not for his presence) contentious Discord would animate one against another, every one to murder his companion & acquaintance: for where Love is, there never is seen any disagreement at all. And therefore is Love the father of concord and peace, and not of brawling and strife: 
A Historiz.  yea, and so puissant and forcible is he, as his power also extendeth to force wild beasts to be mild, as was that Lion which was brought before Titus the Emperor, which in steed of devouring the poor slain (who was fling unto her, to staunch her exceeding great hunger) gently fell down at his feet, stroking him, & doing him all the reverence that might be, and loving him most dearly, by reason that this slave (flying away from the severe cruelty of his master, and lighting into a wood, where this beast was, had pulled out a great thorn out of his foot, which most pitiously did grieve him. Now if brute beasts are taught to love, out of doubt then, such men shall be much condemned, as will not follow the like example. The grave Spartans' put in practise this counsel, to the intent to have children, in as much as they imagined that such as were begotten, through a firm and passing kind of good liking, would prove far more valiant and courageous, than such as were borne of the husband and wife, without loving one an other.  
And surely we see by experience, that such children are more gallant, and of a braver spirit, than those that are brought forth into the world lawfully: whether it is either because the love of such persons is more affectionate and passionate, that are the cause of their births, or whether it be, for that they see by reason that they are Bastards, they are deprived of their Parent's inheritance, and therefore the more willingly thrust forth themselves to seek their own advancement.  
jefpha the judge of Israel, and William, surnamed the Conqueror, that got the Crown of England, were of this number, with infinite other brave personages. So that by this, we may gather, that Love not only bringeth forth honour and profit unto men, but also an unspeakable kind of comfort withal. They that have tried the pleasure thereof, can better judge than I: For the delight that Love affordeth, is so sweet, so gentle, and so delightful, as it is not possible to set down, no, nor scarce to conceive the same, in any thoughts: So that in comparison of that, all other mortal joys are but; 
A Bomparison  as it were, small sparkles, and like unto little stars in respect of this, which for the glory thereof may be compared unto the splendent Sun. Heerewithall Coribant kept silence, leaving Arcas to follow this discourse, and to make an end of this disputation, which he did, in these terms following.  
If it be lawful for one to say something, and to argue of that which we cannot see, (as of a Deity or Godhead) then must we reason by the effects of the same. But these which exceed our human capacity and conceit, give us a most certain and sufficient testimony, that we ought to believe, that there is a certain puissance and power, far greater than is our own, which we cannot attribute unto any other then unto GOD. As in a wilderness, the houses there built, testify that men be dwelling therein, because they are the work of men's hands. So may we say of Love, and so it is with him, for never hath any person seen him, nor viewed him at any time; yet notwithstanding, 
A Simile.  every one is able to talk and to discourse of him, by reason of the wonderful effects, which proceed from his divine power and might. Where you say, that Children borne out of marriage, are valiant and courageous; At that I marvel nothing at all: for Love being a Bastard (as the son of Mars and Venus) cannot do less, then like, support, and affect his brethren, they having the same beginning that he hath.  
Nevertheless, (for all they have some particular gift incident unto them) yet are they (as illegitimate) deprived both by Nature, and by the Civil Law, from bearing any charge or office in the commonwealth, as their birth is contrary unto the custom, as well of honesty, as of all civil order and Law. Therefore Love is not praiseworthy in this point, for many times he confoundeth Right, and maketh a gallimalfrie, or a mingle-mangle of justice, bringing such unlawful Brats as these, to inherit with those that are lawfully begotten, either for default that they are not known, or taken to be such, or else, because their presupposed father, will not publish them for Bastards, for that he will not offend the honour of his wife.  
But say the world were freed from such kind of men, and that there were no more such to be found: yet for all that, it should be (never a whit) the less honoured, nor less defended, I confess and yield, that Love is mighty, and of great power, in the procreation of such children. But as all Countries and Realms (without the execution of justice) are but plain & open theeveries, and robberies, living as licentious Outlaws: So Love without reason and justice, is but a disordinate appetite, trampling under his feet, all respect, all justice, and all Law, to satisfy and assuage his hot and burning passions.  
And how much Sumiramis, the nieces of Augustus the Emperor, Poppea, Agrippina, Faustina, and divers others, have been condemned, for following such kind of Love, and giving over themselves, most voluptuously, unto all sorts of people, you know as well as I am able to report. Where you say, that Love is not the author of vice, but rather men, who apply the same ill, and abase it, through the badness of their own nature; I answer, that it is nothing so. For as the prisoner, cannot dispose of him, who is his keeper, and holdeth him captive: Even so, men are so far off from ruling Love, according as they would, that he useth them as he list, holding them so fast (in such sure bands) as they can do nothing but what shall please him. There is difference between him and wine: for a man may take heed if he will, that he drink not so much, until he be drunk, but he cannot (so easily) resist Love, in as much, as that reason being suppressed which is in man (upon which presently, Love, as a tyrant seizeth) he (can then) do no more of himself, he being constrained and compelled, to follow the will and command of him, that doth signorize over him. For if Love were in the free liberty, & at the devotion and disposition of men, and that they might employ him as they should think best, then would not so many wretched Lovers, endure such cruel torments and bitter anguish as they do, but would quickly rid themselves from out his cruel hands.  
But (alas) they can no more get from him, than the poor bondslave, can get out of his chains, except it please his Lord and master. Therefore, we must not say, that men can order and bridle Love at their own pleasures, turning him, to good or bad purposes, as they shall think best, when it is quite contrary, (and as they say, Allo reverso) he playing the usurping tyrant over them.  
In the end of your speech (to make amends) you tell me, that this selfsame Love, maketh a perfect and an eternal league of friendship, between Gods and men, in such sort, as it forceth the husband to offer his life most willingly, for his wives sake, and that the wife, doth the like for the conservation of her husband's welfare.  
As Craccus, 
A Simile.  who to continued his wives life, shortened his own. And as Alcesta did, who offered herself to die for Adentus her husband's sake. Yet as sharp and strong medicines, engendered much danger and fear, yea and many times, are much hurtful to the body of man, so Love (during this amity) bringeth forth many bad and untowardly children, which altar and change their minds very much, and are not a little hurtful unto both parties: as the burning jealousy which so much galled poor juno long since, as the whoredoms, with which Venus defiled the bed of Vulcan her husband, with the number of Rapes used by jupiter, and such like bad stuff. So as you see so many evils to proceed, for one small little good.  
But as he cannot be called a bountiful and liberal giver indeed, who presenteth and bestoweth a small trifle, to purchase huge and mighty riches. Even so, Love cannot be counted, neither good, nor healthful, when for one (only) good turn he doth, he yieldeth forth so many sufficient proofs, of his wicked and bad nature.  
In no one action, doth Love merit commendations, for he respecteth neither reason nor justice, and such things, as are void of those two qualities, can never deserve honour, nor cause themselves to be counted perfect: he is without reason, in that he regardeth neither law, nor kindred, friendship nor acquaintasce, no good turn, nor any kind consideration else, so as he may come to obtain what he desireth. One while violating and breaking the laws of hospitality: another while, those of marriage: and then, those of parentage and kindred. He is without justice, because he ravisheth, and taketh away by force, that which is none of his own, applying the same to his own advantage, as if it were his own proper goods; raising and procuring, by these bad means, thousands of brawls and brabbles, debates and quarrels, and continual wars and battle; In steed of seemly, and fit exercises, he should acquaint young men withal, he oftentimes maketh them so mad and furious, as they stick not to commit rapes, to offer violence, and to do all the villainies that may be, thereby infringing the peace and laws of the commonwealth.  
Well may he be compared unto the Snake, which the husbandman carried in his bosom to warm, it being nigh dead for cold, which afterward went about to sting him for his pains.  
So Love, in requital, and for amends unto us, for the honour we have borne him, and because we have so courteously entertained him, stingeth us with fury and rage, and with injustice and misery, these being the fruits which he bringeth us, and which are (as it were the precursors and forerunners, of a most woeful and wretched death, which end, (most commonly) lighteth upon Lovers: for fury is the daughter of sorrow, and not of pleasure, which our desire doth overmuch covet.  
And that I allege nothing but Truth, I will prove it most apparent and plain, by a goodly History, which if you please to give me audience, I will deliver unto you. Whereupon they were all silent, when the Shephcard thus began his woeful Tragedy.  
LOVE, author of all evil, (the nurse of dainties delicate, 
The strange history, and woeful end of proud Sycambra, and loyal Zersira.   
That chooseth for to sojourn proud, in Palaces of State:  
Who makes himself be honoured, as Father of the skies,  
In Courts of mightiest Kings, and in the heavens, 'mongst Gods likewise.  
As yet scarce haunted had the Plains, congealed with Ice and cold,  
Nor solitary Deserts strange, which snowy mountains hold.  
He had but little in the Woods (yet) used for to be,  
Permitting Shepherds quietly, to joy their liberty.  
Who, not so much (as thinking once, on him) had no more care,  
Then their small flocks forth for to lead, along the meadows fair.  
To watch, and to defend them, (armed) for armed still they were,  
From roaring Lion, howling Wolf, or from the ravenous Bear.  
Right happy is that man, that hath, than (this) no worse foe,  
The pleasant sweetness of his life, to make him to forego.  
Happy indeed, if other thought, he hath not in this life,  
This travail being the cause of all content, and foe to strife.  
Withouten cark and care, they passed their time devoid of fear,  
And from the Fatal sister's shears, exempt and freed they were.  
As jocund, and as meerrily they lived, as day was long,  
No mestfull grief was intermixed, their sweet discourse among.  
Nor were their cheeks beblubbered (still) with tears cominually,  
As wretched Lovers, who bewail their woes, with weeping eye.  
Withouten sighs, and sorrows sad, they lived most blessed than,  
Nor they, their Fortunes did revile, and as accursed ban.  
No piteous Tenor, such as this, their Songs or Chanting had,  
No mournful note came heavily, forth from their breasts ore-sad.  
As lovers use, their Music sweet, and merry warbling voice,  
Much like that of the Gods of Woods, that each thing doth rejoice.  
No envious malice 'mongst them was, no poison at their Table,  
No proud desire, the springtide of their youth, made miserable.  
Exempt from all ambitious thoughts they were, whose mounting dart  
(Piercing into the minds of men) doth make them often smart.  
Nor any other passion strange had they, or did endure,  
Then such as did an earnest care, for their poor flocks procure.  
They thought they could resist loves force, and oft did jest at him,  
Thinking he was not able, them under his yoke to bring.  
And as a stubborn Rock (we see) the Tempest's rage doth scorn,  
Who growing angry at his pride, renews afresh his storm.  
Until, with flashy Laghtning-claps, in pieces he doth break  
His flinty stones, whilst to resist, his fury is too weak.  
And with a boisterous Whyrle-winds blast, on sudden casts down all,  
So as being cleft in midst, it doth, in thousand pieces fall.  
Transporting (here and there) apart, by violence so burst, 
A Simile.   
And with the clap of Thunderbolt, becometh black as dust.  
Alongst the meadows and the fields, whilst they as trembling stand,  
To see how raging Tempests fell, o'er every thing command.  
Even so, these Shepherds mocked at Love, they scorned at his renown,  
Who, chafing at them, (quickly) pulled their Peacock's plumes adown.  
Taking them prisoners in the snares, which they for others set,  
Whilst (idly) they went to hunt, the lightfoot Leveret.  
So long they gib'de at him, till at the last, they bought it dear,  
As did the Muses heretofore, when as they amorous were.  
And had him taken fettered fast, within a Flowery line,  
He thinking them to have embraced, through his great power divine.  
For Cupid in mean time, as one envious of their glory,  
Thinking the fairer that he took, the more his victory.  
Resolved to vanquish them, and in his yoke to make them draw,  
And force them prove (against their wills) the rigour of his law.  
He at anynch doth follow them, watching most warily,  
As doth the Huntsman when his game (the wild Boor) he doth spy.  
When they were set along the banks, of some clear running brook.  
Or on some little Hillock small, or Oak for shade had took.  
Or whilst (like Fairies) they sat down, about some silver spring,  
Some working, and some doing one, and some, another thing.  
Some, tuning their Rebeccas' rude, and some their Cornets shrill,  
Each one, themselves applying to what sport they had most will.  
Whilst in the thickest of the grass, and meadows coloured green,  
Their pretty foolish Flocks to dance to feed, and bleat, were seen.  
Mean time, LOVE watched with wary heed, advantage for to take,  
To spoil their pleasures sweet, and them his prisoners for to make.  
But he did find that this could not upon the haste be done,  
To vanquish such as prudent be, 
A Sentence.  is not effected soon.  
This Fort of Virtue to assault, he could not find the feat,  
Sore doubting, lest in skirmishing, he should (repulsed) be beat.  
Not easily can Love surprise, the double fenced breast  
Of such a one, 
A Sentence.  who for his Love, of virtue is possessed.  
Where (through prevention grave) he knew, he no good there could find,  
Whilst, 'mongst chaste hearts, his force was like, a little blast of wind.  
In th'end, when long he had attempt (although it was in vain)  
He playeth the subtle Spy, with craft, his purpose to obtain.  
Thrusting himself in midst of, this chaste and harmless flock,  
As doth the Wolf, when he doth mean, the silly Lamhes to mock.  
Dancing within the eyes most fair, of fairest Shepherdess,  
To make himself be honoured there, with lowly humbleness.  
There doth he take his lodging up, this practice for to prove,  
And ravisheth thousands of hearts (most chaste) with her sweet Loan.  
Mean while, unto the Shepherds all, this Shepherdess doth seem  
So fair a Creature, as her face, immortal they do deem.  
They, her adore within their souls, and love her perfectly,  
They seek to serve her, honouring her with zeal, religiously.  
But she makes no account of them, she thinks herself divine,  
Whilst mortal men, for her to love, she scorns, as 'twere a crime.  
Thus Love, with pride, such minds doth fill, as with such heat is fired,  
And who, with such disdainful spirits, most haughty are inspired.  
So (oft) fine coyest Dames, 
A Sentence.  most proud, and insolent become,  
When, men they'll have to account of them, & yet men's sights will faun.  
Even as that Soldier, who doth back return to native soil  
As victor, not a little vaunts, and brags of golden spoil.  
So with vainglory, 
A Comparison  small is not, this angel possessed,  
Whose insolency is such, as Heavens themselves the same detest.  
Honour, oft-times, engendered is, of the most perfects thing,  
Each one believes his own conceit, (his passion following)  
Accounts of what is excellent, within his proper soul,  
But yet such faults as him disgrace, he never doth control.  
He seethe the goodliest gifts he hath, 
A Sentence.  to be distained with pride,  
Yet on this vice so palpable, to look he cannot bide.  
This Shepherdess, Sycambra proud, was called, and christened so,  
Whose high aspiring, wrought (in th'end) her final overthrow.  
A fair young Shepherd did her love (her) did he lone alone,  
But at her hands (poor silly soul) contentment found he none.  
For though she knew affection his, did towards her surmount,  
Yet she, not of his friendship weighed, nor of him made no count.  
Too too divine, she thought herself, for any for to love,  
loves self, (so high she looked) her will could hardly change or move.  
Yet, by the selfsame Love, her pride was punished to her cost,  
And this presumptuous mind of hers, was cause her life she lost.  
For now behold, LOVE (who toth' God's) for might yields not at all.  
(Bravely) totame proud stubborn hearts, that pride might have a fall.  
Beyond, this lofty minded Girl doth soar, the prize to have,  
Whilst to a heart more proud than hers, he makes her stoop, like slain.  
This was a Springal young, who of his youth was in the prime,  
Sanguine, as Adonis, fair, as fair Nurcissus, in his time.  
As trim, and fresh as May, whose chief delight and exercise,  
Was hunting of the ravenous Wolf, as was his usual guise.  
The poisoned darts of restless Love, which loyal hearts doth slay,  
His wont rest, broke not at all, by night, nor yet by day.  
He never dreamed of, nor ere knew, what those sad wailings means.  
Which gripes the Lovers oft with griefs, and makes them pule & lean.  
He careful, looking to his sheep, his time away did pass,  
In hunting was his chiefest joy, his love, wet fishing was.  
Thus do you see, how Love revenged himself, on that coy Dame,  
Who ore-presumptuous, both his grace and favour did disdaint.  
Thus, hurly burly makes he, being the sire of leaned debate,  
Confounds all orders good, and sense, and changeth our estate.  
So brave Achilles loved, yet could not loved be of his friend,  
So did Apollo, Daphne like, but 'ttwas unto no end.  
So thousands loved have, who near could right rewarded be.  
Whilst they true trial made of loves most uninst crueltte. 
A Sentence.   
Sycambra, she (whom others liked) did love, s●●s being loved,  
And seeking others to transform, herself transformed she prooned.  
The lovely Swain which she adored, Armanda, (●●epedso,)  
Armanda, whom Sycambra sought, yet near could find him the.  
Of stature he was tall, well made of parsonage and face,  
And in discretion bore himself, with trim and seemly grace.  
His chestnut hair, was like unto the whitish waters wet,  
Which dangling down in tresses fair, did wave alongst his neck.  
His faultless forehead, large and broad, as outward witness gave,  
By secret instinct (as it were) of his stout courage bran.  
His eyes in colour like to black, with twinkling eyebrows hid,  
The swift flight which from bow doth fly, resemble aptly did.  
His Coral mouth was Ruby red, like to the ruddyrose,  
When through the heat of Sun, himself he daintily doth close.  
His checks, white as the Cream, wherein red strawberries one flings,  
His Gate and port, like to the state Majestical of kings.  
His naked chin, declared his youth, on which no hair was yet,  
His well-grown arms, his valour stout: his speech, his prudent wit.  
By this same gentle Shepherd, was Sycambras pride took down,  
Since (careless of her care for him) he on her still did frown.  
Cruel he was without remorse, unto her endless pain,  
As she unto her Lover was, reckless and hard again.  
His great disdain, this cruelty made her to feel the more,  
Which (through his beauty, over proud) he made her suffer sore.  
Thus, oft by selfsame punishment, which we do others make  
To feel, for our offences bad, like penance we do take. 
A Sentence.   
So (oft) the Heavens, by selfsame Blade, to slay our proper Coarse,  
(With which we others slaughtered have) do justly us enforce.  
Now whilst this Shepherdess did burn, infancy, with unease,  
Nothing, (unless Armanda 'twas) her eyes bewitched, could please.  
Yet nothing did Armanda loath so much, as when he spied  
Sycambra, hateful to his sight, for then, for spite he died.  
Thus, their desires (quite contrary) the one unto the other,  
Can not but bring forth thousand griefs, which they were forced to smother.  
Sycambra cursed that hapless Love, which made her for to burn,  
For him, who unto her again, like Love did not return.  
And contrary, that she must hate the Amity so rare,  
Which Zerphir, Zerphir, Lover she, most loyal to her bare.  
For so that gentle Swain was called, whose friendship was not feigned,  
And who, for honouring her so much, much sorrow had sustained.  
Mean space, Sycambra night and day, laments her Fortune's hard,  
Accusing her cross Fate, and Love, from all good luck debarred.  
Whilst all this while, Armanda blithe, his hunting followeth fast,  
And chase of the Hart and Hind, his time with pleasure past.  
He sleepeth sound in the night, withouten dread or fear,  
Whilst amorous (only) of his health, himself he seeks to clear.  
But welladay, the other Swain, poor Zerphir, Zerphir poor,  
As did Sycambra, so did he, most grievous pains endure.  
As well as she Armanda loved, heloned her, or as much,  
Whilst with the flame of selfsame fire, Love his true hart did touch.  
Yet could he not this uncouth flame, extinguish, cool, or quench,  
Love, so from case and remedy, did keep him as a fence.  
Sycambras grief, and Zerphires' pain, alike were in like case,  
Whilst from their blubbered eyes, salt tearesran trickling down apace.  
Both wounded with like Love, and yet with divers sundry darts,  
Increasing more their dolours, and their pangs within their hearts.  
Sycambra near Armanda could, attain as oft she sought,  
Nor to affect Zerphir, her Swain, she ever could be brought.  
Most wretched her hard hap, to place Love, where she reaped disdain,  
Withouten any remedy, for to assuage her pain.  
Nor to have power to secure him, who was her Lover true,  
Whom she did force (yet could not choose) through her disdain to rue.  
Thus many days, in this estate, these strange desires remained,  
Whilst neither length of time, nor wees, their Fortunes ever changed.  
Sycambra loving still the man, that would not her requite,  
Nor she once smiling on her Swain, whose joy was in her sight.  
But in the end, unable more this choking rage to smother,  
She did resolve, at resolute, her toments to discover.  
To try if she Armanda could, persuade to ease her smart,  
And if a gainful purchase she could make, of his dear hart.  
For one day (as his fashion was) as he was on the ways,  
Attending on his flock of sheep, which want only did graze,  
Not thinking he of any Love, (detesting such a fee)  
Devising thousand toys himself to please, as he did go.  
Sycambra sweetly him accosts, and prayeth him do her grace,  
To give her leave, her Fortune's hard, she may discourse a space.  
And not her prayers to disdain, nor yet her secret vow,  
Nor crueler than Gods to be, who unto prayers how.  
Vouchsafing mortal men to hear, and them not to despise,  
But moved unto compassion, heal their wounds in piteous wise.  
These words Armanda galled much, (who nought for her did pass)  
Yet she so urged him, as to hear her speak, content he was.  
She then as one amazed in mind, quite out of countenance,  
Her vital spirits bereft of hope, her joys for to advance.  
A cold sweat over all her face, quaking with frightfulness,  
Her eyes half shut for shame, her heart fraughted with much distress  
Her senses, daunted sore, her breath still panting too and fro,  
All which, as true forerunners, did her griefs at hand fore-show.  
Her tongue stuttring, & stammering thick, her voice trembling & soft,  
Now weeping, and then sobbing fast, and sighing then full oft.  
She thus to him (unkind) did speak at last, though (first) 'twere long,  
To him who pleasure small did take, in this her woeful Song.  
Ah my Armanda, wilt not take on me compassion?  
Nor of these torments which do vex me, in this uncouth fashion?  
Wilt thou her send most cruelly, unto her fatal Tomb?  
Her, who in soul hath vow'de thine own, alone for to become?  
Hast thou the heart, the wight that lives, only for thee to slay?  
To th'end she might thee duteous serve, and chastened thee obey?  
Sweet Shepherd, every labour great, deserves a recompense,  
And (less men justly deal) the Heavens with them will not dispense.  
They must respect unto them give, and awful honour chief, 
A Sentence.   
They must their lovers love, and seek to suage their inward grief.  
Else are they not so courteous as is the Lioness,  
Who showeth to him that feedeth her, a kind of thankfulness.  
Ah then regard my piteous plaints, reward me for my pain,  
And suffer me to joy thy love, which I deserve to gain.  
After a long laborious toil, the Husbandman doth reap,  
The wished for fruit, which Harvest doth with plenty on him heap.  
Whereby he well is guerdoned, for moiling so before,  
Forgetting quite all former care, which troubled him full sore.  
And wilt thou I, that party be, afflicted with such cross?  
That I alone, shall merit none receive, for all my loss?  
That I shall always live in Dole, in sad lamenting still,  
Nor find no ease for all my griefs, is this thy pleasures will?  
Wilt thou be without pardon sweet, and mercy all alone,  
Like to a Fury full of hate, wilt thou be such a one?  
Ah sweet Armanda, (hart too fair) so cruel for to be,  
Beauty and Mercy, as two Twins, together stillagree. 
A Sentence.   
Even as the ivy with his arms, the wall doth close embrace,  
Winding himself most hard thereto: So Beauty cleans to Grace.  
And wilt thou then by Bedlam rage, thy Beauty rare defame?  
Wilt thou through thy strange cruelty, purchase a Murderers name?  
Wilt thou (o'ercome with ore-much spite) force her unwilling die?  
Who thee adoreth as the Gods above, most reverently?  
Alack Armanda, do not so, thy Virtue so to wrong,  
Wise men, themselves so carry, as (they after death) live long. 
A Sentence.   
We must not have respect alone unto the present thing,  
But hope that future praise, great ease unto our souls may bring.  
Ah then (dear Shepherd) mercy show to me, which shall redound,  
To thy immortal Glory much, and much to thy renown.  
Be thou content to see her breath, who by thy Grace doth live:  
And who to view thy hurts, in soul (more than thyself) would grieve,  
No Treasure like a faihfull Friend, so rich you can device,  
Who to himself gets foes, in mind, much diseontented dies.  
Friendship from Heaven first come, and as a gift divine is held, 
A Sentence.   
And mortal men from overthrows, it saved hath not seld.  
Then (Dear) vouchsafe for to appease the torments I endure,  
Appease my sorrows, and my wounds (nigh mortal) deign to cure.  
Nor force me not, lest dying, I (when life from me shall part)  
Do call upon thee in my death, as if chief cause thou wert.  
Ah speak then (my Delight) and clear from me this bitter storm,  
By comforting my deadly woes, which I too long have borne.  
To th'end thy kindness mild, to help my sickness may be seen,  
As hitherto, the Author of my troubles thou hast been.  
But why dost thou so long delay to answer unto me?  
Hard hearted more than flinty rocks, which in the mountains be.  
Ah cruel man, I well perceive, my love thou dost disdain,  
Nor wilt vouchsafe in cheerful wise, to staunch my bleeding vain.  
I see thou meanest with those thine eyes, pride's darts, still me to pierce,  
To close me in my fatal Tomb, through rigour thine, so fierce.  
Well, be it so, I am content; For happy I them guess,  
Who dying, 
A Sentence.  see to die with them, their griefs, which then do cease.  
And since I find that savadge-like, thou wilt not rue my state,  
I am well pleased to end my days, because thou dost me hate.  
Then (yet but deign to speak to me) say, if thou wilt assuage,  
Or still increase these plagues of mine, which do within me rage?  
(Cruel, dispatch my loyalty, which near from thee did swerver)  
Say in thy conscience, doth it not, one word of thee deserve?  
Alas, 
A Sentence.  answer, but I, or no, what less thing can one find,  
Or base priz'de, then is a word, which is but sound of wind?  
Thus said, she sighing ceased, whilst tears from cheeks, like showers did fall,  
Yet, nor herself, nor tears, nor speech, Armanda moved at all.  
Nay more, so cruel was he grown, as he disdained to look  
Upon her face, her beauteous face, which hardly he could brook.  
Her passionate words, could not persuade, they made him hate her more,  
That he so long had given her ear, himself he blamed sore.  
In th'end, forced by the urge oft, and importunity  
Of sad Sicambra, who like Ghost, did haunt him with her cry.  
With furious looks, and frowning brow, these words at last he spoke,  
Which (like a dismal Oracle) her heart in sunder broke.  
Foolish Sicambra, (thus in vain) to vex me, what dost mean?  
From these fond fits of idle Love: thy mind, why dost not wean?  
'tis thou, that mak'st Armanda die, in worse than woeful wise,  
Armanda, who thy speech and love contemns, as worthless prize.  
Thy tedious tale, told to no end, to hear, he little joys,  
He dies, tormented, tired, and gauled, to hear thee make such noise.  
Now pry thee, pry thee, let alone Armanda miserable,  
Who for to take his wont rest, is not through thee scarce able.  
He at thy follies doth but smile; his chief delight and love,  
Is for to chase wild beasts of prey, his strength 'gainst them to prove.  
He cannot like of any thing, except his flock of sheep,  
With which, (to pleasure his, not small) he in the fields doth keep.  
To force one love against his will, is, what can never be,  
Never the same hath been as yet. nor shall you finded in me.  
For loyal Love, that it may dure, and never prove to faint,  
Doth of himself, 
A Sentence.  seize on the heart, without force or constraint.  
Where being forced, 'tis always bad, unperfect and unsound,  
For nothing's goodly, but what's built, on Friendships' firmest ground.  
Then why, fond Girl, art thou so mad, to love, me to constrain?  
By this thy earnest urging speech, which thou too well canst feign?  
I tell thee, I in those false eyes, nor face of thine, delight,  
Nor do I pity aught at all, thy hard and heavy plight,  
I laugh to see thee (heavy) weep, to hear thee sigh, I smile:  
And in thy martyring, much do joy, whilst thou complain'st the while.  
Poor wretch, thou dost but loosethy time; nor ever shalt thou find,  
Armanda will his fancy change, to thee for to be kind.  
He'll never love thee; For before his heart should so conspire  
To quench so worthless flames, a death most strange he would desire.  
For never greater mischief vile, can any, himself bring,  
Then when he tries the laws of Love, and feels his poisonous sting.  
Unhappy they that know the same, and wise I him account,  
That with this bedlam passion mad, will not at all confrount.  
My years are too too young, mine age not ripe enough as yet,  
Myself to subject as a slave, to Love his furious fit.  
Nor have I time enough, to be a scholar in his school,  
And I am wild enough, although I play not so the fool.  
Then leave me to myself, that I may of myself dispose,  
Whose pleasure, hunting is, whose sport, is quiet soft repose.  
And come not thus to trouble me, with these thy bawling cries,  
Which I assure thee, I disdain, in most contemptuous wise.  
Be gone, nor look (here) any more, thou come this text to preach,  
For, for such sickness as these, I am no pleasing leech.  
And therewith all the Shepherd stern departs, and all alone  
Sicambra leans uncomforted, Sanus pitying of her moan.  
Alack, what should she do as now? She could do nought but wail,  
Which rather did increase her grief, then cause the same to quail.  
No tears our passions can repress, which from the heart arise,  
A sign they are of woe, but want the perfect remedy.  
It is but lost time to lament, whilst weeping we revive  
Afresh, these cruel torments which do martyr us alive.  
Now as she woefully thus took on, in this her desperate plight,  
Kind Zerphir, who had sought her much, on her by chance did light  
And seeing her afflicted thus, all desolate and sole,  
He (sighing) weeps, to view her weep, and with her doth condole.  
So suffereth the Lover chaste, for his sweet Lady's sake,  
If she but grieved be, the same he at his soul doth take.  
He of the pain participates, which in her mind is grown,  
And more her hurt doth trouble him, then that which is his own.  
Zerphir then, did endure as much, as did the Shepherdess,  
Her tears were his, his pensive plight, than his was nothing less.  
But after much lament sad, with many a bitter sob,  
He sweetly thus 'gan comfort her, whilst fast her heart did throb.  
Sicambra, who (thus miserable) thy life hath made to me?  
Who hath thy fortune brought as mine, thus piteous for to be?  
Whence comes these sighs, true witnesses of thine in interval troubles?  
Whence slow these tears apparent shows, that care within thee double,  
be't possible a wight, to fiad so cruel in his will  
To work, or once in mind to think so fair a Virgin ill.  
What heart so harsh, degenerate, can live here on the ground,  
That to so rare a beauteous face, he dare a foe be found?  
The all doing Gods, whose Essence is immortal and divine.  
Have heretofore sought favours out, less fair a thousand time.  
Phoebus, of not so fair as thou, did dearly like and deem.  
And jove, inferiors thine by far, did fancy and esteem.  
Who then hard hearted so could be, to play so vile apart,  
As for to seek to trouble thee, who more than Goddess art?  
Never was yet divinity to be offended seen,  
But for their rash temerity, it hath well punished been.  
Then Lady speak, who could eclipse thy Sunshine glory thus  
Or o'er thy feature fair, who could become so tyrannous?  
The hearts of many shepherds proud, hast not thou vanquished?  
Thy diamond eyes, their haughty spirits, have they not ravished?  
Then why shouldst thou thus mourn, and weep? Ah cease to keep this guile,  
And from thy heart, all dismal care, abandon and exile.  
Too lovely is thy countenance, thy coarse too sweet to see,  
That in the flower of youth, thou shouldst withouten Lovers be:  
'Mongst which, thy loyal Zerphir still, most duteous thou shalt find,  
And who more than his proper good, thy service aye doth mind.  
Whilst on the Altar of good will, his heart in zealous wise,  
Unto thy Saintlike beauty he, (devout) doth sacrifice.  
Ah, if thou wert acquainted with this heat so vehement,  
With which Love doth incenseus so, whilst he doth us torment;  
If thou but knewest this ill, by which such crosses sour we have,  
Near leaning us, until our coarse, it bringeth to the grave;  
Or if thou canst imagine by thine own experience,  
How much they suffer, whom Love keeps within his warlike fence:  
Then by the selfsame bitter pangs, which torture thy sad heart,  
Do take some pity on my woes, and rue my deadly smart.  
If thou desir'st to have thy wound to be recured with ease,  
To heal mine inward festering sore, let it not thee displease.  
Chase hence mine ill, dry up my tears, and by one self same way,  
Drive thine likewise from hence, which else will soon work my decay,  
Live after Zerphir thy true slave, withouten teen and care,  
Happ●e live thou Sicambra sweet, in beautle, enerrare.  
Pass cheerfully thy time with him, who merrily would live,  
If he might see these joyless fits, thou over once wouldst give.  
(Dear) let me hold this life of mine, as tenant unto thee,  
That freed from all disasters bad, thy heart he mighten see.  
Help thou thyself (Physician sweet) and drive away these fits,  
These fits, companions unto grief, which in thy countenance fits.  
And bring not him unluckily, before his time be come,  
(Who is thy secret servant sworn) unto his dismal Tomb.  
Ah speak to me mine only joy, and wipe thy watery eyes,  
(Of late the clearest lights of heaven) they were not made forcries.  
Give to my frighted heart some breath, and yield to him such scope,  
That (one day) he of that his ill, may be acquit through hope.  
Put him in comfort, that (though now his fortunes in the wain)  
He may once fiade it at the full, and franchisde be again.  
But why Sicambra speakest thou not? And why art thou so sad?  
This humour thine melancholy, doth make me almost mad.  
Ah answer me, and by thy pain, what I do suffer judge,  
Being over loyal unto thee, at which I do not grudge.  
The parley portal of thy mouth, at last yet open break,  
Until hold me not thus in suspense, but some what to me speak.  
For to importune thee with words, I never mean to leave,  
Until some happy blessed repile, I shall from thee receive.  
Speak, then at last, that my poor heart may know if it shall cease  
From doubtful dread, or if thou meanest to grant it wished peace.  
Thus Zerphir wooed, but she that had her mind (as then) not there,  
No answer to him gave again, nor what he said, did hear.  
She not so much as thought on him, nor what he had endured  
For her own sake, (Love all her thoughts so strongly had immured)  
Yet he so earnest was with her, desiring her to show,  
What her intention was towards him, whereby he might it know.  
That in the end with choler moved (outrageous through grief,)  
Her passions ruling over her, and desperate of relief;  
With pale and wanny look, she forth to him these words doth send,  
The heavy sentence of his death, and of his fatal end.  
What moves thee (Zerphir) unto her so troublesome to be,  
Who cares not for thee, nor accounts of thy grief, nor thee?  
Who through her dismal fortune hard, hath so much for to care,  
As other men's misfortunes, she (to hear) no time hath spare.  
Say what I have to do with thee, or with thy constancy,  
When I near mean to go about to quit this courtesy?  
Thou nothing feelest compared to me, my grief to thine is small,  
Thy sickness in respect of mine, no sickness is at all.  
To help thy malady, I am too much diseased in mind,  
To chase away thy cares, mine own troubles too great I find.  
A sickly Patient sore attatched with sharp diseases rife,  
Unto another soul diseased, cannot restore him life.  
I cannot help thee, for, for want of succour I myself,  
Complain withouten remedy, yet cannot I find health.  
With self same pain, as thou art, I am vexed through Love,  
Nor Fortune, me to favour more than thee, as yet I prove.  
Seek then elsewhere to suage thy woes, 'mongst such as (so) are bend,  
And suffer me that I alone my sorrows may lament.  
Nor me importune any more, for fore I pity take  
Of thee, the Sun shall leave the sky, and fiery coach forsake.  
Enough tis, I already burn, with more than extreme pain,  
Withouten entertaining more, a second worse gain.  
It never shall be said or seen, Sycambra burns with fire  
Of novellchange, as if to rage, she had a swift desire.  
For she, unkind Armanda still, will love and ever shall,  
Nor ever any but himself in heart she will install.  
She death will choose, before her faith, she once do falsify,  
Though churlish her, he (Sanus remorse) doth use discourteously.  
Thy service near of me shall find reward or recompense,  
Then get thee gone, go Shepherd go, dispatch I say from hence.  
Thus said, she angry flings away (in mind tormented sore,)  
As scared wolf, from thickest flies, or foaming saundge Boor.  
When they do hear the Echoing woods, with noise of Hounds toring,  
Which of their taking (at their prey,) unlucky message bring.  
So went Sycambra, who did leave poor Zerphir in a sound,  
Whilst banning his hard fortunes all, he grunting falls on ground.  
He stood amazed, Enon like, and as a Bedlam mad,  
When as (how Paris false had her forsook) she tidings had.  
He having lost his Mistress, loathes to live, such life to rue,  
As Pyramus, for Thisbies' sake, himself unhappy slew.  
The Nymph, he followeth heavily (who galled was at the hart,)  
As th'Iron doth the Adamant, so draws she him to smart.  
Whilst metamorphisde into tears of woe, he knoweth no mean,  
His torments being so cruel, as his griefs are too extreme.  
He thinks no more of his poor sheep, he hath forgotten those,  
No other thought now troubles him, but how to end his woes.  
His voice, his cry, his gesture sad, and his most morunfull speech,  
Are all of Love, and how they Love for succour may beseech,  
His colour now is changed, and gate, so is his wont grace,  
Nored nor white as heretofore, remaineth in his face.  
Like ashes he looks pale and lean, whilst sorrow drieth his bones,  
Nor hath he strength for to do aught, except to send forth groans.  
Without all hope, or comfort, he doth draw his loathed life,  
And for his refuge, death doth seek, torid him of this strife.  
But death, is deaf unto his call, as fieree Sycambra is,  
And therefore thou, and th'other too, he 'gainst his will must miss.  
Well may he call, but they'll not come (once) comfort for to bring,  
But leave him, when he needs them most, to live thus languishing.  
In brief, the heavens, death, and men, with destuys do conspire,  
'Gainst him, that he shall burn, yet have no mean to quench this fire.  
Nothing prevails him to avail, whilst on the other side  
Sycambra, in like predicament as he is, doth abide.  
Of thonsand bloody passions she participateth, vexed,  
Yet nothing can relieve her, whilst she languisheth perplexed.  
Armanda, jests, and her, when she doth speak, at every word  
He scoffs, nor favour he at all to her will once afford.  
He laughs to see her weep, to hear her sigh, it makes him smile,  
Nor will so much as one small dram of pity yield the while.  
But growing too too insolent, and puffed up with pride,  
He wills her to departed and die, nor cannot her akide.  
Swearing by all the Gods, that he will sooner seek his death,  
Then fancy her, as long as he shall draw his vital breath.  
She, seeing herself disdained thus, doth ban her destiny,  
And after many strange conceits, resolveth for to die  
By some strange kind of uncouth death, she means to cure her wound,  
Which Love (as foe) had given her, her senses to confound.  
Without imploring any more, savage Armandas aid,  
Who neither her, nor her kind suit, respected aught or weighed.  
So loyal Hero, of her life, an end would willing make,  
When fair Leander she did see drowned for her sake.  
Ah fretting corsie worse than death, with never endless smart.  
When cheating Love empoisoneth, the constant loyal heart.  
More cruel than the rest by odds for dying, we but range  
From this life to another, while we make a better change.  
Whereas the for lost lovers life, so bitter is and fell,  
As thousand deaths they choose before, they will abide the hell.  
Of all the torments then on th'earth, Love most outrageous is,  
Love, that our youths makes whither fast, depriving as of bliss.  
Sycambra therefore now resolved, to die doth soon intend,  
That so at length her Agonies, and senseless griefs may end.  
A trenchant blade she taketh up, but viewing it so kright  
And sharp, she straightway lets it fall, so much it her doth fright.  
Her heart will not endure her hand should set it to her breast,  
And therefore with such enchantment, to die she doth detest.  
A throttling halter doth displease, as much as sword before,  
So rusly to be strangled stiff, her fair neck doth abore.  
She poison takes, but her conceit that drench hath overthrown,  
Which makes her, halter, poison, sword, (all three) to let alone.  
A gentler kind of death (though strange) she hath found out as the,  
Which is, t'entombd herself alive, torid her of her woe.  
She means within a Rock obscure, from other Rocks far wide,  
With thousand Ditches compassed, and bushes on each side.  
Fearful to Savage beasts themselves, and horrible to men.  
Herself there to enclose, and there herself doth closely pen.  
Thus lanquisht she most wrethedly, no meat she had, nor bred.  
But sighs and sobs, no drink at all, but tears which fast she shed.  
No meat she would, but moan, no drink, but dole to end her life,  
Meaning hereby her coarse to spoil, through starning famines knife.  
The skriching night Owls dolefully, her wail did assist,  
And luckless Ravens moand her Love, whilst they to her did list.  
Death, whom she wished for (oft) at hand was still, though not so nigh  
As she desired, and sorrow was with her continually.  
No voice she used but cries, no speech, but dreary dry laments,  
So heavily she mourns, as Rocks for pity do relent.  
Yet no man answers her at all; The comfort most she finds,  
Is when false Echo, her last word again unto her winds.  
But he that of her misery, is cause and motive chief,  
Is deaf unto her prayers become, nor yield will her relief.  
More hard, then stubborn Rocks, than hills more Savage and more fierce,  
He will not mollify his heart, no pity can it pierce.  
His weal it is to see her wail, her bale, to him is bliss,  
Whilst in a state most pitiless, far worse than death he is.  
O Tigers whelp, monster of men, worthy of any blame,  
Too much unworthy to be loved of such a constant dame.  
Ah may that fortune chance to thee, as to Adonis' coy,  
Who (of a Goddess deigning love) a Boor did him destroy.  
And let it hap to thee, as to Narcissus peevish Elf,  
Who (others Loves refusing) did, in love fall with himself.  
Yet can I not say, that the Gods are partial, but most just,  
The self same measure, others we do give, we look for must.  
So (Ladies) had Sycambra, kind unto her Zerphir been,  
She had not (then) such tortures felt, nor had abide such teen  
As she did bide, still languishing, desirous for to die,  
Whilst she to death (Armanda like) to come to her doth cry.  
Yet hopes she thus, she cannot live, and that her times not long,  
Her heart she finds already broke, for bearing so great wrong.  
Besides, her fainting body frail, prognosticates to her,  
(By reason nature's grown so weak) death is not from her far.  
Much do the ghastly dreams she hath in slumber, her affright,  
And fearful apparitions strange, which she beholds in night.  
Sometimes they to her bring despair, then her with hope they feed,  
With hope in vain, which when she wakes, her wounds more fresh make bleed.  
For he that nothing hath to lose, needs not to wail his loss,  
Nor needs he fear that Fortune's wheels (swift turning) should him cross.  
Where, he is in most piteous plight, that views his chiefest stay,  
(Which should from ruin him support) on sudden took away.  
Long time Sycambra in this wise most uncouth lived thus,  
Like to the shape of ghastly death, in case most dolorous.  
Whilst in mean space, Famine and Grief, with never ceasing cries,  
Her flesh did turn to bones, her heart tormenting in strange guise.  
Her colour which before was fresh, and dainty as the Rose,  
And that same beauteous varnish pure, no more (now) in her shows.  
Like to the Flower, which trodden down within the Meadow green,  
By dirty foot of trampling steed, or plodding Ox is seen.  
Such one this dying Shephardesse did seem, quite changed and faint,  
Her quondam lovely face, the tears with blubbering, foul did taint.  
Her fair eyes, dark and heavy showed, as when the skies we see,  
With thickened storm of wind and rain, over shadowed for to be.  
Those shooting Glances, which of late were in her rolling Spheres,  
(Controllers in Dan Cupid's Court) no more as now appears.  
No more as Diamonds glister they, nor Sunlike do they shine,  
But look like Phoebus, when his place to night he doth resign.  
And (now) death which did heretofore long linger, comes apace,  
And gently seems by many signs, her offer to embrace.  
Her for head fair, whose very frown, of all did favour win,  
Was now become deep furrowed, with sharp and wrinkled skin.  
Her sallow visage, pale and thin, and hunger-starved did seem,  
One of th'in fernall hellish hags, for shape you would her deem.  
Her breasts, too precious juerie mounts, were fallen lank and bare,  
Her body (that rich shop) had lost her wont precious ware.  
Her feeble arms, and shoulders weak, supporters of her coarse,  
Were nought but joints of skin and bone, withouten strength and force.  
So short and thick she drew her breath, sighing so deep and sore,  
As one might easily guess she was, not far off from death's door.  
And had not been but for her tears, which on her cheeks she shed,  
You would have judged, she had not been alive, but stony dead.  
Had she not throbs and sighs sent forth, from fainting breast like storm,  
That all her senses had been past, you would have vowed and sworn.  
Ah too too hapless lovers chance, like her no wretches such,  
So Dido died, the Trojan Duke, for loving over much.  
Enon so for Paris died, so, Hero for her friend,  
(When him she could not save from death) her life did willing end.  
Mean while Zerphir, most hapless wight, on whom fortune did frown,  
This dying Shepherdess eachwhere, doth search for up and down.  
And as we oftentimes the Hart, with furious raging mood,  
Do see to seek (his mate) the Hind with eager pace in wood.  
(Who is retired alone for nonce) into some private way,  
Or running through the forests wild, wandering (perchance a stray.)  
He scales the matchless mountain tops, the huge hills most bold,  
And then he rangeth longest the banks, of streaming waters cold.  
Now, through the thickest quickesedge thick, he venter's far to give,  
And (now) the Caves he visiteth in hollow dales below.  
So Zerphir (frantic like) doth run, to seek that beauty, which  
Did (long before) unto his pain forespeak him and bewitch.  
One while, he wandereth by the Sea, the sandy shore along,  
another while, he scales high hills (through Love enforced so strong)  
And then, again, most desperately, with courage he doth creep,  
And diveth into'the bottoms low, of rocky Caves most deep.  
He, scours the valleys, and the plain, through meadows he doth run.  
'Gainst Gods and man, he murmureth, as one that's quite undone.  
He calls Sycambra, still, the same Sycambra he doth sound,  
Whilst Echo, pitying him, again Sycambra back doth bound.  
In th'end so long he searcheth, that at last he finds her out,  
When now his voice was almost lost, with hollowing all about.  
A Ghost he finds, no lining coarse, her hair about her ear,  
Which blustering blasts of froward winds, abroad dispersed did bear.  
Her brow, did pale and earthly show, whose colour natural,  
Death chased had away as now, and ceased over all.  
Her obbone eyes were dull and dim, sunk deeply in her head,  
o'er whom the Fatal sisters three, too much tyrannised.  
Her bloodless lips, like ashes showed, her sweet alluring lip,  
From which a juice did come, which Love (being ill at ease) did sip.  
Those Cherries, Roses, Rubies, which you once might there have spied,  
Were vanished, and in their steed, worse colours were descried.  
No favour was within her face, no cheerfulness of look,  
For some dead coarse, not living wight, you might her then have took.  
This heavy sight and spectacle, did stop his fainting breath,  
And forced, his inward powers to be as cold as any earth.  
Withouten moving, he did stand, and seemed to be one  
Of those which fierce Medusa changed into aworthlesse stone.  
But luckless she (the Touchstone true of Love) to try all wrongs,  
Who only to bewail her griefs, exceedingly still longs.  
Perceived him not, when first he came appearing to her nigh,  
Whilst with her passions she partakes, which makes her piece-meal die.  
Which when the Shepherd thoroughly viewed, awaked from out his sound,  
He wondered, that for very woe, he died not on that ground.  
He draweth nearer unto her, yet loath to offend the fair,  
And though her fault he blames, yet he not to reproach her dare.  
Upon the sudden, back he starts, and from her doth recoil,  
And then with stealing pace, returns to her another while.  
Nor for his life dares he to speak; For where Love loyal is,  
There no respect nor due regard at any time doth miss.  
He seethe how she doth sigh and sob, and how she tears doth shed,  
Apparent signs and witnesses, that (yet) she is not dead.  
This makes him sigh and sob (as she) and weep with piteous dirme,  
Yet all this piteous stir could not (once) move her look on him.  
So much the wretch was ravished, and earnest in conceit,  
About resignment of her life, which sorrow did her threat.  
Whilst she doth lean her aking-head, upon her hand below,  
Giving scalding tears, passage into her panting breast to flow.  
Tears, that not quenched, but did increase the flames that burned her heart,  
Tears, that even to her inward soul did pierce, like glancing dart.  
In th'end, the Shepherd cloyed with noy, with grief hardued and bold,  
In piteous voice and low, to her his mind did thus unfold.  
Woe is me Sycambra is it thou, I see so miserable,  
And, have I lived (so long) to view, a sight so lamentable?  
be't thou whem death by uncouth Fate, and Fortune over strange,  
Doth force untimelesse thus into thy darksome Tomb torange?  
be't thou, which nothing haste but tears and cries to entertain  
The sharp assault of death, the which thou covetest over feign?  
be't thou, I see to run unto thy end over desperate,  
By cruel Planets hateful doom, to ill. predestinate?  
be't thou Sycambra, whom thy Fates, and fatal Destiny,  
As jealous of thy praise, thy days to shorten do agree?  
be't thou that hast that colour fair no more upon thy face,  
Which as the colour of my griefs, in heart I did embrace?  
be't thou that hast no more those flames, within thine eyes now dead,  
Through which before with brightest fire my soul was daily fed?  
be't thou, that hast no more that show, of more than beantie rare,  
The prison of my liberty, the cause of all my care?  
be't thou, be't thou, whom partial Gods enforce unwilling me,  
Of thy departure from this life, a witness for to be?  
This thou, I know, but too too well, whose perfect Picture right,  
Is too too lively portrayed forth, within mine inward sprite.  
'tis thou, I know, but too too well, though changed thou art the same,  
I, for Sycambra thee will know, thou still shalt be my doom.  
'tis thou, 'tis thou, that diest with sobs and sighs tormented thou,  
Whilst blest thou thinkest thyself, to leave a life so delero●●  
'tis thou, that parting from this world, this would is maked left,  
And void of pleasure and delight, which with thee is bereft.  
Woe is me, and must these eyes, (yet no eyes, but streams of brine,)  
Live for to see eclipsed to be, so fair a Sunshine?  
Whose glittering Lamps, my chiefest light of yore were wont to be,  
Without whose glances bright, nor day, nor morning I could see?  
Alas (my God) why was I not, when that I first was borne,  
Transformed into some stone, than thus to be false Cupid's scorn?  
Why died I not, before the time in love with thee I fell?  
Since thy plagues undeserude, do prove my soul a criminal?  
Why do I not miscarry, but (against my will) that live,  
Through force of this so umust Laewe, the more my soul to grieve?  
Which forceth her to die, that doth deserve to live for are,  
Whilst wretched me, who merit death, it will not take away?  
Ah too too partial lawless law, of miserable Love,  
Accursed be that day, wherein thou first this life didst prove.  
O Gods, dart down your thunder bolts, upon my hateful head,  
Plague me, not her, 'tis I, not she, that should be punished.  
This trunk of mine unprofitable, of vital breath bereane,  
Since that mischievous Love doth me, in my best love deceive.  
Ding down to hell, this coarse of mine, this wicked perjured cars,  
(Consuming it to powder small) by flashing lightnings force.  
Kill (Zerphir) kill, that by one death, he end may all his we,  
And with the same rid all his plagues, that in him daily grow.  
But (fairest Fair) must thou needs die? O loss inestimable,  
No, no, thou canst not die, for death to kill thee is not able.  
Thy glory, 'mongst both Gods and men, shall never have an end,  
(Despite of Destiny) Virtue this, from Tomb shall still defend.  
Within the hearts of living men, shall be thy lasting grave,  
And as another Pallas thou; shalt reverence of them have.  
Thy soul hath heretofore too rich, and royal tired been,  
Thy beauty eke too sacred, and thy Faith too constant seen.  
Then (as base servile Bondslanes poor, tied unto Vassalage)  
Subject to be, or homage yield, to deaths o'er hasty rage.  
No (lovely Lady) thou shalt live, and Zerphir he shall die,  
Because he came not as he should, to help thee speedily.  
Zerphir must die, who by his death (atrue certificate)  
Shall show, how through the want of thee, that be to live doth hate.  
Zerphir must die, because he cannot after thee seruine,  
Nor without thy sweet company, delight to be alive.  
Zerphir must die, because deprived he is, of thy sweet face,  
And therefore means by self same steps, the self same path to trace.  
Yet my soul's joy, if of my grief, if truth that near did serve.  
The smallest spark of favour left, did ere of thee deserve.  
If my dear blood, to beauty thine, which willing I afford,  
(As sacrifice for to be shed) merits of thee one word,  
Ah then look upon Zerphir thine, these sighs and sobs restaine,  
And fore he dieth, vouchsafe to speak to him a word or twain.  
This is the only boon I crave, to which, (but) condescend,  
And most contented then, below to th'other Ghostsile wend.  
But I perceive thou wilt not grant this fute (cruel) to me,  
I cannot this small grace obtain, I find it will not be.  
Why then let's bravely hence departed, let's die her face before,  
And lets before her seek to gain, the 〈◊〉 Elysian shore.  
So saying, he full oft (farewell Sycumbra) did rehearse,  
Which done, his sword he placed against his breast, the same to pierce.  
When as Sycambra waked, as 'twere from forth her passions sad;  
To see Zerphir arrived there by her, was much adread.  
But more she troubled was, when she percoued how in that place,  
He as one desperate, would have slain himself before her face.  
This forced her piteously to look towards him, and with her hand  
To make a sign, as though she would grant what he did demand,  
Beckoning to him, to throw his blade from him, which he over bold  
Had drawn to slay himself, whilst she her meaning would unfold.  
To which the Shepherd willing greed, approaching to her nigh,  
Longing to hear what she would say, resolved with her to die.  
He comforts her, he cheereth her, he prayeth her leave her moan,  
Whilst she with much ado these words, (her last will) forth doth groan.  
Zerphir, if I have injured thee, (as needs I must confess)  
Yet more revenge, than what is light on me, thou needs not press.  
If heretofore my beauty proud, hath (oft) abused thee,  
The heavens, to punish that foul fault, thou now dost (justly) see.  
I feel, (and that but rightfully) the very self same grief,  
That thou endur'st to live disdained (daining) Sanus relief.  
I die (Zerphir) I die in pain, because as thou I love,  
Then with my death contented be, since I this penance prove.  
Now, I conjure thee, if thou feelst the tortures and the plagues  
Allotted unto lovers true, which never cease to rage's.  
If thou dost know that sdainfull power, of Cupid's matchless force,  
(Which makes us often count of such, as yield us no remorse.  
And such as much do make of us (as barbarous and ungrate)  
To scorn their suits, and for their Love, them to repay with hate.  
Then (Zerphir) pardon I beseech, since I have made thee smart,  
Thou seest, (although not by thy means) enough revenged thou art.  
That eye which once did thee contemn, with over-haughtie scorn,  
Death to requite thy wrongs on it, and upon me, hath sworn.  
Sycambra dieth, plunged in woe, and none doth her deplore,  
Her countenance and complexion both, are changed over sore.  
Her face is blooalesse, and heat doth keep within her veins,  
Her arms are brawn-fallen, in her cheeks no colour now remains.  
She dieth, she dieth, desirous more to die, then for to live,  
Only that thee she could not help nor succour, she doth grieve.  
Ah Zerphir, if to think on me, no anguish thee 'twill bring,  
If for thy over cruel Dame, it moves thee any thing.  
And if that Love (of late so hot,) be not as yet grown cold,  
But as a valiant conqueror, thy heart doth prisoner hold.  
If (yet) affection thou bear'st her, who never thee affected,  
And that all pity thou hast not (from pitying her) rejected;  
Then humbly I do thee beseech, by that rare former Love,  
That these thy griefs, right bottomless, compassion kind may moon.  
And that this thy compassion sweet, for me may (so) prevail,  
As thou to grant one suit to her, vouchsafe not for to fail.  
And this it is I beg of thee, that after th'Iron sleep  
Of death shall cease upon my coarse, possession there to keep,  
When thou my coarse deprived quite of beauty's gifts shalt view,  
My cheerful eyes to lose their lights, and bid those lights adieu,  
When thou dost here her sigh from forth her soul (untimely crossed,)  
And when thou shalt Sycambra thine, view to give up the Ghost,  
Ah then, do this good turn for me, do this for me straightway,  
Unto my cruel unkind friend, this RING from me convey.  
Tell him, his too too flinty heart, and barbarous cruelty,  
Hath forced me (loyalst maid alive) for him (alive) to die.  
Tell him, by that quick lightning fire, which from his eyes forth came,  
Which swifter far than whirling darts, my gentle heart have slain.  
By his rich beauty, too too rich for me, too poor to enjoy,  
Which, for my time, untimely brought, me unto endless noy.  
And by that heart of his, too proud, triumphing o'er my glory,  
That he forget me not, but think upon my piteous story.  
Do this, sweet Zerphir, for my sake, do this request for me.  
'tis all before my death to thee I give, as Legasee.  
Nor do deny me this, although in conscience I confess,  
I, not deserve thy smallest grace, for my ore cruelness.  
Ah Zerphir, this deny me not; This said, she held her peace,  
And presently death fore her came, with violence to cease.  
Whilst with a gentle quiet sigh, her soul that weary was  
Of loathed life, most willing up unto the heavens did pass.  
Leaving her body void of life, withouten vital air,  
Disrobde of beauty, spoiled of form, deprived of colour fair.  
Yet happy she, to die in such kind sort as (then) she died,  
Since that her grief vanished therewith, (which living she did bide.  
Happy to die (so) as she died, since partial Love unjust,  
Disasters hard, and undeserude, upon her still did thrust.  
Like as we see in th'end of day, upon the set of Sun,  
When Tethis entertains her spouse, (the light being well might done,)  
A kind of cloudy sable damp ariseth to our eyes,  
And with a gloomy curtain thick, is covered all the skies.  
So as upon the face of th'earth, there nothing doth appear,  
But darkness, sleep, and heavy care, with ghastly sighs each where.  
So by degrees this beauteous coarse, looked pale and wan like earth,  
When (once) the soul, had it deprived of his quick living breath.  
Like to a shadow was it, of a substance fair before,  
No cheerful colour was there in that face, so fair of yore.  
Withouten sense or motion, it remained like a block,  
Or as a comely pile of stone, carude out of marble Rock.  
Yet Zirphir doth embrace it oft, (and as if'ft 'ttwere alive,  
The same with piteous glances, he to yield to him doth strive.  
But kiss her, he not dares, though she be dead, lest he offend  
The soul of her, who (whilst she lived,) he loved as dearest friend.  
Her (as before) he doth respect, and doth her reverence,  
Although him no drop of grace she gave, his amorous heat to quench.  
Tears like to flowers he streameth down, yet not one word he speaks,  
Sorrow, so much doth seize on him, as tongue from plaining breaks.  
Long was he in this agony, at length he comes his way,  
Taking the Fatal Ring with him, his Mistress to obey.  
He hunteth up and down to find Armanda, and at last,  
(Reviling him) into these terms (terms fit for him) he braced.  
Hard hearted, cruel, Savage wretch, for thy unworthy Love,  
Fairest Sycambra, now is dead, since thee, she could not move.  
Dead is she, for thy sake, thou liv'st, unworthy of thy life,  
Thou livedst, her, and her love to scorn, through thy orethwarting rife,  
Take here this Ring, she sends to thee, as witness too too true,  
That she destroyed herself for thee, though thou her death nought rue.  
The Flower of all fairness is dead, slain only for thy sake,  
Whilst thou, nor her, nor on her Love, wouldst any pity take.  
More fierce than Tiger, beastly more than Lion, when as such  
Relent, and show compassion more, than thou hast done, by much.  
Why tak'st thou not this precious I 'em, thou that dost women kill,  
Which, for thee, till her dying day, she had reserved still.  
Happy to have so dear a pawn, yet cursed, because thou art  
The cause, the owner kind thereof, was struck with mortal dart.  
Hold, hold, rude carl, and think not but the day shall one day come,  
When as just plague thou shalt receive, for this, by heavens just doom.  
Armanda, hearing him to rage in this wise, nought doth say,  
But smiling, flings the Ring from him, to the woods betakes his way.  
Leaving poor Zerphir, almost quite bereft of wit, and mad,  
To see what slight regard of her, and of her Ring he had.  
And, but he feared the quiet Ghost to grieve, of his fair Dame,  
He had Armanda for his pride, as he deserved, slain.  
This held his hands from slaughtering him, he (so) did her respect,  
The only reason why to kill, that wretch he did neglect.  
The reverence which unto her, he (long before time) bare,  
Made him for his so hot revenge, his hasty will to spare.  
As one enraged, this careless man he looketh after long,  
And by his eyes, his mind bewrays, he feign would venge this wrong.  
Nor doth he leave to curse and ban, this more than ruthless wight,  
Until, through thickness of the trees, no more he spy him might.  
Wherewith he riseth, and turns back, unto his Lady's corpse,  
Which he embracing oft, through grief to fall in sound doth force.  
Her Ring, on finger hers again he puts, nor dareth he  
Retain the same, as his own goods, although now dead she be.  
Fearing Sycambras angry Ghost, once fairest over all,  
Should be offended for so doing, and him disloyal call.  
This caused him bear himself so just, whilst in most mournful wise,  
These his last words he sighed forth, mixed with strange doleful cries.  
And is it thou Sycambra sweet, whom now I do embrace,  
Whom whilst thou livedst, my chiefest joy I in this earth did place?  
Is thy fair body, framed by heavens, all others for to foil,  
Become deaths prey, unworthy, death Sycambra sweet should spoil?  
Are these the eyes, whose lights of late, did shine like brightest Sun,  
Now darkened by dire destiny, and of their sights undone?  
Is this fair forehead, honour chief, of Muse's virtuous,  
Bereft of beauteous feature quite, and quite disfigured thus?  
Is this sweet honey mouth of thine, O grief that makes me ban,  
Despoiled of all his treasures rich, become pale, white and wan?  
Are thy chaste Breasts, the pure ripe fruit of Paradise so fair,  
Which to allure, the staiedst wits, two dainty Apples bare?  
Dead and shrunk in, and thou thyself, Sycambra tired with grief,  
Hast thou thy soul to heavens resigned, there for to find relief?  
Thou hast alas, nor livedst thou more, those eyes of thine, but late  
Like Diamonds sparks, now dim do show, as deaths dark Sable gate.  
Nor part nor parcel is of thee, from head unto the foot,  
But yields a heavy solemn show, attired in deadly suit.  
Thy dates expired, dead art thou now, led, hast thou me the way,  
High time, now 'tis for me, the laws of Nature to obey.  
Reason it is I follow thee, for is it possible,  
Thou being gone, I longer here upon this earth can dwell?  
My wretched days in this vile world have been unfortunate,  
Yet dying thus in chastest Love, most happy is my state.  
The Stars have fully recompensed, my hateful fortunes here,  
In granting me, the liberty, to die by thee, my dear.  
And that I touch that coarse, by death exempt from vital sense,  
Which, when it lived, full hardly did my service recompense.  
Ah beauteous shade, of late the lodge of honour and fresh Bower,  
Whose praise, death's self, though he thee slew, to kill hath not the power.  
Fair coarse, receive these tribute tears, and let me pardon win,  
If thee embracing after death, I overbold have been.  
Deign to accept my scalding sighs, and do not him despise,  
Who whilst he lived, honoured thee, and dying, thee doth prize.  
Rich coarse, thou art to make amends to me (poor soul) in this,  
That for so many woes I felt, thou yield to me one kiss.  
For, what have I for all my pains, and travail I endured,  
Which thy hard heart continually too willing me procured?  
What recompense or pardon due, did ever I receive,  
But what (through sorrow) my best rest from me did take and reave.  
To cancel all which former counts, be pleased (fair Love) I pray,  
That Zerphir dying (thou being dead) kiss thee (now) chastened may.  
And yet alas I dare not, lest that thou shouldst take it ill  
'Gainst me, as if I sought the same withouten thy good will.  
Fair shadow, now with glory decked, take for my offerings  
These tears, these sighs, these passions sad, which sorrow to thee brings.  
Receive this blood I sprinkle here, upon thy sacred shrine,  
To th'end, my soul in duteous sort, may follow after thine.  
My heart was thine whilst I did live, and fortune wills it so  
That it be thine, when Zerphirs dead, and lieth in th'earth full low.  
Deign therefore (sacred soul) and think not little proud am I,  
That 'tis my chance, I may have leave by thy sweet side to lie.  
Willing thou wert not whilst thou livedst, that I should be thine own,  
But being dead, I for thy slave, most loyal shall be known.  
By reason I have well deserved, through griefs (long by me) borne,  
And by my chastest countenance, that never woes did scorn.  
The memory whereof, me thinks, should make thee, sometimes call  
To mind thy Zerphir, and not quite forget him once for all.  
But Zerphir (now) let's die; too long we stayed have, 'tis enough,  
Sufficient tears on this dead coarse, we now have powered forth.  
The heavens are wearied with my cries, and never ceaseless plaint,  
And my broken heart, through trembling fear, doth beat in bulcke and faint.  
Let's die by this one word, and as he spoken had that word,  
(Most cruel 'gainst himself) his side he pierceth with his sword.  
Wherewith, he tumbleth dead, upon his Mistress breathless corpse,  
Whilst that his wound, both soul and blood, to issue forth doth force.  
Thus died Sycambra, meriting for constancy great fame,  
Thus Zerphir died, deserving well, to have a living name.  
Death, joined them both together near, their bodies in one Tomb  
Were laid, which living were disjoind by over partial Dome.  
And (not long after) that proud youth, Armanda for his pride,  
(As well he aid deserve the same) full dearly did abide.  
For presently upon their death, like to Narcissus fond,  
He died (in love, being with himself) whose loss not any monde.  
Thus Cupid's in his Laws, unjust, as by this Tale you see,  
Yet (Ladies) learn to love, if loved (again) you mean to be.  
The Shepherd having made an end of his Tragedy, held his peace, bringing unto the whole company, a kind of mournful and solemn silence, upon the ricitall of the same, with a secret, still, and inward sorrow, for the lamentable end of Zirphir, and Sycambra.  
O how miserable are those, who seem as (it were) to feel their own losses, through the recital, and reporting of other men's mishaps, being as bad almost, as to awake the happy patient (sleeping) by reason of his soporiferous potion, just at that time, when the Chirurgeon beginneth to cut off his leg.  
Too too much do I prove it, find it, and try it, to touch me to the very quick, (cried out) the sighing Arcas. The misfortunes of every man, reviveth mine own, which (before) lay closely covered under the cinders of my former Distasters.  
The remembrance of things prosperous, is nothing so pleasant, as the recalling to mind, of what is unhappy, is bitter and sour. For the pleasure thereof, hindereth the true knowledge of pleasure aright: and so by the contrary, the contrary is the more to be commended.  
But, O how cruel then is the conceit, and apprehension of a man's evils? For the felicity of the other, doth not oppose himself against the cruelty of this thought: those which are fortunate (being exempted) through the joy they conceive of their ill chances which are past and gone.  
Old Hecuba, when she was captive, rendered the memory of her miseries more cruel; by reason; she (always) thought upon her happy time that was already gone: For one is not so much grieved to be wretched by Nature, as when he is brought down so low by Fortune: and the cause is, for that we are (naturally) borne to suffer, and that he accounteth not his ill hap to be unsupportable, which he receiveth of Nature, in that he is accustomed to endure, and bear the same always.  
But even as where both Fortune and Nature abound in any notable spirit, it is the more excellent, and accomplished for the same. So twice miserable is he, who (as myself) feeleth himself to be injuried, both by Fortune and Nature! By Fortune, she having made shipwreck of my liberty: of my Goddess, and fair Mistress, 
A Sentence.  and of the sweet air of my Country: By Nature, I having nothing in me, that can draw any commendations for me, amongst the learned, or win unto me any credit, amongst such as are accounted rare and admirable persons in the world.  
Then why love I? or why should I desire to breath any longer? Unfortunate that Mariner, who arriving safely into the Haven, will needs venture again, to thrust himself into the tempests of the Sea, to drown himself most wilfully, in the bottom of the waves. So fareth it with me, for after I had been cruelly plagued with the chaste love, of the learned and famous julietta, I fell to love the renowned Diana; The fire of this affection, being far more hotter than the other: but although this my first fault may be well pardoned, yet the second falling again into this error, is to be greatly doubted & feared.  
Ah Arcas, thou shouldst have contented thyself, with thy first imprisonment, without seeking to commit thyself afresh, into a new captivity. But Soldiers in war, may be taken three or 4. times, in that they be not of power, to withstand the Conqueror: Even so, if Love hath so often taken me prisoner, what resistance could so weak a wretch (as myself) be able to make against him? But unlucky is that prison, into which, we unwillingly enter: and so too unhappy were my chance, if I should be deprived of the divine and chaste love of my Diana.  
I resemble that Captain of war, who complaineth of the pain he taketh, lamenteth for the travails he endureth, grieveth at the perils he is subject unto, & murmureth against war & warfaring, and yet (in the mean time) while he desireth to return home, he would take it far more heavily, if he should be put from this painful kind of exercise.  
In like sort, most happy should I think mine estate to be, if (were I never so wretched) I could, with the loss of all other things, repossess my liberty, as I had it before. For they live (although but poor and needy) who are not subject unto any one, where such as are slaves, live not at all, (although they be full of riches) because they are not masters of their own lives, but be under the coutrolment of other.  
Leave these unnecessary and frivolous complaints (said the old man) and follow the discourse of thy Loves already begun. The mind that hopeth, is galled, when the hope of what he desireth, is prolonged with delays.  
Tell on then, for it may be, thou shalt receive comfort by thy speech, and help, 
A Sentence.  and assistance of those, which shall hear thee: in as much, as what one man's will is ignorant of, another may know it: and he that seeketh remedy for his grief, of the Mayor part, in the end, findeth that he doth the sooner recover of his disease. Therefore (good Shepherd) continue the course as thou didst begin.  
Father (replied the Shepherd) tell me, I pray you, is it forbidden, the traveler, who hath wandered out of his way, to reprehend and blame himself, after he perceiveth that he is faulty? Even so, if I have done ill, in beginning the recital of my misfortunes, (the only remembrance whereof, doth astonish & amaze me) can you be angry with me, if I found the retreat, giving over a subject so lamentable, & so far differing from my desire?  
Covet not I beseech you, to know, and to be acquainted with that, which you cannot remedy, it being a case desperate, and past recure: Or, if you will needs pursue me, in my promise, then yield me a place fit for my Fortunes, find me a place horrible, and sad, to the intent that my pains, my speech, and mine abode, may be conformable and alike.  
I will not stick with thee for that (answered the old man) do but follow me, and I will bring thee to a Receptacle, very convenient for such a conceit as thou hast.  
Come then, & I will lead thee, into the hollow bottom of a Lightning-blasted-rock, which, for frightful darkness, and darksome frightfulnes, is as bad as Hell itself: and therewithal, the aged man went before the Shepherd as a Guide, he following his slow steps heavy and sad: 
A Smilie.  not unlike unto a young Child, that followeth (aloof) the party that leadeth him to school, to tell some tale unto his master, for some fault that he hath done.  
Thus they two, leaving the rest of their company, walked all alone, toward this obscure lodging, where only horror doth inhabit: and being now come to the watery Seaish shore, they heard (upon the sudden,) one scriching out most pittiouslie, and therewithal, might perceive a sad and weeping Shepherdess, to come running towards them, her golden Tresses hanging about her ears, which the wanton wind blew here and there. Her face was pale and bloodless, like unto the fall of the leaf, whilst for want of breath, she remained almost windless, being hardly able to cry, or run any longer. Upon the ruddy Roses of her lips and cheeks, and all along the white Alabaster of her ivory breasts, streamed down tears, like drops of peerless dew, issuing forth from her mournful eyes, as between two valleys, runneth a most swift flood of waters. Fair was she and lovely, although fear (at that time) had disrob'de her of her beauty, and frightfulnes taken away (at that time) the vermilion Die, from her cheeks. In this sort did she fly away (as the Hind doth from the Hounds) being followed after, by six tall and lusty thieves, all Pirates of the Sea, who having their naked swords ready drawn, pursued her hard, threatening to massacre her, unless she stayed and yielded herself unto them. Alack poor soul, what likely hood of help was there, in that uncouth place, to save herself? but that the Almighty and puissant jehovah, contrary unto her hope and expectation, provided means for her escape and safety: giving sufficient proof hereby, that he not only helpeth such as trust in him, but also, those that are quite without hope, and (in a manner desperate) of all succour whatsoever.  
The old man, moved with compassion, presently took his book, opened it, and red certain Spells in the same, whilst rolling his eyes wildly, too and fro, the manner of his proceed, being not so fearful, as the casting of his looks, seemed to be terrible, whereupon the Rovers were forced to stand stone-still upon the sudden, 
An example.  as the Ship that is cast upon some sandy shelf, can no way move. lifeless and senseless did they stand, as whilom did the Lovers of Medusa or as the companions of the Duke of Ithaca, the old man having changed them, some into Trees, some into Lions, some into Tigers, and some into Wolves.  
A worthy punishment for their so fowl a fault. The Almighty God (sometimes) serving himself, with others, skilful in the same Science, as this old man was, as he did with the three Magis, or Kings, that came to worship his SON, our only Saviour.  
But of this strange adventure, we will talk, at a more convenient time hereafter: Coming again unto the aged man & the Shepherd, who followed onwards on their journey, the one, mourning for the cruel execution he was so lately forced to put in practice, and the other joyful, hoping to find some comfort of the old man, by reason of the admirable effects of his skill, which he had seen already.  
In the end, they came unto the foot of a Rock, halfe-eaten, through the continuance of time, which oftentimes, had felt the fury of Lightning, and not seldom assuaged the choler of angry jupiter. On the top of this, (with much ado they got) where they found a certain strait and dark Cave, beset with sharp thorns and briers, & senseless Serpents, Serpents turned & changed by this old man, into black and ugly stones.  
O place, passing fit and convenient, to report the miseries of the melancholic Shepherd, which seemed (somewhat to come nigh unto the horror of his pains, and to participate with part of his misfortunes, whereupon the old man said thus unto him.  
Speak gentle Shepherd, have I not (now been as good as my word with thee?) and is not this (thinkest thou) the still Cell, where heavy sleep remaineth, and the dreadful lodge of the fuskie daughters of black Night?  
Hither did juno come, to find out drowsy Slumber, she as then abiding here, when she wrought so cunningly, that she cast jupiter into a dead sleep, whilst she in the mean while, favoured the Grecians in battle, who before that time, had been forsaken, both by her Brother, and her Husband. Hear did Pluto hide his dear beloved Proserpina, before he conveyed her into Hell: And here Aeneas understood the Oracle of Sibilla, which was his sufficient warrant, to descend down unto the pitchy kingdom of the youngest son of Saturn.  
If this place be agreeable unto thy mind, then onwards with that which I have so earnestly urged thee to bewray, & fail not to perform as much as thou hast promised unto him, who will show what testimonies possible may be, of a grateful mind towards thee.  
With all my hart (replied kind Arcas) for it is no loss nor travail, to seek to discharge and satisfy, such as we are bound or beholding unto, there being no remedy, but we must needs one way or other, clear with them, who are our Creditors, and unto whom we are obliged.  
Let us then sit down (reverend Father) & give me leave to take breath for a while, to the end I may call to mind, and knit up the broken thread of this my last discourse with you. For (already) have I told you (if you have not forgotten the same) how Love (against reason and judgement) had quenched the affection I bore to julietta, mine enforcing me (in steed of the other) to affect my Diana, as the Smyth maketh his coals more hotter, by flinging water upon them.  
And to say truth, what is he that could not have been overtaken by her fair feature? For if there had been exception taken against the beauty of the Goddess of beauty (as did Pallas and juno) no doubt, the Phrygian Shepherd had yielded the prize unto her, and had not needed to have traversed the Seas, to bring away Heliene, because she was less fair than she. By her only, Zerxis, had been able to have drawn the counterfeit of juno (through which, he thought to make himself to become admirable and divine) without drawing together so many fair women of Crotona as he did, to borrow from every one of them such beauty as they had.  
This then, so much inflamed my heart, at every word she spoke in her dance, seemed a swift dart, which thwirled into my soul & every step she moved in the measures, 
An Example.  proved a firebrand to burn my heart withal. Whilst she (minding her dancing) never marked me, nor once so much as cast her sight upon me, except it were by great chance. Great personages, having their minds busied about matters of importance, seldom or never; wouchsafe to look, or to behold miserable persons, which are altogether unprofitable unto them.  
Mean space, Love lying in wait, let not the least of her looks fall unto the ground, but that with the same, he pierced, and through pierced my soul, as a young child giveth a thousand pricks upon a piece of paper, in which he would set out the show or resemblance of some figure or shape.  
What should I say? I forgot every thing, only to think upon her, and to mark (if peradventure) she did cast her eyes upon me, and (like a fool as I was) I flattered myself, made my conceit believe, that she perceived my meaning, and that she would take some pity of my disease, construing and interpreting all her gestures and glances, unto mine own advantage: not unlike that fond Captain, that dreameth he hath vanquished his enemies, giving the spoil away, before he hath won the field.  
But, O (how much was I deceived I when the dance was ended) seeing her, 
A Simile.  where I stood, to go on the other side where I stood) retiring (as it were) herself fat from me.  
Yet was I so foolish for all that, that I thought she used this policy, to the end she might blear the eyes of the rest, and conceal the great good will she bore me, as if she had had a great care of me, when (as God knoweth) she was far off from the same.  
Thus Desire, causeth Lovers to interpret every thing to the best, and for their own conceits, imagining that they cannot love, but that they must needs be loved again.  
But Phedra, loved the chaste Hippolytus, yet was not she beloved again. 
An example.  Apollo loved Daphne, yet found no requital at her hands: and Myrrah, doted upon her own Father, yet could never obtain, what she so much requested. Notwithstanding all this, Love grew so extremely within me, as he began to make me courageous and bold, as that Captain which taketh into his grace, his enemy whom he hath overcome, putteth new life and valour in him. So I would not give over, nor play the coward in this extreme peril: but as a second Theseus, began to devise how I might draw myself out of this intricate Labyrinth: whereupon, plucking up my heart, and setting a good face upon the matter, I adventured to approach, and to come nigh my fair mistress.  
O divine force of LOVE, how great his puissance is? Being a far off from her, I was hardy and bold, I made reckoning that I had gotten her, I devised sundry sorts of speeches, which I meant to deliver unto her, and began to grow proud in my gesture, words, and countenance; But no sooner came I near unto her, but that I was another kind of man, quite changed and altered, having (in steed of my former bravadoes and bragging conceits,) fear and respect, awful duty, and grave reverence entered into my mind: all which, took possession of my heart, so that I was as timorous as could be, not knowing what to do.  
So Caesar stayed a long time, doubting about the passage of Rubicon, although before he was thoroughly determined to wade through it. 
An Example.  I than might have been compared unto that miserable creature, who calleth for death, prayeth, and most earnestly urgeth death to come, and to carry him away. (With a good will faith death, behold me here ready) but when the poor wretch seethe him, he is astonished, amazed, and terrified, wishing rather his room then his company. So soemed it, that death had feazed upon me, I being so confounded upon the sudden, that I knew not whether I had any hart, life, or sense, within me or no.  
The Fool perceiveth not his own folly, which the wiser sort take notice of, because they are wise. 
A Sentence.  So I, being taken with this new desire, which had blinded as well (the eyes of my body as of my mind) took no knowledge of my foolish carriage, only being ravished with the fair contemplation of my sacred Goddess, I never thought of any thing, but how to stare her still in the sweet face. O how hard are the entraces in to Love, where duteous respect, timorous fear, uncertain doubt, and bashful shame, keep the door, through which we cannot pass, without their permission and leave, we being bound to content them all (one after another) before we can go any one foot further.  
My beauteous Lady, nothing sick at all of my disease, gave a guess presently of my malady, she quickly found out my fault, which I myself could not see, and being wary and grave, soon descried my vain and idle folly. My cruel passions, which confounded my senses, (bringing me to be as an idiot, or as one devoid of sense) moved her nothing at all. For virtuous she, had never known what Love was, she having been (for her most exquisite beauty, at the first beginning of her life) consecrated and bestowed upon that Goddess, whose name she bore, and whose sacrifices she most solemnly did perform. But all Natures are not subject unto love.  
The right Diamond can never be cut with all the iron tools that may be, neither can Cupid be counted the commander over all such souls as live here below in the world: whether it is, for that he can do nothing with us, except we give him leave, and so submit ourselves voluntarily unto him; or whether it be, because he being blind, and an infant, he cannot see, how to strike such rightly, which scape shot-free from his tyrannies. She then perceiving my folly, & acquainted with my sickness, began thus to school me.  
Shepherd, who hath so suddenly taken away thy voice and countenance from thee? And what is the matter thou carriest thyself so strangely? I am no Medusa, that changeth men into stones, neither any Circe's, or Medea, to alter the shapes of men, by enchanting potions. Who willed thee to come hither, thus to lose, both thyself and thy speech together? what foolish imagination hath seized upon thy spirits? what fortish disease doth bridle thy tongue? and what senseless dolour doth possess all the parts of thy body? Am I so ghastly a sight to behold, that my very face maketh such become amazed and astonished, and those mute and dumb of speech, that do but look upon the same? What uncouth frenzy hath brought thee hither, to give us so many testimonies of thy extreme and witless folly.  
Fond man, that thou art not sufficiently satisfied and content, that thy neighbours should know of this thy madness, but thou must needs make strangers acquainted with the same also, who (before) knew no such matter.  
Either withdraw thyself from my company, or else declare unto me, the cause, and the occasion of this thy coming hither, and of these thy brainsick fits and humours: For what profit or credit should a man look to get, by talking with such sortish companions, as will believe nothing but their own gross folly? and who are without reason, to take in good part such wholesome admonitions and warnings, as shall be for their best benefit and behoof?  
Speak then, or be gone, for a dead trunk of a withered Tree, would perform as much as thou dost, thine eyes being only they (of all thy other members) that swiftly move, and strangely stare upon me.  
As the wayfaring man, heavy a sleep, under some shadowing Oak, 
A Sentence.  awaketh upon the sudden, in the morning, when he heareth the Huntsman, with his yelping dogs, to pass along by him; Even so I, with this sweet voice of hers, awaked out of my drowsy slumber, and contrary to the companions of Ulysses, whom the Songs of the Syrons brought to sleep, I was much revived with the same. Or as the watchful Lover, deprived of his Mistress, (dreaming in his bed, that he speaketh unto her) waketh, and starteth up suddenly, verily imagining that he seethe, and discourseth with her.  
So likewise, this short and sharp Oration of hers, roused me (by force, as it were) from my dull and leaden muse, and brought me into my right wits again. O how Love resembleth the Sun! For it taketh away from us both our voice and force: As the other giveth life and vigour unto us, and by the selfsame heat consumeth us again. This made me sore ashamed, blushing to look about me. But in the end, I plucked up my spirits, being bold to answer her in these terms.  
O fairest, amongst all that be fair, less perfect than thou art, have (heretofore) with their presence, taken away the speech of more excellent Orators than I am by odds. If in beholding the ordinary works of GOD, which daily present themselves before our eyes, and which we continually see, we become mute and dumb at the same, wondering and admiring at the puissance of such an immortal and merciful Creator.  
How much more them (most gracious Nymph) thinkesh thou, we should be astonished and amazed, seeing so rare, so perfect, and so exquisite a 〈◊〉 as thou art, coming so near unto the beauty of God indeed?  
If the Infernal powers in hell below, have (in times past) been moved with the sound of a melodious Harp, and if that gentle Orpheus could by his Music, allure and draw after him, such things as had no foul; Ah then, by how much more shall out souls be enticed, with that which is both comely, lively, rare, and fair, and such as is divine beauty?  
Nothing delighteth our eyes so much, as that which is beautiful, 
A Sentence.  neither do they take any pleasure to behold that which is deformed, foul, or ill-favoured.  
And as the greedy and huugtie starveling, who hath not seen any victuals of a long time before, finding himself at a great feast, is so ravished with joy, as he looseth his colour and speech, confounded with the scent and sight of the meat; Even so, in seeing an Object so admirable, and so pleasing as thy beauty is, why shouldest thou wonder, if I be ravished with the same?  
Hath not Love had the power to race out of the heart of Theseus, as well the sweet favour of Ariadne, as the great good turns he received at her hands, forcing him, wholly to affect and like of Phoedra?  
And the same Love, did it not take away all the remembrance from perjured jason, as well of the pleasures, as of the beauty of Medea? repudiating her to take Glauce, unto his espoused wife?  
Then (comeliest Creature of all others created) muse no more at this my fond behaviour and carriage: and if I have offended, condemn (not my mind) but thy peerless countenance, which (as the Sun pierceth the Crystal) so can it penetrate the power, the puissance, force, and might of Constancy itself: yea, and through the hardest heart of the most barbarous people that are.  
This was the first speech I made before her, and which, God knoweth, I could hardly finish, by reason I was so afraid lest I should offend her. But this prevailed no more with her, than an earnest and vehement persuasion doth, with a right brave and constant mind, urging it to break his Oath and promise, or to commit some horrible treason, or extreme vile and egregious villainy, she being thoroughly resolute, to serve still the goddess Diana, and never to love any man, Cupid himself not being able to overthrow or remove, her firm and loyal determination and intent.  
Thus did the amorous entreatings of foolish Phodra, displease chaste Hippolytus; So did licentious Myrrah, anger her father, she being over importunate in her lawless love. And so did my unwelcome speeches make her frown, even through anger & disdains Virtue forcing her fair face to blush with shame and despite, which she, like (as with a pencil) to temper with the vermilion of her bashful modesty. Me thought I felt myself condemned, with that controlling look of hers, and the changing of her colour, seemed to execute me (even alive) as I was; Love being of that nature, that one only countenance or gesture, increaseth or diminisheth the hope of Lovers, as in a sick Patient, a little good or ill diet, killeth or reviveth the health of his life. And now, though too late, 
A Sentence.  I repent me, that I had spoken any thing. Often is a man blamed for speaking, but seldom or never for holding of his peace. I confessed (now) that I had done a fault, yet knew I not thereof, until I had committed the same.  
The Mariner overtaken with storms, and well-nigh sunk with surging Billowea, hath leisure to repent him, that he took Sea in such foul weather, and must endure the penance for the same.  
Too late did the Trojans perceive their own oversight, 
An example.  in having permitted the Grecians to bring in their horse within their City walls: and so was it with me. But alack, what people be there living in the world, that are so much subject unto repentance as Lovers be? in as much as the more their loss is, the greater is their repentance, for that they kept the same no better. Nothing is so precious unto the Lover, as is the affection of his Lady, because it is the chief nourishment, both of his body and mind.  
Oft did I wish, that I had bridled my tongue within my mouth, but the bird flying in the Air, cannot fly but must be seen, and a word once spoken, cannot be recalled back again, being no more able to be recovered, than the Time, which is most vainly and sondly lost. 
A Simile.  The 〈◊〉 once shot, cannot return back to the bow, but must fly to the mark, at which it was aimed. Neither can the stone that is fling up into the air, come again into the had of the stinger, before it hath mounted up aloft.  
What to do I knew not, only I hung down my head (and as one unworthy to fee that face, which was most justly offended, with my foolish temerity) I held mine eyea fixed upon the ground. Wherein, I resembled him that playeth at Tennis, who looketh upon his Racket, after he hath made a fault, not knowing whom to blame for the same. The lovely Virgin, not any thing at all moved in mind, as I was (for though the Felon that hath offended, 
A Simile.  is troubled before the judge, we must not therefore say, that the judge himself being innocent, and the father of the Law, should be astonished at all:) took courage bravely again, and as it were (in disdain) thus began to jest at me.  
How now man, what cheer, all amort still? Tell me, thou rash and unconsiderate Swain, dost thou not fear the pains of Ixion, or to be plagued as that amorous Hunter was by Diana, for his overmuch saucy boldness? I well perceive thou findest that I am more courteous and gentle, than thou art bold and over-foolish-hardie (far more than any way becometh thee indeed) thy fault deserving as great punishment as the others did.  
But it may be, thou art one of that accursed race of the Titans, whom jupiter blasted with Lightning, for their notorious pride, taking down their proud glory, with the horrible darts of his all-daunting fiery Thunder.  
Dost thou not know, my nature, my calling, & my birth? In going about to mock me, thou wouldst seem, to make me believe that I am otherwise then I am: making Love to be author of thy folly, and my beauty, the mother of thine error. But thou playest, as almost every one doth; For who (ever) hath done a fault, that layeth not the blame thereof, rather on another, then upon himself? You Lovers are happy in one thing, for that you have this Love always at command: upon whom, (as upon a Rock) you found and build all the buildings of your faults, when it is a mere gross Error, to think that there is any such Love at all.  
Man, if he list, may keep himself from Loving: For bridling his appetites, with the snaffle of Reason, and holding them in their right places, they can no way offend, and they no way offending, he can never be forced to love. 
A Sentence.   
Thou art the first that like bold Bayard, durst be so audacious as to trouble me with such speeches as thou, even now hast done. For to what purpose seemeth it the Husbandman, to go about to remove a huge stone or Rock, from one place to another, whose black and cold shade spoileth his Corn? Or what profit is it for the Pilot, to seek to tarry the course of the flood, because it hindereth his Navigation? I am vowed unto the Goddess Diana, and am one of her Virgins, which (only) I will serve.  
Hence than all love from me, and thou, that hast presumed (as the first) to speak unto me thereof, shalt be him that shalt be first refused: protesting unto thee, that if thou return again unto thine old Error, I will so punish thee, as thou shalt be a warning unto all other whatsoever.  
Ah (good Father) I yet stayed for a more hard and cruel answer of this angry Nymph, resembling the guilty person, who not fearing the arrest of death, contrary to his fear, is only condemned to pay a Fine. Which was the cause that hope and assurance came unto me again: Whilst with an humble reverence, I thus began to excuse myself unto her.  
Glorious and resplendent Lamp, the purest Gold in the world, hath sometimes been dispraised of men, and counted as base, because they knew not the value and worth thereof: Even so, if not any before myself, have not attributed glory unto thy beauty, the reason is, because they were not acquainted with the excellency of the same. Say what it best pleaseth your sweet self, yet shall you never keep me from worshipping, admiring, and adoring, that which is so precious and rate, as it approacheth near unto the Gods; because it is not in the power of man, to hinder the same, no more than the bondslave can contradict whatsoever pleaseth his Master.  
If the divine Goddess Diana, hath entertained you for her own, do you admire and wonder, that mortal creatures, after the example of the Gods, do unto you honour and reverence?  
Too bold I must needs confess I am, to trouble you, with these my harsh and tedious importunities. But (O worthy Diana,) what famous deeds, and memorable acts, have ever been accomplished and brought to pass, without extreme boldness, and exceeding great venturing: yea, and many times, without all appearance of Reason?  
They which spare to venture, prove for the most part, 
Audaces Fortuna juuat, the midosque repellat.  poor and beggarly wretches; For Fortune most commonly favoureth such as be be bold, and of a desperate spirit, whereas cowards, and such as be whitelivered, she rejecteth, and bringeth enough.  
The Gods themselves, vouchsafe to accept men for their servitors, nothing disdaining at all their sincere oblations and offerings. Neither do you judge aright of mine inward affection towards you. For, in loving you, I do honour you: this my love, not being the child of an unchaste Venus, but of renowned and illustrious Honour.  
Too too divine is your Beauty, too brave your Virtue, too chaste your mind, and too sacred your honour, to be tainted or once touched with the dart of Cytherea.  
Besides, Virtue itself, never disdaineth duteous affection, and loyal constancy, for her attendants and servitors: which, if it be so; Then why should not you entertain the poor Shepherd Arcas, for your slave?  
The selfsame Goddess which you honour, hath dearly loved a simple Swain, she descending down from the heavens, to come unto him, and to search for him, with all delightful and pleasant shows that may be. Venus likewise, hath not thought scorn of the amity of lovely Adonis: why then, should you disdain mine? Well may you forbidden me, but hinder me you cannot. For love you I must, nor can any thing turn me from the same.  
Easily may man tame his covetous passion, his losses, and hindrances, his sorrows and griefs, but hardly or never, can he overcome love. For neither Dame Nature herself, nor any cunning Art, are able to give us any such precepts, as are sufficient to bring the same to pass. David, nor David's wise son, Hercules, nor strong Samson, Plato, nor witty Aristotle, Ovid, nor learned Virgil, were never able to do it, he having forced them all, to try his conclusions.  
Be then persuaded (most excellent Nymph) and esteem not so lightly of the puissance and force of LOVE, lest he make you to feel of his powerful effects, as that Prince useth to deal hardly with such of his people and subjects, as go about to revolt from him.  
Fond man, 
A Sentence.  (replied she smiling.) The faults of great personages, excuseth not the follies of the meaner sort, whom we must follow, not in their riches, but (rather imitating them) in their Virtues, for their mightiness covereth the faults which they do, the other, not being able to do the like, because they want the authority the first are in.  
If Diana and Venus have loved, therefore thinkest thou, that I am bound to follow them, and Love as they did? If so thou thinkest, thou art much deceived. A Kingdom may well suffer a wicked and an unjust Prince, and yet it doth not follow, but that his subjects may be both faithful and godly. Virtue is as much commendable in the poor, 
A Sentence.  as in the rich: and the silly wretch, dught as much to doubt to offend, as he that is most wealthiest, and mightiest of all, because the violating of Virtue, admitteth no excuse at all, in as much as men are more bound unto her, then unto any thing else in the world.  
Think not then, that either these thy examples, or these thy reasons, are able to change my mind, to alter my will, or as much as once to make the least breach that is, into the invincible Fort of my chaste thought. Subtle Sophisters in their schools, (to maintain their bad opinions) never want Arguments, which carry the show and face of Reason.  
So you Lovers, learn in the Academy of your Master, many goodly discourses, which resemble such fruit as is fair and ripe outwardly, but within, is rotten and unwholesome, and good for nothing. For how can they be good or just, when the Doctor that teacheth them (by your testimonies) is without reason, and blind, and without all equity and justice? The beginning of your Song is always this, that it would please unto entertain you into our services: Because (forsooth) your Love is most sacred and chaste towards us. But good wine, in time, groweth to be sour and sharp; And so these your goodly considerations, and chaste respects, wax daily worse and worse, so that in the end, they come to be stark nought indeed, and much disagreeing with our Honours, as the sweetest meat is soon spoiled, through the heat of the Sun. Give over then, good Swain, and never talk unto me more of these errors, which make both high and low to forget themselves: otherwise, I will stop mine ears, as the Serpent doth his, with his tail.  
I seeing her choler to be somewhat abated, replied thus. Rich Treasure of Virtue (under correction) your own words condemn your own opinion which you hold; For if we must not judge by the example of others, and if particular actions, be they good or bad, bind not the general; Then, why think you, that all Lovers are scarce chaste or virtuous? when there be divers found to be of a contrary disposition and Nature.  
All the Goddesses were not like to Venus, nor all the Gods, of the humour of jupiter. He that hath abused himself no way, but doth his business honestly, and well, (not going about any Treachery or Treason) ought not to abide the punishment of a Traitor. For that were to do against all justice, there being great difference between the guiltless and the guilty, in the manner of their lives.  
When I shall have spoken, or done any thing (against my former meaning) then may you well enrol me amongst the number of those infamous Lovers, but until I shall so do, you cannot justly accuse me.  
Did I think you were otherwise, than you say you are, and that Honour, Virtue, Modesty, and Chastity, lodged not in your breast, I could not (I assure you) love you so much as I do: For that Love that is not immortal, is but a Love, false, deceitful, and counterfeit.  
The Love which one attributeth alone unto Beauty, passeth and dieth, without the the same: but that, which respecteth Virtue, continueth sacred and sure for ever, because it never dieth, no more than Virtue itself doth.  
If we will love rightly, then must we love the soul, which is the receptacle of Reason, which never perisheth, and not the body, which in small process of time endeth and decayeth.  
My conclusion is thus, that I honour you for your virtue; I love you, for your beauty; hoping you will accept of my poor sacrifices, lest you be condemned to be more haughty and highminded, than the Gods themselves, who disdain not to listen unto the supplication of a sincere and loyal heart.  
No more Shepherd (answered the Virgin) importune me no more: He that is wise, ought not (alone) to be without spot or blame, but must as well be free and clear from all suspicion of the same; Taking away the occasions of vice, to the end he may not sin at all: For he that is grave and considerate, can find no excuse when he hath offended. For mine own part, I will neither love, nor be beloved, much less, be the cause of another's misery.  
But O you blind and frantic Lovers, who always make your Mistresses the motives of all your misfortunes. As if a fair Crystal River, and such a one, as is profitable unto the whole Commonwealth, should be condemned, for drowning such as cast themselves headlong into the same, and not their own foolish and desperate fault.  
But (sayest thou) I cannot hinder thee to love me, (a God's name) let it be so, but yet this cold comfort I will give thee, love me as much as thou wilt, yet never would I wish thee to look for any requital at my hands: for if thou dost, assure thyself, thou shalt be mightily deceived.  
And take this also for a warning from me beside, that if thy indiscretion or want of government, shall (by chance) bring the least spot, or blemish unto mine honour, (yea as much as any small colour of the same) I here solemnly protest, that in revenging it upon thee, I will likewise punish mine own self, in that I have suffered thee, so far to run on, and not to have plagued thee for thy offence. For I will wash my hands in my best blood, and so purge myself clear from the fault.  
Fond Shepherd (that thou art) this frail and withering beauty of the body, is nothing worth, in comparison of that of the mind. And that woman that hath the first, and wanteth the second, is like unto a dead body, which is nothing but a fair and fat-feeding for worms.  
If thou lovest me indeed, (as thou wouldst make me believe) than love that, which I esteem of, more than of mine own life; that is, mine honour: and loving it, (even for my loves sake, withdraw thyself from doing that which may hurt it, and so by consequence, mine own person.  
For, (Shepherd) assure thyself, this mine honour can never die, without my life, and they sailing both in one Boat, never shall Diana see the one without the other.  
Admirable Lady (answered I) great wrong do you offer unto me, to account me as an enemy, of the thing which you so religiously esteem of in this world. But if I so much displease you, yet can I easily content you again, in absenting myself from you, by a gentle kind of death.  
Permit me only to execute the same, and then shall you see, how willing I am to be serviceable unto you, in all my best devoires.  
If I have forgotten myself any way, I crave pardon for my fault, I being over rash, in that I have presumed to love you so much as I do, and not that I ever went about to offer outrage or prejudice, unto your good Name or Fame, in any sort whatsoever. Or if without making satisfaction for mine offence, you will not forgive me, yet I beseech you, suffer me to die: For never will I wish to live, to be holden for an enemy unto that, which I hold to be so precious, and which I esteem more off, then of all the wealth in the world.  
Shepherd, Shepheard, answered the courteous Damsel, I take little delight or pleasure in blood. Neither am I descended from those Gods, which demanded men to be sacrificed unto them, I will endure all; yet not with force, as Tyrants do, but rather with sweet mildness, as gentle Princes use, I am content thou livest, but yet whilst thou livest, I would not have thee, kill her, who hath given thee so much liberty, or to bring her unto her latest home; if by thy fault her chaste credit be any way impaired or diminished.  
What shall I say more unto thee, to content thee? when I have already (I fear me) said enough, if not too much. I must now leave thee; for I perceive my Sister is about to call me, to begin our dancing again. heavens grant that thou mayst live, freed of this thine evil, and that my loss, make thee not wise too late, after thou hast wrought mine utter overthrow.  
Having so said, away she goeth from me, comforting herself, amongst her divine company: And I, being not a little proud, of this my gentle good fortune, withdrew myself from the company, making my prayers unto the Muses, who devised these two Sonnets, which (after the dance was finished) in the best manner I could, I presented unto her.  

SONNET. I.  
My thoughts, a new clear Sun, (now) wholly do adore,  
My hart (pale, through great fear) doth march under his light:  
This Sun, thy sweet Face is, where beauty keeps his store,  
Which being divine, divinely prized is aright.  
Sacred Diana, worshipped in Heaven and Hell,  
Thou, o'er my hart (alone) deservest to signorise,  
Men vanquished, by rare Deities, that do excel,  
Thee taking (so) should honour in most sacred wise.  
If then (I) by thine eyes, am overcome and slain,  
Yet I esteem myself, most happy so to be:  
Men (serving Gods) Cannonized Saints, are for their pains,  
Ah then, these humble prayers, and vows, accept of me.  
The greatest Gods vouchsafe, 
A Sentence.  meant presents for to take,  
And meaning good (the sacrifice) most perfect still doth make.   

SONNET. II.  
Fair Dame, which with sweet bonds, in bondage hold'st my hart,  
Deign, that he may thee serve, his ransom so to pay:  
Or, if thou wilt not that from prison he shall part,  
Then as a guilty wretch, in bis best time him slay.  
He cannot see thee, lest (he duteous) thee may serve,  
Needs must he rest thy slave, for who hath venom ta'en,  
A counterpoison seeks, himself so to preserve,  
Or findeth Death out, for to ease him of his pain.  
That torment (sudddainly) which gentle Death doth kill,  
Ought not to be lamented, when it rids all grief:  
Whereas my woes are heavy, during (always) ill,  
Ah then, kill me (on sudden) or yield me relief.  
For happier is the Tomb, then is his vital breath,  
Who rightly liveth not, but (wretchea) languisheth.   
These were the first verses, which with a Viol, (pleading for pity) I presented unto my beauteous Diana, who accepted of them, and read them, with an indifferent kind countenance.  
O divine Muses, even vice itself, loveth, honoureth, and reverenceth you: Neither is there any, be they never so ill given, but liketh of the praises, which you (with your melodious harmony) attribute unto them. Diana, finding me to be somewhat favoured of the Muses, began to think somewhat better of me, than she did beforce imagining that they would not suffer vice to reign in my Love, because they are of themselves divine and chaste. So Maro, by the help of his Muse, obtained the favour of Augustus the Emperor, recovering his lands again.  
Whereupon, I began to conceive better of myself, than I any way deserved, and as Pompey, because he had forced some of Caesar's army, to retire back, as far as their own Trenches, imagined with himself, that he had already got the goal, and won the victory.  
So I (because of this small grace I obtained at my Mistress hand) began to persuade myself, of things, that neither might, nor could well be brought to pass.  
A small matter, maketh Lovers, to hope or fear. I now took upon me, to make this Ditty following, which (as sweetly as I could) I sung before my Lady. Hear it then, though unworthy it be of your patience.  
(LADY) how much do I respect and love  
Your beauty rare, which doth my heart control?  
When (lest that you to anger I should move)  
I bite my tongue, and silent am in soul.  
o'er me you have (still) such a hand,  
As, none but you, may me command.  
I rather choose, a thousand times to die,  
Without offending your most heavenly face:  
Then like to Dedals son, fall foolishly,  
And so, through rashness, end my youthful race.  
Borne was I, for to be your slain,  
My service you (alone) shall have.  
If I of you, such reverent regard  
Have, as to you, I dare not tell my grief:  
Ah then, but guess my Crosses over hard,  
By these my tears, I bide without relief.  
Think that (as others) I do mourn,  
The fire kept close, more hot doth burn,  
Before, to you, my cares I will bewray,  
I'll perish, as your loyal servant true:  
Death cannot be so grievous any way,  
As for to be offensive unto you.  
So you be not displeased by me,  
The loss of life, no loss shall be.  
A double burning burden I do bear,  
Myself consuming with a twofold woe:  
First, for because I love, and hold you dear,  
And next, because I dare not tell you so.  
A piteous pain, that to conceal,  
Which most we covet to reveal.  
The Law doth men (sometimes) compel and make,  
All that they know, not to disclose or tell:  
But LOVE all speech away from us doth take,  
Which is a plague, as bad as second Hell.  
We must not for ourselves once speak,  
Whilst silence makes our hearts to break.  
But though my tongue most secretly, this ill  
Doth keep, my piteous eyes yet show the same:  
Thus whilst I loyal do contiwe still,  
I counted am a coward, to my shame.  
Because that I am over kind,  
I am condemned of abject mind.  
To reap for loving true, a mortal wound,  
I hold is as a sacred thing divine:  
And so I rather wish, dead to be found,  
Then a denial, should cause ruin mine.  
What need I (then,) my griefs her show?  
When what I would (fair she) doth know.  
I'll rather fly to Heaven, with swiftest wing,  
Then that mine earnest suit, my Dame should grieue●  
To speak too much, 
A Sentence.  much danger oft doth bring,  
When wary silence near doth blame receive.  
Of Gods we learn secret to be,  
Little to say, and much to see.  
Then (Dearest) since thou art not ignorant  
Of my hard state, rue on my piteous plight:  
Which though in colours, forth I do not paint,  
Yet they, in conscience merit favour right.  
Who serveth well, 
A Sentence.  though he (not craving) stand,  
Yet doth his good deserts enough demand.  
After I had sighed forth this amorous Ditty, it pleased my Lady, to allow it for passable and currant, she doing me the honour to sing it herself (now and then) unto the sweet sound of her dainty Lute.  
But O thrice happy Song, to have been thought worthy for to live in the sacred memory of my Mistress, and to be warbled forth, with her sweet & melodious voice.  
This (reverend and grave Sire) was the beginning, and first progress of my chaste Love, which made me so careful, as I could take no rest, in somuch as (like one over-curious) I would needs know the event of the same: and thereupon (one day) I addressed me, unto an Echo, of whom I demanded many things, which she resolved me of suddenly: But yet her answer was so fatal and heavy unto me, as it not a little irketh me to repeat it. Nevertheless, because I will hide nothing of my proceed from you, listen if you please; For thus it was.  
ECHO. 
Hark (Goddess of these Woods) unto my never ceaseless cries,  
Who here most blessedly dost live, exempt from vanities.  
Thou Goddess, which through knowledge thine, of prudent foreseeing Fate,  
Dost know our ends, and deaths, and of our lives, the course and state.  
Goddess of heavenly Nature right, to whom jove doth reveal  
Great secerets of importance, and nought from thee doth conceal.  
Thou, that of us, according to thy own will, dost dispose,  
Thou, which one while dost make us live in joy, and then in woes.  
To thee, to thee (do I appeal: To answer me) then come,  
Whose voice seems for to fly from out, a hollow ghastly Tomb.   

Who shall relieve my woes, and breath into me vit all breath?  
Into my soul orechargde with grief, and overwhelmed with death?  
ECHO. Death.  
In what estate shall Love (which cuts my wings of thoughts ore-glad)  
Find my poor mind, which when it left it, left it over sad?  
ECHO. Oversad.  
What, with my heart once strong as steel, 'gainst griefs shall then be done?  
Since hardly it was made to yield: shall it be overcome?  
ECHO. Overcome.  
After so many weary toils, wherethrough I needs must perish,  
What will my Lady count of this, my too too dear bought service?  
ECHO. Vice.  
But shall I from this wretched state, whilst I do live, be free?  
Or shall I still, unto her will (as servile) Bondslave be?  
ECHO. Bondslave be.  
Ah say, what good at length shall I find, in this my cold damage?  
What new come novel Accident, shall set a fire my courage?  
ECHO. Courage.  
Shall Rage and Fury then, within my bones unconstant burn?  
And for to quench this flaming fire, to me shall none return?  
ECHO. None return.  
Who is the cause of this my grief, and of mine usual pain,  
Since I have always honoured the great Palladian?  
ECHO. Palladian.  
Why senseless find I senses mine, from Reason (thus) to moon?  
Who works this uncouth fear in me? Say, is it cruel Love?  
ECHO. Cruel love.  
And is it cruel to one, that is the author of my grief,  
The greatest of Gods, that will 'mongst God, be honoured first and chief.  
ECHO. First and chief.  
Shall I then be unfortunate, starre-crossed in my will?  
And (without succour) succourless, must I continue still?  
ECHO. Continue still.   

Ah Arcas, miserable wretch, behold now (here) the life  
Which thou must lead, whilst thou dost live, begirt with sorrow rife.  
Choose rather death, than thus to live, in endless misery,  
(By dying) all thy griefs do end, they woes and anguish die.  
Seek in this uncouth Desert sad, some kind of gentle death,  
Who's plunged in pain, should near desire to draw his vital breath. 
A Sentence.   
One plague's as bad, as is some death, one death ends torments all,  
Then death, not life, I'll choose, and take of evils what is most small.   
This was the pitiless answer of cruel Echo, which made me bedeawe my cheeks many times, with brinish tears, and to wish myself to be as low under the ground, as I was high upon the earth; whilst I consumed piecemeal away in most woeful plight. Stay there Shepherd (said the old man, interrupting him) for thy misfortunes have put me in mind of a doleful History, which I will report unto thee. Harken then, for thus it beginneth.  
In the reign of Emanuel, King of Portugal (who with his Army Royal, 
The pitiful History of the Virtuous Izabella, and her incontinent Husband Don Horatio.  scoured all the Seas thereabouts, planting the faith of jesus Christ, in the hearts of the unbelieving Moors, who then had small knowledge in the same, and at what time he vexed the Infidels of Africa with continual wars, having won Saffin & Arsillias', too famous and strange Cities (of that country) from them, fortifying them with sufficient, brave & valant Garrisons) there (then) lived a young gallant Gentleman, called Horatio, who for the great proofs which he had (already) showed abroad, of his rare and admirable chivalry) was grown to be very famous, and had gotten great fame and renown amongst the Portingalls.  
Hercules, though he was valiant, yet did he love, and through love died. Achilles, for Brissesse, left the defence of his own Soldiers and countrymen, 
An example.  & for the affection he bore to Polixena, lost his life. Mars and Cupid (as the Father and Son) walk most (commonly together, and few generous Cavaliers have there been, that have not vouchsafed to love. Amongst the number of which, this youthful knight was one, who was forced to submit himself unto the good liking, and to seek the favour of a fair Gentlewoman (as then attending upon Maria the Queen) and one of her Maidens, of Honour) being the daughter of Samperius, an ancient Baron, and defended from a most honourable house.  
Neither was he much to be discommended in suffering himself to be overcome by this young Damozell, he having made his choice so well, that for virtue and wit, for stature of body, for good colour and complexion, and for perfect properties in all parts of her, there were few or none to be preferred before her in all the court of Portugal, yet, though his fancy was great, he mightily concealed it, until (maugre his force) the fire discovered itself, bursting out into a great flame, and that at a very bad time for him, the King then dispatching him presently away, for Sassin, to follow the old wars against the Africans.  
Although Don Horatio was by nature borne to be a Soldier, being far fit for the field, then to dally in a field-bed, war, being his most pleasing pastime, and that he delighted in nothing so much as in battle, yet did it wonderfully grieve him, to be absent from his Mistress, wishing in his mind, that he might have given over his weapons, and have spun by her side (as Hercules did sometimes) rather than to have departed from her. But there was no remedy, bond he was by oath, and needs must he obey. Besides, this Nation is wonderful respective and dutiful unto their Prince, and (which was of most importance) his honour, would have complained upon him, if he should have refused so worthy a charge.  
One thing there was, which did not a little grieve him, and that was, because he could not make known unto his Lady, the sincere affection he bore her, to the end she might (sometimes) think upon him, and for fear, lest in his absence she should entertain some other stranger into her service, he being not able (by reason of his quick dispatch) to talk with her in private, for occasion offereth herself (now and than) unto such as are willing to seek her.  
Whereupon he thought it not amiss to write unto her his mind by Letter, which being done, he knew not how to convey it unto her: Much did he study about the same, one while, devising this way, and another while that way, but in the end none pleased him at all, he being as far off to find out any means, as when he (first) began to think thereof. 
A Simile.  Not unlike the covetous wretch, who doth nothing else night and day, but study how to increase his rich substance and wealth, beating his brains, only how to get gold and yet is never contented nor satisfied.  
But behold how Fortune was Horatio's friend in his business. Samperius, the Father of this Gentlewoman, was (by chance) as then, in the Indies, two great Caracts, being sent by him from thence, unto the King, the very same day, that Horatio departed from Lisbon to pass into Africa. Now our young Lover, whom Love roused up, as the Huntsman doth his game, counseled him, to get some of these, who were (newly) come to the Court, to deliver this Letter, as if it had come from her Father, which as he wished, was quickly brought to pass.  
For a certain friend of his, offered him to be the messenger, and to deliver the same, with his own hands unto her, which he did, so orderly, & with so great cunning, as none perceived, no nor the Damozell herself, but that they were sent from her father, until she had opened and read them: for there she found the sweet entreaties of a friend, in steed of the grave counsel of a Father: when being deceived (like him that returning home from a far country) findeth his house (seized upon by his enemy) she thought to tear the Letters all in pieces, before she had thoroughly read them.  
But as it is generally seen, that novel sights, though bad, do please our eyes, many men of the better sort, thinking that a sudden change and alteration of things, will breed their great contentment and ease. Even so, this Damozell, moved with this strange case (after many doubtful determinations within her own self) first readeth one line, and then another, and at the last the third, and then foldeth the paper up, resolved to read no more of the same, but to burn it. Yet as he, that tasteth good wine, although (at the first) he is resolved not to drink much, by little and littile, swalloweth down a great draft, alured by the sweetness of the same; So this Gentlewoman finding somewhat that pleased her, in the beginning, made no more adoc, but read them quite out: the copy whereof was this.  
DON HORATIO, his Letter, to IZABELLA.  
Fair Gentelmoman ' if it be an irrevocable Doom, that men, be they never so valiant, or courageous, shall be subject unto a braver and more livelier force than their own; I hope you will not marvel overmuch, if I humbly yield unto your divine Graces; and if as a Captive unto your beauties, I resign my weapons unto you, and yield myself as overcome, by your beauteous self.  
The valiant Champion, taketh it for more credit, to be vanquished by a famous Conqueror (accustomed to vanquish) then to have subdued, some base and cowardly enemy, because glory is the mother of travail, and of labour. And seeing the heavens have appointed ihat I should be overthrown, I take no small pride and contentment, that it is my fortune to be prisoner unto the resplendent sun of your beauteous eyes, I having never beheld any thing, so fair and divine, throughout the world.  
But as mortal men, deserve norecompence from the heavens, until they have by thousand good proofs, testified the faithful and dutiful service towards them; So I will not presume, to importune you to affect me at all, much more to yield me any guerdon for my pains, until that by infinites of duteous devoyres, I show myself (insome part) worthy of your gracious service, which hath bound me, so firmly unto your peerless beauty. Mine only request unto you is, that it would please you, to have me in your lovely remembrance, and not to entertain any other as your loyal servant, before you shall have just occasion to discard, and give me over. For, as (no doubt) it will be little pleasing unto you, (hereafter) to repent you, that ye have made a worse choice, than of myself, so will it be far more bitter unto me, than a most desperate death, to be discharged from serving her, whom I love, more than mine own heart, and cherish, more than mine own life, yea then mine own soul, which is (now) wholly yours, seeing that he that is owner of the same, is the inviolable slave, unto your incomparable beauties.  
DON HORATIO.  
Izabella, (for so was her name) not acquainted with the humour of Love, as she jested at his amorous passion, so did she scoff at his Letter, making no account, either of the one, or the other. But as Cremona, and Mantua, were given by Augustus the Emperor, as a spoil unto his men, at Arius: and Soldiers, because they had taken part against him, holding with his enemy, the inhabitants thereof being driven from thence, and hardly entreated) and as such Subjects of that Prince are worse used, and with far more rigour and cruelty, who prove Rebleses unto him, than those which have been always faithful and true. Even so, such proud, audacious, and disdainful hearts, who at (the first) make no account of Love, and refuse his yoke most stubbornly, are more fiercely plagued after they are once taken down and conquered, than those who (betimes submit themselves unto this servitude, accustoming themselves by little and little, to support and bear this bondage patiently; of which, Sabella may be a sufficient witness, as (ere long) you shall hear.  
Horatio was then forgotten (as the Infant that hath forgotten his lesson which was taught him) and his Letter torn in pieces, which afterwards the proud Virgin bought at a high rate.  
Mean space, as two Rivers which mingle themselves together, 
A comparison.  environ a whole country, and became a little Sea; And as the fire being blown with two pair of bellows, kindleth more, than when it hath but one. So Don Horatio, pricked forward, by valour and Love, began to do incredible matters against the Infidels of Africa. So that he became to be famous in every man's mouth, there being no talk, but only of his worthy and valiant exploits.  
Izebella hearing him to be thus praised, & marking how the King himself, with all his chief Martialists, did highly commend him, began by little and little to grow gentle and mild. As the hard Diamond, becometh soft (put into the blood of a Goat; and that great Mass and lump of cruelty of hers, began to wax more kind, and to break in sunder, as the Snow fallen thick upon the top of a hill, at the shining of the Sun, melteth and droppeth away to nothing, in small time.  
But yet these light motions, were not sufficient, nor strong enough for Love, whereon he might build a firm foundation: he knowing the presence, and the speech of the brave Portugal Knight, would do more good than all these, which were no other than castles built in the air, or conceits framed by an idle head, they passing away as the clouds do post from one to another in the firmament. Not long after, news was brought unto the Court (for certain) that Horatio had won a notable victory of the King of Fez, killed many of his enemies, and gotten a notable rich booty and spoil: amongst which, was taken prisoner, a marvelous fair Lady, sister, unto the Barbarian King, married unto the Lieutenant of that country.  
Izabella; who cared not much, whether she lost Horatio, or no, before these news, because she made no great account of him, began now to doubt, that this captive Dame, would take her conqueror prisoner, robbing her of that, which she refused to take for her own: so as now she began to wish for to have him playing as young children do (who after they have resused some certain thing) begin to grieve mightily when they see the same given unto others: and this was the cause, she now began to wake and look about her.  
divers strange and prodigious are the effects of Love, which maketh me think, that Force only, & not Venus, was his mother: and that Despair first begot him, for he doth nothing but violently: not unlike unto the thunderbolt, which never tumbleth down upon the ground, but it breaketh one thing or another.  
But now Horatio, laden with fame, with spoils, and with prisoners, returneth home to Portugal, upon whom every one casteth his eye, whom every man doth highly commend, and unto whom all degrees (whatsoever) do use much duteous respect, and humble reverence.  
The King himself doth him great grace, entertaining him with high commendations, giving him many kind thanks, for his so valorous & honourable carriage against his enemies: yet notwithstanding all these favours, he rather chose to have had one amorous glance from his Mistress, than all these Royal courtesies.  
He seethe himself honoured by the King, made much of by the Nobles, respected by the inferior sort, and to be accounted of and commended by every body. Nothing wanteth for the perfection of his glory. He cannot wish for more than he hath, nor desire more, then is already attributed unto him: yet nevertheless, he maketh no account of all these his good fortunes, no more than that man doth, who enjoy a most precious and inestimable jewel, disdaineth and refuseth other little rich stones, although they be much valued and accounted of by other. The only presence of his Lady, was that which pleased his mind, and the least sweet look cast from her smiling countenance, bred more contentment in him, than all the honours and entertainments whatsoever. Every man hath a particular affectection that governeth him, and some one thing which he esteemeth more than all the rest, to enjoy which, he accounteth his chief glory, pride and contentment in this world, despising all whatsoever else might happen by any other means unto him. Some delight in greedy covetousness, some in renowned Chivalry, some in aspiring ambition, and the most part in hot and furious love.  
Nothing pleaseth these kind of men, but only what is affected through these things, not esteeming aught to be good or allowable, which cometh any other way, although it be profitable, praiseworthy, and fair. And this was our Portugal Knighs conceit, who now was grown into such credit in the court, with the King having won himself such commendations by reason of his valour, as he might command that which other Gallants and Gentlemen (scarce durst not open their mouths to entreat for) so that having egress and regress at all hours, and to every place, he one day espied (a fit time) to break his mind unto his Mistress, whom he finding alone, began thus to give her the onset: he that is troubled with any grief, is much lightened of the same, when he hath unfolded and discovered it unto his friend. Now fair Gentlewoman, of all evils that I have known (in my conceit) there is none that cometh nigh unto Love, in respect of cruelty, for all other diseases have their remedies only, he is (as it were) without recure.  
Notwithstanding, as he entereth in at the eyes, who stand him in steed of torches, to set him a fire in the heart, so will he (perforce) pass from forth the mouth, taking (the tongue for a Herold) or Trumpet of his designs. I speak this by experience, although unto my no little sorrow: unless your harsh and hard rigour grow to be gentle and mild, and except you lay a side this cruel vail which hide the pity of your inward thought. Alas sweet (Lady) if sometimes we love those who hate us, & such as bear us no good will at all, how much more (in reason) then ought we, to affect those that love us indeed? For although their friendship is not profitable unto us, yet nevertheless, ought we to accept of their good wills, inasmuch, as we cannot love one, unless we wish, covet and procure the credit and good of such whom we fancy: which me thinks should bind us in conscience, to show the like good meaning again: considering that the bruit beasts themselves, fancy those, that do good unto them, doing a kind of reverence unto their governors, that govern and bring them up. That your beauty, being so rare as it is, cannot suffer or endure any thing, that is bad or vicious, I doubt not at all: for (most commonly) that which is perfect of itself, is not so easily through vice corrupted, which put me in good hope that you will not blame my loyal amity, my true intention, nor the chaste desire I have had (always) to serve you. If therefore it shall please you, to entertain me into so happy an office, you then shall quickly perceive many true effects, to spring forth, from this my faithful servitude, a double band, tying me, against the harshness of your rigour, and I being double wise moved and compelled to serve you; the one is your admirable & incomparable virtue, which admitteth no comparison: and the other is your excellent beauty, which glistereth among other faces, as though Sun doth among the starts. May be (you will say) that Love hath set me down this lesson, teaching me what I should speak, and that never any Lover thinketh that Subject foul which he loveth. To which I will answer you, that if you were not worthy of the praise I have given you, and meriting every way, to be beloved, Love never had made use of your singular perfections, to overthrow my liberty, as he hath now done; because he can never make a show, of the greatness of his power, but by such rare Subjects, as Nature doth furnish him with all, through which he helpeth himself, to take prisoners, the hearts of greatest monarchs: this being the reason, we seldom or never sees foul or vicious woman to be affected or loved, for that Love refuseth to do such a one as, she any service at all.  
It is no unhonest desire, that inflameth me with your kind a mitie, for rather would I choose to die, than once to hold within me such a bad thought, and much less, do I make Eburting mine exercise, to pass the day withal, now I am free from wars. For too precious a thing do I esteem Time to be, to consume and lose it without any good occasion: neither is it my meaning any way, to go about to deceive you, for so doing I should but deceive myself; and deceiving myself, I should (quickly) be the author of mine own proper overthrow, my pretence being to seek you with a chaste mind, in the way of sacred marriage, with the consent of your friends, according unto all orderly proceed.  
Think then (sweet Lady) how plain my meaning is, how holy mine intentions are, and how chaste my desires; remembering that Wedlock is a matter you can hardly avoid: & therefore I beseech you, if you find me any way worthy of your friendship, cast him not away, that honoureth and adoreth you, more than his own soul: neither frustrate him of that good fortune, which he hopeth to find by enjoying of your seemly self, because he neither will, nor can be fortunate, but to make you blessed: neither seek for any renown, but only to make yourself, the more glorious for ever. This was the sum of the Cavaliers speech.  
Who, silent (now) attends his Lady's kind reply,  
Whilst to his heart, she wounds doth dart, with her fair eye.  
Our sane Maid of Honour, unaoquainted altogether with such business as this, whose chaste cares (until now) were always shut unto such Orations as these, was much amazed, to hear such a speech as this, not knowing what answer to give unto Horatio, upon the sudden; She saw his virtue, his reputation, and his glory, had made him famous and commendable, his love to be chaste and laudable, and his modest, and pudicque intentions, worthy of all succour reasonable.  
But yet on the other side, a number of these odd contrary conceits (which hinder men much in their first proceed, and so hardly bring it to pass, when they have begun the same, as the most part of them, like fainthearted cowards) give over in their pursuit, without doing any good at all) made her to pause, and doubt upon the matter, fearing lest, as into unknown places, all enterings and beginnings are dangerous, so this his eager chase in love, was followed, either for some mischief, to light upon her body, or else for some stain or blemish unto her honour.  
Besides, such Virgins as are not practised at all in the Art of Love (although they think well of such as are suitors unto them) always imagine (so simple are they) that their (credits should be much disparaged, if they should not give two or three proud or disdainful answers unto their servants, when they first begin to court them: and therefore for fashion sake, this Gentlewoman thought to do the like: but yet bethinking herself somewhat better of the matter, she thought it was as good to forbear, as to do it, one while she thought upon one thing, and another while, upon an other, in the end she resembled 
The Rosy bad, which wind bloweth here and there amain,  
Holding his head down, which he raiseth up again.   
She loved Horatio, admired at his valour, honoured his Chivalry, highly prized his glory, and found herself tickled with the great praises he gave unto her. But as too much good fortune, is not the best, & too much ill fortune, is as bad, the moderate and temperate, being that which is the golden mean; so this Damozell compoundeth her answer of sweet and sour, nourishing the mind of her Lover, as well with hope, as with fear; following herein, the cunning Pothicarie, who covereth his bitter Pill with gold all over. And thus she answered unto him.  
I willingly confess (noble Lord Horatio) that your worthy valour, deserveth great commendations, but though it be of great force, against the enemies of the King, yet bathe it no power, nor interest over me. For although I highly prize it (as every one else doth) yet do I far more esteem of mine honour: and therefore persuade yourself of this, that in comparison of that, I scorn the greatest things in the world be they never so precious. I, most strange and monstrous is it, for virtuous Maidens to love, whose liking aught to be tied, unto the good will of their parents, and depending upon their pleasures, they can make no promise without their consents.  
This maketh me to smile at you, and to think such Lovers to want their right wits, that so foolishly follow in pursuit, the love of such Virging as are wholly subject unto the disposing of their kindred. For what good answer may they look for (to please themselves withal) from such as cannot bestow themselves as they would? And such an answer, must I be feign to give unto you, for that I cannot assure you (for certainty) of any such thing as you desire. For, of myself, I am no body, but as it were under covert barn, my good ill and my body, being wholly in the possession, and at the disposing of my gracious Lady and Mistress the Queen, and of mine own Father, my Lord Samperius.  
Besides, I so well like of a Virgin's life, which is not subject unto cruel Hymen, as I wish not, nor willingly would give it over, to be come a Bondslave of a freewoman, not forgetting, that as long as men are wooers, they are servants: but no sooner have they obtained what they would, but then (straight) they become Masters and Lords over us.  
Again, I am not ignorant, that they will not spare for fair speeches, that they want not pithy persuasions, and above all, they will not stick for golden promises. But the old saying is, that he that scoreth best, payeth ever worst: and great bragger's, are least performers of their words. And me thinks you do great injury unto these beave qualities in you, to spend your time, in courting a silly damozell, who cannot pleasure you: when you might better employ the same, to the great profit of your King and Country.  
Then (valiant Horatio, follow the Wars again, and lose not your glory and Honour) through vain and idle LOVE: to the end you may not be blamed, neither I suspected to be the cause of your loitering (here) at home, without doing any thing: as if I had pulled your Armour off, from that warlike, courageous, and valiant body of yours.  
And this persuade yourself, that the renowned credit which shall come unto you, by your gallant, venturous, and brave exploits, shall sooner win me to be yours, than all the cunning trains that you can devise by Love to take me: and that I make more account and estimation of them, then of all the Oaths and protestations that you daily use.  
And this, when you shall have accomplished at the full, and when my Father shall be returned from the Indies, (if it shall stand with the good liking of the King, the Queen, and him) I then shall be well content and pleased, to take unto husband, such a brave Cavalier as yourself is: and until then, you shall pardon me. For as I am now, so will I keep myself, whilst you (in the mean time) may study how to show and make trial, of the rare and admirable proofs of your undoubted and invincible courage and valour.  
But will you then (sweet Mistress, replied the Knight) be every way as good as your word, and perform what you promise at this time?  
That will I (answered the Lady) as I am a true Maid. Provided always, that you take that virtuous course, which I have set down unto you, accomplishing every thing orderly, and all obstacles and lets taken quite out of the way, by the consent of all my foresaid friends.  
It is enough (said Horatio) and I take your, fair promise, upon which I will build, as upon a flinty Rock, assuring yourself, that ere long, you shall hear some news of me.  
Hereupon, kissing her dainty hand, he departed from her, most luckily performnig his promise.  
O mighty LOVE, not jove: (though mightiest God be be)  
Can bring to pass such wonders, as are done by thee.  
Horatio making all possible haste to be gone, and providing every thing necessary for his journey, (presently) saileth unto Saffin, where he achieved many strange and wonderful enterprises, over the Infidels in Africa: burning their Cities, slaughtering their people, and overrunning all the whole Country: Insomuch, as his glory every day, grew greater and greater, he being now grown a terro unto his foes, and a great Honour unto his own Countrymen.  
Which done, he cometh back again unto Portugal, whither also Sampeius the Father of Izabella, was returned from the Indies: who hearing such a general applause of pra●se given unto Horatio, began to affect him wonderfully, whilst he, following his Love business in chase so earnestly, and with such good means, as with the consent of all parties, as the King, the Queen, and Sampeius himself, the marriage between valiant Horatio and fair Izabella, was concluded, consummated, and finished, with the greatest pomp, and most Princelike solemnities that might be.  
Our Lovers, so entirely loving one another, as they could scarcely abide to be one small minute asunder. So rare and admirable was their love, as that of Priam and Hecu. ba, was not the like: Nor that of Scipio and Cornelia, to be compared unto the same.  
Their two hearts were but one: their two bodies, but one mind and thought: and their will and affection, was all one, without any difference at all.  
In respect of their kindness, let that of Seleucus and Stratonica be void, and the rare fancy that was found to be between Ulysses and his constant Penelope, there having been (never) so earnest, or ardent a kind of affection, as theirs was.  
But what is too violent, can not be permanent and firm. Tempests and storms, the more furious and raging they are, the lesser time they continue and endure. Even as that body is suddenly overthrown and killed, that is surprised with a most sudden dangerous disease.  
Mean while, Horatio grew every day in more favour with his King then other, In so much, as not long after, he chose him Governor of Ansillies, whither he must needs go, to keep possession there.  
O how sweet is Honour, (be it never so painful) unto generous and courageous Spirits, as unto Hercules, and to others? They leaving all soft, ease, and safe pleasures, to run desperately to win Honour: passing through many thousand Pikes, and wading through infinite dangers and perils, with great labour and pain, before they could attain unto the place where it was seated.  
So the prudent Prince of Ithaca, left his constant wife, to follow the long and tedious ten years siege of Troy. And so the great Gueslin, high Constable of France, left his Spouse, to venture for that glory, in the midst of wonderful dangers, which made him famous for ever. 
An example.   
And so our renowned Portuguese, although he held nothing so precious, nor so religious in the whole world, as he did to live with his sweet Izabella, whose company was his Paradise, and whose presence, his heaven here upon earth.  
Yet would he needs leave all this felicity and happiness, to endure in steely Armour, the brunts of bloody War, and whole worlds of Travails and painful labours, to the end he might win Honour: which Noble and Heroical minds hunt after so much. And (which many times, they dearly buy) with the loss of their most precious lives.  
He therefore resolved to departed, (although not without exceeding great grief,) to leave his fair and beauteous Spouse, and the rather, because he hoped to attain unto more Honour, through his worthy demeanour, and brave carriage, he having excellent means (as now) to show afresh, some fruits of his former towardness and forwardness (in his Prince's service in the Wars) by reason of that great and worthy Command, which was bestowed upon him.  
He thought, that (who always) should live drowned in pleasures, resembled the Companions of Ulysses, changed into Swine, and that nothing was well gotten, but what was purchased with the hazard of a man's life.  
Whereupon, with many sighs, with many bitter tears, and sorrowful laments, he taketh leave of his doleful wife. For commonly, we are admonished (by GOD) through some secret knowledge, when some mischance is coming towards us, which we can no way avoid. So that the woeful Lady Izabella, (foreseeing as it were, beforehand) the mischief that was like to light upon her; did nothing else, but power forth whole showers of tears, having not the power to let her Husband lose, from out of her arms.  
The winding Vine, never held the Hasell or filbert, more entangled within her leaves, 
A Simile.  nor the green ivy, never cleaved (so fast) unto the old stony wall, as this young Lady clung about her heavy Spouse; whom LOVE, whilst sought by violence, to hold still, stern HONOVE plucked him from thence by main force, carrying him away with him.  
He was ordained for further ill, to go his way,  
Nor doth the life of Man, 
A Sentence.  stand always as one stay.  
His wife prayeth, desireth; and coniureth him to break his voyage, to give over his enterprise, and to continue still with her: teling him, that she had (as yet) but only tasted the blessed pleasures which chaste wedlock acquainteth faithful Lovers withal, without having had the lawful fruition of those sweet contentments, which she so much desired.  
But she pleaded in vain, and to no end, her Husband was deaf, and would not yield unto her demand. Honour dried up her tears, making them to be of no force, whilst glory was the hatchet, that cut off her precious speeches: and desire of praise, the fire which consumed her most passionate prayers.  
And therefore (though passing loath, he taketh his leave and departeth,) carrying away with him the wounded heart of his lovely Spouse, in exchange of which, he leaveth havie mournings, and sad laments, which followed her, even unto her very grave.  
Horatio being now arrived at Ansillies, followeth his business most fortunately, Mars chase away Cupid: cruel wars, gentle Love: and haughty ambition, the sweet remembrance of his wife.  
It is a common fashion of many men, to follow a thing most earnestly and eager, and then presently (and upon the sudden) when they have gotten it, 
A Sentence.  they give it over, nor caring a whit for the same any more. Resembling herein the wayfaring man, who (a far off) seeketh a fountain or spring, to staunch his thirst, and having freed himself of his dryness, maketh no more account of the water, nor would stir one foot to find it again.  
But this was not all. For the Heavens above, abounding in good or bad Fortunes, rain not one down alone, but many other, all together and at one time: and we see (for the most part) that one mischief never cometh, but that there falleth another, upon the neck of the same.  
For so it was, that Horatio being far off from his dear Spouse, and deprived of her company (by reason of the wars, wherein he was so much busied) chanced to become amorous of the fair Prisoner he had of late taken in a Battle, as I have said before: yea, and so much doth he dote of her, that as the flaming Torch, darkeneth the light of the candle, so likewise this love, quenthed the love he had before borne unto his wife.  
O ungodly Husbands, which so wickedly falsify your faiths, unto your lawful and loving bedfellows: deceiving them so shamefully, unto your own shames. 
Against had Husbands.  Have ever any of you lived, without being punished of the Almighty, for your heinous faults? Was not Paris the overthrow and breake-necke of all his House and Country, for defiling the bed of Menelaus, and rejecting his betrothed wife Enone? Came not jason to a miserable end, being deprived of his Children, of his Wife, and his Palace, for abandoning Medea, and for taking another false wife?  
And did not Theseus stain his hands in the chaste and pure blood of his own son Hippolytus, for giving over his dear Spouse Ariadne, 
Examples of bad Husbands.  to the end he might satisfy his lust with Phoedra?  
And so was Horatio well plagued for his licentious pleasures: For God most justly punished him, defacing his former glory, weakening his virtue, ruinating his credit, and utterly overthrowing his valour.  
So (long since) Solomon, through Harlots, lost his divine wisdom: they forcing him to become an enemy unto God. So the strumpet Dalila, was the cause of the death of Samson the stout. And so have many other brave and great personages been utterly overthrown, by this enticing Sex, and severely chastised by God, as he did our great Commander of Ansillies, who was so besotted of his slave, as he lived not, but only by her looks.  
Her eyes, was his bright Sun, he none desired but her,  
She only fair was, her above (none else) he did prefer.  
A strange thing, that (many times) these foolish and wicked Amours should be more hot and lively, than such as be lawful and chaste. The reason being, either because they are forbidden by the Law (man commonly, loving that which he is prohibited to do) or, because they are (as it were stolen) or enjoyed but seldom, keeping such Lovers in a perpetual appetite and desire. As those who rise from the table (their bellies half filled) come to their diet with better stomach, than such as are over-satisfied & glutted before. Or else, it is (as I think) for that the devil is in these lewd livers, who more and more enticeth and provoketh them to follow this sin, from which they can never, (without the great grace of OOD) retire nor withdraw themselves, until such time, as utter ruin and destruction falleth upon their heads.  
But now Horatio began to lose his wont reputation and credit, every one speaking ill of him, for his new Minion which he had gotten, he being then, as infamous for his bad life, as he was (before) renowned for his worthy virtues: yet was he so shameless and so impudent, that he would stop his ears unto such as sought to give him good counsel and advise, making a show as if he knew no such matter, and that all was well: whilst he was so bewitched with this raging and incestuous Helena, as he could not be quiet, nor rest any where, except this notorious Courtesan were by him, insomuch, as he carried her with him into the Wars, wheresoever he went, which she made earnest show to desire, feigning that she loved him so dearly, as she could not live without his company: when the truth was, (she sought all the ways that might be) to be with her former Husband again, and to be revenged of Horatio, who kept her sore against her will.  
Such foolish women, doing much like unto Lice or Fleas, which leave a dead coarse, (presently) assoon as they find whereon no more to bite: and so these kind of common ware, never love, but for their own commodity or profit. No more than the common Queans, who sent packing away the prodigal Child, without as much as one cross or penny in his purse, to bless him withal.  
Now whilst our Governor of Ansillses, lived thus licentiously, the chaste Izabella, chanced to hear how badly her perjured Husband had used her, how ill he had demeaned himself toward her, she understandeth of his follies, and hath knowledge of his over-lustfull and raging fault.  
O how cruel is the wound that one receiveth of his friend! and how grievously do we take an injury of those, whom we account and hold as chief defenders of our welfare and our good, reputing them as our best friends. To receive a wrong of a foe, is an usual matter, but to be abused by one's dear friend, doth gall the very heart.  
Too true doth this poor Lady find the same, who hearing of these unwelcome news, thought presently, as gallant spirited Portia, to give over her life. divers conceits ran in her troubled brain, whilst she is vexed and tormented with rage and disdain, with grief and jealousy.  
One while, she thinketh to die, and then changing that advice, she determineth to revenge herself of her unconstant Husband, but she bore him so loyal an affection, and loved him so dearly, that this also was quickly out of her mind.  
Now she resolveth and determineth to commit herself unto the mercy of the Seas and winds, and to sail, to seek him out at Ansillies, to complain justly of him there, to reprehend him for his fault, and to be object unto him, in his vicious kind of life. But disdain quickly altered that devise, thinking with herself, that in so doing, she should too much abase herself, to venture and endanger herself so much, for a most lewd and vile licentious Palliard, he no way deserving so charitable an exploit at her hands.  
Many times did she send unto him, and often did she write, one while sharply, another while sweetly, but all was one with him: for never would he vouchsafe her any answer, by Letter, or by word of mouth.  
Only he would jest and gibe at her messengers and messages, whilst being enchanted with the unhonest love of his enemy, he studied how he might satisfy and content her alone; which, his last bad usage, grieved her more than the rest, enforcing her to begin to lament afresh.  
Ah (said she) how justly am I punished for mine own error. Who will bemoan him, that would not be warned by the harms of his neighbour?  
What reasonable excuse can that man allege for himself, that falleth into the selfsame pit, into which he hath seen him fallen, that hath gone before him? How many wretched Ladies like unto myself, (most ungodly abandoned, and cast off by their wicked Husbands) might I have had for examples, not to believe these flattering men?  
Shall I come and complain unto thee, woeful Ariadne? Alack I dare not. Shall I make my moan unto thee hapless Enone? No, no, I must not: seeing the least of your misfortunes, had been enough to have made me wise.  
O just God, revenger of all Oaths broken, that so cruelly didst punish Laomedon, for infringing his promise: Canst thou suffer the most perjured wretch in the world to live, and to scape scotfree?  
Am I so cruelly destined, that he must follow me, with thousand torches of grief unto my Tomb, who should have bene (in right) unto me, as the comfortable Sunshine of my life?  
O faithless Husband, how quickly hast thou trod under thy feet, thy fair promises? And how little a while, hath lasted the care of loyal Love betwixt us? And (now) thou hast so miserably deceived me.  
What canst thou have of me, more than my death? which I know thou wouldst be wonderful glad of, to the end I might not urge thy guilty conscience, for this so foul a fact against me.  
And certainly, were it not for this, I would most willingly die, but to the end, I may somewhat vex, and revenge myself of thee, I will, although unwillingly, live a little longer; knowing nothing can be more grievous or unwelcome unto thee, than my company and presence. Yea, I will come before thee, (face to face) and upbraid thee for thy fault, even unto thy teeth.  
I will pull out those shameless eyes, of that impudent Strumpet, who keepeth (unjustly) that from me, which is mine own: and whom thou preferrest before thy lawful and chaste spouse. That done, I will hasten the heavens to shorten my life, I will make my daily prayers, that I may die quickly.  
The foaming waves (therefore) shall not hinder me of my journey: the cold Seas shall not freeze the hot desire I have to see thee: neither the fear of the rising billows, shall let me from coming unto thee, I being not able any longer to live, unless I may come to put thee in mind of thy fault: not doubting, but the raging waters will be more kind unto me than thou art, at (lestwise) I mean to try them, by reason of the small joy I have of my life: which I neither esteem, nor make account of at all.  
Thus lamrnted this comfortless Lady, whom Love and jealousy egged forwards, to go onwards with her journey.  
No peril (to give over her purpose) can her make,  
So little care, she of her loathed life doth take.  
(Often) is it seen, that such desperate persons as are weary of their lives, 
An example.  scape the soon the greatest dangers, which never offend them: whether it be, because they are (already) thoroughly satisfied and contented with their miseries, being loath to wrong them any more. Or whether it be, for that some good Angel doth accompany and guide these wretches, who without divine help and assistance, would utterly damn themselves for ever.  
But (now) by this time, the desolate Lady, had caused a Ship to be thoroughly furnished at all points, into which, as a courageous Medea, she entereth, cutting and slicing the salt waters, so long, till at last, she happily arriveth at that City, unto which her Husband had withdrawn himself, the better, and more safely to live, in his secure and sensual pleasure.  
When, he hearing of her arrival, being far more savage than the bruit beasts themselves, (who hear the voices of their little ones, and of their companions) caused the gates of the Town to be shut, commanding her, upon pain of his displeasure (without vouchsafing so much as once to see her) to return back again into her Ship, with all her train, and so to hoist up sail and away, to the place from whence she came.  
O far more cruel than jason, who suffered Medea to be present, and to set out the Marriage of his new wife: far more unkind than great Agamemnon, 
An example.  who permitted his wife to live, and keep company with her Lovers. And more shameless than Mark Anthony the Romone, who left his virtuous and Princely wife, to satisfy himself with the embracings of that impudent harlot Cleopatra.  
There is no better vinegar, then that which is made of good wine when it soureth. Even so, the best Natures commit the grossest faults, when they give themselves over unto evil; I know not whether it is, because they have the more means to do the same then others: or whether it be, for that vice (waxing proud of so rich a prey) will never give them over, still keeping them to execute her wicked will in every thing. This piteous news so appalled the senses of the poor Lady Izabella, as she fell down into a dead sown.  
Her vital spirits fail her, and she falls for lost,  
Like one that is unto his grave (untimely) borne.  
In the end she came unto herself again, for an exceeding kind of grief, driveth away pain from the bodies of women, by reason that their sorrow floweth forth with their tears, and so waxeth less, because of the help that they have by sighing: which is not so with men, who for that they cannot show forth, either by their eyes, or by their voice, any part of their grief, are in the end stiffed and choked with the same: Not unlike unto an old Oaken tree, that breaketh before it will bow, which by reason it cannot bend (according unto the wind) is torn and rend up unto the very roots.  
Izabella then, hardly distressed, must needs swallow down this bitter potion (and patience perforce) must do all he hath charged her, not being able to contradict him in any thing. For the woman by the civil Law, is subject unto her husband, whose fault nevertheless, is not in danger of punishment, as that of the wife.  
Certainly, a most unjust Law, which (too being culpable of one and the selfsame offence) punisheth the one, and permitteth the other to go scotfree.  
Man by his sword revengeth the wrong his wife hath done, if (by chance, she breaketh the bands of Marriage, whereas the poor woman, in steed of using the like punishment upon him, is forced to see, to suffer, yea, and to allow, and bear with the unlawful adulteries of her husband. But such men, God (no doubt) will punish, as he did our forgetful Pertingale, not long after.  
Izabella, seeing no other remedy, putteth herself (once more) to the Seas, being often in the mind to throw herself therein, had it not been, but only that she feared the loss of her soul.  
Which custom the Paynims oftentimes used, to rid themselves from their troubles, and for that they respected not the immortality of the soul, in that they knew not the true God.  
All day long she wept, but the waters carried away her tears, and all the night she sighed, but the blustering winds whirled away her sighs.  
The Sea, storming at the injury she had received, began to swell for anger, to whistle for rage, and to fret and murmur, for despite and choler.  
It could not suffer such a great wrong, being far more pitiful, than her careless and cruel husband: And therefore meaneth to bring back the Ship (once more) wherein his saithful spouse remained, driving it to the selfsame Haven, where it had been the day before.  
Horatio not dreaming of any such matter, but still glutting himself in his amorous sport, with his subtle friend, seeking nothing so much, as how to please her, by all means possible.  
Even as Achilles did himself, a slave to Brixis yield,  
Although she was his slave by law, and won by him in field.  
But (LOVE is said to be blind) and respecteth not the condition of Creatures, neither hath he any respect of persons at all. Only he accounteth of their beauty, with which, he oftentimes helpeth himself to tyrannize over the proudest hearts, forcing the Prince (sometimes) to yield unto the Peasant, whereby he may bring himself to be (thought to be) more admirable in the eyes of mortal men.  
The comfortless Lady, seeing herself to be brought back again, by the proud and imperious winds, into the same port (much against her will) wherein she had harboured but a few hours before, fearing sore to offend her wilful Husband, (whose only pleasure and delight was to work her injury) began a fresh to renew her former complaints, sighing and crying out after this pitiful manner.  
Ah God, ah God, was it not enough, that I had mine husband to my mortal enemy, but that I must (needs) have the waves of the Sea also to bandy against me? for what remaineth to come, or what can there be left behind, to make me more miserable and unfortunate than I am already? seeing that he, who hath promised me so great love, so great friendship, and affection, and vowed so much, and so many oaths unto me, is the only man, that persecuteth me, as if I were the deadliest foe that he hath upon the face of the earth?  
Ah hard hearted, and forgetful Knight, ill wouldst thou pass so many dangers, venture through so many perils, and hardly wouldst thou endure such a hell of disquietness, for the love of thy wife, as Ulysses did for his, seeing, when I come unto thee, with so great trouble, thou not only disdainest me, but also refusest to admit me to come into thy presence.  
Ah good and kind Graccus (who to prolong the life of thy wife, didst shorten thine own) how far dost thou differ from my injurious Spouse? Such as are guilty, and do (but worthily) suffer for the evils they have done, complain (unjustly) and without cause, but oh how hard and unsupportable grief is it, to reap injuries, in steed of reward, for doing good turns? and how bitter is the pain which we endure, through the malice of those, whom we love best, and of whom we expect the like friendship again?  
The offence we receive of our enemy, is tolerable, because the law permitteth revenge in that case, whereas the law of friendship, forbiddeth to revenge us on such whom we affect, for fear of their displeasures.  
Ah my good God, what fault have I committed against my husband, that he should use me thus despitefully: Have I as Clytaemnestra, defiled our Nuptial bed? Have I as Helena the Greek, run into the arms of a ravisher of women? Or (as Semiramis) have I polluted mine honour and chastity, with incestuous kind of living? Oh no, I fear no such matter; God that seethe the sectets of all hearts, knoweth my conscience is free of any such ill.  
What have I then done? Alas I know not. Alas, for what sin am I thus severely punished? But O sweet Lord, as thou art divine in thy miracles, and terrible in thy judgements (the exemption of which cometh either, soon, or at last) so (I confess) thou now dost punish me, either for some fault of mine that is past, or else, for the sins which my forefathers have committed against thee. And yet this is some comfort unto me, that I am not the first Innocent, that hath been sore afflicted. For so was Susanna, so was job, so was joseph, and so were divers others, far more godly than myself.  
O miserable Dido, and yet more happy than I am, though thou wert left forsaken, by forsworn Aeneas, for short was thy pains, not long was thy grief, and sudden was thy complaints: a gentle death ending (with thy life) all thy sorrows and cares together, whereas I have not the selfsame liberty, to die as thou hadst, an other respect holdeth my hands, death being not in my power, as it was in thine.  
But (now) in the mean time, what shall I do, whether shall I go, or what shall become of me? The Sea will make me no way, to return from whence I came: and the furious rage of my husband, will not suffer me to come on land. Am I become some Patricide, whom the laws of man, deprive of air, of earth, and of water?  
O lamentable chance of mine, pitiful death receive this my wretched carcase into thy bosom, there to be huried, and rather sink this vessel, wherein I (now) abide, before thou carry me back unto that place, wherein I have received so great despite and wrong.  
Alas (mine eyes) what can you see to delight you any longer, when he that is most pleasing unto you, debarreth you from his lovely presence? To whom wilt thou my voice speak, seeing he hath closed thy mouth, whose speech before was most agreeable unto my soul?  
And (you my feet) whither now will you take your coarse, seeing that he, who was wont to guide your steps unto the Lodge of pleasure, hath now shut the gate against you?  
Ah gentle death; if ever the wail and lament of a most distressed wretch, have ever moved thee to compassion and pity, ah then let me obtain the same at thy hands. Do that which my cruel Husband (ere long) will put in practice, making meas happy, as I am now unfortunate.  
Thrice blessed Portia, death came unto thee, (to help thee) at thy need, and thou acceptedst of his help: happy Ariadne, for God took care of thy life, made much of thee, and in steed of Theseus, accepted of thy company.  
And O lucky Olimpia, though abandoned of Birannos thy forsworn Husband, yet a great Prince, revenged thy wrong, and took thee to wife, where thou livedst afterward in much joy and delight.  
But alas, no man helpeth me, none succoureth me, neither doth any come to assist me, in bewailing my misfortunes. Who (then) hath ever had so strange a mishap as myself? Ah that the spirit and Quintessence of my grief could dissolve into tears, that it might distil forth from out mine eyes: and that I might die like him, that having his veins opened in warm water, loseth both his life and blood together. Or that my sorrowful heart (weary with overmuch sighing and sobbing) would break, and burst in pieces. Might I (but die) I would not care what kind of death I suffered, so that once I were dead: for no death (be it never so monstrous) is equal with the least anguish that I sustain. Degenerate knight, and void of all remorse, seeing thou meanest to entertain all kind of cruelties whatsoever, that have been found in any creature (yea cven worse, than the bruit beasts themselves do use) why dost thou not put in practice, the bloody execution of the same, by cutting in twain my throat, as thou hast most irreligious cut in sunder the sacred band of Marriage, which should have bound us (still) fast together? Thou canst not do me a greater pleasure, nor a better satisfaction canst thou make me, for so many bad parts as thou hast played against me, than to make an end of me, with that hand which hath (so often) vowed and sworn, in most solemn manner, that I only maintained his Master alive.  
But I forget myself, let God (I beseech) work with me as it pleaseth his holy will: for just he is, and just are his judgements, he knoweth the hearts of every one, and he that is most culpable of us twain, he will I am assured, (in the end) punish.  
Whilst she was thus bewailing her misfortunes, behold news cometh unto her, that her husband was living, the City to go forth to the wars, through which occasion, she might very easily (if she pleased) have access and speech unto him. Which when she heard, she stood (long time) doubtful what to do: for as Love persuaded her to present herself before him, so the fear to offend him, the just disdain for so abusing her, with rage, jealousy & despite, did dissuade her from the contrary. What should she then do, she, both loved, & feared the presence of her Husband: she (wonderfully) desired to see him, & yet (sore) doubted, lest in offering to see him, she should (too much) move and anger him, by reason he had given commandment, she should not as much as once presume to come into his sight.  
But see the sudden changing of man's nature, and how God (oftentimes) putteth men in mind, of their own good and soul's health, when they are approaching nigh unto their ends, to the intent they utterly overthrow not themselves.  
For Horatio, who so mortally hated his chaste and loyal wife, being mounted on horseback, to encounter with the enemy (suddenly) began to be touched with a secret advertisement from God; sore longing (as then) to see her, whilst (from his soul) repenting him for his foul fact (his conscience told him, that the Almighty would punish him for the same, (as he himself thought he deserved no less) marching thus forward (although not with that alacrity of mind, nor that brave and stout resolution as he was wont to do) but rather heavily, and as one terrified and frayed, with some fatal and sinister mischance (his notorious strumpet riding by his side) behold, his sorrowful Izabella presenteth herself before him, falling down at his feet.  
As the woeful wife (to whom it is reported that her husband was slain) is confounded with amazement, & (suddenly) leapeth up, for very joy and strangeness of the matter, when she seethe him alive before her face. Even so was Horatio astonished, and wondered when he saw her there before him (whom he thought swiftly) to hau● been (at that time) as far as Lasbon: and who (quivering and shaking for fear) began thus mournfully to expostulate her cause with him. Cruel and v●●kind husband, was it not enough for thee to abuse me so extremely as thou hast done, and to fallifie thy faith and promise plighted unto me, in sacred wedlock, but that thou must needs exile, and chase me from thy presence, I coming so far off (as I did) only to see thee?  
Ah stay a little, stay and answer me if thou canst. Be not less cruel unto me, than that good Emperor Traianus was, who stayed his whole army, to do justice unto a certain poor woman, which complained unto him, that one of his Soldiers had ravished her daughter. Nor be not more ungentle and discourteous, than that barbarous Tambarlaire, who did as much to all his men of war, whilst (in their sights) he punished a Soldier of his, who had most villainously devoured certain victuals belonging unto a distressed widow.  
But it may be, thou knowest me not. Alas, I am thy miserable Izabel●a, (once) much loved and accounted of by thee, although thou now hatest her unto the death: yea, I am thy lawful and loving wife: whereas she (there) that accompanieth thee) is no better than a beastly strumpet, unworthy to be compared unto me.  
Ah speak (then) degenerate and discourteous Lord, and let me know thy mind, to the end I may understand whether I have lost my time and labour, or whether I shall be able to persuade thee to any thing. Remember, remember, too too (forgetful man) thy first love, thy millions of promises, and the many great favours which I have done thee, and let these just considerations and respects, be (as it were) flames of fire, to lighten, and revive in thee (again) thy first love, nor reject and contemn her, with so great disdain and displeasure, whom thou hast vowed to have esteemed as precious as thine own life.  
Alas, what offence, what fault, or what injury have I done unto thee, that thou shouldst thus injury me, and dishonour thyself for ever? Ah then at the last (dear husband) open thine eyes, and think of thy fault, amend what is amiss, and have care thou lose not thine ancient reputation and renown: Otherwise assure yourself, you shall be severely plagued by God, who will (also punish me) although I am not guilty of this offence, for that I ought not to live without you. O what great force hath the passionate & earnest speech of a just and rightful person, to touch a guilty conscience withal? and how truly speak that Greek, affirming, that if such as did but hear an Oration of Demosthenes penning, were much astonished and amazed thereat: then (no doubt) it would in a manner have killed them, to have heard Demosthenes himself, to have so lively pronounced them as he did.  
And this was the cause that our Portuguese, so insolent (before) began now to yield and to be vanquished, remembering himself of his fault, and resolving from his heart, to amend the same (had it not been for his strumpet) who very cunningly persuaded and egged him forwards of his journey) he had (as then) returned back with his wife unto the City again, to entertain her according unto her desert and calling: this had he done, had it not been (as I say) for the other, whom (now) in mind, he began to loath and hate (the presence of his own Spouse, making the other seem in his eyes, loathsome and foul, as well in body, as in mind) and but for that he could not with his honour retire back) being gone so far on his way, lest the world should have thought he durst not dare to look his enemy in the face.  
Whereupon, kissing his wife very kindly, he desired her to enter into the City, and to stay his coming (where said he unto her) I do solemnly vow to satisfy you every way to your own contentment, and to make you what amends you shall appoint, for the amiss I have done you. Mean time (sweet wife) I most humbly beseech you, by these salt tears of mine, distilling from mine eyes outwardly, and by these warm drops of blood, that drop down from my heart inwardly) Pardon, ah pardon this my fowl sin towards you: for (it may be) I may be slain in the field, or die in battle. And thus, hoping upon your gracious nature, I will now leave you, because my time is short, and the business requireth great diligence I have in hand, (sweet) then (for a while) be satisfied with this, hoping as speedily as possibly I can, to return as a joyful Conqueror, to make you the more happy. In the mean time, let me have your good wish and prayer, and so (farewell) mine own dear soul. Herewithal kissing her again, he commanded certain of his Train to attend upon her into the City, who brought her into Ansillies, where she remained, expecting her husbands coming hom.  
Now Horatio, no sooner was come into the field, but that finding the enemy, he so bravely charged upon him, as he put him to the worst presently. Notwithstanding all this, within an hour or two after, his foe had gathered another strong company, and with a fresh supply, was coming towards Horatio, to win the day, which he had but that morning lost.  
Amongst the rest that were in this Pagan Army, was the husband of that Moor, whose wife Horatio had brought with him into the wars, who having a sight of him, and spying a fit time for her purpose, used these short and sharp speeches unto him.  
Well, cowardly and faint-harred Knight, well, wilt thou still suffer me to live as a slave, under my hateful enemy? Hast thou no shame of my shame, and doth not my dishonour touch thee any thing at all? Where is that former love thou didst heretofore protest unto me? Swearing, thou wouldst venture thy best blood in my defence, and for safeguard of my life. Base minded man, dost thou not blush, to suffer thy wife to be with thine enemy's prisoner, whilst he useth her, and forceth her to satisfy his will as he pleaseth, and when he thinketh best himself.  
Come, come, for shame, show thyself valiant (now) or else never, and try thy force, to deliver and set her free, who hath done nothing else but sigh and wail (since she was first taken from thee) so much hath she grieved to lose thy love: And this, if thou dost not perform, she herself voweth, with her own hands to murder herself, rather than live (thus) still, in such base and abject servitude and bondage.  
These speeches did the cunning Courtesan use sepatheticallie, sending forth so many sighs and tears, to accompany the same, that (as I guess) the rightful God (to revenge poor Izabellas' wrongs) did so much animate the strength and courage of the Moor her husband, that as one desperate, with rage and jealousy, he most furiously runneth with all his Troops, upon the Portugal Army, whom as a Thunder or Lightning, he overturneth, so that the Christians (do what they could) were overthrown, and had the worse. Which when Horatio percelued, he as a wise and politic captain, began with advantage, to retire, until such time, as the foresaid devilish Moor came where he was, who with his wife set upon him, where Horatio slew them both, whilst in this conflict, over pressed with numbers of Soldiers, he was strucken down, and thrust through with a javeline, where he lost both force and life together.  
So died the companions of Machabeus, 
An example.  being slain by the sword, who were found charged with Thefts and Robberies. So by the decree of God, those chief men, and heads over the people of the Jews, were hanged up, because they caused the other to commit Idolatry, and leave their Creator. So was the perjured Zedechias, forced to die in prison, having his eves pulled our, and his children slain before his face. And so perished joconias, and divers others, justly punished by the holy one of Israel. For justice divine, never giveth over from doing right. And if it be slow in coming, yet doth the cruelty of the punishment, make amends for the deferring of the same.  
Mean time, the Portugese's gathered themselves again into battle array, and followed their enemies, with so hot a pursuit, as they (at the last) recovered, and brought back again the body of their captain, over which, the Moors meant to have triumphed.  
So for the body of Achilles' dear friend slain,  
The Greeks' and Trojans, hand to hand, do fight amain.  
Hardly did these Infidels let the body go, skirmishing (oftentimes) with their foes for the same, yet nevertheless, in despite of them all, the Portugese's gote it away, and brought it with them, which (as yet) breathed, and had some little life within it. But sorrowful news were these unto heavy Izabella, who hoped, that at the joyful return of her husband, all should be well, as she herself could wish. But man purposeth, and God disposeth: man hopeth of one thing, but God doth quite contrary to that which he supposeth.  
So Senacherib, thinking to conquer, was (himself) conquered: and the jews, who thought themselves to be quite overthrown, came in the end to be victors. So proud Goliath was slain contrary unto his own conceit, and to the opinion of all men.  
So Amon was hanged, never any thinking he should have died such a shameful death. And Mardocheus, who was condemned (to be slain) was honoured & delivered. And so it fell out with this uncomfortable Lady, who hoping to see her husband to come home well, and safe unto her (and to repent him of his former follies) found him to be slaughtered and dead, without life or soul.  
O cruel mutation & change, truth it is, that she (before) had heard by certain of her husband's Soldiers that had escaped out of the field, that the portugals had lost the day, but (yet) knew she nothing of his death. And yet even then, a cold fear ran all about her heart, whilst she (sore suspecting the worst) prophesied within herself, that it was true, and that she had lost her husband: and (not not long after) her doubt was confirmed, but with too too true a proof, when the rest of his band, brought his coarse into the city, unto her, where she was, and when (so denly) at the sight thereof, she sounded, it being long before they could get life in her again: whilst (in the mean space) Horatio mangled carcase was laid in a bed, God giving him so much time of repentance, as he craved mercy of him, and of all the world for his bad life, whilst all that small time as he (so) lamented his sins, his faithful Soldiers, with sad tears, wonderfully lamented the loss of so noble a General, under whom they had always remained vanquishers.  
So Greckes did wail Achilles' death (of great renown,)  
So Troyans, Hector moande (chief Fortress of their town.  
Great Machabeus, one of the Nine WORTHIES, was never more lamented amongst his men of war, than he was amongst the portugals, whom he had so often brought home victorious & laden with foreign spoils into their country; Who then perceiving himself, to draw nigh unto his end, desired to talk with his wife, that he might take his latest leave of her.  
But now what is he, that can lend mea Sea of Ink, to set down the grievous passions, and the insupportable sorrows, of his pitiful wife? Where shall I find a pen of Iron, to paint forth her lamentable speeches? And what paper is sufficient to receive in writing, the number of her more, then sad and heavy complaints?  
To hers, was the woes of Niobe, nothing at all. Nothing the griefs of Hecuba, nothing those of Portia, nor those of chaste Lucretia, compared unto hers. With much ado, was she brought unto the bed (for go she could not, for very faintness & weakness) where her repentant husband was giving up the Ghost) who so soon as he beheld her, O grief, O love, O pity, & O heavy spectacle that it was, to see this heavy meeting, such (as like) was never seen before: the poor dying soul, beginning in his death, to affect and love her more entirely, then ever he had hated her before, whilst thrusting forth his dying arms with seeble force, to embrace her, and laying his cold lips upon hers, with a hollow faltering voice, he began (thus) to speak as well as he could.  
O fortunate day, in which poor Horatio dieth, reposing himself at ease in the bosom of his Izabella. O my chaste and sweet Lady, must I needs die, leaving after my death so foul a fault, as thou shalt have cause to complain of me, as the author of all thy griefs whatsoever. No way am I able to make thee any reasonable satisfaction, neither know I, how sufficiently to make amends for so heinous, and so detestable an offence, as I have committed against thee, which the just God hath revenged upon me for thy sake, and according as I deserved.  
But (sweet wife) if (as yet) there remaineth any one small spark, of that rare and loyal Love, thou hast heretofore borne me, and if just grief, and rightful disdain, hath not quenched it all, and quite put it out; then by the selfsame affection and fancy, I pray, desire, and beseech thee, most humbly to pardon me this once, and not to be the cause that miserable Horatio, should go into his grave with great anguish, and exceeding bitterness of his soul. This pardon, as I hope for of thee, so do I expect it at thy hands: craving in the mean while (by reason of that little space of time I have to breath) thou wilt do me the favour to embrace me kindly, if it shall please thee, to think me worthy of such a kindness: this being the last request, and latest favour I shall crave at thy hands.  
Ah let me kiss those fair cheeks which were (sometimes) mine, and those sweet sparkling eyes, which had not the black foulness of my fault dimmed them, they had still stood me in steed of two glorious Sunny lights. Although I cannot deny, but thus to die in thy arms, doth much lighten and ease me of my torments I endure within my mind, yet had it pleased God, to have but given me the grace, to have survived (but some few years) that I might have made some amends unto my faithful Spouse (whom I have so wickedly abused) I then would have thought myself, to have been the happiest creature under the heavens. Think (dear heart) that I make no account, neither care any thing at all to die, but only for this cause, and for that I shall be forced to leave thee a Widow, whom I love, more than my own soul.  
Just and great reason hast thou to complain and find fault with me, and far unworthy am I, that thou shouldest shed these salt tears for my sake. For why shouldest thou wail his death, who hath been thy chief adversary? why dost thou sorrow for the loss of thy mortal enemy, and lamentest thou the death of him, who sought thy utter overthrow? Dry up these tears, for I desire them not. Leave these thy sighs, for I not merit them: and give over these thy bitter wail, for I am no way worthy of them. Only pardon me, & close up these my dying eyes, when they shall lèave their wont light: which done, if it shall please thee to honour this miserable carcase of mine, with thy presence, unto my Tomb, and (now and then) to think on me (although thou hast small reason so to do) then, than I say, shall I be every way contented and satisfied unto the full. Weep not I pray thee, then for me, who deserves no tears at thy hands, but rather ill thoughts: for otherwise I shall sustain a double death, thy sorrow being nigher settled unto my heart, than my deperture hence can be any way doleful unto me.  
So saying, the fainting knight kisseth his wife, wiping her blubbered eyes, and embracing her (as straightly) as the ivy doth the wall. If the poor Lady could not answer him, it was no great wonder, when as those that were but spectators in this heavy sight, (although they felt not as much as she) yet were they movelesse, and much amazed for very pure pity.  
In the end, the disconsolate Izabella, began to recover her speech, answering him in this sort. Cruel and hard-hearted husband, let my pitiful pain, my easeless griefs, and my insupportable sorrows, satisfy thee, without galling me any further with this word (pardon) unto her who never desired to live, but to do thee service.  
Ah dear Horatio, thinkest thou I can live after thy departure hence, and that I can joy in this world, being bereaved of thy company? Whilst thou did dost live, I was thine by the laws of marriage: and when thou art dead, I will be thine also, resolved to follow thee, wheresoever thou goest, thinking myself happy, that I am so luckily come, as to die with thee.  
Then, if I may, or thou wouldst have me to give any credit unto thy speeches, then in requital of them all, let me again entreat thee this one thing, which is, that I may leave this world with thee. But why should I ask leave of thee, when I am at liberty myself, to dispose of my life, as I shall think good of: and when with ending of one life, I may rid myself of a lingering death, which doth continually haunt me? Thanks (therefore) to thee kind Thethis, who didst drive my ship into this Port, where I may pass to heaven with him, who was the only life, and maintainer of my life, and who (being dead) I can no longer remain allue.  
Pitiless husband, to debar me from my tears, when as I see my country deprived of a brave defender of his liberty, and find myself forsaken, of the only, loyal, and most loving friend I had here upon this earth. No, no, I will weep, and shed tears, as long as any drop of moisture shall remain within this body: for should I not wail for thee, for whom (then) should I reserve these tears? Whose loss should I lament but thine? and for whom should I take thought or care for, but for thine own sweet self? who was so near to me as thou? who so dear as thyself? and who is to have interest in me, but my best and sweetest Horatio?  
Then hinder not her from lamenting, who liveth only to shed tears: and do not enure the happiness she findeth, in that she hath time to bewail her unhappy Fortunes. How wide is (my best Lord) from mine intention and meaning? and how slenderly doth he conceit of my love towards him? when he imagineth, that although I see him die, yet should not I wail: and that his death and destruction, should not be the end and date of my life: this being the least thing that I can do for him, the least duty that I do owe unto him, and the smallest testimony of my great affection, which I have ever borne him.  
Gush forth then my brinish tears, and stream down along my pale cheeks, washing away the blood of my wounded Spouse, mingling yourselves together, as my soul hath always been (with his) most perfectly mixed and conjoined, the one with the other. (My dearest Lord) if ever thou hast thought well of me, speak never more of this word pardon, it becometh me to entreat, rather than you: I having been she, that hath so often offended you: let us forgive & forget all unkindnesses whatsoever, that our souls as most loyal friends, may die and live together in eternal felicity for ever.  
O how like an Angel (replied Horatio) doth my Izabella speak, and how pleasing doth she cause my death to be unto me? would she but promise to survive and live after my death. (For sweet Lady) it is thy sorrows, and not my death, that shortens my lives and I die not for grief, but for sorrow, to see thee lament for my cause. Wilt thou die, and dost not deserve death? No, it is I that have offended, and therefore merit to be punished for my fault.  
Live thou happily still, and safely return thou home into thy Country again, where thou shalt not want new husbands, who will deserve (at thy hands) far better than I have done: & had I not so much forgot myself towards thee, as (I confess I have) my joys had been at the highest, and I had departed hence, the happiest man alive. But now mine hour approacheth; I feel death ready to arrest me with his iron mace; my heart fainteth, and my soul beginneth to fly from hence.  
To you I turn my speech now (my faithful fellows, and companions in Arms) who have always taken such fortunes as I have done; to you I recommend the honour of your dear friend Horatio, (sometimes your Governor) after his death. Most strictly charging you (as you shall answer before God) and most kindly entreating you, (as you will have the good will of men) to see my faithful and constant wife, conveyed safely from hence into Portugal, according unto her calling (after this my carcase shall be interred) & there to do her all dutiful service that may be.  
Farewell my brethren, my friends, and my companions: I go before you, to prepare places for you. I go to heaven, there to enjoy eternal happiness. Give me your hands every one of you before I die, and leave now these your needless and unnecessary mournings in my behalf. Remember that God is just in all his actions, who hath (and that deservedly) punished me, for abusing my constant Spouse, so heinously as I have done, being so void of grace, as to prefer a most damned strumpet, before her chaste and virtuous self, which was the only occasion of mine untimely death.  
Murmur not therefore at the divine judgements of the Almighty, neither be you grieved at my loss and ovethrow: for a far better, and a braver Captain may you have than I am, Portugal being able to field forth men, better for desert, and for valour than I have been every way. I say no more, but wish you (my faithful Soldiers) no worse, than I do unto mine own soul.  
And now once more again I come to thee (my chastest wife.) Although, what to say, more (than already I have done) well I know not: Loth I am to leave thee, yet leave thee I must, and therefore I hope thou wilt remember, not the fault I have done thee, but, how I repent me for the same before I die. And this persuade thyself, that if ever sin hath been grievous unto the sinner, then hath mine been the same: My very soul being sore vexed and tormented, day and night, every hour that I do but think thereof. But things past and done, are not to be undone: and what is once remediless, must needs prove to be recureless.  
Once more farewell, my sweet Izabella, to whom I wish no less joy, than I have felt of sorrow. Thou God, that knowest the secrets of all hearts, receive my soul (I beseech thee) and save it from the hands of the enemy. So saying, he gave up the ghost, being enfolded within the chaste arms of his kind wife, his face touching her face, and his lips joining unto hers.  
No sooner was his carcase without life, and cold as a marble stone, but his mestfull Izabella sunk down for sorrow. So that afresh as then, began cry out, screechings, wring of hands, and shedding of tears, the house resembling a shadow of that miserable mourning, when the Trojans saw their City set on fire by the Grecians in the night. So woeful and so shrill was the sorrows that every one made for their Lord, as the noise thereof, waked their unfortunate Lady from her passionate ecstasy, who being somwehat come unto herself, and falling upon the dead coarse, began thus to exclaim.  
Woe is me, that ever I was borne, and art thou dead, my dear Lord without me? Ah why hast thou left her, who had rather die with thee, then live with any other else. Thou hast left me at the worst, now thou art gone. For what am I, but an Anatomy of grief itself? What is my heart but a receptacle of sadness? And what are mine eyes, but a cold fountain, that distilleth salt water continually?  
Is it likely or possible, that Izabella should breathe, now Horatio is breathless? Can it be he should be dead, and I should be as yet alive? No, no, it cannot be, and yet in the mean time, his body is without life, and senses, and mine, too full of vital motion: but long it shall not be so; I must now resolve myself to follow the course my husband led me, and to take such part with him, as he hath taken before me: unfortunate I, to have stayed so long, and that I died not before my lovely husband. Can Portia die, when Brutus was slain? and may Izabella live, her Horatio having left her? Before that time come, the Seas shall change the course of his floods, and mountains shall remove, and come to settle amongst low valleys. As I saw thee (here) upon the earth, so hope I to behold thee in the Heavens. And for the conclusion and end of all my disasters, I will be interred in the place where thou art buried. Then kissing the pale lips of her dead husband, she thus began again.  
O fair mouth, from whence sometimes I sucked Nectar forth, must thou be a Trophy for death? And must thou be despoiled of so many rich virtues, to make famous his victory? Sweet lovely eyes, must you likewise serve to honour death, resigning over your quondam Diamond lights, unto black and gloomic darkness? And thou beauteous face, must thou turn unto earth, and show pale and wan, whilst I remain here against my will and pleasure?  
No reason is there herein, but that I should follow my Guide, and accompany him, at whose command I was always, and that most willingly. Ah my kind friends, I conjure you, by the late affection you bore unto your Lord and Goveruor (now dead) by the faith and promise you vowed and swore unto him, and by the sacred remembrance of his glorious renown, which never shallbe forgotten, that you consent and agree to bury our two bodies both in one grave. Whilst I lived, I esteemed as my chiefest treasure, my honour & good name; and now I die, my love unto my Lord shall remain as a precedent for Ages to come, of our loyal and true faithful love.  
I come sweet Horatio, I come, nor will I any longer linger in misery, but will seek thee wheresoever thou art, until I find thee, ending this my loathed life, with a death most sweet & comfortable. Then (sweet jesus) be merciful unto me, and forgive me this my last fault: which extreme and unsupportable sorrow, and not any desperate kind of conceit, forceth me to put in practice. And having so said, she went about to stab herself with a poniard unto the hart; when one of the company there by, snatched it forth of her hands, upon the sudden: whereupon, she seeing herself to be prevented of her purpose, looking angrily upon them.  
Well, quoth she, Portia (for all her Guard that watched over her) had her will, and died. Cato (despite of all his attendants) slew himself. And think you for all your narrow looking unto me, that I will not rid myself one way or another of life? Yes, yes, ye unkind men, I will dispatch myself from this misery (maugre your malicious minds) who I perceive do envy at my good Fortune: and I will complain of your hard dealing towards me unto my dear husband, in that you go about to keep me from him, whither I will or no. Nor was she deceived of her purpose, though thrice happy, in that it pleased God to call her himself, from out this vale of misery, and so by that means to save her soul. For no sooner was she hindered of her intent, but what for anger thereof, and what for extreme grief, for Horatio's death, she fell into a dangerous and hot burning Fever, which so violently seized upon every part of her, as her weak body being not able to endure the fiery raging thereof, she yielded her tormented carcase unto death, within six days after. At what time she was freed from all her former troubles, and after her death, she was (according unto her desire) interred with her husband, leaving behind her many commendations, for her matchless virtues, her loss being lamented of every good body, as was fufficiently shown, by the pitiful laments that were every where used for her sake, because of the rare examples of chastity, of patience, of modest demeanour, of love, and of loy altie, which she carried towards her ungrateful and unkind Husband.  
And this (Shepherd) is the history I meant to report unto thee, but because that Diana looking palish with her silver horns, meaneth to run her course, entering into the place of her glistering brother the Sun, we will (for this time) until to morrow morning, withdraw ourselves unto our Cortages, and then, as early as thou wilt, shalt thou begin the discourse of thy Love again.  
Whereupon, the old man, and Arcas, began to retire themselves homewards, and by the way they encountered a fair Shepherdess, who proposed a Riddle unto another, desiring him to interpret the same rightly. And this was it that followeth.  
For others good and profit, I (outrageous) still  
Consume, what doth my proper vigour entertain:  
And though my burning is not (unto any) ill,  
Where I should prais de be, they ungras of all me do name.  
Father of living Creatures all, I am renowned,  
And Lord I am over the Time, on earth, that stays:  
Yet doth a little thing daunt me, and me confound,  
And of a Conqueror, conquered, forceth me straightways.  
But in the end, although that I am plagued thus,  
Through succour of the winds, when (all) think I am dead,  
I rise again, to men (of times) most dangerous,  
And through my harmful rage, I fill them full of dread.  
My mother I devour, whilst I a stranger nonrish,  
(For ill) I good do to my spiteful enemies:  
judge then, since Serpents in my bosom, I do cherish,  
If I over wretched am not, in most piteous wise.  
The other Shepherd knew not the meaning of this Riddle, which the old man interpreted in this sort. Your Emgma, (fair Shepherdess) signifieth the fire, which being for the use of man, to warm him, consumeth & devoureth the wood, it being his mother, and nourisher. It is counted the Father of all living Creatures, who without heat, cannot live. Although he is of great force, yet doth a very small thing vanquish him, which is water. Nevertheless, when he showeth to be dead, a little blast of wind maketh him to burn more furious than before. He doth good to such as count and call him ungrateful, in warming them with his heat, and devoureth his mother, which is the reason he termeth himself to be most miserable and wretched.  
This solution every one commended, when (as they were walking homewards) one of the Shepherds sung this Ode following.  
To Lovers what good doth the Sun,  
If by his beams they be undone?  
love's as bitter as is Rue,  
Blessed are such, as near is knew.  
He is accursed that comes tot'h Sea  
Once were, and in port waist have ease.  
To Lovers, what good doth their Sun,  
If by his beams they are undone?  
A fend Lover doth not ●●ril,  
Name, nor fame, of mant inberit:  
Since he is fee to his own health,  
Whilst in fire he burns himself.  
To Lovers, what good doth their S●●●e,  
If by his beams they be undone?  
Grief 〈◊〉 Love tendeth nis,  
Pleasure is his 〈…〉  
Better laugh, then wade and sigh,  
Who then loves not his own life?  
To Lovers what good death.  
If by his beams.  
Without tears no Lover is,  
Nor his sad laments doth ●isse:  
Better far to live at ease.  
Then to seek a shrew to please.  
To Lovers what good,  
If by his beams.  
Wretched then be such as love,  
I'll live free, nor it will prove.  
For who'll count of him, that still  
(Like set) his wees nourish will,  
To Lovers, what good doth the S●●●e.  
If by his beams he be undone?  
This Ode being sung, every own departed, until the return of mestfull Aurera, leaving the Sister of Apollo, to run out her dark and gloomy course.  
The end of the second days meeting of juliettaes' Shepherds.   

THE THIRD DAYS MEETING OF JULIETTAES' shepherds.  
NO distance of place can hinder kind amity, no change of air, altar firm affection, neither can the separation of that which is loved, divide or keep back the Lover from his sweet Mistress.  
Too true (noble Phillistell) dost thou know this to be, thou being so far off from thy fair and sacred julietta and yet nevertheless, thou livest in her, and still dreamest of her beauty, whilst loving her, (although she be absent) thou canst not forget her, for that she holdeth thy heart with her as in a close prison, thou (in the mean time) feeling, and by thine own experience finding, how cruel unto a loyal Lover, the absence of his beauteous Lady is: the fish, not more desiring to have water for his nourishment, than he doth covet her company, it being the chief food of his soul.  
O how tedious and irksome unto him (who attendeth and expecteth the break of day to come, having some great matter of importance to dispatch) is the long seeming course of the unwelcome night: In all which time, he is not able to take any rest, looking still with open eyes, to spy the rising of the fair Sun, which he joyfully marketh, at his first appearing, to warm the little hills, to melt the soft snow, to glister and shine upon the earth, and with a solemn pace, to mount up, and to settle himself in his glorious chariot, riding in progress through the huge giring Vault of heaven, he seethe him bravely to chase away the sparkling Stars, as the Conqueror doth his enemies, that he hath vanquished; and beholdeth the sad and sable night, to fly from his cheerful face, as the timorous thief doth the severe judges presence, whilst he listeneth unto the melody of thousands of pretty Birds, which solemnize and celebrate, in their warbling notes, the arrival of the prudent Sire of proud Phaeton.  
Poor Philistell, how often hast thou counted short days for long years, after that malicious Fortune had sequestered thee, from the company of thy Lady? and how many times, didst thou dream in the night, that thou sawest her, devising and talking with thee, in the same manner as she was wont to do, when those happy Deserts of Arcadia, were true witnesses of thy chaste Loves? But all these were but fond imaginations, thy desire being but vain, and bootless, which so much the more urged thy soul to see her again, because her only sight, had (long since) wounded thy dearest liberty. Too truly didst thou then prove, that the greatest grief which the Lover endureth (being by his sweet Love) is nothing in comparison of that which her absence bringeth unto him, for she (which wounded him) is (then) at hand, and presently might help him if she please; whereas contrariwise, O'how lean, and meager, is the hope of him that is hurt, and is far off from a Chirurgeon to heal him. Small wounds are uncurable, where none is to help them, and the most desperate disease may be remedied, if a cunning Doctor be in a readiness to heal the same.  
If at any time a Lover (not having tried, how bitter the absence of his froward dame is) desireth to be banished far from her, by reason he is not able to support and endure her too too rigorous and disdainful demeaners towards him; how often then will he (afterward) condemn, and curse this his rash and hasty opinion, when (being far from her sight) he mourneth, and bewaileth in the very anguish of his soul, her absence, which he so much (although in vain) doth wish for.  
If weary travelers rejoice, when being nigh unto their native soil, they see their attorneys smoke, 
A Simile.  and smell the wholesome air of their own pleasant Country; how much more then, should Lovers triumph and joy, when (after many years of absence) they are coming home towards their Ladies, to have a sight of them again, they being the chiefest food whereon their hearts do feed?  
Philistell, then secluded and separated from his julietta, staying for a calm and fair wind, to put to the Seas, being by chance driven upon this uncouth Shore, could not rest day nor night, having this Trumpet of Love, which sounded always most shrillie in his ears.  
And therefore one morning he rose very early by break of day, walking along the Desert, to see if he could drive away his melancholy thoughts, and by chance passing by those Trees, into which the old Necromancer had changed those wicked thieves (which pursued the She pheardesse, to have ravished her perforce) he not thinking any thing thereof, (and being ignorant of this strange Metamorphosis) broke a little bough from one of them. When no sooner had he done so, but (behold) the Tree began to swell, to writhe, and bend, and to gush out with bleeding, from that branch that was so broken, casting forth great store of blood, which fell upon the ground. At which sight, Philistell was almost senseless with the wonder thereof. (For who would not be amazed at such a fearful accident?) Nor did he well know if he dreamt or waked, but much more was he astonished, when he saw all his hand bloody, and the broken arm of the Tree dropping down blood apace.  
This made him to stand stone still, to change his colour and countenance, and to look as one that were ready to fall into an Ecstasy or sound. 
A Simile.  No otherwise, than the young Scholar that is half dead with fear, seeing his master behind him, and taking him (upon the sudden) as he hath done some gricuous fault. Scarce would he believe his own eyes, to think he saw so strange an event, as a Tree to distil both blood and tears. But this was nothing, to that he was frighted, when he heard the Tree to speak in this manner unto him. Stay (courteous Shepherd) and hold thy hands, I beseech thee, contenting thyself with my most miserable Fortune, without increasing my mischief any more, in heaping Ossa upon Pelion, and one disaster upon another, it being a great shame, & no small disparagement unto mighty men, to afflict such as be plagued already, and who in kindness demand succour from them.  
Besides, thou shalt understand, I am a man most unfortunately turned into this insensible Tree, by a Magician abiding in these Woods, sore doubting that I shall still continue so, unless some good body or other, maketh intercession unto him in our behalf, (for more companions have I in this my misery, and as hardly destined as myself) that it would please him to restore us unto our former shapes and likeness again.  
Now, if every offence that is offered, demandeth satisfaction, and if this, which thou hast done unto me, (drawing most violently from me great store of blood) doth merit any favour at thy hands at all; Then I beseech thee, for amends of the same, to take the pains to seek out this cunning man, & to beg of him so much grace for us, as to turn us again into our pristinate estate, and former manner of living, vowing (in requital of the same) never to commit any wicked outrageous behaviour so long as we shall live.  
Never was juno more confounded, when she saw the perjured Aeneas (quite contrary unto the promise that was given her) to sail in the main Seas, than was Philistell, when he heard this Tree to make this pitiful supplication, he being half persuaded, that that time was newly come again, into which Niobe was changed into a Rock; Myrrah, into myrrh; Daphne into laurel; & the companions of Ulysses into Swine. Notwithstanding, in the end, after he had plucked up his hart again, & called all his spirits together, finding himself to have done a fault unto the Tree (& therefore bound, as it were in conscience, to make him amends) he promised to work what means he could unto the old man, not only for his own, but also for the rest of his fellows deliverance, & with this resolution, comforting the poor dismembered plant as well as he could, he left him, to seek out the old man, who only and none else, could help these poor wretches thus transformed: whilst walking alone, & musing much of this matter, he began to discourse with himself in this wise. O what a wonderful thing is this black Art, and what great force hath it to bring to pass admirable matters?  
Admirable is Magic, and a thing supernatural; and incredible the effects of such as exercise the same. No longer will I (now) wonder at the sorceries of bloody Medea, nor at the Enchantments, of wily Circe's, nor at the chanting witchcrafts and Spells, of subtle Zoraastes, since I have seen with mine own eyes, such strange and miraculous devices of Magic. Neither will I maruile more, if these three wise men, which came to worship our Saviour, came to the knowledge of his divine nativity, by reason of their profound learning and skill: when I perceive and see, that a silly poor old Magician, is able to turn men's bodies into insensible Trees, this being the cause, that all such (as practise this kind of Art) are highly honoured and much esteemed, and especially amongst such as are infidels, and put small confidence and trust in the true God.  
So that, if these wicked Ministers of damned devils, make themselves to be admired of all men, then how much more ought the true Pastors & Servitors of the almighty, be respected and regarded? For according unto the bounty, goodness, and greatness of the Master, is the servant honoured: and according unto the baseness and vileness of him that he followeth, is he respected: which if it be so, then of how much esteem and account aught the good and faithful Pastors of God to be, who walk in his ways, and follow his holy laws and commandments; seeing, that such great honour is attributed unto the officers of devils. And if such bad Servitors, have so great power through the favour that their Master doth bestow upon them, that they are able to change, transform, and make a tree, a rock or a brute beast of a reasonable iran; how far more excellent power and authority than shall those have, that are followers of the everliving God indeed.  
And certainly their puissance and might is great and large, for they not alone command over malignant spirits, but are (after some sort) more than the Angels themselves. They have authority over Infernal Ghosts, whom they chase away, and make them tremble at their divine words, in such sort, as they can do nothing, where they be in place. A witness is Simon Magus, who in the absence of S. Peter, wrought strange miracles by reason of his Art, but in his presence, and at his prayer, was seen to fall down from the air, and to break his own neck, as he took upon him to fly with wings before a number of people. For our Saviour Christ, having vanquished the enemy of mankind, hath of his own goodness, left (as an inheritance) the same power unto man himself, through which he is able to break Satan's neck, bringing him under subjection, and vanquished, who before did vanquish, so as now, by this means men command over devils, who before did domineer over them.  
And that this is true, you may know by many religious Divines of the word of God, who are of force sufficient, to drive away wicked spirits by their speeches, and in the name of the holy one of Israel. Now, he that draweth and chaseth away is far more stronger and of greater might, than he that is chased, as the enemy, that is vanquished for want of courage turneth his back, and by flying away confesseth his want of valour, yielding himself as prisoner unto his foe. Then if it be so, and that men can make the black angels of Lucifer to give place, and retire, they are far more strange and mighty than the other be.  
Besides, hath not man advantage above the Angels themselves? in that he receiveth the sacred and holy communion of our Saviour, which he hath given unto us, as a testimony of his divine love, and for a perfect pledge, and assurance of his grace towards us.  
Again, have not some men that virtue, that they can heal diseases and sicknesses, (without the help of medicines, or precious potions (only with their words) yea, and have there not been othersome, that have had the gift to have raised dead bodies unto life again, and yet nevertheless, notwithstanding that all these wonderful powers are found to be in many of the Ministers of God: how many wicked persons are there to be found at this day in the world, who more esteem of these vile Magicians (attendants upon the devil) then of these holy and sacred Preachers, worshipping that most wicked & infamous creature, to leave the thrice blessed and heavenly Creator himself? by reason of which, they must needs leave, deny, and hate the Church, of which men are appointed Ministers, and hating her (without acknowledging her to be their mother) they never can obtain to have God for their Father. For if the good and faithful husband, cannot abide to love, neither can (willingly) suffer any such to live, as be mortal enemies unto his kind and lawful wife, because they seek the means to oppress her, and to work her overthrow;  
No more (then) will God permit and bear with any such, who go about to havoc and spoil the Church, which is the sacred and legitimate Spouse. For what vices soever be found in the Pastors of the same, yet is she still holy, and propitious unto our welfare always, even as (although a judge chance to be wicked and bad, justice itself nevertheless, is right and just, the Ministers not being able to defame, nor disgrace the virtue of that Ministry which they exercise.  
And therefore it is but a foolish argument, for one to withdraw himself from the Church, and to give over to come to God's Temple, to make Intercessions and Prayers unto him, for despite that the Ministers live ill, and are occasions of many scandals and much reproach unto the divine word: not a little degenerating from their former ancient predecessors, God having (alone) reserved unto himself the separation, and the division of the good and bad, which he will divide, at the time of his latter judgement: and therefore, as his garment was not divided nor parted at all, but kept and conserved whole, so the Church (being a figure of the same) cannot be parted, and such as through their fond error withdraw themselves from thence, resemble the Raven, which lighted upon the carrion, without returning again into the Ark, as the faithful Dove did, all which shall perish in the end, because there is no hope of salvation, but from the Church, I mean our Saviour jesus Christ: and therefore is she compared unto the Ark of Noah, that saved mankind from drowning, during that great and terrible deluge of waters. And although that within the same ship, there were found all kind of living creatures, to do their filthiness therein (for the time) that they remained therein enclosed, yet for all that, Noah never came forth, but endured all those unwhole some and loathsome savours, for otherwise if he had not kept him so immured, he had been drowned.  
Thus we see the Ark that saveth men, is the Church, from forth of which, no person can come, unless he mean to be browned, and lost in hell fire; in as much as within the same, the health of man is included and enclosed. Cursed then be he that loveth not the Church, or shall think, that she is stained, polluted, or in any thing at all, lessened of her dignity, through the faults of her Pastors, who are (be they never so lewd) to be accounted of, because of their profession, especially as long as they shall deliver the very truth itself unto us, forced thereunto, by the holy orders into which they are inducted: as bad Casphas, had the gift of prophesy (although he will be wicked and ill given) by virtue of the pontifical dignity, through which he had that special grace bestowed upon him from above. And therefore, we may compare our mother Church, unto a goodly ancient palace, which through continuance of time, and by reason of many hard storms and bitter tempests (that it hath endured) is much decayed in every part, the Galleries, chambers, & other chief Rooms, being ruinated and fallen flat unto the ground, but yet the foundation thereof, standeth strong and sound, and is not rotten nor perished at all. Now the walks, the lodgings, the hangings and the chief beauty of our Church, were the good works; the charitable deeds, and the wonderful miracles done by the Apostles thereof, in the old world: most of which, the corruption of this age, and the vicious living of these degenerate successors, hath spoiled, defaced, and trod under their feet: and yet notwithstanding all this, the foundation upon which she is settled and placed, remaineth still unshaken, and undecaied, being strongly built upon the word of God, who is the chief builder and pillar of the same. Now that the Ministers of God's word, have been heretofore much reverenced, we may find by the ancient Heathen people, who made more account of them, than many do (at this day) who intelleth themselves with that fair name of Christians. Abraham laden with spoils, and returning home victorious over Kings (who had taken his brother prisoner) offered the tenth part of all his rich booties, unto the high Priest Melchisedecke, Alexander, being an Infidel, after the taking of Tire, marching towards jerusalem, as a victorious Conqueror, with intention to ruinated and take it unto the ground, was himdered and let by the high Priest, who (very courageously) came against him, meeting him by the way, receiving many high favours and honours done unto him, by that unbelieving Monarch, who then miss of his purpose.  
Antiochus having besieged the self same City, not only gave seven days of Truce unto the Priests thereof, to celebrate the solemn Feast, but besides that, sent them fat Bullocks, with garlands and guilded horns, to go through with their Sacrifices the better. O grave and religious Monasteries, how much more reverence have you received in times past, of those Infidels and unbelievers, 
A Commendation of all true Minister of the sacred word of Gods  than you do now (at this day) of a number of bad Christians? But you need not to wonder thereat at all, for the servant shall never be made much of, nor be accounted of by the enemies of his Master, whom he pursueth even unto the death. Such as hate God, have no regard to favour his Vassals and Creatures, and the ill willers of the Church do malign the Prelates thereof. It is not for eue●ic private man (but only for Magistrates, and such as are in authority) to judge of the fault of the Minister, his duty is, only to believe that he doth not err, as long as he laboureth in his reverend vocation and calling, orderly and well.  
For the jews, although they were ungodly, yet had they the power to chase away wicked spirits, by Exoreismes and Spells and the Sacrifice that is offered of a bad Munster, is as profitable unto such as be there in place, as if it had been done by the justest Priest in the world.  
Do that which the Scribes and pharisees command you (saith our Saviour Christ) because they are placed in the Chayte of Moses: and be Ministers of the Law, although otherwise, they are froward, ill given, and malicious, and therefore unwerthie to be followed. For although you own no honour unto their own persons, yet are you indebted, and are bound unto their vocation and calling, as long since, the people kneeled down, not unto the Ass, before whom they sell but unto the Image which the beast bore upon his back.  
Say a Prince should sends Lieutenant into some of his Provinces, that should be a bad man and wickedly given, to governt the same, yet (for all his faults) would the people bear respect unto him; were it bus only because their Prince sent him unto them, and for that they would not thshonor hice state and dignity Royal. For sometimes the dignity of the Office is honoured, by reason of him that exerciseth that place, and so likewise, the Minister is often reuerence●● for his function and charge, which he executeth and putteth in practice.  
The ancient Romans were more careful than any other Nation, 
A History.  to attribute and yield honour unto the Officers of their Commonwealth: whereof we have a notable proof, of that gallant young Fabius, the son, who being a Consuil, and seeing his Father (a far off) to come ●●ding towards him in the street, being then but Dictator; sent before one of his Sargimts, to desire him to light from off his horse, and to remember to do (not unto him who was his Son, and whom he might command) but unto his place of Consulship, such honour and reverence as did there unto belong. And Alexander the great, gave so great credit and respect unto the answer which the great Priest of jupiter ammon gave him, calling him his son: that he verily persuaded himself, he should conquer all the world. And upon this resolute belief of his, he fought many bloody Buttells, of which he (always) proved Conqueror. Had we that are Christians, accounted (as much) of our Preachers; as the Inside is did of the Ministers of their Gods, there had not (then) sprung up so many Errors amongst Christian religion, as there hath done. The only cause, that so many excellent wits have been overthrown, and that the pease & quietness of the faithful, hath been much broken & troubled. For if every man had honoured true Preachers in their places, without rising up against them, and not seeking to suppress and keep down their authority and power as they have done, never any contentious heresy had sprung up amongst us, because he can never be heretic, nor adversary unto the Church, who doth the commandments of true Ministers thereof, they being not able to command any thing that is contrary unto the express word and will of God.  
Our Saviour himself, vouchsafed to acknowledge the priests of the jews, for chief Heads and Sovereigns, when he willed these Lepers that were healed and cleansed by him, to go and present themselves before them, as they that had all the power given unto them (as indeed they have by the ●●ernall word of God himself) who saith thus unto his Prophet jeremy, he speaking unto the Ministers of the Church.  
Behold I have put my word in thy mouth, and have appointed thee, over all Kings, peoples, & Realms, to the end thou mayst plant, or pull up; build, or pluck down; do or undone, whatsoever thou pleasest. And I will have thee to have authority over all the monarchs and Princess of the earth. And this was confirmed and ratified by our Saviour himself, who gave the selfsame power unto S. Peter his successor, & so (by consequence) to all the succeeders of Peter, 
〈…〉  to bind and loaf; and to open and shut, promising to ratify in heaven, whatsoever he should do here upon earth. In times past, the Ministers of the Church, were holden for such, they were honoured as Vicars of Christ; respected as the successors of S. Peter; beloved as the fathers of souls; sought unto, as Physicians for afflicted consciences, feared, as the punishers of enormities & abuses; saluted as the Superiors or Elders of the Church; redoubted as the I rophets of the sacred Scripture; & proclaimed as Herold's of the pure and sincere verity and truth itself. The ancient Emperors disdained not to be chosen by them in their Empire, and Gregory surnamed the Great, named and appointed the seven Roman Electors; the seven Roman Electors (I say again) who oftentimes deposeth such Emperors as before they had chosen, when they were found guilty of some notorious and detestable crime.  
But now alas, what shall I say unto you poor miserable, contemptible, and despised Ecclesiastical Pastors? In steed of honouring you, you are now injured: in steed of loving you, you are hated and loathed: in steed of saluting you, you are abused: in steed of respecting you, you are disdained and contemned: in steed of giving unto you, most that you have, is taken from you: miserable are you yourselves, and most wretched your calling, since you are abused through so many gross indignities: and yet (for all this) the everlasting son of the heavenly Father, found not a dignity more godly, and more worthy, then that of Priesthood, according unto the order of Melchicedecke, he was the first High Priest, whose successors, were the Apostles, of whom at this day are the reverend Pastors and Preachers of the word, the true and lawful followers.  
But (comfort yourselves Religious and godly Divines) for thrice blessed are all those that suffer trouble and persecution in their bodies, for the name of jesus Christ-Glorie is the daughter of travail and pain, as envy is the infant of glory: and only by trouble and pain, have the Saints beaten the way for us to mount to heaven.  
But as such as think so meanly of Religion, and of the Prelates thereof, are themselves to be as meanly accounted of: even so (highly) are such to be esteemed, that have given them there due, and rightly honoured them. And such a one, was Theodosius, that famous Emperor (sarnamed the Great) who sought (all the means he could) to have the favour & good will of S. Ambrose, when he had excomminicated him, yielding unto his will, and fearing greatly his displeasures: and not long after he being threatened by a certain Hermit with the like punishment, he sent for all the Bishops (thereabouts, to know of them, whether he might be interdicted the Church and all godly company, by so poor a creature as he was, standing mightily in awe of the same.  
And therefore ye worthy (learned and religious) Divines, whatsoever disgraces are offered unto you, and howsoever you are most injuriously handled, or most contemptuously made account of, yet be not you troubled thereat, but follow your grave and virtuous calling, you being appointed and chosen by God himself, to be the dispensers, & the celebraters of his blessed Sacraments, and the blasoning Herold's of his eternal and everlaistng word; lawful Successors in his divine function, and great and mighty, by reason of your more than worthy dignity.  
But behold where the old man cometh, unto whom I must make intercession, in the behalf of these wretched Pirates, so strangely metamorphosed by him. To him will I plead, with all humble modesty, lest growing in choler with me, he use me as hardly as he hath done them, and the rather (because not long since) I somewhat angered him.  
Herewithal, the Knight coming unto him, saluted him with great courtesy, in this manner. Learned and respective Father, God prosper thy years, prolong thy life, multiply thy days, & conserve and keep thee still in health. Let me entreat thee a while to stay, and a little to rest thyself in this place, whilst I shall be bold to deliver a few words unto thee.  
The Gods sometimes lend their cares unto mortal men, neither do they disdain to hear them, as thou makest show (me thinks) as if thou art loath to listen unto mine.  
Stay then (reverend old man) and give not just cause unto me, that I may conceive any unkindness, through this thy harsh and hard denial. Nothing is of smaller account than the speech of man, who so yieldeth not unto that, will yield unto nothing.  
The old man, seeing himself to be held by the hand, and urged so hardly (as it were somewhat in choler replied thus) Palmer, thou art too troublesome and importunate, let me go I would wish thee, & hinder me no longer from the service of the Gods, about which I am now going, lest thou force me to do that which I would not be willing: for what thou wouldst have, I know already before thou speakest.  
Thy request is not lawful, inasmuch as justice should be wronged, and rightly might she complain of me, if I should yield unto thy demand: give over then thy vain suit, for no body is bound to do what is ill and unjust, at the request of another, because we ought to make more account of justice, then of all the world beside: and for that no amity or affection is to be preferred before a reasonable and righful matter: Hear me therefore, and disquiet not my mind, which is now busied about heavenly things, and think I love thee well, to let thee go seotfree, when thou shalt urge me, with such an unreasonable motion as this: for justice punisheth as well those that seem to allow of evil, as those that do commit evil themselves. Pardon me (grave sir) (answered the knight) there is no man living that less alloweth of evil than I do, which I hate, loath and despise: but I cannot choose but I must needs love pity and mercy, for as we are all men, so are we bound, one to help another, the bruit beasts themselves doing the like through the very instinct of Nature. Compassion ought to be preferred before all other respects, because a fault that is done, may be amended and become a virtue, but a man once dead for want of pity, never riseth again, and his loss is unrecoverable, and can never be repaired again.  
Mercy hath always gotten the upper hand of rigour and fierceness, and the pitiful man doth deserve more than the just, whereof Cosar shall serve me for a witness, who affirmed, that the fruits of his victories, was the pardon, he (daily) gave unto thousands of his enemies, assoon as they sought his favour. What nourisheth the society and company of men? What maintaineth their lives, and what increaseth their health and quietness, but mild pity? If there were none but hungry wolves, or greedy Lions, how (then) should the world endure? and how could men be sure to enjoy their lives in safety? Ah if our most loving God (should be found (as thou art) without mercy, what hope should we have to enjoy eternal glory? but rather look (every hour) when we should be swallowed up into the bottomless gulf of hell. Change then this thy too too obdurate resolution.  
The exceeding great courtesies that Alexander used unto the Persian Kings daughters and wife, was the cause that Darius prayed the Gods, that if he needs must be driven out of the throne of Cyrus, he might have no other successor to follow him, than the same Alexander his chief enemy. Great account do we make, and much do we esteem of great and noble personages, that have lived long before our days, yet not so much for the many victories they obtained, as for the kind gentleness, and mild courtesies they used unto their foes, when they had overcome their own passions. For to conquer an enemy is the benefit of Fortune, whereas that which we win and carry away from our own selves, cannot be attributed unto any thing but unto ourselves, and that is the victory which consisteth in pardoning of our enemies. Then follow this direct course, and thy memory shall flourish for ever.  
O how ignorant dost thou show thyself to be (replied the old man) by this thy discourse. Who knoweth not that every one of us is bound for our own credits, to bridle our affections, and to show grace unto our adversary, unto whom Fortune hath left no means to defend himself, when he is once vanquished.  
But the same law that commandeth us to be pitiful unto our enemies, teacheth us, to be just and severe unto the adversaries of justice.  
For what sufficient reproach and shame, can a Master do unto such a servant of his, who shall stand by, and see his Lord beaten, abused and defamed, and yet (never as much (as once) stirreth his foot to take his quarrel in hand, nor once to defend him, he having been able to have done the same if he would? We are all the servants of justice, by whom, since we are all nourished, protected, and defended in this world, is it reasonable, that we should endure to see he● spoiled, abused and trod under sere, and yet never revenge her wrongs? The same eternal God, whom thou termest merciful, hath not himself contemned justice, but rather hath yielded unto the satisfaction of the same, choosing rather to become man, and to die as man, then to falsific or offer injury unto justice.  
So likewise the selfsame Alexander, whom thou paintest forth to be so kind, deferred not to punish in most cruel sort, the murderers of Darius, causing them to be piece-meal torn with wild horses in sunder. No reason is it, that, that man, should be suffered to live, who is not moved to revenge justice when she is profaned and wronged, she being that virtue, that containeth within her all the other, and they are all (as it were) tied about her neck, inasmuch as it were to no purpose for one to be sober, and continent, if he should prove to be an unjust man, and an usurper over other men.  
And were justice honoured of every one (as she ought to be in right) we then should have but small need, either of force, valour, or prows at all. For should every man live orderly and well, giving unto his neighbour that which is his due, there should be no occasion, to use force to compel him to deal justly and true: stand not then, to importune me thus, to show compassion upon the foes of justice, & hinder not the divine vengeance of the same, lest thou be punished for taking their parts so much.  
For cursed is he that beareth with vice, and winketh with his eyes, because he will not see that fault, which he is loath to punish. Learned Father (answered the knight) how much more easier is it for a man to pardon, then to revenge?  
A small labour were it, and little or no time would it ask, to speak this one only word (I pardon them) but not so qucikly, is found the means to revenge. Happy may he account himself, that hath not a cruel mind, nor bloody hand, the Lord himself rejecting the sacrifices of such as have rough and bloody hands.  
Besides, the same justice in whose behalf thou allegest so much, is content that that sinner be received into grace, that craveth pardon for his fault, he promising to make hartle satisfaction for the same. For what more can one demand of the offender, but amends for the offence he hath committed.  
justice misliketh not, to see her dear sister Mercy, to be respected and sued unto, because that without yielding satisfaction for the crime, and not paying what is due unto justice, she never receiveth the misliver into her favour.  
That good Father, did not he take again into his former grace, his prodigal child, after he had so vainly and prodigally spent all his wealth and patrimony? And that wild King Joys, surnamed the Debonair, did not he forgive all his children, who had chased him out of his kingdom, deprived him of his Crown, and had forcibly made him a Monk? If so, then let him be merciful that looketh for mercy: for as we sow, so shall we reap. And if we do otherwise, we shall prove ourselves but liars before God, and cruel of our speech before the face of the world. Let us pity one another as we would be pitied again of God himself: for if he should but once look into our faults, who then dare appear before his presence?  
This is the reason I am so earnest with thee, to the end I might obtain so much favour at thy hands, as to restore those poor distressed souls, unto their pristinate and former shapes again, that they may be continually obliged unto thee, for so great a bounty towards them.  
Thou knowest not (answered the old man) what thou demandest. For, if the law given by Princess, doth not exempt themselves from the rigour thereof, and if God himself will have evil punished (as he pardoneth the faithful) having slain the infamous inhabitants with fire and brimstone, and swallowed down alive into hell, that rebellious crew, of Dathan, Coran, and Abiron. Why then contrary to his ordinance, wilt thou solicit in the behalf of the wicked, when the sin is so heinous, as it can never enough be plagued?  
Call to mind the saying of that great Emperor, who putting into a certain judges hand, the sword of justice, said thus unto him. Hold here, and take this weapon against mine own self, if thou shalt find me culpable: And if I shall do any thing against justice.  
Agesilaus, King of the Spratanes, did not think the King of Persia to deserve that name of GREAT more than he: 
A Sentence.  but only for that he was more upright and unpartial in all his actions: making account by this means, that all the glory and honour of great monarch, consisted in the beauty of this JUSTICE.  
And to say the truth, she is a most beautiful and divine Lady, seeing she rendereth unto every man what is his in right, not taking away from any man by violence, the least thing that is, but rather maketh such ill-gotten goods to be restored unto the true owners thereof again. Worthy then are such to be severely punished, that violate and defile her so much.  
Cursed be you (saith the great GOD, by the mouth of his Prophet Esay) that publish wicked Laws, and do commit Injustice, 
A Sentence.  to the end you may oppress the poor in judgement: do wrong unto the widow, and that the goods of the poor Orphans and Fatherless children, may serve as a prey unto your unsatiable covetousness, and that you may ruinated and overthrow the weak and feeble estate of the poorer sort.  
JUSTICE being the daughter of the Almighty, cannot be sold by men, because she belongeth not unto them, but unto GOD, 
In praise of justice.  they being but mere executioners of the same. No more than a Farmer may sell the Farm of his Landlord: which if he do, he is severely to be punished.  
For an Advocate that pleadeth, may sell his Plea, and a Counsellor his Counsel, which he giveth unto his Client, because they be things of their own, and appartaining unto them. But the judge can in no wise sell justice, by reason she is not his own, (he being but one that is put in trust, faithfully to deliver the same) and that he hath the charge thereof from God: Now he may be properly said to sell her, who doth not punish such as abuse her. Then talk no more of this matter, which I may never grant, nor thou art like ever to obtain.  
Sage and prudent old man (replied the Knight) although Laws are appointed to punish offences, yet nevertheless, they are always construed unto the best, and interpreted with most favour that may be. For it is not necessary (always, and at all times) but upon great necessity and constraint, that the rigour thereof should be put in practice: No more than the skilful and cunning Chirurgeon useth neither fire nor saw, but when there is no other remedy.  
And that this is wisdom so to do, we find it in great personages, who have sooner yeeded by mild entreaty, and fair means, then by all the violence in the world. 
An example.  Which Coriolanus can well testify, who could never be vanquished by all the Romans Forces, and yet was soon overcome by the sweet entreaties of his dear wife and mother.  
A right generous spirit, and one that is nobly borne, will never yield by constraint, but being kindly used, condescendeth unto any thing. As we have Cato for a witness, who never could be brought to give place unto the good Fortune of his enemy.  
So likewise honourable minds use to domineer and rule, managing their affairs and business, not with controlling cheek, but with a sweet and mild kind of entreaty. For so did prudent Demetrius, pardoning (oftentimes) the Athenians, and setting them at liberty, when they (notwithstanding all this) requited his great good turns towards themwith monstrous ingratitude, and thousands of outrageous misdemeanours.  
Better were it for us to imitate the good and kind Dion, who being driven out of his Country, by his own Citizens, (whom he divers times had delivered from bondage) and gently pardoned them all, sussering himself to be put to death for their safety. 〈…〉 their Saviour and Redeemer, and yet nevertheless, that mild and immaculate Lamb, the everliving Son of God, forgave them, prayed for them, and not so much as once remembered their wickedness: They being afterwards plagued (not so much for that they had orucified the Just) as, for that they still persisted in their wilful iniquities.  
We see then, we are commanded to pardon our enemies, by the example of our Saviour hmfelfe. Then what should hinder thee, but that thou shouldest for give these poor miserable wretched creatures? For thrice blessed is he, that shall (worthily) imitate the Almighty, in as much, as he that hath such a guide, can never walk out of his right way.  
I see now (answered the old man) that from Charybdis thou fallest into Silla, and from one bad mats, interest into a worse. For both the jews were punished, and God himself (although at the prayer of Moses) would not forgive the Children of Israel.  
For if that he hath not spared justice upon himself, in (the going before us, and learning us a way that we should follow) are we so foolish to imagine, that he will not permit the same to be executed upon men?  
He hath punished the Israelites many times, not sparing them at all, when there was a salt, and hath severely chastised such as have not plagued his enemies, according unto his will, as we find by Saul and Ahab.  
Besides, he thus spoke unto the judges. Behold, you do not execute the judgement of man, but of God: and whatsoever you shall wrongfully give judgement of, the the same shall light upon your own heads: therefore let the fear of the Lord be always before your eyes, doing every thing orderly and uprightly, for God will not accept of any injustice, nor hath respect of persons, of Presents, or Riches.  
Shepherd, Shepheard, the greatest glory that our Ancients thought they could merit, was in studying how they might live, to be counted just, they using to punish vice, in such sort, that this word (JUST) carried with itself, an entire and full perfection of an accomplishment every way.  
trajan is not a little commended, for staying his whole Army (marching in battle array, against the Parsians) to the end he might do justice upon one of his Soldiers, who had ravished a poor widows daughter. An act so meritorious, as no doubt it won him the field, by reason of the prayer of that good old woman, who made earnest prayer unto the Gods for him, in his behalf, that he might return home again victorious.  
To be brief, there was no wickedness, but was sharply punished by our old forefathers; amongst whom, justice was much reverenced, and respected chief of all.  
The Spartans honoured her so much, that for sear to offend her, they banished all use of gold and silver out of their City, taking away by that devise, all unlawful means of corrupting of Consciences: And all the while they kept this kind of strict life, they were the first, and chief of all Greece. And no sooner gave they over this kind of government, but they became the most wretchedst, and most miserable people of all others.  
Let us then leave this wanton pardoning, and injustice, it being a sin, for which God altereth and changeth the state of many Kingdoms and Monarchies.  
As the Knight was ready to make answer unto the objections of the old Necromancer, they might hear notfarre from them, a most lamentable voice, which was the occasion they then gave over, looking about them to see if they could spy the wight that so lamented: whom they presently saw to be a Shepherd, that came towards them, singing this Song following unto himself.  
My soul, say to me (now) where art?  
Where livest thou (speak my poor hart?)  
The Lover that doth live apart,  
Without his Mistress fair:  
Is like a shadow substancelesse,  
Where nought but grief the life doth press,  
As pisture of sad heaviness.  
And connterfeit of care.  
Say Phoebus, what good ist to me,  
Though Skies I view guilded to be?  
If my adorde Sun I not see  
To please my piteous eyen?  
Can Ceres (of me) praise deserve,  
Though all the ground with Corn doth serve,  
When I through hunger pure do starve,  
And ready am to pine?  
My broken joys, repair who may,  
Who can my weeping Conduits stay,  
Since who of sorrow is the prey  
Belongeth unto grief?  
Mine eyes which death orechargeth sore,  
(As now) can wail, and weep no more:  
Since she is gone whom I adore,  
And who brought them relief.  
My hart through sorrow's waxed cold,  
Losing what he most dear did hold,  
Blessed, if that in grave enrolled  
He were, his hopes being past.  
No comfort to my soul's arrived,  
He seeks the means to be disliude.  
So Pyramus of Love deprived,  
Gane up his latest gasp.  
Now I, my cruel Fair have lost,  
Of what sweet comfort may I boast?  
Yet for ones Mistress to be lost,  
The pains of death or pleasure.  
He is not bound in world to live,  
Who (always languishing) doth grieve,  
When he, (by dying) may it relieve,  
Which to him is a Treasure.  
The Sun, though hidden be his beams,  
Extinguished yet are not his gleams,  
So Lady mine, her sight forth streams,  
Though she is far from me.  
More cruel did I feel the pain,  
When her fair glance burnt every veins,  
Respecting what I now do gain,  
Although she absent be.  
When she was took from me away,  
Why then did not my heartsome slay?  
For who with Conqueror his, is pray,  
Cannot be said to die,  
Ah cruel day, and luckless time,  
When as I lost those looks dinine,  
My soul (consumed) away did pine,  
Wanting that Deity.  
Then seeing that deprinde I am  
Of her, no longer live I can,  
My Fortune's hard, I'll curse and ban,  
Expecting still for death.  
Withouten soul, no body lives,  
His Mistress loss, a Loner grienes:  
Whilst he such woeful torments prieves,  
As none feel like on earth.  
The old Magician, and the Knight, hearing so doleful a Ditty sung by the Shepherd Arcas, (who did nothing but lament, for the absence of his Diana) could not choose but weep, when after he had made an end of his Song, they might hear him use these speeches unto himself.  
O troublesome and unquiet Sun, who hath caused thee (so soon to leave thy bed, before thy wont time? And what need had any Creature of thine, so quick to return, as long as they overwearied and tired with travatle, slept sweetly under the protection of the secret and still Night? 
A Simile.  And how happy was I, before thy brightsome coming? For then, (at my pleasure) I did contemplate and behold the face of Diana, shining in the heavens, which nourished in my soul, the remembrance of my beauteous Goddess.  
And what can delight me more, then to think on her, who resembleth her much, and who it honoured with her name? Nothing pleaseth the sick man so much as his health, which he desireth above all things, (although many times) in vain. And so, nothing is so much agreeable to me, as my fair Mistress, whom I do often wish for, although to no end. For the pale and breathless coarse, laid upon the cold ground, is not more deprived of life, 
A Sentence.  than I am void of all hope, to see my cruel Fair again.  
Miserable is he that languisheth without all hope: for nothing sweeteth the sharpness of his wound, when as a little hope alone, is of force to nourish the poorest wretches in the world. easy are the travails, and gentle the pains, that one suffereth, whilst he hopeth; For the conceit of the delight of the thing he hopeth for, maketh them pleasant, changing them into contentment and joy: whereas the labour and pain of him that is in despair of all hope, is most dangerous, insupportable, and intolerable.  
Tell me mine eyes, to what end do you see and give light, if you can no more behold her, who was your chiefest delight? O fair and lovely Diana, in what place soener it is thy Fortune (as now) to be, making the same blessed with thy beauteous presence; Heavens grant that thou mayest live happily, and that the remnant of all my good Fortunes (if at least I have any reserved for me) be heaped & bestowed upon thee, whilst I in the mean space, will live (here) alone, in this solitary Wood, to bewail my disasters, and languish daily, as one in a consumption, that piecemeal pineth away, and can never be cured. For to what end doth he make intercession, or prayers unto the Heavens, whom the Heavens themselves do hold for their enemy? That man that is difasterly destined, hath no reason to expect any good fortune: which if he doth, he but mocketh himself, and in the end doth find he is deceived.  
So I look for nothing that is comfortable or pleasing to come from above, because I know myself to be in the number of those miserable Caitiffs, 
A Sentence.  who (never have felt any thing here) in this world, but woe and distress, until they have been laid and lodged within their graves.  
O too too partial Fates of men, that some should be still happy, lucky, and blessed in every thing, and others so unfortunate, that they should (never) taste of aught but of sorrow, care, and anguish! And of this last accursed crew I am the chief.  
But perhaps some will say: Eucry one feeleth his own grief and misfortune, but not that which another is tormented withal. Yet let such judge (but indifferently of my case) and then I know they cannot choose but pity me; For is it not an evil to be endured, for one to lose the cheerful light of his own sweet life, his much desired health and welfare, his own loving native Country, his dear Parents, and his affectionate friends and acquaintance, without finding any succour or relief at all, but of his proper enemies. For vain is the help of them, from whom I hoped, and as bootless is the reward of my travail, that I am like to receive of such as I served.  
O misery worse than despair itself, for one to be beholding for his good Fortune unto his mortallfoe, and not find recompense, of those of whom he hath so well deserved.  
O Themistocles, it was thou that didst pass through this narrow strait, being welcomed, caressed, and honourably entertained of thy cruel adversary, when thou wert banished by thy ingrateful Countrymen, whom thou hadst most faithfully served, and oftentimes most valiantly fought for, to save their ●●es and Country.  
And thou Coriolanus didst find the like favour and grace amongst thine enemies, after thy own Citizens had unkindly driven thee out of their City, whom thou before hadst served loyallre, with many testimonies of rare and wonderful fidelity.  
And such was thy Fortune brave Alcibiades, exiled by thine own people, and entertained most lovingly by the Spartans, thy hateful deadly foes. In your Ship do I sail, in your boat do I row, and the selfsame mishap you had, do I participate of; but sore (full sore) against my mind: for in an ill hour was he borne, that is driven unto such a narrow estate, as he is forced to have recourse unto his ilwillers: in as much as his obligation is like to be forfeited, (the sum never likely to be paid) when he shall receive so great a benefit of his enemy, who is least bound to do the same good unto him of all others.  
Thus said the sorrowful Arcas, who (having ended his discourse) was chosen as ludge between the old man and the Knight, about their first Argument. But when he understood how these Pirates of the Seas (changed so lately into Trees, and bruit beasts) and would have offered violence unto the fair Shepherdess, he then gave his Censure, that they were worthily punished: confirming this his Decree, to stand (as authentical) in the presence of the Shepherdess herself, whom he presently knew to be loucly Delia: who was not a little comforted and revived, when she so happily found Arcas, and other her old acquaintance in this place: Even as banished persons cheer themselves in their exile, being marvelously joyful (when in a strange land) they met one with another.  
Whereupon, the Shepherd demanded of her the cause of her coming into this uncouth Desert, and by what chance she came thither: As also the reason why these cruel lawless persons did pursue her with their naked sword, in such a strange manner.  
And therewithal, they sat down upon a green bank, placing the Nymph in the midst of them, who began to tell this sad Tale following.  
Not long since, there was a certain Noble man of an Island, 
Delia the Shepherdess, reporteth a strange history  who became amorous of a goodly Maid, she being the only child he had. This damosel had vowed herself unto the service of the Goddess juno; Which her Father not knowing of, pursued her the more eagerly, she still denying, and flying from him, as much as she could, calling upon her Mistress to assist and help her.  
One day amongst others, he found her at such an advantage, as he attempted by force to ravish her: which shameful deed, was repugnant against all reason, honour, and honesty.  
The Virgin not knowing what to do, resisted and cried out, imploring for the aid of juno, who seeing such unnatural usage of a Father unto his own Child, delayed no longer to help her: For as the lustful Lord, thought to have embraced his daughter, and to have had his pleasure of her, in steed of holding a living body in his arms, he found a cold and senseless image of white Marble. The Goddess juno, having changed her faithful servant into this livelesseforme to preserve her chastity undefiled.  
The Father wonderfully amazed at this matter, but more sad and heavy was he, (as well for the loss of his only child, whom he loved as his own soul, as also to see that he was deprived from enjoying of that contentment which he hoped of) was ready in a manner to kill himself for very mere grief and vexation: when upon the sudden, he found out, that the Maid had vowed herself unto juno, and that, that Goddess, to the end to frustrate him of his will, had turned her into this cold form of Marble.  
Which when he knew, mad for rage and grief against juno, (it being not the duty of any creature to murmur or bandy against the Celestial powers) he runneth unto the Altar, plucking down her Image, and breaking it in a thousand pieces.  
The Goddess being justly moved with this outrage, provoked her husband jupiter likewise against him, who took this injury done unto his wife, in as heinous a manner, as if it had been done unto himself: and therefore (to revenge the same, he sent an infectious pestilence into this Island, of which, all the land (in a manner died.) The cruel Lord, being the first man that was punished with the same, whilst those few that remained alive, fled (presently) out of that Country, shifting as well as they could to save themselves, and came to inhabit in a certain barren and fruitless foil, not far off from their own.  
But after they had some few years been tired with their banishment, and (as weary of this hungry and unpleasant place where they did bide, desiring and longing to see the smoke of their old attorneys) they ventured to return back again into their own Country: where no sooner were they settled, but the same pestilent disease began (afresh) to seize upon them, taking them away as fast as ever it had done before.  
Whereupon they sent unto the Oracle of Apollo, to know how they might be freed of this plague: who returned them answer, that to appease the wrath of juno, they must sacrifice a young Virgin unto her, she being every way as fair in beauty, as that Virgin was, which juno had changed into a picture of Marble.  
They heating this, began to bethink themselves what they should do in this case, for their Island brought forth no such comely creatures, and therefore they determined to scour all the Coasts near about, to see if they could find any such.  
Now after the damnable Fiend Discord, with her breath, like brimstone, her wings, like a Dragon, and her paws, all of fire: had driven that gracious and goodly company out of the sweet Groves of Arcadia: every one (highing him unto his own home, after the death of that valiant Lord Phillis) so much bewailed and lamented of every one. I alone, amongst the rest, resolved with myself, not to stir one foot from thence, but to take my Fortune patiently (as it should happen) not unlike unto a Lamb that is reserved for Sacrifice.  
In the mean time, Report had blasted abroad the beauteous faces of all our Shepherdesses, (which sometime were biding in this happy Desert) carrying the same tied unto his wings, brought it unto the ears of the men of this cruel Hand: who no sooner heard it, but that they took ship, minding to take one of the fairest Maidens there, and to sacrifice her unto the Goddess of Riches.  
Coming (then) a shore upon our Island, and not finding any more to please their fancy, than my poor self, they took me perforce, and brought me prisoner into their ship, hoping that I should be a remedy to mitigate the anger of the Goddess; and not because I was saire enough for their purpose. But such as desire any thing, are contented with little. Like unto right Gamesters, who rather than they will be excluded from play, will play at small stakes, and hold the candle unto the rest: So they imagined any beauty, were it never so simple, would serve well enough for their turn and purpose.  
I seeing myself (thus) taken, like unto a silly Partridge, seized upon by the griping Falconer, (and sore doubting what the other Virgin feared) lifting up my dewy eyes unto the heavens, I made mine humble and hearty prayer unto the Almighty, to assist me in this extremity, and to deliver me out of the hands of these monsters, whom I doubted sore, because of mine honour. And no sooner had I made intercession unto him, but he, as a most merciful Father, heard my prayers, gave ear unto my cries, and pitied my woeful tears. For within a while after, he caused a blutering storm and Tempest to rise in the Seas, that drove them far away from their own Coast, forcing them in the end, to cast Anchor upon these parts. Which being done, I did conjure and entreat them so much, that they permitted me to come a shore to take the air, somewhat to refresh and recover my crazed health, which the rage of the Tempest, and the swelling billows of the Ocean, had much impaired and made worse. But no sooner was I upon the land, and had set foot on the ground, than I began (suddenly) to take my heels, and run from them, choosing rather to be killed by them as I fled, than they should take from me mine honour violently.  
And being in this mind, I thought to venture my fortune, as that young Roman Virgin did, which bravely swum over the River of Tiber, thinking there was no other way with me, but that either death, or flying away, could save my chastitic untainted, and preserve me unhart. They seeing this, followed after me as fast as they could run, threatening me with many outrageous and injurious terms, to cut my throat if I stayed not: And this had they done, had not you (dear Father) come to rescue me, by your learned and miraculous aid: for which I most humbly thank you, acknowledging myself, by your only means and favour, to hold both mine honour, and my life, (for both which) I am obliged unto you.  
This pitiful discourse moved all the assembly to compassion, and especially the old man, who gave her many kind speeches, comforting her in the best manner he could, and so left her to repose herself, because she was wonderful weary.  
And in the mean time, he singled out Arcas, whom he led unto the old solitary Dungeon or Cave, summoning him to go forward in the History of his misfortunes.  
The Shepherd hearing this, began to chafe in his mind, as a little boy doth fret, when he is forced to repeat his lesson twice. But it is to no end to be angry, for he durst not displease him any way, because he sore doubted his devilish cunning, unto whom not for love, but rather for fear, he willingly seemed to condescend, beginning where he left, in this wise.  
Diana (as I told you before) took great pleasure in my verses, yea, and did me grace (sometimes) to sing some of them her own self. But as the rain transformeth and changeth itself into cold sharp snow, so this pleasure turned into grief and despair, by the answer I received of the cruel Echo.  
Yet nevertheless, I thought to follow my game, having already roused the dame. He that will be a soldier in loves camp, must never be faint-hearted, nor give over with a repulse, or some small loss, for continuance of time, and mild patience, are the sacred Ttees, from which loyal Lovers, gather the fruits of their constant perseverance, and long looked for Amity.  
This was the cause I put forth myself to serve my Diana, more than ever I had done before, although she accounted nothing at all thereof, by reason she was addicted wholly unto the service of her Goddess.  
Nevertheless, I always hoped the best, ruminating in myself, that Rome was not built in one day, and, that that was rare and dainty, could not be gotten easily, but at a high price and dearly.  
I remembered, that small drops of water, with often falling, maketh (in the end) a hole in the flinty stone, be it never so hard, and I relied very much upon the promise of time, who vaunteth to ripen every thing, so they stay his leisure. A small hope encourageth such as be Lovers, and hindereth them from giving over their suit begun already. Wherein, they resemble such soldiers as are besieging some City or other, in which they hope in the end to enter, although they have the worst at the first. And so Lovers, never despair, for all their crosses, and overthwarting, but still hope the best, as the Sun, which waxeth the clearer, the more the clouds seek to shadow him. This made me still to follow my footing, as the good Bloodhound doth the trace of the Dear.  
When the day of the solemn feast of Diana drew near, which was the day of joy, and year of jubilee to all, but unto me (alone) heavy and sad, I then (again) began to weep & wail afresh: for no remedy was there, but my Mistress must needs go thither, with the other Nymphs her companions, whilst I (in the mean while) should want her pleasing company. For to follow her it was not lawful, which both her honour forbade me, and also the sacrifices and mysteries were such, and so servile, as none might see them but women.  
Besides, I remembered the fault which Clodius committed in Rome, profaning & defaming, the ceremonies of the Goddess Bona: to the intent he might enjoy the carnal company of Caesar's wife, which offence brought forth many other. The judges being (through the same) corrupted, and the Injustice which they did (in absolving the guilty) without punishment.  
I calling all these things to mind, suffered my Lady to go unto these sacrifices, which continued divers days, whilst I (in the mean while) was left alone, at what time, I began to find, how heavy and grievous the absence of this Lady is unto the Lover, whilst I tried the same all that space within myself. Yet, although she was absent, I was not altogether idle, for I composed these Heroical verses following.  
Now do I mean, in this my verse, to tell that thy beauty  
Hath by thy glances sweet, of freeman made me a Bondslave?  
When mine eyes surprised with a fear more terrible than death,  
'Gan overbold to cast looks on thy heavenly feature.  
So will I tell how since that time, I never had one day,  
But that my thought, and my mind have run of Love still rovings  
Nor have I dreamt of aught, but of that blind little Elf, Love,  
Who hath my heart kept captive, and my soul as a prisoner.  
Yet is he happy, that can serve a dame so triumphant.  
Happy is he, that is bound in a chain so sweet and so lovely,  
That all carking care drives from me, lest I be grieved,  
In that I am thy servant true, I blessed do account me.  
Who like the sacred Sun, dost glad the world and his of spring.  
For so divine a soul as thou, who would not endanger  
Life, and himself, and what he hath that is aught worth?  
No aisgrace 'tis, of brave Captain, for to be vanquished.  
Love ne'er sojourns in the hearts of cowardly Milkesops',  
But in the thoughts of Noble men, most fierce doth he combat:  
And great Ladies minds he seeks to keep in his own peewit.  
Woeful witness hereof is Dido, cruelly destned.  
And those kindsisters that Theseus' saved from his ending,  
Hercules that Demi-god, that Monsters conquered and Fiends:  
Had for his foes, thieves and Love that war made against him,  
Die did be, for pure love, who the pride of the world did encounter:  
And wicked Tyrants did send to hell with a mischief.  
So did Achilles' love in his prime, and he but a youngling,  
Was by the crafty means of his foe, most cruelly murdered:  
Greatest states have loved, why then for love should I blamed be?  
If that I seek (as they) to love thee my Goddess above all,  
Not any things here in this earth, compared to thy beauty.  
Not any things here in this earth, that like to thy sweet self  
May vaunt to give laws, as Gods that dwell in the clear sky.  
For Love, falling in love, with thy fave face, and with thy rose check,  
Please like awanton in thine eyes, and like to a Baby.  
Nor doth he live but in thee, who art his Court and his Heaven.  
Happy thou, that canst command so lofty a Godhead.  
Such and so rare thy favour is, thy grace so beseeming,  
As their Palas most denine, doth seek to repose her  
On thy cherry lips, honey sucking, Mercury seizeth.  
And thy sacred Angel's voice, is the voice of Apollo.  
And to be brief, thou'rt so divine, as few thee resemble:  
Fowe or none that lives in this world so beautiful as thou.  
Then will I love thee; what do I say? too little a thing 'tis,  
Less that I worship, do to thee as unto a Goddess.  
Then to thee as immortal might, my life I do offer,  
And my loy all heart do I sacrifice to thy beauty.  
Whilst I hung on thine Altar, this my verse, which hath chanted  
With thousand close sighs, the praises of many others,  
But yet never honoured any, like to thy rare self:  
Wondered at of men, of Gods most worthily worshipped.  
Then this my chaste voice receive, as heavenly powers do.  
And vouchsafe for this song, a corner of thy sweet Altar,  
Unto the end I deeply may engrave in the same place,  
How in coarse, and in mind, thou framed art daintily perfect,  
And that nothing equal can thy feature immortal,  
Who art honours lonely Nurse, and Eternity's own child.  
Having made these verses, I played as the country Farmeth doth, who having gathered some dainty, or new kind of fruit, keepeth the same very charily, to make a present thereof, unto his Landlord, upon the first occasion he shall have to see him: and so I resolved to keep these my verses, and to present them unto my Diana, assoon as she should return from the ceremonies of her Goddess, and long was it (as me thought) that she stayed. For to one that expecteth & looketh for any thnig, every hour seemeth a year at the least. Willingly could I have murmured against the Goddess Diana. If I durst, and more willingly have curtold of, and shortened her Sacrifices, if I had been (as I was not) the great Priest of the Gods.  
But in the end, the best thing that I could find to help me, was patience perforce, whilst I attended with good devotion, the will of the heavens, which at the last bringeth every thing to his perfection. Yet when these Sacrifices were at an end, they were no more fortunate unto me, than was their beginning. For my Diana being elected and chosen Queen of these Mysteries, by the other Nymphs was conducted (not far from thence) by the whole troop of them to be installed, & to receive the Robes of her Royrall Sovereignty, much did it please me, that my Lady was so highly honoured, but as much (again) did it displease me, that I should lose her presence longer, for the same; which was the cause, it drowned and choked all the contentment and pleasure, which I conceived of her prehemmence, and to know her, to be preferred before all the rest of the Goddess train. For the good servant is not a little glad and proud, in that he serveth a brave and virtuous Master, who surpasseth all others in virtue, and in chivalry.  
And so the Lover is fully contented, and not a little doth glory, when he is the servant of such a Lady, as not Love (alone) maketh her seem beautiful in his own sight, but when she is so reputed and accounted of by the voice of all men.  
Nothing delighteth our minds more, than when we see every man's conceit to jump with our own, in the thing that we love most of all.  
Now the honour that was attributed unto my Mistress was great, for she was brought from the temple, arrayed with a fine and dainty rob, of white lawn; under which was a garment of cloth of gold, rich, & of great value, her head was adorned, & embellished with a Royal golden Crown, and the lovely traces of her flaxen hair, were tied with small and delicate colours of the purest silk, set out with many pretty knots, ànd wonderful rare devices.  
Her countenance was such, and so Majestical, as if she had been the Goddess Diana indeed: for apparel setteth out the body very much, being one of the goodhest and chiefest ornaments to increase beauty: especially if there be good store of change of the sacred and costly, with ill, and that it be fit and well made for the person that shall wear it.  
Her Chariot was of ivory, wherein she sat enthronized, drawn with four huge Lions, which shaked their yellow rough skins, to make such stubborn hearts to fear and quake, that were loath to bow, and do reverence unto their beauteous and Princely Princess.  
Before her, and by her side, the other Nymphs marched orderly, and in a row, every one of them, carrying a branch of Olive, wreathed and intermixed with a bow of green Laurel, and a writing upon the same, which bore every ones own Quatrin in praise of this royal Nymph, whereof some of them were these here under inserted.  
The Muses (Goddess fair) this chaste verse offer thee,  
And to thy peerless Coarse, and Beauty's excellence:  
To praise the good, to blame such wights as wicked be,  
Is honours double gain, and double recompense.  
Another Quatersan.  
If thou Diana's name, her beauty, and her wit dost bear,  
Who is adorned in heavens, whilst thou below dost sojourn here?  
What reason is it then, but that we worship thee likewise,  
As we the mighty Gods do, and like honours, thee devise?  
Another.  
Too small a toy this Laurel is, to make for thee a Crown,  
Thy temples to embellish fair, thou art of such renown.  
'tis mortals gain this honour, yet as we present to thee,  
Immortal verses so with such, the Gods presented be.  
Another.  
Rare virtue never honoured is enough, at any time,  
Nor can we too much make to smoke, her Altars o'er divine.  
Then if thy works (as hers) immortal right do show,  
Wonder thou not, though beauties thine be worshipped so.  
Another.  
Queen of our works, and Princess of our hart,  
Of our chaste minds we offer thee best part.  
Our verse, it is, through which the Conqueror lives,  
Which to his deeds, most heavenly brightness gives.  
Another.  
Blessed be our Queen, immortal she always,  
In words and deeds we'll honour her with praise.  
Whose body beauteous, and whose soul is fair,  
And who for gifts with Pallas may compare?  
Another.  
The Ox, to jupiter we use to sacrifice,  
To Bacchus, Wine, the Goat to Pan, we give likewise.  
Corn unto Ceres, and sweet Myrrh we Cupid offer,  
But unto thee (who vice dost hate) our verse we proffer.  
Another.  
Thy Feature fair, nor stately Gate, hath us o'ercome,  
'tis none of these, thy virtue 'tis that this hath done.  
He is not vanquished, that hath endured the sight  
Of one that is far more in power, then mortal might.  
Another.  
'mongst thousand honours due unto thy glorious Deity,  
Receive our verses, and these Flowers, as offerings to thy beauty.  
Small triumph for the Captain 'tis, to foil his enemy,  
Unless Apollo's sisters ring out his victory.  
These Quatraines were fairly written, in great Letters of Gold, all in my Mistress honour, which (how much it pleased me to see commended by so many sweet voices) you yourself may soon imagine.  
This done, after they had carried her up & down for a certain space, and that the Lions (being wearied) had reposed themselves, all the Nymphs gathered themselves together in a round, and holding hands one with another, they began to sing sweetly again in the praise of their Queen; ringing out this peal with their notes, sounding (like sweet Bells) as followeth.  
Another.  
Now must the Gods above,  
And all the heavens that move,  
Of Diana praises sing,  
That may hereafter ring.  
Now must me with knot fine,  
The Laurel green combine:  
With th'olive, that his hair,  
May be adorned were fair.  
O Cibile, whom the skies  
Doth worship reverently:  
Give us of Flowers gay,  
That Garlands make we may:  
Ye Muses that do chant,  
And of world's honour vaunt:  
Give us Invention still,  
From forth your sacred hill.  
O Maia's learned Son,  
Give us a honey tongue:  
And with thy rods us touch,  
That we may pleasure much,  
Ye Gods and Goddess.  
Beston your worthiness:  
That we may celebrate,  
Our noble Princess state.  
Who with renounce doth live.  
Whose deeds forth honour give:  
A thing most worthy 'tis,  
To praise what worthy is.  
Then each where we will tell,  
Her glory doth excel:  
(Fair) we of thee will sing,  
And make our song to ring,  
Of thee and of thy acts,  
Of thy victorious facts.  
Thy beauty we le not hide,  
Which in thy looks doth bide;  
Being full of Majesty,  
Whilst thou most worthily,  
For chastity dost gain,  
What Hippolit did (stain)  
Live then, and die thou namer,  
But be thou crowned for ever,  
With Coronet divine,  
Becoming wearing thine.  
And never may thy hart,  
Feel sorrow, teen or smart.  
Still may thy virtue yield,  
Flowers fit, for such a field.  
And o'er Love dominere,  
And with thy looks him fear.  
Daunt such as overbold,  
Thy honour dare behold.  
Let us right glory find,  
Within thy peerless mind.  
Celestial things still love,  
What mort all is near prove.  
This only of thy beauty,  
We sing as is our duty.  
And though thou in thy heart,  
More firm and loyal art  
Then loyatie itself, (wealth)  
(Since Love, takes place fore  
May we of thee alone,  
Ay think, or else of none.  
So death itself may have,  
No power thee for to brant.  
So mayst thou always flourish,  
Although we die and perish.  
Like Phoebus' Lawrall green,  
That fresh is always seen.  
So will we wish, that care  
Thy Feature near impair.  
And that what thou dost crave,  
Thou ever mayst it have.  
That black despair, thy soul,  
With thoughts may near control.  
And that no grief may cease  
On thee, to wound thy peace.  
That jove may ding the down  
Who on thy good do frown.  
And envious are through spite,  
To see how thou shinst bright.  
Since all the Gods do show,  
Their power here below.  
(A sign tha●le thee defend,)  
Unto the world his end.  
Then fear not, for they will  
Protect, and shield thee still.  
Whilst thy 〈◊〉 shall shine,  
Increasing time from time.  
Enfranchising with joy,  
Thyself free from annoy.  
To th'end thou help us may,  
Whom (only) we obey.  
Fair) then these verses take,  
Which we pen●e for thy sake.  
Ourselves, nor life, our soul,  
Do as thou please control.  
By all thy deeds of honour,  
Which thou hidst in a manner.  
DEAR, gra●●●t this Boon, past be,  
'tis (all) we bog of thee.  
How pleasing this song was unto mine ears, you may (kind Father) easily suppose, seeing it was so much in the commendation of my Lady: for the faithful Lover indeed, maketh more account of the honour and credit of his Mistress, then of his own, and whoso doth otherwise, is not a true servant, but a despiteful enemy.  
This feast continued a long time, being both grievous, and gladsome unto me; first grievous, because I could not have thee company of my dear Diana, and then joyful, to see how much it did redound unto her honour.  
For the desire of glory is so sweet, that as sugar sweeteneth such things as are most bitter, so it maketh all pains and troubles seem light and pleasant: I wishing in my mind, that my FAITH might grow to be famous, rather than mine own self, which was the reason, I did the better endure to be absent from her, because I perceive that it was for her renown. This made me have patience perforce, which I easily brooked, by reason I saw that in my mind during all these Solemnities pleased me, as much as that thing did, for which I so eagerly and earnestly attended and looked for.  
Willingly would I have thrust myself amongst them to dance, to have assisted therest, according unto my slender power, and to have (the more) praised my Lady, but I durst not, neither would they have received me into their company, I knowing, that mortal things ought not to be mingled with divine, and that nothing could unite and join together the high Empire of Inpirer, with the base ruling of Caesar. Yet in the mean time, I was so foolish in my conceits, that (I thought) it grieved my Dear, because she could not have leisure to speak unto me: but I was far wide from the matter, for the pleasure and glory which environed her round about, drowned all other imaginations, excepting only that, wherewith she was so highly honoured.  
And had not this carried her mind away, and busied it about the same, yet had she never (so much) as once thought upon me, because she did not affect me at all: neither bore me any good will, but as she did ordinarily unto others.  
Such is the humour of Lovers, that judge every one by their own selves, as if it were necessary and expedient that every one should be as fond, as they themselves are foolish. What should I say more, but that as one ravished through too much joy, I beheld my Goddess so earnestly, and with such zeal, as I persuaded myself, she was the true Goddess indeed: and thereupon I imagined, that she being raised to so high a dignity, would (no more account of me, than she had done heretofore) of my verses: for (commonly) prosperity maketh men insolent and proud. And yet again, I was not a little glad of her good Fortunes, because I guessed that by that means, none could rightly blame me, for being an Attendant upon so excellent a Virgin as she was: who was so respectively used of all sorts.  
Passing well did I like of their Devises and Sonnets, but only for one thing, which was, that in one place, they prayed and wished her, that she should not make account of Love: and this one word was it, that made me think the worse of all the rest of the Song: as one limb of a man cut off from his body, deformeth all the rest of his parsonage.  
But you need not to wonder, that I took this matter so heinously, for I (forsooth) thought I had some interest in her, when indeed there was no such thing. I afterwards bethinking myself, that if she would have disposed of herself to love, she then would have chosen some one far more worthy than I was, on whom to cast her good liking.  
Nevertheless, I excused the Nymphs, for that which they had said, knowing that it pleased their Princess well, to make such a motion unto her: and the rather, because I thought I was not likely (in haste) to be the man whom she meant to affect. What will you more? The feast (was now) at an end, my Lady took again her own former apparel, returned unto her old place and meadow, and there lived as she was wont to do.  
No sooner did I see her, but that I played the humble Publican, looking upon her a far off, and not once daring to approach nigh unto her: doubting lest I should find her more haughty and furlie than before-times, by reason of her great advancement, and good fortunes bestowed on her. And yet I hoped my verses would be an occasion that I should have access unto her, although (to say the truth) I feared greatly that she would not much care, neither for them, nor for me: Holding them (thus) in my hand, and not daring to present them unto her. One while I took them out of my pocket, thinking to offer them unto her, and so stood doubtful between both what to do: Not unlike unto a young scholar, who (whilst he is going unto his master, to crave licence to go play) hath many conceits running in his head, not daring (when he cometh before him) to beg leave, for fear lest he should be denied.  
Oftentimes I repent me that ever I had devised them, seeing I had lost so much time and leisure to write them out●o fair, and now was ready to tear them in pieces.  
In the end, I took courage, knowing the worst was but a deny all: hoping well of her, because I was well assured that the fruits of the Muses were honoured and esteemed, even of their own enemies, yea and of the most worst and leaudest people in the world.  
Drawing nigh then, I (presently) perceived the excellency of my Mistress spirit, for I found her more affable than she was, before she had been so much advanced in hovor. I saw her to be one of those wise Sages, who are neither puffed up with advancement of good Fortune, nor taken down, through too extreme miseries of the same. I perceived that firm constancy lodged in her soul, and that she carried the same countenance in prosperity, as she would have done, if she had been in adversity.  
Marius the noble Roman, deserving no more to be drawn with one and the selfsame countenance always, than she was, when neither joy nor sorrow could change her. After I had with a solemn Congé, and low curtsy, delivered my verses unto her, she with a mild look accepted them, and as me thought, liked indifferently well of them: For never did she give over, until she had thoroughly read them. Whilst I (In the mean time) fearing like the criminal, who doubtfully attendeth the award, either of life or death) began to consider within myself, of her virtue, mine eyes beholding her beauty, my heart contemplating upon her glory, and all my senses trembling for fear, lest I should have offended her: judge then, in what an extremity I was, when being as it were in an ecstasy, I could not so much as once move my hands, not stir my foot, from off the place where I stood, resembling that senseless Statue of the Sun, which the Rhodians made so much account of.  
No sooner had she read them, but that she began thus courteously to speak unto me. Employ not any more (good Shepherd) thy time thus, who am not worthy thereof. For if thou takest this small and homely beauty of mine to be the subject of thy Muse, assure thyself, that then thou soon wilt want matter.  
To things perfect, are praises due, and not unto unperfect, and to such silly Creatures as I am. Rob not so many Heroical spirits, and exquisite wits, of thy verse, when they deserve it so rightly. Nor do not bestow the same on me, who knoweth not what it is to do well, whereby I may merit praise.  
Ill doth he employ his Muse, or rather profane it, who bestoweth it about the commendations of imperfect things, because the nature thereof being divine, it ought not to discourse, but of divine and celestial subjects. Homer never sung of Thersistes, nor of thousands more of Greeks', unworthy to be named: but only of stout Achilles, of valiant Hector, of prudent Ulysses, and of venturous ajax, with such others.  
Change then thy Theme, and make the world see by some rare work of thine, how much thou art able to do through the power of the Muses: and that thou art fit and worthy to describe the valiant and Martial exploits of peerless and Princely Potentates, in a proud and lofty flile.  
We ought not to wear our wedding garment upon working days. That which justly appertaineth unto God, aught to be rendered unto him: and after him, that which is due unto Princes, and so then unto meaner persons, every one their own, according unto their estate and degree.  
More delight shall I take to read thy verses, when they shall be filled with a stately vain, and when they shall sound forth the Martial praises of such great States, as shall every way deserve the same: and yet I will not refuse these thou hast bestowed on me, but will keep them, because they are excellent pleasing: Marry (hereafter) I would advise thee to spend thy time better, and to write of some graver matter, and of more importance than heretofore thou hast done: that neither Time, not Death, may be able to destroy the same. I being emboldened with this her speech, stayed not long to answer her, replied thus.  
Fairest, amongst the most fair, and worthy to be accounted wise, amongst the wisest; Although I cannot choose but confess, that virtue is of so great puissance and force, as she is able to command out souls, to dispose of our hearts, as she shall think best herself.  
Yet cannot she let and hinder Honour, to pra●● and commend what is most worthy. The more wise folks refuse glory, the more will glory follow them, and honour them: And the more folks pursue the same, the more it flieth away from them, and disdaineth them.  
The body cannot move, nor live without soul: No more can virtue be without glory. If the Gods themselves hold thee for fair, for virtuous, and for wise, and if the immortal Nymphs make account of thee for such a one, and respect thee for the same; Why then wilt thou refuse this small praise my mournful Muse giveth thee?  
If I am deceived, so are the Gods deceived: If I err, the Nymphs have erred. And if I have done amiss, so have all the Demigods of the Forest likewise. But gracious Diana, no man can do amiss, in imitating the Gods, in as much as they are not subject unto vice, and for that they use not to sin. Why then dost thou blame me, in that I follow them?  
Penelope, so renowned for chastity, hath never been of that worth that thou art of: nor Cassandra more learned. Helen was never more beauteous, nor Enone more wise: whilst in the mean time, every one of these (for one only rare gift that was within them) have caused thousands of Poets to sweat in their praises: why then shouldest thou who art possessed of all these goodly virtues alone, refuse that honour which is so rightly due unto thee?  
But alas, what say I? Great reason hast thou to refuse such a poor praise, as cometh from one so simple and weak a Poet as myself. For the glory which the ignorant give unto the wise, may rather be termed a discredit, then am honour unto them. Yet such as I am, I beseech you accept of me: imitating Alexander the great, who cherished & graciously entertained, as well bad, as good writers, as did blazon forth his praise. For although (through want of skill) the ignorant man faileth very much of this mark, by reason he cannot explain and show forth the effects of his good will as he desireth; yet cannot it let him from manifesting the good will itself: which always is accounted for the first part of the work. Permit then, my poor Muse, to celebrate thy renown: thou being far more fairer than the Cassandra of great Ronsard, more chaste than the Oliva of Honey, mother Bellay, and more perfect, than the Diana of courteous De Reports.  
For a more divine subject, my Muse could never choose; my pen could never write of a daintier matter; my wit could never find a fairer field to walk in; nor my tongue, a sweeter Theme whereon to discourse. And shouldest thou deny me, yet would I not give over to praise thee: for not only do I hold thee worthy to be worthy thereof, but also account thee the only she, that heercafter I will celebrate and make famous, as mine only Lady and Mistress.  
(Shepherd answered she) affection oftentimes blindeth the eyes of the wise, and good will is ever partial in the praises of his friends. What soever a man loveth, that (never) seemeth soul nor deformed: because Desire is the child of fair, pleasant and agreeable things, and for that none will covet that which he thinketh or, imagineth to be loathsome or deformed.  
And this is the reason that many have praised vice, and discommended Virtue: writing most foolishly, as their passions have led them, without respecting, or once having any regard unto the Truth itself.  
Dido was reported by Virgil to be amorous and wanton: yet was she chaste. Ulysses by Homer, to be more valiant than Alax, whom he durst not look in the face. And Aeneas ●o be pitiful, and godly unto his Country, and yet it was he, that (most ungodly) betrayed the same unto his enemy.  
Poets writ according unto their own humours, when they please, but not according as the Truth itself is indeed. And so thy forward affection only, and not the night, thrusteth thee forward, to take pen in hand in my behalf. But what mayst thou expect to follow upon the same (hereafter) but only that men will say of thee, as I have said of Homer and Virgil, that thy fancy hath made thee to affect and commend, that which was not any way praiseworthy of itself. Thou wilt stand me in no other steed, then to revive the memorial of mine imperfections after my death, which were far better to be buried with me in my grave, then to be bruited abroad.  
Content thee, therefore I pray thee, and let it be sufficient that I am known to be full of defects now I am alive, without making me to be remembered for such (hereafter) when I shall be dead. If thou lovest me (as thou makest a show thou dost) than love my memory also: for we ought not so much to respect things present, which we see whilst we live, as we should do those that are to come hereafter. The reason is for that we may find some one remedy. For the first, whilst we remain (here) in this world. But for the latter we cannot: because we are not (here) to make means for the same. Be not then the occasion that my name shall be called in question, when (for that I am then dead) I cannot come to excuse myself as I would.  
For happy are such worthy persons, as leave no remembrance of their Imperfections, after they are gone out of this world, lest the people should call again unto mind their faults, and so condemn them for the same: And also thy verses (testifying the great affection and good will thou bearest me) will also show apparently my defects, and what was amiss in me.  
For who doubteth but that Lovers (in respect of the great love they bear unto their Ladies) hide under the colours of their smooth and dainty kind of Enditings, all the faults and defects they have, be they never so foul?  
There is none so vehement a passion as Love, neither is there any thing that doth so much wrong to Truth as that doth: in such wise, as women should rather take these praises, for a discredit, then for a credit unto them, which they receive of their Lovers. And this is mine opinion, which all the persuasions in the world shall never make me change.  
Fair Nymphs (replied I then) because Love is mighty and celestial, therefore doth he never intermeddle amongst the basest and meanest creatures, especially with such as are deformed. For never is there any hard favoured face beloved. Who (then) will believe otherwise, but that Lady that shall be found to be honoured by ● grave Poet, is otherwise then a most perfect and accomplished Creature every way, seeing perfection (only) hath authority over our souls, which hateth as much the thing that is deformed, as it adoreth that which is fair.  
How exquisite and excellent a Virgin was the fair Laura of renowned Petrar●● and how much have his works brought lively credit unto her praises? The Muses never sung of unworthy subjects ● And although some may think, that a Poet can make huge Elephant of a little Fly, yet cannot he commend an unhonest matter, and worthy of reproach (although he feign would.) Because the Muses (who are the sounding Tru●● pets of Heroical minds) would oppose themselves against him.  
No, no, fair (Dame) chaste and modest writings never alter the honour of any Gentlewoman. Many have written of Lucretia, and their discourses have made her the more famous, throughout the whole world. For as the remembrance of infamous person is much detested and hated by the Muses: So is the glory and renown of the ven●ous installed by them in eternal memory for ever.  
What are men but dust, if the Muses should not make them survive after they are dead, and live in the world again? He never leaveth this world, whom the Muses do grace so much, as to paint his egregious Acts in the Temple of memory, when his successors and succeeders behold him continually, with great admiration and wonder, by which means he dieth no more, than such sacred and noble minds, do, who are obliged and bound unto the Muses, as Achilles and Hector were, with divers other.  
Refuse not (then, gracious Nymph) the commendations of my Muse, although too base for thee, which shall never cease, nor give over, to sing of thy virtues, according unto thine own mind and pleasure. For the Muses are the waiting Gentlewomen of Virtue, and are bound to reserve the memories of all such as have lived 〈◊〉, and with honour: So that if Virtue force her own enemies, to reverence her? much more can she compel the Muses to do the like, they being obliged by duty to be always at her call, and to attend upon her.  
Scipis the great, after he had given over Rome, was daily visited by the Pirates of the Sea: which men (although in their own proper nature) they were cruel and wicked, yet nevertheless were they forced by reason of his virtue, to honour him, coming so far out of their way, only to see so famous a Captain, and kissing his victorious hands, as if he had been some great God.  
So Caesar likewise, after he was taken prisoner by certain Rovers of the Seas, was much respected of the same thieves for his virtue, although he threatened them, to hang them, when he should come on land. Deny not then (divine Da●●●zell) the fruits of my Muse, but give her leave to do her good will, who hath vowed to praise thee, although thou forbidden the same.  
I will not then hinder thee (answered the Nymph,) because I see thou art resolute Yet this I will tell thee, that as it is a pleasant pastime to labour and sow, where a man may reap the fruit thereof again, with increase: So is it most grievous and intolerable, when one shall toil and sweat, night and day, and yet obtain no recompense for the same. When thy Muse shall have composed thousands of verses in mine honour, and when thou hast made whole volumes, perined and indited at large, written wholly for my credit, yet what profit dost thou hope for at my hands: Or what shalt thou get thereby?  
They say, that Bacchus and Cupid, as they were one day going a hunting, caught Minerva in their Nets: If so it were, (no doubt) it was with her own consent. For I do not think, that any can force one to love or affect him, whether the party will or no.  
Neither shall thy writings, nor thy persuasions, ever take me in their Traps; For where the judge is just and uncorrupt, there is no altering, nor wresting of justice, nor can his virtue be dimmed or abused with presents or gifts.  
So likewise, never look for any commodity by thy study, at my hands: For so should I buy them too too dear; Inasmuch, as nothing is to be rated at so high a price, as our good Name or Fame is. For every thing that is lost, may be recovered else again, but the loss of this, is deplorable, and altogether impossible to be obtained, when it is once gone.  
But say I should believe thee, and yield unto thee in this point, that thy love towards me is sacred and just, yet art thou so simple, to think that those that shall come hereafter, will imagine the same? and that they will judge (thy flowering youth) and the springtide of thy life, having been spent in my behalf, and for mine occasion, thou hast found no recompense nor guerdon of me, for so great pains? So that if whilst I live, I can hardly keep mine honour from blame, yet when I am dead, I cannot preserve it from the suspicion thereof, it being become a prey unto most venomous and slanderous tongues; For this I will tell thee (Shepherd) the presence of a man (oftentimes.) withholdeth many things from being spoken against his credit and good name, which when he is absent, the mischievous and malignant sort will not stick to report and blaze abroad.  
And although I know that every kind of friendship is not dishonest, but that many have loved for pure virtue only: yet can we not let every one from speaking as they shall please, and it is left unto the conceits of those, as shall be then living, to think according unto their own humours and will, and to believe as they list, because there is none to forbid them the contrary.  
But in the mean space, how many is there in the world, that will rather speak ill then well, and give forth bad speeches, than once think good thoughts, especially such kind of people as speak of spite, who because they are bad themselves, therefore they will report maliciously of others, that are better than themselves, only of ill will, and for nothing else.  
These reasons make me take small taste in thy writings, when they shall prove more damageable than profitable unto me, and chief, if by their means, I chance to be defamed any way; For, for glory only (it being accompanied with virtue) may mortal men account themselves worthy, both of the name of men, and of immoral renown, and not for any thing else.  
Gracious Lady and Mistress (replied Arcas) is it possible that the Sun should shine at midday, and yet not be seen with our eyes? And can any be so blind, as to take that glorious Lamp for night, seeing so many bright and glittering beams to issue from the same?  
And so likewise, do you think it is likely, that any one dare be so shameless and impudent, to slander the spotless virtue of an immaculate Virgin, whom every one knoweth to be both prudent and chaste?  
Those that are replenished with virtue, can never blame such a one, because she is as they are, and resembleth her: And if the vicious and foolish seek to backbite her, then doth her glory increase the more. For that they see (by daily experience) that she is nothing unto them, in as much as in malicious sort, they seek to oppugn and rise up against her.  
And if this (which you say) should be true, then should the world think ill of so many worthy and virtuous women, who are commended in the works of divers Poets. Then should Cassandra the Trojan, Penelope, Pelixena, Portia, Lucretia, Alcesta, and divers others, be but hardly thought of which nevertheless, we see commended throughout the world: there not being found any of so foul a tongue, that dare to speak against them.  
No, no, it is not so easy a matter to bury and inter the glory of the virtuous, for virtue shineth still, in despite of all her enemies, although they seek (but yet in vain) by many strong and subtle devices to eclipse and overthrow the same.  
And though Virgil have written against modest Dido, yet is she made famous for her honesty, and so accounted of (despite) of such as thought to darken and smother such rare and admirable virtues, as were within her.  
Upon divers considerations, and with divers kind of conceits, have the learned written of women: And an easy matter is it, to judge by the style, by the phrase, and by the affection of the writer, if they were chaste and virtuous or no: For it is not possible that he that describeth an unhonest woman (and of whom he hath had his pleasure) can carry that awful respect, that temperate moderation, and that dutiful fear in his style towards her; as well, and in as good order, as that man that doth blazon forth (although he loveth her well) the admirable virtues of a chaste and modest Lady, because one cannot (although he would) respect or fear, that which is his own, or rather is in Common, as well unto others, as unto himself.  
But of her that is chaste, sober, and well qualified, a man cannot speak, but with great advise, and mature deliberation, as when we speak of the Gods, because we have no interest in her.  
Then is it but a hard interpretation, to think that the modest and regardful writings, of a loyal Lover, bring any disparagement unto the fair virtues of his lovely Mistress: when she shall so highly be praised, in that she hath with stood so many strong assaults of such as have laid battery against the invincible Fort of her admirable chastity, and when every one shall see, and read, of her more than rare qualities, drawn and painted forth in their lively and right colours, with the cunning pencil of the lofty verse of her most faithful servant.  
And after this manner (O divine Diana) do I pretend to write of thee, and make thee famous, and when thou findest that I mean otherwise, then let most shameful death befall me; defacing and overthrowing me, and my writings, as most unworthy to be seen, or looked upon, or (once to be remembered) within the memories of man.  
But yet (answered the Nymph) I would feign know what you shall get by loving me? For never shall you find (as long as I live) that I will be Scholar unto Love, so cruel and unjust a Master he is.  
And to prove that this is true by example, seeing no reason will satisfy you, I will not stick to take the pains to tell you a strange history.  
Hereupon, fair Diana placing herself in the midst of the other Nymphs (who as I) were ravished at her great wisdom, began to recount her Tragedy, with a most pleasing grace, in this sort following.  
About what time the earth (withouten sowing) plenteously,  
Brought unto men their Harvest rich, (and that continually)  
When as the wished for bearded Corn, which Ceres forth doth bring,  
Waxed ripe, without all cockle bad, in fields fair glistering.  
When bended Trees, in Autums rain, with burdens there did groan,  
So full of fruit they hung, without deceiving any one.  
When every hedge a vineyard was, and that in goodly show,  
Thousand, and thousand bunches thick, of grapes each where did grow.  
When as the harmless flocks of beasts, and thick-woolld bleating sheep,  
Did rou● themselves abroad alone, and on the mountains keep.  
When all the long day, Heads of cattle grazde every where,  
Withouten doubt of Wolf, or Fox, of Tiger or of Bear.  
When Elmes and Reech, with stately Okes, drop honey down amain,  
Which on the plants and tender herbs, in dewy wise did rain.  
Before that any thunder crack, and lightnings flashie blast,  
On flinty marble Rocks did seize, and them in midst braced.  
When all was quiet, full of peace, and when this self same place,  
Blessed Astrea with her gifts most happily did grace.  
When fire and sword, hard Iron and steel, were banished away,  
Which (at the first) the causers were, of worlds and man's decay.  
When that in steed of blood and war, was nothing but mild peace,  
Which made the earth, with thousand joys, to flourish and increase.  
In that blessed time and happy age, a Shephear desk did live,  
To whom (all) for her beauty rare, the palm and prize did give.  
Thrice happy Stella was she cl●apt, and well she might be so,  
For never star in firmament, more fair and bright did show.  
As Luna when in midst of pride she showeth, in frosty night,  
With sparkling lights, attended on; so shone her beauty bright.  
But yet (alas) the mortal woes, and hard end she did pass,  
Did testify but too too well, that sh● not happy was.  
The names of things to the natures oft; accord and well agree,  
And yet to the names, the natures (oft) discordant show to be.  
Malicious LOVE, as subtle spy, abounding in all malice,  
Amongst sweet pleasures, seeks to sow errors and shameful vice.  
He likes (alive) sorrow and grief, to chop our joys among,  
And pleasure ours, to turn to pain, the more to do us wrong.  
jealous he is of mortals good, of their sweet ease and rest,  
And in their actions (them to cross) he makes an usualliest.  
This made him cast himself into the eyes of this maid fair,  
Which as a torch scru de for to set a fire most deadly care.  
Of her bright glances (diammds right) he forged all his darts,  
With which he (as merciful) did pierce the loyalst hearts.  
Her flaxen hairs were bands, wherewith (as Conquor) he controlled,  
And bound most fast, the souls that were most wariest and most bold.  
Of her sweet smiles and pleasing speech, he made a luring bait,  
Through which, to ravish mind and sense he (covert) lay in wait.  
As with the sound of his rare. Harp, when Orpheus used to sing,  
Hard stubborn Rocks and lifeless woods, he forced to follow him.  
As beasts and Birds did tend on him, as ghastly spirit of hell:  
To list to Music his, of their own minds did them compel.  
And as the fouler sly, by note of his deceitful pipe,  
The simple Bird (unwittingly) arawes in his net to light.  
And as the adamant, that near by lightning taketh flaw,  
The Iron by a secret power unto him close doth draw.  
So by the lovely smiles, and by the sugared speech and grace,  
Of this rare Damozell, Love did charm the minds of men apace.  
By th'unnie of her dainty tongue, they too too credulous,  
Themselves did offer for to fall in danger perilous.  
Now in this place lived Shepherds twain, the proprests of all others,  
Instuture tall, and upright height, there were not two such Lovers.  
Nor were they only goodly wights, but strong withal and stout,  
Oft they the Bear and Lion chaste the Forest all about.  
For hunting (at that time) was al● their sport and their delight,  
This pleasing travail being the life, that pleased them aright.  
Nor was (as then) known unto them, Bellona's bloody rage,  
Nor did vain Love seek them to vex, in prime of their green age.  
No brawls, nor loud debates 'mongst them, was there, them for to grieve,  
Old Saturn in the golden world, more happier did not line.  
(Withouten tilling,) store of corn came forth of fruitful field,  
Withouten dressing viniards aught, the Viniards, grapes did yield.  
Their beasts increased, Sanus taking pain, their Muttons brought forth wool;  
Their bleating Ewes with skipping Lambs were always big & full.  
But now (behold) in Ambuscade, how Love doth lie always,  
Meaning with uncouth cruelties, his honour more to raise.  
Sezing upon them (through his might) and on their liberties,  
The better for to make them taste of his disloyalties.  
For one day as those harmless Swains did homewards come amain,  
Half windelesse, and half wearied in pursuing of their game,  
Each of them, a huge wild Boor's head, holding within their hand,  
Tired with their sport they had abroad, dry, as they could scarce stand  
To drink, and rest themselves awhile, they to a spring did come,  
Whose water was as cold as Ice, and clear as any Sun.  
A stately Rock from forth the foot, did issue of this spring,  
'Bout which, a thousand Cypress Trees stood thick innironing.  
Into this Fountain (as they say) a Nymph was changed sometimes,  
(And it might well be) for most bright and glorious like it shines.  
Round all about the same, of Turfs most green was there a seat,  
By artificial Nature framed, most pleasnt and most neat.  
Here meant they to repose themselves, and here they meant to lie,  
Whilst with this water cool, they sought to quench their thirst over dry.  
But as they thought to lay them down upon this bankeside cold,  
They might a wondrous beauty rich, sound to sleep behold.  
And Stella fair it was, for then, Shepherds might at that time,  
A midst Shephear desses sleep, without suspect of crime.  
(As then) their modest chastity to stain, each one did fear.  
For, as they in their minds were chaste, so they in body were.  
Amazed they stood at this sweet face, their drought they had forget,  
For now another thirst then that, did dry them far more hot.  
Nor cared they (now) for to sleep, all sleep they banished quite,  
Whilst they as dreaming stood, to view such an unlooked for sight.  
They play the wanton Lovers (now) whilst with their rolling eye,  
They nothing do but only mark how sweetly she doth lie.  
As senseless Rock, Sanus power they seem, nor can they stir or rise,  
Nor other pleasure take they, but to mark her with their eyes.  
Mean time, this beauteous face, which them doth gently to her train,  
Smiles, as she sleeps, to see how they do blush (o'ercome with shame.  
So is he daunted, who orebold with overdaring wink,  
That's able for to look against the Sunny beams doth think.  
So such as are presumptuous, did too too fond stare  
Upon Medusa, into stones, and flints, soon changed were.  
Our Shepherds (so being ravished) would never lin nor rest,  
To view one while her lovely face, and then, her milk-white breast.  
Another while they mark her long and yellow flaxen hair,  
Which gentle winds (as waves of Seas) did moon, now here, now there.  
Not half so fair the golden locks of stubborn Absalon  
showed, as were hers, nor did they seem so trim, to look upon.  
Her forehead large, they then did view, as smooth as any jet,  
Where (oft) the Graces, in their pride (to make them merry) met.  
Nor they forgot her Eyelids small, which Love with his pure fire,  
Had somewhat blackish made to seem, the more to breed desire.  
Rare Eyelids, which through her two spheres, even 'mongst the very Gods,  
(Through kind of shadowing sweet) did make them more admired by odds.  
Her eyes as than they could not view, her eyes with Diamonds right,  
Which, when they oped, the heaven, did show, discovering true delight.  
Then to her matchless mouth they come, most dainty, Sanus compare,  
How often wished they it to kiss, but that they durst not dare.  
A just report did them debar, so much for to forget  
Themselves, as that to do which might be unto them a let.  
Whereby their Ladies afterward they might offend and grieve,  
Which (fore a loyal Lover so would do) he would not ●iue.  
Upon her cherry lip, where die of Gillsflowers did flow,  
The damask Risen along the same, ran spreading too and fro.  
Her beauteous cheek, most freshly showed, like the Vermilion flower,  
Cheeks, which (hearts made of flinty Rock) for to controlled, had power.  
Her dimpled chin, and snowy neck, the Tower of stateliness,  
Not junos' neck so seemly showed, and Vents, far was less.  
So were her breasts embellished with riches manifold,  
Ah who so fair a sight could see, and not be overbold?  
There was the bosom which did part the milky way aright,  
That leads into the golden field, the centre of delight.  
There were those sacred mountains twain, where perfect joy doth rest.  
None mount those hallowed hills, but such as borne were to be blest.  
O pleasure unconceived, to have the grace them for to touch,  
But to have licence them to kiss, to die it were not much.  
Her supple hand in seemly sort did lie, and comely wise,  
Her fingers such, as fault to find in them none could device.  
And last of all (though covered) stretched out her round cl●●ne f●●●s,  
Supporter of that building brave, of beautions form the root.  
The rest (and better part) lay hid, yet what was to be seen,  
(To make one lose his liberty) enough and more had been.  
Had jove seen one but half so fair, he had of her esteemed,  
Mars would have yeelden, Phoebus' s●de, and well of her 〈…〉.  
Thus at one time, these shepherds twain●, are feign to be in love,  
Whilst one and selfsame grief, they both ●●st at one time 〈…〉.  
Their souls are touched to the quick, with this one 〈…〉,  
Of thousand amorous wishes sweet, they 〈…〉.  
LOVE, hath two arrows, one of gold 〈…〉,  
The others lead, and that doth quench by 〈…〉.  
Th'one on the sudden pierceth, but the other doth no harm,  
Th'one doth increase the fire, the other 'gainst it is at harm.  
These two strange darts of Cupid proud, Stella felt in her 〈◊〉,  
Th'one forced her love, but the other did all ●one with check contr●●●●.  
One of these Shepherds she did like, the other she 〈◊〉  
Did hate, against the silly wretch a monstrous spite she 〈◊〉.  
Th'one Coridon was called, whom she in hart 〈…〉  
The other, Aridon, into a hard Rock attered.  
But now (to come where as we left) our Shepherdess doth 〈◊〉.  
And lifting up her head, she leave (as then), of sleep did take.  
For she was frighted with a dream, that did not please her well,  
A dream (that as an Oracle) did her 〈…〉.  
But when she saw these Shepherds twain, she 〈…〉,  
To see them lie so night to her, she wonder did the more.  
Yet this her wondering, her became the better, cause she blushed,  
Whilst she more fair did show, when through her face the colour flashed.  
Her eyes she cast on the ground, and at 〈…〉 so look,  
By them (upon the sudden) she durst not upon them to look.  
That done, with sad and heedful ear, she doth about her prit,  
Lest, what not comely had been, they about her 〈…〉  
In th'end, she finds all well, not much 〈…〉  
Who doubts some theenes, but having found 〈…〉, their doth not fe●●e.  
Mean time, poor Cloridou, who is perplexed most dangerous,  
Takes heart at grass, whilst boldly he, 'gins to accost her thus,  
Fair light of my best life, why art thou thus possessed with care,  
When heavent themselves, they virtuous life, hurt cannot, nor once dare?  
Chaste is thy soul, virtuous thy mind, most beautiful thy face,  
No Tiger fierce, or Lion fell, thy beauty dare disgrace.  
The devils themselves cannot thee hurt, why doubts thou? things divine,  
Are not (as mortal be) to shame subject at any time.  
The Gods, have made thee goodly, that the heavens might honour thee,  
Our spirits, are bodies framed, that thou by us might'st worshipped be.  
Thee will we serve in humble wise, with dutiful respect,  
Nor whilst we live (as us becomes) our duties we'll neglect.  
Then sacred Saint, thyself assure, my soul thus languishing,  
No bad conceit through carriage mine, to thee shall ever bring.  
No rash attempt (undecently) shall make me overbold  
With her 〈◊〉 home Mistress of my hart, and my chief good I hold.  
Then do all dread abandon quite, look merry, and be blithe,  
For we both honour thee, and for thy Love contend and striue.  
So said the Shepherd, whilst that Love did shoot in cunning wise,  
Fancies swift darts into his hart, which came from Stellas eyes,  
From Stellas eyes, who now gins to fell an uncouth flame,  
And who doth find (as Cloridan) to bide the selfsame pain.  
She finds she forced is to love, although against her will,  
And more she seeks him to expel, the more be entereth still.  
The shepherds words are wounds to her, and pierce her like a dart,  
His speeches breaches be, which soon make entrance in her hart.  
And now (on sudden) Cloridon she liketh (and sowell,)  
As (in her sight) for beauty he doth only hear the bell.  
And so likewise doth Cloridan think of his dainty Love,  
Vowing within his soul, that death shall not her thence 〈◊〉.  
So in the Phrygian forest thick, when Paris liu de 〈◊〉.  
In Oenone's Love (he was entrapped) and (for the same) did 〈◊〉,  
Of whose dear love, that loyal Nymph so highly did esteem,  
As after he was slain, to mourn for him she (ai●) was seen.  
But Stella somewhat fearful now, and blushing in this case,  
Unto her Shepherd thus replied, with comely bashful grace.  
A worthy Shepherd (like thyself) I never doubted yet,  
That (for to offer wrong to me) his honour would forget.  
The mind that generous is indeed, and doth for gl●ris made.  
Is near so base, as to abuse a silly harmless maid.  
His honour he doth holy wrack upon discredits shelf.  
That having others conquered brave, cannot o'ercome himself.  
It better him becomes to bunt, the Lion or the Bare.  
The greedy Wolf, wild Boor and fierce, then silly Da●●ze● f●●e.  
No glory 'tis, much for to force, or proudly to command,  
As have no might, nor any power, such fury to withstand.  
But I assure me of thyself, and that I trust thee th●●,  
Thou seest, I do not fly from thee, as one o'er time 〈◊〉.  
Besides (with blushing) I confess, thou art the first of all,  
That hast against my will, enforced me follow Cupid● call.  
A soul thou hast (that Love as now) compelleth to be thine,  
Love that doth both our hearts in one, in loyal bands combine.  
That Love which makes me yield to thee for to be overthrown,  
That Love, which Tyrantlike denies, that I shall be mine own.  
Then look that in this love, thou do mine 〈◊〉 still preserve,  
It being all, that for our pains, me rightly shall deserve.  
For thou shalt sooner Stella see in grave for to remain,  
Before that any vicious soul, her virtuous life shall stain.  
she'll rather die a thousand times, for constant amity,  
The treasure is, which I do rate at endless price so high.  
Chastely to love in virtuous sort, is sure a worthy thing,  
And heavens themselves to modest Love, a joyful end will bring.  
Remember then what I do say, or trouble me no more,  
Fair words without performance true, I loath and do abore.  
So Stella said, and Cloridan to hear these words of joy,  
So ravished was, as now he quite forgot all former noy.  
Nor could he speak for gladness, while his hart did leap within,  
He knew not how to frame his tale, or which way to begin.  
As dead men we, through overmuch displeasing grief, become,  
So sudden pleasure overmuch, stops passage of our tongue.  
Both th'one and th'other, oftentimes, us too too much doth move,  
Extremities of both (without a mean) we often prove.  
Many through pleasure die, their days many do end through woe.  
Grief kills our senses suddenly, and joy likewise doth so.  
And after winter, many storms and rainy showers apace,  
The Sun gins (by little) for to show to us his face.  
The plants and Trees revive again, looking both fresh and green,  
Which in the frosty season cold, through snow did lie unseen.  
So at the last, the Shepherd got his wont speech again,  
And pleasure former dread and fear, did chase away 〈◊〉  
Which being gone, as soon as time did breath to him afford,  
In humbl● wise, he once more thus began her for to board.  
(Sweet Lady) since the law divine of Cupid heavenly king,  
Such favours great doth show to me, (not of my meriting)  
And that I blest am so, that to your hart mine tied is,  
(A cause our chaste desires are like for to obtain rare bliss.)  
And since our minds are so unite, and knit in bonds so strong,  
As death itself with all his force, shall never do us wrong.  
I vow for to be yours alone, hap ill to me or well,  
Despite of destiny, despite of Fortune, spite of hell.  
For to be loved of thyself, it passeth, and is such,  
As like no glory is on earth for to be found by much.  
When Adonis Venus did enjoy, so blessed was not he,  
Nor Pirams love to Thisbe could, so hot and ardent be.  
The Gods themselves in glory theirs, who are redoubtable,  
In pleasure with me to compare cannot, nor are not able.  
More fortunate am I then they, my hart is more content,  
Then when jove with Europa lived, and time away so spent.  
A thousand Almours in my mind I feel for to be hid,  
More sweet, then when Leander kind, embrace his Hero did.  
With Paris vain, is Helen's joy compared unto mine,  
My fancies are so sweet, they seem as if they were divine.  
None is so happy as myself; th' Ambrosia of the Gods,  
Not so much liketh them, as doth my life like me, by odds.  
Ah then amongst contentments such, do not me so much grieve,  
As for to think to offer thee dishonour I would live.  
No, no, I held thee too too dear, and at too high a rate,  
And more of thee, I do esteem, then of mine own estate.  
Wrong me not so, for from the heavens, the Sun shall swiftly fall,  
And I my life will sacrifice, before that happen shall.  
A great offence with punishment, most grievous plagued is,  
Then think not i'll forget myself, to do (so much) amiss.  
And that I will perform my word my promise thou shalt have,  
So that (with leave) my mouth of thee this tinie boon may crave.  
Only to kiss thy sacred hand, is that which I request,  
That hand of thine, which being touched, shall make me (living) blest.  
No other good (for all my pains) than this I will require,  
For all my love, and my good will, I will no way desire.  
Grant me my suit, that as my soul is ravished with thine eyes,  
So by the same, may ravished be, my life, in selfsame wise.  
Which if I shall obtain, i'll judge, my joys for to abound,  
And that (so happy as myself) no Lover lives on ground.  
So said, his Mistress kind, to yield this favour is content,  
Giving her hand to him, which he doth kiss incontinent.  
Thrice blessed hand, which through thy power, doth quench so hot a flame,  
And through thy gentle touch, the rage asswagest of the same.  
She pours the drops of pity, on his more than burning fire,  
And from his hart plucks forth those darts, there fixed through desire.  
And now is Cloridan content, and cased of his smart,  
He goeth no farther, nor makes show from promise his to part.  
Yet in his hope is comfort hid, he hopes well in his mind,  
And in assurance he doth live, some better good to find.  
Mean space, Dan Phoebus leaves his work, his ta●ke he having done,  
His place resigning, Sisters his, that she her course may run.  
When being wearied of his toil, he gets him to highed,  
Whilst Luna pale, amongst the clouds appears, with horned head.  
This is the cause that Cloridan, half angry takes his leave,  
Whilst homeward for to go, his hart with thousand thoughts doth heave.  
The day he doth accuse, as one, unconstant wavering,  
That dai'es near long enough, when one hopes, that good twill him bring.  
But he must pack from thence, and men the Gods ought to obey,  
Who have as well the night ordained, as they did make the day.  
His leave of Stella he doth take, and prayeth her be so kind,  
That he next morning in that place, her lovely self may find.  
Which she doth promise (half compelled) for Love doth force her please  
Her amorous Swain, and means to seek his torments for to ease.  
And (now) both part, and go their ways, whilst undershadowing tree,  
They leave their bleating flocks to rest, which (there) in safety be.  
For Wolves, no enemies (as then) were unto any beast,  
The Tiger nor the Lion then, upon them neverceast.  
But Phoebus now was scarcely rose, his wont course to make,  
Nor to his brightsome Chariot had, his fiery horse betake;  
Nor was Aurora stolen yet, from aged Tithon● side,  
To get unto Eudimion leued, and there with hi●● to bide.  
When Cloridan (whose mind did run upon his Mistress beauty,  
(To whom he had devoted all his service and his duty)  
Leaps from his couch, for he that hopes upon some good luck sweet,  
To (come next day) hath small desire to slumber or to sleep.  
He to the old place maketh haste, to wait on those fair eyes,  
Which spoil his rest, yet to his hart, are kind in gracious wife.  
Mean time the Shepherd Aridon, that wretch most, miserable,  
To find such like (as Cloridan had found) he was not able.  
Most piteously he languisheth, whilst Love and ●●ll his law,  
He curseth more than thousand times, of all his woes, the cause.  
Feign would he leave to love, since he seethe he can gain no grace,  
And that the fruits of Love, he near is like for to embrace.  
But all in vain, his destiny he can no ways prenens.  
Nor can he aught of ill resist, what powers divine have ●ent.  
What he is able that he doth, but what doth it avail,  
For man, LOVE to withstand, when Gods he forceth for to quail?  
But as the Hart being sore hurt, the more that he doth seek  
To ease him of his hurts, the more he worse is and week,  
So Aridon, in thinking how to rid him of his grief,  
The worse waxeth still, and in the end, dieth sans relief.  
Nothing on earth the power of LOVE is able to control:  
Like whirling Tempests, what denies, before him it doth role.  
So Aridon is not of strength, his feet for to retire,  
From forth that place that burneth him, with unextinguished Fire.  
Whilst Cloridon within himself, doth think how he is blest,  
Poor Aridon, his Fortune's bannes, from pleasures dispossessed.  
Both equal in affection, but in comfort differing,  
Th'one sighs for his woes, the other stands his joys oft reckoning.  
Both like in passions, but in luck, both too too contrary,  
In pleasure th'one consumes his life, th'other for pain doth die.  
Until this time, the one unto the other was a friend,  
Nor did the one against the other, mischievous hate pretend.  
Before (as brethren sworn) they were, and so together lived,  
What th'one did like, the other loved, nor th'one the other grieved.  
But at the the last, fair Stellas love, (alas that should be so)  
Causae this their amity to end, and less and less to grow.  
The blinded Son of Mars, (who doth his Father's heir right prove)  
Strife and dissension takes from Sire (and from his Mother) LOVE.  
For more he sets at variance, and whips with Discords rods,  
Then be the hearts he subingates, and brings to Love by odds.  
But now is Cloridan again unto that Spring returned,  
Which quenched had the flame, in which before he woeful burnt.  
The coming of his Dame he stays with great devotion.  
For now to hunt the Savage Boar, he thinks not once upon.  
His mind on Stella, only runs, (such is this sudden change)  
As after Wolf, or Lion fierce, he careth not to range.  
To her his heart he doth devote, and unto her prefer  
His vital Powers (as pawns of Love) engag'de be unto her.  
The place he kisseth often, which with Flowers was strewed all ore,  
Whereas his Mistress he had found to lie the day before.  
Happy he called and counted them, more than a thousand times,  
Them honouring, as if they had been some power of God divine.  
He blessed their beauty, and did pray, that storm nor soaking rain,  
That Sith, nor Plowe-share there might come, their beauty for to stain.  
That neither Winter's cold, nor summers great heat, might there be seen,  
But that they always fresh might show, with coolly shadow green.  
Thus stayeth the Shepherd, wishing still, and still expecteth sore  
Her coming, who (until she comes) each hour imagining four.  
He thinks that for her he stayeth long, but when her company  
He hath, he than saith Time runs fast, and too too soon doth high.  
lovers esteem not any time, excepting such a Day,  
When they are sure their Mistresses, that they enjoyen may.  
Their beauteous presence is their Sun, it is their brightest Sun,  
Their absence is their darkest Night, through which they are undone.  
The earthly glory of the body, is the Sun and Light,  
But (of our minds) the clear day is, fair beauty shining bright,  
And this they reverently adore; The Essence of the soul,  
Is far more excellent than that of body (sans control.)  
Beauty attendeth on the soul; the Sun on body waits,  
The Sun (for worth) to beauty then must yield in all conceit.  
This makes the Swain most earnestly to listen with his ear,  
If he, the rising of his Star, can see for to oppeare.  
The smallest blast of wind, or leaf, that bloweth in any wise,  
The Shepherd hearts, and at the noise thereof straight up doth rise.  
He look th' witted I round about, and thinks her for to see,  
Her, that doth force him unto Love, a seruite slave to be.  
Now doth he think, that forth her house, she is coming unto him,  
And (now) he judgeth in his mind, she is hard at hand again.  
He counteth how far off she is, than up he starts on feet,  
And forward runs, to see if he, her, on the way can meet.  
But now, lest by some odd by-way she comes, he fears again,  
And then he pensive sit him down, recounting of his pain.  
At last, though (long it be) she comes more lovely than the Morn,  
When rising an her glorious pride, she Thetis couch doth scorn.  
Softly she comes, with Snail-like pace, and to herself doth speak,  
Whilst fear (for loss of her good name) makes her look pale and bleak.  
And as she is coming in her walk, in midst of thickest wood,  
She more than (often) stayeth her steps, and doubting so, she stood.  
Half ready to turn back, to break her promise that was past,  
(For honour, which full dear she held, such doubts did make her cast.)  
But Love, then on the other side, and beauty of the Swain,  
A thousand new desires afresh, did breath in her again.  
He t●lleth her, she is bound to keep the Oath she made of yore,  
(Although that no account is made, what eager Lovers swore)  
For LOVE himself doth mock and jest, to see how Lovers swear,  
Lovers, (but none else) do dispense, with Oaths withouten fear.  
In th'end, the Nymph arriveth at th'appointed Crystal spring,  
Where pensive Cloridan doth walk, his thoughts still cannesing.  
Sometimes he lay upon the ground, with Flowers bedyapred,  
Where Stella (but the day before) herself with sleep had f●d.  
One while he rose, and then to lay him down you might him find,  
Now this he did, now that, for Lovers troubled are in mind,  
Thus (being out of hope) he spies, the sight that likes him most,  
Which make new joy in every part, throughout his Coarse to cost.  
Quickly he runs to her, her hands to kiss, he soon is priest,  
Whilst with a thousand sorts of Flowers he beautifieth her breast.  
She seeing these two forward pranks, her face with blushing did●,  
Whilst in herself (for this) she hears; how honour doth her chide.  
Advising her to reprehend him and his leaned demeanour,  
And that before she yield, she should resign her lives sweet Tenor.  
But Cupid makes her change her mind: The shepherds beauty fair,  
Mikes her o'erbold and from her mind, abandoneth all care.  
She is resolved to use him kind, nor with him to find fault,  
But him embraceth in sweet wise, who her in acmes had caught.  
Now all respect of honour, and all fear of future shame,  
By power of Love were banished, who her had overcome.  
Love only is her chiefest choice, her honour, and her pleasure,  
The shepherds will, her ready wish, her joy, and her chief treasure.  
But (in the end) to cover this, their over-amorous rage,  
Between themselves, they plight their faith, and promise Marriage.  
The witnesses were Love, the Spring, and many coloured Flower,  
And thousand pretty chirping Birds, there present at that hour,  
All which, with cheerful warbling Note, Hymen, Hymen, sing,  
And with the ECHO of the same, the woods made for to ring.  
Whilst in mean time, our Lovers twain, within a bottom low,  
(Of a close valley) where no light scarce in the day did show.  
Did reap the long de for fruits of Love, both equal in desire,  
Which ready was to burn their hearts, with more than uncouth fire.  
That done, on many Beechen Trees, and Rocks, and many a Cave,  
They enter last their names together, and finely them did grave.  
love knots they make on every twig, and Garlands passing gay  
They hang thereon, whilst pleasantly they pass the time away.  
Thus (for a while) their hap was blest, and sweet their destiny,  
Their marriage sweeter, and this held a twelvemonth (very nigh.)  
Nor at this space, they thought as much (as once) of time to come,  
The present time was only that, which in their minds did run.  
Poor souls they judge the heavens had not power to do them ill,  
Thinking this honey Moon with them (thus) would continue still.  
But all things that are mortal here, do change as doth the time,  
Pleasure none soon's come, then gone, scarce leaving any sign.  
Love (as a Feather's) quickly lost, are wavering and light,  
As suddenly as in our breast conceived 'tis through delight.  
A small thing spoils and hinders it; The twinkling of an eye,  
The joys of any Lover soon can make to vade and die.  
Witness these twain; whom Cupid thought lived pleasantly over long,  
'Gainst whom th'envious heavens sore conspired to do them wrong.  
Through which, the partial Planets wrought their overthrow to be,  
And with a general consent, did of their death decree.  
For (still) the far all destinies by Gods aye ordered,  
Whilst by their sharp Edicts 'gainst men, they cut their lives, not thread.  
Like Potters they do play with men, who if they please, their Pot  
They break which they do make; and if they list, they break it not.  
But now to let this pass; one day fair Stella did arrive,  
Burning with amorous pain unto the wont fountain blithe.  
And there (expecting Cloridan) her friend she doth repose,  
Who was as yet (for early 'twas) from out his bed (scarce) rose.  
Looking for him who did not come, she watched and stayed so long,  
That at the last, on greevish turf she fell in slumber strong.  
Mean time the luckless Aridon, in extreme Love that fried,  
(Who so much more) the flame for to increase within him tried  
By how much Cloridan he saw expelling care and Dole,  
To have the hap to quench his fire, in pleasure's fountain cool.  
Dogs her as she doth go from home, resolving in his hart  
To die, or (else by violence) to ease him of his smart.  
The friendship of his friend which he did hold most dear of late,  
Regard to offend the honour of his dame, who him did hate.  
Fair honesty, nor conscience, all these his hot desire,  
Bridle could not, but (furious he) would to his will aspire.  
Whilst thus he thinks, behold he comes whereas most pleasingly,  
(Yielding as 'ttwere herself) he finds his cruel enemy.  
Which when he saw, Reason and Faith as (frantic) he neglects,  
And as one void of sense, from him each good thought he rejects.  
As on the fearful Huntsman pale, the wounded Lioness,  
(Bleeding apace) with egerforce, for to revenge doth press.  
So this same Savage Lover hot, this Lady ravisheth,  
Whilst she unhappy lieth a sleep, as one withouten breath.  
He doth abuse her, whilst to wake she doth (as 'ttwere) begin,  
Yet she in such dead slumber was, as open her eyes not been.  
With sleep as (then) she was oppressed with sleep most miserable,  
That ever after made her life, and fortune lamentable.  
Still Aridon she kisseth, and most kindly doth embrace,  
For she (God wots) dreamt Cloridan had been there in that place.  
Whilst in mean time (but in ill hour) doth Cloridon arrive,  
And views that sight, which for to see, his soul doth him distive.  
He seethe how Aridon (in spite of him) doth him misuse,  
Who is his Spouse betrothed, and whom none but himself should use.  
He seethe how Stella (being deceived) his face doth sweetly kiss,  
Whilst (through her eyes as yet not ) mistook she foully is.  
Like as the traveler, in straight and narrow way doth spy  
A hissing Serpent for to come, towards him, on him to fly.  
Or as with cry most horrible, his passage to defend,  
A hideous Dragon makes to him, and rollings forth doth send.  
Whilst trembling through pale chilly fear, ready to give up Ghost,  
He backward turns, nor dares he pass, whereas he wisheth most.  
So Cloridon with woeful grief, with frantic jealousy,  
With rage, mixed with despitefulness, and burning frenzy.  
Is vexed so in inward soul, that he in desperate wise,  
(With sorrow mad) now here, now there, rowles up and down his eyes.  
Shame and sad grief so seize on him, as he flings thence away,  
Nor can he bide in that bad place, there longer for to stay.  
Stamping and cursing up and down, he runs about the ground,  
Seeking himself, through uncouth means, of life for to confound.  
Resolved he is to die, sith that his Dame he held so chaste,  
Another loves (not him) whereby herself she hath defaced.  
But now when graceless Aridon, the Nymph had thus deceived,  
He flieth away so fast, as he of her is not perceived.  
Which made her soon to open her eyes, when by her, seeing none,  
(Frighted) she leapeth up, and stands as still as any stone.  
In piteous wise she looks about, herself so for to ease,  
Yet nothing could she see, but what her sight did more displease.  
Her dearly loved Cloridon, (on whom she oft doth call)  
She cannot spy for to appear, or answer her at all.  
One while she thinks he hides himself, that for him she should seek,  
Another while, that he is gone, to hunt where he doth leek.  
And then again, poor soul she thinks, that she hath been deceived,  
And that the same she could not see, through sleep of sight bereu'de.  
She thinks, if he (who was with her) had been her Cloridon,  
He would not her have left so soon, nor so soon from her gone.  
Thus troubled in her mind, with fear, she sits her down alone,  
Whilst of her lovely Shepherd she, doth stay the coming home.  
Each hour, a year seems to her, and his staying overlong,  
Makes her to doubt all is not well, and that somewhat is wrong.  
She weeps, and wails, she taketh on, and screecheth out full sore,  
But had she known his hard estate, she would have wailed more.  
This gauls her still, yet Cloridon, comes not all that same day,  
The cause that thousand torments do her tender hart assay.  
Woeful, she sits like Niobe, tears streaming from her run,  
Whilst of her utter overthrow, she doth presage to come.  
The evening come, she home retires, yet all the night no wink  
She sleepeth, only of her Swain, of him she still doth think.  
That which had past the day before, increaseth more her woes,  
This runs still in her mind, nor what to say thereof she knows.  
Fear so doth trouble her, as scarce the day appeared in sight,  
And that Aurora had expelled the darkness of the night,  
But up she gets, and every where, seeketh her Swain to find,  
As is the youthful Hart sought out, by his beloved Hind.  
Her husband Cloridon she seeks, and searcheth all about,  
She looketh for him in the woods, and thickets all throughout.  
A thousand times she too and fro, unto the Spring doth run,  
To see if he by chance (as was his wont) were thither come.  
But when she doth not find him there, she than misdoubts the worst,  
Of some mischance that happened is, and counts herself accursed.  
Yet for all this, she gives not over, although she's in despair,  
She trotttëth still, she searcheth still, and prieth here and there.  
The name of Cloridan, she oft repeateth, and doth call,  
Yet none except the ECHO shrill, doth answer her at all.  
Ah, what sharp griefs and passions sad, to vex her did she prone?  
Before that she her Cloridan, found well-nigh dead, through love,  
Who (weary for to languish, as sorrows servile slave,  
With his own sword, a mortal wound, within his body gave.  
After he had a thousand times blamed his disloyal Dame,  
Accursed Love, (as most unjust) hating his amorous flame.  
Within the bottom of a Rock, beset with gloomy wood,  
Sprawling he lay along, in midst of his warm purple blood.  
And yet his breath was not quite gone, though from his deadly word,  
Through floods of gore, that streamed from thence, his scalding sighs were drowned.  
Death him consumed, grief for love him killed, thus twice he died,  
His pains above all possions were, that did such pangs abide  
From his sadeyes, the limbecks wet, of sorrow did distil,  
Such store of tears, as all the place, with water they did fill.  
His heavy groans, his endless sighs, that came his tears betwixt,  
His lukewarm blood, that with the moisture of his eyes was mixed.  
Of his laments most dolorous, the only witness were,  
And those hard Rocks, which courteous then; retolde what they did hear.  
Bus now that hapless Stella, many times proved had,  
And that she Gloridan did find, in this estate so bad.  
She straightways (sounding) falls on him, and lifeless so was seen,  
As the poor Shepherd thought forthwith, that (quite) dead she had been.  
Which when he saw (although nigh dead as then) was his fair Corpse,  
And that in him, through want of blood, remained small strength or force.  
Though death had (now) within his power, his sense already brought,  
And that he justly angry was, 'gainst Stella, as he thought.  
Thinking (but wrongfully alas) that she had done him wrong,  
And though he felt his weakness such, as live he could not long.  
Yet at the l●st Love vanquished him, and pity him overcame,  
Now 'gins he love that beauty which, before he did disdain.  
Remorse of Conscience toucheth him, and tells him in his mind,  
(Which he reputes) that he hath used his Lady too unkind.  
Although his thought (that she herself abused hath) doth him tell,  
Yet nevertheless, he honoureth her, and now he loves her well.  
Which is the cause, with arms, though weak, he seeks to make a shift,  
And trieth if her (sore languishing) he from the ground can lift.  
He openeth her fair eyes, and forced through Cupid's proud command,  
He kisseth them ten thousand times, whilst senseless she doth stand.  
O God, how rich and puissant is Love, and of what great power?  
All former injuries, to make him cancel, at this hour?  
Desire for to revenge his wrongs, (as Lovers wont to use,  
He now abhors, with such bad means, himself (he'll) not abuse.  
he'll rather die, then offer wrong to his disloy all Dame,  
Minding in death to honon her, and to conceal the same.  
Softly he rubs her lifeless face, oft kissing her fair lips,  
And (being deadly sick, from them dead almost) life he sips.  
Her forehead he doth water, with his brinish tears that flow,  
Her forehead, father of his grief, and motlue of his woe.  
Thus whilst he over her doth mourn, Stella 'gins to revive,  
Wondering that Cloridon she sees, again to be alive.  
Who feeling now his senses fail, and life to fleet full fast,  
With hallow poyce, and throttling throat, he spoke these speeches last.  
Ah Stella, be't thou whom I have loved, than mine eyes more dear?  
be't thou, that dost before me in this pittions plight appear?  
be't thou ingrateful cruel wench, whom I do see here lie  
Hard by my side, whilst for thy sake, I do unjustly die?  
be't that bright Diamond eye of thine, that wounded hath my hart 〈◊〉  
That eye that 'gainst all reason, makes me reverence my smart?  
be't that fair Forehead (yet forsworn) and those gold hairs of thine.  
That have been enemies to me, and to all good of mine?  
Ah Stella, what hast done, thy faith (alas) why didst thou break?  
So dearly prised on my side, through yielding over-weake?  
Why hast show falsely lefs thy Spouse, thy loyal Cloridon?  
And entertained in his stead (on sudden) Aridon?  
Since at the first, thou (willing) me, and unconsty gived took.  
No reason 'tis that now sans cause, I should be (thus) forseeke.  
Thou having then abused me (to tell) how, I abhor,  
Hast thou the face, and darest thou, to come my face before?  
Alas, should I permit thee? Or, should I now banish the●?  
As perjured wretch, whom I do find, mine overthrow to be?  
LOVE and the Heavens, for witnesses, against thee do● I craue●  
If whilst I lived, I any way, myself abused have?  
My faith and vow, plighted to thee, I always have conser●de,  
My loyalty thou proved haste, of thee it well desornde.  
Not any, but thine only self alone, I loved still,  
And now I die, (O spite) to hate thee, I have not the will.  
Yet hast thou falsified thy Faith, and gone from thy first word.  
Whilst (for true love) false feigned love to me thou dost afford.  
But, have I so ill merited, and Aridon so well?  
That thou shouldst entertain him, and me thou shouldst expel?  
Ah, I have seen, that with mine eyes, in such undecent sort,  
As cause that they have seen too much; they now are All-amort,  
I have thee seen kiss Aridon, false Aridon unjust,  
Whilst to caress him (as thou didst) my hart in twain did burst.  
Disloyally through perjury, thy Faith thou broken haste,  
Thine Honour lieth in the dust, and thy good Name is past.  
Thy glory through inconstancy, hath caught her deadly wound,  
Thy credit stained is, nor more it can be healed sound.  
Who ever would imagine once, or ever would have thought,  
That one so fair a beauty would, so fowl a deed have wrought?  
Who ever would have had suspect, an eye so full of love,  
●●full of infidelity, unconstantly would prove?  
Ah say (discourteous too unkind) why hast thou me deceived?  
This thy false show of Amity, hath me of life bereaved.  
For not my death 'tis I lament, nor much of that I weighed,  
If thou hadst not my meaning chaste, and honest mind betrayed.  
Had I not found thee mutable, unconstant, wavering bad,  
Not lingered nor languished in life, I so much had.  
This mischief, that thou false art found, and double in thy hart,  
Doth gall my soul, worse thousand times, than deaths most keenest dart.  
But yet although thou hast to me, this injury procured,  
Although thy love to me is found, immodest and perjured.  
Yet now I die, I love thee still, though I 'tis am abused,  
My death yet shall disponce with thee, and thou shalt be excused.  
Love that at first me unto thee in bands most strict did bind,  
Commands me (on allegiance mine) with thee no fault to find.  
●hen judge of I did honour thee, whilst I did live on earth,  
Sense (dying now) I do the same, and will do after death.  
And since it is thy will sweet soul, that I shall leave this place,  
Why doth such outrage offer now, unto thy beauteous face?  
If the thy will, that I shall die, and that to have me dead,  
Me and thyself in subtle wise thou hast dishonoured.  
Why sobst and sighest, why with fist dost beat thy tender breast,  
To see (as thou desir'st) that I be freed from this unrest.  
Ah leave to shed tears thus for me, (now good) thyself appease.  
To see this sight torments me more, and more doth me disease.  
Weep not for me, unworthy I, that thou for me shouldst wail,  
Since those thine eyes, once my chief bliss, are now become my bail,  
Nor seem thou thus to grieve for him, or aught for him to 〈◊〉.  
Who (not thy love deserving) dieth, because he was forlorn.  
No, no (dissembling wretch) thou dost not weep for death of mine.  
●et fore I part let me once kiss those dainty lips of thine.  
Let me (dying) but kiss those eyes, although I not deserve.  
Which for to light me to my Tomb, in steed of t●●ch shall ●erne.  
What wilt thou not grace me so much, this favour wilt not gra●●●?  
To have obtained so much at my last gasp, shall I not vaunt?  
Dost thou deny to suffer me to taste of that sweet good,  
Which heretofore I oft have had within this darksome word?  
When our sacred marriage rights, consummated with oath,  
Vowing one to the other faith, and to be constant both.  
Why dost refuse me (cruel) since I die through heavy grief,  
Whilst dying, thou'lt not to my pain ad debut some small relief?  
Stella, this hearing next in soul, perplexed with strange pain.  
Once more upon her faithful Swain, doth fall on sound again.  
She falleth down upon his breast, her body senseless is,  
When fainting Cloridan gins afresh her for to kiss.  
And now what's true he doubts, and thinks he was detained right,  
Cursing his folly overbold, and hating his best sighs.  
He cannot think that Stella was with any one untrue,  
When he doth see how piteously (he taketh on anew.  
So oft to fall in Trance, so oft such Corrosives to endure,  
Which makes him curse his tongue, such woes that to her did pr●s●●●●.  
But in the end she to herself again comes, when with cries  
And piteous plaints she breaketh forth thus, in lamenting wise.  
O death, sweet death, why unto me dost not such favour show.  
As for to end my course my soul and time, all with one blow.  
Alas, why so long dost permit her for to breath and line,  
Who liveth not, whilst languishing she more and more doth grieve.  
O death, why thus to nourish life in me, dost me despite,  
Who am of all that line on earth the most accursedst wight,  
This body which polluted is, with worse then worse may be,  
This body which unworthy is, the heavens, or man to see.  
This body spoiled of honour rich, and clothed now with shame.  
(Although my mind did never yet consent unto the same)  
This body which deserves from grave and burial to be ●ard,  
The mock of Fortune, and the type of punishment most hard.  
This body which with mine own hand, in pieces I should ●●●e.  
This body which for to be burnt to ashes 〈◊〉 orthie were.  
Ah cursed body, hast thou stained thy soul without re●ure.  
And (guiltless of this ill) must thou eternal pains 〈◊〉  
Hast thou thy credit lost, thy honour hast thou blemished?  
Defamed thy Spouse, and Traitor been unto thy Lord and head?  
Thou shalt be plagued for the same, of death thou shalt not miss,  
Yet death's too good for such a sin, too mild a pain it is.  
Ah then (sweet friend) why dost it touch, why to it comes thou night?  
Alack forbear, infectious 'tis, it is thine enemy.  
Unworthy of thine eyes it is, unworthy of thy face,  
Nor doth it merit for to have, the least drop of thy grace.  
Vouchsafe not for to touch the same, but rather let it perish,  
'tis it hath sinned and murdered thee, the same then do not cherish.  
But yet before into the hands of wish● for death I fall,  
The Gods to witness of my truth, as records I do call.  
I call the heavens above, the earth, the Seas that stowing show,  
The spirits of the firmament, and them of hell below.  
The Tritons, Silvans, Satire swift, the Nymphs in Groves that walk.  
And damned hags, whose ghastly shapes strike terror as they talk.  
In brief, whatso hath life or mines, all Trees, all Rocks, and Caves,  
All Fountains, Groves, and shadowing Vales, from parching heat that same.  
All these as witnesses I call, that I am culpable,  
But yet deceived most traitorously and so made miserable.  
All these I call, and do conjure, that know the innocent,  
Unwittingly I faulted have, yet never did consent.  
My faith I never broke to thee (my Spouse) I here a vow,  
This (heavens ye know for truth) for I did think that it was thou.  
I thought 'twas thou (as thou wert wont) that thou hast hid my face,  
(My face that is the cause that thou art in this woeful case)  
Unwilling though my body is tainted, yet pure's my mind,  
My body, which against his will, thy shadow false did find.  
But yet 'tis faulty and deserves (and rightly too) reward,  
Since it thine overthrow hath wrought, through Fortune over hard.  
Twice (then) it thee offended hath and double wrought thy we.  
Alas, that double for to die, I cannot force it the.  
The greatest sorrow I sustain, of these my sorrows all,  
Is, that I double cannot die, nor twice by dying fall.  
Then why shouldst thou desire (sweet hart) new friendship to begin,  
With such a body, as but late doth come from doing sin?  
Unworthy 'tis for thee, the earth, gross earth, let that it cover,  
A fitting spoil 'tis for the same, and not for any other.  
Or rather let this carcase vile, be purged pure with fire,  
And th'a she's be dispersed abroad, through winds as I desire.  
Woe is me borne was I to be thy death, and through hard hap,  
By my bad means, the Parce three have caught thee in their 〈◊〉  
'tis I, and none but I, that killed thee have (my dearest Spouse)  
'tis I that death have brought to thee, and that most dangerous.  
Thou diest for my fault, O cruel Law, and most uncivil,  
He that is guiltless, bides the pains of her that hath done evil.  
'tis I that blood have drawn from thee, 'tis I thy hart have split,  
'tis I that have thy loving name, amongst the dead souls writ.  
It is not death (as thou dost think) thy life that shortened hath,  
But 'tis thy Stella, hapless borne to do thee ill and skath.  
Then to thyself I do app●dle, if death I not deserve,  
And how much fortune mine accursed, from other Fortune's swernt  
When as (in steed of honouring thee) dishonoured thee I have,  
And when I life to thee should give, I bring thee to thy grave.  
When as our sacred Hymen, I should reverence and adore,  
I have abused, disparaged, and scandalisde it fore.  
And lastly, when with joy thou shouldest thy youth with pleasure pass.  
I do untimely our thou off, and make thee vade like grass.  
I being then, the cause of all this mischief, and this ill,  
Dost seem to wonder though I weep, and beauens with sorrow for?  
Have I not reason to lament, to sigh, to wail, and groan,  
Like unto Niobe, till like to her I turn to stone?  
Since first the skies were framed, and Sun to shine, at first, was seen,  
More wretched woman than myself, near was, nor ere hath been.  
O woeful Stella, Cloridan, O Cloridan, my life,  
My life shall expiate my fault, to end these sorrows rife.  
That self same sword that wounded thee, shall through my body ranse,  
Whilst dying both together, we will laid be in one Tomb.  
Then pardon me sweet Cloridan, for pity pardon me,  
Since that through others treachery, I have offended thee.  
Adien my Lord, I loathe to live, and not thyself enjoy,  
And saying so, herself, she (straight) doth with his sword destroy.  
O bran Virago, glory and renown of women kind,  
Few like thyself, thyself like few, didst show a worthy mind.  
O virtuous Lady, O fair spirit, of thyself, conqueror,  
o'er whose rare constancy, nor sword, nor death itself had power.  
So Lucres died, the Romans Pearl, when by base treacheris,  
She undefiled, defiled was, through Tarquin, forceably.  
So Hero died, so Thisbe with the selfsame sword did slay  
Herself, when Pyramus to seek, she went the hapless way.  
And now her breathless coarse did fall upon the pover Swain,  
Who with that burden g●● to breath, and seek some life again.  
As when the night approacheth, we behold and view the Su●●●●,  
By little and by little steal from hence, his race being done.  
His colour lesneth, and looks pale, disdaining that still tide,  
Whilst in some corner of the sky, his fair face he doth hide.  
So that vermilion colour sweet of Stella (but of yore,)  
That beauty 'bove suparlatine (as sacred to adore.)  
That passing snow white ivory, that did all thoughts control,  
By little and by little, forth from out her body stole.  
Over that 〈◊〉 lovely coarse of hers, death sits predomina●●,  
Who (for that he came there) for Rose, and Lily fresh did w●●t.  
Pale looked now those cherry lips, like ashes they appear,  
Whilst with aniron sleep shut up, her eyes fast closed were.  
Her arms hung down (Sans motion) and like a picture fair,  
Which (linelesse) is in colours wrought tresemblance, so she bore.  
The woeful Shepherd when this sight most dolorous he spied,  
Afresh his plaints he doth renew, and out aloud he cried.  
Kissing this linelesse coarse, and dying, he seeks himself to ease,  
Whilst (her embracing) he doth think, her griefs somewhat t'appease,  
His sight he wistly fixeth on her face, and on her eyes,  
And like amad man he takes on, in most outrageous wise,  
Yet he to Stella listueth still, who still doth him require,  
And pray to pardon her foul fault, this onelis her desire.  
And as she giveth up the ghost, she forth these words doth groan,  
Ah pardon me, sweet pardon me, the most distressed one.  
Sweet Gloridan forget, for give poor Stella for her ill,  
She did offend, but knew it not, it was against her will.  
Oh, in one Tomb let me with thee (sweet friend) be buried,  
God's laws command to pardon such as do offend (being dead.)  
Farewell dear Spouse, and grant to me, but this my last request,  
Farewell, for death to seize on me, I feel already priest.  
I'll meet thee in the Lizian fields, and then I will thee know,  
Once more farewell my Cloridan, for now from thee I go.  
So saying, she doth breathe her last, as any stone she is cold,  
Yet closely in his feeble arms, the Shepherd doth her hold.  
But when that he had bleeding left, which like a spring did come  
From forth his breast, and 'mongst the blood of his fair Stella run.  
He layeth her softly down by him, her eyes he then doth close.  
And by her side placing himself, unto his end he grows.  
And having cried out full oft, as one accursed most,  
That he was author of her death, he giveth up his ghost.  
Whilst by his warm blood, and salt tears, he seeketh to appease.  
His Lady's spirit late gone from thence, to live with greater ease.  
A thousand times he saith farewell, sweet Stella, still he cried,  
And in the end, in self same sort (as Stella did) he died.  
Their bodies twain, which whilst they lived, had but one soul alone,  
Were buried both together, shut within one Tomb and stone.  
And Aridon that Traitor cursed, who these two Lovers pain,  
By justest punishment of Gods, into a Rock was changed.  
Which jupiter doth oftentimes scourge for his former sin,  
With thunderbolts, breaking his top, and all to battering him  
Then let no Lover once presume unlawful means to seek,  
But be resolved to be content, as shall their Lady's leek.  
For forced Love or treachery will near prove well at all,  
Which if they use, worse plagues shall them, than Aridon befall.  
After the fair Nymph had made an end of her dismal history, she spoke thus unto me. Now (Shepherd) confess, confess (I say) by this example, the unjust cruelty of love. He that will not yield neither unto precedents, nor unto reasons, aught to be accounted as a most obstinate and ignorant person; for it is more folly, not to submit unto reason, then to be altogether unacqainted with the same.  
It is an old said saw, that he is happy, whom other men's harms can make to beware. For to grow wise, at the charges of another, and not at his own cost, is a greater treasure than the golden sands of the river Pactotus. As for mine own part, this examample (with divers others) which I can report, and all unto this purpose, wherein Love hath showed thousand proofs of his bloody rage) shall make me wise, and warn me to look unto myself well enough.  
They say that a man should take heed of a mad dog, of a frantic bedlam, and of a notable Drunkard, because by nature they are apt to do shroud turns. And even so, we should look unto ourselves, lest we should fall into the laps of Love, seeing we know him to be so perverse, so wicked, and unjust: for he shall never be moaned, who most sondly flingeth himself into the pit, that hath been showed unto him before.  
Then (Shepherd) shalt thou be wise if (betimes) thou withdrawest thyself from such a Tyrant: & foolish, will I account thee, if thou imaginest that I will ever follow so bad a master as he is, his school resembling an intricate labyrinth, into which it is easy to enter, but impossible (or very hard) to get out of it again. He that will do well, must never do any thing whereof he may repent him afterward; for a man never droupeth, but when he languisheth through fear, still looking for that mischief to happen, which will at the last make him to repent. If I know (already) that repentance would not be fair off from me, if I should love, by reason of the damages that proceed through the same, were not I (then) very simple to go about to love? Then talk no more unto me of such vanities, but rather discourse with me of such Ceremonies, Fraiers, vows and Sacrifices belonging unto Diana, which are mine ordinary exercises. For every workman delighteth to here talk of his own Science or Mystery. I hearing her say so, replied thus.  
O fairer creature than Venus; more chaste than Polixena, and more learned than Cassandra; The brave Captain that continually followeth the wars, knoweth well, that his function or calling, is full of dangerand trouble, and yet (in the mean while) he repenteth not, to follow the same, because of the hope he hath to reap renown and credit, which is encountered and won, even in the midst and the thickest of Cannon shot, of the battle. And so, although the Lover doubteth not, but that he is like to endure great troubles and turmoils in his amorous pursuit, yet doth not he give over the following thereof, without repenting himself at all, because the hope to please that which he so much liketh, bringeth the thoughts of all his troubles and labours to be very weak, and of no force or violence at all.  
The sick patient, which taketh a potion, knoweth that it is bitter, and yet for all that, he sticketh not to swallow it down most willingly, by reason of the firm confidence he hath to be healed of his grief.  
That the pains of love are bitter and cruel, I cannot but confess; yet then (again) we must remember, how sweet and luscious is that joy, that the Lover participateth of, when he seethe himself beloved of his Mistress.  
An inestimable jewel is not gotten, nor given for nothing, neither such and so rare a good thing as this is, can be obtained without great labour and travail. And for mine own part, will always account those sorrows and troubles most easy and sweet, be they never so sour and unsufferable, to love a thing, so absolute and perfect, as your sweet self is. For that General of an army, shall never be taxed with cowardice, who hath done his end vour, and (what he can) to cause the enemy to come into the field, but he shall soon be condemned for a dastard, that shall fly from his foe, through very sear.  
The honour that one findeth in loving a divine beauty, easily recompenseth the pains thereof: for that man shall be more accounted of, who hath combated with some famous Conqueror, although he be overcome by him, than he, that shall remain Master of the field, over a weak and feeble enemy.  
Think not much then (fair and glorious Nymph) if I dare venture to serve you, when the meanest followers of mighty kings, are more respected and regarded, than those that are the greatest, of other great Lords and Nobles.  
The fair Nymph would have replied, but that by chance a certain Virgin came before her, presenting her with a Sonnet, composed in the name of all the whole company, which hindered her from answering me. But this was the Sonnet following.  

The glorious heavens we praise in goodly wise,  
Because the Gods do lodge within that place:  
So you that hold sweet beauty in your eyes,  
And honour in your soul, have fairer grace.   

Then who to glory yours, can silence give,  
When (than the heavens) it is far more divine:  
Heavens perish, but virtuous spirits always live;  
Glory shall flourish still, and so shall thine.   

Then at your feet, we hang this verse of ours,  
Whilst, under shade of thousand Laurels green,  
We of your virtues will discourse, whose powers  
No Tempests rage (to fear) shall ere be seen.   

Since Pan's fair Sisters, to you honour yield,  
Since this our Song your virtues do sigh forth:  
And since all Laurels do your for head shield,  
Vouchsafe thereof, though 'tis of little worth.   
Diana (having read this Sonnet) liked it passing well: which I perceiving, and that she delighted in Poetry, made bold to request my Muse, that she should deign to inspire some dainty vein or conceit in me, to be able to indite the like. Whereupon she pitying me, gave care unto my prayer, which was the occasion that (at that very instant) and upon the sudden, I wrote these verses following.  

If nothing fair I see, but what's thy face,  
If brightness thine, the day is, of mine eyes,  
If virtue thine, I do (as Gods) embrace,  
Have I not reason (then) in duteous wise,  
Thy gracious self for to implore,  
Since thee (as Goddess) I adore?   

Who finds a salve to cure him of his grief,  
By friendly hand, of that shall he not make  
Account? when he thereby may get relief,  
Whereby his sickness from him he may shake?  
The wounded dear, to the herb 〈…〉  
Which can him help as be doth know.   

So then, in this my worse than Captines state,  
These lines I offer to thy Deity,  
Not doubting, but (though hapless be my fall)  
I, from thyself, shall find some remedy,  
Of thee I beg some grace to have,  
In thee of health, to spill or save.   

Who dieth for want of succour or remorse,  
Doth not deserve or merit any blame:  
But such as by their own power and their force,  
May wretches help, yet let them take their bane,  
Such do deserve punished to be,  
Of Gods and men, in highest degree.   
Another.  

(Diana) thou shinest in heavens with Majesty,  
In hell below, likewise thou dost command:  
And in the earth, thou reignest gloriously.  
Ah then (if I am thine) let me so stand.   

Slaves to immortal Essence are we all,  
And them we honour must, though 'gainst our will:  
Dost ask (Divine) then how this doth befall,  
How I dare love thee? I must love thee still.   

The sacred skies are made for to adore,  
What that resembleth, we must worship too:  
For mortal men have life from them therefore.  
And unto them we reverence aught to do.   

Then if thy power, breath to my soul doth give,  
Ah then conserve the same; for I am bound  
Most strictly thee to honour, whilst I live,  
And whilst I tread upon this earthly ground.  
(Dear) a presumption let not this be thought  
In me, to serve thee (though a thing of nought.)   
I having finished these two Sonnets, presented them unto her, who showed them unto all her companions, they marking and looking upon me very wissly, I thinking that by that means, I might obtain some of them to be my good friends, and to speak a good word for me, unto my Mistress, who now was (once more) conducted by the sweet voice of the other Nymph unto the temple of Diana, where she (for a while) stayed. And so (dear Father) let me entreat you, that I may make a stay here (at this time) for my mind is troubled within me, my tongue faileth, and my voice beginneth to be hoarse, we will defer the rest till unto morrow, for what liketh not one day, may chance to please at an other.  
Content (quoth the old Magician) and let us away. The bow must not (always) be bend, lest it weaken too much, and so must thou take some rest, or else thou wilt be over weary, and soon tired. Therefore am I the more willing to yield unto thy request, to the end, thy discourse may be as agreeable unto thee in reporting, as it is pleasant unto me in hearing the same. Whereupon they left the place, where, as they were walking homewards, they might perceive a Shepherd talking with a Shepherdess under the shade of an old Oak, which was the occasion they drew nigh, to hear what they said, the Shepherd viging her, in this sort. Fond is that man that thinketh to remove a huge Rock, from one place into another, and as fond is he that goeth about to turn, or stay the course of the salt waters of the Sea: Fuen so (O cruel Delia) is he a fool that will take upon him to resist the will of the Gods, and oppose himself against the power of the heavens.  
Those huge Giants the Titans, went about such a bold piece of work, but being overthrown with lightning, they serve as witnesses, that the hand of the holy one of Israel, doth not strike in vain. If so, why then wilt thou so wilfully stand against the decree of the Gods? Which if thou dost, think not but they will quickly abate thy boldness, and punish thy over presumptuous pride.  
That Master doth punish his servant worthily, who scoffeth at his commandments, and maketh no account to be obedient unto him. And thinkest thou, that the Gods will not plague thee, seeing thee so stubborn against their wills, so perverse against their minds, and so unwilling to perform their desire? They have saved thee, from the ravenous talents of the murdering Pitate, and as it were (by miracle) brought thee hither, and wherefore dost thou think they did so, but only because thou shouldest be mild unto my prayers, and yield gently to grant me some favour?  
But it seemeth by thy carriage hitherto, that thou wilt as it were (of mere obstinacy) bandy against them, in this thine error, but take heed thou be not plagued, and (than too lately, thou wilt wish that thou hadst changed thy mind, for the Gods use always to afflict selfewild people, because it is not fit, nor the part of any man, to rise up, and to rebel against them.  
Then seeing the most marvelous and divine providence, hath brought us here both together, that they have assisted thee in this Desert, and most happily have caused thee to meet him (who hath endured so much for thy sake, without any recompense as yet at all) ah change thy humour sweet Delia, altar thy opinion, and show thyself, to be of another mind, to the end thy sweetlenitie, and gracious bounty, may bring the Gods to be as pleasing and willing in all thy desires; as thy unkind rigour, and harsh disdain, have (heretofore) made them to be austere, and angry towards thee: for miserable is that wight, and worthy to suffer trouble, who being admonished, will not amend, and therefore is out of all hope to find any succour at all.  
Love then (froward Delia) him who (to obtain thy grace) hath dispended so many tears, consumed so many whole days, sent abroad so many scalding sighs, and left so many dainty pleasures, only to follow thee: and who, if he might but in some sort be assured of thy friendship, would think himself the most happiest and the best contented man in the world. But miserable is he, who still laboureth, and yet findeth himself frustrate of the fruits of his labour: yet far more accursed is he, who consumeth his years, and his life in the service of such a proud dame, as yieldeth no recompense unto him at all, for that he looseth his labour and pain, and because he is forced to sigh and bewail his foolish and unkind choice alone unto himself, never expecting any remedy.  
Thus pleaded the Shepherd for himself, when the hard-hearted Shepheardesss made him this sour and unwelcome answer. I can never belcove (fond Shepherd) that the Gods, who are the authors of goodness, and most curtenu, Ear●hers unto mortal men, can be the cause that they should commit any fault, much ●esse, to eggs and incite them forward unto the same, but (rather) that men themselurs are the occasions thereof, and therefore when any one hath done any such offence, he must turn it from bad to good, and seek to cover the visage of his ill fortune, with the colour and show of good chance and hap.  
If the Gods (as thou affirmest) had brought me hither, to yield unto thy wanton desires, and to be an attendant upon this Tyrant Love, than should they be the authors of my ruin, and the occasions of my sin, but I will never think so unreverently or wickedly of their prupent providence, and sacred bounty, and if my good fortune hath made me to escape so great a danger (as I confess I have done) I most humble thank the Gods therefore, of which sithence I now find myself free, I think it no wife doom, to tumble into Charybdis, because I have avoided Silla, and having gotten out of one mischief, to fall into another: for I hold my hap more cruel, to be subject under the bloody tyranny of Love, than if I had been laid upon the cruel Altar of juno (as a Sacrifice) to have appeased her fury.  
Think not, that the Gods, take any care of such as they suffer to fall into the hands of Love, but rather, that they account them, for lost creatures, and such as be most miserable, as the Physician giveth over a patiented, whose disease is desperate and recureless, when he seethe there is hope of his recovery.  
No man will bring his friend whom he affecteth, under the yoke of a Tyrannical master, who will make his life over miserable, and whose cruelty he himself hath felt: now the Gods have (oftentimes) had experience of this bloody Love, and felt his overmuch rage, fury, and anger, and therefore it is not likely that they will deliver into such a Butcher's hands, that creature which they (most of all) desire to protect, and defend in safety.  
The accident of Love then, doth not come by the means of the Gods; neither are they occasions of such idleness in our brains, such Lovers being but foolish so to think, who being afflicted with his passions, lay all the fault upon the Gods.  
Who then (answered the Shepherd) is the author thereof, and who is it that breedeth it in cur souls? & if Love is seared of the God's thence lues, how is it possibly but men should be troubled therewithal? and what dainty spirit hath there ever been, but hath loved? what brave generous mind, or what heroical and magnanimous heart hath been without it? As the wind serveth for a guide unto the sailor in the Sea, guiding his ship rightly: Even so, Love doth serve as a Pilot unto the Sons of the Gods, to effect and bring to pass brave expoites, which can never be perfected as they should be, unless that Love, set foot into the fame. What rare deeds of chiularie did Hercules a achieve for fair Andromacha, whom he loved? How bravely did Achilles carry himself for Bxiseis sake, jason for Medea, Theseus for Ariadne, and Orlando for his Angelica?  
The Ox pricked with the good, beginneth to mend his pace, and draweth more lustily then at the first: and so Love is a kind of prick, and provokement, which eggeth forward valiant minds, forcing them to bring to pass, far more worthy and illustrious enterprises, than they would have done, if they had lived quietly at home, without knowing what Love meant. And therefore, I am of opinion, that not only men, but the Gods also, aught to account themselves happy, that Love flourisheth in them, for it is the bright tosch of their nights, and the splendent Sun of their days.  
Shepherd, Shepheard (replied the Nymphs) thy own speech hath confounded thyself, for if Love be so violentas thou describest him, he than cannot last, nor make himself known to be just. Things violent are always hurtful unto some one or other, and being so full of misfortunes and miseries, they can never abide them, because they pass with as great heat and fury as a flaming fire, which consumeth all that is before it.  
Therefore Love, being never in the mean, but always in the extremity, cannot choose but be very unjust, in as much as justice expelleth all force, without hurting any body.  
So likewise, are there very few, that willingly entertain it, but as the Tyrant by main force, and rigorous compulsion, compelleth his subjects to do him service. Even so Love, through mere violence, maketh men to submit themselves under his yoke, and therefore he cannot be both just and violent all at one time: which two qualities can never be at one instant, and in one and the self same subject.  
By thine own confession, he is violent, and therefore he cannot be just, but aught (as one unworthy) to be rejected and shaken off. Nay, I will say more, there is nothing that maketh a man oftener to offend, and to commit sins, than this Love doth, for it picketh out the eyes of Reason: In such sort, as the Lover respecteth neither Law, Kindred, Virtue, Grace, nor any Courtesies received, so he may obtain his unruly desire, the enjoying of which, he respecteth more than he doth any Reason, justice, or Honour, whatsoever.  
For what respect I pray you, had Paris of his Host Menelaus? Clytaemnestra, of Agamemnon her husband? and Tarquin, of the good name and fame of Lucretia? To be short, it is an accursed kind of Rage, that breaketh all Alliance and kindred, all Amity and good friendship, Faith, and hospitality, overthrowing topsy-turvy, all the buildings of Reason.  
Talk not then unto me of this pernicious LOVE; The  child, dreads the fire, and I have somewhat felt the flame thereof: and therefore I will resolve rather to die, then to be overtaken by so furious an Enemy.  
Ah (fair Shepherdess, replied the Shepherd) how much art thou deceived herein? when amongst all mortal respects whatsoever, LOVE is esteemed the chief, and carrieth away the prize before them all. For what is he that is more wary and circumspect, than the constant Lover it towards his Dame? Whom feareth he so much to offend, as her? and how willingly would he offer his life to besacrificed, rather than he would so much as once move or displease her? The same LOVE, being the reason, that she alone is not respected, but as well all such (of her well-willers) as go about to advance and honour her.  
There is nothing that teacheth men better, the Adoration of the Gods, than Love, for that service which Lovers yield unto their Ladles, hath a kind of resemblance unto the reverent worshipping of the Gods: who are not displeased that we should attribute such respect unto such a beautiful thing which they have made, to the intent it should be honoured.  
For were it not for LOVE, what account or difference can there be made between an excellent and exquisite kind of beauty, and that which is but mean? But that God, that hath taught us, to discern the fair from the foul, and (esteeming of the one) to Love, and refuse the other: maketh us to love and covet fair faces, setting on fire thousands of Inventions in our souls, which reviveth us with lively effects, to the end we may satisfy and content our desire.  
But (answered the Shepherdess) these effects are for the most part wicked and bad, as are the Children of a lewd and ill-given Father, resembling the offspring of such as be crooked, who are borne with crooked backs, as their Parents had before them.  
Now, if such effects are contrary to Law and Reason, it were far better they should be stifled as dead, then being suffered to live, they should grow to be mischievous and unfortunate. But, if it be necessary, that to drive away all smne, we condemn the sinner, to the end, that afterwards it may find no fit instrument to put in practice. so ungodly a force.  
So, if we will take away all the bad effects of LOVE, we must despoil and banish himself and his enticing allurements also.  
For in vain doth the Gardener go about to kill or destroy any bad and noisome weed or plant, if without pulling up the root, he doth but only break the tender leaves thereof.  
Let us men (Shepherd) anew away this pestisent Love from us. As for mine own part, I ve we, never (willingly) to follow the same: For marching but a while under his Ensign, I have (already) suffered more than thousands of hard misfortunes, and terrible crosses.  
So said the Shepherdess, (when as the Shepherd was answering her) they might understand the voice of another Shepherd, speaking as followeth.  
ECHO. 
O that the Gods of these huge Woods, would show me favour such,  
But for to hear my Fortune's hard, o'er Fortunate by much.  
O that they would but mark, how I do nought but wail and cry,  
I doubt not then, but they their ears, would lend me by and by.  
Might I but them so courteons find, to listen to my moan,  
I would adore and honour still, their majesties each one.  
Then with a voice like Lightning flash, I soon would thunder forth,  
And show with sighing in my verse, their bounty and their worth.  
Of them alone; then would I sing, and of their great renown,  
Whist that my tongue should never linne, but still their praises son.  
Their kindness, my soul unto them should bind in, to be so fast,  
As near I would forget the same, as long as life should last.  
Ah then shall I obtain of Mistress mine this happy Bonne,  
To yield me liking? when will she? will it be long, or soon?  
ECHO. Soon.  
What may I hope for, when I thus fight under Cupid's Banner?  
Whilst I consume myself thereby, and work mine own dishonour?  
ECHO. Honer.  
What may I of my FAIR expect? when as the Gods I find,  
To cross me in my amorous suit, unless she will be kind?  
ECHO. She will be kinds.  
Who is of power this gloomy Cloud from off mine eyes to move?  
●●nd to repair my late fallen help, quite ruined by Love?  
ECHO. Lous.  
Then, be't not he that courtcously after our grievous woe,  
Our Fancy brings to happy Port, I now perceine t' is so.  
ECHO. IT is so.  
But are the gentle heavens content, importuned without cries  
To yield to us poor worldly wights, our wish in courteous wise?  
ECHO. In conrteous wise.  
If so, what shall become of that quick Fire, which burns so bright,  
Within my bowels languishing, shalt be extinguished quite?  
ECHO. Extinguished quite.  
What shall become of this mine ill? (which in my Coarse doth stay,  
Shall it increase my farther care, or shall it soon away?  
ECHO. Soon away.  
Shall I, for any good (ere) hope, to come from her (my grief,)  
Who holds my heart fast tied, and plagues my soul without relief?  
ECHO. Re●efe.  
Say then, hath Lone acquainted yet, my Mistress cruel Hart,  
With this my woes, hath she as yet, felt (of my pains) some part?  
ECHO. Some part.   

Then (sacred Gods) I'll hope the best, and as an Oratle,  
I'll look one day, that this to me, may fall out veritable.  
Not doubting but that fore I die, I may that sweet fruit reap,  
In joy, which I have sown long since, in anguish and in sweat.  
Mean time, with these your answers kind, I'll satis fide return,  
Assuring me, through favours yours, I shall give over to mourn.  
For whilst your comfortable beams shall shine upon me bright,  
My hart shall live (sreed from all fear) enfrancht from danger quite.  
Then (heavenly Powers) remember what your promise is to me,  
Who trust repose in you, that I deceived may not be.  
of men are taxed, for Forth not kept, you menit far more blame,  
S●●te you our deeds brightly adorn, as glistering Sunny flame.   
Upon this, the Shepherd being marvelously well satisfied in his mind, beganue to speak thus unto himself.  
If we have any reason to give credit unto the Oracles of the Gods, than out of doubt, I h●ue no other cause but to hope well. For many times, through thousands of such answers, have they assured me, that I shall enjoy that which I most desire and covet.  
And yet alas (alas) this is a great and gross error in me, to believe them; For God only, who alone is without beginning and ending, knoweth what is to come: whereas these Diveis judge but by conjectures, and by ancient experience of things that have happened before, they being the fathers of lies. And therefore wonderfully glad to de●●● and decern munkinde, because they have sworn their utter overthrow & ruin.  
And yet a brave and resolute spirit, ought rather to hope well, then to fear ill: For hope no wisheth & comforteth, whereas fear afflicteth and tormenteth, both soul and body. Of one thing I may count myself happy, which is, that it seemeth the Gods of these woods, have a care of my Fortunes, & that they will assist me in what they may. We ought not to refuse the aid of any person, be he never so feeble and weak: becausone may dot some one good or other unto us; As we may find virtue in the least Planenr Hear be that groweth. But alack, what hope may I lodge in my soul? and how is it possible, that the Prophecies of the Gods of these woods should prove to be true? If my peerless julietta, (who is far off from me) never feeleth the piercing darts of outag●ous Love?  
LOVE (scarce settled in any) is easily quenched again, especially when the means that should nourish his heat faileth, and waxeth very cold, for millions of contrary conceits and imaginations is intermixed in the same, which doth quickly drown and quench it.  
My Lady is far remote from me, and therefore remembreth not me: For (as yet) was I never registered in the role of her memory. And (say) there should be some small draft of me therein, yet would this cruel absence quickly deface it. For the bare shadow of a Counterfeit, which the Painter leaveth (without his right colours) unperfect, can neither be fair, or esteemed of any price.  
Clytaemnestra forgot her husband when he was absent: Helena her Spouse, with divers other women, all which, through the separation of place, and absence of their friends, forgot themselves so much, as they (not once) thought of their ancient Lovers; For one Hyper●estra, that remembered her husband, forty nine of her Sisters, cut their husband's throats.  
And amongst ten thousand women, scarce you shall find one that preserveth the memory and favour of her loyal friend engraven in her soul.  
heavens grant I may not have just cause to complain of this Accident, but that, returning back unto my divine julietta. I may find her hart, to be gentle and tender towards me, her rigour to be abated, and herself more mild and affable unto me, than she was wont to be: Otherwise, I shall think myself most unhappy, that the flowing waves of the surging Seas, had not (with my insupportable flames) quenched, and drowned, both my love, and my life together. For more fearful is the frowning countenance of a Lady unto her sworn Servant, than the horrible face of the three fatal Sisters unto a sick man: for the one maketh him languish, burning in a lingering fire, of thousand deaths, whereas the other, in a small space, doth rid him, both of life and pain.  
Thus said the Knight, not a little joyful of the answer which the late ECHO gave unto him. But fond is that man that believeth in things that are to come, seeing they are in the hands of the Almighty, who can change them, making them to take a quite country course, as shall best please him.  
And yet may man (only) bring his Estate, to be either Fortunate or miserable. Fortunate, in being penitent for his defaults, appeasing the wrath of God, through his true repentance: who being merciful unto him, sendeth him Celestial Manda down from heaven. And miserable, in provoking his heanie anger against him, whereby he withdraweth his grace, without giving him that good which he promised him, and which he hoped for, because heirs unworthy of the same.  
For the Children of Israel were deprived of the Holy Land, (although God had premised it unto them before) by reason of their sins: their wickedness opposing itself against his divine force and help, and his heavenly bounty being turned from them, in that they did so grievously offend him.  
Let no person therefore assure himself (through others reports) to taste of happiness, or to feel of unhappiness heereaster to comes but rather dispose himself to live well and godly, to the end he may enjoy a blessed life, without feeling any form of evil.  
But leaving this discourse, we will come to Philistell, who went away much conceneed, being guided by a good Hope, which because it had wings, fled quickly from him.  
So many are the humours, that Hope is bound to content, as it is impossible for her to stay long in any one place, they thinking to have a great pleasure, by enjoying of her, when indeed it is the greatest plague that can be. For he that is possessed with her but one noure, is punished (at the least) ten days after for the same. By reason the apprehension of any bad news is so cruel, as it drowneth and killeth all hope of contentment to come hereafter: Enery one feeling the chances of grief, far more sharp and bitter, than the Accidents or occurrences of joy can be sweet or comfortable any way.  
But as he was thus jocund walking homewards, he might hear a Shepherd to sing this Sing, the sound whereof, suddinly made him stay, as the voice of the Rider, doth the horse upon which he is seated. And the rather did he listen unto it, because he was desirous of novelties, which naturally pleaseth our senses, whilst staying his walk, between (the several passions of) grief and delight, he might hear this piteous Ditty following.  
What should I wail thus, weep, and make those outcries?  
If my misfortunes, (where themselves they should drown)  
Burn their most hot selves, hotter far, then burneth  
Thick smoking Aetna.  
Thrice woeful Lover everlasting wretched,  
Who still doth lauguish heavily (sans comfort)  
And never hopecan, but to live in sorrow  
Until his life end.  
far better were it never for to be borne,  
Then to be always cru Ily afflicted  
With such a plague, as hourly more and more doth  
Grow and increase still.  
What cross a man is subject to by D stini-,  
(Withouten hope) is sure near to be helped.  
Nor doth it leave him, till that he be forced  
For to leave life's term.  
Then (prithee) sweet death, come away and and me,  
Come, and abridge the number of my bad days,  
Nor caused thou blamed be for to kill a body  
Wanting a line soul.  
Thou that cuttest off so many of our crosses.  
(Courteous) come, come dispatch me quickly,  
He cannot live, but in exceeding anguish  
That his own life hates.  
There is not anything but hath his ending,  
And what is mortal, hath not here long biding, (once)  
But yet my wounds grow more and more, nor death  
Seeks for to change them.  
None will (so much) as pity on me take (now,)  
Nor on my fancy too too dearly purchased,  
All (saning sorrows) in the lash doc leave me,  
I being at worst.  
Thus without dying, do I vade and perish,  
Thus flow sour salt tears from mine eyes for ever,  
Whilst thut the heanens scoff at these my crosset,  
And my fair evil.  
But if, 〈◊〉 tall Cupid be, and mighty,  
Able to vanquish men and soneraigne Gods too,  
Why then my soul (now) heals he not? He cannot,  
Only my Love can.  
But she (o'er cruel) too too much deceives me,  
Not from her (as yet) any succour find I,  
Baln●e for my sore, she yielded not unto me,  
But my decay seeks.  
Yet 'tis my hope, that Cupid (at the last) will  
Venge on her my death for her over proud hart.  
Ofe such deceitful dames (as she) have loned,  
Yet never are loved.  
Love often striketh as he passeth by, blind,  
And hurts the best; as well as basest persons,  
Venus is witness, Myrrha so, and Dido,  
Who slew her own self.  
And yet before (thus) Mistress mine should plagued be,  
I pray (ye Gods all) let my soul from hence flit,  
Before I endure to see that any ill should  
Unto her happeu.  
Too well (to wis● them ill) her eyes I do love,  
And too too careful am I, of her welfare,  
I only study, how I best might please her,  
Though to mine own pain.  
He that (indeed) loves, rather had he hazard  
For to die desperate, thousand times, and thousand,  
Than for to view his Lady line in anguish,  
Making her end so.  
Philestell, knew by the voice, that it was the Shepherd Coribant, who being set leded from his hard hearted Dame, was walking all alone solitarily, sighing forth this Song, which was (in a manner) no sooner ended, but that he might perceive a fair Nymph to approach towards him, who having a warbling Lute in her hand, sitteth down by the side of the foresaid sorrowful Shepherd, singing most sweetly these verses following.  
Trust (now) no more,  
Ye mortals poor,  
The Gods above,  
Their wont grace,  
From you they chase,  
Nor you they love.  
They do despise,  
Our sighs and cries,  
And we them jest:  
All pity mild,  
They have exiled,  
From out their breast.  
Their Altars proud,  
No hope doth shroud,  
Of good to come,  
And when we pray,  
As deaf they stay,  
Seeming right dumb.  
Then silly Swain,  
And Shepherd plain,  
Else where go crane,  
Fonds he that moans,  
To stocks and stones,  
Himself to same.  
Elsewhere declare,  
Thy woeful care,  
And leave the skies:  
Thy woeful plaints,  
Thy hart that taints,  
They des despise.  
The heavens look red,  
With rage are spread,  
And borrour too:  
'tis they, is grief,  
Without relief,  
That us undeo.  
He is a so,  
That thinketh not,  
That from that place,  
Through destiny,  
Most wretchedly,  
Comes our assgrace.  
Then better 'tis,  
For death to wish,  
And end our days,  
Then still in strife,  
Led such a life,  
So plagued always.  
For death's our friend,  
When he doth end  
Our bitter smart:  
And through the same,  
Doth rid our pain.  
With hickrome dart.  
This Nymph was Orithia, (amorots of Areas) who after she had sent forth many scalding sighs, spoke thus unto the Shepherd. Whut hope remaineth for that vassasse (who have taken up arms against his lawful Prince, and done him thousands of damages in spoiling of his country) to look for succour at his hands, when he shall fall into misery.  
The law of justice, permits to oppose force to force, to suffer wrong, against injury, and to repulse violence with all the fury that they be; Neither is he blameworthy, who rightly punisheth such injuries as he hath wrongful received: Inasmuch, as justice commandeth that he that doth ill, must receive reward according unto the same.  
It is a hard matter, to obtain succour from our enemy, although Coriolanus had that good fortune, and that sumous Aihenian Themistocles, long before him, for the remembrance of the injuries that are past, and those outrages which we have received, doth bandy and set itself against the good will, which (perhaps) we might find in our need.  
And surely they had need to be borne under a most fortunate Planet, to be most excellent and worthy men of desert, that dare venture to lend their helping hand unto their adversaries, being in a manner half dead: yet Caesar did it, although too late it repent him thereof: for he through saving of Brutus and Cassius, lost through their ungrateful hands, both the Empire and his life. Malicious hatred being (once) deeply rooted in the breast, is a poison so violent and strong, as it can hardly (but with great pain) be driven out of the hart of man yea (do the best you can) for your life, yet will there some small sparleles thereof still remain couo●t: as we see, we cannot empty a well never so clear and clean, but that some few drops will always rise to be seen there.  
Besides these little sparkles will carch hold on fire, upon the first and least occasion that may be; making oftentimes a greater flame, than there was before. If then disdain, hindereth our enemy from doing good unto us, what hope may poor wild worldlings have, to find relief from the heavens, the worst adversary they have. For if the faults and injuries, or the wrongs and abuses, that one offereth unto another, maketh them to be at deadly hate, what friendship may we look for from the heavens, whom we so often have so grievously offended? It is an ordinary course here amongst us, to transgress the commandments given unto us from above, to tread under our feet their ordinances, and to jest and scoff at their might and power, which if it be so, are they then bound to assist us, when we are in want? He that will seek, to obtain the good will of any man of worth, seeketh how to obey and please him in what he can, studying to apply his will unto his mind, and to condescend unto whatsoever the other shall command. For of the agreement in manners, is friendship engendered: whereas we take a choir contrary fashion, showing all the signs and tokens we can, of ill will unto the heavens, whereby they have reason the more to detest us.  
But you (perhaps) will reply and say, that the heavens are puissantand Divine, and therefore if they please they many help us. But to this I answer, that therefore we are the more to be blamed, because that fault that one committeth against a great Monarch or King, is more severely to be chastised, then that of a poor private person: and he is more to be punished, that doth injury unto a wise, grave, and upright man, than if he had done it unto one that was wicked, cruel, and unjust.  
The powers above then being puissant, may make our fault to be the more heinous, in that we dare presume to offend them, and they being Divine, our fins are less subject to pardon, because we seek to injure them, who are so sacred and just. But of all such miserable wretches as appeal unto the aid of the heavens, I know none, whom they are less bound to help, than such as (we call) Lovers. For their unfortunatenes, cometh not from above, they are not the cause thereof, neither are they these which power down upon their heads this evil (as oftentimes they do, war, Famine, & Pestilence, these being the ordinary whips, with which they scourge them for their impieties) but it is themselves that are causes of their own sorrows, because they drive away sage Reason from them, who is of might sufficient, to deliver and set them free.  
The frantic Bedlam that wilfully killeth himself, can he, dying, accuse any other of his disaster, or complain of a stranger, when he hath murdered himself? No more can a fond Lover, hurting himself, be angry with the heavens, who was not the cause thereof, but he himself. And herein, they resemble little children, that having done a fault, lay the blame thereof, either upon their play-fellows, or upon something else, being never willing to confess that they have done amiss. Fuen so, they themselves having felt one burning in their breasts, the furious fire, which in the end consumeth and destroyeth them, condemn the powers above for the same.  
But small reason have they so to do, for they that use it, are rather counted to be full of rage, and given to murmur, then esteemed as wise and prudent persons. And yet I cannot deny, but that the heavens narurally, do (as it were) seem to be bound to do us good, but the accident oftentimes corrupteth the Nature.  
The Parent by Nature is bound to love his child, yet, if his his own flesh, shall be perverse, and ill given, becoming a mortal enemy unto his Father, this right of Nature ceaseth, and he is no more bound to do any thing for him, no more than for a stranger.  
There is a just law grounded upon this reason, which permitteth the Father being justly offended with his Son, to dishinherit him of his lands; this being the very same punishment that the children of Sophocles suffered, for that they most maliciously accused their Father to dote for age, and to be out of his right wits, only because they would have deprived him of his possessions and goods.  
Brutus likewise, stuck not to prosecute the death of his too forward son, most cruelly, and with great disgrace also, because he had done, as well against the Commonwealth, as contrary unto his own command.  
So therefore, although the heavens (I speak all this against myself as well as thee) Coribant, for that I am as wretched a Lover as thyself art (in every degree) be our common Father, and for that cause is naturally bound to do us good, yet notwithstanding, is he not bound to show us this kindness, if we shall gricuously and willingly offend him: as the Accidence of the offence shall be more violent and strong, than the natural Right is, which by reason of this, quite overthroweth the other. For as water quencheth the fire, and maketh it cold as any Ice, which by nature is hot, burning, and full of heat. So the discourtesies and injuries, which we offer unto such as by Nature were provided to be our protectors and defenders, drown and extinguish all their devoir and Right, altering their good minds from us, quite contrary unto that it was at the first.  
A man that is by kind borne vicious and bad, and such a one as bringeth forth of the womb of his mother, wickedness with him into the world, may (per Accidence) through (good education, and bringing up) become virtuous and wise. Euenso, the Accident of injuries and displeasures, may change and alter the courteous inclination of a kind friend, souring and sharpening the same against us, as the Lees and dregs do the sweetest wine. And this mischief falling upon our heads, we cannot condemn any for it, but our own selves, who are the chief and efficient cause thereof. And therefore we are much in the wrong, to lay the blame on him, whom through our own mere folly we have made him our so, although he be slow and slack to help us, we being fallen into misery, although before he by nature, was bound to lend unto us his helping hand, and to assist us, in what he could certainly, if we were well and godly given, and without provoking or tempting the Eternal Power above: would we, but confirm ourselves in all our actions, according unto his desire, keeping us with the bonds of his commandments; there is no doubt, but he would aid us, hearing us when we should call unto him, and would nor stick to rain down Manna (as he did) for the children of Israel, nourishing us in the wildest Deserts that be.  
But what law can force or constrain him to show us this mercy, when we show ourselves to be his mortal enemies, going about to increase his wrath every hour against us. But say that he were willing and ready (as we are most unworthy thereof) to help us, and that it would please him, to have this pitiful and favourable regard over us, yet may you be well assured, he would never take any charge, nor ever make any account of Lovers; for their griefs is not numbered amongst the plagues of other miserable creatures (the second cause whereof the heavens oftentimes are, our sins being the first) Love being seen to be but a very mere folly, and therefore never moveth the heavens with compassion to heal them.  
A great and gross error therefore it is amongst Lovers, to imagine that the heavens are the Authors of their pain, but a far greater fault is it in them, to require their aid and assistance: for Love is not any kind of contagious disease, causing men to die, cutting off one after another, and for that cause, hath reason to implore the heavens for aid to help them (as they do when any great mortality or plague rageth amongst them: but it is a sickness, that continueth still without dying, with which only sensual persons and fools (and none else) are infected.  
This is the reason, that we have never known any Lovers, to have been cured through miracle, whereas we find written in divers learned books, that the bodies of many men, being dead, have been restored to life again, and that many have been cured of incurable discases, only this vain sickness is unworthy of remedy and relief, because it proceedeth not, neither through the anger of the heavens, nor by reason of the contagion of other diseases, but only through our own foolishness.  
Now as that amity cannot be firm and strong between man and woman, where they answer not one another in desires and affection (although naturally they are bound to love one another) even so, the heavens cannot be accused of cruelty, in not scourging mortal creatures, if the cause which should draw them unto this charitable endeavour, be taken away from them.  
Let us then no more exclaim against the Celestial Power above, but let us thank our own selves that we deserve no better of him, our sins being the cause, he giveth us over. As the felon cannot blame the judge that condemneth him to death, nor accuse him of overmuch severity, in that he dieth, but rather his own bad living that brought him unto so untimely an end; for he is not to be thought ill of, who doth rightly discharge his office, wherein he is placed, following the line of justice in all his proceed, though never somuch discommodity happen thereby unto the wicked; because it is a virtue to punish vice, and not any Tyranny, what punishment soever is afflicted upon those that are ●ad and lewdly given.  
Never trouble thyself then to cry unto the heavens, to assist thee in thy troubles; for they are deaf at the prayers of Lovers, and are not obliged, to require and make whole that sore, which we (through our own foolishness) have made to corrupt our own bodies. After the Nymph had thus schooled her Shepherd, she without staying for his answer, began to sing in a sweet note, this Ode following.  
Now that Boreus with his cold  
Doth this Country round enfold,  
And his Icicles displays,  
Whilst the Verdure green he slays,  
We must end our life ere long,  
And shut up our mournful song.  
Now that more than cruel pain,  
Brings our hopes for to be vain,  
And that Love makes us distil,  
Salt tears (sigrnes of ou kind will)  
Needs we must our lives term end,  
Unto t'h eanens to ascend.  
Now that such is our sad care,  
As of help we helpless are.  
That cross Fates seeks us to grieve,  
Why should we desire to line?  
Better 'tis to die, than still  
Fellow what works us more ill.  
Now that sighs, and sobs, and tears,  
The subjects of our verses hears.  
And whilst this plague gains our hart,  
Let us likewise make it smart.  
By a death that one day may,  
Make us victor every way.  
Now that skies with lightnings blast,  
Forced our pleasures not to last.  
And that Sun no more doth shine,  
We must yield to tempests time.  
(Loyal we) will lay us down,  
And go (willing) to our Tomb.  
Now that cold and chilly fear,  
Haunts us ghastly every where.  
Seek we must, by cruelty,  
For to end our misery.  
For an end to every thing,  
Gentle death (none else) doth bring.  
Now that burning fire are bright  
Hath our souls consumed quite.  
Leaving nought with us but greanes,  
Lets ourselves rid all at once.  
Dying, lets our courage prous,  
Oenone like for Paris lone.  
The Nymph having made an end of her dreary song, began to speak a fresh in this sort. I assure thee (Shepherd) though I sing, yet do I take small pleasure in the same, for my note is like the tune of that snowy Bird which singeth in the River Meander, and yet with these my sighs, the extremity of my pain is somewhat slaked and assuaged. Grievously doth he die, that is not able to digest the potion which he hath in his stomach, so the grief which is enclosed in the mind, doth most suddenly choke us up, if there be not some way devised for a vent, by which it may pass. That Cannon bursteth, into which powder is put, if there be no void place, through which the fire may issue forth.  
There is not a heart, be it never so courageous, but the pain of Love will make it to bend and break, unless it ease itself with sobbing and weeping: and yet alas, these remedies are but as worthless Plasters of subtle Chyrurgians, who to keep the wound the longer from healing (to the end they may gain the more of the Patient) win time (still) by laying such salves unto it, as rather make it worse than better. For to speak truth indeed, Love passeth not away through length of time, weareth not away with weeping, nor is satisfied, though we lament and sorrow never so much. He is more proud and fierce, more stubborn and hard, than the Rock, that is made hollow with the often droppings of water. And to give you a sufficient testimome of the same, besides that I myself have had experience thereof, I will report unto you a strange History, in which, you shall have a taste, of millions of cruelties that he did commit, bringing his loving flaues to their utter overthrow in the end.  
But what? did I say I would display Love in his colours? Alack it is impossible, for I myself am not able to report the least part of mine own griefs, not much unlike unto the principal Actors of my Tragedy. But it is all one, I must, and will report it. Examples that are gone and passed, teach us (that come after) how to live well, and beat plain the way, which leadeth us, either unto black infamy, or else unto immortal glory; beside, the times with such chances as they bring forth, are found (often) to be like, and agreeable in effects. hearken therefore, for now I begin my Tale.  
It is a common speech (almost of every one) that beauty, aught to be accounted, as an inestimable jewel, be stowed upon us, by the Gods, whom (as it is thought) it doth resemble, they themselves, having vouchsafed to honour it (here) upon the earth, to the end, that men, adoring the same, may (the better) learn how to worship them aright. For one would think, it were impossible to encounter or meet with anything, more excellent, or, that is of more power to commandover the hearts of mortal men. Notwithstanding all this, I am of a contrary conceit, being of opinion, that beauty ought rather to be christened by the name of the Fountain, from whence sprang forth (in great abundance) all the misfortunes, and calamities, that happen in this world. For the more beautiful a thing is, the more it is desired, this desire engendering in the mind of man, a thousand devices, either, cruel, unhonest; or unreasonable to obtain the same, and to carry it away, because, to purchase what one doth covetor like, a man carrth not (oftentimes) to infringe and break, the bars of justice, Honour, and of Law, imagining that the accomplishment of all things, lieth in the effecting of his desire. So as, I am not of their minds, who place beauty above all other mortal things, but rather judge it, to be more pernicious unto men than Serpents, whom they loath and fly from, as from their deadly enemies.  
This beauty serveth for a Subject and matter where upon Love may work the better, to exercise his most unlawful and tyrannical effects, in as much as (without him) he could have nothing whereupon he might be working. Now the cause of vice being taken away, the effect thereof ●●eth, and he that shuneth the occasions of sin, can hardly or seldom offend. Only beauty is the occasio, of all such enormities as Love doth commit, and therefore upon her, may we well lay the foundation of all human calamities. For what wickedness is there, but Love hath perpetrated, and brought forth? Helena the fair, wrought the overthrow of famous. Troy, and all the Phrygian Nobility; Bryseis the beautiful, sowed discord and di●fention, amongst the Grecian Captains: And lovely Cleopatra, filled the whole Sea and Land of Egypt, with streams of gory blood. And now hearken, how I will confirm what I have spoken, to be most true, by this Histone following.  
In the Marchesse of Lomherdie (a most sruitfull country) there dwelled a Gentle, man, nobly desceded, being Lord of a 〈◊〉 goodly Castle, wherein (for the most part) 〈…〉  
This Ge●lle man 〈…〉 more challe) 〈…〉 be made much 〈◊〉, by her husband, she having two such 〈…〉 bounding miner.  
This their maritage (at the first) was the 〈…〉 them both, for there wanted nothing more to 〈…〉 Paris and 〈◊〉 conceived, when they were first 〈…〉 Admitus with Alcesta: or that of Vltsses with Penelope; or 〈…〉 was nothing, in respect of the true delight that these two 〈…〉 being coupled so sacredly and surely together.  
But what is too violent (be it adversity or prosperity) can not be 〈…〉 more than he who over swistly, and too too hastily beginning his course, loosert (v● on the sudden) his breath, and so in the midst of his race faileth, both in force, and in running, whether it be, either because their violent beginnings engendereth their proceedings, (for that without reason, no sure foundation can be laid or else, that their hues passeth away with their own overmuch violence, as a great and outrageous fire, consumeth in a sinal time great store of wood and sewell.  
But not to digress from our first matter. Not far from this gallant Lombard, called Leander, was there an other fair place, the owner whereof, was a neighbour of his, a youthful Gentleman, a Bachelor, and unmarried; which two, what by reason of the dearness of their houses, and the conformity of their manners, grew to be so inward and dear friends, as they could not abide one to be from another; and their love was so great, as all things (as far as honour would permit) was common between them.  
Pylades was never so great with Orestes, Theseus never nearer to Peritheus, nor Alexander, never more beloved of Ephestion: then Leanaer was of his friend, and his friend of him.  
Never went they on Hawking, Hunting, or any other such like laudable exercise, but they were together: Being at home, they had but one board, and being abroad, but one bed, and one purse between them: as if they had benesworne brethren, and both borne of one mother. But now mark the difference between lewd Love, and loyal Amity.  
This friendship betwixt these two young neighbours, so sacred, so religious, and honest, was famous every where, and commended throughout all the whole Country there about: which never thelesse, cruel LOVE divided and broke in sunder. Yea, and in such sort, as that which was the chief joy and contentment of them both, cost them both their lives.  
By this then, may we perceive how contrary LOVE is unto Friendship: for whereas the one is laudable, honest, praiseworthy, and profitable, the other is wicked, and cruel, sowing discord and malice, (amongst such as were, and should be) most faithful and firm friends, one unto an other.  
So did LOVE drown and extinguish (long since) all respect, friendship, and duty, which Medea ought unto her Father, bereaving her of all natural pity, tearing in pieces her own proper Brother, to secure and help her Lover jason.  
And so likewise this mischievous LOVE, forced the daughter of Minos, to be his mortal enemy, only to follow her deceitful servant Theseus.  
Neither did this wicked LOVE work a less villainy against these two friends: for Leander, having (as I said before) a most excellent, fair, and modest wife, but (as Helena, unfortunate) was the occasion that she ministered means and matter unto LOVE, to put in practice, and to exercise so many cruel and unjust parts, (as he afterwards did) but if the Innocent merit to be excused, then is she not to be accused, as the loss of her own dear life afterwards showed.  
But what? kingdoms (oftentimes) which of themselves are rich and necessary, set a fire, most hurtful, damageable, and spoiling wars, of which notwithstanding, they are many times clear of) craving no other thing, then only to submit themselves under the dominion and government of the right and lawful heir unto the Crown.  
But the ambitious desires of men are they that make the wounds, by reason of the greediness they have to enjoy that, which in their conceits, they judge to be fair, profitable, and pleasant.  
This Gentleman, the friend of Leander, called Antonio Picchio, made account of Leunders' house as his own, being seldom or never from thence, and the longer he stayed (there) the better he was welcome, his married friend, and his wife (for his sake) giving him the best entertainment they could devise.  
It is an old said saw, that a man always liketh his neighbour's house, better than his own. Whether it be the changing of lodgings is the cause, or the strange and good company that he findeth, 
An old saying.  where there is good refort and merry.  
Now whilst our Bachelor passed his time most pleasantly away, he began inwardly to cast an affection unto his friend's wife, and to love her far better than he did her husband.  
And thus are many men now a days made account of, only for their wives sakes: as many kiss the children, only for the Nurse's sake.  

Tuta frequensque via est, per amici fallere nomen,  
Tuta ftequensque licet sit via. crimen habet.   

The safe and surest way it is  
By fri: udship to deceive:  
Though safe and surest way it be,  
T' is knavery by your leave.   
So long he began to like her, that at last he was troubled in his mind, so as a secret conceit ran still in his brain, a novel flame was kindled in his breast, and a new strange desire changed the nature of his first humour: And in so much as within a little while after, he became another kind of man than he had been heretofore.  
I will (now) marvel no more, why the Poets have set down so many human bodies to be changed (through LOVE) into divers insensible and senseless likeness, and ships. For there is no doubt, but that the very countenance, the conditions, and the desires of Lo●ers alter and change, in so much as they turn themselves into new bodies, (as the Snake doth cast her skin) by reason this extreme hot and supernatural passion, coming upon the sudden) and crossing the right nature of man; breaketh and chaseth it soon away, as a sudden flood of water, carrieth before him, both hedges, Trees, and houses, and whatsoever else withstandeth his violence.  
And so did it happen unto foolish Antonio Picchio: The desire he had to see his she friend, and chase the Dear with her husband, was the occasion he came oftener to Leander's house, 
Lovers metamorphosed and changed.  than (otherwise) he would have done: for he was passing crafty, and knew too too well, how to colour his coming thither, Love being his Schoolmaster, and having taught him this cunning.  
lovers never want a pretext or shadow to cloak their affections. It is the first lesson they learn in Cupid's school, and which they study earnestly to observe, to the end (that for want of concealing that, 
The first lesson that a Lover learneth.  which they are most desirous should be hid from the sight of others) they fear it it should be afterwards discovered, and appear in his right form and likeness.  
The eyes of his Mistress only seemed in his judgement, worthy to be marked and regarded, although they resembled the Viper, which as well hurteth as helpeth a man: for no sooner did he gaze upon them, but that his soul swallowed down a sweet poisonous potion, feeling at one instant both pleasure and pain, yet could not he live, without approaching near this ardent Fire. Although the nearer he came unto it, the more (by degrees, he consumingly) both melted and wasted away.  
Wherein he resembleth that sick patient, who doth nothing else but drink, and after he hath drunk, findeth the drink to double his grief, thoughout his body.  
Had he had but the liberty of speech, and might he have been bold to have uttered his mind, he had not endured half the torments he did, but being prevented by unhonest means, and because he was unworthy to receive any succour or help, he was forced (though much against his will) to be silent, and to hold his peace; For overmuch talk (oftentimes) doubleth a man's shame, and hindereth him not a little. His aim, was at the mark, which only appertained to his Friend.  
And like as the Thief feareth to deliver his mind unto the judge, because of the great desire he hath to commit some one Robbery or other: Fuen so, a Lover (being in his conceits dishonest, and quite repugnant to Honour, dareth not but conceal the same, as much as he may, to avoid greater disgraces that may ensue, for fear of further danger.  
This was the cause that the son of Seleucus loving his Stepmother over dearly, (because he kept his mouth so close, his lips being sealed with the Signet of dutiful respect and lawful Honour) endured great torment, lying at the point of death.  
The hart of man being tainted with poison, dieth soon, unless by some means or other, the venom be cast forth; and therefore most insupportable is their anguish and tortures, who dare not discover their hurts, because they are unworthy of help. But what?  
Who ever saw, but that a Lover vain,  
Conceals his grief, nor dares bewray his pain?  
And so did Picchio, only his heavy eye, and sad countenance, supplied the office of his tongue, by which he declared his mind by sighs, though otherwise he durst not. And therefore, it is a hard matter for those that love constantly, to conceal their passions, do they never set so hard and close a Bridle before their tongue; for either the pale colour of their face, either their sad and heavy countenance, 
A Lover can hardly cō●cale his grief.  either the tears that (always) flow from their eyes, or else their continual sighing and sobbing, will discover and bewray their affection, for this passion is too terrible, too vehement, and too hot, to be keptsecret, without disclosing some sign or token of the violence thereof: no more than fire can be hid under the Ashes, which (nevertheless) sendeth forth a heat. Yea, and sometimes a flame too.  
This then, was the occasion, that Antonio was changed both in favour and shape, and yet notwithstanding, these were not sufficient strong testimonies, for the standers by, to judge that he was in love.  
Seldom or never is the Criminal condemned to die upon bare suppositions or likely hoods; if neither his own eyes, have given any shrewd guess, or his own tongue discovered his offence. And yet this alteration of body in Picchio, made every one to wonder, in so much as they were marvelously desirous to know the reason thereof; for the nature of man is always very curious, to hear of strange matters, delighting in novelties, and to understand the several events, and occasions of the same.  
But to what end should the Physician inquire of a sick man, the original of his disease, what it is, and how it came; if the patiented be steadfastly resolved to die, and will not live?  
Even so, it was but lost labour, for those who did importune very often poor Picchio, to discover where his most pain lay, when he meant not to tell them. For he had been worthy to have been registered for a right Dolt indeed, if he should have made them acquainted therewith, when they could do him no good at all, and who were so far from helping of him, as they sooner would have brought poison then Balm, for his recureless wound.  
O Tyraunous LOVE, thou art not content alone, to inflict upon us many corrosives and dolours, unless thou forcest us also to commit many villainous Actions, making us thy executioners, by doing of which, we lose our whole contentments, our honours, and our lives.  
Was not the anguish and agony that hapless Antonio endured, sufficient to content thee? but that he must needs perpetrate so heinous a deed, as must cost him the life of her, whom he so dearly loved; must cause her husband to die, and make him to spill his own heart blood, and all to satisfy thee?  
But it is a thing usual and ordinary, to see in thy Theatre, thousands of Tragedies, of all sorts of murders, horrible Treasons, and most damned villainies, presented upon the Stage before thee.  
It is not (as thou thinkest) enough to have life of one only, (as those cruel Gods used to do, (who demanded men to be sacrificed unto them) but thou wilt have many to appease thy wrath, that thou mayest be (as it were) drunk with their blood, and grow fat with eating and feeding upon their flesh.  
But to come to kind Leander, who seeing Picchio in this heavy taking, began to condole wonderfully with him for his sickness, and as it were, to participate, and bear parcel of his pain, crying out for the sorrows of his friend. But that which grieved him most of all, was, because he could not learn of Antonio, what the cause of his discontentment should be, taking it passing unkindly at his hands, that he would never tell him. But, had he but known the mind of him, he had cut off many woeful inconveniences which after followed.  
But alas, Men have not windows in their bodies, that we may see into their hearts, and only God above knoweth the secret thoughts of every one.  
Priam's thought that he had broke asunder the fatal thread of the destruction of Troy, commanding that Paris (his own son) should be cast amongst wolves, to be devoured of them.  
And yet (good man) he could not. Danaus' causing his own daughters, cut their husband's throats, came for all this unto that luckless end, which the Oracles of the Gods, had foretold him.  
Astyages sought to murder, and to make away Cyrus, and nevertheless, he died a wretched death, as was before allotted unto him.  
Oft may Destiny be foreseen, but (never) can it be prevented: for what the heavens decree against mortal men, that shall happen unto them; let them seek never so much to prevent it. Leander was ordained before his birth to have this hard hap, neither could his good Fortunes hinder it: had he sought never so much to avoid the same.  
For can poor men, with their weak feeble power,  
The force of God's cross, when they gi'en to lower?  
The Titans, those monstrous Giants, were blasted with Lightning, and tumbled down headlong into hell, because they would pesume to encounter with the Gods: And Tamirus and Marsius, the one lost his eyes, and the other his skin, because they dared to compare with Apollo, and his sacred Sisters. But never thelesse, to begin where we left.  
Although Leander often entreated, solicited, yea, and Conjured Antonio, to make manifest the cause of his sickness unto him, yet could he not so much as get one word from him, which made him so much the more disconsolate.  
And yet to say the truth, who would have done, but as Antonio did, being in his case? For to have discovered the truth thereof unto him, had been as if a guilty wretch should have confessed his criminal misdeeds before the judge, and to put himself into the hands of his utter enemy, having just cause to be revenged of him.  
Mean space Leander (after his old wont) taketh on, and lamenteth, that he hath not that kind interest in his friend, as (before) he thought he had had: Crying out that he loveth him not. For otherwise, he would not let to have disclosed a greater matter than that unto him.  
For (said he, weeping) unto Antonino, Persuade thyself (dear friend) that I will spend my heart blood to do thee good, and neither shall any means be left unsought for, to help thee, so I may but only know the cause of thy malady. Thou knowest thy welfare is mine, thy sickness, my sorrow, and that as long as thou art ill, I cannot be well at ease.  
Why then (thou that art the sweetest part of mine own self) shouldest thou thus defer to reveal thy discontentment unto him, who is thine own sworn brother? and who cannot be content, as long as thou art thus displeased? Now (good now) do not delay any longer, but let me know thy mind, since I am grieved as much as thyself, to see thee in this most grievous taking.  
Truly, truly, if you do keep this still (thus from me) I cannot choose but think, you are no perfect, nor true friend indeed: for no fortune bad or good, aught to part such as knit in true friendship, and loyal affections bands, and they ought to be partners, as well of weal as of woe.  
Then why shouldest thou doubt me, or be thus strange unto me? have you seen or marked any thing in me, that might make thee conceit me, not to be the same man towards thee, that I have been of yore? Or do you imagine, that I am not as willing to take part of your bad fortunes, as in former time I have been, to be acquainted with your good? If you think so hardly of me, I protest you do me the greatest wrong that may be.  
No, no: one friend must not conceive sinisterly of another, neither mistrust him, without vehement and most apparent presumptions, but must always judge the best, rather than imagine the worst, no more than one ought to condemn him that is virtuous and honest, unless there be apparent proof and testimony against him of the same.  
The affection that is between two friends, is so sacred and religious of itself, that there is no sense, why any should take exceptions against it, as long as it showeth no contrary effects, but such as be worthy of all commendation and praise.  
If thou thinkest, that to recover thy health, or to purchase some comfort for thee, it lieth in my power, and that I have that which may do thee good, than hast thou the more reason to demand it freely: For rightly may he be counted but a counterfeit friend, that will not employ the uttermost of his power, to help his friend, and the rather, for that true friends indeed, rejoice, and are not a little proud, when there is any occasion given them to engage themselves, or what they have, for to profit one another.  
For as a learned Scholar desireth nothing more, then that his learning may be known abroad in the world: so a sure friend, doth not covet for any thing so much, as to render some assured testimony of his infallible friendship, unto his best beloved friend.  
Then do not smother this thy grief within thyself, but make me acquainted therewithal: Otherwise, thou wilt induce me to have this opinion of thee, either that thou dost hold me for thine enemy, or else, that thou art no right friend unto me, and therefore, judge of me by thine own self.  
Although these speeches were uttered with great earnestness, and with a most hearty affection, yet could they not work any thing at all in the mind of Antonio.  
As the wild Boar, sitting upon his tail, standeth stoutly in his own defence against the dogs, not stirring once, as much as one foot, from his first place, now tearing one Brache, and then shaking in pieces another: even so Antonio 
Coneealeth still (within his breast) his pain  
Nor, (but to Mistress his) will tell the same.   
But the means how to discover it unto her, he knoweth not: much less, how to find occasion to break his mind unto her.  
O how hard a matter is it to do ill, and when we have done it, to conceal the same? whereas the behaviour and carriage of the wellmeaning man is safe and sure, not unlike a common beaten way, that is easy to be found.  
But now Leander looketh for an answer of Antonio, who could not choose, but that he must needs answer him, and answer him he did: but (God knoweth) in such manner, and with such simple and bare excuses, as Leander perceived too plainly, that the young Lover meant not to acquaint him with that which troubled him so much: which was the reason that for that time, he gave over to importune him any more, and the rather, for that his conscience told him, he had done what he could, to the uttermost of his power, as much as did belong unto him.  
For, when one hath offered unto his dear and beloved friend, (as much as in him lieth, to hinder, or cross and keep back some inconvenience that is like to happen unto him) although he cannot bring what he would to pass: yet is it far less grief unto him, then if the pretended mischief had come, and he had offered no kindness at all unto him: because we being mortal creatures, are not able to cope with the Gods, whose wills it is, it should be so, and to be overcome by them, (after we have done to the uttermost of our strength and power) is not a cause why we should chafe or stomach thereat; in as much as we are subject unto them, and the rather, because we are made and form by them.  
But now Antonio his disease increaseth (daily) more and more, he taketh no rest, nor can he eat or drink, his colour is earthly, and his face is pale and lean. The day he spendeth in sighing, and the night in sobbing, whilst his eyes look red, with continual weeping. (For though tears be forbidden brave and gallant Spirits) yet are they tolerable in them, when they chance to fall into the amorous and ardent passions of love. His arms are brawnefallen, and on his body appeareth little or no flesh at all, in such sort, as he resembleth an Anatomy, or dead carcase, rather than a living man.  
As he that is plagued with a hot burning Fever, giveth many testimonies of the same. One while, by sudden shaking and shivering, throughout his whole body, another while, by a cold sweat, and then by a hot one again. Even so, Antonio, his in firmity appeared by many signs, there being not one joint or member of his coarse, but what showed him to be extremely tormented, and as it were, at death's door.  
Which Leander seeing, began to be half mad, for the very anguish thereof: what to do he knew not, and therefore was almost at his wits end. To set upon him afresh, to see if he could persuade him to shrive himself unto him; he thought were but follic, by reason, he found him (before) so unwilling to participate unto him, or confess any thing.  
At the last he began to think, that although he kept it from him (perhaps upon some secret occasion) yet peradventure, another might wring it out of him. Whereupon, he went unto his wife, praying her to take the pains to see, if she could learn of Antonio, that which he had spent so much labour to know, and yet by no means could attain there unto.  
The chaste Lady, who was wonderful willing to obey her husband, and who affected (yet with modesty) what her Lord liked, being of her own disposition, so courteous and pitiful, as she gricued for the hurt of an other: especially he being the dearest friend her husband had, gladly accepted of the proffer. Promising him to handle the matter (both by her diligent care, and good advifement) so cunningly, as it should go hard, but that (before few days were gone and passed) she would understand and know all.  
And so she did indeed, speaking (then more truer than she was aware of. For after she had used to come and visit him (now and than) he began to recover prettily well: insomuch as one day, the gentlewoman finding him alone, intteated him very kindly to walk with her into the garden hard by, somewhat to recreate himself, (and to revive him in that feeble and weak estate) telling him, it would not be amiss for him (now and than) to take the open air: which words, she delivered with so sweet a grace, and so lonely a smile, as (now) he was ten times deeper in love with her, than he had been before. O how foolish are Lovers, who because they themselves are senseless, therefore they think that every one else is so likewise; and that, because they love, therefore, none should be exempted from loving: especially this is one of their conceits, as concerning such women as they affect, that because they are men worthy to be liked, therefore (forsooth) these women must love them, if they but give them never so little entertainment.  
And so this vain Antonio persuaded himself verily, that his friend's wife, affected him, because she vouchsafed (in private) to walk abroad with him. He that hath been long sick, is so desirous of his health, that the least ease or amendment that he findeth, maketh him believe he is well recovered and whole. And so fareth it with these Lovers, who if they receive the least favour that may be, at their Lady's hands, they (straightway) think, they are their own.  
Now was Antomo where he would be, for he might (at leisure) behold the beauteous eyes, the lovely face, and the fair breasts of his sweet Mistress, but the more the fond man gazed upon them, the more he was burnt with a secret inward fire, these rare beauties of hers, drawing him into the bottom less gulf of his utter overthrow; as the whirl Pools in the Seas, by many windings and turnings, still by little and little the ships within their circled arms, and so devour and swallow them up: mean space, wretched Antonio, one while, by his looks, another while by his sighs, one while changing countenance, and another while, looking red as fire, discovered unto his Mistress (so lively) the secret grief that tormented him within his soul, as she needed to have known no more, had she been trained up so well as he, in the school of love.  
But, as the right, true, and honourable Captain, suspecteth not any treason, because he knoweth not what it meaneth, and for that he never did covet to learn the same, so this rare Gentlewoman, having never learned, how to entertain or like any one, except her husband, could not conceive the amorous fashions of Antonio, nor what he meant, making love unto her, which was the reason, his sorrows slaked not, but rather increased more and more. His fearful glances which he stole upon her, and his scalding sighs (faithful messengers of his mind) forget not to set out the sorrow that he endured. One while he looked pale for fear, another while he blushed red for shame, oftentimes, beginning to speak, and so made an end before he had begun. His heart is willing that his tongue should discover his sickness unto his Physician, but his tongue (who doubteth he shall make the matter worse by speaking) hath not the courage to speak one word. His head is intoxicated, and troubled, whilst thousands of imaginations run in his brain.  
Now he is resolute to bewray his grief unto her, and now again he is of a quite contrary opinion, not to do it, whilst he both hopeth and feareth, and all at one instant. But, o wretched carcase the while, to entertain so many, and so divers enemies, within it. Fear opposeth himself against Love, who feign would speak, and yet respect doth stop and hinder his desire. Feign would he have some stranger to deliver his mind unto his Lady in his behalf, by which means (should he have the denial which he already apprehended in his thought) yet being delivered unto him, at a second hand, he thought it would not be altogether so terrible unto him.  
But he too well knoweth that there is not any that can do it, or that knoweth his secret meaning but himself, and therefore as the saying is, he must make a Page of his own age, or else he must continue as he did, without bewraying his mind at all. One while he held down his face for shame, fixing his eyes upon the ground, and an other while Love lifted them up again, forcing him to stare, and gaze upon the fair countenance of his Mistress, he had all the gestures and signs of a most miserable Lover attainted of Love, speech only accepted, and he that is a firm and zealous Lover indeed, never walketh without respect and fear.  
The Centlewoman perceiveth such alteration in his face, and that he often began to speak, was very importunate with him to know what he meant, and what he ailed. But every word she spoke, was as a stab of a Poinard, given him at the hart. He feareth to speak, what might make his wound worse, and doubteth as much, lest he should displease the Lady, who (as he thought) might (perhaps) inquire the cause thereof, because she would heal it.  
The fit opportunity he had, made him to think, that it were best for him, (now) to lay open his mind or else never, thinking, that when he would, he should not find so apt a time again; and now again a new toy taketh him in the head, persuading him to remit and refer this business until another day, but then, by and by, he condemneth himself as unwise, that having spent so much time, to find this commodity, and now (at the last) having gotten it, he goeth about to leave it. In the end, being urged (still) by the Gentlewoman to resolve her of her doubt, and seeing that he could not well be rid of her, unless he did satisfy her, in what she demanded, he determined whatsoever should come of it, to break this Ice, and to bewray his Love unto her, whereupon with a sad countenance, and often faltering in his voice, he thus began.  
(Fair Mistress) I was in good hope, that my often sighing, with my heavy and perplexed countenance, had been sufficient to have bewrayed the sorrow that galleth my heart, without of having had any need to plead for pity unto you, with my mournful tongue.  
But seeing it pleaseth you, that my speech shall deliver what my heart gave my troubled countenance in charge, I think it but reason so to do, it being the command of her, who is the cause of this my woeful martyrdom, I know I do but sow my seed upon the salt sea shore, and that I lay my nets (although in vain) to catch the winds, and yet had I rather to deprive myself of all comfort and joy, then displease you, and send you away justly incensed against me. He that hath devoted himself unto the service of any woman, & will show all dutiful respect that may be unto her, will have great regard that he offend her not, & will rather endure any punishment in his own person, than move her whom he vowed to adore with all reverence.  
Seeing then you have so earnestly commanded me to open unto you the very secrets of my soul, and the first causes and original of all my trouble, I will condescend unto you, and most faithfully deliver the same, without keeping back any thing from you at all.  
Know then (sweet Lady) that your diamond eyes, have been the torches that hath first lightened this fire, your beauties have been the Fuel, and your courtly behaviour the bellows to kindle the same. You only have made the wound, and if you list may heal it, and from no other but from yourself, am I to seek comfort, for the wounds of Love are healed by the selfsame dart that made them, as the Scorpion doth, who is of power to help such, whom he before hath stung. judge then (I beseech you) in what a pitiful plight I am, and what great cause I have to curse and bewail my hard disaster. For what hope to recover myself of this dangerous disease have I? and how is it possible for me, to obtain that, for which (so much) I wish?  
Alas, I know not I, and yet Myrrha, joined her desire (although it were incestuous) with her own Father. And Passiphae, Queen of Candio, had her pleasure of a Bull, quenching by that means, her unhonest heat. But I (poor wretched Caitiff) how may I purchase that which (so feign) I would, except your favourable grace, take compassion upon me, in vouchsafing unto my deadly sore, that comfortable remedy lying in your hands, which (only) is offorce to make me well.  
Then, what should I use so many words, or trouble you with so tedious a discourse? Only this I will say, that I hate mine own self, because I would love you, assuring yourself, that my life shall as soon be converted into ashes, as my soul is likely to be burned through the fire of Love, unless you cast this necessary water upon it, to quench the heat thereof, putting my dying heart in security of some good hope to come. I am bold (dear Mistress) to be thus plain with you, because I am resolute, and have set up my rest, to choose one of these two ways, either that of death, as soon as you shall pronounce the sentence of denial unto me, or that of life, if I shall find you ready and mild, to ease me of my pain.  
Think then as you please of this my speech, and censure of me as you shall best like: here I stand, before the bar of your beauty, expecting either life, or death, the one being as agreeable unto me, as the other: and although I must needs tell you that it shall be far greater glory for you to save me, than to cut me off before my time.  
Antonio, having delivered his mind in this desperate kind of manner, made the Gentlewoman so amazed to hear such an occasion unexpected from him, as she scarce knew where she was.  
Her speech was gone, pale, earthly, was her sight,  
A stone (not living creature) seemed she right.  
But being come unto herself again, she began to curse within herself, her foolish over hardiness, in that she was so earnest and inquisitive to know of him the reason of his discontentments, when it concerned her nothing at all, doubting lest if any disgrace should happen about the same, all the blame should be laid upon her. How to reply (upon the sudden) she knew not, and whilst she was musing what she might do, she began to hate him deadly, wishing vengeance to light upon him, for presuming to court her with such shameless impudency. Now whilst she stood thus bethinking herself of the matter, Antonio straightway, imagined it was for his good, that she delayed so long to answer him; but he found the contrary too soon, for (in the mean time) she remembered her own honour and chastity, and the great friendship her husband had showed (though undeservedly) unto this traitorous friend of his, which so incensed her with just rage and choler, as she began to take up my Gentleman in this sort. How now sir, what is this you say, dream you, or are you well in your right wits? What sign or likelishood of vice or dishonesty have you seen in me, that you should thus proudly solicit and importune me, to dishonour myself and my kind husband, who loveth you far dearer than his own self? was there ever any so bold to attempt an enterprise so difficult and hard as this is, which thou goest about, without he had been assured before by some guess or other that he might bring the same to pass? I think none but thyself.  
But tell me I pray you (Antonio) what notice or testimony of lightness have I given unto the world (at any time) that you should dare thus immodestly to accost me? Go to your Minions and Courtesans abroad, and court them and not me, there make a spoke unto such like huswives, who have no respect either of good name or fame. You are no Chapman for my Merchandise, no gold can buy mine honour, I hold it at so high a rate, neither can any love or affection purchase the faith which I have pawned and promised unto my husband. I am no Lays, nor any Thais, that thou shouldst seek to urge me thus; thy persuasions being so perilous unto me. Besides, I am least bound unto thee, than unto any other (in that) thou, as my mortal enemy liest in wait to spoil and ruinated that which is ten thousand times more precious unto me than mine own life.  
Think, that never the Roman Lucrece redeemed more courageously the loss of credit, with the price of her blood, than I desire after the same rate to preserve mine, and that I had always choose rather to die, a chaste and faithful wife, then live like a most dishonest and disloyal harlot. I rather covet the troubles and crosses of Penelope, with her slainlesse virtue, than the merry life of Clytaemnestra, with all her foul and beastly pleasures. And the death of a sober Polixena, shall be still more agreeable unto me, than the voluptuous living of a wanton Semiramis, being glutted with all sorts of vain delices and dainties whatsoever. Talk no more (then) unto me of this matter, for thou dost but lose thy labour: for sooner shall the heavens become Sea, and fair grow to be Ice, before I will yield unto the least of thy requests. And were it not but that I am in hope that there are some sparks of grace in thee, and that thou wilt become a new man, I would take such order to make thee give over, and to bridle this thy rash attempt, as thou shouldest (never) speak more unto me thereof, by laying open and displaying thy shameless practice unto him, who may with good reason and justice, be revenged of thee for a busing him (so much) as thou hast done.  
Cynthia, (for so was the Gentlewoman's name) having cooled Antonio's heat with this sharp iniective, moved with just choler, left him, and returned into her house, he being as much amazed and confounded therewith, as those were, who went about the building of the Tower of Babel, seeing themselves so suddenly to have so many languages amongst them, and so different in their proceed one against another. As that Murderer is mightily astonished, and in a most bad taking, upon whom the judge at unawares cometh, as he is wiping of his bloody sword, and standeth by the carcase of him that he hath slaughtered, because he seethe there is no way (but one) with him, which is the loss of his life: Even so was Antonio in such a plight; long time did he stand as still as a stone, and no sooner was he able to speak, but that he began to lament and cry out afresh. No heart (were it never so obdurate and hard) had been able to have endured so heavy a burden of torments as he did.  
And now he beginneth to hate Love, the motive of his miseries: he accuseth his Mistress, the Author of his despair: detesteth his fortune, that his success was no better in his suit: and curseth his tongue, which for being over saucy and presumptuous, had utterly overthrown him for ever.  
All joy he bids adieu, all hope farewell,  
No longer now in sorrow, he will dwell.  
He is fully bend to die, devising with himself, what kind of death he were best to choose, to the end he might be rid, both of the world, and of his wretched estate, all at one time, he will (now) neither sigh nor weep more for the matter, determining to change his tears into blood, and his sighs into woeful death: only his desire is, to be fitted of a convenient place to put in practise the same, for he durst not lay violent hands upon himself in the Castle of Leander, lest (perhaps) it should come to light why he made himself so away: whereupon he privily conveyeth himself away from thence, and getteth him into a thick and dark wood, not far from thenee, where he resolveth to end his life, and make that place his grave. It was answerable unto his mind, it was secret, obscure, & unfrequented of all. This was the cause he began afresh (being all alone) to sigh and sob, and to ban and curse his ill fortune again, which being done, he draweth his sword, he feeleth the edge of it, to see if it be keen and sharp enough, and that done, prepareth himself unto death, thinking it to be much better to die by his own proper hands, as another brave and high minded ajax, than to live in continual vexation and misery, as a base and degenerate Thesites. And now he setteth the pommel of his blade upon the ground, the point whereof was placed just against his heart, when (as he was minded to thrust himself quite through) behold, death (as he thought) appeared unto him, with so horrible and ghastly a visage, as he gave over his enterprise: long was he not in this muse, but that he drew his Raiper again, condemning much his first fear, when (upon the sudden) an other humour (more devilish than the rest) took him, which was not to die, until he had obtained what he so much coveted, vowing within his soul, that he would have his will of the fair Cynthia, at what high price soever he bought it.  
His Love (now) was turned into hate, and his respectful duty, into sensual lust. He thinketh not of the danger he is like to incur, by entering into so infamous an action. All former friendship and kind Hospitality is forgotten, so he may have his wish, either by violence, or what way else, he cares not, although (afterward) he die for the same: for (so to die, he imagineth) he shall be most happy: and this is his most certain and constant resolution.  
O frantic rage, O cursed madness, and O cruel furiousness of Love! This made Medea worse than a Bedlam, to massacre her own children: and this brought the famous Mark Antony, to lose both his honour and his life. Now Antonio hammering in his head this wicked practice, began to set a good upon the matter, as if all had been well, beginning to look cheerfully, and making the world believe he had quite forgotten all former sorrows, as if he would have been merry ever after, which recovery from his sickness, made every one glad, especially his true friend Leander, and the Lady his wife, who (verily) thought, that Antonio had forgotten all his old love to wards her, and that her schooling of him, in that shrewd manner as she did, had made him to be come a new man.  
But alas (poor soul) how much was she deceived, for all this while, Antonio was working of treason against her, and her husband, which wrought their utter overthrew. As a fire that long time lie hid in a hollow hole, when it bursteth forth, becometh more violent, more outrageous, and more hurtful, than when it beginneth first to burn; Even so the villainy of Antonio, was far more terrible (making no show of any such thing) then if he had put it in practice (before) when he was in his sickness, languishing through pain: for he having bethought himself what he would have them to do, getteth a company of notable Rascals (secretly) together, certifying them what he would have them to do for him, every one of them being as ready to condescend unto him, in hope of base gain, as he to command them: and the rather, when they knew it was to put in practice so damned a deed, such cursed murderers as those being (always) more prone to evil, than unto good.  
Thus having set every thing in order; he most solemnly inviteth Leander and his loving wife, to feast with him, upon a certain day appointed for the purpose, who suspecting no treachery, very kindly accepted of the same, promising for himself, and for his wife, not to fail but to be there. O how worthy is a false and treacherous friend of the greatest punishment that may be, who playeth the false counterfeit, and of a dear friend, becometh a deadly foe? and how far more hurtful is he, than an open and professed enemy, for of the one a man can hardly take heed, because he carrieth the vail of friendship to nide his treachery, but the other we may easily avoid, by reason we know, he seeketh to do us any injury that lieth in his power.  
Poor Leander found this to be true unto his cost. For coming unto Antonio his house, with his wife, at the first meeting, he made a show unto them, of a most solemn and hearty welcome, but no sooner were they set at the table, thinking to be merry, and that they were there as safe, as if their had been in their own Castle, but behold the ruffianly Murderers being disguised, broke in (upon the sudden) amongst them, with their naked swords in their hands, running upon Leander, and giving him many wounds, and that done, they laid violent hands upon his woeful wife, carrying her away (perforce) and leaving him there for dead, wallowing in his lukewarm blood.  
It is an old saying, that gold is a bad servant, being the occasion many times that his own masters throat is cut, and that rich men live the wretchedst lives of all others, because they have great care, and much ado to keep their goods, and are in as great a fear (continually) lest they should lose them: yet I am of this conceit, that a fair woman is (far more) hurtful unto her husband, she being as much laid for, or rather more than his gold is, for gold (except it be taken away by force) never offereth himself unto a stranger, nor betrayeth his Lord: whereas, a beautiful wife (oftentimes forgetting herself) her honour, and her faith, suffereth herself to be carried away by another, and so betrayeth her husband, who (afterward) either dieth for grief, or (else) hath his throat cut by his wives Champion and friend.  
So was Agamemnon slain by his wife: so died Achilles for Polixenas' sake: and so were the Sabin women, the cause of the wars between their own countrymen and the Romans. But (now) who could in lively colours set forth the unspeakable grief of mournful Cynthia, the espouse of Leander, she thinking he was dead, and herself being in the hands of her most deadly enemies? What pen were able to write all her pitiful complaints? what paper were sufficient to contain her laments ●and what report, her more than doleful speeches?  
Ungracious Antonio, the Author of all these evils, having now the prey he so long time desired, leaveth his house (presently) carrying her away (in post) with him, meaning to go (so far off) as he should never be heard of afterward, not caring for any thing else, but for her person; and the rather, because he had gotten in his purse great store of gold and jewels to defray his charges in his journey.  
But leaving him galloping away with her, we will come (again) unto Leander, who being found to have (as yet) some life in him, was carried home unto his Castle, where his wounds being searched by a reverend Hermit (dwelling not far from him) and one that was very skilful in Chirurgery, and sovereign medicines applied unto the same, he recovered, and was cured before he was aware. But though he was well in body, yet was he not so in mind, for the unfortunate knight had many fearful conceits, that troubled him in his head; one while the dissoyanltie of his friend gaulled him, and an other while, the departure of his wife grieved him, but that which most vexed his soul, was, that he had a vehement suspirion, she should be privy unto this conspiracy, and so (by consequence) partaker of this murder, as willing, he should be made away.  
Never were the ships of Aeneas or T'lisses, tossed so furiously and with contrary winds, upon the swelling waves of the soming Seas, as his mind was canvased and carried too and fro, with divers opinions and thoughts, as concerning this matter.  
When a man happeneth to have any strange mischance, he (still) doth construe every thing in the worse part; because, he thinketh every body should be against him, by reason ill fortunes is so common and ordinary unto him, and therefore he layeth the cause of his Disaster, upon every one, and this was it that made the distemperato Leander to suppose, that his modest wife, had been consenting unto his plot laid for him, and that he had made her Pailiard, to put the same in practice, because he had such a firm confidence in his friendship, as he could (hardly) be induced to think, that he would (ever) have perpetrated such an heinous act, unless his wife had very earnestly provoked and urged him to have done it.  
Thus we see, how the Pilgrim (oftentimes) in the night, taketh the wrong way for the right, and how some take black for white, and yellow for red, in colours. Yet must I needs say, that such are to be pardoned in some sort (although they censure over-rashly and hastily) who coming from having a shrewd turn done unto them, know not, but as they blindly guess, whom they should justly blame, for true grief deserveth pardon, and losers have always leave to speak.  
But the righteous God above, who knoweth the truth of all things, did discover this, at the fittest time for distressed Cynthia, to clear her, as sometimes he did Susanua, of this villainy, falsely imputed unto her.  
Leander, waxing strong in body (although troubled sore in mind) determined, either to die, or else to find out the traitor, that had offered him this monstrous outrage, vowing to be revenged on him; as also, to seek his wife, whom likewise he meant to punish, if he should find her accessary, in any point of the same.  
Whereupon, he armeth himself, getteth upon his horse back, and accompanied by three or four Gentlemen (his friends) he searcheth all the country thereabouts, to see, if he could hear any tidings, either of that treacherous villain, or of his wife. In the end, he lighteth upon a great thick & gloomy Forest, through which, as he road, he found a dead carcase of a man, and a woman lying by him, being in little better case than he was.  
But leaving Leander and his companions seeking their adventure, we will come unto woeful Cynthia his wife, and (when fit time shall serve) we will discover who was that creature dead, and who that woman, being almost in as bad a taking as he, upon whom Loander (so strongly) happened. Cynthia being carried away from her husband, so suddenly, and by such barbarous treachery, was (for a great while) as one in a trance, hardly coming unto herself again.  
And certainly (I think) that if women were subject by nature to die for sorrow, than (no doubt) but she had died, for never was there woman in this world, more sad or heavy than she was, no not Niobe, Hecuba, Oenone, Porcia, Cornelia, nor any other Lady, were she never so overwhelmed with miseries. But this kind of death seldom or never is incident unto the Female kind, as that of sudden joy is.  
Long lay she in this Ecstasy or sound, and (long) was she before she recovered her right senses again, and (so much) was she astonished in her mind with the same, as the passage of her speech was kept close, and shut from her, yet (at the last) her vital spirits recovered force within her, and her tongue had liberty to speak.  
But alas, she could not as much as pronounce one word, neither was she able (once) to open her mouth, so woefully did she weep, and so pitt●fully did she sob and sigh. divers sorts of colours (and that in great number) must a cunning Painter have, to draw a fair and great Picture: Even so, thousands of tears, and millions of sighs, had this wretched Gentlewoman need of, if she meant lively to set forth and bewail her Disaster at the fall. For never was any Lady's sorrows to be compared unto hers.  
Helena was ravished, (but) with her own consent. Neither did her ravishment bereave her husband's life, as hers did.  
Penelope was daily and hourly solicited and importuned, by a number of tedious and impudent suitors, but yet she was suffered to live chastened, and to attend the return of her Ulysses.  
Hecuba (after she had seen her husband murdered, and all her sons slain) was led away as a captive or slave into Greece: and (yet) had she more reason to have borne with patience these her misfortunes, (though in a higher degree of misery) rather than Cynthia in hers.  
For Hecubas mischances proceeded from her enemies, to whom the law of Nations giveth leave to do what mischief they can: whereas hapless Cymhias' unhappiness, came from him, whom she esteemed as the dearest and most faithful friend her Husband had.  
Lucrctia, for loss of chastity slew her own self, but her death was the death of her adversary, and the life and liberty of all her Roman Citizens. And theresore no woman can be said to have been more wretched than hopeless Cynthia: for she saw her Leander murdered as she thought, whilst she remained as prisoner, in the power of him, that was his bloody Butcher, looking (every hour) to be forced of her honour and good name.  
Infinite were the occasions that she had to complain, and the reasons without number, that compelled her to exclaim against the most partial Destinies. For what could she lose more precious and dear, than her sweet Spouse, whom she esteemed more than her honour, and her own life?  
Needs therefore, must her complaints be grievous, and her lament heavy and bitter, as one that despaired of all comfort to come.  
Ah (woe is me, cried she out) why was I borne, and why did my mother bring me into this world? since there is no person living (so unfortunate) as I am? for I do not count those miserable, who have liberty to shorten their own days by death, but only such as feign would die, and yet cannot. Is it possible, that one should be borne under so hard a Planet, as not to be able to die, when most feignest he would?  
O how great is that evil, when it forceth us to require aid of the Fatal sisters, to rid us of the same, whom men detest and loathe, as their mortal enemies? And (yet) can none but they, relieve and ease such wretched creatures.  
The healthy man, (whilst he is well) loatheth and abhorreth, to take, or taste any potion or medicine, but when he is sick, he is glad and feign to swallow it down, be it never so bitter and sour. So we, whilst we live merrily, and at heart's ease, we contemn death, but when our griefs are so great as we are not able to endure them, than we account ourselves, as happy to have him.  
O God, is it possible for me to be able in words to deliver my losses, for my sighs to deplore them? for mine eyes to bewail them? or for my heart to be of force to endure them? If the loss of paltry goods maketh men outrageous in their passions, and if the death of our kinsfolks or friends, be sufficient to engender afflictions in us, how much more then, have I cause of insupportable sorrows?  
Alas, I have lost my kind husband, but am I able to say so, and not my soul to fly forth of this miserable body? or is my condition so miserable, that I may say, I have lost him indeed? No, no, I will never believe it, rather will I die, then persuade myself, of any such unwelcome matter unto me.  
But say I die, yet have I lost him, yea I have lost him, and only through mine occasion. I have been the homicide of my husband, and I (alone) have slain him: but why then (alack) doth not the rigour of the Law pass upon me, which condemneth such murderers unto death? Was it not enough for me to be brought into the most wretchedst estate of all others, to be deprived of my dear Leander, but that I must be the cause of his utter overthrow also?  
Damned and accursed Beauty, how wise was that young Roman Gentleman Spurius, who (most cruelly mangled) and defaced his lovely face, because he would have none to like him. And so, thrice happy had I been, if I had spoiled, and made foul, this my wicked countenance, which was the first motive of all these evils and mischiefs following.  
O fair soul, of my dear Spouse and Bedfellow, great reason hast thou (now) to complain of me, just are thy accusations, and most right thy grievances against me, yet since the Gods are appeased with the sacrifices of men, I hope that my life shall be a sufficient satisfaction for the offence I have done unto thee. Thou livest in the heavens, where nothing is hid from thee, and seeing thou knowest all things, thou needest not to doubt of mine innocency herein.  
But what is this unto thee, seeing (now) thou livest no more, and that thou art cut off, before thy time appointed? But I will presently follow thee, neither had I stayed so long as I do, but that I am prevented much against my will. For with what weapon should I pierce this my fainting breast? or what kind of death were I best to die of? and in what manner will these mine enemies give me leave to slaughter myself? Alas, they will not do me so great a favour, and too too narrowly do they watch me, that I can not hurt myself.  
Thrice happy wert thou (miserable king Perceus) in comparison of me, since thy Conqueror Paulus Aemilius, gave thee liberty to make away thyself, so to rid thee from thy servile bondage. But I have lost my Husband.  
Porcia would not survive hers; No more would Cornelia, Cleopatra, and divers others, all which, made away themselves, to follow their husbands: and shall I not be as willing as they were in this case, and as ready to take the same course to follow death, that I may live with my dear Leander for ever? Yes, yes, I will be as forward as the best, and I will devise some way or other, to rid myself out of this loathed life, which cannot live without his soul, who was my friendly husband.  
Besides, the longer I live, the greater fear I am still in, to lose my chaste honour, which although God hath (yet) preserved, yet doubt I sore, I shall not long continue so, but be forced by them, unless I escape away from them, by some miracle from above.  
But, say I should be so fortunate, as to be freed from out the hands of this Tiger, (who holdeth me as his slave) without any violence offered unto my chastity, yet who would believe the same, seeing he hath attempted so desperate and villainous an exploit, forgetting all religion and friendship, only to have me in his possession, and considering the strange and extreme affection, that he hath made a show unto the open world to have borne me?  
A grave and wise woman, must not only be free from blame itself, but as well must be clean from all suspicion of the same. For what maketh her to look without blushing, but her upright carriage and her good name (always) untainted, which being once defiled, resembleth a barren Tree, that is without fruit, or hath been blasted with Lightnining or Thunder, never looking (afterwards) green again.  
Filthy and base is the most excellentest beauty of any woman, if (once) her modest life be corrupted.  
Venus was fair, but (yet) of no account, because of her immodest desires. Helen was beautiful, but too much defamed, because of her luxurious life: and so were Thais, Flora, and Laxis, lovely to behold, but (yet) accounted of, as common, because of their shameless, and too too wanton behaviour.  
In what a peck of troubles then am I in, looking still every moment, when I shall be froced to make shipwreck of my chastity; for the defence of which, I have (oftentimes) hazarded my life.  
But I appeal unto the Almighty, who shall be my judge, if I be forced, how much my soul abhorreth this vice, for though my body be defiled, yet shall my mind never be, I being fully resolute to wash the same clear, with the dearest blood I have, assoon as any opportunity shall serve me to put it in practice.  
Mine only hope is, that when I shall have most need, God will vouchsafe to give me a sweet taste of those comfortable words of his, who hath promised to secure and help those, which be his faithful true servants, in their greatest extremities, and when they least look for any such aid or assistance from him.  
Thus wailed the distressed Cynthia, despairing of all means how to relieve herself in her wretchedness: suffering herself to be carried away with the violence of her cross, as the Ship is tossed too and fro upon the Sea in a Tempest.  
But our heavenly FATHER above, kept safe and untainted her Honour, and so (by that way) received again into his mercy, her chaste and pure soul, which he before had lent her.  
It is in our adversity that we find the admirable succours of GOD, so profitable unto us; for in prosperity we cannot rightly taste them. No more than the Drunkard (being overcome with too much liquor) can judge of good wine, whilst we being rocked a sleep in the cradle of sensuality, despise his mercies, as Porklings and hogs do Malt and Acorns, when their bellies is full of them, but being once pinched with hunger, run up and down for them, as they were mad.  
So we, whilst we live in pleasure, cannot rightly know how sweet the favours and kindness of God is, because we are glutted with worldly delights. But when we are (once afflicted with misery, we (then) find the comfortableness of the same, and can quickly judge, how necessary it is unto us, for our good and welfare.  
And this Cynthia found, although after a strange fashion. For those ungodly thieves, which wicked Antonio had hired, to be his bloody executioners in this his villainous Teagedie, (not daring, for fear of being tortured with plagues) to stay in the Country, after they had committed this detestable outrage, followed him as fast as they could; Amongst which, there was one, more bold than the rest, who marking the favour and comeliness of Cynthia, (although as then she looked pale and lean, for very anguish and grief) grew to be amorous of her, determining with himself, to have his pleasure of her, although he paid never so dearly for it.  
Thus was the poor Gentlewoman, come out of God's blessing into a warm Sun, and fallen from a plain Ague, into a hot burning Fever, and yet this misfortune, turned in the end, unto her good.  
Thus Heavens make prove, that profitable oft,  
Which mortal men account of, as of nought.  
The hand of the Lord is mighty and strong, who rewardeth sin, according unto his desert, not winking thereat, at any time, but either soon or late, punish the offence that is committed: For as we have used others, so shall we ourselves be used, and such measure as we give unto strangers, such measure shallbe meated unto us again.  
The murderer (most commonly) dieth by the sword. The highway Thief is rob and spoiled, the Adulterer shall be dishonoured and shamed, and the cruel man, shall find no mercy of them into whose power he is fallen.  
If we well remember this lesson, we shall find it to be most true, confirmed as well by the words of the everliving SON OF GOD, as by a number of ancient examples in the Sacred scriptures.  
David for defiling the bed of Urias, saw civil discord and dissension amongst his own children, he himself (after he had seen his daughter Thamar deflowered, and his son Ammon slain) being chased up and down by his own child, and reviled and railed at, by a base and abject Peasant of the Country.  
jezabel, for having shed the blood of the Prophet, died a shameful death, she being fling from out a high window, in her own Palace, upon the ground, to serve for food for dogs.  
Pilate for pronouncing an unjust sentence against the Innocent, was condemned unto a most heavy death. And in our time, and in these our days, we see Felons and thieves most wretchedly perish.  
The law of God permitteth not one neighbour to offend another, but that he receive his reward thereafter: for otherwise God should not be just, except he should do good for good, and evil, for evil.  
And so did it happen upon the Traitor Antonio, who was repaid with such injury, as he had done unto his dear friend, (but yet with great reason, he having violated and infringed the laws of friendship and Hospitality) by one of that cursed-crewe, which wrought the foresaid villainies, and in whom he reposed greatest confidence and trust.  
So we see the ravenous Wolves to howl, and to bicker one with another: the greediness in feeding, hindering them to know themselves, although they be all of one company: and so the scent and sweetness of the prey, maketh thieves to forget their former kindness (amongst themselves) egging them forward, to cut one another's throat, to have the more gain.  
And such was miserable Antonio his misfortune, who having (as I said before) gotten a good round sum of money and juells together, to live unknown with his Mistress, (not minding to return any more unto his own home, where he had committed this wickedness) the smell of his Gold began to come into the noses of these murdering Rascals: who when they knew not from whom to steal, used to rob and filch, one from another.  
It is a very difficult and hard matter to give over any kind of vice, especially, if a man take an habit in the same: for then, the more he marcheth forward to exercise it, the more he is plunged over head and ears in it. Not unlike unto the horned Stag, who the more he seeketh to get out of the Toil, (which as a snare, was left to entrap him) the more he entangleth and windeth himself therein.  
Denis of Siracusa, had gotten such a custom, to spoil and rob the Gods in their Temples, that he thought he had not spent that day well, in which he had not peeled some one God or other of his ornaments, or shaven the golden beard of some others: But he and his were punished for the same, their fortunes being, to be banished out of their Country, and to die in great want and beggary.  
But to come unto the bold Thief, (of whom I spoke before) who being deeply in love with Cynthia, and whose fingers itched to be busy with Antonio's gold, called his copesmates together, unto whom he told so swoothe a tale, and (so cunningly) persuaded them, to set abroach this second Tragedy against Antonio, as their teeth being seton edge for the Treasure, they quickly condescended unto him, and the rather, because it was their ordinary trade.  
The wicked still, heap sin (like Hills) on sin,  
So long, till they their Souls do soil within.  
And now the Holy one beginneth to reign down vengeance upon the head of perjured Antonio, who lest thought of danger, when it was nighest at hand: he not (once) as much as dreaming of any mischief that hung over him, his chiefest study, being how to persuade the sorrowful Cynthia, to give over her pensive mourning, and to cast away all care and sadness.  
And as he was one day (alone) in her chamber with her, very busy to comfort her, and as earnest to solicit his old love unto her, seeking to win her good will and savour: Behold (upon the sudden) this notable Rascal, with his fellows, breaketh in upon them, who without speaking (so much as one word) ran furiously upon Antonio with their naked swords, massacring him, as Caesar was in the Senate; and that with such imp●●●ositie and outrageousness, as they spoiled one another, especially the miserable: but then, most happy and fortunate Cynthia, who wonderfully desirous to die, rushing into the midst of their brandishing blades, and presenting her naked breast unto the mercy of the thieves, was (in the end) wounded to death amongst them, her chaste and purple blood, streaming out of her weak and fainting carcase, as from a running Fountain.  
And (yet) may we count her fortunate, in this her misfortune, since she was borne by destiny to be miserable, her hap (being so good) as to die without the loss of her honour and reputation, carrying away with her, her good name and fame, even unto the grave.  
Thus was the chaste Iphiginea sacrificed: so was the bashful Polixena, put to death: and so died the virtuous daughter of jepha, with divers other Virgins, who to conserve their Chastity, left both their lives and souls together.  
This murder done, there followed another, for these Rakehells, fearing to be taken for doing the deed, and willing to be gone, urged their fellow Thief to make haste away, with them, but he was so far in love with Cynthia, (who lay at the point of death) as by no means he would leave her: which they perceiving, and doubting least (if he should be found there) he would bewray, and appeach them all, thought to make sure work, as nigh as they could, and so thrusting him through, they trussed up their bag and baggage, carrying away Antonio his Treasure with them, leaving Cynthia ready to give up the ghost, who though she were so nigh her end, yet could she speak a little.  
No sooner were these Hellhounds gone from her, but she began to take some small comfort in her mind, counting herself as blessed, to die in this manner, having a sure confidence, that she should see her husband in Heaven: the glory whereof, she hoped to enjoy, because she had so luckily preserved her honour.  
O how sweet a thing is death unto them, who are desirous to die, when they see themselves disfranchised, and freed from all misfortunes, and when they find their miseries, with the upshot of their lives.  
Such was the death of the modest and pudike Cynthia, and with such joy did Thisbie leave the world, to follow her beloved Pyramus: for death is not of power to unbind the hearts of true Lovers. No, no: they must follow one another, even into the Elysian fields, and there, tie (again) those chains, which death before had broken in sunder.  
And now sweet Cynthia perceiving herself to be alone, and ready to render up her Soul unto her first Redeemer, lifting up her eyes to heaven, began to make this prayer.  
I know and acknowledge, I confess, and proclaim all abroad, that thy speech (o most gracious GOD) is both Sacred, true, and veritable: which is that thou assurest secure and aid, unto such of thy distressed servants, as be ready to despair, for want of help.  
So didst thou relieve that Country of Egypt, which was well-nigh starved with famine, through the wisdom of chaste joseph. Thou didst assist the jews in their great extreamie: when the red Sea gave back, to make them passage, drowning their enemies, which went about to pursue and follow after them. Thou didst send the foresaid people most miraculously Manna from heaven, when they were (almost) dead for very hunger. Thou didst make clear water to flow from the hard and frozen Rock, to staunch their dryness: and thou (Lord) didst free them from the power of Senacherib, by thy holy Angel. Thou didst deliver Daniel from out the lions den: and the modest Susanna, out of the bloody hands of the two old Palliards, the Elders. And so (sweet Saviour) hast thou protected mine honour, which without thee, had been overthrown utterly.  
Thrice happy I, that through thy sacred guiding of me, have escaped this misfortune, but far more blessed, in that I shall leave this world, in this bad and wretched time, where nothing doth reign and domineer, but vice, Treason, and violence.  
I most humbly thank thee, most merciful Father, for so great a benefit bestowed upon me: For what could happen more acceptable unto me, then to follow my dear Husband into heaven, thereto continue with him, and to enjoy everlasting glory with thy Saints? Let us die willingly, than (Cynthia) with a brave mind and constant resolution, leaving a rich testimony of our loyal love and affection, unto the posterity that shall come hereafter.  
And although a faithful Christian ought not, (as he is dying) either to desire, or to wish any vengeance for to light upon his adversaries and enemies: yet must I needs confess, that it is a great solace and contentment unto me, to die in the midst of such as were foes unto my Leander, land mine honour, and the rather, because they are dead as well as I, to make satisfaction for their faults.  
O GOD, how sacred are thy decrees, how just thy judgements, and how rightful thy proceed? Thou hast not permitted the murderers of my Husband to live long, after they had done so horrible a deed, and contrary to all expectation, thou hast defended me from their most furious and unchaste lust: and therefore I will take this my cross most patiently, and will be contented to die, as willingly, as when I was first joined by the holy Church, unto my dear Husband in sacred marriage bands, most religiously.  
And yet (my Sovereign Saviour) I greatly fear thy justice, the number of my faults, weighing far more heavy than my good deeds, but thou canst (if thou so please) deface them all. Thou art the God of all mercy, and art merciful unto all men, for the consolation and salvation of whom, thou thyself (of thy great compassion) hast been willing to die.  
O then, let this innocent blood of mine, shed by the adversaries of thy glory, be sufficient to wash my sins away, through thy grace, and let my modest and stainelesse mind, be as a fire to consume the number of mine offences.  
O ye mine eyes, the Authors of my disasters, cruel and proud eyes, first motives of these our common miseries & calamities: soon shall you lose your wanton lights, and soon shall you be closed up, with an iron sleep of death for ever.  
But o gentle Death, when comest thou? come I beseech thee, come away unto me, who art so courteous, so apt, so fit, and so profitable for my sorrows.  
Often have I desired thee, a thousand times have I called for thee, and with thousands of entreaties and prayers, persuaded thee to come to assist me, and (now thou art come) I salute thee, and thank thee, entertaining thee, as one who can save me from a great loss, thou being able to withdraw me from shipwreck, and of power sufficient, to bring me safely into the Haven, where I long so much to be.  
O how foolish is that Mariner, who being miraculously arrived in the Port, will back again into the Sea, whilst the storm playeth his part, and not stay until the weather be clear and calm.  
Even so, how mad were I, if having cast Anchor at the Haven of my welfare, I should now begin to wish to live once more, returning back into this miserable life, in which we encounter so many dangerous Rocks, and perilous stumbling blocks, as we can never be quiet.  
Then let us die: what say I, die? Nay (rather) let us live, for he only liveth happily, that changeth this frail and transitory life, after an immortal and an everlasting estate.  
That Farmer may be said to be right fortunate, who leaveth his Farm which he holdeth of his Lord, to enjoy a fair Manor in Fee simple, to him & his heirs for ever.  
This was the cause that so many holy and grave persons have wished for death, thinking that being dissolved from life, they should become far better by this alteratation and change.  
Elias living in the wilderness, did often covet it. Old simeon demanded it, and Saint Andrew refused to live, to make his choice of death. Who then can hinder me, but that I should desire it? imitating so many worthy personages? No, it is that I only require and look for. For the grief thereof, is less, than the least pain we feel, when we are alive.  
That debtor, that is still vexed, haunted, and abused by his Creditor, because he should pay what he oweth, is he not happy, when he hath made even with all men, that he may (after) live in quiet? If so, why (then) far more blessed are they, who pay their due unto Nature, unto whom they are indebted, and who by tendering the same unto her, (which they must once do) are quited and freed from all worldly calamities afterwards to come.  
My only desire is to see, and stand before the presence of my most gracious Lord and GOD, and to behold the face of my loving Husband, waiting and attending upon him.  
Dispose thee, then once more Cynthia, to go this pleasant voyage, resolving to give over this mortal life, to enjoy an immortal felicity. Lord, then receive my soul, and deliver it out of the hands of mine ancient and sworn enemy the devil.  
So said the dolorous (or rather) joyful Cynthia, who having laid herself down in a comely manner, expecting every minute when she should die, took thought for nothing but how she might be buried orderly. But God took order for that matter. For no sooner had she made an end of her Prayer, but Leander (by chance) came that way, who perceiving (far of) these dead bodies, and desirous to know what they were, set spurs to his horse, to ride towards them, and when being come near them (by little and little) he found, what he so much sought for.  
As the young amorous Bull, seeing (a far of) a young Haifer to browse upon the banks of a clear River, approacheth nearer & nearer, to know the better, if it be his Love or no, and as he marcheth forward, holdeth up his head for joy, because he findeth her by certain marks to be the same. So Leander, every step he goeth, rejoiceth greatly in his mind, as assuring himself, that he hath (now) found, that which with so great labour) he had made search for.  
But as that Merchant is not thoroughly joyful, who after he hath made a long, and dangerous voyage, findeth but the half part of his Merchandise in his ship, the gain of which, drew him to adventure abroad, and to leave his country and friends.  
Even so, Leander found himself, but half contented and pleased, when he perceived those to be dead, whom he so much coveted (in his mind) to have encumbered them alive; nevertheless, he drew nearer unto the place where they lay, marking very wistly, both his dead enemies, and his wife.  
As he stood (thus) gazing upon them, divers conceits ran in his head, not knowing well, what to think of the matter, one while he thinketh that his wife loved Antonio so dearly, as she would needs die with him: an other while, he judgeth rightly of the fact, imagining that civil dissension had caused one to kill an other: now, he judgeth that some foe of Antonio's, had stabbed him, and then again, he guesseth that some of his friends had offered him this cruel outrage, for doing so great villainy against him.  
But Love crossed all these contrary conceits, dispersing them here and there, as the crack of the thunder forceth the cloud to give way, when it breaketh through the same, and falleth upon the ground below: he thought, he had many just occasions to hate his wife, meaning (if she had been alive) to have inflicted upon her, that punishment, which he had (already) found her to endure; and yet, when he had a little better considered thereof in his mind (seeing her to be brought unto so pitiful a strait) he could not choose, but must (needs) lament and bewail her hard mishap. Whilst she lived, he loathed her, nor will he (by any means) be induced, to believe that she is culpable of that fault, of which he (before) accused her, seeing that (now) she is dead.  
A friend is never known (so well) as when he is missed. He cometh nearer and nearer unto her, which woeful Cynthia perceiving, and not knowing who it was (but rather supposing, that the villains were come back again, although she were not quite dead, yet did she feign herself to be so, fearing lest they would offer some violence unto her body, if she should have made show, that she had been still alive.  
Leander (lighting of his horse) kneeleth down by his wife, weary bitterly, and then kisseth her, which the poor soul perceiving, marveling much what this should mean, openeth her dying eyes a little, when after she had a good while (wistly) looked upon him, she saw and knew him to be living, whom she held and accounted to be dead.  
That Roman woman, who died with sudden joy, seeing her son return safe and whole, from that bloody battle of Cannae, and whom she esteemed to be dead, was not half so much ravished with true delight, and amazement, in viewing him, as Cynthia was, when she saw her spouse alive and well.  
And now she striveth (as much as in her feeble strength lieth) to open wide her languishing eyes, that she might the better gaze, and look upon her husband.  
But (alas) mortal and deadly were the glances she cast upon him, mortal were they unto her, & to Leander, she now began to wend away, as mildly as a lamb, whilst her woeful husband (what sinister conceit soever he had before of her) died for very anguish to see her in this woeful taking.  
He was alive, and not wounded at all, his wife ready to give up the ghost, all to be mangled with gory blood, and yet, had not he his tongue so ready to command, as his poor Cynthia had, for so great was his grief, as he could not speak as much as one word, which she perceiving, and (now) knowing thoroughly who he was, with a kind of hollow and broken voice, she spoke thus unto him.  
Ah my dear husband, art thou then come from heaven, to assist and help thy faithful wife, she being ready to give up the ghost? and hast thou dained (so much) as to remember her, and to honour her at her end, with thy welcome presence?  
Ah say, is it thine own self whom I see? or is it some evil spirit that hath taken thy shape upon him, to mock and delude me? If it be thee, and that thou livest (as yet) then thrice fortunate is Cynthia to see thee, before she giveth over this wretched life. And yet if thou be that Leander, who (sometimes) wert the kind husband of unhappy Cynthia, how (then) canst thou abide to approach near unto her, she having been the occasion, of so many evils lightened upon thee, thou knowing not whether she be clear from them or no? But I see well, that Love draweth all such doubts in thee, and will not suffer thee, to believe any thing that is not good for me.  
And (yet) Leander, hast thou reason to conceive the worst of me, because I have been the occasion of many troubles, that have happened unto thee; notwithstanding, I swear unto thee, by that God before whom I hope to be judged, & who revengeth every perjury, that I am merely innocent of what ill so ever is done, I having not been defiled, either in body or in mind, the Almighty having (most miraculosly) preserved me, from all such harm. Whereupon she began to discover unto him, all that had happened, since she last saw him, and withal, how she had not made him acquainted with the affection which Antonio bore unto her (the cause of all this mischief) and the reason, that it might have been prevent, if he had known thereof.  
But (said she) I was in good hope he would have become a new man, being loath to bewray his soilie unto you, because you made so great account of him, thinking he would (never) have born so bad a mind towards you. But now I see this sore to be unrecurable, I know not what to say, but only to crave pardon of you for the same, and withal, to take some order for my burial.  
Then (sweet husband weep no more) for what reason hast thou to bewail her death, who hath brought thee so many losses and uncurable damages, whilst she lived with thee? rather have you cause to rejoice and be glad to see her final end, and therefore I most humbly beseech you, if you do love me indeed (as you seem at this time to make some show that you do) dry up your tears, cease these lament, give over this sighing and sobbing, and suffer me to finish this small rest of my life in some pleasure: for my sorrow proceedeth not from my death, but for that I see thee thus to take on.  
Trouble not then I pray thee, that contentment which I have to view, and behold thee, before I shut up my dazzling eyes, through thy too much lamenting for my death.  
If thou hast loved me, then call to mind this thy good will towards me, and let the remembrance thereof (now I die) persuade thee to do so much for me. It is the last office of friendship, which thou must do for me, for (now) I shall trouble thee no more, my glass being run, and the date of my life (in a manner) quite expired.  
Then grant me this my request, for my days, were but days to serve thee, my soul, but a soul to honour thee, and my heart, but a heart to affect and only love these and I hope, thou hast found, known, and persuadest thyself, that I speak nothing but truth. Which if thou dost, then let me obtain this last Boon of thee, and be not so cruel, as to deny me so small a matter.  
Grieve then no more (my good Leander) for me, which if thou dost, I then will close mine eyes, and shut up my tongue, because I cannot abide to see thee in this heavy plight for her, who is unworthy that thou shouldest torment thyself (any way) for her cause.  
Having thus complained, she held her peace, when her woeful husband (who during this her lamentable discourse, had recovered his speech) began thus to comfort her. Ah my sweet Cynthia, what cause of mislike, have I ever given thee, and when did I use thee otherwise than became me, that thou shouldest imagine, I were not able to forbear thy company, without great discontentment unto myself?  
Dost thou (then) think, that I love thee not? If so thou think, (O God) what wrong dost thou unto me? yes (Cynthia) yes, I love thee, yea, and in that sort, as thou canst not die without me. Death is not of power sufficient to extinguish my love, which shall live in despite of him, and shall still continue with thee, be thou alive or dead.  
Not so soon canst thou command, but I will as willingly condescend unto thee in any thing, and yet thy entreaty cannot hinder me, but that I must bewail thy Disaster, and far more should I take on by odds, but that my hope is to see the (shortly) in another world. Too zealous and affectionate is my love towards thee, to see thee suffer that thou dost, and I not to be moved with the same.  
O would to God thou wert without hurt or wound, and that I had had that misfortune, to have fallen upon me, which thou now hast. But seeing it cannot be, thou shalt not choose, but give me leave to bear some part of thine anguish. When we were well, and lived at hearts ease, there was not any thing, but what was common between us, all things were alike between thee and me, why then shouldest thou oppose thyself (now) so much against me, as to deny me, that I should participate of thy troubles with thee?  
No no, I will bear a heavy burden, in this thy sorrowful song, and mine eyes shall stream forth, before I die (as two fountains of water) all the liquid humour that remaineth within my restless body.  
Thou goest thy way (my dear Cynthia) and leavest me here plunged in deep perplexity, but I will not stay long behind, soon will I follow after thee, and quickly overtake thee.  
Is it possible mine eyes should give light unto my body, and want thy sight? and is it likely I shall be able to abstain from thy company for ever, when I cannot endure to forbear thy presence one short day?  
O (dear wife) now I conjure thee, by the chaste pleasures of our sacred Hymen, and unspotted nuptial bed, by that Love of thine and mine (as yet never broken) and by thy heart, and mine, which never were but one, let me entreat thee, that thou take it not ill, although I die with thee. Great is the authority that Love hath given thee over me, but yet not so great, as it shall disturb my desire, or make me follow any other course but death.  
Certainly, certainly, I will bear thee company even into thy grave. O fair and beautiful eyes, mine were you, whilst you lived, and mine shall you be, when you are dead. No man living, hath interest in you, but myself, and you, will I as well see, being dead, as when you were alive. O courteous death, if it be possible for thee to be entreated by the Prayers, or the cries of mortal wights, or if ever thou hast done any kindness unto them, than I beseech thee, let me find this favour at thy hands, that I may breathe my last gasp, before my Lady.  
Do me this good turn, for all the evil thou hast done me, and in recompense of such great losses, as I am like to sustain by thee, in snatching away from me (most violently) the only support and Atlasse of my life, which if I may not obtain, I will complain and exclaim against thee, making it known unto the whole world, that thou art cruel, and partial, against me only: for it should much abate and assuage my torments, to go before her, to the end, I might be exempted from those (more than deadly darts) which will pierce deeply into my soul, when I shall behold her to be laid within her grave.  
O cruel Tomb, must thou be so fortunate, as to lodge and entertain so precious a treasure, to possess so rare and lovely a beauty, and to enclose and cover a body so exquisite and perfect, that same, being the chief maintainer of my glory, and the only upholder of my life?  
O that some gentle power would be so kind unto me, as to transform me into thy likeness, to the end, I might enjoy that benefit, which is permitted to be thine, and of which (whilst it lived, I was Master and owner.  
And yet think not thou shalt have the body of my dear wife alone, no no, thou shalt have mine also, to bear hers company, and by that means, thou shalt receive two bodies, which (living) had but one soul between them. And now (my sweet Cynthia) let me (once more) take thee by the hand, for a final farewell, and let me kiss thee (once) again; to the end that my breath may issue out of this his earthly mansion, and part hence, at the self same instant, that thine passeth away.  
Leander having so said, and weeping most tenderly, taketh the cold carcase of his wife in his arms, often kissing, and rekissing her cold mouth, he being never sufficiently satisfied with the delight of that dying, which was wholly at his commandment whilst it was living. His lips never parted from hers, whilst his eyes streamed down tears, and his heart sent forth scalding sighs in abundance.  
O thrice fortunate souls, whom neither death nor sorrows could part asunder, and o happy couple, who would not have but one Tomb to enclose you (both) together. And now Leander began to faint as well as his wife, he being sore wounded with grief, and Love, which she perceiving, forced herself to uttes these few words (as well as she could) unto him. It is enough (sweet husband) it is enough, you too much trouble your sick self with an unworthy burden, for we may count ourselves blessed, in that we have encountered one with another before we die.  
The end crowneth the works of man, their glory lying only in their deaths; which death shall make us famous for ever, allotting unto us the Garland of commendation and praise, to continue hereafter.  
For mine own part, I can no longer live, and had it not been for your presence, I had been dead long since, the same having been the occasion that the thread of my life was drawn forth so long as it hath been; For thee have I lived, even until this hour, but (alas) what talk I of living, when all my senses fail me, when my voice is going away, and my heart beginneth to be cold within me. What should I say more, but that thou live happily after my decease, banishing away these sighs, and drying up thy too too dreary eyes.  
And this (sweet husband) I require and desire thee, (nay more) I conjure thee, as thou lovest me, to lament no more, what cannot be recovered. Once more adve (sweet Leander) I go before to prepare a place for thee in the heavens, and so farewell dear husband.  
Come come, embrace and kiss me, to the end that my soul (coming forth of body) may make his passage into thine, which (whilst I lived) was his earthly Paradise.  
The sad knight hearing her say so, embraceth her anew, holding her closely in his arms, whilst death approaching unto her, seized upon her, closing up her beauteous eyes, and leaving her senseless coarse, as cold as any stone, which when Leander perceived, he sought all the means he could to bring her unto life again, although it could not be.  
And as the wild Bear from whom her whelps be stolen, searcheth up and down for them, leaving no place unlooked, and yet (do what she can) she cannot find them.  
So Leander leaveth no part of his wives body untouched, to see, if he could find any one spark of life in her, but all in vain, for death had already extended his heavy hand over her.  
As the Damask Rose being once withered, hath not one green lease about it, but such as be dry, and fallen from their natural colour: Even so was her body without force, or moving, lying along without any motion or sense at all.  
And yet although she were dead, she lay as lovely, as if she had but been in a smiling sleep. No marvel then, if whilst she were living, she was so gracious with All, when (being dead) she was able to make men fall in love with her, for the cruel destinies were not of power, to take from her the propotion of her beauteous visage, but only the rare vermilion colour of the same.  
But now, how is it possible for me to describe (at large) the true sorrow wherewith her kind husband was possessed by reason of her loss? It is a task too great for me to take in hand, and therefore I will give it over, neither mean I, to set down, with what great pomp, and exceeding charges, her funeral obsequise were most solemnly performed.  
Only I will speak a word or two of his end, which was, that after her death, he never joyed (so much) as one small hour, nor lived any long time after her. His chiefest delight was to think on death, his diet he fed on, was sighs, tears, sobs, and lament.  
Besides, he caused all his Castle to be painted with black, mixing here and there white tears amongst the same, neither did he, nor any of his followers, wear other than mourning apparel, as long as he lived. And to conclude, so vehement was his passions, in his sorrow, that they brought him into a recureless consumption, wherein, he continued not above three months but that he died, having given order (before) to be buried in the same Monument, that he erected for his constant Cynthia.  
This Tragedy was so pitifully delivered by the well spoken Nymph Orythia, as she forced all her Auditors to shed salt tears, especially when she made a conclusion of the same, when they perceiving that the Sun was down, began (every one of them) to withdraw themselves unto their proper Lodgings, but she stayed them a while, meaning to revive their dulled spirits, after the hearing of so doleful an History, with this Song following.  
Blessed is he that near did prove  
False in Faith, in all his love.  
Love (without fidelity,)  
Is a plague, that makes us die.  
Without Faith, one sues in vain,  
Love of beauty fair to gain.  
Blessed is he, that near did prove,  
False in faith, in all his love.  
Beauty soon, away posse will,  
Sacred Faith continueth still.  
Th'ones divine, and near deceives,  
Th'other oft our hearts bereaves.  
Blessed is he, that near did prove,  
False in Faith, in all his love.  
Without Faith, Love could not be,  
For through Faith (aye) liveth he.  
Who a lover's, and not true,  
lovers name to him's not due.  
Blessed is he, that near did prove,  
False in Faith, in all his love.  
Oh how sweet a thing it is,  
Two to love, and faith not miss.  
'tis two souls in one to bind,  
Whilst days (turned to nights) they find.  
Blessed is he, that near did prove,  
False in Faith, in all his love.  
No sooner had the Nymph made an end of her delightful Song, but that they might perceive a strange Shepherd hard by them, who (after he had saluted them) desired them, to resolve him of this Riddle following.  
Though light as Feather yet a burden great I bear,  
And live within the lap of my chief enemy,  
One while I shake, and nod, as if a sleep I were,  
Another white as swift as flight, away go I.  
Light though I am, I (often) heavy armed men  
Carry, and am their faithful friend and save their wealth,  
Yet (with myself) I cast away them, now and then,  
And (many times) through swiftness mine I save myself.  
But after I, in many a place have served their turn,  
And old become, they throw me straight into the fire,  
Whilst, I (of cold) grow hot, and in the flame do burn,  
To serve these men, lo here, you see my goodly hire.  
For all my labour (done to them) in pieces they me spoil,  
And having done them service good, I am nought worth, & vile.  
The learned old man, studied not long about this dark Enigma, which he expounded in this sort. These verses (said he) do signify a ship, which being made of wood, and light, as sailing, carrieth away people within her, she remaining (always) in the water, which is her mortal enemy, because it rotteth her. One while, it lieth still, and rideth at Anchor, as one idle and a sleep: and an other while it maketh profitable voyages, scouring the huge Seas.  
She is a guide, and an assistance (oftentimes) unto Soldiers, whilst they encounter and fight with the enemies: upon the top of the Hatches thereof, notwithstanding, (now and than, she drowneth these which she carrieth, and herself also. Sometimes she escapeth (alone) when being (afterward) employed of her wares and commodities, and now grown old and rotten, they break her in pieces, which they fling into the fire, it being burned there, although (by nature) the wood thereof is cold, and being in the fire, it complaineth of men, who pay her with burning her, for requital of so many good services done by her, unto them.  
The old man (having delivered this exposition) satisfied the strange Shepherd, who left him, when he and the rest of his company retired (as fast as they could) unto their own Lodging; where we will (as now) leave them.  
The end of the third days meeting of juliettaes' Shepherds.   

THE FOURTH days MEETING, OF JULIETTAES' shepherds.  
LOVE pierceth not (so far) the tender breast of a young Hart, in the love of a fresh and jolly do, or that of the sturdy Bull, towards his fat and fair Heifer: as was Coribants, pricked through the remembrance of Delia's beauty. What rest took he in the night? what sleep went down with him? what pleasure felt he? or what contentment did he perceive or find?  
Night, which otherwise is the mother and refresher of all travel, is the Nurse of lovers labours: For in that they are (then) solitary, and alone, nothing crosseth the meditation of their Loves. Their torments present themselves (daily) before their eyes, and they bethink themselves every hour, how with a thousand troubles and crosses, they may (but speak) unto their Mistresses. Solitude, doth more hurt then good, to him whom grief tormenteth: and that coveteth to find out a place to his desire, wherein to complain himself.  
Even so, the young Bull, deprived of the love of his jolly Heifer, goeth away roaring, to hide himself, in some cool cave or den, and there he beateth and tormenteth himself, roaring and crying out with main force.  
No otherwise brave Orlando, deprived of his Angelica, sought out the most remote and secret places, therein to complain his disastrous mishaps. Solitary and sad night, therefore, in stead of bringing any relaxation or ease unto the torments of this Shepherd: more renewed them, even as the Smyth maketh the heat of his Forge more ardent, when he throweth water upon the same.  
Only God Morpheus beguiling him, might have given him some assuagement of his grief, but (yet) such as would not long have continued. For Truth chased away imaginations and dreams, and discovered her face.  
These torments, these dreams, these labours, and these flames, are stirring very early. And as the Hare goeth out of her Form, betimes in the morning, to feed in the corn fields, being afraid, lest (in the day) she should light upon some unhappy encounter;  
In like manner, the Shepherd can no longer remain in his Cottage, when he seethe the day dawn, on that side of the heavens, where the Sun riseth: he will (by no means) that his bright beams should reflect upon his drowsy head. This would turn him (as he thinketh) to great shame, to be discovered by the Sun: And he feared the like reproach, as Mars and Venus received, being found together, and taken within the industrious Net of Vulcan.  
A sluggard never acteth any thing of importance: Glory is not obtained by being idle, but by plying out fingers, busying ourselves in many matters, and stirring (early) about our affairs.  
The Sun yet wet, in rising from his moist bed, let fall certain drops upon the earth, & it seemed by his appearance, that some flagitious fact by him seen, had made him look all pale, sad, & heavy: notwithstanding, by degrees, he ever drew nearer & nearer.  
Oh, what a power hath this goodly Lamp, which giveth life unto all creatures, keeping and preserving the same in them, as also by the same hand, he taketh away, perisheth, and confoundeth the same: notwithstanding, there is no good, how little so ever it be, which is not far better, than the best griefs of the world. In like manner, though the Sun showed himself pale, morphewed, & ghastly, yet was he by all creatures, a 1000 times more desired than night, how clear soever. The cliffs even smoked, with a desire to see and feel his beams upon their tops: even as the furious Bull casteth fume out of his nostrils, when he seeketh after fight, & desireth to meet with the Lydian Lion, to set upon him. There was not so much as the flowers, which smiled not at his coming: they being his beautiful kinsmen, to the end to please, & joyfully receive him. The Birds called upon him, in their notes, the beasts, by their sounds & voices, & men, by many signs and demonstrations: Desired therefore, of all living creatures, he cometh & spreadeth on all sides his flaming eyes, causing all the world to behold his fair & bright countenance. Every one beholding the same, blusheth thereat, & is ashamed: heaven itself appeareth more near and clear, and the Shepherd, conducted by this immortal light, with slow pace, arriveth within the Deserts. He neither drove lambs nor sheep before him, for the iniquity of the time had despoiled him of them: robbing him of his bleating troops, and of whatsoever else he had received by the benefit of Fortune: He went out therefore, all alone, walking along with an awaked spirit & mind, disburdened of all drowsiness, all quick, and living, whilst he thus said to himself; It is with special reason, that men term heaven their Father: for in truth without him, what could they perform? Doth not he bestow on them their being, life, vigour, contentment, & pleasure? Whatsoever favour or bounty men feel, it descendeth from above. For the earth of itself, produceth unto them nothing good or excellent: but on the contrary, bringeth them forth a thousand maladies, cares, torments & labours. And though there tumble down from heaven, sometimes miseries & scourges, which torment & whip men, yet nevertheless, their own sin is the cause thereof. For this is the lively fountain of malediction, & not heavens: even as the fountain is no occasion of the water that harboureth within the same, but the spring from whence it floweth so cold. Is not heaven the nourice of this fair Sun, which ripeneth all things, heateth as well those bodies sensible, as other immovable, & that giveth virtue & power unto the earth? On the other side, within heaven dwelleth the Eternal Deity, in the same is his seat, there within is his Empire, & there his divine Tabernacle.  
In heaven dwelleth this great and merciful GOD, who doth not only pardon men during their lives, but even when they are dead also. His mercy walketh over the Tombs and sepulchres of the dead, and goeth seeking them out, even under the earth, to relieve them, by his charitable office, giving us trial, not only of admirable Clemency, but also of divine justice. That which maketh him to be known for true God, is only his justice and his Mercy. For he could not be God, except he were both just and merciful.  
Besides, he most liberally giveth unto us wherewith to maintain our life: having a care of the least hairs that fall from off our heads, and of the least bird that liveth. He giveth nourishment unto every one: yea, unto the crows little ones themselves, that call upon him, when their old ones deny to give them food at all.  
O an hundred times worthy of infernal punishment is he, who lofty and proud, will not give thanks unto God, for so many of his benefits I seeing besides a thousand others, he might have just occasion so to do, for this only good, in that he hath procured mankind to be borne, master of all other creatures, and given him a soul immortal in felicity. For if the enemies of men be punished and if sometimes the Ancients ordained equal pain, for one Ingrate, as for a murderer. Surely, the man ingrate towards Almighty God, that acknowledgeth not so many blessings and graces from him, aught to suffer much, as worthy of most grievous punishment.  
Thus said the Shepherd to himself, and had further discoursed upon this subject, but that a sudden storm of rain made him run out, to go stand under a thick Rock, the top whereof, save guarded him from the injuries of heaven. And being there above, he heard a voice, which uttered this which followeth. Blessed be they which are either perfectly happy, without ever having felt grief: or altogether miserable, having never made trial of any contentment. For he which (suddenly) cometh out of the Stove, findeth the air colder, than he (who having never been within) hath always stood without door. In like manner, those which never felt any good during their life, endure nothing so much as they which have been happy, & are afterwards become miserable. For if white maketh us better to know and discern black, in like sort, good maketh the grief (which ensueth) more cruel & intolerable: the remembrance of which loss, terribly tormenteth our souls. It grieveth not one so much to go without clothes, who ordinarily goeth naked, as well in winter as Summer: but it would be a cumbersome & hard matter for him, who hath been well and warmly clad, to be stripped, thrust into his shirt, and forced to go all bare. In like manner, the miserable that have known nothing but grief, are not so greatly oppressed with pain, as they who have sometimes tasted of felicity, whereof at the same instant, they find themselves deprived.  
More cruel was king Perceus his change, who of a puissant king, became miserable, a servant, slave, and laughingstock of Fortune, then if he had never known any such greatness, remaining as a private simple man, and without a Diadem. Of the self same now speak I, by experience, for more cruel at this day do I feel the grief, to see myself absented & deprived of my dear Diana: them if I had never seen her, or that she had not pleased mine eyes, as she hath done. Alas: Can it be that I should remain without her, or that my soul may continue in my body, being deprived of her fair and shining countenance? If the body cannot move without the soul: Oh how can mine live, enjoying no more that Sun which caused it both to live and move? Oh my Diana, in what part soever thou glancest forth thy beautiful and celestial rays, let the heavens be always favourable unto thee, in recompense of the good thou hast done me, in suffering me to behold thy countenance. far from thy years & days let pale death fly: all discontentment, absent itself from thy soul: all vexation & grief avoid thy hart: & let sadness be banished from thence: & to conclude, let no feeling of grief ever touch thee living: let heaven always make thy beauty durable, thy chaste virtue immortal, thy sacred fidelity & power, eternal, and thy excellent glory endless. Alas, if the heavens preserve thy noble perfections, who under the Sun shall live, more perfect or happy than thyself? for none can equal thee in these worthy virtues: virtues (alas) which augment misfortunes, & make my complaints more bitter. For he hath greater cause to complain, that hath lost much, than he that hath endured the loss but of a small matter. I have lost thy divine presence, which only chased and drove away my obscure nights: now I wander in darkness, in night, in horror, & vexation. I have lost my Sun, & my days are turned into nights. (Alas) but have I not likewise lost my miserable life? Alas, my Goddess, if thou wouldst (if thou wouldst I say) take my soul, & as thine own, retain it with thee, why takest not thou in like manner my life, causing him to die, which cannot live, removed from thy light? but I must scour both sea & land to find thee out. I will fly neither pain, danger, nor labour, to see thee (yet once more) before death reap my sad & wretched days. And then in all repose, contentment, & pleasure, I will yield this miserable carcase to the earth, shaken & quashed, with so many hitter griefs, & even broken (as it were in pieces) with a thousand martyrdoms. During these days replenished with obscurity, & died in lamentation, & darkness. In that I shall not behold thy beautiful & divine countenance, my tears like streams, shall pour out from my blubbered eyes, sighs shall come forth, even from my soul, sad wailing & mourning from my hart. No apprehension of pleasure shall dwell within me, no appearance of life, to sign of pleasing delights, nor any note of health. Miserable will I always remain, no joyful accident, no change of fortune, or new form of life, can administer the least consolation to my soul, void of pleasure & joy, of all good and contentment. I will sigh continually, while destiny (moved at my long complaints) together with my life, cut off my tears & troubles. Thus spoke this wretched Shepherd, wretched surely, & miserable, who never felt so much as one smiling glance of fortune, miserable (certainly) in that he was borne to suffer, & never knew what joy meant: & yet more wretched, in having spent his years, employed his whole life, offered his days, and yielded his time to service of many, who permitted poverty to swallow up his years, and manage and overmaster his life.  
And though he were peerless in misery, and that his state of life, was only swayed by misfortunes, which held him caitiff: notwithstanding, cruel envy, which biteth all things, though they be incorporeal, ceased not to make a thousand malicious & jealous of that little commendation, which his dolorous Muse acquired to his years. In all considerations therefore, he was most wretched above all others. But that which gave the greatest blow, and that made his grief insupportable, and fell, was the absence and loss of his Diana. The remembrance whereof, was sufficient to forget, choke, & quite extinguish all the mortal pleasures he could have tasted of in this world. Every one maketh his chief felicity, of that he best liketh, & things which are sometimes held for happy & commodious of mortal men, are in contempt with those, who have placed their sovereign good in some other matter, as Lovers flout at riches, treasures, Empires and kingdoms, which mortal men propound unto themselves, for the good of their contentment, & upon which, they build their most pleasure and delight. But the only presence of their Ladies, is their chiefest good: for their souls be more joyful in beholding of them, then are the eyes of a covetous miser, & when they take pleasure in contemplation of the goods & riches of fortune.  
In the number of these, was this miserable Shepherd, who scoffed at the commodities of that blind goddess, desiring no other thing for his full satisfaction, and delight, than the presence of his fair Diana. Diana, who surely amongst the fairest, was most fair, sage, chaste, prudent, and of the stock of the most famous families in Europe. Diana, who took pleasure in reading of his works, & that never showed him frowning countenance, in that she knew he honoured her honour, more than her beauty: and that his chaste love, loved rather her soul and mind, than her body. Nothing could hinder sage and chaste Diana from showing good countenance, & chastely loving excellent spirits. She should have been a cruel Bear, if her soul had been void of amity: and this learned Queen of France, kissed learned Chartier, finding him a fleeepe, upon a banks side, though (amongst all other evil favoured and deformed) he was most crabbed of countenance: giving this excellent answer to those that wondered at the same: I kiss not Chartier, but that excellent mouth, from whence have issued so many learned discourses, not loving the man, but his doctrine: In doing thus, no Lady can be blamed. For one may, and that more commodiously, affect chastely, that which meriteth Love, then impudently, that which tendeth to vice, and corruption. The Shepherd, (after his dolorous complaint) began to sing this Sonnet which followeth.  

SONNET.  
Come, and approach, and hear my cries, you Hags, and Hobgobling,  
And do receive in gree, my heavy plaints, and abuse.  
Unto your cruel fatal Sisters, nought do I proffer,  
For, I (no more) life have, 'tis, with my griefs overdead.  
LOVE, that hath took my loyal Hart, for a pawn everlasting,  
(Gagd'e, for my Truth) is dead, split in every part.  
Whilst, to an ancient Elm, I seem like one that is,  
Spoiled with Lightnings blast, when (but the root) doth remain  
(O kind Death) all mortal woes, who makest an end of me,  
In this my chief pangs, thee do I call, me to help.  
(Sweet) let me die, through thee, that then, I truly report may,  
LOVE hath wounded my heart. (Death) of my pain, make an end,  
Only (in the●) is my hope, a hope, God knows very slender,  
Nought hope I in my cares, but, for to die out of hand.  
Dye would I rather, then in woes lie, still for to languish,  
Blessed is the soul that departs, when that he cannot be curd'e.  
But you, mine eyes are accursed, to have seen my Lady so cruel,  
Since that distoyaltie, hath (to me) done such a wrong,  
Well had it been for you, if, with a night everlasting,  
Shut had you been always, your proper death not to see.  
That so sacred Light, you are never like for to see more,  
Which did revive my spirits, when that they first were in thrall.  
Sweet should I (then) count my misery, compared to my bad hap,  
If that the world I might leave, as in my mind I do wish.  
Sighed have I, more than a thousand times, yet she with her hard hart,  
Is no more mollified, then in the Seas is a Rock:  
More do I pray, more doth she say nay, for all mine entreating,  
Whilst that her looks are so sour, as they my woes make the mor●.   
These Verses could not (yet) content him, but with the same conceit, employing his Muse, which (she furnished him withal) he carved these two Sonnets, upon the hard front of the Rock.  

SONNET. I.  
More hard than Rocks, I feel my Martyrs hard,  
The flinty Rock, the chisel doth endure:  
Yet nought but death, from hurt can me award,  
So great's mine ill, which is without recure.  
Ye heavenly Gods, cast Lightnings on my face,  
As on the Mounts of Epire, or consume  
Me Phoenix like, reviving (in a space)  
For I, (in Love) a Phoenix am become,  
Too much I have abide, then from these eyes,  
Since you have drawn forth fountains of salt tears,  
So many sighs, from heart, let it suffice,  
Nothing so strong, but sorrow (quickly) wears.  
Each thing, (except myself) with change doth mend,  
(Yet see my cruel Destiny) I am still,  
In pain, and yet my pain doth never end.  
Living, I die, though (dying) I do live,  
This is the favour, my FAIR doth me give,   

SONNET. II.  
What may it be, my Mistress should me scorn  
So much, as not on me vouchsafe to look?  
Was I then under such hard Planet borne,  
As that my sickness strange, no Salve can brook?  
That Beauty which, so often doth me wound,  
Those sacred eyes (Authors) of all my smart:  
Kill me, when I, to look on them, am found,  
Nor help they me, as I, to death departed.  
What Destiny then, may change this mine ill hap?  
What alteration may my griefs appease?  
I, ill Fortune, in such sorrows doth me wrap,  
As (though they would) yet me they cannot ease.  
For she that is, of torments mine the source,  
More sacred is, than heavens, and more divine:  
Fierce Destiny, and Fortune (in her course)  
She doth command, and with her beck combine.  
Then, to this Goddess, must I seek alone,  
To cure my mortal wound, or else to none.   
He had further sighed, and spoken more in renewing his long complaints, if Coribant (sad for his grief) had not drawn near, labouring to comfort him. For oh how true, and assured friends be they, who both in deed & word, assuage the grief of their friends: and worthy of commendation, is that Amity, which the injury of time & fortune, cannot change nor alter. It resembleth that gold, which we highly esteem of, when purified in the furnace, it hath passed the fire: Even so, sacred is that Amity, & worthy of commendation, which the injury & oppression of fortune, cannot kill, nor destroy: Coribant therefore, approached to this miserable Shepherd, saluted him, sat down by him, and said;  
Tears have always been held (for reproach) in noble hearts, magnanimous minds never weep, they leaving this effeminate and base quality unto women. And in very good consideration, the victor Aemilius, cast in miserable Perceus his teeth, pusillanimity, and want of courage, in addicting himself to lamentation, why then do you weep?  
Brutus with a constant and cheerful countenance beheld his children's death. And that Philosopher was no whit at all moved, understanding of the death of his only son. In lamentation, Time slippeth away, and in the mean while, there is no remedy found to come out of misery. There is a double loss, the one of our health & quiet, which rears over whelm: the other of precious time, which in steed of bestowing of it in complaints, we should employ in searching out proper remedy for our miseries & torments. That thing only should be deplored, the which is without recovery and remedy. But that which may be remedied, should not be lamented, but with diligence sought out to be recovered. For what can be over difficult for men to perform? Are not all things subject unto them? and doth not the wise man command over the stars? which is to say, he may by his wisdom, avoid the sinister aspect of the heavens, make them otherwise disagree of their disastrous Influence? What care moved resolute Diogenes, any thing at all? either the cruel blows of perverse fortune, or the terrible constellations of heaven? Lived he not happy, without sighs, in his Tun? By his knowledge he surmounted both the stars & fortune. For properly, he may be termed victor, that feareth not his enemy, and when he can no ways injury or offend him. And if all men would frame their lives, after the example of this wise man, when should we hear any sighs proceed from them? or what dolour could entangle their repose? Nothing wanteth in man to be perfectly happy, but resolution. For when he is resolute to be constant in misfortunes, without so much as being once moved at the darts of adverse fortune, nothing can annoy him, he remaineth brave and courageous, like the Conqueror within the lists, against whom none dare make further trial of their force. In like manner, fortune feareth the noble hart, & he (which with a brave resolution disposeth himself to resist inconstancy) she dares no further lay hold upon, but permitteth him a free life, quiet breathing, & happy repose. She is like the cock, who having been well beaten by an other, and bleeding in all parts of his body, dares not return to encounter, but avoideth the pit, & vanquished, flieth away. In like manner, resist thou this unjust fortune, who hath made upon thee so huge and cruel a war, & resolve as a Marius, to withstand misfortunes, without changing thy countenance thereat, more than he did. For man's wisdom is not discerned in prosperous fortune, in that it is an easy matter to show himself wise & constant in his felicities, but rather in adverse and contrary occurrences, the which to surmount, valour, constancy and virtue, is requisite.  
Shepherd, (replied Arcas) I confess, that the loss of earthly things, yea, and of the life itself; should not draw tears from the eyes of the wise, nor enforce his heart to send forth sighs. For they be things of small value, & the ancient Sages thought always that they carried their treasure about with them, in bearing their knowledge: but this doctrine taketh no place in love. Every thing hath always some exception, and the very threatenings of the eternal God, change oftentimes, and saveth some one or other. So (notwithstanding, we may justly maintain, that tears & sighs are unbeseeming a valiant and noble man) yet must we always say, except only in amorous actions. For the Gods, Goddesses, and the Heroes, have lamented in this case.  
Did not Venus bewail her dear Adonis, moving to pity therewith, even things without life? did not Apollo lament his Daphne? did not Hercules mourn for his wife, which the Centaur took away from him? did not cruel Achilles bewail his Brisais'? did not Ulysses the wise, take on for his wife? and that Palladine of France, Orlando the Frenchmens honour? did he not a thousand times bewail his Angelica, becoming furious & mad, in that he had lost her? hath not brave Renaldo, and all those valiant Heroical spirits made moan? whose complaints wise and mellifluent driostus reporteth unto as?  
O (Shepherd) why art thou then astonished, if I bewail and grieve, for my sacred Diana? the fire of love like thunder, which never cometh without rain, although of itself it be burning fire, and hotly kindled. In like manner, the flames of Love are always mingled with lamentations and tears. For Love oftentimes forgeth his firebrands of contraries, that is, of Love (oftentimes) and of hatred, both mixed together. Experience giveth testimony of the same: For only Lovers lament and are sad, when they are not beloved, but hated of their Mistresses.  
And behold, even as the thunder is engendered of heat, and cold, so be the flames of Love compounded, of love and hatred: so that it is unpossible for the Lover to love, except he be beloved again: but bewail, and lament he may, because these contraries proceed from him, and render divers effects, of their form. Why wonder you therefore, that I weep?  
Oh Shepherd, he which soweth upon the Sea, sand, spendeth not his time more unprofitably, than he which bestoweth it in searching remedy for his love. For what can enforce an heart of Diamond, or a lofty, proud, and cruel dame, to love against her will? Violence in this thing is forbidden, and though law would permit it, yet would lively and loyal Love hinder it. For the Lover will never do any thing (though he may) which shall be displeasing to his Mistress: all means of remedy ceasing, we must (necessarily) have remorse to lamentation and tears, which be the arms of the afflicted, crying out of the injustice, and cruelty of the Stars, which make us love, the thing that hateth us, and to desire the thing that flieth and shuneth us. And if the wise (as thou sayst) overcame, and surmounted the divers assaults of Fortune, I answer thee withal,  
That Love hath tamed them, as well as myself: and none can make head against him. Let Plato, Aristotle, and that prudent King endued with the gift of wisdom bear witness: I will no more therefore think myself foolish, or deprived of reason in loving, seeing these great lights (as well as myself) have by Love been darkened; &, that these Sages have trodden the path of my error. But Shepherd (replied Coribant) if some have offended, will you conclude, that by their example, every one may err? And if amongst the ancient Sages, some have been fools, and deceived by Love, will you affirm that others have yielded themselves to this inconvenience? You should in this do them great injury, for all the jews (for the most part) were wicked, and yet the Apostles, being of the self same nation, were good men. The cruel daughters of Danaut, killed their husbands: but pitiful Hypermuestra, (that saved hers) must not be put in the number of these bloody sisters. In like manner, a thousand learned personages, which have not only subdued Love, but even the stars themselves, ought not to be taxed of reproach, because there were some amongst them, suffered themselves to be transported away with this fury: for the vice of one particular man, obligeth not a generality to the blame which he only deserveth: and an othres offence, cannot prejudice the innocent. If Plate have erred, wise Aristetle stumbled, & Sage Solomon gone astray, will you say (for all this) that divine Socrates, wise & grave Cato, & prudent Moses, have been sinners, and plunged in the self same vice: and, if the former be not to be followed, nor imitated, take example by the second, doing like the wise Apothecary; who extracteth the juice and virtue of herbs, and afterwards casteth away that which is worth nothing.  
Fuen so, amongst the Ancients, we must imitate those, whose excellent actions may serve in stead of a guide, & pattern, leaving this, who, in imitating of them, may cause us stumble into the pit of vice: in which, they be drowned and washed: You conclude not well therefore, in drawing a liberty of doing evil from an other man's vice: but on the contrary, our neighbour's error, must serve us in steed of a dark night, wherein, during the same, to kindle our own virtue, must shine bright, instructing ourselves, by his famous example, as the ancient Spartaines caused their slaves to be made drunk, to the end that their children might hate wine, by the brutish, and dishonest actions they saw these base creatures commit, being possessed with this liquor.  
It is a foolish conclusion to say, that if my neighbour be a fool, I must therefore become insensate, and set fire on my own house, because I see my neighbours on a burning flame: It is rather requisite, that an other man's doing be beneficial unto us, and that the vice of our neighbour, reform our own, and not make us to offend like himself: For virtue would be imitated, and vice avoided.  
To maintain that no man can be constant and resist Love, were to err grossly: For Alexander amidst his great victories, delights and conquests, performed it.  
Demosthenes refused the Love of Lais, loving ten crowns better, than the enjoyance of her. This wise and grave Philosopher I say, whom she could never set on fire, either by her wanton enticements, amorous looks, or her beauty so renowned: so that she thought him an insensible stone, and not a man. You should in this do injury to modest Scipio, who being conqueror of all Africa, religiously abstained from the love of a woman: And a thousand others have lived free from this misfortune, which you may not (rightly) place in the number of offenders: For their fault, obscure not the excellent glory of the vertuo●●, and draw not from their offence matter of opprobrietie against the wise: It will be greater honour unto you, to see wise men in name offend, and yourself free from fault, then if you erred after the example of some simple creatures.  
Oh Shepherd (replied Arcas) I deny the foundation of your argument: for I will not confess that it is a fault or crime to love, and judge Lovers no less wise, than those that have not loved at all: for he may justly be said to be perverse and an offender, whose offence procureth public damage, but (so far of) is a Lover from prejudicing men, that quite contrary he profiteth them greatly.  
The Lover (like the prodigal man) iniureth none but himself: he only beareth, he only endureth, he only suffereth: but from his torment ariseth mortal glory to the subject he loveth: for was there ever Lady faithfully by her servant beloved, that did not both honour and sing forth (according to the ability of his invention) her excellent and rare virtues.  
What can mortal men desire more dear and precious, then to see themselves honoured, and made immortal to future ages, the which Lovers favoured by the Muses, may make their Ladies and Mistresses? That great King of Macedon, thought he not Achilles happy, to have been set forth and commended by Homor? and all great personages, have they not desired the like honour? Not to be moved with the passion of glory, is to be brutish and without feeling, or not to be stirred up with a desire to make one's name living after death, is a sign of a base and boorish mind. They to whom the heavens have not imitated either Art or Learning to attain to this glory by writing, seek after it, in buildings, or other rare works of great charge and expense, which continue for some time, but not so long as books.  
But it is certain, that the Muses having taken Love in a snare of flowers, would say nothing else, but crown this God, with green garlands, acknowledging, that they should be nothing without him, who giveth them uttrance, power, & breath, to set forth their verses, in despite of time itself: For neither the greatness of gifts nor of fear, nor the hope of rewards, nor threatenings, could never make a learned Poet write well of any one, if he do not love and affect him: but (on the contrary) only Love will make him speak better of those whom he shall love simply without hope of reward, then of those whom he loveth not, and yet expecteth from them some recompense.  
Questionless, without Love, many excellent books which are made in the honour of men, would be yet to do, & a thousand other noble Acts (which now) through him be apparent to the eyes of men: Commendable therefore are Lovers, and more than any other sort of men, at least they lose not time, nor consume it not in doing nothing.  
(Oh Godhead) replied Coribant, but on the contrary, a thousand evils have proceeded from Love: The ruin of Troy, may verify this, and a thousand other testimonies.  
I but quite otherwise (replied Arcas) Love stood the Trojans in steed, for he sent them the mean to kill Achilles, revenging the death of their Princes; & he being dead, they (in such a sort weakened the enemy's Camp, that without Treason, Troy had never been subject to the Greeks'  
But what hath Love to do with the Treason of men, as long as he is not the cause thereof? And yet the selfelame Love (replied Coribant) was it not the cause of the death of modest Hip●olitus, who was pitifully slain by the unjust dealings of his wicked Stepmother? Nay rather quice contrary (answered Arcas) he was the occasion, that he was made immortal, he being raised from death unto life again, by the cunning of that learned Esculapius, who could never have done him so great a good turn, unless he had (first) tasted of death through love. But what say you then (quoth Coribant) unto Love, which forced Tarquin to offer violence unto the castitie of Lucres, being the cause of so great a mischief?  
It was an occasion (replied Arcas) rather of a marvelous good turn, by reason it was the cause of liberty of the Romances, with the utter ruin, & overthrow of their Tyrants, and Lucretia dying in that order (as she did) was she not most fortunate and happy? For doth not such a one die happily, who as Codrus by his death preserveth his country, making the same (through his loss) to be fortunate afterward? And yet the very same Love (said Coribant) was the Author of the cruel perishing of Pyramus and Thisbe, they having but a sorry guerdon, for their so constant affection which the one bare unto the other. Is he not then bloody minded and cruel?  
No truly (replied Arcas) for what more sweet and pleasing kind of death could they suffer than they did? And had it not been a thousand times better that one of them should die with the other, than to be separated & divided? seeing the Lover that loseth his Mistress, or that Lady, that hath lost her servant, live not at all, but rather languish.  
And yet still the same Love was it (said Coribant) which urged the daughters of Minos to betray their aged Father, giving instructions unto Theseus, how to slay the monster, and to get out of the Labyrinth when he had done. Why? and the same Love (answered Areas) was the occasion of a greater benefit, in delivering Athens from such a servile bondage, as forced them to offer their pretty little children unto the greedy laws of that devouring Monster.  
To conclude, much honour, great glory, and infinite good, hath proceeded through Love, in so much as he that hath never loved, deserveth not the name of a man.  
As the Shepherd had made an end of his speech, the fair Nymph Orythia arrived, who having her Lute in her hand, sung (in a most dulcet tune) these Heroical verses following.  
What? shall my Fortune never mend, in which I do languish?  
Yet (O ye Gods) let me die, for line without heart, can I not now.  
Cruel he, that my soul commands, doth mock at my hard haps,  
Cursed be the flame, that every thing doth burn sane our anguish.  
Ah shall I never see, my life nor my Love to be ended?  
Never; for these skies are cruel unto my plain.  
And they do seem to be deaf, when with my cries I do moan them,  
More, that I live, I plague myself, and am mine own Hangman.  
Cruel (alone) is that grief, that no remedy findeth,  
But for to suffer (without hope) if destiny mine were.  
Why was I brought into this world, and why was I borne then?  
Better (near) to be, than always so to be tortred.  
Woe to me, hope have I none, that ere my pain will be suaged,  
Yet no grief there is to be found, but findeth his easing:  
Excepe such, as over desperate, only by Love comes.  
Then since I needs must langnish thus, content will I hold me.  
For (at last) my comforts this, although that I perish,  
Yet from all these cares and troubles soon shall I rid me.  
That man never fears, when death doth venture upon him,  
When to lose this wretched life, he rides in a Haven,  
Free from the Tempests of this world, to live everlasting.  
After the Nymph had with many scalding sighs delivered these verses, she thus bespoke the Shepherd Arcas. What time wilt thou limit unto my sorrows, and when wilt thou make an end of tormenting me as thou dost? If pity cannot induce thee to secure me, at least let these mine earnest prayers move thee.  
Why takest thou delight thus to be importuned, and why is it a pleasure unto thee thus to be sued unto? Ah wy dost thou not restore my heart unto his former health, and why deviest thou, to help him, who is so much affected to do thee service?  
Cruel is that Lord, that maketh his faithful servant to serve him still, and yet yieldeth him no recompense for his pain: unjust is he, and hateful both to God, and man. For what vice more horrible can there be, than barbarous ingratitude? Ah wash from thy soul, that foul fault, and suffer not thyself any more to be reproached, in that thou art hard-hearted and bitter, against her who only devoteth herself unto thee.  
After the Criminal hath his fatal sentence pronounced, he is put to death presently, without making him languish any more, in prolonging his misery. Fuen so, let me entreat thee, to dispatch, and give thy verdict of life or death against me, without delighting thyself any longer in my Disasters. The fire put into the mouth of a Cannon, forceth the powder to fly out suddenly, which turneth into a flame: Even so, I am not able longer to endure, without my grief burst forth of my soul, or that I give up the ghost and die.  
But what talk I of death, when it is denied unto me? No no, had I but had the benefit of the same, thou (cruel man) hadst never heard so many prayers come from me, never had I made so many vows unto thee, neither had I moved thee so often unto compassion as I have done: for with some desperate instrument or other, I had finished both my life and grief long ere this, and both at one time.  
But (alas) I (being immortal) must endure this anguish, whilst being able to help others, I cannot heal mine own festering wounds. Not unlike the Physician, who dieth after he hath conserved the lives of other, not having the skill to preserve his own. Were some God the cause of these my plaints, and that by reason of some one Deity or other, this mischance had happened unto me, I were not worthy of some excuse amongst mine equals.  
But when I call to mind, how I have suffered myself to be vanquished by a simple Shepherd, and yet am not able to persuade him to have remorse upon me, I needs must confess I am worthy to be blamed, and that rightly. But alas, I know not well what I say, for my Lady the Goddess Diana, loveth a Shephcard as well as I, and under this weed oftentimes lodgeth, virtue, learning, and beauty.  
Never was any more beautiful than Adonis, none more fair than Narcissus, and none more lively than Paris, when he was a Shepherd, neither was there ever a Nymph more amiable than Enone the Shepherdess.  
Angelica, the peerless Paragon of all beauty, left many great Princes, and valiant Paladines (all which were suitors unto her for her Love) and accepted a poor common Soldier for her sweet heart and love. Love respecteth not riches, only he hath an eye unto the perfection of the person that is loved.  
Then (sweet Shepherd) fancy me, and give me some sure proof, of thy affection towards me, without putting me any more to further troubles.  
So said the pensive Nymph, when Arcas, being ravished with the contemplation of his fair Mistress, as if he had been speaking unto her, and as if Orythia, had been far from him. Began to speak thus.  
O sacred Diana, have I not as yet given thee sufficient testimony of my zealous good will towards thee, considering my long and many sorrows, but wilt thou still see more, and yet never yield me, any recompense for the same?  
Alas, the Goldsmith trieth gold but once, if it will endure the fire, which he useth to make so me excellent piece of work withal: and the Eagle is contented to carry his little ones but once against the Sunny Beams, which if they are able to abide, he suffereth them to live, making account they are his own. Why then (dear Mistress) art not thou content with these many proofs of my faithful Amity, without demanding (still) new at my hands? If it be, because I am too base a creature to be beloved, and that thou thinkest me not worthy of so high a favour;  
Ah then, I beseech thee remember jupiter, who disdained not the Love of Europe, or of Semele, although they were mortal women, nor Thetis, who (although a Goddess) yet vouchsafed to espouse Penelus, an earthly man, and sacred.  
Apollo who vouchsafed to affect the Trojan Cassandra; yea, remember the Goddess of all beauty, who was willing to accept the Love of Anchises, & to bear a child by him, which was called the wandering Prince Aeneas. And therefore, be not angry, although I dare to love thee, for I fear not that the torment of Ixion shall ever punish me, because I honour thee, in as much as my love, is neither dishovest, beastly, nor viticus, but rather sacred, virtuous, and chaste, and therefore not subject to any reprehension.  
Why, dost thou thus oppose thyself against that fair glory which thy worthy carriage doth permit? why dost thou reject that praise, which every one would render unto thy peerless beauty? why dost thou disdain that honour which the heavens have ordained for thy matchless perfection? And why dost thou refuse the service of the most loyallest Lover that ever breathed? In times past those beautiful Ladies counted themselves happy, that could vaunt themselves, of the faithfulness of their Lovers.  
Hero, thought herself fortunate, in that she had Leander, for her faithful friend: and why then dost thou deny to be most faithfully served of thy devoted and true hearted Arcas? Suffer him, suffer him (hard-hearted as thou art) to honour thee, for the Gods themselves forbidden not men (although vicious) to adore them, because friendship is not to be scorned from whence soever it cometh, in that it proceedeth from a willing and well-wishing mind.  
Thus said the Shepherd, when the Nymph hearing him to make this strange kind of Tale, pursued her former complaint in this manner. Ah barbarous and disdainful man, why dost thou stop thine ears against my pralers?  
Take heed, take heed, lest the heavens (justly punishing thee) harden not the hart of her whom thou honour'st, against thee, as thou most unkindly hast done unto me: for (oftentimes) we fall into the snare which we have laid to entrap strangers, we being scourged with the same plague wherewith we have afflicted others. Is it not enough for thee to be contented with these my sorrows, but that thou must mock me therewithal, making a show as if thou sawest another and not me, unto whom thou framest thy speech? But the Gods be just, and therefore thanked be they, seeing thy Mistress maketh thee know (and that unto thy cost, if thou so much lovest, as thou makest us believe) how insupportable the torments are, which thy Savage rigour maketh me to feel, for he only can talk rightly of grief, that hath felt the same, and daily experience maketh us perfect in the knowledge of such things as we practise.  
If thou feelest this evil, and if thou knowest how full of anguish it is, then permit not me to abide the same any longer, which if thou dost, thou wilt then force me to call for aid unto the heavens, that they assist me, to take revengement upon thee; for he ought (and that justly) to be punished, who knoweth the evil that he doth, is acquainted with the greatness of the fault he committeth, and yet (neuerthele●le) will not give it over: for only ignorance excuseth the offence, which knowledge condemneth, because such as did perpetrate the same, were not unacquainted with it: Open then, those deaf ears of thine, and show me some pity, to the intent, I may commend thee for kindness, as long as the world shall flourish.  
The Shepherd (notwithstanding these her earnest persuasions) seemed not to hear one word, but as he did at the first, so still he continued, making solemn intercession unto his good Angel Diana, in this wise.  
Alas, must the distance of place, hinder thee (fair Virgin) so much, as thou canst not answer me? and must I be so miserable, as I may say, I am far exiled from thee?  
Can my soul breath and not behold thee? O wonderful miracle, that wretched Arcas can live without the chaste and prudent Diana; for she is his soul, and the body without soul, how is it possible that it should joy at all? Certainly, I should think myself much blessed, if I might but only see thy face, without speaking as much as one word unto thee, for than would I most willingly yield unto death: but I see it is my destiny to die, and not so much as before my death to see thee.  
Unfortunate, my Tomb to be so far off from thee (my dear) and accursed mine eyes, to sleep in any other resting place, than where thou abidest.  
But alas, art thou the cause of my distress? no no, it is the heavens, who are over jealous of my glory, and who would feign love thee themselves, they knowing thy like is not to be found in the whole world: and therefore are the more unwilling to have any Corrivals in their love. But in despite of them, will I love thee, nothing being of force to quench this outrageous heat of mine, no, not death itself.  
Thus wailed the sad Shepherd, thinking verily that he had been before the presence of his divine Diana, and more would he have lamented, but that Coribant plucking him by the sleeve, and wearied with hearing him (and the amorous Orythia) put him out of this amorous dream in this sort.  
Enougn (man) enough, no tears nor sighs make a man the wiser, after the fault committed; but rather more miserable and wretched.  
Cease I say, cease, both of you to lament, and rather seek some remedy how to redress your sorrows. And because I would be glad to persuade you to give over this dangerous Love, which maketh you thus to torment and massacre yourself continually, I will account unto you a most lamentable History, by which you may gather how cruel and damned a plague Love is, for we cannot come from out this Rock, as long as this tempest lasteth, and which is but scarcely new begun.  
Arcas and Orythia seeing there was no remedy, considering the foulness of the weather, sat them down, when Coribant, sitting betwixt them (and they lending a listening ear unto him) began his dolorous discourse in this manner.  
Ye hollow Rocks be witnesses, what here by me is said,  
Within whose gloom it horror dark, the night is shadowed.  
Ye stately Rocks, to powder burnt, of times most cruelly,  
When jove, your tops with thunderbolts, doth scorch and bruise, from sky;  
Ah be your witnesses of this my sad discourseile tell  
You, which of late the loves of these two Shepherds overwell  
Conceived; of these two loving wights, whose luckless hapile show,  
Undone by Love, by Love who dares the Gods to overthrow?  
A●dye broad Beeches, in your shade that often have themseene,  
When they reposing of themselves under the same have been.  
You; which a thousand letters carved, within your tender rind,  
(Knots, and devices in their love) and such like Toys may find.  
You dark 〈◊〉 Caves, where whilst the day did last in bright some wise,  
They (blushing) of theor chastest Loves did 'mongst themselves devise.  
Ye pretty Fords, and crystal springs, ye Rivers murmerous,  
Whoat the sigh of them became for to be amorous.  
Ye uncorh Deserts, witnesses, what they in secret did,  
Importuned by their often plaints, which from you were not hid.  
And thou, thick private shadowing grove, that knowest most of all,  
To thee (and all the rest) to hear, what I will speak, I call.  
Unto you all (bear witness then) I to you all appeal,  
Since 'tis as true (as pitiful) what I shall now reveal.  
In that same time, when 'mongst the woods, as yet Love was not known,  
In that same happy golden world, when none through Love did groan,  
Wren Shepherds (free from Cupid's darts) as careless did remain,  
And for to languish were not forced, through too much amorous pain.  
But rather not so much as once thinking of this proud Love,  
‛ Void from all ill, themselves sought still, merry to make, and prove,  
Whilst want only amongst themselves, in joy they spent the day,  
And pleasantly to their contents, the time did pass away.  
Freed from those cares, that Lovers haunt, and brings them to their grave,  
Making them pale, and weary, fore their youths they passed have.  
Then was no wailing there, nor eyes, that tears do shed apace,  
Nor (that they grieved were) could you perceive aught by their face.  
Cleared from all plaints, released from sighs, not knowing what meant care,  
They did despise, and eke contemn the Cyprian Goddess fair.  
Her cruel Son, the very Sire, and father of all vice,  
Of them Oblations never had, nor any Sacrifice.  
The mighty power of Cupid blind, (as then) they did not know,  
Nor what did mean his firebrands, his Arrows, and his Bow.  
Withouten troubling with this Love, their never troubled brain,  
A kind of ordinary kindness did, 'mongst them remain.  
In merry laughter, and in sport, they spent the soon gone year:  
Their chiefest pleasures, thousand songs, and Madrigals than were.  
Which they sighed forth, with comely grace, whilst beut the flowing bank,  
Of some clear river, all the Crew of them, themselves encamp.  
One while they danced hand in hand, within the Meadows green,  
Another while, 'bout foot of Rock, for cooltnesse they were seen.  
(As then) plaints were not their repasts, nor tcares, as drink to use,  
(As Lovers wont) who what is ill, still for themselves they choose.  
Consuming sorrow did not gnaw, nor gripe them at the hart,  
Nor was their chief relief of Death, the penetrable dart.  
But rather, without cark and care, without malice or strife,  
As happy souls (in all content) they wore away their life.  
No paleness was within their cheeks, no hollowness in eye,  
Which frighted with a sudden fear, most piteous you might spy.  
Nor could you once perceive as much, as sign of heavy chance,  
In their well featur de faces all, and lovely count enance.  
Ah treble blessed such; For he cannot be said to live,  
Who for Death wisheth, that his woes, no more might make him grient.  
In steed of pastimes to be blithe, they sounded their shill Crowd,  
And with a hundred Songs, they filled the Groves with noises loud.  
Whilst their soft instruments, apace (according to their use)  
Ofttimes well tuned, and then vntun'de, as they themselves did choose.  
A thousand Brawls, and Pastoral Odes, they sung in plainest sort,  
Whereby (the more) they did increase, their merriment and sport.  
In cool of day, to dance (about) you might en them espy,  
And when the heat was great, in midst of shadowing Groves to lie.  
There would they many an old wives tale, and jesting Fables tell,  
Whilst (some of them) to blow a fresh, their Bagpipes fell.  
Now under coolly Trees they would (friendly) make their repast,  
Feeding on bread and Morning's milk, for to delight their taste.  
And dipping in the water clear, their Hats, they that did drink,  
Which better far than any wine, (though daintiest) they did think.  
But welladay, the nature of this savage inhuman LOVE,  
Did alter this sweet course of life, and worse made them prove.  
He chang'de their pastimes into plays, and spoiled so their sense,  
As (weakening courage theirs) he forced them stand without defence,  
As we do see amazed to stand, the gentle harmless Sheep,  
(And that in running here and there) no order they do keep.  
When as at unawares, the Wolf, wtih revenous mouth them takes,  
And of them as him liketh best, a bloody slaughter makes.  
Or as we vieu the Shepherds from the fields in haste to run,  
One here, one there, lest that by death, they should be overcome.  
When jupiter, to threat the earth, with which he seemeth wroth,  
From heaven he, in angry wise, his Thunder sendeth forth.  
Making a thousand flashie Lights, (the children of dread Fear)  
Unto their frighted eyes, and on their bloodless cheeks appear.  
Whiist fury of the Thunders hard, with such a sudden crack,  
As one would think it were hard by, and even at his back.  
Even so did LOVE, these shepherds fray, & trouble to them wrought,  
Consumed their lives, and chiefest glee, and to their end them brought.  
And thus it was: Nature had framed one Shepherdess 'mongst rest,  
More perfect than the other all, and fairer than the best.  
Young was she in experience, and in age, for but as then,  
She passed had of years some fine, and joining to them ten.  
Yet stature she so comely was, and full of majesty,  
As for a second Venus her, they did (of right) descry.  
Her hatre far brighter than pure gold, in knots was tied fine,  
Empaling round her head most rich, of Princely Crown the sign.  
Whilst those her tresses amorous, did genttly move with wind,  
As we the calmy waves in Sea, to role and rise do find.  
Her Forehead (heavens sweet mount) was smooth, by Nature framed fair,  
No Art (though exquisite) could mend the same, it was so rare.  
No wrinkle was there to be seen, no frowning in that place,  
(That) truly got by Beauty was, Beauty gave it such grace.  
Her Eyelid, lids of Ebony, enclosed there within,  
Which Gods and Men amazed made, and every hart did win.  
Her sparkling eyes, two stars did show, than Lightning far more bright,  
More clear than glorious Sun, when he doth show his chiefest light.  
Eyes, which who so presumed to dare, their looks for to behold,  
They soon were strucken blind as it were, for being overbold.  
Eyes where as LOVE in all his pride, did seem for to repose,  
And through the sparklings of the which, lies chiefest honours rose.  
Eyes, which as sacred and divine, all did adore and fear,  
Although to every one their full, and overthrow they were.  
Her checks that checked greatest Potentates: which Beauty beautified,  
Of ruddy Rose, and Lily white, the equal combat tried.  
Her checks vermilion coloured, by Nature, not through Art,  
The perfect Type of loveliness, to each one did impart.  
Her witching lip was Cur all white, like to a Gillsflower:  
Which hatred was in pearly dew most supple every hour.  
And as her Lips, so was her Mouth, her mouth like Orakell,  
From which, a speech forth came, that did Pallas (though wise) excel.  
Her Lips inviting to sweet sport, did grace her dimpled chin,  
Whose sight was such, as was enough (in thought) to make us sin.  
Her snowy Throat was seemly placed, so was her sweatlesse Neck,  
Which whitest Marble of the Alps, and Porphery did check.  
Her matchlisse Throat so delicate, her dainty Skin so clear,  
As through the same, what so she drank, the colour did appear.  
Her beauteous Breasts, LOVES lobby right, right way to Paradise:  
Where grew those golden Apples rare, unvalued for their prcie.  
Two Mountains there were placed, from whence on amorous sweet fire,  
Did send forth sighs (children of Care, begotten through Desire.)  
Her slender Middle like a Span, did show her waste so small,  
Which who so looked on, as he looked, he languished therewithal.  
Next was that place. (Alas, that of that Place, I may not show)  
Unworthy we, such Mysteries and such rare sights to know.  
Her hands were white, as Whale his bone, so matchless was her foot,  
The first whereof, were Arrows, which Dan Dupid used to shoot.  
Then such this wondrous Beauty was, of this fair Shepherdess,  
Who many a shepherds hart did chaxm, & wrought them much distress.  
Her name was FLORA (FAIR surnamed) well worthy of that name  
And worthy was that name of her, so glorious was her Fame.  
Her exercise, and use (as then) was 'bout the Fields to walk,  
And chiefest pleasure which she took, in shadowy Groves to stalk,  
Whilst (as her harmless flock did feed) about them she did sing,  
(Full merrily) some pleasant Round, which made the woods to ring.  
For spiteful LOVE (as yet) had not his malice 'gainst her bent,  
Nor had he (yet) through his devise, spoiled this work excellent.  
Free was she from a lovers life, from amorous annoy:  
With liberty (most pleasantly) her youth she did enjoy.  
But (soon this humour for to change) she 'gainst her will was forced:  
(Compelled to Love) from her heart's ease, (poor soul) she was divorced.  
For, by her dwelled a goodly Swain, that did increase her care,  
A valiant Shepherd, gallant and lovely, as she was fair.  
Born on the selfsame day, that she into this world was borne,  
And subject, by the selfsame chance) unto this fatal storm.  
Height NV MIDOR, he cleped was, both affable and kind,  
So courteous and so debonair, as like you could not find.  
In feature, shape, and comeliness, Adonis he did pass:  
And (if he did not him exceed) his equal (sure) he was.  
Each morning, when the break of day began for to appear,  
He used to accompany, his FLORA, loved dear.  
Unto the Meadows with her Flock, and there with her would chat,  
In friendly wise, as they did walk, of this, and then, of that.  
And afterwards, they both would set them down, or in some shade,  
Of some thick Pinetree, or by Ford, which trickling murmur made.  
There would he eat of victuals hers, and she on his would feed,  
Whilst (what they had amongst themselves) as common, they decreed.  
When any sport commenced was, 'mongst Shephear as she was found,  
The first that led the Dance with him, and he began the Round.  
No sooner was it night, but they, together home did go:  
And in frank manner one of th'other, Gifts used to bestow.  
These pretty sports, were but a light (as 'twere) more strong to tie,  
And to begin to bind them in, more perfect Amity.  
And yet this plain and simple kind of Courting (though plain stuff)  
To set their harmless hearts on fire, too much 'twas, and enough.  
Since LOVE we see engendered is, only by looks and speech:  
And so continueth through the same, beyond all human reach,  
This was the cause that many woes they did endure,  
Of Friends, they loyal Lovers did, become most firm and sure.  
As both their birthdays were but one, so was their Loves but one:  
Equal they in affection were: and love they did alone.  
One mind there was between them both, two bodies, but one soul,  
One Conqueror, both of their hearts, and fancies did control.  
What one did wish, the other would (alike) was their Desire:  
If th'one did burn through heat, the other did feel as great a fire.  
If th'one did send forth piteous plaints, with many a dreary tear,  
The other, for to wail with sighs, and sobs, did not forbear.  
No love, like hers, so passionate, so loy all (ere) hath been,  
Anchises love, with Venus' fair, so constant was not seen.  
Nor Pyramus, may I compare, unto these lovers true,  
Although so dear his Dame he loved, as that himself he slew.  
In every Rock and Tree, they did engrave the hour and day,  
In which LOVE (cunningly) had wrought, to bring them to his bay.  
In midst of Groves, and thickie Woods, cut in the tender kind●,  
Of Okes and Elms, these lovers names, engraven you might find.  
Whilst as they rome here and there, a thousand Songs they sung,  
To make them to forget their pain, fierce LOVE, them so had stung.  
The lovely Shepherd, Sonnets made, in honour of his Dame,  
And in her presence sung them oft, presenting her the same.  
Which she accepted gratiousty, whilst with hot sighs from hart,  
She showed, how he grieved not alone, but that she bore a part.  
And thus (long time) both comfortless, did comfort one another,  
Long time, this secret Fare (hid close) in bosom they did smother.  
Whilst in some sort, the heavens did seem, their actions to allow,  
And LOVE made show (as good, what so they did) for to avow.  
Been welladay, what mortal thing, can ever lasting be,  
When they themselves must (once) decay, and unto ruin 'gree?  
When Fortune (enuicus of our good) such interest hath and power,  
That he can alter our delights, and pleasures in an hour.  
No marvel (then) though that sweet life of these two Lovers in aine,  
He topsie turme turned quite, for pleasure bringing pain.  
As you behold a stately Oak, in growth surpassing proud,  
Under whose shade of late, the Plants, were glad themselves to shroud.  
Whose coolly leaves and branches green greatest Conquerors doth scorn  
Upon their helmets and their Crests, most bravely to have borne.  
Upon (the sudden through mischance) with Thunder sirucke, as the  
Whilst (blasted with the Laghtning flash) his head doth lie fall low.  
His scorchea leaves look black and swarth, his verdure all is gone.  
The Tree itself, showing like a Trunk a Block, or barea stone.  
No sap or juice remains therein, but dead it seems to be,  
Nor former glory of his green, you any more can see.  
Even so by malice most unjust, through Fortune full of strife,  
Of these two Lovers (happie-once) did end the pleasant life.  
The jealous heavens repining that, they thus should live on earth,  
(Exempt from canes) Death sent to them, to stop their vital breath.  
Death did they send as messenger, to summon them from hence,  
And (for to bring the same about) they wrought a false pretence.  
This which we LOVE call, which two hearts makes one, in loyal wise,  
The same (vow'ae to the other oft) makes deadlyest Enemies.  
Of cold and freezing jealousy, the Author first be is,  
Whose sweetness, sourest misery, to follow doth not miss.  
Nor ever hath there any thing, as yet, in him been found,  
But (what with grief and wretchedness) thick swarming doth abound.  
His preasures like are unto spoils, or like an April shower,  
Which is no sooner come than gove, nor any while doth dure.  
That this is too too true, I vouch, Aenone, she it proved,  
And dolefidl Dido, who did die, because one-much she loved.  
Achilles felt his fury fierce, when he Polixena  
Did sue to have, whose witching-face, was cause of his decay.  
Then of these faithful Lovers twain, attend the Tale most sad,  
And mark, through vile injurious LOVE, what piteous end they had.  
It channced (now) the Holiday, due unto LOVE, was come,  
In which, once every year, great Feasts, most solemnly were done.  
His Temple in this Desert was, which holden was divine,  
For honour it was wondrous rich, for beauty rare and fine.  
As well as Neighbours, Foreigners came thither far & near,  
The Demigods, Fawns, satires, Nymphs, 'mongst Shepherds and appear.  
These with their Crowns of Laurel green, upon their bushy head,  
Themselves did show (in Courtly pomp) adorned and bellished.  
About their necks hung huge chains, and precious Carcanets,  
And 'bout their arms they jewels ware, and costly Bracelets.  
Now that this God propitious, 'mongst them himself would show,  
Great store of Sacrifices they, upon him did bestow.  
Perfumed with Incens offered, and hundred sorts of verse,  
Which did his power, his Majesty, and noble deeds rehearse.  
That done, they did begin to dance; each one as liked them best,  
And to what dance they Fancy had, to that themselves addressed.  
Whilst that the Sylvans, and the Gods of woods, with Cornets shrill,  
With Oboes, Bagpipes, and such like, the place throughout did fill.  
One doth a Brawl of Poitiers show, another with a grace  
The measures leads, the third again Lavolta treads apace.  
Thus every one doth strive to please themselves with fresh delight,  
No falling out amongst them is, no malice, or despite.  
Not any was there bend to ill, nor any to displease,  
One sought another to content, to purchase joy and ease.  
Together, 'mongst this merry crew, there was our Lovers twain,  
When, as a cursed mishap did chance, that cause was of their bane.  
For 'mongst the rest, that in that place did dance, with blithfull glee,  
Even in the midst of all their mirth, as merry as might be;  
A Nymph, there was, surpassing fair, for so she well did show,  
So fair, as FLORA she did match, if not, before her go.  
From forth her eyes, like Diamonds, a sparkling fire did come,  
Whose glances showed to be of force to equalise the Sun.  
Her Amber locks (by nature curled) lay waving on her cheek,  
As Seas do gently beak on bank (a sight that all did leek)  
This Virgin sweet, to NUMIDOR comes, with a grace most trim,  
And by the hand, the Shepherd takes, to dance a while with him.  
Long did they dance, and as they danced, her colour fresher shoowes,  
And (still) the more she danceth (aye) the more she fairer grows.  
So beautiful she seems (indeed) as in that place there is,  
A Savage Satire, who gins, to think to do amiss.  
Insecret sort, to ravish her, he vows by force and strife,  
Or else, before he lose his wish, he'll lose his hateful life.  
This Monster foul (misshapen wretch) unworthy for to Love,  
Dan Cupid's fire, within his breast, beginneth (now) to prove.  
He frets, and fumeth inwardly, and through this uncouth heat,  
His colour (changing) comes and goes, his heart doth pant and beat.  
Respect of persons, place, and fear, lest he should not obtain,  
His hairy body makes to shake, through a cold sweat amain.  
Mean space, none doth him mark, or think that ere he durst presume,  
The company thus to disturb, in this his fretting fume.  
But LOVE that forceth mightiest Gods, and them hath (oft) controlled,  
Makes him auditious, insolent, proud, haughty, and so bold.  
That in the end (and suddenly) he carrieth her away,  
As doth the Wolf, when violently, he seizeth on his prey.  
Ah help (she crieth piteously) ah help, help (loud) she cries,  
Whilst, that through fear, & sorrow she, dead in his rough (arms) lies.  
All are amazed, nor can they move, only brave NUMIDOR,  
Vows for to rescue her from him, or else to die therefore.  
With naked sword in hand he runs, after the Thief amain,  
Yet all his running's to no end, he laboureth but in vain.  
For so fast trips the Satire, as it seemeth he doth fly,  
The Eagle faster takes not flight, when he from jove doth high.  
Nor doth the Hawk (when he hath got the Partridge) seem so swift,  
As this rude villain doth, his feet so fast still move and shift.  
But (still) the Nymph (for aid) doth cry, and after NUMIDOR  
Doth follow, hearing her hard by, which grieveth him the more.  
He followeth him apace, and (still) he keeps where he hath traced,  
And (more he hears her to lament) the more he maketh haste.  
Yet, though he doth all he can, he cannot him over take,  
Which is the cause his breast he beats, and sorrow great doth make.  
And now hard at his heels he is, which when the Satire sees,  
Into a hollow gloomy Rock, to hide himself he flees.  
This was the cause the Shepherd lost, the woeful Damsels sight,  
Only by cry of hers he knew, how follow her, he might.  
So long he seeks, that at the last he comes into the room,  
Where as the Satire, 'gainst her will, the Virgin would over come.  
Which sight, incensed him so with rage, as that his sword he takes,  
And trusting him through body quite, an end of him he makes.  
Down falls the Monster in his gore, his lust gins to cool,  
Whilst with his streaming blood, he makes the place seem like a Pool.  
Which when the gentle Shepherd saw, no more he weary was,  
(Now he had had his will) he for his travail did not pass.  
The frighted Nymph, he comforteth, and bids her be of cheer,  
Since that the Satire (for his rash attempt) had paid so dear.  
He wils her thanks the God of Love, who had him thither sent,  
Her to protect from villainy, which was against her meant.  
Nor looketh he, for praise of her, but happier thinks himself,  
To save a Nymph from shame, then if he purchased had great wealth.  
Thus said the Shepherd to the Nymph, but (thus) although he said,  
Yet answered she him nought at all (for still she was afraid.)  
She shook like an Aspen leaf, her hart did throb and pant,  
And being frighted in her mind, she breath, almost did want.  
Resembling right a pretty Hind, by Hounds that being chaste,  
And hardly scaping from their claws, thinks scarce the dangers past.  
She views the Satire, wallowing in his own blood desperately,  
Yet though she plainly seethe the same, she scarce believes her eye.  
The Shepherd seeing her still doubt, from fear, her for to win,  
Once more gins to comfort her, and thus he doth begin.  
Sweet Nymph, what meanest thou thus to doubt, and why thyself dost wrong,  
Dost not behold thy lustful foe, dead for to lie along?  
To fear (where cause is) Reason wills; withouten cause to fear,  
Argues a mind deprived of sense, and sign's of folly mere.  
Comfort thyself, and (if thou can) tell me what new disgrace,  
May be of force, to daunt with dread; thy bloodless paly face.  
Seest not thy lifeless enemy, his countenance dost not know?  
His earthly coarse, as evidence that he is dead, doth show.  
Cease then to doubt, for fear of aught since now thou hast no cause,  
Leave thus to weep, wail, and lament and make thereof a pause.  
Take courage unto thee, and think my victory upon,  
The wise (of dangers past) will were so much as (once) think on.  
Then leave off for to sorrow thus, and seem not to disdain,  
Through too much passion, honour this, which I through thee do gain.  
(So said) he gently helps her up, and sets her on her feet,  
Whilst with a thousand honey words, he sweetly her doth greet.  
The Nymph, now come unto herself, gins to gather hart,  
To chase away all fear from her, which fore did breed her smart.  
Her former colour now doth come into her cheeks afresh,  
Whilst she in humble sort, with thanks unto him doth express.  
Her grateful mind, acknowledging in courteous manner trim,  
How that her honour, and her life, preserved were by him.  
With blushing look, and smiling cheer, she crowns with flowers his head,  
And vows in modest wise, to be at his devotion led.  
But welladay, who ere would think, that thanks for his reward,  
Should be the cause, a recompense he should receive so hard.  
This kindness, which the Nymph on him bestowed, deserving worth,  
Th'untimely end of him and of his FLORA dear, brought forth.  
For doing good, the filly swain, his harmless life must lose,  
A slender hire for praise, when at so high a rate it grows.  
Things taken well, are still done well; a sin 'tis to mistruct,  
Upon surmises false and vain, and proofs not to have just.  
Ah had the shepherds Mistress been as wise as she was fair,  
She had not heaped upon herself, nor him, such dismal care.  
Meantime, brave Numidor, through his exploit, most famous grew,  
And through the Nymphs grateful report, each one this matter knew.  
Which FLORA made for to misdoubt, for long time she before,  
Had marked the Virgin to be fair, the cause she feared the more.  
She saw (as she did think) that o'er familiar he was  
With her, and how oft them betwixt, great kindnesses did pass.  
She well remembered, how they daunct together; and which most  
Did gall her, how in hast away, he (after her) did post.  
When as the Satire snatch her up, her to have ramshed,  
And (how to save her) he again his life had ventured.  
All these compared together, made her guess, all was not well,  
So that, her body quite throughout, an uncouth cold sweat fell.  
And now she 'gan to love so much, as jealous she did grow  
Of him, that (near) the same deserved, nor had off ended so.  
She sighs, and sobs, and frantic like, now here, now there doth run,  
Thinking her dearest Love of friend, an exemie was become.  
Nor dares she (in her soul) him call her faithful servant true,  
Nor worthy of a Mistress kind, since he hath got anew.  
Against (him say) she doth exclaim, and still 'gainst him doth cry,  
Calls him unjust, deceitful, false, of right, an enemy.  
And (as if he committed had some monstrous sin on earth,)  
She counts him worthy for to die, unsit to draw his breath.  
And now, she thoroughly is assured, that he is given to range,  
And that of his first plighted Love, he hath made an exchange.  
This forceth her, with face (one while) as pale and wan to look,  
Another while to be as red, as fire from furnace took.  
Now doth she burn, and then again, she suddenly doth freeze,  
Whilst through these passions contrary, her senses she doth lose.  
And now to kill her NUMIDOR, she vows most resolute,  
Since him, a perjured wretch (and not better) she doth repute.  
That done, she means to end her days, and slay herself, him by.  
The more, her constant Love unto the world to testify.  
But now, Love makes her change her thought, although against her will,  
And forceth her (although despite of her) to love him still.  
She weeps and wails, and pearly drops fall from her like small tears,  
Whilst as a bedlam she doth rend her face, and golden hears.  
She flings herself upon the ground, her head thereon she knocks,  
Whilst grief so much in her bears sway, as it tongues passage locks.  
With arms a cross, unto the heavens, she lifteth up her hands,  
Whilst she, of Venus and her Son, revenge of him demands.  
Yet, after of the matter she, better bethinks herself,  
And then unto him she doth wish, all happiness and health.  
Grieving that she so much hath spoke 'gainst him, she doth repent,  
And from her former cruel mind, most willing doth relent.  
But ne'ertheless, she is resolved herself, to end her life,  
Thereby to ease her of her pangs, and rid her from this strife.  
So much, she doth disdain to live, as death she means to choose,  
Since Numidor, a Mistress new, hath took, her to refuse.  
Ah cruel Shepherd doth she say, lamenting piteously,  
Hast thou the hart, who thee so dear hath loved to force to die?  
Well, well, most unkind man, I for thy sake, myself will slay,  
And go into my grave I will (untimely) fore my day.  
To please thee (not myself I sought) whilst I on th'earth did live,  
Nor to prolong my days tle seek, since thee (I see) I grieve.  
But at this fault of thine so foul (ungrateful) dost thou think,  
The Gods above (true justicers) will seem at all to wink.  
Thinkest thou (unkind) the heavens will (ere) unto thee be kind,  
When (how thou foully hast profaned their Altars) they shall find?  
No, no, th'immortal powers, sharp foes unto thy perjury,  
Shall do me right, and wreak my wrong, for this my injury.  
Such punishment (with tortures huge) they shall on thee bestow,  
As they do on Danaides, in Limbo lake below.  
And as they Theseus plagued because he wretched was forsworn,  
Or jason, who Medea left, all comfortless, forlorn.  
With many other Lovers false, which like are unto thee,  
(There) as thou (rightly) dost deserve, afflicted thou shalt be.  
For jupiter, though (for a while) he men permits to room,  
And fickle change prove, yet in the end he payeth them home.  
So Paris died (and well deserved) Enone that abused,  
Who in her life time (better) him (than he deserved) had used.  
Then dost thou think (fondman) that thou shalt scape this scourage alone,  
Who, art the sowrse of all my grief, and motive of my moan?  
Perhaps thou dreamest, because that they awhile their plagues do spare,  
They slow are unto punishment, nor of the same have care.  
What is deferred, is not unpaid; the time shall come ere long,  
That thou shalt make amends for miss, acknowledging this wrong.  
The more to chastise any fault, the Gods (gently) forbear,  
The more at last they are rigorous, more cruel and severe.  
Then, think not (wrech most treacherous) but that the day shall come,  
That thou shalt smart, for what thou hast to woeful Flora done.  
My cause to the heavens I do commit, to them I do appeal,  
They know the secrets of all hearts, nor aught will they conceal.  
And yet (sweet Numidor) forgive, and pardon what I say,  
Since 'tis my grief (not I) that thus, against thee doth enuay.  
For shouldst thou never so much wrong do unto me each hour,  
Yet angry for to be with thee, near shall I have the power.  
Love, which is of more force in me, than is this thy offence,  
Command me (loving thee) with thee and with thy fault dispense.  
judge then of this strange cruelty, that it should me constrain,  
To love and honour him who is the Author of my bane.  
So we, the feeble sick man see, through senseless fond desire,  
(What is th'occasion of his death) to covet and require.  
So I (arrested by proud Love) am forced injuriously,  
Alack the while, to honour thee, who laughst to see me die.  
Thee must I like, and follow still, despite of my poor hart,  
Although void of all honesty, and friendly Love, thou art.  
Still for thy sake I languish must, in death, with great disease,  
Yet I myself count happy, since I do it thee to please.  
The Gods forget (as I forgive thee) from mine inward soul,  
And never may they, for my death, as faulty thee control.  
As willingly I thee forgive, as to my death I go,  
For, being dead, thou then too late my constancy shalt know.  
Well mayst thou have a fairer friend, but faithfuller was never,  
Who as she served thee, whilst she lived, in death she'll love thee ever.  
But thou, great Cupid, rightful judge, revenge my cause above,  
On her, who traitorously hath stolen from me, my heart and love.  
Plague her, that makes me pine away, example let her be,  
To Lovers all, how they take heed, to use such treachery.  
Plague her that hath my Lover stolen, my lovely NUMIDOR,  
And let her feel like punishment, as I have felt over sore.  
Ah let her not, who loyal Faith, so shamefully doth soil,  
Raise Trophies of my overthrow, nor triumph in my spoil.  
Thus Flora prated and sighed, thus wailed the heavy Shepherdess,  
Was never Nymph, or Maiden borne, that felt such deep distress.  
In wailing, and in weeping, she did spend the day and night,  
And the remainder of her life, in sorrow, sans delight.  
And now she weary is of life, life doth her vex and grieve,  
A greater Corsie hath she not, than that she thus doth live.  
She doth resolve to die forthwith, and yet she feign would choose,  
The gentlest, and the easiest way, her soul from corpse to lose.  
For to dispatch herself with sword, it was too fierce and fell,  
The fire displeased her, and the rope to her was horrible.  
To fling herself down from some Rocks high top she had desire,  
But being there, the height thereof, did make her to retire.  
Upon the Seaish bank she stood, minding therein to leap,  
But raging waves did her affright, from drowning they her kept.  
As we behold amazed to stand, the doubtful traveler,  
Not knowing which way for to take, by reason of great fear.  
(Unskilful which path for to trace, beset most dangerously,  
Which he already, seemeth in his mind, to view with eye.  
On every side with Thiefs, who all the passages about  
Have laid, so as he knoweth not how, from thence to get him out.  
So Flora doubtful, and yet full of corrosives and of pain,  
Knoweth not what death were best to choose, though she would die full feign.  
She musing looks, now here, now there, she runneth every hour  
About the woods, and wisheth that some beast might her devour.  
O, that we should ill wish ourselves, oftentimes we wishing woe  
Unto ourselves, it lights on us: poor Flora found it so.  
No wisdom 'tis, the Gods (to punish us) to put in mind,  
Too soon, they can, if so they please, to plague us, just cause find.  
Mean time, Love, at this Shepherdess doth smile and at her grief,  
Who more she doth her woes bewail, the more she wants relief.  
His glory he embellisheth, by reason of her care,  
And his victorious Chariot, with the same doth make more fair.  
But leaving her (still) languishing, we will again return  
To Numidor, who missing her, doth wail as fast and mourn.  
He seeks and searcheth every where, for Flora, he doth call,  
But yet no voice but Echo shrill, doth answer him at all.  
Echo, doth only answer him, with waist, and fruitless sound,  
He hears her name, but Flora's self, can no where yet be found.  
Like as the Hart (that loving Dear) when he his pretty Hind,  
Runs round about in every place, with flying pace to find.  
Now seeketh her amongst the Rocks, and then the woods among,  
Then in the Forests there by Fords, and Rivers all along.  
And finding still to miss her, then seeks in some hollow Cave,  
To see if there her company, as fortunate he may have.  
And weary now, with seeking her, he down lieth in some place,  
Sighing full sore for want of her, whom he longs to embrace.  
So doth our Shepherd; who was now, with seeking her being tired,  
wails his hard hap, not her to find, whom he so much desired.  
So much he wails, as hardest Rocks, grieve that so much he seeks,  
And piteous Echo, when he sighs, in recompense (now) weeps.  
Each thing, seemed (to their power) as though they secure to him brought,  
Only did Flora want (alas) for whom so much he sought.  
Flora, for whom he sought, whom yet he could not once entreat,  
That she vouchsafe would to his cries, to answer and to speak.  
Flora, who power had over him, him to command alone,  
Whose death and life lay in her hands, for her (thus) did he moon.  
And now into his troubled brain, did many fancies come,  
One while he thinks some God of woods with her away is run.  
Or that some other Satire ruff, hath drawn her to some cane,  
And there (against her will) doth mind, his will on her to have.  
Another while he doubteth sore, lest in this uncouth wood,  
Some savage beast hath seized on her, and spilled her harmless blood,  
Or else, he fears, she him will have no more unto her mate,  
But rather means, some Lover now, into her grace to take.  
Thus doth he languish comfortless, to see his hard estate,  
And in a manner doth begin to grow as desperate.  
What hopeful is, that he rejects, no joy he entertains,  
But as a man careless of help, he wretchedly remains.  
As is a guilty person brought before the judge severe,  
Convicted (fore him) for his fault, which proved is most clear.  
His conscience telling him of his offence, and his amiss,  
And for to prove the same, before him, his sharp witness is.  
Which when he findeth, shame and grief doth so his sins confound,  
As he his life, not to respect, nor to regard is found.  
So woeful full of heavy care, this hapless Shepherd was,  
And (so, he Flora had not lost) for life he did not pass:  
But having lost her, he did think, his heart and soul was gone,  
And therefore comforted he would not he of any one.  
Yet he no sooner breath had took, but that he ne'ertheless,  
For all his toiling, 'gan to seek, and search for her afresh.  
He prieth into every bush, through groves he looketh all,  
Andrunnes so fast, as oftentimes (through haste) he down doth fall.  
Trough brambles sharp, through bushes, and through hedges he doth pass,  
Through thick and thin, and all to find his long sought dearest I ass.  
Like to the Dear that chased is, by Hunter, he did run,  
And then again gins the course, that he before had done.  
When, missing of his purpose, he laments in piteous case,  
And (cruel to himself) doth scratch and tear his manly face.  
Even as Hippollitus the chaste, was drawn by his fair hair,  
Through forests, woods, and mount aine tops, and hurried every where.  
And at the last, his limbs were rend asunder one from one,  
Whilst (frighted with sea monsters) he from Chariot fell alone.  
So, such our Shepherd seemed to be, resembling such a wight,  
Whilst streams of blood run down alongst his body, view you might.  
He sighs and sobs, within the woods, with voice most dolorous,  
Whilst on the name of Lady his, he crieth and calls on, thus.  
Ah where art thou my Flora dear● alas, where mayst thou be?  
And why shouldst thou be so unkind, to hide thy face from me?  
What place so happy is to hold thyself (mine only joy?)  
Thy beauty (now) where doth it shine, chase away annoy?  
(Light of mine eyes) say dost thou love? ah yet unto me speak?  
And be not so unkind, my heart (with calling thee to break?)  
Where so thou liv'st, blessed is that place, thrice blessed aye,  
More willing than in paradise, I there would bide and stay.  
Alack what have I done to thee, thou shouldst be so unkind,  
To part from me (my better part) and leave my soul behind?  
No doubt, some God hath gotten thee, enjoying presence thine,  
Some heavenly power doth honour thee, which breedeth sorrow mine.  
For thinkest thou, withouten thee, I can draw forth this breath?  
Thinkest thou that in thine absence. I can live upon this earth?  
Then speak (my sweet) vouchsafe so much, as tell me, where art thou?  
Where bide those rare perfections, and where shine thy virtues now?  
May I not be so happy, as to know, where thou dost keep?  
Since for thy loss, I cannot choose, eternally but weep?  
Without thy careful Numidor, tell me where dost thou stay?  
Who (ever) hath thee loved, and who will love thee still for aye?  
Canst thou, if him (as he doth thee) so much and truly love,  
Grieve him so much, vex him so much, and overmuch him move?  
I knew the time, I must confess, when as thou didst sermount,  
For loyal Love, and when of me, thou didst make account.  
I know, I know, thou loudest me once, that loved me thou hast,  
And that for constant loyalty, our mutual Love hath past.  
I know that Love, o'er both our hearts, tryumpht as Conqueror,  
And that o'er both our souls he had, the like and selfsame power.  
I'll swear that once thou lovedst me, though now thou lov'st me not,  
Though now that fire extinguished is, and thou hast me forgot.  
I know not, if (as weary of me) thou beginst to range,  
And that thy fickle mind desires, else where to soar and change.  
Or, whether, having found a man, thou better lik'st than me,  
I am rejected, and shook off, and quite cassheirde by thee.  
Which if that it be so, why then, die must poor Numidore,  
And with his death, his fortune hard, and thy bad mind deplore.  
If it be so, he must resign his life to death, and die  
Rather than live, thus languishing in pain continually.  
If it be so, I needs must say (though so to say) doth grieve,  
There is no trust in any one, no faith on earth doth live.  
Needs must I say women are false, that constant few remain,  
And that their Sex doth harbour ● aught, but false dissembling shame.  
If it be so, that Flora, false, to Shepherd hers hath proved.  
Then well I swear, that loyally, never hath (woman) loved.  
But why (alas) talk I so vain? too idle is my head,  
Whilst with such frantic raging fits my fantasy is fed?  
What madding humour vexeth me, what bedlam jealousy?  
What fond conceit makes me to talk (Sans Sens) so foolishly?  
Am I so vilely given, to think that Flora will cassbeire  
Her servant Numidor, whom she (before) hath loved so dear?  
That she (to any) but to him, will true and faithful prove,  
That she will falsify her faith, orethrowing her first Love?  
O thought most base to have of her, conceit her to mistrust,  
O traitorous Shepherd, worthless man, O lover most accursed.  
Have I (long) heretofore, her Love with Touchstone thoroughly tried,  
And shall she now with censure hard, withouten cause abide?  
Shall I, of infidelity condemn her, and suspect,  
When I have ever known her, all bad motions to reject?  
No, no sweet Flora, I dare swear, and I do know too well,  
Thou lov'st thy Numidor, nor him (for new) will't ever sell.  
No, thou dost love him, though some God, hath ta'en thee 'gainst thy will,  
And keepeth thee (perforce) although, thou never meanedst ill.  
I know thou dearly lovest him, as dearly as thy hart,  
And that his absence makes thee wail, and in thee breedeth smart,  
I know my presence thou dost wish, and dost lament my loss,  
I know, that my not being with thee, thou dost count a cross.  
I do believe assuredly (nor otherwise i'll think,)  
Thy love so sacred near can die, nor ever be extinct.  
Too much thou lovedst me, too much thou (aye) of me didst make,  
To leave me, to abandon me, and me for to forsake.  
Thou lovest me, and dost desire with me to be, I know,  
But that bad fortune crossed thee, the faults thereof to show.  
Then in what place, thy sweetest self doth sojourn and doth stay,  
And where so ere thy beauty fair her brightness doth display.  
Where o'er thy gracious eye doth glance, controlling with delight,  
Embellsshing with lulstrious rays, the glory of thy sight;  
Ah, there the Gods I do beseech, all happiness to reign,  
Down on thee fast, whilst there thou mayst, in pleasure (safe) remain.  
Whilst I mean while, will go to seek some woeful uncouth place,  
Some hollow Rock, where I may live, since I can find no grace.  
For being of thy seemly shape (though undeserved) deprived,  
I needs must breathe my last of force, and seek to be distiude.  
Then happy live thou, live thou long, and never mayst thou taste,  
Of sorrow such as I have done, to force thy life to waste.  
Thus said the Shepherd, and therewith, seeks still some hollow Cane,  
Wherein he soon may find his end, which he desires to have.  
He seeks to find his death, whilst her to find he near doth linne,  
As did Apollo, Daphna chase, whose love he sought to win.  
Nor wearied is he: Lovers near are wearied, when the fire  
Of Love doth burn their entrails hot, with coals of strange desire.  
Long travail, never tireth them, but still they labour fresh,  
And though they be over charged, yet take thy courage ne'ertheless.  
Then Numidor (by Love) borne out, both day and night doth seek  
For his fair Saint, for whom he longs and much desires to meet,  
As one beholds the Lioness, at mouth with froth to foam,  
When she to seek her little ones (stolen from her) forth doth run.  
She never stayeth, but restless runs the forests all about,  
Nor gives she over, although her bones and back do crack throughout.  
Running, sometimes upon the bills, and then on Champions plain,  
Another whilst alongst corn fields, with swiftie pace amain.  
And in the end wearied with grief, herself flings on the ground,  
Resolved to die (through hunger) starved, since they will not be found.  
So such a part our Shepherd played, when he did see with eye,  
His Mistress he no where could find, he faints, resolved to die.  
But welladay, before his death, he saw his Flora fair,  
Flora for whom so oft he called, the cause of all his care.  
The coarse of that fair Nymph, for whom he thought himself forlorus,  
He found a Savage beast had all in pieces cruel torn.  
For whilst through madding jealousy, she up and down did fret,  
In thickest woods, as she desired, a Lion there her met.  
Which seizing on her with his paws, did tear her in a trise,  
(The goodliest creature that did live) he slew in furious wise.  
Yet as she died, on Nunidor she called (as he might hear)  
For help, though all in vain, and though (as then) he was too near.  
Too near to her so piteous sound, too far to help her tho,  
Which was the reason, that the more it did increase his woe.  
(She slain) away the Lion runs, when as from mountain high,  
He might perceive her breathless trunk, in pieces torn to lie.  
Which when he saw, he thither ran, as if he had been mad,  
So fast he ran, as (running) then, nor strength nor breath he had.  
Down falls he sounding for pure grief, upon the linelesse corpse,  
So long, as he did seem indeed as dead, without remorse.  
At last (though long) he once more comes unto himself again,  
Calling his vital spirits to him, although with grievous pain.  
Whilst for to utter these few words (words grievous) he do 〈◊〉,  
Words such, so pitiful, as well both heaven and earth might move.  
And art thou dead (fair nature's work) the Mirror of thy time,  
Art thou disliu'de, whom all admired as sacred and divine?  
Art thou a prey to envious Death, could Death thee thus annoy?  
Who whilst thou livedst, my comfort waste, my selace and my joy?  
O Death unjust, damned, ennious unto my chiefest ease,  
Durst thou so much (o'er insolent) my Flora fair displease?  
Woes me thou'rt dead, and with thee dead, are those thine Eyes so bright:  
Thine Eyes, which men for to revive, had power, enough, and might.  
Ah thovart dead, where whilom lodged mine hart, and inward soul,  
Thou now art dead, whose only looks, the proudest did control.  
But thou art dead, and can I live, to see a sight so sore?  
Is Flora gone, and likely be't, that live should Numidore?  
Prodigious Planets, me to make ore-live my Lady dear,  
Since she, the Essence of my life was, whilst I tived here.  
heavens most unjust, to give to me, of life so long a scope,  
Since I behold (destroyed) her, in whom was all my hope.  
But ye mine eyes, why fear you not, so foul a sight to mark?  
And looking on it, afterwards, become not blind and dark?  
Most cruelly destned as I was; thrice happy had I been,  
If I had never had these eyes, and never could have see●●.  
Thrice happy I, if some wild beast, in pieces had me tore,  
So I this murder near had spied, which I so much abhor.  
I was not (beauteous Nymph) no way, to be compared to thee,  
If so, why then should any way, Death hinder be to mee●  
Accursed soul of mine, and thou, mine ever restless hart,  
Canst thou abide to breath so long, to taste such uncouth smart?  
I am a Man, and of more strength, than she was; why then first  
Since I could (better) death endure, died I, not most accursed?  
Reason it was, and conscience, that I die before thee should,  
Since as my Faith, and duty was, not save thy life, I would.  
Cruel Lion, that hast devoured my joy, come do thy will  
On me, who for to live on earth, count it a heinous ill.  
Come, come, and from this misery, let him I pray be rid,  
Who doth desire to end his days, as his poor Flora did.  
Do us this pleasure, for to kill us both (at once) together,  
That dying so, thou both mayst please (as well contenting either)  
Why comest not (cruel) then; since that for thee I do attend?  
And stay thy leisure, that thou mightst, my wretched body rend.  
I see thou art no Lion right, but of a Bastard kind,  
Else sooner me, than Lady mine (ere this time) thou wouldst find.  
A Lion, generous indeed, disdaineth for to prey,  
On silly Virgins, harmless Maids, but lets them go their way.  
He only seizeth on stout men, or such as be his Foes,  
And spoileth them, that chaseth him, tearing in pieces those.  
Where, forth tyrannize upon a Nymph, a murders such,  
As never like was heard before and is detested much.  
But I perceive thou darest not come, yet in despite of thee,  
I'll spoil myself, that so I may, with my dear Mistress be.  
I'll die, that I may follow, for to serve my Mistress,  
Who seeks his Lady to survive, of life not worthy is.  
(Fair) thee the heavens have reft, to make themselves more fair to show,  
Whilst here, upon the earth with us, they nought have left, but woe.  
Fair, they have taken thee away, to beautify more fair  
Themselves, whilst here (instead of thee) they leave eternal care.  
Mean time, I live still languishing, thy heavy loss to rue,  
Unworthy to have bidden thee farewell, or once Adieu.  
Yet Flora, in despite of Death, thou flourish shalt for ever,  
Thy praise shall show Acanthus like, still flowering, dying never.  
The sweet Clove, Gillyflower, and Rose, of Spring, it shall put down,  
Thy beauty was more beautiful, and of more fresh renowue.  
My dainty Flora being dead, shall be such kind of Flower,  
As she shall be eternal (aye) and flourish every hour.  
Death may our lives abridge (through Spite) bating our youthful days,  
But Virtue it can near subdue, nor subingate her praise.  
But why live I? it may be said, that I in life remains.  
Who living, feel the torments of damned Ghosts, sternall point.  
No, no, I live no more, my days are turned to darkest nights,  
Already I am registered, amongst the lifeless Sprights.  
That I should live, and Flora dead, a thing's impossible,  
To stay behind her, she being gone, I loved her too well.  
(Sweet) I must satisfaction make, to thee for mine offence,  
Although I shame, when I do think, on my vile negligence.  
Had I been careful over thee as (but my part) it was,  
Thou then hadst been alive as now, to joy with me (alas.)  
I did deserve the punishment, for thou didst near ●ffend,  
Ah woe is me, thou not through Foes, hast died has through thy Friend.  
For which my trespass, I resign my life most millingly,  
Never so much desiring life, as now I wish to die.  
But yet before I breath my last, let me obtain thy grace,  
That I may kiss those Diamond eyes, that quondan● beautions face.  
Which said, the Shepherd taketh up, her li●●●es so seatered,  
Whilst them embracing, floods of tears, upon them (swift he shed)  
So much, and oft, so pitiful, he sobbed, and sched ●o fast,  
Asru●hlesse Rocks, seemed for to moan, and half inpieces braced.  
So woefully he wailed, as All. (except his Mistress dear,  
Who to a better world was gone) did seem his 〈◊〉 to hear.  
Yet though he sighed, wept, and grieved, and did la●●nt so fore,  
He could not ne'ertheless his Love, to former liferestore.  
For Flora's Spirits were flown from hence, her soul it did uscend.  
To heavens, where her betrothed Spouse, with joy she did attend.  
Which he perceiving, gets him up, and to a Mountain goes,  
From top of which, on Mistress his, himself (he headlong) throws.  
He falls upon her breathless limbs, and as he dying fell,  
He calls on her, and still he cries, Flora, Adieu, Farewells.  
Th●●r murdered bodies massacred, within a while were found,  
Which were entombed together both, within one grave in ground.  
And that of this their loyal Love, the Fame should never die,  
This woeful Story was engraven, in plates of juonis.  
The Shepherd having made an end of his Tragical discourse, forced the eyes of his Auditors to stand full of water, whilst thev streamed down so small tears, as it seemed to be the dribbling golden shower, in which jupiter descended down, falling into the fair lap of lovely Danae; Whilst Arcas sighed, remembering his dear Diana. Coribant wept, thinking upon his cruel Delia, and whilst the lovely Nymph Orythia, casting a look (pleading for pity) upon Aroas, mourned in her heart, to see his more than fierce rigour towards her.  
Mean space, Delia arrived, whom no sooner Coribant espied, but that he presently arose, going towards her, and after he had saluted her with great kindness, thus began to accost her.  
Beauteous Shepherdess, every thing (excepting thyself only) freely exercise their LOVE: what? is thy soul (alone) made of Ice, or thy heart framed of Steel? Which way can it hinder thee to love me, seeing I have given thee so many proofs of my more than common fidelity, and faithful constancïe towards thee? Wilt thou be the only She in the world, that shall live without loving? Why, the sacred Muses themselves (have loved,) and Calliope herself, did bear, and bring forth a child.  
What God is there that can forbid and prohibit to Love, when they themselves first gave precedents unto men, to follow the same? He is not to be blamed, that followeth the instructions of his Lord, and (to his power) doth imitate his master in what he doth.  
Love then, and if not, as a mortal creature, yet at the lest do it, as the Gods have done before thee. For he deserveth not to be termed a true and loyal servant unto his Master, that taketh a quite contrary course, unto that which he teacheth him, as if he would oppose himself against him, for the very nonce.  
Is it possible thou shouldest (so long) hate him, who loveth thee so dearly? And wilt thou be longer in making me some recompense, than those two brethren of Helen were, who saved that Poet, which sung their praises all abroad? Speak then, and satisfy me, seeing the Gods, (although they be puissant and mighty) disdain not to answer men, by the mouth of their Oracles.  
What should I answer unto thee Shepherd (replied Delia) but that it is impossible for any creature (LOVE only excepted) to make one love, against their own minds. Hippolytus (for all the prayers and entreating, which Phoedra used unto him) could never be moved to fancy her: Neither could Daphne, for all Apollo's persuasions, be induced to love him. No, no, LOVE is a piercing dart, not thoroughly known of mortal men, which oftentimes without reason, urgeth us to affect that that is not worthy of our Amity.  
Be not there many Lovers, that if one should demand of them the cause of their Love, they know not what to say, nor can allege any reasonable excuse for the same? I know there be.  
How many Blowses be there, which are preferred before such as be beautiful indeed? And how many base and beastly fellows, before right brave and generous Spirits? What is the occasion of this disorder, none can tell: Only they will say, it is the pleasure of Cupid, it should be so.  
Then thinkest thou with thy often speeches, to compel me to love thee? and dost thou suppose, that without the power of Love, I can be moved to bear thee any affection? If so thou dost, thou art in the wrong, and therefore trouble Loan no more, but rather let him take such course, as he shall think best: without seeking any more to constrain him, against his divine pleasure. For if he be able to take down the Gods, much more is he to conquer thee, by forcing thee to follow his will, and to condescend unto whatsoever he shall command thee.  
Alas (answered Coribant) few diseased persons there be, that do not complain for grief, (engendered of sighs) they being his forerunners, and messengers, to manifest the same abroad. Dost thou imagine that I am able to support this sorrow, which I feel in liking thee, and that I can conceal the same, without making thee acquainted with the tediousness thereof?  
But I see for all I complain, yet I find small comfort, (for mortal men cannot obtain all they covet of the Gods:) Yet nevertheless, I will discharge my conscience unto thee, which hath enjoined me to manifest this my so great evil, to the end I might see if I could find any remedy, to make it whole again.  
But (sayest thou) LOVE is not purchased with tears nor plaints, neither with sighing nor sobbing, but must come of his own proper mind, and when he pleaseth. What is this thou sayest, (unkind as thou art) wilt thou deny, that perseverance in constant liking, is the mother of LOVE? If small drops of water, by often falling, do make hollow the Stone; And if rough and rusty iron is made smooth and bright, with often handling of the same; Why then, wilt thou not in like manner also confess, that unfeigned, long prayers, vows, plaints, and loyal offices of Fidelity, are able to make a breach in the heart of a Lady, through which Love may enter.  
Such hard-hearted women, as neither the tears of their Lovers can mollify or appease, neither their complaints move to pity, neither their secret and faithful service, persuade them to affection, nor their extreme miseries, reduce them to any compassion at all; are far worse than Savage Bears, denouring Lions, or ravenous Wolves, that live in barbarous deserts: many wild Beasts, in steed of swallowing and devouring of men, which have fallen into their paws, to assuage their greedy hunger, in steed of praying upon them, have cherished and made much of them, and shall a woman (by natute gentle and mild) be accounted less pitiful than bruit Beasts?  
Dost thou think that it is an offerice to love? If all such Ladies which jupiter loved, had given him the repulse as thou dost me, the world should yet be full of Monsters, spoiled with Tyrants, and overthrown with bad and wicked persons.  
But these courteous women, entertaining that great God, with all kindness that might be, brought forth many Demigods, and heroical Spirits, who most bravely purged the world from these hateful and damned Monsters.  
Olympia, the mother of that great Alexander, received into her bosom that mighty jupiter, conceiving by him that glorious Son, and that great Monarch of the earth. Rbea, the mother of Remus, and Romulus, refused not the kiss of God Mars, being big with child, of those two worthy Princess, which built Rome, afterward, she coming to be Mistress over all the world.  
Away then with these fond conceits, and remember, to be favourable unto me, as these courteous dames have been heretofore.  
Shepherd, Shepheard (answered Delia) never dream of any such thing, between thee and me, for those women yielded unto the Gods, because they might bring forth children worthy of such Fathers, which might be as profitable unto the public God, as they themselves had been before.  
But such a commodity, cannot happen of our Love (and say it might chance to be so) yet my opinion is (according unto the common saying) that we ought not do Evil, that good may come thereof: because the ill being once done, cannot be amended: whereas we we are not sure, whether that good, which we expect, will fall out according unto our hopes or no, and the rather, because many things happen between the cup and the lip.  
Therefore these precedents shall never persuade me to love, for none are bound to follow that which is lewd or bad, neither are they commanded to be wicked, after the examples of others. Then Shepherd, change thou thy mind, thine own self, or else thou wilt force me to shun thy company, for there is nothing that troubleth the ears of another more, then to repeat often that which is pleasing unto him.  
Remember the torments of Ixion, for affecting the jealous Sister of jove, and think how poor Tamirus was plagued, for being amorous of the Muses: neither go about to debash a chaste mind to cast liking unto thee, for fear lest the heavens, who punish all such wrongs as are done unto Innocents', revenge not this injury which thou offerest unto me, seeing that he is in more fault, that persuadeth one to lewdness, than he that doth the same, the first, inventing that which (had not he been had never been done) whereas the other, doth but put in practice, what he never (of himself) had meant.  
Quench then and mortify within thee thy foolish desires, and let me alone (I pray thee) to live as I have done, who have been offered but too much wrong already, without having need of thee to buzz such vain toys into my head, as thou dost continually.  
Coribant would have answered, when he might perceive hard at hand, the reverend old man (protector of that Desert) having a staff in one hand, and a book in an other, with which, he controlled the Spirits, as well of the earth below, as of the air above.  
He came to find melancholic Arcas, to the end he might follow and prosecute his amorous History, whom he no sooner espied with Orythia (who was all this while courting of him) but that he marched towards him: which the Nymph perceiving, left him, when the (Magician making a sign) poor Arcas followed him, he not daring to deny him, whereupon they went unto their accustomed place, where being set down, the old man thus began.  
Come on Shepherd, and now begin thy Tale, which the other day thou leftest unperfect, for it is to no end to take a business in hand, except we finish the same.  
Dispatch I pray thee, and let me hear what thou canst say more, as concerning thy chaste Loves, for sweet is the memory of things commendable, the recital of which, purgeth our souls from many faults, which otherwise we are likely to commit.  
Happy are such, as have had the friendship of good and excellent Poets, and so likewise, unfortunate are they, that chance to fall into their hatred. For, of the first, they make the memory and remembrance everlasting, and eternal, asthey make the last to be counted hateful and detestable; for so do the writings of the ancient Poets show us.  
Homer, bringeth Achilles, and the Greeks' to be victors, although it was the Trojans that had the upper hand, making Penelope to be the Mirror of chastity and wisdom, when indeed, she was no better than an infamous Courtesan: and Virgil commendeth the traitor Aeneas, when the very truth is, he like a disloyal wretch, sold Troy: and condemneth modest Dido, to make the world to hate her, she being as free from any such lascionsnes, as Maro was, from telling what was true.  
Happy therefore are such, as learned Poets favour with their pens, but above all, most fortunate are those, whom thou hast taken in hand to praise, because thy Muse is veritable and not a liar, or untrue.  
Blessed are those, thy beauteous Ladies, whose worthy virtues thou hast blazed forth, with so great respect and reverence; since the memory of them, shall never perish, by reason of devouring time, or be drowned in the pitchy Riner of forgetful Lethes.  
Go forward then, for the soul that is dallied withal, deferred from hope, is grievously afflicted with sorrow, and the hindrance of that thing which one desireth, maketh the conceit of the joy, to be far less, than otherwise it would be.  
Great is the charge thou layest upon me (replied Arcas) and hardly would I take such a piece of work in hand for any other, but the law willeth, that he that receiveth, must render again: neither is it sufficient for one to be beholding unto another, unless he make some satisfaction for the same: and therefore, seeing I am in this predicament, it is but reason, that I should endeavour to acquit myself towards thee, in satisfying thy desire, because I am so much bound unto thee.  
And yet (before I go any further) I beseech thee (grave Father) and all such as shall come after thee, unto whom this work by fortune shall happen, to believe, that I have not declined from the truth, in any one word, in describring the rare perfections of JULIETTA, and of DIANA, they being such as I have painted forth, or rather far more excellent than I am able to display.  
And therefore let the Posterities hereafter believe (as we at this day do) that as there was a brave and valiant Harpalice, that as Thomaris, sometimes reigned, who discomfited the vanquisher of Kings; that as Pentisilea, gave succour and assistance unto the Trojans, that as Sage and courageous Zenobia lived, with thousands of other peerless women: So was their flourishing JULIETTA and DIANA, two Ladies and Virgins, of so excellent and exquisite qualities, as well of the body as the mind, as never any of their Sex, in the old time, are to be compared unto them.  
But to come to the purpose: If you remember, I presented certain verses unto my sugared Saint (for so I told you) and she accepting of them, went with the other Nymphs towards the Temple of Diana. Fellow her I durst not, for those secret ceremonies were forbidden to be solemnised by men; whilst she in the mean space carried away my hart with her, to stand her in steed of a sacrifice, which she might offer unto her Goddess.  
Long did I expect her coming back again; and grievous was it unto me, to stay so long her return: but there was no other remedy; wherefore I laid me down under a broad Beech Tree; where, if I had heard never so small a noise, I presently started up, thinking I should have beheld the sweet face, and comely countenance of my glorious Sun.  
If but a small leaf had moved, I thought straightways she was come. Then would I count in my mind, how many paces it was from that place unto the Temple, and me thought that now she was coming from thence, & that (by my account) she was so far onward of the way, and and yet I was deceived in my conceit. For I reckoned (as they say) without mine Host.  
One while I doubted lest she had altered her journey, and that she determined to walk some other way. Another while, I feared lest she stayed the longer, because she was loath to come where I was.  
O most weetched is the condition and estate of Lovers, from whom, doubtful fear, and fearful doubt, can never be abandoned. Although men own reverence unto the Gods, and that they ought to respect that Service, as they should their own proper lives: Yet nevertheless, I could (as then) have been very well contented that Diaxa, had been spared from doing that Sacrifice. O miserable law of LOVE, which spoileth all other, and which (so that itself may restalive, and go for currant) careth not although all other considerations be made void and disannulled, how just soever they be.  
The Lover, so he may enjoy what he coveteth, he forgetteth all that is to come, not so much as once thinking of the duty which is due unto the Gods, nor regarding the fear of men, nor respecting sacred Religion at all.  
Great is the Fury (no doubt) that haunteth them: else would not amorous Phoedra, have sought the death of innocent Hippolytus, neither the wife of Putiphar, gone about to have made the virtuous joseph endure so great misery.  
Now, whilst I expected her, whom I could not see: I might hear (not far from me (a certain voice, singing this Ditty following.  
Luckless, and lucky, (both at once) am I,  
With fear and hope, I trembled as a Reed:  
Luckless, by Beauty thine, by Destiny,  
lucky, because I am thy slave indeed.  
For (than thy face) there nothing is more fair:  
Then thy sweet Eyes, nought more divine or rare.  
One while I hope, another while I fear,  
Nor can there any thing my fancy please:  
It grieves me for to see the heavens, though clear,  
So much I doubt thy favour to displease.  
Then thy fair face, there nothing is more fair:  
Then thy sweet Eyes, nought more divine or rare.  
Then (sweet sour Foe) vonchsafe me for to love,  
Or once for all, abridge my time of life:  
Nor suffer me, such torments more to pr●●●,  
Since I must die, lest thou appease this strife.  
For than thy face, there nothing is more fair.  
Than thy sweet Eyes, nought more divine or rare.  
Although thine Eyes, my pains increaseth more,  
Yet (more I see them) more I them admire:  
Thy beauteous feature, I so much adore,  
As for to die for it, I still desire.  
For than thy Face there nothing is more fair:  
Then thy sweet Eyes, nought more divine or rare.  
For loving thee, my griefs I happy deem,  
Though cruel and unsuffrable they be:  
Whilst at the same (as enuiove) I do seem,  
Though for thy sake, how I still die I see.  
Then thy fair face, there nothing is more fair:  
Than thy sweet eyes, nought more divine and rare.  
Then whether death, my life shall take away,  
Or whether I shall laid be in my grave,  
Yet will I love, and honour thee for aye,  
Both dead, and live my service thou shalt have.  
For than thy face, there nothing is more fair:  
Than thy sweet eyes, nought more divine or rare.  
This Song was doleful enough, and yet more dolorous was the voice of him that sung it, which was small remedy unto my sorrows, but rather a fresh beginning unto them, whilst I lanquished, being oppressed with a double martyr, and my grief, increased more and more, the first was, because I loved: and the other was, because I perceived that I was seconded in my loving.  
So violent was the affection which I bore unto my Lady, as it began to breed in me, a certain kind of jealousy, I beginning to imagine, that this other my companion in Love, because he was better liked of, than I was, might be as an overthwart bar, to cross my happy success, making Diana, more hard-hearted unto me, than she would have been, if she had had no more Suitors than myself only.  
This second wound gauled me more than the first, I marveling much, how it was possible for me to resist so sharp an assault. This was the cause I could not take any rest quietly, my mind still running, that I was not so much favoured, nor affected, as this new comer was: Not unlike unto him, who lying in a wood, cannot sleep all that night long, as well because he feareth the ravenous teeth of the wild beasts, as also, the cruel spoiling of fierce and murdering thieves.  
Nevertheless, I began to comfort me at the last, thinking that if this new come guest had been so well entertained by my Saint, he would not then have lamented so much as he did; for one cheerful look, one lovely glance, or one pleasant word proceeding from his Mistress, is enough to make a Lover revive again, although he were before at death's door.  
This then, was the reason, that for a while, I was pacified and contented; but then by and by, I began to doubt again, remembering, that it was an ordinary course of Lovers, to complain without cause; whether it is, because still they have one thing or another in their heads, that maketh the always fear the worse, or whether it be, for that they take a kind of pleasure in complaining and lamenting, after they have glutted themselves with delight, no otherwise than such as (being extreme and hot) fling themselves into cold water, or as unto staruen and famished men, victuals and food are most sweet and delectable.  
This was the perplexity in which I was in, I being so troubled in my mind, as I was half out of my wits, yet in the end I resolved to draw near unto this Shepherd, & to behold him wistly, hoping (that when I had thoroughly marked his countenance) I might quickly conjecture of his disgrace, or contentment, and whether he were in favour with my Mistress or no. Whereupon I stole fair and softly unto him (as with slow and secret pace, Myrrha, approached the bed of her father) when being hard by him (who lay along at the foot of a shadowing Rock) I might hear him demand his fortune of God Pan, who used to answer Lovers, out of the mouth of certain enchanted Rocks. Thus than he began, unto whom an Echo replied, in this sort.  
Hard Rocks, Rocks cruel, insolent by nature and ●b dure,  
Will you no pity take on me, for torments I endure?  
Is no compassion in you lodged, can nothing be offorce?  
Yet (at the last) though long to rue, and yield me some remorse?  
Ah, of my plagues cannot blain, that they may cured be,  
At , yet deign, at my sad cries, with voice to answer me.  
Ah speak, and say the truth, shall I be freed once of this pain?  
Or must I still endure therein, and languishing remain?  
ECHO. Languishing remain.  
Ah say (alas) must this my pain (as thou assurd'st me hast,)  
(Immortal be, continuing still, and must it alwates last?  
ECHO. Always last.  
What comfort then may secure me, who scarcely draw my breath,  
What may my dying soul revive, which is so nigh to death?  
ECHO. Death.  
Shall I then live in sorrow thus? my life away that wears,  
And sighing, shall I nothing do, but power forth watery tears?  
ECHO. Watery tears.  
But sighing thus, be't possible my more than mortal ill,  
(Which makes me peanemeale pine away) should thus continue still  
ECHO. Still.  
Continuing in my passions thus, oppressed with torments rife,  
What other things will they take hence, will they take hence my life?  
ECHO. Life.  
To end my woes, in this sad plight, an end, how might I have?  
Shall I find my relief by Love? or when I am in grave?  
ECHO. In Grave.  
But after millions of these woes, being burnt with loves hot Fuel,  
For to requite my pains, how shall I find my Mistress cruel?  
ECHO. Cruel.  
Why, then I see, no pity she, willford me for my grief,  
And since 'tis so, i'll yield myself to death, without relief.  
With one self bloody instrument, and with lemma selfsame blade,  
My wounded corpse shall healed be, my soude be well apaid.  
Since only death, and none but death, some can comfort give,  
What should me hinder (hapless) that I should longer live?  
I, I will die, yea I will die, and will a mind embrace,  
To massacre that wretched state, that followeth me in chase.  
Well may you (reverend Sir) imagine, if this answer was pleasing unto me, or delightful unto him, especially when he heard the Gods of the Forests to be so contrary unto him in all his desires. Which was the cause, that the poor Shepherd lying groveling upon the ground, and bedewing the green grass with his dreary tears, began to moan thus heavily.  
O death, wilt thou be still dease unto my cries? and wilt thou never hear me, I calling so often and so much upon thee? Hast thou not had time enough, to rid me of my troubles, and wilt thou (still) thus drive me off with delays continually? Thinkest thou, he can live, who pineth away piecemeal, whilst he is fettered with worse than Iton manatles, in the joy less dungeon of unmerciful Love?  
No, he cannot, for he liveth not at all; but rather, miserably consumeth away, who seethe himself, not only deprived of his desire, but also is quite debarred of all hope, ever to obtain the same.  
Ah dear Love, if ever thou (heretofore) hast loved, empoisoning thine own soul, with thine own proper venom, and if thy Mother likewise, hath often played the selfsame part, why then dost not thou take pity upon those, who have endured the same Martyrdom? and since thou knowest their disease (by thine own experience) why dost thou so long defer to bring them remedies for the same? Well, cruel Cupid, well, I see thou art blind indeed, nor hast thou any regard at all to help me.  
The better thou art attended on, the worse thou showest thyself, as one who by nature is borne to do hurt, but not good unto any. Woe is me, I live without hope of any help, more disconsolate, than that Pilot, who though he saileth in a thick and gloomy storm, yet doth he hope (the same being passed) to see the Sun shine again, trusting in the end safely to arrive within the wished Haven.  
But in my dark tempest, and in my stinging corrosives and bitter crosses, I see no hope of any sign of comfort to shine, or smile upon me. Eternal is my shipwreck, and my travail is without all end. O fair Diana, although thou art unkind unto me, yet do I take no small pride, to call myself thy slave, for nothing can come near thee in beauty, neither can I believe, that the heavens themselves can create a beauty, able to paragonise thine. Happy is that Bull, that is chosen to be offered up as an oblation or sacrifice unto the Gods, although his blood be there shed, and so most fortunate should I account myself, 〈◊〉 for thy sake, I might be thought worthy to finish my days, seeing that for thee, I should suffer death, and be sactificed by Love, upon the Altar of thine extreme rigour and fierceness.  
Thus wailed the Shepherd, his eyes sending down whole streams of salt tears, which watered his face and cheeks all over; I seeing this, came nearer unto him, and whilst (he not perceiving me) I began to mark, & behold his countenance, which I saw quite colourlesse, and the very Anatomy of an inward afflicted mind, whereby I gathered, that he had found no more favour than I had, at his Mistress hands, neither that his fortune was any way better than mine. This was the reason, my second doubt died, but not my first, which still increased more and more, because I saw she was sued and sought unto by many, although I could not find any, to be more in her books than I was, which God knoweth was little or nothing at all.  
As I was thinking hereupon, a sudden desire came into my mind, to return unto the place from whence I came, and there attend my fairest Saint, for me thought still, she should be come thither already, and that (she not finding me there) was gone home again, judging my Love, not to be overhot, seeing I had so small patience to stay a little for her.  
Being come to mine old place, as fast as I could, I began there to condemn mine own folly, in that I would not take time whilst I might, but rather so foolishly lose so fitan occasion, as I had offered unto me; and this new accident engendered another trouble in me. Love is an Orchard wherein are planted thousands of Trees, in which Lovers walk, gathering continually divers sorts of fruits, of grief and sorrow, and it is a lively spring of misery, from whence do flow, millions of little Rivers, of pensive care, and sad woe.  
Long had I not kept my stand, but that one of the Nymphs came by, who was one of the play-fellows of my Lady, of whom I inquired if Diana were coming from the Temple or no. Offentimes, the over great curiousness we have to understand news, bringeth us much dolor, and sadness. As then, I found the same to be true, for the Nymph told me, that Diana would stay all that night in the Temple, and that Phoebus, being amorous of her, had entreated his Sister Phoebe, that she might remain there until the next day, to the end he might enjoy her company.  
This unwelcome news, utterly overthrew me, I seeing myself to be bearded with such a companion in my Love, as no doubt would put my nose out of joint, and chase away that small hope, that I had before to creep into some little credit with her.  
Although (some might think) that I had had great reason to have rejoiced, that I had so great a God (unto my Rival) in my Love, yet nevertheless, I bore so proud a nunde, as (like another Marsius) I could willingly have hazarded my skin against him, so I might have hindered him from enjoying my Lady. But they that are bound must needs obey, the weakest must unto the wall, and such as are inferiors, must yield unto the will of their superiors and betters.  
This speech of the foresaid Virgin, made me almost besides myself, for I judged (and not without reason) that so fair a dame (after she had enjoyed the Amity of so mightre a God) would never vouchsafe to stoo pe so low, as deign to think upon a silly Shepherd; and this was the cause I counted myself as utterly undone, and with this heavy resolution I withdrew myself unto my poor cottage, where I gave myself over to weep and wail at my pleasure.  
But whether it were, that the Nymph had false intelligence, or whether she meant to be merry with me or no, I know not, for my Diana stayed not that night in the Temple, but presently after I was gone, returned unto the selfsame place, where I (so long) had expected her coming: which when I understood, I was more vexed & grieved, than I had been before, thinking myself to be forsaken of all good fortune: and thereupon as one mad for very anger, I tore my hair most grievously, bitten my fingers for despite, and cursed myself more than ten thousand times, thinking that this just punishment was lighted upon me, in that I presumed to imagine, that my Lady, who was the very type and pattern of all chastity, would be so vain, as to consent unto such a monstrous immodest motion, although never so great a God had required her: for the greatness of Princes, doth not diminish the offence of a woman, that yieldeth herself unto them, but rather (if she be wise) she ought to close her eyes against such puissant Royalnes, remembering that her honour is as well ravished by a great potentate, as by a mean person, and one of low estate: mean time, whilst I was absent, the other Shepherd (my companion in low estate: mean time, whilst I was absent, the other Shepherd (my companion in love) amorous of Diana, lost neither time nor place, but finding a fit occasion, he ventureth to approach her presence, using this short speech unto her, & presenting her with these two Sonnets following.  
Receive gracious and lovely Nymph, receive (after the custom of the Gods) this lean and bare present, which as a Sacrifice, I offer unto thy rich beaurie, excuse the weakness, and unworthiness thereof, esteeming as much, of the loyal good will of the giver, as if he had been able to have bestowed a far more precious treasure upon thee: she hearing him say so, with a smiling grace took the paper, which when she had unsolded, she read (aloud) as followeth.  

The first Sonnet.  
Thy beauty 'tis, which (cause, immert all it death show,)  
So many proud hearts it doth curb, and bring down low.  
It is thy dauntless spirit, that all as wondrous deem,  
Which thy fair face, and The●es, more fairer maketh seem.  
Ah do not suffer then are cruellte appear,  
Whilst they, their honours due (due unto them) do hear.  
Sacred, he is held with Gods, and sweet to Lovers such,  
Who faithfully doth thee adore, and reverence so much.  
(Fair honour) never do, this mischief foul permit,  
But let mild pity in the look, of this mine enemis sit.  
In my sweet enemies eyes, where writ is beauty's story,  
And let not Surquedry eclipse, with hate such seld seens glory.  
At lest yet come to me: so, if the worst do come,  
I shall have honour, though by death I be undone.  
Whilst she the beauens shall see, her (sharply) to rebuke,  
And mestfull mourn, that she such wrong course 'gainst me took.   

The second Sonnet.  
I live no more, or if (as yet I live,  
'tis thee to please (thou enemy to my life:)  
No greater ill, then nourish what doth grieve,  
Maintaining quenehlesse fire to burn us rife.  
What hates me, I most greedily desire,  
What help me may, that help to me denies  
Alas of whom then shall I aid require,  
A happy lover's he (bewailed) that dies.  
Cruel mishap to force us for to lone,  
What us doth follow with a deadly hate:  
And that, as sacred to account and prone,  
Which spoils, and shorteneth our chief quiet state.  
Thrice treble blest, that never knoweth this ill,  
For better 'tis disloyal to be thought:  
Then (for a dismal Lady) suffer still,  
Who better lost is, then for to be sought.   
The fair Nymph, most graciously accepted these verses. But I (who had no other way to grow in favour with her, but only by this selfsame means) perceiving, that I was seconded by another, who took the selfsame course (and perhaps with better success than I had therein) was not a little sad, fearing lest I should be hindered very much through the same; yet was I not sorry, that many did haroldise the praises of my Lady, neither was I envious at all, that she was so much commended: for a constant Lover indeed, will always prefer the honour and credit of his Mistress, before his own, or all the pleasures which he hepeth to enjoy of her: because that Love that only expecteth pleasure, is no true Love, but rather a filthy desire of Lucre and gain, whereas right Love indeed, esteemeth more of the honour & renown of his Lady, then of his own particular commodity, and profit.  
For that Lover cannot justly say, he hath done any worthy thing in the behalf of his sweet Saint, who aimeth at his own contentment alone, studying out how to benefit himself.  
But he may be said to have made a proof of faithful Amity indeed, who hath laboured, not for his own good, but for his Ladies, whose reputation, good name and same, is more dear unto him, than his own proper life.  
This than was the cause, that I was not sorry, although my Diana had never so many worthy Poets at her command; only, I was exceedingly afraid, lest she should (therefore) make the less account of me, when she had others that could do as well, & as much as myself: and yet nevertheless (I protest I speak not this to flatter myself) she showed not so good a countenance unto this fresh water Soldier in the camp of Cupid, as she did unto me. For these were the speeches she used unto him, after she had red his Sonnets.  
Certainly, sweet is that verse, and dainty is the vain of that Muse, that taketh a worthy Subject to exercise her divine power with all, as brave and goodly, seemeth the swift courser, which runneth in a fair and spacious plain, being guided by a very expert and excellent Horseman.  
But as it is not easy, to make him that is crooked, strait, and as he that goeth always stooping, can hardly walk bolt upright: Even so, although one have never so rare a vain to indite, yet if he have no worthy matter, whereon to be employed, he can hardly write learnedly.  
Homer thought to have made Achilles more valiant and strong than Hoctor, but yet he could not; & Maro did what she was able, to persuade us, that Aeneas, was a man, just, religious, and a great friend unto his City of Troy. But, it was unto no end; for he cannot leave any worthy commendation behind him, that taketh upon him to commend a coward, or one that bath been a Traitor unto his own country.  
I speak this (Shepherd) unto this end, I well perceive thy Muse is wonderful desirous to paint me forth most bravely: but yet nevertheless, I must needs tell thee, that when thou hast done all thou canst, it is to no purpose, because thou shalt never be able to make the world believe otherwise, then that I am a poor silly soul, simple and plain, and one that have not, as much as one good quality in me.  
Take then some other better theme to declaim upon, for if thou relyest upon my praise (which is too weak a stay) thou wilt quickly fall, and thy invention cease, as having not, whereupon to write. Leave me, poor Nymph as I am, with my imperfections, lest thou be the occasion, that where thou seekest to magnify me, I shall be mocked for the same: for far better were it for a man, to have his body and the remembrance of himself to be buried both together, then to be renownred as Thersites was, and so to be infamous, by reason of his memory. Leave than I pray thee, to poetize thus upon me, and rather bestow it upon some other, that doth better deserve it, for too simple am I, to be a Subject for thy Muse.  
To refuse the gift of another, is as much as not to wish him well, or to seek not to be beholding unto him, for fear lest we should be constrained to make him some amends: for as the giver, in bestowing a present, doth show his good will, so he that receiveth the gift (in accepting thereof) doth make manifest his good mind unto him: Even so, my Mistress in refusing the fruits of the new lovers Muse, gave sufficient testimony she did not much affect him, of which thing when I heard, I was not a little pleased. And yet (God he knoweth) how much I was at that time gaulled with afflictions, seeing so many contrary winds (and all in one day) to toss and tumble my weather beaten Bark. All that long night could I not sleep, as much as one wink, as often as I remembered the inestimable pleasure which that great God enjoyed (as I foolishly imagined) with my Diana.  
Besides, I began to grow exceeding jealous, doubting lest, she being now come to have so glorious a Deity, unto her Paramour, would disdain the Love of any other mortal creature, yea, and that now she only doted upon him.  
I dreamt of the great delight Apolle took, to have in his arms so rare a Paragon, but I never (all this while) thought upon that which most of all concerned me, which was the chaste and pure virtues of my Lady: for although I did believe verily, that (as that night) she lay between the arms of that God, yet could I not choose but love her, as much as I had done before; such great force hath Love over us, as he maketh us love our Mistresses (although they be bad and vicious) as well as if they were well given and virtuous; nay I was so far wide from reason, as I thought she was to be excused in satisfying the request of so mighty a God, not thinking this to be any blemish unto her credit at all.  
Thus every Bird, supposeth her own nest to be most fairest, and every mother her own child, pretiest, although it be misshapen, and deformed.  
But when I was assured (of a certain truth) that my Lady had not only, not lain that night in the Temple, but rather like another Daphne, or a new Cassandra, had most virtuously refused this great God, rejected his promises, disdained his gifts, shamed and hated his presence; ah then, two contrary doubts, began a fresh to combat in my heart, the one was, of contentment, seeing my Diana so wise, so modest, and so virtuous: the other was of despair, imagining (and not without cause) that if she had refused the amity of so great a God, much less would she make any reckoning or account of me.  
And thus was I still troubled in my mind, although so much was the affection which I bore unto her, as I had rather to have e'en quite void of all hope ever after, then that she should have committed so foul an offence. For the rare constancy which she had showed, against the solicit, and enticement of that God, made me to look more cranestly into the greatness of the fault (which she should have committed) than I had done before: like unto him, that flinging himself into a large River, the more he wadeth in the water, the more he thinketh of the danger he is in, not dreaming of the same before.  
This made me to admire her more than ever I had done in times past, although I perceived, I was out of all hope, to be affected of her. Strange is the puissance and force, that virtue hath over our souls, we choosing, rather to love her without reward or recompense, then to follow vice, although we should be richly guerdoned for the same.  
Most sacred is this divine Goddess, we choosing rather to be afflicted for her sake, then to cast our liking upon ugly and deformed vice.  
This than was the cause, I loved my Mistress more, then if she had tainted her honour with Apo●●o, and that afterward she should have given me love, to have enjoyed my pleasure with her.  
This made the Duke of Ithaca, to esteem more of the modest and bashful cares of his chaste Spouse, then of the voluptuous pleasures of wanton Circe's. With my soul did I reverence my Diana, being of conceit, that I could not suffer too much, for so admirable a creature: for sweet is the trau●ile of brave and haughty enterprises, a virtuous man choosing rather to endure labour, and gain notorious praise, then to be quiet and at case, without any honour or commendation at all.  
And thus spent I the tedious night, (which before I spoke of) thinking one while that my Mistress discoursed with me, in most kind manner, showing me many excuses, that she had done no such heinous fact, but that I had greatly wronged her, to suppose she had committed the same.  
An other while I imagined, that that great God, being jealous of me, threatened to slay me alive, (as he did Marsius) if I presumed to prosecute my suit any further. And then again me thought my fair Saint, thrust me from her most disdainfully: she being grow● proud, as an other Olympia, or Rhea, because of the company of so glorious a Deity.  
To be short, many dreams troubled me in my rest, abused me in my mind, and caused me to be marvelously sorrowful, as I did (now and then) slumber. Always the thought of such things as we have desired and sought for in the day time, presenteth itself, (through Fancy) unto our eyes, in the night.  
Beauteous Aurora, was scarce risen from her old husband, and the Sun was yet sleeping in his coolie bed, when I got me out of doors, trudging as fast as I could, unto the same place, from whence, but the night before I parted. Not being altered in affection, or through grief, any thing at all, both which, I still entertained.  
All the night long before I could not rest, which was the cause I composed this Ode following: when being as then, come unto mine old place, and seeing my silly alone, I began to sing the same with many a heavy sigh, having it written fair in a paper, as thou seest.  

AN ODE.  
Since that thou hast Victory  
o'er my dearest Liberty.  
Why (with black rob) beauty thine,  
Dost thou clothe, sorich and fine?  
If thou wear'st it for to witness,  
(As a friend) my sad distress.  
Happy I, since for my sake,  
Thou the Colours sad dost take.  
(Sweet my life) content be thou,  
That this black Weed, I bear now,  
Hapless was my life, and so,  
Sad my life, in th'end shall show.  
(Tomee) these sad clothes alone,  
Appertain, as signs of moan.  
Nature in one body (near)  
Black and White, (at once) doth bear.  
From my Black, all hate be wide,  
With which I my Crosses hide.  
He that in despair doth rest,  
Black doth bear (for colour) best.  
(Cruel) this, not Colour thine.  
Since thine eyes, bright and dinine.  
(Sacred as the hallowed day)  
Chase the gloomy Night away.  
One, that (o'er All's) Victor brave,  
Cannot rightly, this Black have.  
Our barts wounded, thou dost make,  
Then (of Conqueror) habit take.  
And let me alone with this,  
Since my fitting colour 'tis.  
Live thou in eternal glory,  
Whilst I die, (at desperate) seric.  
Whilst this Dye, thou putst on thee,  
Thou depriu'st (of comfort) me.  
For I doubt that thovart sad,  
And thy grief, Death's (tome) bad.  
Change then, this same weed of Dole,  
Fit for dead folks, (O thou Cruel.)  
Why, through it wouldst thou impair,  
Beauty thine, far more than rare?  
Leave it, for I thee assure,  
This, my sight cannot endure.  
Give to me my Colour black,  
Or with Ghosts, I go to wrack.  
If, my Colour thou dost take,  
For to end my Crosses, make  
Thou wilt not; for whilst I live,  
More thou daily wilt me grieve.   
That blind Goddess Fortune, (constant only, in unconstancy) having the day before used me so hardly, thought now to flatter me a little, in making me some amends, for the great wrongs she had done unto me. For my Mistress, (who with the other Nymphs) had the night before fulfilled certain vows unto the Goddess Diana, (who then shined most gloriously upon the face of the heavens) was nigher unto me, than I had thought, and (in a lucky hour for me) heard me thus heavily lament unto myself, after I had made an end of my Song.  
(Alas, said I) into what a maze of wretchedness am I fallen? how woeful is my Destiny, and how hapless my misfortune?  
Of all worldlings living, some are but too too Fortunate, and some, but too too miserable; but I am neither in the one, nor in the other, of these two extremities. For to say that I am Fortunate, I cannot: and to term myself miserable, I may not: in as much as LOVE, although it overthroweth me, syet making me affect so dinine a Dame as I do) is sufficient enough to he the upon me all good Fortunes that may be.  
This is the reason I am neither content, nor altogether quite displeased, whilst I walk in the midst of these two extremities, as those base Cowards, who through faintness of heart, run from one Enemy unto another and so serve neither of them rightly.  
And yet (alas) I find, that the Balance in which my misfortunes are placed in, weigh more than that wherein my good Fortunes be. And I feel the burden of grief, more heavy and hard upon my shoulders then that of joy and pleasure.  
For what joy can he have, that hath not hope of any thing? Most sweet is the sweat, that expecteth some fruit to come thereof. As that Husbandman laboureth with delight, when he soweth his ground, because he hopeth to reap some gain of the same: whereas that travel that is void of all hope, ●●so displeasing unto us, as the very thought thereof alone, maketh a man miserable.  
Such is mine estate, for how can I (being so wretabed a Caitiff as I am) attend or look for any favour from her, whom the Gods themselves seek unto and honour? It is not likely, that she will leave the friendship of so high a Deity, to like of so poor a Shepherd as I, in whom there is nothing worthy of commending.  
O beauteous Diana, enjoy, enjoy (I say) most happily thy Love, with that great God, the father of all lightsomeness, (as one whom thou art) worthy of) and suffer me to pine away in grief, or at the least permit me to s●gris●ee my hart upon your common Altar, to the end, that this oblation may content him offered up by a true Lover, like himself.  
Thrice blessed thou, to be adored and reverenced of so great a God, and most accursed I, since that I dying, am not able to render any sufficient testimony of the faithful service, which I have always vowed unto thee.  
But (alas) what need hast thou of my help? or which way can I stand thee in stead, when thou mayst command so mighty and divine a power at all times?  
Truly thou art right Fortunate, and heavens I pray, that (so) thou mavest still continue: whilst I, as one that languisheth piecemeal away, will (for thy s●ke) go and enclose myself within the bottom of some gloomy Rock, where I will so long bewail my hard chance, as at the last, what with Famine, and what with sorrow, I will resign this wretched life, tormented with a number of calamities, only because I could no way pleasure thee, my sacred Goddess.  
Thus did I say, sighing and sobbing, as one resolved to die; when my fair Mistress, (who with ●uch patience had heard this mine amorous complaint) upon the sudden appeared unto me: not unlike a new Sun, breaking through the thick gloomy Clouds, when they cover the Skies all over.  
That wife that beholdeth her husband alive, whom she lamented for dead, is not half so much astonished and amazed as I was, when I saw my Diana, whom I supposed to have been (as then) with the God of the Day.  
Pale was my colour at that instant, my tongue was tied within my mouth, and I stood as one confounded with fear: and although her presence was the only preseruavation of my life, and that I had no other felicity then to look upon her fair face: yet was I marvelously heavy and sad, because she (as then) did show herself unto me, for I sore doubted, lest she had heard what I had spoken: and that she had been angry with me, (as indeed she was) for the same.  
I confessing (in my soul) my fault, and acknowledging myself worthy of no small punishment, to have conceived so sinisterly of her, as I had done. Nevertheless, I was wonderfully glad, that I was deceived in my expectation, thinking within myself, how far more virtuous (than mine ownself) Diana was; who for want of wit, judged her by mine own conceit, thinking she would have done that, which I would have been willing to perform, if I had been in her case. Shame made me hold down my head, remorse of conscience forced me to shut mine eyes, and fear seized upon my senses. I knew I was but a dead man, if she had understood me, when I lamented, and therefore I played as the young Scholar, when (his Master having taken him tardy) expecteth every hour to be corrected for his fault. Or as the Criminal, who dareth not look the judge in the face, his adversary being present, whom he hath so heinously offended.  
I curse my tongue, and hate myself, for my overrash belief, I die with inward grief, knowing and acknowledging no torments (were they never so terrible) to be sufficient to expiate this my heinous sin, which I had committed against her, whom I accounted of, more than of my life.  
Feign would I have washed clean this foul spot, with my dearest blood, but as than it was not possiblé, for I saw there was no other remedy, but I must attend the just judgement of my Lady pronounced against me, who with a little Choler, and yet smiling therewithal, began thus to expostulate the matter with me.  
What is the reason (Shepherd) that thou thus judgest ill of me? and what proof hast thou seen of mine incontinency, to think that I would so quickly suffer myself to be abused by Love? what have I done (ever) unto thee, that thou shouldst suspect mine honour? and what outrage hast thou received of me, who never offended thee, to think me an enemy unto mine own credit.  
Ah Shepherd, let us not judge other men, unless we would be judged again: and let us not seek the defamation of an other, lest we ourselves be tried by the same injurious order.  
Dost thou think, that I esteem not more mine honour, than I do the Empire of the Gods, the one of which, being destroyed, may be repaired again: but the other once lost and gone, can never be recovered any more.  
It is possible for miserable wretches to change their bad Fortunes, and of Beggars, to become mighty Kings and monarchs, as was Cyrus, Romulus, Denis of Siracusa, Tratane, Tambarlaine, and divers others: who from poor silly Shepherds, have come through the favour of Fortune, to be Sovereign Princes. But that woman, that hath once lost her honour, can never attain unto the same again, by any manner of means, what force or violence so ever she pretendeth, or allegeth for her excuse. This spot being so black, as it (never) can be brought to be white any more. For to make that thing which hath been, not to have been at all, exceedeth the power of mortal men, only God alone can do it.  
Tell me then, dost thou suppose, that I will change mine honour, for the kingdom of the Gods? No, for jupiter (although he be the master of the Gods) yet is not he quite exempted from blame: and great personages oftentimes, err sooner than meaner persons, whereas the virtuous woman is always commended, and entertained by the wiser sort. Yea, far more than such a one as is foolish, for all her birth and greatness.  
Little be those Countries accounted of, where honour is not in request, and such Princes smallly deserve to be magnified, who make no esteem of Virtue. Better is it for a man to be poor, and well given, then to be rich, and full of vices.  
What good did the Signory of Cicill, unto Denis the younger? but only to make him the more miserable: yea, far more than the meanest of his own subjects, and all because he was wicked. But virtue, quite contrary to the other, stood Dion in great stead, who being but a silly fugitive, and a forsaken banished man (through her) got forces sufficient to drive away the Tyrant, to set his Country at liberty, and to make him famous throughout the wide world.  
More highly prisd was Octania, the cliaste wife of Mark Antony, being in poverty, than the shameless Cleopatra, for all her Realms and riches: in as much as the one was modest and virtuous, whereas the other, was common and infamous.  
What renown or credit followeth (now at this day) the infamous memory of Semiramis, Messalina, of Faustina, and divers such other Empresses? only this, that they are registered for their immodest lives, in the black book of reproachful shame, for ever. My life shall first end, before I will begin to live in this bad order, so far from all good order.  
No, no, never will I strike my Ship against such a Rock, neither will I suffer shipwreck, in so ignominious a Sea, what Deity soever shall entreat me thereunto: For poverty joined with Virtue, may be counted great riches, where Nobleness and wealth, being linked with vice, cannot any way be said to be other, then extreme and wretched misery.  
Well (Shepherd well) thou hast accused me, before I have done a fault, and thou hast laid a vice unto my charge, of which my foul is innocent. Then, what punishment were due (of right) unto thee, if I should measure this thy gross error, according unto the rigour of unpartial justice? and if (as Arachne) was plagued, I should make thee bear the heavy burden of thine own offence?  
Long time agone, (amongst the Ancients) this was a Law, that he (who causeless, had accused the guiltless) should have suffered the selfsame punishment, which the person accused, should have endured, if he had been culpable of the same offence, whereof he accused the other.  
Thinkest thou, I value not my credit at as high a rate as Daphne, Cassandra, and such others, who could never be brought to veelde unto the unhonest appetites of the Gods? Too precious and rate, is this inestimable jewel, to make so light account thereof: rather believe thou, that I will sooner loof my life, then let go mine honour unto any.  
Change then thy speech, and seek not (hereafter) any more to defame so rich a treasure, as the honour of a woman is, unless thou have better proofs than thou hast had of mine: for more hurtful and pernicious is a slanderer and a false accuser, than a most mortal and deadly enemy, because the first seeketh to take away that, which the Gods themselves are not able to render back again: whereas the other, bereaveth us, but of life only, which is subject unto death continually.  
Wretched are those persons that do ill, and yet reap no commodity thereby, for what good cometh unto the backbiter by speaking ill of any, but only that in the end, he himself is hated of every body? Play not thou this part, neither stumble thou into this foul ditch, especially, do not blame her, whom thou makest a show to love so much.  
But thy speeches discover (sufficiently enough) what thy affection is, for if thou hadst supposed me to be such a one, I cannot believe that ever thou couldst have loved me, because commonly we ought to hate vice, and respect and prefer virtue. For such as make the world believe that they bear affection unto foolish women, do not love them indeed, but only seek to enjoy part of those pleasures, as they participate unto others. So as it is impossible, that a virtuous and a constant Love, can have any other foundation, than Virtue itself.  
Therefore it is but mere folly for thee, to make me believe (hereafter) through thy feigned tears, and dissembling speeches, that thou lovest me: For is it likely, that one can love an other, whom he himself blameth, and whom he thinketh worthy of reprehension and shame?  
If thou hast loved me for my Virtue, which thou imaginest I have now lost: for what wilt thou love me hereafter? The cause being taken away, the effect dieth, and the foundation of a Building, being ruinated, the house whereon it standeth, must needs fall, because nothing can be without his cause or subject. If the cause ceaseth in me, which was the motive of thy Love: then needs thy former affection must cease likewise.  
And therefore (I pray thee) make me believe no more, that thou bearest any good liking unto me; for I never can, nor will give credit unto thee, nor will believe therein. Or if thou did dost love me, than I must needs think, thou didst it to betray me, and so to corrupt mine honour. I say therefore, that so far off, is thy love from being Amity, as (rather quite contrary) ● esteem it to be deadly hatred, and most furious rage. So as these bad conditions being in thee, I can have no occasion to love thee, but rather have more reason to loath and detest thee, as the most mortal adversary that I have, unto that thing, which is far dearer unto me, than is my dearest life, that is, my precious honour.  
Thus said the Chollorike Diana, and to confess but truth, she had good reason so to say. For there is no guilelesse soul, that (without being somewhat moved) can hear herself ill spoken off, neither can the most virtuous person that is, endure to be falsely slandered, but that he must needs grow a little in Choler.  
As that child, who being already forth of the School door (thinking he is already in the fields, and that he is playing amongst his companions abroad) looketh very sadly, and is wonderfully amazed, when upon the sudden, his Tutor taketh him by the chollar of his doublet, and bringeth him again, correcting him with the rod, for his overbold and foolish hardiness. Even so found I myself to be confounded, with silent heaviness, and being wonderfully afflicted, with inward anguish and sorrow.  
Great is that Corsie and sharp which a man feeleth, when through overmuch headdie rashness, he offendeth that thing which he esteemeth most of all in this world. Even so, unsupportable is that grief, when a man falsely accuseth his friend, whose credit he would seek to prefer, before his own dearest hart blood.  
Ah, why (then) did not the earth open, to swallow me up? and why (at that time) did not the Sun obscure itself, as when he was three days without appearing abroad, disdaining to behold so horrible a cruelty of an unnatural father, committed by him, against his own young and pretty children.  
These speeches of mine innocent Lady (justly incensed against me) was as a poisoned dart, piercing quite through my poor soul. A chilly cold ran through all my bones, a deep despite (against myself) seized upon my veins, and my voice lay, as if i● had been stopped within the palate of my mouth, my colour looked as dead Ashes, my tongue remained dumb, and my movelesse eyes were closed, bowing down toward the earth.  
As then, no other answer could I give unto my Mistress, than salt tears, trickling down along my cheeks, whilst from my breast (as from a Furnace) issued forth great store of scalding sighs. O how happy had I been at that time, if some one courteous God or other, would have transformed me into some rock, some stone, or else, into some Tree. Nevertheless although I spoke not all, well might she gather, that my exceeding grief was the cause thereof.  
It is an old said Saw; One mischief never cometh alone, but that it hath an other attending upon it. And so (by misfortune) it happened unto me. For my new companion in Love (of whom long since I told you) cometh in amongst us; who having more wit in his head then I, in stead of blaming my Lady, (most wrongfully) as I (very foolishly had done) presented her with these Verses following.  

The heavens (for honours theirs) thee fair have made,  
The heavens (for my mishap) me kind have framed:  
jove, (for his praise) infanted Virtue thine,  
Gods, heaven, and earth, reap honour, through thy glory.  
I only am accursed, but victory  
'tis. to wage Combat with a Deity.   

I love that sweet band, which enchains my soul,  
Living, I burn, yet honour I thee flame:  
Lo, how rich Beauty can usurp o'er m●e,  
Medusa like, my Nature thou dost channge.  
But he his Time spends not, but gaineth honour,  
Who branely fights, under a Goddess Banner.   

O happy I, when I thy face behold,  
More rare and perfect, than was Venus fair:  
When I thine Eyes, see shining, like two Stars,  
Gazing I die, whilst death brings life to me.  
He happy dieth, that his best life doth end,  
In loyal service of his beauteous friend.   

More happy I, myself judge so to die,  
Than Adonis lived, whilst he the dainty Corpse  
Of Venus joyed, who wailed his death most sad,  
He blessed was, but I, celestial.  
Since Fortune mine, with his may well compare,  
And bear away the prize, for over-faire.   

Beauteous, if only for to see thy stainelesse Feature,  
More happy 'tis, than Gods, by many ways:  
What should I be, wouldst thou (to love me) dame,  
But so great good, unworthy I, to have.  
The Gods would jealous grow, that one poor wretch,  
Ingratious favour ('bove themselves) should stretch.   

Yet (in despite of them) my joyful life,  
liveth in contemplation of thy Thews:  
Whilst they like rolling Spheres, the Skies adorn,  
Happy that Lamb, offered in Sacrifice,  
To burn upon thy Altars, Grace to gain,  
Whose Tomb, and Ashes, wins unto him, Fame.   
Most graciously did she accept of this Present, and the rather, because she would anger me the more, having read them, she thus came upon me. Thou only (and none but thou alone) with thy rash conceit, taxest such of blame, who be most clear and innocent of the same, whilst other extol and commend, what deserveth glory: But thy tongue is no slander, neither can thine ill words, bring such, within the compass of discredit. If I hate thee, I do but what in reason I may, for what occasion hast thou given to me, that I should think well of thee?  
That Lord most severely punisheth his Vassal, who (like a perjured wretch) would offer villainy unto the honour of his wife, (Law and justice) both depriving him of all his Lands and goods, whatsoever.  
Even so, what can hinder me, to ● lague thee, who terming thyself to be my loving servant, seekest to take that from me by force, which I prefer, before all the wealth of the world? Hardly can I forbear, from forbidding thee my presence (for worse thou hast deserved) and yet because thou shalt perceive, that I am more ready to forgive (than thou art quit, in forging false slanders) I will defer this my punishment until another time, mean space, change thou thy mind, amend what thou hast done amiss, and become a new man; otherwise, it will be the worse for thee. And having so said, away she goeth suddenly, leaving me all alone.  
As that passenger (who coming to the shore to refresh himself for his travails past, and to take the air a little) is very heavy, much astonished, and in a manner half dead, when he seethe the Boat which should carry him back again, to be launched far into the Seas, and tossed too and fro, by the Tempest that over mastereth him.  
Even so, sad and pensive did I become, when I found myself alone, and when I saw my Lady was fled from me. More sorrowful was not Ariadne, perceiving herself to be left on the Sea cost all alone, by her perjured Spouse Theseus More doleful was not Olympia, viewing herself forsaken, and sitting upon a cold Rock, by her disloyal Birreus: Neither were those Phrygian women so woeful, when they found themselves to be left in a strange and uncouth I'll, by their dissembling husbands, than I was (then) at that time.  
divers passions tormented mine inward soul, one was, because I had offended my Lady: another was, to see that she should grace my Corrival so much: the third, to see her go her ways, and I (yet) not to be reconciled unto her, and the fourth, that I was not able to crave pardon of her, nor to excuse my fault.  
This made me seem (for a pretty while) as one senseless, and without motion, as if I had been a stone, mine eyes only stared after my Mistress, but the other parts of my body, were in a manner dead, for feign would I have followed after her, but that my legs had not power to stir: for as a sickness, taketh away the good will, the force, and the means from the sick patient, that he is not able to do any thing: Even so, grief hindered me from going after mine angry Saint, to crave pardon of her.  
(O Father) the remembrance of this mortal misery, depriveth me (as yet) of voice and sense, and therefore I pray thee, urge me not, to pass any farther, but rather be content to have known the commencements of my misfortunes, without being acquainted with the rest.  
No answered (the Magician) I must needs urge thee to make an end, as thou hast begun; Not unlike the good Physician, who forceth the sick man to empty the Goblet, and to drink up all the potion, the sooner to be healed. Forward then, and let me entreat thee, to do so much; for thy Loves (resembling mine own old ones) content me not a little. Courage (man,) and acquit thyself of thy promise, without giving over so fair a ground, now thou hast begun thy race already.  
Well then (replied the disconsolate Shepherd) seeing it is thy pleasure, I will untie my tongue, that it may speak again, delivering unto thee, the rest of my Disasters, & (I heartily wish, that when I have made an end thereof) I may give up my Ghost, as that Pilot (after he hath failed long up and down the swelling Seas) findeth his happy and comfortable Haven, wherein he resteth.  
Know then, that (for a long while) after her departure, I wailed and wept, taking on like a madman, musing within myself what to do, and yet not being able to resolve upon any thing certain. So much was my soul vexed and gaulled within me, as it began to entertain black despair, banishing all hope likely to come unto him.  
Earnest was she to leave this loathed prison of my body, craving pardon to departed from thence, and so importunate was she with me, as (in the end) I granted her request, and resolved to die.  
Thou shalt die (cried I out) yea, thou shalt die (accursed tongue of mine) that durst presume, and that most injuriously, to abuse the good name and fame of the most chastest Virgin in the world. Thou shalt die (thou traitorous heart of mine) in that thou didst dare, to think that she (who is the very type of virtue itself) should become bad and vicious. Thou (wretched body of mine) shalt die, because thou hast forgot thyself so much, as to think, that, that comely corpse of my Mistress, was like unto thine own, and thou most wicked thought, return shalt thou into the damned deep of all hell, from whence thou (first) didst proceed, because thou hast made me so miserable, as none can be the like.  
Come then, come let us die, whilst with one, and the selfsame grief, we will extinguish both our salt, and our sorrow, all at one time. And therewith being in a rage, ● arose, running from thence with great fury, up unto the top of a high Rock, which looked into the Sea; where being, I beheld the frothy face of the mother of Ach●ies. the surges whereof roared, and made a ghastly noise, by reason it was troubled with ● Tempest. This did I think to be a fit way, for me to dispatch and drown myself therein, for the more it did rage, the more I thought it sufficient to take my life from me. And now was I ready to leap down into the same, I having closed mine eres, stretched out my arms, and bowed my head, to make this dangerous leap, when I hard a voice that called me, it being a voice, that sounded like unto that of my Diana.  
Whereupon I opened mine eyes, I lifted up my head, and looked backward, to see if I could perceive the party that named my name; but I could find nothing but Trees, Stones, and Bushes.  
Whereupon I returned again unto my first course, offering myself most willingly unto death, minding no more to defer, nor delay to put in practise my cruel exploit any longer, when the same voice (which I hard but a little before) put me off from my determination, I being very desirous to know who it was, that thus (twice) had called me.  
This made me to search (once more) up and down, although I could find nothing (O fool said I unto myself) am I so mad, to think that she, whom I have so heinously abused, will vouchsafe to do me good, and help me? Nay rather, what reason hath she to desire any thing (so much) as my destruction and overthrow, to the intent she may be revenged of so vile an outrage, as she hath received at my hands.  
No no, it is mere folly to look for any succour from her, when nought but death can rid me of mine anguish.  
This voice, which I hear is (no doubt) of some wicked Spirit, which would have me turn back into the world, to live in continual wretchedness, as I have heretofore done. But I mean not to be so deluded, for die I will, and so rid myself from all miseries, as are like (henceforward) to light upon me; and with this mind, I went (once more) up to the top of that Rock, from whence (without all doubt, I had fling myself) but that I espied (a far of) a ship tossed and tumbled with a great Tempest, which withheld me (as then) from the same, for I took (me thought) a kind of compassionate pleasure, to see how the winds, mastered the leaking vessel, causing it one while to reel one on side, and then upon the other, tarning up and down, as a Barrel that is empty; for the winds driving it with a contrary blast, cast great Billows of water into the same, touching the tops of Rocks, and making the shore side white and foamy, with a thick froth, striking a great terror in the minds of the Sailors.  
Mean space, a mighty wave came flowing over the ship, as if it would have sunk it, which made the Sailors to bestir themselves, plying the pump until they did sweat.  
And now the Sun began to be darkened, the Clouds to look gloomy and black, and the storm to increase more and more, whilst reign and lightning fell from heaven, as fast as water falleth from the Mountains. The Passengers within, lay all as if they had been dead, whilst most piteous outcries, woeful complaints, and continual exclaiming were heard amongst them, every body calleth for succour, but none doth help, the noise of the waters, and the roaring of the winds, hindering the Sailors so much, as they could not understand one another.  
The Pilot, that held the stern, and guided the ship, with a pale and dead colour, one while cried out, another while made signs with his hands, to make them understand what they should do, but what with the piteous wailing within, and what with the terrible noise abroad, they could not know what he said.  
And (now) the stern grew so violent, as every one was appalled therewithal, they being driven into such a fear, as they could neither hear, nor gather what the master of the ship commanded, so as giving over to look unto their ship, they (all) began to make a most doleful outcry, wring their hands, and tearing the hair from off their heads, as if they had been mad.  
Which the Pilot perceiving, he likewise gave over his charge, for to no purpose was it for him to hold the Stern any longer, whilst some of them (not many of them all well knowing what they did) ran to the Rudder, some to the Mast, some set up Sails, othersome pulled them down, some ran up to the Tackling, other tumbled down from thence, one ran to do one thing, and another went to do another: and to be brief, they (all) laboured so confusedly, as they rather did hurt then good any way. To conclude, churlish Boreus, blew more extremely than he had done before, whilst Aeolus, gave leave unto the blustering winds, to play their parts.  
The Sea increased in raging, and the Monsters thereof appeared above the water, the more to affright such as beheld them.  
The Stern of the ship bursteth and falleth in pieces. The Sails are all broken and rend, the Deck or forepart of the vessel, turneth up and down, the sides of the same are left bare, whilst the ship (being as quite without defence) & able any longer to resist the violence of the outrageous flotings of the Sea, yieldeth unto the mercy thereof, suffering the whirling Billows to wind themselves within her; which the Passengers perceiving, cry out aloud for mercy unto the heavens, expecting every minute of an hour, to be swallowed down into the bottom of the Surges.  
At last the ship runneth against that Rock, upon the top of which I stood, having all this long while, beheld this woeful spectacle, with the tears streaming down mine eyes.  
The master and the rest of the Sailors, do what they can (poor souls) to hinder her from splitting asunder, but all in vain, the fury of the storm is so cruel and outrageous, whereupon every man seeketh to save himself, a great number of them being gotten into the little Skiffe that was tied unto the ship; but the same being overcharged with multitude, because every one sought to get therein, sunk presently, drowning all those that were within her.  
Only one young man escaped, saving himself, through the strength of his arms and legs; he swimming so lustily, as at last he got unto the foot of the Rock, against which, the vessel ran, and so broke all in pieces. This youth being (all over) dirty and foul, looked pale for very fear, and (yet) seemed he to rejoice, in that he hath scaped the fury of Neptune.  
Great was the pleasure he took, to see himself delivered from death, and yet by little and little he began to grow heavy again (seeing himself in such a place) as was unhabited and like a wilderness, shroadly doubting, least hunger would make an end of that which the Sea had not, and that he hardly could get pardon of the earth to live, as he had (before) of Neptune.  
A new grief, and a novel terror of death assaileth him afresh, whilst being (thus) alone, he sigheth to think of his hard fortune. He casteth his eyes here and there, and looketh round about, to see if any would come to help him. But he could not perceive no such sight, and he listeneth with his care, to hearken if he could hear the sound of any voice, but all was in vain, it would not be, he knoweth not whether the firm land will be more kind unto him, than the unstable Seas, and doubteth much the same. He is in dread, that he shall die, either through drinking too much, or for eating too little, little doth he thank the heavens, to have saved him from shipwreck in the Sea, seeing he is likely to die through famine, on the land. Now whilst he thus sigheth and lamenteth, I (hearing his speech) straightway knew him by his tongue, to be the miserable Fortumo sometimes companion in my for mer Loves.  
Whereupon, I holding up my hands unto the skies, thanked them, that it had pleased them, to grant me so much favour, as I might be able to be a means to save the lyre of mine old friend, honouring my latest end, with so charitable and compassionate a piece of work.  
I blessed the voice, that before had hindered me from dying, being sorry that I had blamed it so much as I had done, seeing I might preserve one of my best acquaintance from death; not that I had altered my first determination, as if I had been unwilling to perish, but that I had not done (so) before I had brought to pass so good a deed.  
Thereupon I came running down from where I was, as fast as I could, when the poor soul, who heard me coming a far off, and yet had not seen me at all, thinking I had been some wild beast, that came to devour him (choosing as the Blackebird useth, rather to commit himself unto the mercy of a man, then to endure the griping nails of the Sparrow-hawk, that followeth him in flight) leapeth again into the wide Ocean, striving with all the force he could, and with the utmost of his cunning he had in swimming, to get as far as he might from the shore side, which but a little before, he with much ado had attained unto. I being come down, and seeing him in the main Sea, called him oftentimes by his name, but the surges thereof, made such a noise, as he heard me not, carrying him still farther off from me, which when I perceived, I then began to renew my plaints, grieving as well at his misfortune, as mine own, and the rather, because where I thought to have saved him, I was his utter ruin and overthrow.  
Whilst he, in the mean space, took great pains in swimming, blowing & puffing through extreme weariness; and striving unto the utmost of his strength to get unto some other landing place.  
But Fortune, who in despite of himself, would needs save him, or perhaps would show me so much favour, in am of so much, and such hard dealing as she had used against me, caused the Sea, who went about to drown him, to be the only means to save him. Strange is the belief of men, for God (oftentimes) (that they may perceive most plainly how he disposeth of every thing) maketh them to find succour, from such as they account their chief enemies, expecting no favour nor courtesy at all from them: and so it fell out with Fortunio, for behold (upon the sudden, a Billow of the Sea, drove him (although against his will) back unto the foot of the Rock, from which he was of late parted, he being so overtyred with labour, as he was in a manner without wind or force, whereupon I came unto him, comforted him, reviving him again, and putting life afresh into him.  
That great unbelieving Prophet, was not more joyful when that huge Whale had cast him forth safe, and alive, upon the Sea coast (after he had lodged three days and nights in the belly of the same) as Fortunio was, when he then saw me, and knew me for Arcas.  
This made him to take heart a grace, and to pluck up his former Spirits, and yet when he looked wistly upon me, and saw me look with so pale and heavy a cheer, he could not choose but be marvelous sorry to behold me, in that piteous plight, whilst he urged me often, and that with great earnestness, to bewray unto him the occasion of my sorrows, which I concealed from him. In the end, when he saw there was no other remedy, and that I was loath to bewray my mind unto him, he gave over to inquisitive therein any more, not a little comforting himself, in that he had so happily lighted upon me, who was the cause, he had been reserved from a dangerous kind of death.  
But I perceiving he had need of warm clothes, and other comfortable necessaries, fit to nourish him, and to restore him unto his former health, took him with me to walk homewards, towards my little cottage, demanding of him (as we went) of all his Fortunes, since I last had seen him; which as he was about to satisfy me, behold, whom should I meet withal, but my sacred Diana, who with the other Nymphs (her companions) was walking abroad, to take the open air.  
As that Shehpeard is frighted with a sudden fear, when he seethe to fall before his eyes great flashes of lightning, which burneth, spoileth, and blasteth some goodly huge Oak, that served as a shadow for his weary flocks, to rest themselves therein: Even so was I astonished, trembling through every joint, when I called unto remembrance my former fault, and how heinous the crime was which I had done against her. Feign would I as then have taken occasion by the hair of the head, that I might have excused myself unto her, and so have pleaded for her gracious pardon: but alas, my speech faileth me, and I was quite without heart or courage.  
The beauteous Virgin, perceiving in what a pitiful plight I was in (as one very wise) quickly guessed, the truth of the respect I bore unto her, was the reason why I was so confounded, and void of all my senses. Which was the cause she now began to think the better of me, repenting (as it were) that she had taken me up so roundly before, and therefore she thought it not amiss to put courage into me again, by using some gracious speeches unto me, before she would leave me. Whereupon she smiling, began thus to question with me. What is the matter She; heard, that now thou art thus tonguetied, who before hadst thy voice at command, and couldst discourse so readily and well?  
Speak man, and fear not to answer: for more good doth he that speaketh, than another that holdeth his peace & saith nothing. Courage, and fear not any thing at all. It is not my nature to be angry long, I knowing it to be a more commendable quality, to be courteous, then to be sorry and cruel.  
If thy tongue hath been the cause, that mine hath spoken some sharp speech or other, which perhaps may somewhat grieve thee, then blame thyself for the same, and not me, for that woman argueth herself to be culpable, that seeketh not to defend her honour, which she understandeth, is ready to be defamed.  
This was the reason I meant not to take farther punishment of thee, I being well satisfied, with the first check I gave in words unto thee. Why then, art thou thus moved? dost thou think thou shalt commit an absurdutie, and shalt not be told of the same? If so, thou then shouldest be in better taking then the Gods themselves, who are not exempted from rebukes.  
Hereafter learn to be more wise, and consider well of the circumstance of the deed done, before thou judgest thereof, for of the censure that is given in the worse part, against the good name & fame of women, every one maketh a benefit (although it be false and scandalous) and the reason is, for that men are more readier to dispraise, then to commend, whether it be that they do it of mere malice and despite, or because they are desirous to have many like unto themselves, in their lewd and detestable kind of living.  
But what is good and well done, that quickly is forgotten, not any, as much as once reporting the same, because such as be ill given, will never commend any, except it be much against their mind. Fear not then to speak, so thou speak well, for so shalt thou please the best kind of people, and displease none, but such as are the worst; for the fruit of a good tree, is more commended, then that which is bad.  
Speak then man, and say one thing or another, otherwise I shall imagine, that either disdain doth shut up thy voice, or else that hatred hindereth thee from speaking.  
As that Soldier is not a little joyful, when being ready to have his head strucken off by the enemy, whose prisoner he is, he seethe his friends arrived and come to his aid, whereby he is rid from all danger: Even so, not a little pleasant was I, when I hard so sweet a heavenly sound, proceeding from so fair an Angel; which was of such power, as it revived all my dying senses in me, it banished away all fear from me, it put new hope into me, and brought my former fresh colour into my cheeks again. Whereupon I did prostrate myself in most humble wise, before the feet of my Lady (for well did she deserve a greater reverence at my hands) but she not willing I should do so, took me up by the hand, by that blessed hand, I say, which chased all despair from me. Whereupon I thus returned condign thanks unto him.  
Can you (most beauteous Saint) raise, and revive him, who hath deserved so much vengeance at your hands? and can you have pity upon his body, who would not take no compassion upon your honour?  
No Lady, no, rather let him die, as one unworthy to receive from you, the least favour in the world: why should you vouchsafe to look upon him, with those heavenly eyes of yours, not worthy of so great a grace: keep those sweet and chaste glances for him, who shall deserve them better than myself, who merit not, to see so much as the usual light of the heaven. Am I he (beauteous Nymph) that have so much abused thee, if so, why then shouldest thou vouchsafe me, to approach thy wondrous presence?  
Although thou of thy kind nature, shalt forget this foul fault of mine, yet shall mine own plain nurture, and bringing up, teach me not to forgive the same: for mine own hand shall punish both my tongue and heart, the one for speaking ill of thee, and the other for conceiving a sinister opinion against thee.  
Arcas, shall never surfer Arcas to go scotfree, he having so heinously sinned against his sacred Saint.  
Trouble me not then, in mine own business, but let me execute what I have already determined to do; only I would entreat this Boon, that it would please you to pardon my rash crime before I die, for never did I willingly offend thee, only, I was too too credulous, and overlight of belief.  
Too much credit did I give, unto that which one of thy companions reported unto me, I thinking simply, thou mightest full well count thyself happy, to be beloved of so great a God, but too sacred is thy virtue, & too modest thine honour, to be overcome with any power of the Gods.  
Pardon then this foolish conceit of mine, which I will wash clear with the dearest blood I have, I thinking myself not a little happy in that I have had the fortune to see thee before my death, and to have acknowledged before thee, my more than gross ignorance, and vain folly. With great contentment shall I die, seeing I have had the leisure, to have bewrayed the secrets of my soul, & showed how far I was fro doing thee any willing injury. Besides, I beseech thee (by thy unspotted chastity) to think, that no ancient Love heretofore, is to be compared unto that which wretched Arcas hath borne thee. Never could any faithful affection equal his, no more than any beauteous feature living, may be compared unto thine.  
Then pardon (once more) I beg of thee, thy most wretched slave, that he dying, may not die in the disgrace of his Mistress.  
I cannot deny, but that I have erred, but yet not so much, of myself, as by reason of another, nothing so much grieving me, as that I had so sinister an opinion of thy matchless virtue, and therefore, for this fault only, will I adjudge myself to die. Happy is he that dieth in thy service, and for thy sake: yea more happy than Pyramus, that slew himself for his dear Thisbe's; for he cannot find fault with his death, that looseth his life, for a rare and worthy Subject.  
The guilty person, being drawn unto the place of execution, is pardoned of the party, who causeth him to die, contenting himself with his death, as a sufficient sat is faction for the fault he hath committed.  
Even so let me entreat thee, to discharge me a Culpa, though not a Pena, to the end, my death may expiate the horribleness of the offence, and that I may with joy, descend into the Elysian fields, amongst those blessed shadows. Grant me then, this my last request, otherewise, more wretched shall be my death, then that of good old Priamus, who saw his own children massacred before his own face.  
More would I have said, but that courteous Diana interrupted me in my speech, who being more merciful, than justice itself, thus replied.  
No, Shepheard no, I never will yield unto thy request, because I will not have thee die. The Gods, although they be mighty and immortal, yet do they not demand of such men (as have offended them) to have their lives in satisfaction of their fault, but are contented with some lesser punishment: and dost thou think, that I am more cruel than they? If so, thou dost me wrong.  
Live than I say, and talk no more of death, I pardon thee of thy fault, persuading myself, that it was thy over rash belief, and not thy mind, which did commit so gross an oversight.  
Be merry then, and assure thyself, that Diana was never cruel, but rather, that she is as courteous, as she hath, and will be chaste.  
Take heed only, that thou hereafter do not so offend again, and let the danger from which thou hast (now escaped) make thee more wise against an other time. For sometimes an offence standeth in some good steed, when through remembrance of the same, it maketh others to be more wary and better advised.  
As that Shepherd is joyful, who hath chased away the Wolf, bringing back again his sheep safe and alive, which the devouring beast was carrying away; Even so, was I pleased and satisfied at full, with this her kind counsel. And yet notwithstanding, the going away of my fair Diana, did somewhat abate the sweetness thereof: for she presently left me, either because she would not have the other Nymphs know that she had pardoned me (who were hard at hand) or because she would not (as then) hear my answer, as if she looked for thanks from me. But howsoever it was, away she went, and left me.  
And thus we see, that the bad followeth upon the neck of the good: and that no good chance can long continue in his first pride and force.  
Mean space, I began to cheer myself, and to comfort Fortunio, whom I had saved from drowning, and who being (all the while) not far off from me, protesting he never saw so exquisite a beauty: No, although his Cleomine had been present, and therefore was not a little ravished therewithal.  
Thus talking and devising from one matter unto an other, at length we got home, where, after he had been shifted, and laid into his warm bed, and that he had (for a while) refreshed his weary limbs, I desired him to report all his Fortunes unto me, in which he willingly yielded unto me, delivering unto me this piteous history following, which I will now make thee partaker of. And having so said, he paused a while, to take his breath the better, beginning thus.  
Know then (my good Arcas) after cruel discord, meager envy, and inexorable destiny had forced us to leave our sweet abiding in Arcadia, we flying (as Melibeus did, from our own Country) which was seized upon and enjoyed, by a company of cruel and barbarous men at Arms: I went and offered my service unto a brave Spanish Knight, borne in the Kingdom of Arragon; he being not inferior (unto any of his time) for valour, or for Martial stratagems belonging to the wars. Such Heroical spirits as theirs, Fortune most commonly useth to triumph over (as it were) to meddle with base and ignominious people: because small conquest is gotten by conquering such a one, as hath neither force, nor power, to resist, and therefore yieldeth presently.  
This Cavalier was called Don john of Toledo, being in years some five and twenty, wealthy enough, and marvelous fair, and comely of parsonage. By many brave deeds at Arms, he had gotten to be, in the number of the best Soldiers of his time, and no doubt, he hud grown to have been as famous, as that ancient Hector of Troy was heretofore: If cruel LOVE had not opposed himself, against his notable victories.  
There is no man that liveth, but hath his evil Angel attending upon him, which darkeneth the fair weather of his good Fortunes, when he is likeliest to rise unto great glory and renown.  
Needs must he taste of some misery, for fear if he should be glutted too much with pleasures, and never feel of adversity, he would quickly forget his Creator, and so disdain to be obedient unto him. Not unlike unto that lewd servant, who after he hath gotten enough in the service of his Master, maketh no account of him, but leaveth him, and followeth his own delights and pleasures.  
I then being retained, and following this young Knight, followed his humour so well, as he made more account of me, than he did of any of his other servants, and the rather, because I would many times report unto him, some Accident or other, of our first loves and merriments of Arcadia, in which he delighted wonderfully.  
But had the poor Gentleman known (at that hour) what great hurt and damage he was like to receive by the selfsame Love, he would have stopped his ears against the discourse of his might, neither would he (ever) have opened the gate of his kind heart unto so bloody and perjured a Thief.  
But what? men that are lusty and healthful is body, many times feed upon such kind of meats, as they think (because they please their tuste) to be good, and yet afterwards they surfeit upon the same, and often die thereof.  
But my master, as he was a brave Soldier, so was he a gallant Courtier, following the Court much, as many of our best Captains use.  
Now the King of Arragon had (as then) no more Children, than one goodly young Lady, of the age of fifteen or sixteen years, called Maria, beautiful in favour, gracious in her behaviour, (but above all) passing virtuously well given.  
Not long time after, it pleased God to send the Queen a young Son, by his wife, which was the cause that great joy was made, throughout all the Court and Country, and great Feasts and Triumphs appointed for the same.  
The King himself, causing solemn Iustes and Tilt to be proclaimed. The Prize being a marvelous rich and strong tempered Armour of proof, with a dainty Courser of Naples, for the Victor, which should be delivered him by the hands of his fair Daughter Maria: he knowing well, that a courageous Knight, would receive such a reward, with a far better mind, from such a goodly Princess, then from any other person whatsoever.  
And now the time being appointed, and the day come, the Lists were open, and the running at Tilt begun: where many worthy Knights were assembled, to give lively proofs of their wonderful valour they not so much coveting the prizes, for the richness thereof, as they did for to have the honour of the victory, before so Royal an assembly.  
The King being placed, with all his Nobles round about him, the young Princess his Daughter, sitting in a Throne of Majesty higher than the rest, and every thing being in ordes, fit for such a meeting; Behold, the Trumpets sounded, when the Challengers and the Defendants entered into the Lists, bravely mounted, and richly appareled, every one wearing the Favour of his Mistress.  
Now after many staves were broken, and divers Runners overthrown, Don john cometh into the field, having a plain white Armour upon him: his Coat Armour being painted with the flames of Cupid's fire, and in his Shield, a Phoenix, drawn in most lively colours. His manly countenance, his comely stature, his gallant Port, and his stately presence, drew every man's eyes to behold him, marking him from the top of his head, unto the sole of his foot: so as none could justly find any fault in him, so excellently was he proportioned in all parts.  
Like to Achilles, seemed he strong and brave,  
When he, into their Town, the Trojans drove.  
Great hope and expectation was there, of the worthiness of this Champion, who (as then) came luckily into the Lists. For all the Arragonese, (who were the Challengers) were overthrown by the other strangers, Knights.  
But no sooner was he entered in amongst them, but that (suddenly) all of his side, began to take courage again, hoping (by his valour) he would make amends, for the foil which they had taken.  
As Hector did, who beat the Orecians Back,  
That had (before) the Trojans put to wrack.  
Don john, placing his Spear in his wrist, one ountred his Foes with such force, as either he made them to give back upon their saddles, or else turned them out from thence, upon the bare ground. And so long did he follow them in this chase, that in the end the Arragonians got the mastery, and he was adjudged to be victorious over all those that ran at Tilt, which was the cause that he was highly commended of the King himself, and of all his Nobility, and of the Courtly Ladies, as his virtue well deserved: receiving the Prize, from the dainty hands of that saite Princeise, who (wondering at his Chivalry) presenting the same unto him, used these gracious speeches.  
Although this small reward is worthy of acceptance, in that it hath been won and brought away from so many gallant Gentlemen, to stand in stead of a recompense due unto Virtue: yet is it nothing worth in respect of that, which your valour hath already won unto you, which hath made you to be glorious, renowned, and famous, amongst the worthiest personages of the world. This which I here present you withal, is but a trifle, and of no weight, and yet of great importance: in that you have so bravely purchased it, by the undoubted proof of your dauntless courage, which maketh it worthy of commendation, and not otherwise. Receive it then (brave Knight) from the hands of her, who wisheth all increase of glory unto you, and such worthy praise, as your virtue doth deserve and merit.  
This little speech was of greater force to conquer this stout Knight, than were all the Lances of his enemies, for he was overcome with the same. Whilst the bright eyes of the Princess, served for fire to kindle affection in his heart, and her speeches were as whirling darts, that pierced quite through the same.  
The exceeding great heat that he had gotten with sweeting on Horseback, and the bashful colour that seized upon him, to see himself so highly commended of this gracious Princess, had painted his face with so pure a vermilion Dye, as he seemed far more amiable & lovely then before. In so much, as she held him to be no less fair than valiant, highly commending him within her secret mind, seeing him to have both valour and beauty, the more to make him in every part right beautiful.  
On the other side, Don john, viewing the sweet countenance, and marking the sugared speeches of this young Lady, was greatly troubled inwardly, not knowing how to answer her. Yet had it not been, but that he doubted he should be noted, how his colour changed too and fro, he had replied on the sudden. Nevertheless, he thought (come what should of the matter) he would make her an answer, which he did, with a low and trembling voice, in this sort.  
Madame, there is no wood so wet or green, but fire will kindle it: So is there no heart so soft or fearful, but your Virtue is able to make valiant & courageous. It was neither my own proper strength or force, neither the desire to carry away this Prize, that brought me to be victorious, but it was the only glory which I promised (unto myself) in receiving it from your Princely hands: From your Princely hands I say, who are not inferior unto any in the world, for perfect beauty. For this subject only, do I make account of it, desiring to keep it, as an immortal treasure, and not because I have won it from so many courageous Knights, or that I highly esteem of their valour, but only, because I knew that that glory would be most pleasing unto me, when I might vaunt, that I had it bestowed upon me, by the hands of the most rarest Princess that liveth, of whom (in am of so great a recompense) I do, and will, account myself for ever, the most faithful slave and vassal, and her most loyal servant.  
Thus spoke the brave Don john, (for more he could not as then speak, as he was most willing) because he was compassed round about with many Gallants, all which, came to honour him, and to rejoice with him, of his good Fortune: so as he was forced to leave his Mistress for that time, and for that he was in great Triumph, conducted unto the King, who caused him (only to grace him the more) to sit by him, as if he had been his companion and equal.  
Mean space the Revels and Dancing began in the Court, in which sports my Master would needs be one, where he showed himself as dainty a Reveller, as he had (in the Lists) performed the part of a valiant Soldier, whilst in these Courtly sports, the young Princess bore away the Prize, which so much pleased him, as after that time, the fair Infant of Spain, was all his joy.  
Achilles (near so much) loved Briseis so fair,  
For whom, (to quarrel so) he then, did dare.  
His eyes were (still) fixed upon hers, he delighting in nothing so much, as to gaze upon her Angelical face. And as the covetous miser, can never turn his looks from his gold, but must aiwaies be staring upon the same, so our knight did nothing but contemplate and behold his sweet Mistress. As that man who being extremely hot, & calling for drink, thinketh the same to be marvelous good & pleasing unto his taste, although it prove afterward to be full of deadly poison: Even so, this courageous follower of Mars, overheated with Love, sore longing and thirsting after the heavenly feature of his King's Daughter, swallowed down most mortal poison sweetly, which by his eyes, slipped down into his heart, and there empoisoned him.  
As the wayfaring man perceiveth his force to fail, and his life to steal away, as soon as ever the venomous Basilisque hath looked upon him. Even so this poor Captain, found his heart and soul to be reft violently from him, through the darts which were glanced at him, from the sparkling eyes of the Princess.  
Thus LOVE, having gotten the upper hand over Mars, learned Don john a new lesson; making him to submit himself unto his laws, changing in him, his former humour, his nature, and his complexion.  
As the Horscourser, in breaking a young Colt, bridleth him of his wont liberty, forcing him to carry his head, to run, to turn, and then to stand still again, and all as he thinks good, and at his own pleasure: Even so was my kind Master brought under, to do what Love commanded him.  
A sweet kind of humour, that he supped up, at his eyes, descended down into his heart, a new desire or wish oppressed his soul, and strange and uncouth passions continually tormented him: and yet he is so unfortunate, as he findeth his sickness to be passing sweet unto him, whilst he honoureth his enemy, and refuseth all help and remedy for the same.  
Night being come, every one betaketh himself to his quiet rest. Only Don John who was both victor, and vanquished, was deprived of his sleep. At too too high a rate, did he buy the Prize, which he got in the Lasts, and happy had he been, if he had been overcome in running; so he had not been conquered by the beauteous eyes of his Lady. For so he might perhaps have recovered his credit another time, having many companions in his discomfiture: whereas now, he was overcome for ever, because his loss was unrecoverable: and she, that had conquered him, was not (again) to be ovecome by his power or might any way at all. He finding his Prize to have cost him too dear, in that he lost his former liberty, and the freedom of his heart for the same.  
He resembled that Pilot, who seethe his Ship to leak, and full of holes, by which, the water entereth, and therefore dispaireth of life. And such a one, was our wretched Conqueror, who saw no remedy for him, to quench this fire, which burned his inward entrails.  
He was in love with a Princess, the only daughter of his King, and whom, the greatest monarchs of the world, would have thought themselves fortunate, to have had her for wise, and who was so virtuous and wise, as hardly could she be induced unto love.  
Yet, his misfortunes take to them, a larger scope,  
He gives not over to Love, though he is without hope.  
But after he hath considered within himself (wisely) of the matter, he findeth, that it is but mere folly, to set up his rest at that game any longer, and therefore he resolveth to give it over. But the more he thinketh to forget his Love, the more Affection kindleth within. Not unlike the Bird, who being taken in the lime-twigs, the more she striveth to get away, the more she is entangled.  
Whereupon, one day he being alone, calleth for me, and because he knew I had some (experience in Love) he demanded my advise therein, discovering his wound unto me, and craving my best counsel.  
I ●ouing him dearly, persuaded him to chase away that venomous Adder, and that he play not as that husbandman of the Country did, who kept a Snake so long in his bosom, till at the last, he stung him for his kindness. Besides, I discoursed unto him, of the bloody outrageousness of Love (often) sighing, as I reported the same unto him, because (as then) I remembered mine old love in Arcadia.  
He hearing me say so, straight believed me, determining with himself, not to follow his fair Mistress any longer in chase: and with that resolution (willing me to departed) he layeth him down upon his bed, thinking to take his rest for a while. But no sooner were his eyes closed, but that Love opened them again, presenting the beau●●● of 〈◊〉 Lady before him, so that presently he was changed in mind, minding (now) to lone her again.  
As that traveler, who being bound, by reason of some business of great importance, to take Sea, no sooner arriveth at the shore, but that he, fearing to enter the S●●pp● because of drowning, retireth back again: but afterward (remembering the weightine● of the matter, and how much it importeth him, for his profit, to go onwards on his journey) marcheth back again unto the water, hazardeth himself, and so in the end performeth his voyage. Even so, my perplexed Lord, after he hath done what he can to subdue his passion, and yet cannot: at the last, seeing no other remedy, he resolveth to love, and to submit himself, under the servile yoke of cursed Cupid. Or as the bondslave, having escaped in the night, determineth with himself to be followed after in the day time, changeth his advise, and frighted with extreme fear, returneth home unto his Master.  
Even so Don john, he is (in the end) forced to acknowledge proud LOVE, for his sovereign Lord, and is glad to yield unto him.  
Whereupon, he calleth me again unto him, making me privy unto his resolution, discoursing still of Love, (and flattering himself) he would needs persuade me that Love was courteous and gentle, when he knew right well (in his own conscience) that he did find him otherwise.  
But I, on the other side, wish him not to believe so, but rather advise him to banish Love from him, as one that is an adversary, both unto his life and quietness; delivering unto him many proofs of the cruelty of that blind God, and of his villainous nature.  
All this he heareth, although he knoweth not what to answer unto the same, because I spoke but reason, and yet for all this (such was his mishap) as like an obstinate and self-willed man) he standeth still in his blind error stiffly. As the robber by the high way side, being admonished by some faithful friend of his, to give over that lewd kind of life, (telling him of the wretched and wicked end he is like to come unto, if he continueth still in the same) listeneth unto him very earnestly, and yet nevertheless, falleth unto his old kind of trade of robbing, is the same man still, and so continueth: Even so this Gavalier, although he gave good ear unto my reasons and persuasions, yet did he persist as one obdurate in former folly and selfe-wilfulnesse. But yet (to say truth) he was somewhat to be excused herein, seeing he was no more master of his own self, but rather Love, under whose Banner he fought.  
Long lay he upon his bed, and yet he could not sleep, by reason of such strange visions as Love presented unto his eyes. Whose fashion it is, when he hath once conquered, he will seldom or never suffer him to be in quiet. Whereupon, Don john ariseth from his loathed bed, taking his journey towards the King's Palace, where (by the way) he is saluted and commended of all men, but yet all these honours abated his pain little or nothing, because he found by experience, that he had lost more, than ever he was like to recover again.  
Besides, if he had but known the mind of his Mistress, he then could the sooner have resolved what to do, according unto her answer: which was, either to die, or to follow his suit begun. But not knowing her will, he knew not what to say, nor what to think of the matter. For 
Each Lover, that is burned with this amorous flame,  
In word and deed, dependeth on his lovely Dame.   
Not long had he stayed in the Court, but that it was his good Fortune, to have a sight of his Mistress, whom he thought to be wonderfully inereased in Beauty, since (last) he saw her; so as if she then deserved to be honoured as a Lady, why now, she merited to be worshipped and adored, as if she had been some Goddess indeed: And thus his affection increaseth more and more. On the other side, the young Princess began to feel a kind of alteration within herself, and found her heart to fancy Don john, above all men living: Yea, and so much, as she thought he deserved to have her Love, before any other. And yet when she remembered her Royal birth, whose daughter she was, and the greatness of her honour, she began somewhat to forget him: so as her desire was no sooner lightened, but that it was quenched again. Not unlike unto those children, borne before their time, who no sooner are brought into the world, but they straightway die.  
Mean time, the Knight, who was not so bad a scholar in loves school, but that he had learned some lessons therein, began to gather, by the stealing glances which she cast upon him, that she did not altogether hate him, and therefore began to persuade himself, that he was likely to have some good success in his amorous business.  
Whereupon, he thought to venture to speak unto her. For (said he, unto himself) what should hinder me that I should not bewray how much I affect her? What though she be the Daughter of my King? is it reason therefore, that I should die for her, and yet not make her acquainied with my death, and the cause thereof?  
What know I, whether Love hath infected her, as well as it hath poisoned me? For as great Princes (as she) have felt his force, and have been brought under by him: which (if it were so) I would not then doubt, but that she would be so gracious unto me, as to take some pity upon me. For Love makes the hearts of great monarchs to stoop, as well as those of poor peasants: forcing as well the bravest minds to be subject unto his laws, as such as are base persons. Did not he make soft and gentle, the hart of proud and haughty Achilles, compelling him to yield unto his prisoner Briseis to like her so well, as he quarreled with all the Princes of Greece, to have her good will?  
And the self same Love, did it not take down the stubborn stomach of high minded Angelica, who although she were a Princess, and sought unto, by all the chiefest Paladines, and men of renown in the world: yet did she cast her liking upon silly Medor, a simple Page or Lackey. Nothing can withstand his mighty power, neither King nor Queen, Royalty nor Nobility, all are alike unto him, and all must do as he pleaseth. Only, with surly and proud minds, doth he (most commonly) adorn his triumphant Chariot, disdaining (as it were) the spoils of the meanest.  
Again, did not Venus dote on a Shepherd? and Phoebus, upon a plain Country Lass? Yes, yes, and therefore nothing is impossible unto love.  
And seeing it is so, I will endeavour to see, if I can learn, whether he hath tamed the great heart of this lovely Princess: which if he hath done, I hope then, that it is strucken with a golden Dart, as mine is, and not with one of lead.  
Might I but once find that she affecteth me, I would do well enough with the rest, hoping (in time) to bring every thing to a most prosperous end, and happy issue.  
Thus said my Master, being resolute to sound the depth of the Princess thoughts, and yet he thought it was hard to wade through such a Ford, much doubting the entrance therein, but far more, how to get out (thereof) again.  
And as a General of an Army, after he hath had many parleyes with the Fort, which is enemy unto him, pitcheth his Tents round about the same: but seeing his Soldiers to be beat back again, with loss of many of his men, dispaireth that he shall not be able to surprise it, doubting sore of some bad issue in this his enterprise.  
Even so, many doubts ran into Don john's head, which much troubled him, as well, he knew not what to do. One while he feareth lest he should offend his Mistress, and loath he is to displease her: yet in the end, Fortune, who favoureth such as be venturous, egged him forward, making the way plain for him, that he might the better bewray his affection unto his Lady. For one day, the King being willing highly to grace him, commanded him to sit down with him, at his own Royal table, where his daughter fat, right over against him. Never can Virtue be honoured too much, whilst she doth credit unto them, that thus seek to do her reverence and duty.  
I leave unto your advised considerations, to judge, whether (whilst the Princess sat so nigh the Knight) he lost any time or no? And whether he took his occasion, finding the opportunity so fit: if he had done otherwise, he had done fondly.  
But he, seeing his Saint so nigh (unto him) watching fit time, after many troubled conceits running in his mind, with a blushing countenance, and a low trembling voyee, he thus began to Court her.  
What would you say (most excellent Princes) to hear, that your own knight upon the selfsame day, in which he received from your royal self, the prize for Tilting, became both victorious, and vanquished, and all at once? Victor over so many brave Cavaliers, but vanquished) through your most beauteous eyes.  
And although every Conqueror, is proud of his conquest, and he that is conquered, lamenteth for his loss: yet I (quite contrary unto them) esteem less of my victory, than I do to be overcome: for, it is far more honourable to be overthrown by a divine puissance, then to be Conqueror over a week and feeble force.  
And what greater renown, or braver fame, may so much beautify and adorn my days, as to be called the vassal, and slave of her, and to be vanquished by her, who by the same force, is able to overcome, even the Gods themselves. No other glory will I seek then this, which is, to be accounted your Captive.  
I know (good Madam) you may count me over arragant, and without discretion, in that I dare presume, to use such speeches unto you, who are both my natural Princes, and my Lady, purchased through your too beauteous eyes; yet though the Gods be sacred and immortal, they for all that, refuse not the service of worldly men their creatures, because nothing can hinder virtue from doing her duty, inasmuch as she is without fault: and the rather, in that she is of force, to make the fierce and wildest hearts that are to be in love with her.  
I speak not this, that I would look for any recompense for my pains of you, neither, that you should make any account of me at all: only I would most humble entreat you, that you would vouchsafe to believe, that all my desires, all my studies, and all my endeavours, are wholly vowed unto your secret service, and that no person shall command over my soul, but only your sweet self.  
Think not then gracious Princes, that I am overrash, and too too bold, to deliver such words, as these unto you. For it is impossible that any right generous mind, or brave heroical thought, should see so rare and matchless a beauty as yours is; but that he needs must be in love therewith; and loving it, devote himself unto the honour of the same for ever. Did not so many divine virtues abound within you, and were you, not every way, endued with so rare and exquisite qualities as you are, we then should not so earnestly seek to serve you: neither should we be so curious to follow you, with so great affection and respect as we do.  
Sooner shall the Sun be without light, and the earth, without verdure and greene's, for as the heavens (whether we will or no) giveth unto us light: Even so, despite of yourself, shall you be honoured and admired, as long as you are so excellent and perfect a creature.  
Then, if I place myself, in the order of such as reverence your rare qualities, good Madam pardon me: neither think that any person, can bare more loyal service unto you, than I myself do: for might my death testify the same any way, I protest I would more willingly die, than line. I craving nor wishing any thing so much in this world, as your pleasure and contentment.  
Thus said Don john, trembling for very fear: so as he whom the valour of the greatest enemy he had, could not so much as once daunt or terrify, he not knowing what it was to fear a bloody adversary) doth now quake and lookepale, sitting before a silly Virgin, yea he standeth more in awe of her, then of a whole oast of armed men.  
The young Princes, who was already persuaded by Love, to entertain him into her amorous service, to the end she might the better taste how sweet a pleasure it was, and what great credit, to be attended on, by noble Spirits (who most commonly are conquerors over such as be haughty & proud) found her hart to be more mollified and softened, by reason of this Oration, which my Master had made unto her, whilst as the Bird is deceived with the sweet pipe of the fowler, so was she overcome, with the pleasing harmony of his mellifluous tongue.  
But yet, as that Captain, who rendereth up his Sconce (to save his honour) first suffereth the Cannon to be brought thither to batter the same, because he will not have the world to think, that timorous fear, but rather default of succour, brought him unto this extremity. Even so, the Princes meant not to be won so soon, but rather remembering her royal birth and calling, and withal, her virtuous disposition and honourable bringing up, thought (first) with some short speech to answer her Knight again, as if she had been angry with him. Great personages (for the most part) use laconical brevity in their discourses, their words being far more precious, and of more worth, than those of the common sort of people are, and therefore aught to be the more accounted of.  
Thus then did the Princes Maria reply unto him. That man worthily is denied of his desire, that demandeth a thing unjust, or what is contrary unto the laws, being by the same law, condemned either to make some amends, or endure some kind of punishment for the same.  
The haughty mind, who like Phacton, would soar to high, is not lamented when he falleth, being plagued for his pride; seeing none should fly, that have not wings, neither aught any to intermeddle with that which belongeth unto Kings, except he be royally borne. Shouldest thou be chastised with so grievous punishment, for this thy too much saucy, and rash enterprise, thou wert but served rightly: for I would have thee to know, that one of mine estate, of my honour and reputation, is not so easy won, or changed, as every wind changeth and moveth the waves of the Seas too and fro.  
Neither hadst thou any such need, to make so long a preamble in thy speech, in offering of thy service unto me, when in nature and duty, thou art bound unto me, to serve me, and this thou dost promise to do, upon hope (forsooth) that thou mayest bring me to yield unto thy desire: but upon this condition, I refuse both it, and thyself: for I will not only hate vice, but all occasions, whereby I may be induced to be brought unto the same.  
Henceforth, then learn to be more wise, and think thyself happy, that thou mayest this once escape scotfree, for this thy presumptuous boldness.  
This was the choke pear, which the Princes gave unto Don john to swallow, notwithstanding, whatsoever she spoke, she meant far otherwise, wishing unto him, as well as to her own self. Sage and prudent was that Philosopher, who desired, that man might carry a window in his breast, the better to know: what he thought, and what he meant in heart: which if it were so, there should not then be so many horrible treasons committed, neither such damned deeds perpetrated and put in practice as now they are. But here below is little or no perfection at all, the most part of men passing away their lives, without doing any commendable act at all.  
But now our knight, thinking his Mistress had meant as she spoke (forgetting that it is the nature of women now and then to dissemble) thought her to be his mortal enemy, and was so daunted withal, as he sat like a movelesse Rock, not able to answer her one word, so much had grief seized upon his tongue, despair assailing his heart, and shame (for being denied) making him look pale and bloodless in the face.  
As that master of a ship, is amazed and sad, when he seethe the weather, on the sudden to change, quite contrary unto the warrant, he had not long before given unto his Passengers; whilst they in the mean time, cast in his teeth the smaller skill and knowledge he hath in his art, he not well knowing what to answer them again: Even so it fared with my master, who was quite blank, and knew not what to say unto this matter. In so much, as had any at that table known of his love, or but heard what she had said, they might easily have guessed what the matter was, by his very countenance, but none knew it, neither would be discover it unto any, but only unto me alone.  
But the Princes, who doubted that either her looks, which she forced to show frowning, and discontent, or else the sharp speech she gave unto him, would (perhaps) make him to do somewhat, which afterward might cause her to beshrew herself, chiefly because of the secret good will she bore him in her soul (which was of more efficacy and force, than all other considerations whatsoever) began now to repent her, that she had taken him up so short, and therefore, determined with herself to make him amends with another, far more cur teous than the first, when (as she beginning) the cloth was taken up, and the feast done, so that she was constrained (though much against her will) to rise, and leave her Knight.  
As that woman, who being taken tardy in some fault by her husband, standeth heavy and sad, in some corner of one chamber or other, whilst the rest of the household are merry and pleasant together: Even so, mine unfortunate Lord, whilst all the other Gallants of the Court, were dancing, speaking, and discoursing pleasantly one with another, he stood most heavily, lamenting his hard fortune unto himself alone.  
No marvel then, although every one was astomsht, and wondered to see so sudden an alteration in him, looking so pitifully, especially, when there was nothing wanting unto him, but that he might be rather more blithe and pleasant than others, he having received so many honours (by reason of the prize he had gotten) both of the King and all the Court.  
But (to this) he might have answered them, as that noble Roman did, who (having put his wife away) could give no other reason unto them, that although his shoe was fine, and well made for his foot, yet did not any know, whereabouts it wrung him, but only himself.  
Even so, Don john, felt himself grieved, yet none could tell the nature of his disease, but only she, who might if so she pleased, have been his Physician, and yet was it not so grievous unto him, but that it was far worse to herself: she repenting herself many times and often, for her froward and tart words, and seeking all means possible, to make amends for the same, although as then she could not. Alack, how soon and quickly, doth speech pass from us, and how terrible do it sting oftentimes, when a word is so bitterly spoken, as it cutteth and pierceth more deeper, than a sharp and keen sword?  
It was not for nothing, that the ancient Sages, had a certain Goddess, they called Silence, which always held her finger upon her mouth, to give us to understand thereby, that without long premeditating, and bethinking us well of the matter, which we meant to deliver, we should not speak at all, for fear least as the Poet saith, 
That thy rash speech make thee for to repent,  
Which at unwares most fond from thee went.   
That great Commander over the whole army of the Grecians, who overcame Troy repent him many a time and often of his too rash promise, for he having vowed most solemnly unto the Goddess Diana, to facrifice the fairest and goodliest thing in all his Realm, upon condition she would beappeased, and plague the Grecian Camp no more, was constrained (for performance of what he had so religiously protested) to sacrifice his own daughter, than who, there was none fairer. So likewise did those Fishermen, repent them of their words, who sold unto that Philosopher, the counterfeit of a Virgin, in which they brought the Trivet of gold, which was placed in the Temple of Apollo. And so was that good judge jepha, sorry, in that he had so unadvisedly, promised unto God, to sacrifice the first thing which he should meet coming from his own house, as he should return homeward, if he should obtain the conquest over his enemies; for his only child and daughter was she, of whom he first had a sight of, and therefore was she put to death.  
This was the reason our young Princes, being sorry that she had done amiss, sought to amend the same, when though feign she would, yet than she could not.  
And now the whole company being ready to departed, beauteous Maria cast a most lovely look upon her Servant, to give him (in full fatisfaction of her former injuries done unto him) a certain assurance, as well of her Love towards him, as of her repentance, for what she had uttered before. But he, that now had entertained black despair within his mind, and who dreamt upon nothing, but on horror and death, never marked her, nor perceived any such gracious sign, and therefore it did him no good at all: no more than a little weak potion, is able to countercheck and encounter, with a deadly poison, that is mortally entered into the stomach, and every part of a man.  
And as small and ordinary remedies, are sufficient to help a man to his health, who being but newly fallen sick, but are of no force nor virtue at all, when he is grown to be dangerously diseased indeed. even so, these amorous gestures and signs of this Lady, which before the mortal infirmity of my master, had been comfortable unto him, and had done him much good, coming (now too late) stood him in no steed, he being as then, like one that despaired of his life.  
Night being come, he cometh home heavy and sad, none knowing the occasion thereof but myself: he himself, not being able, or at lestwise, somewhat unwilling to deliver his misfortune unto me, but I having known the same, came (of mine own accord) unto him, seeking to comfort him, by all the devices I could, therewithal telling him, that the first entering into Love, was the hardest: and that if a brave General of a field, for one repulse or two, would never give over his enterprise, but rather follow it harder, yea and that with so desperate a courage, as in the end he returned conqueror, then much less ought he to be daunted, or distrust his own good hap, although at the first push, he had not made a breach into his Lady's heart.  
Besides, I told him, that what is easy obtained, is not worth the getting, whereas that, that is dearly bought, & hardly come by (as most commonly the affairs in love be such) are not so quickly purchased, and therefore he must not think much, although he endure some pain, or labour, before he attain his so much desired suit: for the fruits thereof, are so luscious & sweet, that if the Lover should gather them, without some danger, he would grow more proud than the T●ans, and not stick to compare (for good fortune) with the Gods themselves: of which jupiter himself (although the mightiest of them all) could not enjoy his love without great travail, no though they were but mortal creatures, which he so much affected.  
Again, say that women should love us, yet were it neither decent, nor just, that they should suffer themselves to be entreated, at the first encounter; as well, because their honour is still before their eyes, which they hold as the dearest thing they have, as also, because they doubt, they shall be the sooner disdained, and despised by us, (as fools and such as want discretion and government) if they should (so soon) make a tender unto us of their friendly love.  
Besides that, a woman is but courted and attended upon by the man, but a small time, and whilst he wooeth her, in the way of marriage; for no sooner are they become man and wife, but that then, she must attend, and serve him, and this is the reason they are so long before they will yield unto these amorous pursuits & persuasions. Withal, we must consider the birth, the calling, and the quality of the person whom we seek to obtain, who the nobler she is, the longer (must we think) it will be before she be brought unto our lures, especially, when she is our better far; so, as if Briseus (although a servant and Captive) stood so much upon her Pantofles, as she looked that she should be sued unto by Achilles, her Lord and Master: much more should not he think it strange (and not wonder thereat, at all) although his Mistress being a Princes borne, would look for far more service at his hands; and therefore he had no reason but to be of courage, to pluck up his spirits, and play as that wise Captain doth, who seeing himself discomfited, presently gathereth new forces together again, and once more ventureth his fortune.  
These and many other persuasions did I use unto him, but the unfortunate Gentleman, thinking the (task he had taken in hand) to be harder for to finish (than it was) would receive no comfort at all, much less any hope to obtain what he so much desired; in so much as he resolved, to give over the court for ever, and to go and live in a house he had in the country, where he meant to spend the remainder of his loathed life.  
And that the sooner he might die with care,  
joy banishing, he entertains despair.  
Having this conceit in his head, the next morning he cometh unto the Court, where he taketh his leave (in humble wise) of the King, and that he might have a colour for his departure, and that none might suspect his heavy countenance, he maketh them believe, his mother was at the point of death, and therefore he being sent for, must needs away unto her.  
Having been with the King, he cometh unto the Queen, and to her fair daughter, unto whom he telleth this sad news, looking very sorrowfully, and so most humbly taketh his leave of them; but the young Princes, guessing shroadly at the truth of the matter, and that there was no such thing, but only a mere excuse, grieved mightily, to hear how she should lose his company, the only cause whereof she knew herself to be; for which, although she was heartily forie, yet knew she no way how to remedy as then the same.  
Mean space, Don john, most pitifully consumed away, as well because he wanted his Mistress, as also for that he was never likely to see her any more, whilst he being retired unto his melancholic house resolved to die, and to give over the world.  
O cruel madness, O furious rage, O incomparable mischief, O misery, none so great as love. What worse misfortune can happen unto a man, then for want of reason, to suffer himself to fall into the merciless hands of his murdering foe?  
And what unhappiness (be it never so great) can overthrow a man so soon, as that which depriveth him of all sense, and understanding? for the loss of our best friends, or chiefest goods, are easily to be borne, because seldom or never they make us lose our right wits for them: but the torments we suffer in Love, are insupportable and not to be endured; for it confoundeth our virtue and constancy, as was too well seen by Don john, who would not take comfort in any thing, but only in death: whilst lying thus dangerously sick, of a secret disease of the mind, he was so much changed, as none could well have known him; for his goodly and comely parsonage, was become pale, weak, and earthly: his hair long, wild and feltered: his eyes, hollow and deep, settled in his head: his face heavy and sad: his cheeks hollow and lean: his lips dead like ashes, and dried up for want of moisture: his breasts lank, and without flesh: his hands, but skin and bone, and his arms brawn fallen, and without any force at all: to be brief, he resembled rather a dead Anatomy, than a living creature.  
And although divers have been of an opinion, that hardly or never any can die for Love, because (as they say) this amorous sickness, tainteth the soul only (which is not subject unto death) and not the mortal body; yet nevertheless for all this, there is no doubt, but that many have so died, and that the soul (as a companion of the body, in the selfsame functions) cannot feel any grief, but that the body must feel his part thereof, and except he be partaker of the same, even (as one day) both the one and the other shall be partners either of eternal glory, or else of everlasting fire, in that they have been companions in this world, either of good or else of evil. Such a life than was this which our poor Arragonian Gentleman endured, a life ordinary and common unto such, who deprived of all hopeful happiness, pine away like one that is in a recureless consumption, for nothing maketh us to live, but only joyful hope, which if it be deferred long, it maketh us languish, but much more than will it plague us, if we once grow in despair, never to obtain the same.  
And therefore, there is none so wretched a life, as that which weareth away for want of hope: and so lived miserable Phedra, who seeing her dear Hippolytus dead (for want of hope) slew herself. For as the Poet saith, 
Sweet hope, the life of every one (what ere) doth cherish,  
And were it not for wished for hope, all men would perish.   
This than was my masters resolution, which no man could dehort him from. All his house, and chambers were painted with black, our Liveries being tawny, and in the room where he lay, he caused divers melancholic and sad sentences, to be drawn in great Characters, all which were the Infants of despair. One day, he being somewhat better than his usual custom was, called for pen and Ink, and thereupon composed these sad verses following, which he would oftentimes sing unto his Lute.  
My sighs, when give you over to sigh then forth my pain?  
Mine eyes, when have you done to wail my grief, though all in vain?  
Was ere seen such strange cruelty, where Loyalty is found?  
Whilst (through th'ungrateful) for to die, remorseless I am bound?  
I die, but in what sort, alas my woes so many be,  
As never any heretofore, hath suffered like to me.  
Happy is he that to his end by one sure stroke doth high,  
To languish (dying) is far worse, then quickly for to die.  
My tears that in mine eyes do stand (with sihges) my griefs do show,  
And yet there's none that pitieth me, whilst worse I still do grow.  
I cannot cured be, and she that's Author of my grief,  
(To slay myself) she weapous gives unto me (Sans relief.)  
Like Captive am I led away, yet can I not behold  
Her face, to whom I prisoner am, and who my hart controlled.  
He is no valiant Soldier right, nor any Conqueror brave,  
Who to his prisoner dares not show himself, when he doth crave.  
But heavens I see conspire 'gainst me, this life I finish must,  
Yet happy he, that in his love diest loyally and just.  
Sacred for ever,  
fail shall it never, This my Monument,  
Since that Love so true,  
Though none the same rue Within it is spent.  
But (cruel) thou too late shalt find, untimely death of mine,  
My Love was pure, my hart most just, and bare thereof the sign.  
Yet i'll not tax thee for my death, thy rigour hard to prove,  
I'll say it was my destiny, and not thy near gained love.  
But why (in vain) seek I in life, to have a farther scope,  
He happy dieth, who in the would hath lived without hope.  
Then let's dispatch by sweetest end to rid us of this pain,  
Let's shun this troublesome sea, the port with Anchor ours to gain.  
His death is blessed,  
Of life disposessed, When by a sweet way,  
Ending of his life,  
He shuns care and strife, And in rest doth stay.  
This was the melancolicke Music, which my luckless Master sung unto his Lute, making all those heavy, that were hearers of the same. O malcontented sorrow, thou woundest our souls through sadness, never suffering us to rest quietly; thou driest up the marrow in our bones, whereas joy delighteth and comforteth the heart.  
Through thee, and through thy black sister despair, died constant Portia, Cato the Censors daughter, and modest Octavia, the patiented wife of that luxurious Mark Anthony.  
But to come to our former discourse, and leave all digressions by the way, Don john had no sooner left the Court, but that the young Princes Maria, was ready to leave her life, taking on most pitifully, now she had fit the sight of him, whom she most affected.  
For as the fire put under a heap of wood (although green) after it groweth to be dry & fit to burn, kindleth most strangely, casting forth huge flames, most dreadful to behold: Even so, the heart of Princely Maria, which Love had not yet lighted but only a little (because it began to resist somewhat at the first) after it was once thoroughly dried by desire, began to kindle so extremely within her afterward, as she was mightily burned with the same, insomuch, that she grew so strongly enamoured of her loving Servant, as she could no longer live without his presence.  
Great is the danger of that man, that openeth a gap unto his adversary, whereby he may take advantage of him, especially unto that cruel tormentor Love; who, worse than any barbarous Tyrant spoileth us, overthroweth us, & treadeth us under his feet: for so did this comfortless Lady find him, who now with tears from her eyes, and sighs from her heart, many a thousand times repent her of her overfond oversight, in being the Author of so much misery, as well unto her friend, as unto her own self. Feign would she now redeem the speeches which (before) she had spoken, but it was then too late, although she oftentimes cursed her tongue for the same.  
A bitter Pill of digestion is Repentance, and thrice happy is he, that never hath had occasion to say (I Repent me,) only the ancient Sages, (few in number) might justly speak the same. For that man needeth not to be sorry at all, who doth not any thing without mature advise, and sound deliberation of judgement.  
But as a storm never cometh without rain or hail, so never any misfortune happeneth alone, but somewhat else cometh with it. For during the time that the Princess so much bewailed the absence of my loyal Master, it so fell out, that the Prince of Lions, demanded her in marriage of the King her Father, who presently gave his consent, so that there wanted nothing, but (only this) that the Princess should agree unto this match herself.  
But she, who could not dispose of her own heart, because she had bestowed it on another, and was fully minded, never to be wedded unto any, except unto Don john, thought within herself, rather to leave the world, then to yield unto any such matter.  
Nevertheless, her Father and Mother importuned her wonderfully; the amorous Prince himself, not losing any time or opportunity to win her, by all the devices he could.  
As in the midst of a terrible fight upon the Sea, the Admiral seeing his Ship set on fire, his enemies got therein, and his people slain, knoweth not well what to do, or what to resolve upon: whether it were best to die by the ●●rd of his Foe, or to suffer himself to be burnt, or else to leap into the Sea, and there venture drowning, and in the end, imagining the water to be far sweeter than the other twain, with desperate courage leapeth therein.  
Even so, and in such perplexity, (if not worse) was royal Maria. Counsel and advise she wanted, what to say or do she knew not, and which way to turn her, she was ignorant; she waileth and weary, wisheth to die, and calleth for death, and yet findeth nothing to help her.  
Hecuba, never bewailed her bondage so much, nor the murdering of her Children, neither did Niobe moon so rufullie, for her misso: tune, as this poor Virgin sighed and took on for her hard hap: whilst LOVE, one while counseleth her one thing, another while, wisheth her to do another; and yet in the end doth not permit her to resolve upon any matter thoroughly. She in the mean time standing doubtful, and wavering what to do, like a vessel that is tossed too and fro with a Tempest. O how often did she wish and desire within herself, to see (but once before she died) her dearest friend, that she might crave pardon of him, for her fault.  
Nothing doth she covet so much as death, and (yet such was her ill hap) as she knew not how to die. In the end, after she had bebated the matter within herself, and beat her brains too and fro therein, she found no better means, then to have recourse unto Don john, and to entreat him to have compassion on her: but then she was (almost) at her wits end, to think how she might make him acquainted with her purpose: When flattering Fortune, (for her ill luck) showed her, how she might bring this her business about well, and as she herself would desire.  
For the young Prince of Lions, who was in the prime of his youth, and in the heat of his chief blood, seeing he could not by fair means obtain the King of Arragon's daughter, thought to try what he could do by force: and thereupon, sent an Ambassador unto the King, that if he would not willingly yield his daughter unto his wife, he (then) would have her from him perforce, and by bloody wars.  
The King hearing this proud Message, as one that was loath to force his only daughter, or compel her to marry against her will, & yet withal, fearing (somewhat) the power of his arrogant Foe, thought to make as sure work as he could in this matter; and thereupon, sen● pursiuants, for all his bravest Soldiers, and best men at Arms, amongst which, he accounted Don john as the chief.  
The Princess having espied so fit an occasion, sent a trusty Page of her own unto him, with (her enclosed Letter) in great secret, but before he had received the same, the King's Officers had posted unto him where he lay, certifying him of the King's commandment; But he that had vowed unto himself, never to return into the world more: and finding himself so feeble and weak, as he was quite without all force or strength, denied the Princess' request, minding to excuse himself by reason of his sickness, and so to send them away: which he had no sooner done, but behold his Mistress Page came presently, to enter into his Chamber, and to deliver her Letter unto him.  
As that man (who thinking himself to be healthful and strong in body) is daunted with fear, when suddenly (and in the best of his time) a strange kind of Qualm, cometh over his stomach, and an uncouth trembling is found to run through all his joints and members: Even so, was this sick Knight, wonderfully amazed, to see his Lady's Letter, in the midst of his misery, and when he was deprived of all such hope, despairing ever to have found such kindness to come from her.  
In the end he receiveth them, as a Cordial, to his heavy heart; and (after he had kissed, and rekissed them often) he openeth them, wherein he found this written, which followeth.  
IF there be no greater corsive unto the mind of one then that which forceth us (despite of ourselves) to seek unto those whom we before have (and that without just cause) notoriously offended; then (certainly) am I the most wretchedst Creature living. For (as now) there is no means left for me, to escape from danger, but only by thy help (sweet Knight) alone, who hast more reason to wish mine overthrow, than my good Fortune or health, any way at all: in that thou hast found such extreme and barbarous discourtesy in me. Yet nevertheless, if thy right generous and gentle mind, cannot feel this injury (done unto thee, by a silly Maiden) then, I beseech thee, think no more upon mine offence, but burying it deep under thy feet, do that for my sake, which the bearer here of shall make thee privy unto. And then shalt thou quickly perceive, what great satisfaction I will make thee, for my fault committed, granting unto thee, that, which thou shalt most desire. Give credit then unto this Messenger, assuring thyself that I am.  
Thine most obliged, Maria.  
As that Prince who being pensive and sad, (attending for news of the fortune of the Battle, which his Lieutenant hath given unto his enemy, seeing a Messenger coming a far off (is amazed and confounded with fear) one while hoping of the victory, and then another while, doubting lest he hath lost the day, and so is utterly overthrown.  
Even so it fared with our Arragonign Knight, for he knoweth not, what his Lady would have with him, and say, that she would employ him in her service, (yet thinketh he) that it is not for any good will she beareth him, but only because she would serve her own turn: and that she had great need of him.  
Whereupon, he commandeth the Chamber to be voided, when being all alone, (except the Page) he demandeth of him what the Princess pleasure was; who told him, that her earnest request was, that he would do her so much favour, as to challenge the Prince of Lions, to Combat: and to maintain in quarrel against him, that he ought not, against the oath and devoir of a true Knight, go about to seek to have her unto his wife, against her will, which victory (if it please God that he obtain) he then should soon find, how thankful she would be unto him for the same.  
My master hearing this, was ready to leap out of his skin for very joy, driving away all sadness, and becoming merry, as he was at the first, seeing he had (now) some means to show himself, some way worthy of the good will of his Mistress.  
Whereupon he answered the Page, that (his humble duty first remembered unto the Princess) he would be at the Court within ten days after, and so willed him to signify, (and to assure her thereof: where, in his black Armour) spread all over with burning flames, and dreary leaves, he would meet his hot and importunate Lover, not doubting, but quickly to cool his heat and courage: and so, bestowing a rich jewel upon the Page, he sent him back again unto the Princess, who was marvelous glad to hear this news from him.  
But there is an old saw, Haste makes waste; And Soft Fire maketh sweet Mauls: Even so, if this Traitor LOVE, had not blinded the eyes of my Master (so much) as he could not see his own weakness, and if he had not been so forward, but had stayed, and taken a longer time, to cherish and recover his health (more throughly) than he did (by reason that he was brought wonderful low, and almost unto death's door, with very faintness and sorrow of mind) no doubt, but it had happened better for him than it did: and he had been one of the most fortunatest men living.  
But alas, who ever hath seen a Lover, that hath not been half foolish? and that would not think, but that he were able to perform things that were impossible, for the Love of his Mistress? For as the Poet saith: 
Nothing is hard unto a lovers mind,  
When he doth seek to please his Mistress kind.   
For it was very strange, that Don john, having been so long sick, and without being recovered, above three or four days, should be able to encounter with one of the most bravest, lustiest, and strongest Gallants in the world, and not to be the occasion of the loss of his own life, as afterwards it was.  
Nevertheless, he thought nothing was impossible unto him, as long as it was in the service of his Lady, he being of the mind, that in such a cause, he was able to conquer all the world.  
Mean time, the King's Pursiuants returned back again unto the Court, certifying his Majesty, how that Don john was deadly sick, and for that cause, craved pardon of him to be excused, since he was far likelier to die then to live.  
Which when the King had heard, he was wonderfully sorry, but on the other side, the Page warranted the Princess, that (what news so ever he had sent unto the King her Father, because he would not as then, be known of the sime) that (yet nevertheless) he would keep his word, and not fail of his promise: and so he did indeed. Although LOVE himself, doth but mock at the Oaths and protestations of Lovers, they being for the most part, false, deceitful, and oftentimes broken. And yet I say, 
That Lovertrue, which to his Mistress makes an Oath,  
Will die before (to her) he'll break his vowed Troth.   
This was the reason that Don john, (according unto his word) kept his day, not missing to be there, at the time appointed, and in such an Armour as he told the Page of, although he was very weak and sickly, which if his fair Maria had known, she would not have so lightly employed him in so weighty a business, as concerned as well his life, as her own, and the welfare of them both; but rather would have caused him, to take some longer time to recover himself, and some good Physic to make him strong again.  
And now the day being come, Don john, (as a Knight errant and unknown) Armed (and disguised, as I told you before) presented himself before the King, and having done reverence unto him, demandeth for the Prince of Limbs.  
The King hearing him say so, asked what he would have with him, and the occasion why he inquired for him: (my reason is, answered the Knight, to prove against him, (if so it shall stand with your highness good liking) that he doth against the honour and laws of Chivalry, to go about to obtain (the Princess your Daughter's love) rather by force, then by other good means: and thereupon, I denounce the Combat unto him. which if he refuse, I will account him no better than a base Coward, void of all valour, and as as one that is unworthy of that thrice Noble order of Knighthood.  
Hereupon the Prince was called, (for he was come but the day before unto the Court, he having been sent for thither, by a train that the Princess laid, who knew her faithful Servant would not miss his day,) before whom the strange Knight repeated the former words: Which the other hearing, was so incensed with rage and fury, as presently he called for his Horse and Armour, being ready in a trice, and so went into the Lists to meet with his enemy.  
The King was wonderfully astonished at this strange adventure, and yet rejoiced much in his mind, wishing in his heart, and praying unto God, that this new come Knight might have the upper hand, of his proud and insolent adversary. But if he so much rejoiced, then must you think that the Princess his Daughter, was much more pleased and contented, seeing her valiant Knight to be so true of his word, and so ready to adventure his life for her sake: & therefore thought him most worthy to be beloved.  
And now every thing being in a readiness, the two Combatants entered the field, both of them provoked, with one and the selfsame desire, and both forced thereunto, through extreme love.  
The Trumpets sounding, they set spurs to their horses, meeting with such a terrible encounter, as their Spears flew all into shivers, and both of them fell upon the ground: but quickly got they up again, drawing their naked swords, and the one most desperately seeking to assail the other.  
As the Cyclops in Aetna, beating continually upon the Iron Forge, fill all the bordering mountains thereabouts, with Thundering noise; Even so, the blows that fell upon the Armours of these two Champions, made such frightful noise, as the sound thereof was heard far and near.  
Don john is minded there to die, or to overcome, since he fighteth in the honour of his Lady, so great is his courage: And yet, thee that was the occasion of the weakening of his forces, cannot restore the same unto him again, when he hath most need of them for her sake.  
On the other side, the young Prince mad for anger, that one should take his Mistress away from him (and against his will) whom he beheld to be in place, redoubled his strength and courage in this Combat. But yet it had stood him in small stead, and to little or no purpose at all, if his enemy had been as strong and lusty in body as he was, before LOVE had so much weakened and taken him down. Little odds seemed there to be betwixt these two Cavaliers, so valiantly did both of them carry themselves, as every one wondered at them.  
No running tricks in their fight was forgotten, no Stockado, nor Reverschio, no giving place for advantage, nor no fast following, to serve their own purpose was missing: each of them striving (as now) to show the vemost skill they had, in this their dangerous play.  
Don john hurt the Prince in the shoulder, and the Prince wounded him in the thigh, which was the cause that the Battle began to begin a new between them: whilst the lookers on, were even weary to behold them, only they which fought, were so fresh and lively, as if they had (but as then) entered into the field.  
The Lists (with their traversing up and down the ground) are made deep like furrows, and strewed all along, with the splinters & pieces of their Armours. Upon part of which, Don john (by ill fortune stumbling) fell down, & the Prince presently upon him, ready to have stabbeth him, with his dagger into his throat, which he put in practice to the utmost of his force, but his corselet was of so good proof, as he could not do him much hurt. Thus as they tumbled one upon an other, my Master played his part so well, as at length he got up again on his legs, when as then, he began to find & feel, how much his former sorrow & grief of mind had weakened him: beside, calling to mind his fault, (of which he was so ashamed) he with such a fresh courage, assailed his furious Foe, that he made amends for his fault before, although the Prince had the advantage of him. For where he was but hurt in the shoulder only, our Arragonian Knight was wounded, both in the Thigh, & in his inward mind too: and yet nevertheless, he stood stoutly to his tackling, grieved at the heart, that he could not rid his enemy out of the way, (in so long time) especially fight for his Lady, and now (although too late) often wishing he had taken a longer time, to recover his former health. In the end, the blood ran so fast down from Don john's thigh, as every one judged he would be overcome. For which all the Assembly were marvelously sorry. When upon the sudden (and contrary to all their expectations) he began so furiously to follow the Prince, as with the often blows which he doubled, and redoubled upon him, he made him kneel upon the ground, where (when he had him at the advantage, he lost no time at all. For perceiving that his enemy was in a manner astonished with the many strokes he had given him, without suffering him to have any leisure or time to breath, he aimed so rightly at his head, and that with so mighty a violence, as at one blow, he cloven it quite asunder: the senseless body falling down upon the ground, and quite bereft of soul, of pride, and of valour. At what time also, and with him (just at that instant) fell Don john himself likewise, by reason he was wonderfully weakened through the loss of his blood, which issued forth from his wounds. Whereupon every one supposed that he was dead, as well as the other, which the Princess imagining to be true, and (heavy above all the rest) for the same: returned home unto her Chamber, to bewail his hard fortune, with her own.  
To tell you what pitiful moan this poor Lady made, and what bitter tears she shed, being retired into her privy Closet, would but move you to greater remorse. No comfort would she receive any way: neither would she now rejoice, although she had seen her enemy slain, considering her valiant Knight had run the same course. She is determined not to live after him any longer, since she had been the occasion of his undoing. Neither cared she, although every one had seen her thus to lament, because she hoped Death would rid her from all such doubts. Nevertheless, her Gentlewomen much wondered thereat, marveling what the cause should be; most of them thinking it was for the death of the Prince of Lions, whom it was supposed she should have married, and not for the black Knight, although they were all deceived that thought so.  
Thus lay she mourning unto herself, neither would she take joy at any thing, until at the last, news was brought unto the Court, that Don john was found to be that black Knight, that had been her Champion, who was not (as it was before judged) dead.  
Whereupon she began to give over her lamenting, but yet in such wise, and so cunningly, as none of all her Attendants could perceive it was for his sake, that she had taken on so before, although (God he knoweth) not any in all the whole world was more joyful than she, to hear of so comfortable tidings and news.  
Whereupon, she called for her Coach, and went unto the Knight to visit him, where, when she was come, she found a number of Ladies and Gentlewomen in the chamber, who were comforting of him, and rejoicing with him, for his happy victory.  
No sooner was she entered into the Chamber where he lay, but all the other giving place, she drew towards his beds side: when he (poor soul) no sooner had spied her, but that he forthwith sounded: the company imagining that it was his wounds, and not her sight, that was the cause thereof: whilst she in the mean space, was not a little amazed, to see him so mightily changed, and to look so meager, pale, and hollow, whom not long before, she had known to be the goodliest and properest man living.  
But this misfortune and sickness (happened unto him) she laid no body in fault of, but her ownself, confessing in her conscience, that she was the only cause thereof: and therefore resolved within herself, to make him amends with the loss of her own life, if he should hap to miscarry, or do otherwise then well.  
And now my sad Master being come unto himself again, and seeing his Mistress to look so heavily upon him, and sighing, he held down his countenance, not daring to behold her, whilst the (Chyrurgians that had him in Cure, and others,) thought that it was the pain of his wounds, that made him so ill: And therefore, desired every one to withdraw themselves from thence (for a while) that he might the better take his rest.  
Whereupon, fair Maria was forced, (though sore against her will) to leave him: vowing unto herself (if it should please God, that her Knight might recover his former health) to marry with none but him: Thinking she could not be any man's (so rightly) as his, seeing he had (so bravely) revenged her quarrel, upon her hateful enemy, and had engaged his life, for her dear service.  
Alas, how shall I be able to make an end of this piteous history? I know not I, and therefore (good Arcas,) let this suffice, which I have already reported unto thee.  
Hear the wretched Fortunio, powered forth whole fountains of tears, it being a long time, before he could speak as much as one word more: but I pressed him so much, and urged him so often, that in the end, he went forward with his former discourse in this manner.  
Don John my Master, had all the cunning Physicians and Chirurgeons that could be gotten, to look unto him, whereby he might recover his former health, and have his wounds healed. But all was in vain, for there was no Medicine or Balm, that could do him any good, by reason of the great sorrow, which he had (before) conceived in his mind: And because the small virtue and strength of his radical humour within him, which grief had overmuch weakened, was not of power sufficient to nourish his grievous wounds, and therefore they became both weaker and worse, every day than other.  
They were not over mortal or deadly, and yet (because of divers accidents) and what through the bad disposition of his body, they became incurable: which they that looked unto him perceiving, and finding that there was no way but one with him, certified his friends thereof; who took on most pittrouslie, when they heard such heavy news.  
And now the last day was come, in which (most happily) he must leave this world, at what time (although as then too late) his Mistress showed herself most kind unto him. For, she having understood (by her trusty Page, of whom I talked of before) that he was drawing towards his latest end, determined with herself, not (long) to live after him: whereupon, she took a fit time, to steal secretly unto his Chamber, where (being alone with him) and causing the door to be bolted, she came unto his beds head.  
But alas (Father) I am not able to proceed any further, for very anguish of mind; my hart will burst, if without weeping, I go onward with my Tale. But yet I will do what I can to make an end thereof, although for every word I speak, I shall be forced to shed a tear.  
The kind Knight, perceiving the young Princess to stand by him: whose eyes were turned into springs of tears, whose heart was turned into another Montgibell, with scalding sighs: and whose amorous locks lay all rent and torn about her shoulders, with a hollow voice, and throatling in his throat, spoke thus unto her.  
If it be (sweet Mistress) for me, your faithful and wretched servant, that you lament so much, than I beseech you give over the same, and reserve it for a better purpose, and lessen not the glory which he feeleth, for dying in your Royal service.  
But (alas) what is this I say? Is it likely that you can bewail the loss of him, who, (when he was living) you deprived of life, through your too extreme rigour?  
No, no, I know it is not for me that you thus take on: (for I confess) I am not worthy thereof; but it is for the Prince of Lions, who is slain, that you torment yourself, whom (perhaps) you made account of, to have had for your husband. If so, then (cruel Lady) know this, that it was thy only commandment caused me to kill him: and had it not been thy will, he had been yet alive. Nevertheless, if in this I have done amiss, I crave pardon of thee before I die, as well for that, as for any error else, that I have most unwillingly done against thee.  
I die (beauteous virgin) yea I must die, only because I love thee: accounting myself most unfortunate, in that I have not received one small favour at thy hands before my death. Neither am I willing to live, seeing it is contrary unto thy will and pleasure.  
My dying lips had never that blessed hap, to touch those thy vermilion checks: No, not so much as to kiss those thy Princely hands; and all because I was thereof unworthy.  
Notwithstanding, if thou (most gracious Mistress,) dost think that this my death, (for loving thee) deserveth any recompense, than I most humbly beseech you, that you pardon all that is past, granting me to kiss, not your lovely lips, but only that your most victorious hand.  
O my soul, my soul, how insupportable is your anguish, not to love this my body, but to abandon the company of my sweet Princes: I die happily, being rid from all my grief, and yet most miserably, in that I lose thee, whom I love, far more than my own self.  
O fairest creature of all, that ever were fair, remember, remember, thy dear Don john, after he is dead and gone, who now taketh his last farewell of thee.  
Having so said, he sinketh down into his bed, his fair Mistress falling hard by his side in a sound, but in the end, coming unto herself again, she shed so many tears upon the bloodless visage of the knight, as at length, life began to come in him once more, that he might yet a little longer enjoy the presence of her.  
O what a pitiful sight was this to behold? These two faithful Lovers, who never had received any solace, or comfort, the one of the other, in all the time of their life, now at the last (hour of their deaths) begin to embrace and kiss one another, sucking that sweet poison, which forced them to die, mingling their tears upon their checks, whilst they drown themselves in the Seas of their own laments and wail.  
O happy Knight, to carry with thee the soul of thy Mistress, which with thy chaste kisses, thou didst suck from forth her body: and O blessed Princes, to have received so faithful a proof of thy Loyal Lover, whilst thou dost comfort him, he lying at the point of death.  
The one was whole, and without hurt, the other at death's door, and wounded mortally, and yet was she that was whole, no more able to speak, than the other that was so fore diseased. Mute and dumb were both of them, they two having (as it were but one body) (is but one will and mind was betwixt them) yet, this slight pleasure which they drew with their sole breath lasted not long, for so great was their inward griefs, as if they should not have spoken, their hearts must (then) needs burst in sunder.  
As the beauty of the Rose that is gathered, soon vadeth away, because it quickly withereth by reason of the heat of the Sun: Even so, as suddely were those joys which they conceived, gone from them, whilst the young Lady weary, and weeping drieth up the tears of ner faithful Servant, she kisseth his closed eyes, and with her tongue wipeth away the drops, as they fall upon his cheeks, but (alas) in steed of those which she drieth up, his own distilleth and lighteth upon the same place, whilst heavy sighs make him to groan, and thousand passions, interrupt and break the passage of his speech.  
He crieth out, and taketh on most bitterly, to see her thus to lament, he curseth his hard fortune, and calleth her cruel, in that she seemeth to envy, at this his glory, which he conceiveth in his mind to enjoy by dying, and at the last forceth himself to use these few speeches unto her.  
Alas sweet Mistress, what have I done unto you? what have I done unto you (I pray you) that you should so much malice the small remainder of this my hateful life? Let me alone, I beseech you, and suffer me to part out of this world quietly, without troubling of me, now I am going away from hence.  
Are you not content that mine own tears have (so often) drowned me, but that I must needs be overwhelmed with yours also? O unkind and discourteous, even until my latest end. If thou lovest me (as thou wouldst make me believe) then show some sign thereof, in appeasing thy sorrows, for my love sake. Wilt thou make me so miserable, as that (now I am dying) I shall find myself to be the Author of all thy care and sorrow.  
Alack do not me that great wrong, and let it not be said, that I have received so unjust an injury from thee. Go in peace, I pray you, and suffer me to die according unto mine own wish.  
O wretched carcase of mine, why didst not thou breath thy last, with the corpse of thine enemy, when thou soughtest the other day in the lists, without procuring (as now) unto thyself a worse than double death? Well (Lady) well, I see thou wilt not cease from weeping, I see thou wilt still be sighing and sobbing, and I plainly perceive thou wilt not give over to lament for the loss of him, who is not worthy, that thou shouldest let fall one tear in his behalf.  
Most gracious Princes, if my prayers cannot prevail for me, and although thou wilt do nothing in respect of me, ah yet at least, have some regard unto thine own honour: for what would strangers think, if they should find, that thou thus takest on and mourn for me? Wilt thou make me so wretched, as to cause me to be thought to be the occasion both of thy woe, and of thy discredit, which (although wrongfully) shall be a blemish unto thy former renown?  
Do not, O do not offer me, such monstrous injury, but rather (if thou thinkest that ever I have done any thing that hath been pleasing unto thee, or that I did fight against thine enemy in thy behalf) recompense me, with this one good turn, which is, that thou bewail not the loss of him, who whilst he lived, was thy most religious Votary, to the end none may reproach or defame thee (hereafter) in giving out, that thou didst Love me.  
But I perceive it will not be, I see my suit will not be granted, wherefore O death, most kind and courteous death, make haste, come, come, and make haste to rid me out of this too too servile thraldom, to the end, I may no longer behold her thus to wail and weep, who is my chiefest joy and felicity in this world.  
Then (once more) gracious Mistress. But here, he was prevented by the woeful Princes, who not being able to hear him thus to vex and torment himself, interrupted him (in his speech) after this manner.  
Now by that rare virtue, by that admirable valour, and by that comeliness of parsonage, all which were lately thine, yea and by mine own self, who will be none but thine, I entreat thee (my dear and faithful Knight) and by that admirable love which thou hast heretofore borne me, and as yet dost bear unto me, I conjure thee, to pardon me, for this thy death, for I only have forced thee to die: it is I have been thy utter destruction, and I only have brought the (untimely) unto thy grave.  
Ah let me but hear that sweet and comfortable word once pronounced by thee, before I discover unto thee, the secrets of my heart, and that I bewray any more of mine inward mind unto thee.  
Lovely Lady (replied my Master) I pardon thee with all my heart: but why dost thou thus jest at my hapless miseries, requesting that of me, which I (first) did beg of thee, because it belonged unto me, and for that it is I, and not thou, that art (herein) culpable: nevertheless, if those words shall please thee, for whom I lived only to serve and obey, and whom (now I am dying) I would be loath to offend, I am content to speak them, saying; Fairest and loveliest Lady, I most heartily pardon you.  
The mestfull Lady, hearing him to say so, began to dry her eyes, whilst flinging the hair of her head upon her shoulders, which before hindered her tongue from speaking, she thus began to bewray her mind unto him.  
I cannot deny (my dear heart) but that I was much too blame, when I first of all refused thy chaste service offered unto me: but alas, did I think, that for one only denial, thou wouldst have given over thy enterprise, and betaken thyself to live solitarily, as melancolicke person in a wilderness, and never more to move me in this matter? God knoweth how often (afterward) I cursed my tongue, and wished ill unto my mouth for the same: for I will confess the truth, that even then, and before that time (as ever since I have done) I loved thee most dearly.  
Full little did I think, but that I should have heard from thee again ere long, when thou (presently) didst retire thyself from my presence, so that although I knew thou lovedst me, and that I was willing to show thee any honourable courtesy, yet could I not as feign I would, by reason I knew not how to send conveniently unto thee, whilst thou in the mean time, wert almost dead for grief, and I little better, because thou hadst forsaken me so suddenly. Now whilst we both lived thus in great discontentment, the Prince of Lions (as ill fortune would) came hither unto my father's Court, and would needs force me to be his wife.  
But I, who had vowed in my mind, never to have any other unto my husband, than thine own sweet self, entreated thee, to try the combat with him in my behalf, not thinking that thou hadst been half so weak, as I perceived afterward thou wert.  
At the length it was thy good fortune to be victor of the field, whereof I was not a little glad; I determining with myself, whatsoever should have happened, to have been married unto thee. But woe is me, I now perceive, death must cause us to part in this world, although we will meet both together in another.  
And now seeing (at this very instant) I am forced to behold thee, drawing thy latest breath, and that thine eyes are ready to be closed up, with an everlasting sleep, thinkest thou that I either can or will, alloy the heat of my griefs? or that I will revoke my first word, which was to take part of such fortune as should be allotted unto thee?  
Dost thou think I am so cruel, so hard hearted, or so much void of remorse and pity, that thou dying before me, only for my cause, and in my quarrel, I would not so much as lament, and bewail thy death? Ah my unkind friend, great wrong is this thou dost unto me. No no, one and the selfsame Tomb, shall enclose both cur bodies together, and that which Love would not permit to be thine whilst thou livedst, gentle death shall put thee in possession thereof, without any trouble at all.  
Thy commandment in this point, shall be of no force with me, thy prayers to no purpose, neither thy entreating of any power at all with me, but in any thing else, do but bid me, and I will straight obey thee: only in this I must deny thee, for (assuredly I will die, rather than live, to think that thou wert overthrown through me, and that I should live continually to sigh and cry out, saying; Alas, where is (now) my worthy Knight? Can mine eyes shine, and give light, when thine are dead and gone? Can I endure to see thee carried unto thy grave, & I not be buried in the earth? And can I abide to live, to say, Behold yonder, my sweet friends Tomb, and not be enclosed therein myself? Never demand so unjust a request at my hands, neither be so hard hearted unto me, as to wish me to survive thee, to the end I may be the more miserable.  
But perhaps, thou thinkest because I have been cruel unto thee, therefore thou mayest repay me with the like recompense again.  
To which I thus answer. First, the heavens know how much it was against my will, and hadst thou not been too farewell and timorous, thou hadst saved both thine own life and mine also.  
Besides, I challenge the pardon which even now, thou didst grant unto me for this mine offence: and therefore (sweet friend) be content and pleased; for with thee will I die, whilst our corpses shall lie one by another in one self Vault, which when they were living, was not permitted unto us; and for this I hope, mine honour cannot be called in question, seeing all ages have allowed young Ladies, to love honesty, brave and valiant Knights, and such was my love, and not otherwise, as God himself can witness. Who then can justly tax mine honour?  
(None my dear Knight) none, and seeing it is so; receive this last kiss, from the most woeful woman living: receive her heavy plaints, and her lamenting groans, and do not oppose thyself against that small remainder of contentment, which is behind for her, in dying with thee, which she will take as a requital, for so many miseries which have been afflicted upon her.  
Needs must I tell thee, that I do envy at that glory thou hast to die before me, but (long) shall it not be, for I will follow thee, as fast as may be: mean while, and when thou shalt be in the heavens, remember I pray thee, thy dear and faithful Maria. More would she have spoken, but that her heart was so overpressed with grief, as she fell down dead upon my dying Master: who seeing so pitiful a spectacle, knew not what to do, for help her any way, he could not, so extreme and faint he was.  
At the last, she came unto herself, when with a low and fumbling voice, he spoke these few words (the last as ever he pronounced) unto her. My gracious Lady, now I beseech thee, harbour no such unkind conceit within thee, more good mayest thou do unto me (with thy honourable speeches) whilst thou art living, then when thou shalt be dead, or if thou shouldest die with me.  
No sweet Princes, no, live, yea live still, and happily, seeing nothing fairer than thyself can live. For else what discredit would it be unto me, if it should be objected against me, that I had darkened and extinguished the brightest Son of this world: let not so foul a blot stain my memory, after I shall be departed from hence alive, & seek not to shorten thy time, before the will of God, cutting off thyself before he doth appoint thee, and disposing of thy body, not according unto his, but thine own pleasure.  
An do not so, for so you may not do. Mortal creatures must be ruled by the divine ordinance above, and expect their leisure, not doing any thing, but as they shall appoint them. Live then (I say once more) and close these my dying eyes, which whilst they lived, were thine: this Boon, if thou shalt grant me, I then shall think myself happy: but if not, then shall I account myself as most miserable.  
And now I feel that welcome death doth approach towards me, through which all my cares and troubles end. I my time is now come, my senses fail, and my tongue beginneth to be speechless.  
No more have I now to say to thee (my dear Princes) but only to recommend my memory and thine own life, unto thee, of which two things I desire thee (as ever thou lovedst me) to have an especial regard.  
Farewell, I can no longer speak: farewell the beauty of this world: farewell the fair Sun of my soul: farewell my joy and only comfort, and if ever thou thoughtest me worthy of any favour, embrace me once before I die.  
And thou sweet jesus, mine only Saviour, have mercy upon me. Scarce were these words forth of his mouth, when the most disconsolate Lady, embracing her breathless Knight, laid her mouth so close unto his, as his soul seemed to part out of his corpse into hers, which with a sweet (yet scalding sigh) she drew in her own.  
And now, he being without life, and cold as any stone, the Princes knew not what to do, feign would she have murdered herself, but that she had no weapon wherewithal to do the deed: beside, she durst not stay alone in the chamber, lest she might (perhaps) be espied by one or other, and yet again, she was most loath of all, to leave the coarse of her kind friend so soon.  
But in the end, reason took place, which persuaded her, to convey herself as secretly from thence, as when she came thither: which she did so cunningly, through help of her old trusty and assured Page, as she was not perceived by any, until such time as she recovered her own lodging, where after she had been settled a while, she locked the door unto her: and so, laying herself upon her bed (after she had for a certain space, wailed and lamented for the death of my Master) she held her breath so long within her body, and closed her mouth so hard, as (at the length) she stifled herself for want of taking wind, and so was found dead, not any doubting of any such matter, nor any knowing what the cause should be of her death, but only myself, and her foresaid trusty Page.  
No sooner was she found thus dead, and the bruit thereof noised abroad, but there was a general lamentation and crying out throughout all the court: not unlike that which was heard in Troy, the same night the City was set on fire (upon the sudden) by the subtle Greeks'.  
What great moan the King and the Queen made for their daughter the young Princes, and how grievously the friends of Don john took the death of him, being held to be one of the most valiants and bravest Knights of Spain, I hope I need not to report unto you.  
It shall suffice, their Funeral obsequies were performed, and set out, in the most sumptuous and costliest manner that could be devised: which being passed and done, I took my leave of that country, minding to try my fortune in some other place: and so taking with me some few jewels, and certain gold (which my late Master had bestowed upon me) I went my ways, when (as I travailed) on my journey, some of the foresaid Prince of Lion's men (by ill fortune met with me) who knowing me to be a follower of Don john, that had overthrown him in combat, laid violent hands upon me, meaning to carry me with them by sea into their country, and there to put me unto some cruel kind of death. But God knowing me to be innocent, took compassion upon me, so as after I was shipped with them, a sudden Tempest arose, in which our vessel was sunk, all the passengers within her drowned, and I only escaped, and was saved.  
This (reverend sir) was the woeful Tragedy, which Fortunio, reported unto me of his hard adventures. But it now beginneth to wax dark, let us be gone, then (said the old man) and to morrow again, thou shalt begin where thou hast now left. Agreed (quoth Arcas) and therewithal walked along with him, to bring him on his way towards his lodging, which (as they were going, they might see this riddle to be engraven within the bark of an ancient old Elm.  
My fortune's strange, the wh●le world holds me dear,  
And though I nothing am, of nothing made,  
Yet I so spotless show, so fair and clear,  
As noblest states, of me are well paid.  
What ere passeth by me, I see the same,  
Yet I no eyes have, and am form so:  
As smallest force doth bring to me my bane,  
Breaking me piece-meal, with a little blow.  
My property most true is, what doth breath,  
I lively that present, in face and beauty:  
And (which is more) I creature (near) deceive,  
Great personages to me bow, as 'twere of duty.  
Yet I them faithful serve, whilst loath they are  
To leave me, so well they my company  
Do like Say then, who rightly can me bar,  
From honour such, as all give unto me?  
What think you of this Riddle (said the old man unto Areas) and how would you expound the same? Marry thus answered the Shepherd. This Enigma, signifieth nothing else, but a right crystal Mirror which is a ●●ettall of little or none account, and is little or nothing accounted of, in that they are common and subject to breaking, with every small little fillip or touch of hand.  
And yet nevertheless, they are set by in every place of the world, especially, by the better and nobler sort, who lightly never pass by any of them, but they look and behold themselves in the same. Not any one goeth by them, but (if he please) he may view and discern his own lively shape, whilst the looking glass itself, seethe every thing that passeth before it, although it have no eyes at all. So brittle is it of Nature, that (as I said before) it breaketh with any light fall, all in pieces. It showeth the true counterfeit of every one that looketh in the same, dwithout eceiving any, which is the reason, they are in no small request amongst great states, especially fair Ladies, and Gentlewomen, who (therefore) prize them very highly.  
Well hast thou said (quoth the old Magician) and thou hast hit the very nail upon the head. I commending thy sharp conceit for the exposition thereof. But now let us be walking unto our lodgings, seeing the sky beginneth to wax dark, and the Sun is ready to repose himself, upon his wet and deway coach. And herewithal they departed, every one unto their several houses, where we will leave them, until the next morning, yet not leaving to conceal from your conceits, an Ode, which a certain Nymph, sung unto them, as they were going homewards. And this it was.  
Since that Love is worse than death,  
And suruies, when coarse wants breath:  
I will chase away the same,  
Leust I vexed be with that pain.  
For she is fond that lives by Love,  
And many plagues is like to prone.  
What would every one report,  
If I live should in such sort?  
Hope in vain and to no end,  
Mar myself, rather than mend.  
Since she is fond that lives by love,  
And many plagues is like to prove.  
Yet I here protest, though I,  
Mean to leave loves cruelty.  
Yet I Cupid honour still,  
Whilst he worketh me none ill.  
For she is fond that lives by love,  
And many plagues etc.  
I confess, there's passions sweet  
In Love, for true Lovers meet.  
Such as doth them gently warm,  
And their hearts most sweetly charm.  
Though she is fond that lives,  
And many plagues etc.  
But when 'tis over violent,  
Then the soul with grief is rend.  
Whilst it reaves us of our sense,  
Therefore i'll wish such dispense.  
For she is fond that lives by love,  
And many plagues is like to prove.  
The end of the forth days meeting of juliettaes' Shepherds.   

THE FIFTH AND LAST DAYS MEETING OF JULIETTAES' shepherds.  
THrice blessed is the Man, that (without having been alured with the vain pleasures of unconstant Fortune,) 
A Sentence.  hath never changed his estate; but being borne poor, remaineth so, all the term of his life. For the continuance of a miserable estate, is not grievous unto a man, but the alteration and change of good, unto that which is wretched and bad, is that which maketh him sad and heavy.  
He that hath nothing to lose, is not tormented at all, he weary not, neither lan●enteth his loss, not knowing what it is to be undone: but that disastered wight, that seethe himself, through the injury of the heavons, deprived of that jewel which be held most dearest in this world: cannot choose but lament and bewail his hard misfortunes. He that (never) hath had any fair Mistress, (the chief Nurse and nourisher of his life) maketh not so pitiful moan, as that poor, loving servant, who findeth himself banished from so sweet a Saint, through the malice of the despiteful stars.  
A most lively pattern whereof, was the miserable Arcas. For what need had he, (so often) to have sighed, and so much condoled the absence of his beauteous Diana, (having lost her dear presence) if he had never been acquainted with her, or never loved her before? The grief whereof, never parted from his soul, being as green ivy, that wreathed about him, as a Serpent that entangled him, or as a chain that befettered him, and bound him round about, in so much as he consumed away, as well by day, as by night.  
Early in the morning doth he rise, and getteth him forth of his lodging, trotting apace, unto the wont Cave, where he thought to find the old Magician.  
As he walked onwards on his way, he might discern the Sky to wax redder and redder in the East, perceiving such a flaming fire, as the pure brightness thereof, brought a clear light unto the whole world; he wistly looking full against the same, though he could not long continue so. For his eyes were not able●o abide the glimmering beams thereof, as the sick man's sight, that fa●leth, when he falleth in a sound.  
No marvel then, although our Shepherd had not power to behold the majesty of the glorious Sun itself, when he was daunted and amazed, with the only shadow of the same. And the rather, because he was troubled with other conceits that ran in his brain: For there can be no right contemplation of the heavenly works of the Almighty, where the mind is distraught, or carried away, but only at such times, as our spirits are not troubled or hindered, with the imagination of any thing else.  
Arcas (therefore) could not ruminate upon this high and divine matter, being withdrawn from them, by other subjects: Yea, so much was he ententive, and given to muse upon other things, as he (scarce) could call to remembrance what he was, and where he than walked. Free (therefore) must his mind be, and quite secluded from all other cares, and worldly thoughts, that meaneth to addict and devote himself, unto the contemplating of the admirable works of the eternal God, they giving sufficient testimony, as well of his great puissance, as of his wisdom and prudency. Of the one, because of their wonderful creation: and of the other, by reason of their sacred and wise government.  
And now the pensive Shepherd, beginning to consider the rare beauty of the handiwork of the Creator of all creatures, gave o●er all such ousie thoughts, running in his mind (being as then, disburdened of other troubles) to the intent he might the better meditate upon this new and worthy subject only. So doth the more violent poison expel the lesser; 
A Simile.  and the bigger nail (strucken with mightier force) 〈◊〉 it the other.  
After he had been ravished (a while, in his soul) wondering at the strangeness of these excellent things, he could not choose, but must needs break silence, d●●●ous to make manifest by speech, what he thought in his conceit.  
The voice is the messenger of the will of the mind, both which ought to concur and agree together: 
A Sentence.  but if they be contrary, then cannot man do any thing, that is either easy or just. Our Pilgrim Arcas, walking fair and softly, (his gate being rather the pace of sorrow, then of pleasure) fixing his eyes low upon the ground, as one being in an Ecstasy, began to discourse unto himself, after this fashion.  
If this thy glorious creature, o immortal LORD, this (beauteous Son) is adored of the people which are called Aatipodes: how much more worthily then, art thou to be worshipped of us, who art the only Father and Creator, both of this resplendent, and allseeing Lamp, and of all other things else whatsoever? If any workmanship, may be accounted admirable in the eyes of mortal wights, how much more than shall he be, that is the Architect, and framer of the same? And if a Table or Picture be found worthy of commendation amongst men, how much more, and what greater praise doth the Painter himself merit, that hath so lively drawn it?  
Wonderful are thou, (o GOD) in thy works? and nothing proceedeth from thee, but what is of that condition and number. Of nothing haste thou made man, thou hast form Woman out of man, without woman: and men, of men and women; thou (thy self) being borne of a Virgin, without the help of man. Who therefore can comprehend these thine excellent effects? Thou suffered'st man to sin, to the end, he might be made more perfect; Afterward, thyself becoming man, as he is (sin excepted) it being thy will, that sin should come, the more to increase thy glory, and to make manifest thy Mercy and justice.  
Thou (sometimes) hast permitted evil, that a greater and a more wholesomer good, may arise of the same: not only for their sakes, who have committed it, but also for others, that were strangers in the same. As may be seen, by the offence which was done, against the invocent and chaste joseph, 
An Example.  by his hard-hearted and malicious brethren: and as we may find by that horrible and inexpiable Treason, which that damned judas wrought against his dear Lord and Master.  
To be brief, wonderful art thou, in all thy doings. Neither can any comprehend thy divine Actions, no more than thy first being and beginning can be known. For as we find and perceive, 
A Simile.  the lively heat of the fire, to come from forth the Stove or Hothouse, and (yet) see no flame nor fire at all: So, although we have not beheld over many of thy sacred works; yet have we found them to be most certain and true, by reason of the fruits that have come unto us through the same.  
Never hath any man visibly viewed the admirable conjunction of thy Deity, 
A Sentence.  with humanity; and yet nevertheless, we ought to believe it, because of the profit that it hath brought unto us, which is, the Salvation and soul's health of us all.  
Then, if thy works be so divine, so religious, and so far surpassing the natural conceits of man: it is no marvel, although thou (after thine own imitation and likeness) desirest, that that which man doth, should likewise be perfect, (he being of thy making) to the end he may be found worthy of thy heavenly Kingdom.  
Thou hast charged thine Apostles (most strictly) to be perfect, as thy Father, who liveth in heaven: and although they can never attain unto that good, so much desired, yet (at the least) thy will is, that they make an assay and proof thereof, seeking (as much as in them lieth) to do unto the utmost of their power.  
Neither doth this perfection (of which I speak) consist in any thing so much, as in thy works. For by the work, the cunning and skill of the workman is found: as by the sweetness and daintiness of the verse, the learning and deep conceit of the Poet is known: And even so, those that will pass for masters, in any Art or Handicraft whatsoever, give testimony of their skill, by some rare piece of work devised by them, which is accounted the excellency of their cunning: whereby we may perceive, either their sufficiency, or their folly: their deep knowledge, or gross errors therein. So that we find the perfection of eternal JEHOVAH, in nothing so much, as by his works, which are every way right sacred, and most excellent; Our Saviour himself commanding us, that we should not seek to endeavour to approach unto his perfectness, in any thing so much, as by doing such excellent and heavenly deeds, as he hath done before us.  
The Apprentice that endeavoureth to learn some exquisite kind of Trade, or Occupation, of his cunning Master, is he not properly said to imitate him, as long as he is working some piece of work, that cometh nigh unto that of his Masters? If so, why then, by this perfection, is understood as well (good works, as Faith.) For it is an easy matter to be brought to believe. And had Christ meant (only of Faith) by those words, his doctrine (then) had been superfluous, and to small purpose. For without Faith, his Disciples (unto whom he spoke) could not have been his followers, because every Infidel is already damned: and they all abounded in Faith, seeing that through the same, they showed so many rare miracles, but not such good works, as the Son of God commanded them, which approached and drew near unto the perfection of such, as his heavenly Father had done before.  
That great Apostle of his, Saint Paul, said he not afterwards unto his Companions, Be ye my followers, as I am the follower of jesus Christ: and this he meant, not alone by Faith, but as well, by good works also. For that godly Disciple did somewhat more than believe, giving testimony of millions of admirable good deeds, as when he raised some from death to life, healed other some of their infirmities, Preached, and wrote many comfortable Epistles, and ministered relief unto the poor, whom he calleth saints. Yea, he did more than this, for he laboured with his own hands, to get and purchase his own living.  
If then we will imitate this man of God, we must do as he did, who was not only contented to believe, but also hath given us great proofs, of many godly works, and worthy Actions, meriting no little glory and praise.  
This word (Follower,) is properly spoken of him that attempteth to do what his Master hath done before, as a young Scholar, that composeth an oration, after the imitation of Cicero, (the father of eloquence) although he cannot frame it so exquisitely, nor so eloquently, as his Author hath done, yet doth he study, to do it as well as he can, striving to come as nigh unto his Phrase, as possible he may.  
And so must we do, labouring, traveling, and doing what good we are able, to give testimonies of ourselves, that we are followers of his Son, and of his Apostles.  
For, our Saviour himself, living (here) upon the earth amongst us, did not believe only, but did most religious works also: so as, if we will follow his Commandment, we must imitate him, not in his Faith alone, but as well in his good deeds, as the Apostles have done before us, who were dutiful and just, doing (as their Master did) thousands of good deeds, unto the relief and comfort, of the souls and bodies of many a one.  
Faith than cannot be sufficient for our salvation, without good works. For, were it good justice, that such a one as had done millions of of cruelties, cutting the throats of the godly, and robbing, spoiling, and tytannizing, upon the Commonwealth, both by sword and fire, should be saved, because (as a Christian) he believeth that there is a God?  
Why? so to do, were to make God to be without justice; and so consequently, to take it from him: For take away the properties of the subject, & you take away the subject itself; dismember a man, and you sever his body from him: Even so, deprive God justice, and you deny him to be GOD, for he can be no God without justice.  
That man, who (because he shall term himself the near servant, and follower of his Prince) shall, upon that security, exercise many massacres, notable murders, and egregious villainies, shall not escape, but (for all that) be punished by the judge, because (as we hope) we are to receive good for doing good, and not if we do what is bad and forbidden.  
Now, if the recompense for doing good deeds, and the punishment for committing evil Actions, are both taken away, to what end (then) should we talk of justice? and justice being cashiered and banished from hence (upon which the veriy Law itself is founded) all Religion, and Faith, all human society, and Commonwealths, must needs be ruinated, and quite overthrown for ever.  
Should every one be permitted to execute wickedness without danger, to answer for the same; What then should we do with justice? for then every one would give himself unto evil and badness, seeing it is more sweet, and fuller of profit then goodness: and the rather, because that men are more prone by nature, to put in practise the same.  
Besides, if the guerdon and reward of well doing were taken away, who would endure any pain or labour, toiling and turmoiling his body, and sweeting day and night, when he shall find his travail to be without recompense; and that his merit shall be no more, nor better, then his, which hath done wickedly? But let us rather say, that there is a reward for doing good, of the good: and a punishment for the ungodly, by such as are wicked. For are there not Christians that shallbe damned? No doubt there are.  
But wherefore are they so condemned? Is it because they believe not rightly? or for that they had no Faith at all, neither for the one, nor for the other? For there is no Christian, be he never so lewd or bad, but doth believe, otherwise he should be termed a Turk, and not a Christian: why then are they adjudged unto such an accursed sentence? Even for their bad deeds and ungodly actions.  
For be they not the very words of the Almighty, when he shall sit in his high Throne, at the last day in judgement? Depart from me, ye workers of iniquity into Hell fire: and not, Away from me, ye faithless wretches, who have not believed aright.  
What overthrew Lucifer? only his bad deeds. He presuming to dare to sit, in the place of his Sovereign, and not his default of Faith. For he could nor believe ill, seing that he visibly saw, that which (Faith) commandeth us to believe.  
What drove our first father Adaw out of Paradise? what, but his bad dealings: for which he was chastised? What damned judas? even that horrible and terrible wickedness, which he committed against his own conscience.  
That there is a recompense for living well, and a punishment for doing ill: the Holy one, himself instructeth us, when he used this speech unto Cain: If thou hast done justly, shall thou not receive thy reward? and if ungodly, shall not sin then stand knocking at thy gate? He using here this word (Reward) which cannot be, without deserving of the same.  
For upon what occasion should such a one be remunerated with a rich reward, who hath done nothing worthy of any recompense? And yet nevertheless, seeing God doth promise a guerdon unto him that doth well: we must needs conclude, that good works deserves it, and that without them, faith is dead.  
The only Son of the everlasting Father, used the same words, when speaking of the Scribes and pharisees, (who made a show to do good works) he said thus) Verily, verily, I say unto you, these people have received the reward of their works already in this world.  
By which we may conclude, that there is an other world to come, in which, these wicked Hypocritas had been recompensed for their works: If, they had not had their due, whilst they lived here upon the earth. And hereby we learn, that there is a reward due unto good works, and that therefore, they are not unprofitable (but (I say) not meritorious) although there have been such as have denied this doctrine, because they might live without discipline, to have the rain of liberty in their own hands, and not to be subject unto justice: to compass which, they have denied the commendations of good works; to the end, that every body might do evil, without fear of punishment, seeing that doing well, should be no more requited, then if they had committed evil.  
But o ye hellish spirited, what wicked vices, what Tyrannous cruelty, what open robberies, and what base villainies, have your fond and beastly errors brought into this world? For (before these your gross opinions) were set abroach, no disordinate lewdness reigned amongst us, all Murder, Robbing, Treason, Cozenage, & deceit, being quite banished from us: whereas (now) such wicked minds, as you have seduced, covet, rather to do ill then well, because they feared no punishment for the same, and that their good works were not (as they thought) recompensed at all.  
But many Authorities show you to Lie, yea, and natural justice itself, doth tell you that you are in the wrong.  
For wherefore did that Master command his bad servant to be punished, who had not employed his Talon well, that was given unto him at his departure: but that such as are workers of iniquity, shall one day be punished? And that those, who like other good servants, have taken grrat pains, and laboured well, shall be rewarded most bountifully, as they were of their Master.  
Daniel the Prophet teacheth us the very same doctrine, when he advised Nabuchedonozer, not alone to believe, (to the intent he may be pardoned for his fault) but to show the fruits of good works: as to give Alms unto the poor, and to do many other deeds of Charity, (which as the Apostle saith) is the most goodliest and holiest of all the other virtues. For this shall never die, but always remain fresh and alive: whereas Faith shall cease, at what time we shall behold that great GOD, face to face, in whom we have believed; the hope whereof shall fail, when we enjoy that divine glory, which we expect and look for. But divine Charity shall still flourish, because we shall never give over to remember (our acquaintance and friends, with whom we have lived here upon the earth, although we live in heaven, praising God for them.  
This was the reason that the Apostle said, Although I were able (through Faith) to remove Rocks, from one place into an other: yet, if I be without Charity, I am like unto on empty Cymbal, which can do nothing but make a confused noise.  
Small good then doth Faith without good works. Ananias and Saphira did believe, nor were they void of Faith: and yet behold, how they were plagued with death, by Saint Peter, because they had done a most wicked and dissembling deed.  
For only Charity and not Faith, covereth the loathsomeness, and the multitude of sins, as a garment doth the privy parts of man.  
And as that King at the Marriage, commanded that fellow to be cast into a dungeon of darkness, where was nothing, but wailing and gnashing of teeth, because he presumed to come unto the Feast, without his wedding garment.  
Even so, he that will not attire himself with the comely robe of Charity, shall be delivered into the power of the Devil, as one unworthy to be admitted to come unto the Banquet of Angels.  
Of small force than is Faith, without Good works: which our Saviour witnesseth to be true, when he attributeth the remission of Marie magdalen's sins, unto the good work which she had done for him, she having used such Charity unto her Master: and therefore he said, Many sins are forgiven her, because she loved much.  
Now Love and Charity, are, as it were Twins, and but one body; for he that loveth not, cannot be kind unto his adversary: and therefore, the foresaid Marie, by reason that she had loved, and had showed herself dutiful unto our Saviour, gained full forgiveness of her sins: of whose kindness, Christ had spoken thereof (unto his Disciples saying; Wherefore are you angry with this Woman? she hath done a good work for me, and therefore deserveth well of me.  
I see then, by these examples, that thou (most gracious Lord) expectest good works to come from man, because thine are so admirable: thou having taught us, by the example of that Prince, that put to death those wicked Labourers, in his Vineyard, how thou wilt recompense such godly persons, as have done well, and wilt punish the wicked, whom thou shalt find to have done evil.  
Let us then endeavour by our virtuous living, to be made partakers of that immortal glory, which followeth well doing, the sweetness of which, the very paynim themselves found, in former time.  
For, how famous is Hercules become in the world, only for doing well, and for putting in practice many notable and brave enterprises? Where if he had done otherwise, black shame, and perpetual infamy, had for ever attended upon him.  
Thus did the melancholic Shepherd discourse unto himself, walking fair and softly towards the Cave, whilst as he went onwards on his way, he might hear the melodious harmony of divers sorts of Birds, to welcome the rising of the Sun, which although they troubled him somewhat (considering his former deep conceits) yet no doubt he took delight at the same, if it be possible for wretched Lovers to take any pleasure, when they are exiled from the presence of their beaution? Ladies, as I fear me, they do not.  
Besides, he might behold a number of lovely Flowers, to show their vermilion faces, at the first appearance of this glorious Lamp, all which, were causes to comfort himself.  
This journey being no more weary unto him, than it is unto such travelers, who when they walk abroad (devise of such things only, as may invite them to solace and joy) whilst he thought the heavens had changed their nature, willing to yield him some recteation and contentment, considering the great number of afflictions that he had suffered before.  
But he was not long of this opinion, but that he quickly changed his mind, finding it to be quite contrary, assoon as LOVE awaked him out of this pleasant dream, and when he (once) bethought him of the absence of his froward Mistress.  
He that is troubled with a burning Fever, hath many dangerous fits. One while, he is vexed with a hot sweat, and another while, with a cold. One day it leaveth him, and an other day it seizeth upon him again. So that still the strength of the disease, doth domineer over his body.  
Even so, this our wretched Swain, falleth a fresh into the Sea of his sorrows, suffering shipwreck (oftentimes) in this Charybdis, of his deep griefs, all which proceeded through the want of his Diana's company.  
And had it not been, but that he had heard the sound of a strange voice, that drove away this sad thought from him, he had been far more oppressed with heavy passions then before.  
But he, (with an attentive ear) hearing this Song, (sung not far off from him) took a Truce for a while, with his doleful wail, and listened well unto the same, as followeth.  

What but pale Death can serve as remedy,  
To ease my more than cruel pain?  
The Pilot that safe in the Haven doth lie,  
To fear the Seas tempestuous rage doth shame.  
She happy is, that in this wretched earth,  
Can rid be from all woes, through gentle death.   

But she that cannot die, (living displeased)  
Forced without aid, for to endure her smart:  
Can no way have her endless torments eased,  
But by her cries and sighs, sent forth from heart.  
But who can make a Savage mind ore-wilde,  
For to become calms, pitiful, and mild?   

The Mother fair, of Cupid's, blinded Boy,  
Can not her Corpse from soul see separate:  
Yet for Adonis, she was full of noy,  
Seeing him slain, by too untimely Fate.  
Immortal powers, though freed from Death they be,  
Yet (being grieved) they mourn as well as we.   

Apollo that same faithful Lover true,  
When he saw Daphne metamorphosed:  
Died not, yet he her chance long time did rue,  
For Love makes Gods to wail, and tears to shed.  
Death endeth every amorous mortal war,  
Yet in such wise to die, they happy are.   

I am a Nymph, therefore (as Phoebus was)  
From death exempt, so am I, yet am bound:  
My time and years in sighs and groans to pass,  
Whilst overmuch I 'gainst myself am found.  
To honour him, who is my deadliest fee,  
But where Love is, there ever bideth woe.   

Yet doth that cruel wretch (who me doth scorn)  
Not altogether live withouten grief:  
Though for my love to wail he was not borne,  
Whilst my hope's vain, and his without relief.  
A Loyal Lover right is never seen,  
Well of two Ladies, at one time to deem.   

Thus do the heavens, revengement (for me) take,  
And yet alas, this doth increase my cares:  
For (me) his torments worse far do make,  
And I am ill, because not well he fears.  
She that loves faithful, maketh far more mons  
For her friends hard mishap, then for her own.   

A beauty more than earthly sacred right,  
The Subjects of my everlasting dole:  
Whilst I confess, I, like a mortal wight,  
And yet the heavens, who all our actions rule,  
Nothing more perfect than the same ere saw,  
The bad, as well as good, to fancy doth us draw.   
Arcas, presently knew by the voice, that it was the mestfull Orythia, and fearing lest her importunate prayers might make him to give over his former determination, he left her, turning by another way unto the Rock.  
In the mean time, the Nymph perceiving him to fly from her presence, crieth out upon him, exclaiming against his stubborn mind, & calling him ungrateful and unkind. Where we will leave her (as now) cursing her hard fortune, and come again unto Arcas, (who being entered into the stony Cave, and the old man (not as yet arrived there) began afresh to muse upon the sweet graces of his Mistress, swimming with great delight in the Seas of her perfections, and not a little wondering how it were possible, that one creature alone should be possessed of so many favours as she was, and yet knoweth he not well whether he dreameth or waketh, whilst he standing (thus) in a brown study, his tongue is silent, his eyes shut, his body movelesse, and his soul as it were in a trance. Now if he was so much ravished, in the only contemptation of his Lady, in what a taking had he been then, if he had been before the true presence, and lively face of her indeed, when the only bare conceit thereof, had so great power over him? He deviseth within his heart of the beauties of her, and with a dumb pen, writeth them down in the of role of his remembrance.  
One while he thinketh, he beholdeth those fair, long, and flaxen hairs, she combining them, with a fine comb of ivory, and curling them in knots, making the heavens themselves to blush for very shame thereat, although they have been in steed of strong cords, wherewith his liberty was bound, yet had he not the power to hate them, but (rather) honoured and adored them, imagining that Venus herself, never ware any so goodly, and that not any Goddess whatsoever she were, could have the like, these Lovers being of this humour, that there is no other deities but their Ladies. Another while he is busy, looking upon her fair forehead (the right type of majesty) persuading himself, that jupiter (although he be Sovereign over all the Gods) had never one so stately, whilst he marketh how it is large, and without wrinkle, as being the enemy of all sorrow, cruelty, and dishonour.  
Then he admireth her eyebrows, thin, lovely brown, and hating all care, supposing verily that the Goddess Diana, had never any so pretty. Belike then, this Nymph had bearest all the Gods, and Goddesses of their best beauties? No doubt in his conceit they had, so much did he dote on her love.  
This done, he cometh down somewhat lower unto her eyes, apprehending the brightness of them, although they were far off from him.  
As that Captain that is overcome, knoweth well the valour of him that did vanquish him, or as the Shepherd remembreth the lightning which flashed upon his flock as they fed in the Meadow, even so did he suppose he (still) felt new darts, which she whirled at him: for grievous is the thought of sad and heavy things, they being the Parents of all our disasters. Ah (said he unto himself) how beautiful are her eyes? and yet not so beautiful, as piercing and terrible, resembling those of Circe's, fair to see, and beautiful to behold, and yet, who looked upon them, was changed from a man, into a beast.  
They are both fair and cruel, fair to view, shining as the Sun doth in the spring-time, that driveth away all bitter weather: and cruel as the Basilisk, whose only sight, killeth such as doth but behold her.  
There is the lodge of Love, with whom disdain and fierceness sojourn, and there sometimes doth pleasure abide, but it is, when the other twain be abroad, they having more interest in them, than she hath. Hated they are, and yet loved, as the young Scholar doth his Master.  
O sacred Love, that take religious fear with him, for his companion: and O how just and goodly a thing is Amity, when it is married unto awful respect, although (far from them) the flame is nevertheless felt, as those who stand behind the foremost at a fire, perceive the heat thereof also, as well as they that stand before.  
So doth the traitor Ixion thrown down with lightning into hell, fear and suspect the flashy lightning of jupiter.  
Having left her eyes, he cometh unto her nose, neither too big, nor too little, but comely, and of a most excellent proportion, in the making thereof.  
The eyes, nor nose of Palace, the Goddess of battle, are not more amiable, nor more angry, although she be fierce and courageous in martial exploits. From thence he cometh unto her lips, where he is drowned in a pool of sweetness, when he doth but think of the dainty colour, and the rare softness thereof, whilst desiring in his mind, but to touch them, through joy and fear, he falleth into a sound.  
The more sweet and soft he judgeth them to be, the more he findeth his grief to be bitter, because he cannot touch them. A man careth not to enjoy a matter of sinal weight or value, but to be hindered from the possession of a rich treasure, gaulleth him at the very heart.  
Never were the Clove gilly-flowers in june, half so dainty, neither the Damask Roses of the spring, a quarter so beautiful as these, yet were they ruddy like the Roses, but far more dangerous to be touched: for her pure honour, and her chaste thoughts, were the pricking thorns, which would not permit any to approach near unto that peerless musk tree. More soft and supple were they then the lips of juno, when jupiter did kiss them, and more tender, and lovely, than those of bashful Europa, or blushing Alcestis.  
Now he remembreth that goodly rank of orient Pearl, imprisoned between two Rocks of right Coral, from which issued forth such honey words, as ravished his soul, not unlike unto orphans, who forced senseless creatures to follow him, with the sound of his well tuned Harp.  
Never did Mercury talk more gravely or more eloquently than she, although he was appointed to be Ambassador for the Gods: great was his grief, when he found himself deprived from so happy a place, from whence (sometimes) he had heard so many wise and admirable speeches, to proceed from his Lady, he being with the only remembrance thereof, so much enchanted, as his soul was not willing to return back into his body again, not having power to leave her, no more than the dumb stones and budding Trees were of force to retire from the enticing Music of the Thracian Poet.  
From thence he came, unto her smiling and well form cheek, no Queen Apple drawn red, with the pencil of Phoebus, in the mouth of September, having so lovely and natural a colour. There was no need of cunning painting, nor deceitful varnish, to abuse the eye, making the faces of women in time, far more foul, then before: for what need hath subtle Art (when courteous nature hath done her part) to find any devise, seeking to better, what she rather maketh worse?  
The check of Semele, never came near in beauty, unto her pure die: not unlike that dainty morning, wherein the Sun shineth in his pride; or like unto a piece of fair white Alabaster, mixed with a little vermilion red. Her neck was slender and thin, rising up with state, like a curious small Turret in a Princely palace. Her dimpled chin was pretty and round. But her beauteous breasts exceeded all the rest. There lay the mountain snow which could never be dissolved with the heat of any Sun. There was the privy chamber and closet royal, of honour and chastity. And there was that crystal River of pure milk, where Cupid (being weary of playing the wanton) used to bathe and refresh himself very often. And there, the same God was wont to repose himself, betwixt those two beautiful Apples, they being far more precious, than that golden fruit of the Hesperides: yet were they hard as Diamonds, although the chief glory of that race present.  
Her hands pleased him much, seeing them so fair, so long and so supple, the fingers whereof, were excellent Musicians, most divinely playing upon the silver Lute, and well tuned Cythernes.  
To be brief, never was there any creature so exquisite and excellent in all points as she was (in his conceit) he comparing her first unto the three Goddesses, assembled upon the mount Ida: then unto the Nymphs: and lastly, unto mortal women: accounting her to be far more fair, than that great Lady so often ravished: or more beauteous than the Love of Demetrius, or Mark Antony's sweet Saint: yea, Flora and Angelica, were but homely pieces unto her, nor all such gallant Lasses, as flourished heretofore, or should come hereafter.  
Thus was our Swain ravished, with the rare feature of his worthy Mistress, and as the covetous wretch sigheth, when he cometh to count in small sums, the great treasures he hath been spoiled of, even so did Arcas take on and lament, when he began to dream deeply of the greatness of his unsupportable loss.  
Mean space, the Sun began (openly) to appear, waking men out of their drowsy sleeps, opening their eyes, and prying with his beams into their chambers, when the old manrising, and coming into the Rock, found our Shepherd so busy (about musing of his Mistress) as he perceived not, when he was entered, & therefore he came near unto him, and saluted him, whilst the other stood stone still, like unto a Rock, resembling that statue of salt, into which the wife of Lot was turned; which the old Magician perceiving, he came and pulled him by the sleeve, saying; How now (man) what cheer? where is your mind now? and why suffer you it so long, before it do his ordinary duty?  
That damage, which a senseless creature doth (over whom his Master hath power) is laid upon him, and not upon the beast. We ought wisely to rule, what is committed unto us to govern: which if it be so, then why dost not thou look unto thy soul, but rather dost permit her to wander (thus) abroad, seeing that without her thou see-mest as a dead creature? Call home for shame, call home (I say) thy wits together, and resolve to submit thyself unto the judgement of the Gods, and to do as they shall command thee: for our griefs move not them, neither do our tears, appease their rigour towards us.  
Ah Father answered the Shepherd, how can he who hath no more power over his slave (because he hath passed over his freedom unto another) dispose of him and command him, as he was wont? and how wilt thou that I bear sway over my soul, having none within me, since I have resigned it unto my Lady, who disposeth thereof, as she best pleaseth.  
And herein I resemble that miserable merchant, whose ship being driven against a Rock, scarce saveth his naked self, having before seen all his goods and servants to be cast away and drowned: or rather, I am like unto that hapless Duke of Ithaca, who having but one poor leaking vessel, got a shore, through the help of the Sea Nymph.  
Can he whom the cruel Law hath subjecteth under the will of another (and being his poor drudge and slave) do as he feign would, and dispose of himself as he listeth? You know he cannot: neither can I do as I would, but as I may, for I am my Mistress slave, and although she is not with me, yet my heart (which serveth in steed of a Table unto Love, to draw her beautiful conceit) presenteth her every minute before me, so as I seem to see her lively, the sight whereof doth take away my senses from me: for worthy things causeth us to burn, in love of them, and with a sweet kind of force, draw us (of our own accord) to come unto them.  
Then marvel no more, though thou findest me thus out of temper. If mere grief, be of power to procure death, then what may Love do, which not only seizeth upon the body, but likewise upon the soul? scarce had I wet the soles of my feet, entering into this wide Ocean of sundry conceits, when thou withdrewest me from the same, as that careful father doth his harmless child from the brim of some pit, wherein he might fall, and be drowned. But alas, what wouldst thou have me to do? Suffer me I pray thee, and let me alone in my musing, for there is nothing more pleasant unto a woeful man, then to dream of such delights as he hath once tasted, because (as then) he thinketh still to taste them. I was dreaming of that contentment which the company of my Diana hath heretofore brought me, why then hast thou disturbed me in the same? when perhaps I shall not encounter with so sweet a thought I know not when again, and the rather, for that a leaven hours and three quarters of a day, are destined for the mishap of man, and only one poor quarter appointed for his contentment: of which small space of time, many have been deprived, in the number of which I am the chief.  
No no, replied the old man. Not to think of misfortunes, maketh a man as happy as if he had never been afflicted with any: for he cannot be said to be sick, that liveth without any feeling of grief or disease: so he is not wretched, that never remembreth his former disasters, the thought whereof is the occasion that maketh us so sad. Drive then these idle fancies out of thy brain.  
Hardly could courteous Dido entreat the wandering Prince of Troy, to repeat and report the overthrow of his country, although he was much beholding unto her, for irksome is the calling to mind of such matters.  
Away then with these toys, and begin thy discourse, where thou last didst leave, which will like thee better, and the rather, when thou shalt account thy happy fortunes.  
Ah good father (answered Arcas) never hath my tongue been used to talk of any good fortune, that hath happened unto me heretofore (for few or none have I had) but only to sigh forth my strange and woeful losses.  
What Sun have these my dreary eyes ever beheld, without new floods of tears? and what darksome night hath covered them with never so heavy a sleep, but that fresh griefs have grown before the break of day within my soul? My woeful pilgrimage in this unconstant world, hath always been unlucky, dismal and unfortunate, and therefore I would to God, that death had abridged the same.  
But why should you think that I could live (and languish thus) without bethinking me of my loss? Nothing pincheth the heart more, than a man's overthrow, because it is long before he can recover himself again, and for that it will ask much labour and pain: yea, it is so deeply imprinted within us, that although we have in time repaired and amended ourselves, yet still there remaineth some one mark or another, that galleth us, even at the very quick.  
Who ever saw man (having endured great hindrance and mishaps) but that he sometimes thinketh thereon, yea and now and then bewaileth the same, although he have never so great a courage? We are (all) good registers of such adversities as happen unto us, but not of prosperity: and sooner can we call to mind an injury done unto us, then remember a benefit or good turn, which we have received: for this old sin of our great grandlire Adam, draweth us always, rather unto bad, then good.  
This is the reason, that men for the most part are naturally given sooner to slander, then to defend the good name and credit of their neighbous: and so likewise this is the cause, I so lively feel and apprehend the remembrance of my calamities, not wishing any thing so much, as to be confined within some Rock alone like a Recluse; to the end, I might the better meditate upon them, and the more bitterly bewail them.  
Now (quoth the old graybeard) I see thou art in the wrong, for we must not have our eyes always upon the earth, but sometimes we must as well look up towards heaven.  
Wherefore serveth this divine reason, which maketh us Lords over all other creatures, if by her aid we repulse not such mortal passions, as come into the world with us? And to what end doth a father send his Son unto the University, most willingly defraving his charges, if he should not learn and enrich himself in knowledge? Even so, why should we be counted reasonable? and wherefore hath our God done so much for us, If we cannot through the aid and help of reason, wade through the depth of these human miseries?  
To what purpose hath a General of an Army Royal, hundreds of Captains, and thousands of Soldiers, if he doth not employ them in the wars, but rather permitteth the enemy to overthrow them? As victuals, are set upon the Table, whereon to feed, so is reason bestowed upon us, to vanquish our natural passions, and most deadliest crosses.  
Neither can any justly excuse themselves, when they shall confess to have been overcome, through these mortal impediments, seeing they were armed with weapons to resist them, which are discretion and reason. The bruit beasts, that have lost their little ones (although they have no wisdom) take not on more, neither show more tokens of folly and rage, than that man doth, who suffereth himself to be carried away with grief, and yet in the meant time he is called their Lord and Master, because of reason only: but he is much unworthy of this Sovereignty, if he knoweth no better how to exercise his royal dignity than they: as he is unmeet and unfit to have the name of a King, who as a Tyrant doth most unjustly violate the Laws of the Realm, overthrowing all justice, and all good orders, belonging unto the same. Either thou must be a man or a beast, if thou art a man, then carry thyself like a man, rightly employing reason, which maketh thee one.  
If thou be a beast, never then steal away this quality belonging unto man, contenting thyself with that which is fit for a beast, and so shall thy fault be the less. For we wonder not so much at an offence done by a beast, neither condemn him unto death for the same, because (as a beast) we know him to be without reason. But man we punish severely, for that he (being a man) ought not to commit any such heinous crime, but rather governing himself by reason, seek to shun and avoid the danger thereof.  
We cannot deem the opinion of an ignorant person, and one without knowledge, to be cruel or bad, especially when he judgeth according unto his small skill: but wicked and unjust, may we term the sentence of a wise and learned judge, if he shall give his censure, contrary to all reason and Law.  
Show then thyself to be a man, and a right man indeed, choosing Reason for thy guide, by which means thou shalt tame thy senseless desires, and keep under these more than extreme passions.  
Good, and of great force (reverend sire) replied the Shepherd, were your persuasions, if you spoke unto a free man, who because he is not bound unto another, might easily through the help of reason vanquish his natural imperfections.  
But although the slave, may perhaps do a thing worthy of commendation, yet, think you he dareth attempt it, without the good will of his Master? Even so, although Lovers were fit to bring to pass, as much as you speak of, and to master their mortal passions, through reason, yet are they so shroadly bound and tied unto this hard Law, as they are not able to do any commendable or good thing, unless it please Love, who forceth them to be slaves unto their Ladies.  
The Bear, by nature is wild and strong, yet, when he is taken, bound, & made tame by a man, what great proofs of his strength can he show? Even so I will not deny, but man is wise, and furnished with reason, and yet I say he cannot aid nor help himself, as long as he shall be subject unto Cupid's Laws.  
A King, that is a prisoner, is for all that a King still, his Realm is, where it was before, and so is his Crown and Sceptre, and yet notwithstanding all this, during his imprisonment, he can do no act of a King, neither make proof of his regal authority, because he is deprived of his liberty.  
So fareth it with men that are in love, they (still) are men, and yet nevertheless, they cannot do the office of men, because they are Bondmen, and subject unto the will of an other. Besides, if natural maladies, which as thou sayest are subject unto the reason of man, oppress and overcome him many times, causing him to fall mad and frantic; how much more easily may Love enforce the same, who not only, is greater than these human accidents, but also then the Gods themselves?  
Wonder not then, although you see many Lovers without wit or discretion; for of two poisons, the less feeble, must yield unto the stronger: and where two contrary enemies he, the field must needs remain unto him that is of most force: so where two such great powers as Love and Reason meet together, the weaker, must needs yield unto the other which is Love, that maketh many Lovers live with small or no reason at all.  
To argue or dispute, that Love is of less force than Reason, were but a gross error, (for the wisest next unto the Gods) have not only with reason confuted this absurdity, but by experience itself, have tried as much, in their own proper persons.  
Let us then excuse Lovers in their unreasonable actions, which appertain only unto men, as jupiter winketh at them, for breaking their Oaths: and blame me no more, if I (as a wretched caitiff and slave) am forced (maugre myself) to give over that, that is most excellent and rare in man, to follow the will of my Master, at whose command I am.  
Well then (said the Magician) I will urge thee no more, for it is but reason that he that is in health, yield gently unto the diseased in his conceit, and that the fortunate, jump in opinion with such as are miserable, making show to know of nothing, but what the other is willing; because they are already but too much afflicted with their misfortunes, without galling them afresh, crossing them in their speeches, and wring out of them that, which they are loath to bewray unto the world.  
Let us therefore give over this disputation, yet with this conclusion, that nothing can exceed the right wise man, & that no faults are to be excused (through what extremities soever they shall proceed) in him, who will be counted reasonable and wise, yielding somewhat unto Love, in thy favour: and therefore prosecute thine old History, comforting thy mind with the remembrance of such matters, as shall be more acceptable and pleasing unto thee. Content answered the Shepherd, if there be no other remedy, and thereupon after he had a while paused, he thus began.  
What can be more gracious, unto a condemned person, then to hear of his pardon? and what obligation is more dear unto a man, then that which doth cancel his debts?  
Cruel and barbarous, ungodly and wicked were Brutus and Cassius accounted, in that they slew Caesar (although they shadowed their fault under the colour of doing their common wealth good) because they had received their own lives of him before, who might (if he so had pleased) have put them both to death.  
So sweet was the pardon my Lady gave me, which quite changed my mind, restored me to life, and drove away all desire of death from me.  
Strange and extraordinary are the means, by which the Heavens lend aid and assistance unto miserable men, especially, when they least expect any such succour to be at hand. Thousands of dangers did constant Marius' escape, and in the end, came to be chief Ruler in Rome.  
The Heavens are so courteous, as hardly will they suffer, that any man be overthrown or undone, and few have there been, that have offered to lay violent hands upon themselves, which they have not saved.  
Being as then both jocund and merry, I feasted, and made much of poor Fortunio, within my little cabin, who upon a day, sitting at the Table with me, began thus to talk.  
Certainly, I will never marvel more, to see thy face portrayed forth with grief, seeing thou lovest so fair a Lady. For far more dangerous and difficult is his Travail who adventureth beyond the Seas, to find such curious merchandises as be precious and rare, than the pains an other taketh, who is contented with such things as his own Country affordeth.  
No more can thy enterprise be other then heavy and full of peril, thou loving no ordinary Beauty, but such a one as is most peerless and admirable. And therefore is thy mind more haughtier than other Lovers, who follow faces less fair than thine by odds.  
But yet let this be thy comfort, that the more thou dost hazard thyself in this so dangerous an Attempt, the more glorious shall the victory be, when thou shalt obtain the same. For not matters of small importance, but such as be hard and unlikely to be achieved, deserve honour. Virtue oftentimes making herself known amongst foul Vices, as the Sun doth in midst of the stars.  
But I pray thee tell me, who set thee in hand with this second Task: and what gentle God heated thee with this other flame? seeing thou so long time, didst vow service unto the divine julietta; who when she shall know hereof, will condemn thee for changing, and account thee as one fickle and unconstant.  
Ah Fortunio, (replied I) none can justly conceive such finister opinion of me. For dost not thou know, that my Loves were never other then honest and commendable?  
I never loved the Body of any woman, so much as I did her soul. It was the beauty of the mind, and not the perfection of her parsonage that I esteemed, and therefore dost not thou (call to membrie) that only sighs, have been the fruits of my loves?  
He cannot be termed a Thief or Robber, that liketh and seeketh for all such qualities, as Virtue maketh amiable, in any subject, where they are found.  
Neither will the wise be angry, or offended at all, that their equals are accounted of, and that their perfections are honoured and blazed abroad, as well as their own Bee.  
Long since, the ancient Sages of Sparta, never fell out amongst themselves, nor were jealous, the one of the other, if many of them had cast their affection upon one goodly child or other: because, they all striving to exceed one an other in good will, endeavoured within themselves, to bring up the same youth, to be as perfect as might be.  
How then, can my famous julietta condemn me, (or once think ill of me?) if I (having heretofore exalted, carrolized, and blazoned abroad, her rare Thews,) do now take Truce with my Pen, to the end I might the more easily bestow a little time, in displaying, (by my writings) the excellent gifts of an other Lady, who doth participate with her Virtues?  
The love that a kind Father beareth unto one of his Children, doth not hinder him, but that he may make much of the rest. And the white colour that one esteemeth of, (in his own conceit) is no such let, but that he may (as well) like, what is sable and black.  
This word Unconstant, or Wanering, is meant by such sensual and voluptuous Lovers, as seek and hunt after pleasure only, (delighting also in change) and never making account of Virtue, as I do.  
For of what Inconstancy can the fair and learned julietta tax me, if (without having broken my word unto her) I honour her, as much as ever I did before? Whereas, cruel should that honour be unto me, and hardly should she deal with me, if she should forbid me to reverence and esteem of an other Lady, who deserveth the same duteous respect as she doth: As a jealous Husband is cruel and unkind unto his chaste wife, if he shall prohibit and hinder her, to love such qualities as are commendable and praiseworthy.  
Honest Affection is not like unto foolish Love, for the one beareth and endureth many things with patience, it being possible for one man to love many virtuous sparits, without reproach, and all at one time: where the foolish Lover cannot love aunt more, than one fond woman at once: except he be counted a Cozener and forsworn. He cannot be judged to be wise and of discretion, who (for his own respect) will seek to hinder in what he may, that such things as are virtuous and commendable, should not be liked, nor accounted of.  
But such a one is not of himself, worthy of any (Love) at all: For to oppose one's self against the honour which is given unto Virtue, is to be her mortal enemiet Virtue being worthy to be reverenced and prised, in what manner soever she is found, as a rich Ring, is to be accounted of, upon what finger soever it is put.  
Poor was Homer, and yet his Learning brought him to be respected, he having had (bestowed upon him) thousands of Honours, worthy of eternal glory, yet if he should have sought to have swallowed up all these great Favours done unto him, and have studied by all the means he could to cross others that deserved well, seeking to keep them back from such dignities, as were awarded unto them: he not only should have been counted both gross and ignorant, but also spiteful, malicious, and ill given.  
And so would the world repute of the matchless julietta, if she should stomach and take in ill part, that her equals should have such praise, as they but worthily merit. For although now I love Diana, yet do I not (any way) give over to like julietta.  
But the Schoolmaster sometimes giveth over teaching, granting leave unto his Scholar to go play: not suffering him always to stand poring upon his book: Even so, I most humble must entreat her, to permit me for a while, to sound forth the praises of Diana abroad, as I have (already) done hers.  
But now repose thyself Fortunio, and take thy quiet rest, for I perceive thou art as yet weary of thy great travail and labour, and we will hereafter find a more convenient leisure, to talk of these our old matters.  
Whereupon, the poor soul took me at my word, and being (very willing to sleep indeed,) presently went and laid him down upon a bed, where he rested sound.  
Mean while, (upon the sudden) I was joyful, as that Captain, who (having with stood the brunts and hazards of Fortune,) returneth home, victor of the field: composed these Verses following.  
A fierce LOVE, that burned hast my hart with mild flame,  
In my Mistress sweet thoughts, thoughts for me too high, to reach too:  
And with deep desire, dost make me for to adore her.  
Ah proud LOVE, that lik'st our wail, laughest for to see still,  
Our Breasts wounded all with gore, through heavenly Beauty,  
Through glance of such sparkling Eyes, as into our souls dive.  
After so much done unto me, now hast thou the courage  
After so many hurts thoust done me, now for to help me?  
And to abridge my pains? Speak (sweet Desire) I do pray thee.  
Ah, but alas, what a Folly were it for me to thinkese?  
Thy cruelty, thou near gi●est over; Thou to the world comest  
Our Faults severely to punish, as the God's Hangman.  
Mars, by (their sufferance) knew thy too wanton a Mother.  
When thou into the world wast brought forth, like to a Bastard.  
Of Female bloodshed th' art Son, and of bloody murder:  
Fowl fall thee therefore, that hast most shamefully cozened  
Thousands of Heroic spirits, whom we do Gods call:  
Canst thou then falsely breaking the laws of thy Birthright,  
Courteous (now) become, and be not like to thy Father?  
Canst thou prove better than thy Mother, who was an Harlot?  
No, no: for ripe Grapes from Thistles, never can we gather:  
Nor can I hope (once) well, that thou being proud, ever after  
Hast mind Gentle, to turn for my good, good for to do me.  
No (LOVE) I confess, I not deserve, whom I do honour,  
Worthy sh●e is for the Gods, and too too sure is she, for me.  
Too too unworthy I am, t' enjoy her, whom I do love so,  
Only to think that I love so fair a soul, doth appease pain.  
All my pain, and my torments, though they be as immortal,  
When I remember, that in her lives, what is adorned;  
How that the wisdom is in her of Pallas, abounding,  
How that portly Gate of juno, is in her walking.  
And how for Beauty (as Venus, she's a Goddess.  
Then go thy ways (Cupid,) pack hence, for well am I pleased,  
Thy help, nor thine aid to assist me, ought do I care for.  
Happier I can never be, then when I behold her.  
Whom I do highly prize, reverence, and obey, above all things.  
And far more than pleasures false, (Lust's chiefest Allure)  
Which fond Loners buy full dear, joys, which soon do away flit,  
And likewise kill us, long, long before our time's come.  
I do not honour her, (for to dishonour her) for her  
Virtues are that I like, so they her mind have adorned.  
For where Virtue is, there's a mind, Unconquered ever.  
Nor will I crane any other guerdon, whilst I do live here.  
What's divine will I love, and what's worthily steemed,  
For such praise hath she won, as she shall live everlasting.  
These Verses I kept, to present them unto my Diana, hoping to find her in the same good mind, as I left her, and to gain some one small favour or other for my reward of her. But things that are framed slightly, are of little or no account of all: & war itself, hath not so many devices and sundry effects, but LOVE hath far many more.  
And yet no marvel, for he being a tender and delicate child, cannot choose, but by nature must needs be mutable and unconstant: And therefore it is no small misfortune unto men, that are forced to obey, not a grave, and well experimented Master.  
But this peevish Boy, from whom want of years, taketh away all knowledge of Reason, which as we grow in body, so doth it sprout forth in us; For wretched is that Realm, that is governed by a Child: because very hardly without stumbling, can a blind man lead another, without a light.  
Now I being merry at the hart, and as jocund as might be, went to see if I could find out my Mistress, when thinking to have no reason, nor occasion at all to fear, I then found her quite contrary unto my hopeful expectation.  
As Mowers are wonderfully amazed, when as (the Sun shining fair and clear) they see upon the sudden, great showers of rain to stream down, with many horrible flashings of Lightning and Thunder, (and much like unto a blustering Tempest) a terrible Whirlwind, breaking forth of the prisons of Aeolus, carrying away their green heaps of grass, and other things, (as a troop of Wolves do bleating Sheep) so that in the end, they are forced to throw away their sickles and Scythes, not once dreaming of any such pitiful chances before: Even so happened it unto me, I not looking for any such hard fortune.  
Never went any thing more nearer unto my heart then this did, I being so daunted therewithal, as I was almost at the point of death. For having sought out my Lady, whom: I expected should be as courteous and debonair, as I had left her the day before, I found her quite and clean altered from her former disposition; she looking upon me with a most fierce and disdainful countenance, not vouchsafing so much as to speak one mild word unto me, or to accept of my Verses, which I (in humble wise did offer unto her.  
Alas (thought I) what meaneth this? and how contrary are the proceed of LOVE, unto all other things? For they change always, and this their sudden alteration, altereth still against the hope of Lovers.  
Other men seeing their business to fall out well, look for some happy issue thereof. But in Love, when our matters are prettily well, and likely to prove best, then are we driven most of all to fear; and when they are passed all hope, then have we the chiefest cause to expect the best.  
If this encounter was not far more bitter and unfortunate, than the meeting of a Thief is unto the wayfaring man, judge you (good Father,) for it is too grievous a corsive unto the innocent person, to be condemned unto death, and yet not so much as once to hear nor understand his just defences in the same. But in the mean time, I must perforce swallow down this unwelcome Potion.  
As the Slave that is run away, being taken and brought back again unto his Lord, trembleth and feareth sore, being forced to endure what punishment soever, shall be inflicted upon him.  
Even so, there was no other remedy, but that I must needs abide the displeasure of my Mistress, and take patiently, what it should please her for to impose upon me. I know not whether any old conceit coming afresh into her mind, had changed her former humour, or whether some other new opinion (conceived without reason,) had made her so outrageous or disdainful towards me. But whatsoever it was, never did I see her to look so angerly upon me before.  
As the Master of a Ship is passing sad and heavy, who having gotten very nigh unto the Haven, and beginning to cast Anchor, perceiveth himself to be carried back again into the main Sea, by a sudden storm, his Ship being ready to run upon every Rock, and so to sink and drown.  
Even so it was my luck to perish even in the havens mouth, and being escaped of a sickness, then to die upon the sudden.  
And thus you see how just my complaints were. For more cruel are those darts which unlooked for pierce us, than those that we know of: and more sharp is the pain, that cometh upon the sudden, then when we did (before) expect it.  
Being then fallen into this sudden mischance, I knew not what order to take, nor what resolution to resolve upon, but only such as desperate wretches use, which was to make away myself, and to have recourse unto the selfsame death, which I had heretofore chosen, whereby I might rid me of my torments.  
And now I was entering into that great and beaten path of desperate caitiffs, hoping by this means to bring an end to all my troubles: which dangerous course I had quickly taken, had not the curreous heavens, been more pitiful unto me, than I was unto myself, making vain and frustrate my former intention and meaning.  
O how hard is it (sometimes) for a man to die, and sometimes again, how easily may he dispatch himself?  
The wise man saith, that man's life is as brittle as glass, that is, quickly broken: and yet notwithstanding, many live longer than they would, wishing to die, although they cannot. For such as go merrily unto their deaths, because they hope their miseries shall end with their lives, lament not at all for the loss thereof, but rather think, they have a happy turn. As the sick Patient that courageously swalloweth down his bitter Pills, which if he were well and in health, were never able to do it.  
Being thoroughly resolute what to do, I now gave over weeping and sighing, only I accused my Destinies; making me one while fortunate, and then again miserable. Whilst in the mean space, I did a little complain of my Mistress, but yet with such respect, and in such a reverend manner, as she could take no exceptions against me at all.  
This done, I went to die for her, and yet durst I not term her to be the occasion of my death: Not unlike unto these holy and devout persons, (who although they be plagued with all sorts of miseries,) neither dare, nor will venture to call the Gods the Authors of their wretchedness.  
Me thought I was but too fortnnate, to die for so worthy a subject, and that I was over-bountifully recompensed (for all my troubles) to have that glory, as to have seen my cruel Saint, for whom I died.  
O faithful and loyal LOVE, that will not permit (what pains soever I endured) that I should not complain of mine enemy.  
So Pyramus dying for his Thisbe's sake, thought not himself unfortunate: neither accused her for his death. And so was I as willing to follow the same course, as that brave Cavalier of Rome was, who boldly leapt into the swallowing Gulf: or like his Countryman, that with as great courage thrust his fist into the fire.  
A matter that is already well determined of, (be it never so hard,) is half dispatched at the first: And there is nothing that looseth more time, then uncertain resolution.  
I had now got up, upon the top of the same Rock (where I was before,) minding to finish my loathed life, and was ready with a brave manly heart, to fling myself down headlong into the bottom of the Sea, thinking to make myself a Citizen of the kingdom of Thetis: when the Nymph Orythia, (who still haunted me, but in vain, for my Love) caught hold of me by the arm, hindering me from drowning myself, in those salt Ocean waves.  
As that traveler is astonished, who seethe the Skies to change and scowl, whilst the Clouds look dark and big with rain: even so was I amazed, when I saw myself so strangely prevented of my purpose.  
I knew not whether I should take this which she had done, in good part, or in ill, she having disturbed me in my desperate Action: Whereupon, I looked upon her, and sighing, as one that had been awaked out of a dead sleep, at what time he dreamt of some pleasant matter, spoke thus unto her.  
What is the reason (cruel as thou art) what is the reason I say, that thou shouldest thus oppose thyself against my good? What injury hast thou received at my hands, that thou shouldest thus be a let and obstacle, unto the ending of my miscries? and wherefore shouldest thou bear so spiteful a disdain, to see me rid of all my griefs and troubles?  
Hard is my hap above all others, that when I am ready and willing to die, to avoid these my more than insupportable torments, I am still crossed and barred in this my chiefest desire.  
Alack, Alack, how unlikely is it, that I shall find comfort whilst I live, when being at the very point to die, I cannot find help to dispatch myself?  
Go, go, hard-hearted as thou art, withdraw thyself from me, (the chiefest foe I have unto my rest) and let it suffice thee, (that my plagues abound too much already) without thine aid, to make my wounds more mortal and deadly, than they were before.  
The Nymph (hearing me say so, replied thus.) Shepherd, Shepheard, if in the old world there have been any, that for casting away themselves, have deserved fame, (although they were far unworthy thereof,) yet was it for some great occasion, and by reason of some laudable subject, and not for a vain and trifling matter, as thine is. And yet I will tell thee one thing, that so far off is that man that murdereth himself, from true glory, to challenge unto himself the name of Constant, as quite contrary to thy conceit, he rather deserveth shame and infamy. For he that is constant, endureth adversity, with the same countenance as he did prosperity, without being moved or passionated, one jot at all, as that worthy Roman Marius was.  
Such as having not this resolute virtue of Constancy, and because they want true courage of the mind, 
A Sentence.  to resist these worldly afflictions, (seek straightways how to rid themselves of their lives) deserve no praise or commendations at all, but aught to be accounted as most abject, and whitelivered Cowards.  
Doth he merit to taste of pleasure, that never suffered pain? to be a commander, who never did obey? or to be partaker of honour, who never did hazard himself to win the same? I think not.  
Even so, such men deserve no grace nor favour of the Gods at all, who cannot patiently bear out such tribulations, as are sent them from above, by reason of their sins: 
A Sentence.  and therefore (thinking to escape them) go about to murder themselves.  
Tell me I pray thee, shall the Governor of that City be excused from blame, who whilst the Citizens thereof prospered, and all things went well with them, is content to continue and rule amongst them? But no sooner doth he see Fortune, to turn her smiling face from them, than he giveth them the slip, putting them to shift as well as they can for themselves.  
Cato is rather condemned then commended for killing himself, at what time his Country had most need of him. Neither can he be rightly termed magnanimous, having chosen so easy a death, to avoid a far greater evil; of which, he seemed to acknowledge and confess to be vanquished and overcome, seeing he durst not stay to make proof, 
An Example.  and encounter with the same. And yet is he worthy of far more praise, than thou art. For he had a better colour to shadow his death than thou hast, whom soolish LOVE, hath thus overthrown.  
Such cannot be called valiant and resolute, who for fear of suffering a greater evil, cunningly choose the less, yielding themselves unto an easier punishment, to avoid a far more cruel. As Scevola cannot be said to have a right brave mind, although he burned his arm, escaping by that means Death, which otherwise, he could not eschew, 
A Sentence.  being a far greater torment, than the firing of his fist.  
Again, say that a man had all the occasions in the world, whereby he might seem to have reason to massacre himself, and that it were impossible for him to support and endure, the anguish and agonies of his ever increasing sorrows; yet ought he still to expect and look for grace and favour from the heavens, who after they have powered down upon us reign and storms, send us most fair and comfortable weather.  
There is none so wretched, but that at one time or another, tasteth of the goodness of the Gods, and though it be not by and by, yet cometh it ere it be long, so that, we ought always rather to hope the best, then to fear the worst; for death is the last refuge of mortallmen, which nevertheless they ought not to entertain, without leave of the superior power, 
A Searence.  the Law for bidding such to be capable of Christian burial (but having a stake knocked into their bowels, to be laid in the common high ways) who as judas shall lay violent hands upon themselves, proclaiming them abroad, to be worse than murderers and homicides, and making them infamous for ever.  
Take heed then, that thou fall not into this laburinth of shame. For if one must needs die, he must have a great care of the preservation of his honour, and so to order the matter, that after his death, his memory be not foully sported with some black fault; for than is the time (when he is out of the world) that a man is talked of, either well or ill: if well, than every one lamenteth his absence and loss, declaring how necessary and profitable he was unto his country: If ill, then do they speak the worst they can of him, because they now fear him no more, knowing that dead men cannot bite at all.  
It is to small purpose, 
A Sentence.  although we have carried ourselves uprightly all our lifetime, if the Catastrophe and end thereof be unhonest and wicked. For the end doth make perfect the work, and the goodliest building that is, is nothing worth, if the foundation thereof be not firm and sure.  
Live so, whilst thou stayest in this world, as when thou shalt be dead, none may be able to lay reproach unto thee.  
Do so I pray thee; for it would be a double death unto me, although I cannot die myself (if I surviving thee) should hear thee ill spoken of, whom I have always so dearly loved.  
And to give thee a most certain and kind taste, how much I account of thee, now thou art in this woeful perplexity (although thy love is the thing I most desire, and that my chiefest happiness consisteth in seeing thee without a Mistress) yet to the end I may do thee good, I am content to hurt mine own self; esteeming myself happy, in that I may redeem thy life, with the loss of mine own chiefest pleasure: promising thee, to entreat thy hard-hearted Diana in thy behalf, to plead unto her for thee, & to secure thee (to the uttermost of my power) in thy love, which is the tormentor of my rest and quietness.  
O great proof of a most perfect amity in a Nymph! O rich witness & testimony of her fervent affection! certain was the assurance of her loyal friendship towards me, most beautiful was that virtue in her; most chaste was her desire; and as commendable was her willingness therein: he is highly to be prised and set by, that dieth for his friend, 
A Sentence.  yet, that man, is far more worthy of praise, who resigneth all the interest he hath, in that thing which may make him most happy, to pleasure another therewithal, whilst he in the mean time for want thereof, liveth in perpetual misery: especially, if it be in the affairs of Love, which are so nice, and so full of jealousy, as the Lover thinketh he looseth nothing, although he lose his life and liberty, so he be not cozened of his Lady's favour.  
Mean space, poor Orythia is content, (so she may help me) to overthrow herself, being resolute to be most wretched for ever, to the end she may rid me from all my griefs and sorrows: whilst I stand admiring her right generous mind, amazed at her constancy, highly prising her affection, and wonderfully applauding her brave and strange conceit.  
Whereupon, I humbly thanked her for her kindness, accepting of her gracious offer, vowing unto her, that I will not die (as now) but rather expect some happy issue of her employment: And therewithal I protest, that I am the willinger to live, because I would satisfy her request, not daring to refuse her courtesy, because I found myself so much beholding unto her; and not for any certain hope I did conceive, that I should find grace at my Mistress hands.  
For how could I think to find succour from her, who without occasion given, had delivered me over unto death? whereas I might well have been counted barbarous and ungrateful, to have denied the request of this Nymph, especially when it proceeded from an affection so loyal and perfect, Ingratitude being as foul a vice, as bloody Murder.  
Unthankful persons in the old time, were condemned unto death, 
An Example.  as the unnatural Sons of Sophocles were disinherited (losing all their father goods) because they accused their aged father to dote for very age.  
Do, as thou pleasest (most gracious Nymph said I) for I promise thee I will prolong my life at thy command, not that I expect thy enterprise may bring me any comfort, but only, because I fear to disobey thee. Too much already hast thou bound me unto thee, and therefore I beseech thee, think I will sooner dispend my heart blood for thy sake, then for mine own.  
Go then thy ways, and the heavens prosper thee in thy voyage, yet if this my business shall chance to be any hindrance unto thee, let me then entreat so much at thy hands, that I (depriving myself of this loathed life) may be rid of these corrosives which still torment me, and thou, be freed of this tedious charge, which so much troubles thee. Not so answered Orythia: Let me alone, and I dare warrant thee all shall be well.  
Castles besieged, yield not at the first parley, & things that are brought to pass, process of time, and with mature deliberation and advise, continue longer, and seem more sweet afterward; for a man knoweth not the delightfulness of pleasure aright, if he have not a taste of pain before, and that which we have most dearest bought and hardliest come by, we always hold most precious, and of most account. Live then in peace, and suffer me to try my fortune, which I persuade myself, shall prove most happy in thy behalf.  
So saying, the Nymph leaveth me, to take her journey, minding to help me, although she hurt herself, taking more care to heal my sore, then to cure her own wound.  
I could not choose but follow after her fair and softly (yet aloof) when by chance I met Fortunnio in the way, all to be blubbered with weeping, who thought verily that I had been dead, he roaming up and down the Forest like a man distraught, crying out, and calling still upon my name, whom none (save an Echo) answered.  
Much did he bewail my loss, making greater moan for me than I deserved, whilst (most unwisely) he blamed Love, as the Author of my death, and envied most bitterly against the stony hart of my fair Mistress.  
But no sooner had he a sight of me, but that he came running most cheerfully unto me, and most tenderly embraced me, changing his former sad and heavy countenance, not unlike to him, who having found some precious jewel, which he before accounted as lost, beginneth to revive, and to be merry again.  
Then did he tell me how my Lady had hard I was dead, she believing the same for most certain truth (for Orythia had for my good) spread abroad this report with as much speed as possible she could, which coming unto my Diana's ears, was not a little unpleasant unto her, as was found by the number of salt tears which she shed, as a sure testimony of her true grief.  
Which when I knew, I began to take comfort again, and to revive myself with a fresh hope of some good success to come: and thereupon I compiled these verses following, upon the tears which my Mistress shed in my behalf, whilst I attended with great devotion the often wished for return of kind Orythia.  

Examitor and Pentamitor verses.  
(Sweet) do not think thy pearly tears, my pains can assuage aught,  
Not death, but thy tears, bring to my soul his adieu:  
For thy grievous plaints in steed of one only shirt death,  
Thousand deaths and more are to me, pain to enerease.  
I not deserve that thou for me shouldst woefully weep thus,  
'tis not death, but thy tears, take from myself my delight:  
Death alone this silly corpse commands, when it iskes him,  
But thy griefs doeforce, soul for to fly to the sky.  
After so many pains in our love, leave unto me give none  
Hence to departed in peace, rest that I may in my grave:  
Long enough have I lived, since that so gentle a liking,  
Tide hath thy hart to mine, and to thy soul joined miue.  
Then this my exceeding torments (Fair) do not envy,  
Since that I desire life (than thyself) for to leave:  
Farewell, pleased he dies, who dying, findeth a favour,  
When that his Lady's hand, close up his eyes at his end.  
What more sacred Tomb, to be interred can I choose me,  
Then to die in thy arms, where my desire ever lived?  
If whilst I lived, thou care didst take for my poor life,  
At my happiness then, ah be not envious now.  
Leave I beseech thee, tears to shed, since tears cannot help me,  
For my soul once gone, thou by thy tears cannot have  
Cruel death to relent with sighs, you never entreat can,  
Blest that Lover dies, who by his Love makes an end.  
Only this I beg at thy hands, before that I die here,  
Those fair beauteous eyes, kiss that I might but a while:  
Might I but find this kindness rare, then blest would my soul be.  
Nor would it are forget, thanks to requite in his mind:  
(Fair) too much it were for me to die in thy sweet arms,  
He that dies content, death never feels, or his dart:  
Who to his Mistress, doth devote his hart as a present,  
Leaves the same in his breast, royally laid in a Tomb.  
Gloomy night for to close mine eyes fast, can never have power,  
Nor can I die as long as (what I like) I may see.  
Then do but think on me, whose soul was only devoted  
Unto thyself, and which lived in thy breast that is chaste.  
In the bottom of my dark grave, shine shall thy bright eyes,  
Whilst with a new fire, death shall me revive once again.  
For if (heretofore) the same could into my soul pierce,  
Who can hinder it now, brightly to shine on my coarse?  
Then dear Saint) to leave these wail let me request thee,  
I do not sigh, cause I die, but thee to see to lament.  
For since (of thy grace) I am not worthy, but unfit,  
Then as much as a tear, why for my sake shouldst thou shed?  
Under the yoke of amorous service, whilst that I lived,  
What good once did I thee, what have I done for thee ere?  
'tis no sense to bewail the loss of one that deserves not,  
Who to none but himself, whilst that he lived did he love.  
This is the cause my soul force my coarse to relinquish,  
For that he service small did (whilst he lived to my dame.  
Yet since this my wished for death most happily happeneth,  
Since by my parting now, I from my grief now do part:  
'tis my fortune (for me too good) ah fair do not envy,  
Since that alone through death, happily, live doth the soul.  
Wipe then thy fair eyes, and without show of a mourner,  
This my breathless Trunk, unto the grave do thou bear:  
Thrice happy Tomb, since he again revives with a new life,  
Who (dead) leaveth his Love ravished, him for to joy.   
This was the mestfull Ditty I made, I being then so troubled in my mind, as I knew not well how to express my grief, although I used many scalding sighs and salt tears, to make manifest the same: I being of conceit, that it was impossible for me to blazon forth the cruelty of Love in his right colours: and yet did I seek to comfort myself, in that I had many companions in my misery heretofore. O victorious Caesar, for all thy valour, thou wast conquered by lovely Cleopatra, who had a son by thee called Cesarion.  
And thou, grave Emperor, and divine Philosopher, didst thou not dote upon thy most unhonest Faustina, whilst thou thyself becamest Loves prisoner, notwithstanding all thy wisdom and greatness?  
Hannibal found his force too strong for him, who although he had so often given the foil unto the Romans, yet when he lost his precious liberty, through lying in Capua, and making Love unto a woman there, was overcome by that temperate Roman, Scipio. Demetrius likewise, was so bewitched, with the fair Courtesan of Athens, as he stood in awe of her, as if he had been her bondslave.  
And if we should leave the earth, and fly up into the heavens, we shall find the Gods themselves have been scholars in Cupid's school. For did not jove love Europa: Lida, Alcumena: and divers others? Phoebus, Cassandra, Daphne, and many more? Mars, Venus: Venus Adonis: Diana, Endymion: and I know not whom besides.  
Why then, if it be so, I must needs say, that thy power extendeth far and near, thou being as mighty in the heavens, as thou art here upon the earth. Fortunio seeing me in this humour, began thus.  
How now man? but even now thou showedst thyself to be conqueror over thy passions, setting a good face on the matter, whilst thou didst bare out the brunt thereof: And now again, thou seemest as a recreant, to yield unto thy anguish and sorrow, crying out and vexing thyself, as if thou wouldst die upon the sudden: what is the reason of this alteration and change? It is a credit for a man to change from vice to virtue, and of bad, to become good, but not to go on still, growing worse and worse.  
David is praised for amending his wicked life, and for becoming a new man, where his Son Solomon is condemned, in that he forgot himself in his latter days, becoming an Idolater, and a whoremonger, amongst his concubines.  
Thinkest thou, that it is enough for thee to say, thou art not able to resist the force of Love, and that other men's faults are sufficient to excuse and defend thine? That thief is not exempted from punishment, who excuseth himself (having rob from others) that he hath but done, as an other hath done before him; for though it be lawful to imitate such actions as are commendable and virtuous, yet is it not tolerable, to do what is wicked and villainous.  
This colour than will not serve thee, and therefore if (as thou not long since didst affirm) thou lovest the inward qualities of the mind, without coveting that fleshly pleasure (which Lovers so much study to obtain (although with great labour and loss) but what is the reason thou takest on thus?  
And why shouldest thou seem to despair, being ready every hour almost to go about to give over the world? For loving the soul, (only) the body, which is but a closet for the same, cannot hinder thy affection, neither canst thou hope to receive any other contentment or pleasure of thy love, then in conceit: whereas thou doing thus (as thou dost) thou wilt make the world believe, that thy love is of another manner of nature than thou wouldst persuade us, it being the common fashion of sottish Lovers, and such as desire sensual delights, to cry out and lament, as if they were ready to die, when they cannot taste the sweetness of the same: as the sick Patient dieth for want of physic, that should expel such superfluous humours, as hurt him.  
Now if thy Love be such (as thou sayest) that it neither demandeth nor expecteth in any sort this pleasure, what maketh thee for want of enjoying the same, to run still unto death? wring thy hands, and making such piteous moan, as is strange to behold?  
Therefore are such men far more furious and mad, than those senseless Bedlams are, who without cause, seek to offer violence unto themselves, imitating the heathen people of Egypt, who used to burn themselves, without any cause at all, but only when the toy took them in the head: for most dear aught we to hold our life, because it is unrecoverable: neither must we forego it, unless for some great occasion, as either for the benefit of our commonwealth, or for special good and advancement of all our friends. I seeing Fortunto to be so earnest, replied thus.  
O Fortunio, I cannot see how a man can lose a lesser loss, than the shortening of his days: for losing them, he lighteth upon a path that leadeth him into eternal rest, and therefore he is not hindered at all: resembling that merchant, who exchangeth bad merchandise, for such as are most precious and rich. For a smaller matter than mine, thousands of wise men have shortened their lives. A witness whereof, is that wise man, who following Alexander the great, and much favoured of him, gave not over for all that, to erect a great pile of wood, which he setting a fire, most cheerfully leapt therein (without stirring once) and so was there buried. But perhaps you will ask me what was the cause that urged him thereunto: truly none; but only because he would leave this mortal life, to inherit a life everlasting.  
But say, that no lively apprehension of intolerable grief did force a man to this desire, yet are the very defects of Nature, and the desire to become immortal, sufficient enough to imprint most deeply this conceit in his soul: especially, if (after death) we shall be free from feeling of any pain, according unto the gross error of the voluptuous Epicure. For is it not far better never to be borne, then to live and endure misery?  
But we fly higher in our thoughts, them those Philosophers: for we by this means, set not only an end unto our wretchedness, but we change them into glory & contentment, and our frail and fleshly body, into an immortal state, free from all corruption.  
Therefore my conclusion is, that seesing the only maims of Nature, without any other accident of evil, are of force enough to imprint within us this desire of death, we are not to be reprehended, if we die, in as much as we are stirred up unto death, as well because of these imperfections, as also by reason of such a subject of deadly grief, as can no way be remedied nor helped but by the fatal Destinies; and those that do contrariwise, cannot be compared for constancy and virtue, unto those women, who (one striving with another) leapt into the flaming fire, wherein their dead spouses were burned: a deep passion of true sorrow, and a vehement desire to follow their husband, being that which did animate them unto this death.  
Besides, such as are in despair, for ever seeing joyful days in this world, have not they the greatest reason of all to die? which (if any such) shall refuse, they are of a more base and timorous disposition, than those women afore said, seeing that in death only, a man incountreth with quiet rest, as (whilst we live) we are yoked and tied unto troubles.  
The sage Hebrew King, praiseth in his proverbs, the dead, more than he doth the living, death being the securest harbour of all other, where when we are arrived, we are exempted from rowing any more in the dangerous barge of this turbulent world. Fond is that Pilot, who (through the favour of the heavens, having gotten into a safe creak and bay, will needs venture back again into the main Sea, at what time a tempest ariseth, and so suffereth shipwreck.  
Those great personages in times past, in steed of being afraid of death, took death as the chiefest remedy against all their crosses and misfortunes. Triumphant Caesar, who enjoyed all the delights that might be, although he had reason to covet to live (being blessed with so much happiness) was so far off from being afraid of death, as he would needs entertain the same, although he might have avoided it, if he had so pleased. And shall we then (who quite contrary to him) are overcharged with thousands of plagues, being (in respect of him) most vile, base and abject vassals, to whom disgraces are common, and all pleasures, hateful adversaries, sear that, which he in the chiefest of all his felicities never once so much as doubted?  
So to do, would argue us to have small courage, and we should be like unto the base minded Macedonian King, who rather than he would die, suffered himself to be carried alive in triumph, through the streets of Rome, being afterward starved to death in prison. Yet far more generous, and of a braver resolution, was Cleopatra (although a filly woman) who deceived the expectation of Augustus, by killing herself, and so hindering him thereby, from beautifying his glorious triumphant Chariot, with the lively show of her own proper person.  
No, no, before this mischief shall seize upon me, and that disgrace shall still triumph over me; I will end both my life and my lamentations all at once, like that gallant Egyptian Princes.  
Neither is this argument forcible enough, to say, that because one loveth only the inward qualities of his Mistress, therefore he should not die; for far greater is the despite, and the distress is more violent, which proceedeth from those, who have loved chastely, without offering any outrage or unseemly behaviour to discredit themselves, than it is amongst other vain Lovers: and therefore thy Mistress have the less reason to be so hard-hearted and unkind towards them, when they are urged unto no such villainy.  
This therefore is my opinion, that death is an hundred times more sweeter than life, and that the only defaults of Nature, without other reasons that proceed from sorrow, are of force sufficient to make us wish and venture upon the same.  
For the free man is only happy, and free can none be, whilst they are entangled in the nets of the miseries of this world, death only being of power to enfranchise us, and therefore is it most happy, and most necessary for man.  
While I was (thus) disputing with my old acquaintance and friend; courteous Orythia, was nothing forgetful of me, who coming before my Lady, pleaded hard in my behalf, she beginning thus. Certainly (beauteous Diana) most cruel is that man, that seeketh the life of an other who never offended him.  
The Gods who are without beginning, 
A Sentence.  and therefore more to be respected then men (although not so soon moved to wrath) demand seldom or never the blood of mortal creatures to expiate their faults, but being more kind than so, are content with the warm sacrifices of beasts.  
How then can he purge himself, who having never been abused by such a one, yet worketh all the means he can to cut his throat?  
It is the property of Tyrants (banished from the company of men) from whom through rigour of their own law and wills, they take both life and living without any reasonable cause given them, to bathe their murdering hands in guiltless blood, but such as be godly and just Princes, will never commit so heinous an act: much less ought Ladies to acqaint themselves therewithal, they being the very patterns of compassion, of pity, and of mildness; and not of blood, of murder, or of vengeance. O what pain doth Lydia prove in the pitchy bottom of hell, for causing her loving Servant to be murdered?  
What sharp punishment do the daughters of Danaus endure, for cutting their husband's throats? and with what violent plagues is Clytaemnestra scourged, in dying her hands with the lukewarm blood of her dear Spouse and bedfellow Agamemnon? for if we be cruel, then cruel shall we find those, into whose power we shall chance to light to be chastised, because the same evil we do, shall be done unto us again.  
Do not you think, that it were better for a woman to lose (somewhat that belongeth unto her, then to destroy the life of a man (not to be recovered any more) the life I say of a man, which the Gods themselves have first breathed into them, bestowed upon them?  
Above all vices, 
A Sentence.  cruelty is the most insupportable; intolerable is shedding of blood, and horrible is beastly murder. None can make themselves more strange, or more contrary unto the Gods, then in setting abroach this damned vice, they themselves hating cruelty, abhorring nothing so much as bloodshed.  
If we would be willing, that they should pardon us, let us then after their example be courteous and mild, towards such as shall implore our aid, when they have need of us: for the self same mercy we shall show unto strangers, who have offended us, the same shall we find returned home to us by the immortal powers themselves again.  
Let us then shun this Savage mind, and barbarous fault, as a deadly pestilence, and let us drive it from us, as we would do a mortal poison from our bodies, for it killeth our good name and renown, which ought to be dearer unto us, than our precious lives by odds.  
And since it is so, what then hath moved thee (most Fair, yet cruel Nymph) to pursue so eagerly the life of wretched Arcas?  
Alack, why wouldst thou have him die, what fault, what crime, or what offence hath he committed against thee? but (perhaps) thou wilt say he loveth thee, and how then? what? do not we love the Gods, and are they not glad and contented we so should love them?  
Thinkest thou that any goodly thing, or whatsoever savoureth of the beauty of the Gods, 
An Example.  can be here below upon the earth, and not be loved, and highly prised by mortal men? If the Law commandeth us to pardon our enemies (as Caesar is more commended for his clemency towards his foes, then for his notorious victories) how much more then, ought we to make account of such as fancy and affect us? If for killing our adversaries, in steed of showing them grace and favour, we are condemned as faulty, how much more shall we be, if we go about to murder our friends?  
Then (gracious Diana) fall not into so horrible a sin; Thou art too fair to be froward and unkind, neither will any wise woman, ever refuse the chaste and modest Amity of a virtuous spirit, who is able to make her memory immortal, and to live for ever. What outrage or discourtesy doth a young man unto a sweet Lady, in loving her, as long as he goeth not about to offer violence unto her honour?  
For as that woman is not to be excused, who at the earnest prayers of her Lover, suffereth that goodly Flower to be slipped, wherein consists her reputation and credit: so cannot she choose but be blamed, who seeketh the utter ruin and overthrow of such as chastened honour her, without impeach of honour. So doth Arcas love thee, and why then dost thou force him to make away himself?  
Cruel is the wrong that one receiveth of his friend, but far more piercing is that, which cometh from a man's own self, (seeing none can be greater friends unto us than our own selves.)  
Be not then the cause that this poor wretch should massacre himself, lest it be hereafter cast in thy teeth, that thou hast slain him, which if thou dost, it may fall out with thee, as it did with proud Narassus: who died, falling in love with his own self, after he had disdained the friendship of divers fair and courteous Nymphs.  
But I will say no more, for thou art wise, and to such, few words are sufficient: thou art fair, and therefore I hope wilt not be over froward: and thou art religious, which maketh me persuade myself, that thou wilt have a conscience, especially in a matter of so great importance as this is.  
Thus did the pitiful Oryth●a plead for me against her own self, willing is she to die, so she may save my life, not caring what sorrows she endured, so she could rid me from out my troubles.  
Diana having heard her, was ready to make answer, for they that are fair spoken, and can speak with discretion, have always the best and readiest wits, and so had she, Mercury lodging in her tongue, and purest hovie, dropping from out her mouth. Hark then how wisely she replied.  
If any man vexed with a furious spirit, shall (without being proucked or urged, by any other then by their owneselu●s) ruane wilfully unto death, can any be blamed for the same, but only their own selves? Or is it reasonable, that such as be guiltless shall be punished, and answer for the faults that others commit?  
juno is the occasion of the plagues that that luxurious Ixion endureth, and yet it was his own offence that was the cause thereof, and not she herself? If these vain and fantastic Lovers, who are weakened in their right wits through Cupid, shall murder and make away themselves: are therefore those Ladies unto whom they offer their service, the cause of their ruin and overthrow?  
He only rightly may be called the author of mischief, who either hath done it, or hath caused it to be done. But women, do they force men to love them? and do they compel them (in despite of themselves) to devote themselves unto them? What they do, they do of themselves, and through their own follies doth this madness proceed, and therefore, who is the cause of their undoing, but their own selves?  
If the envious person, dieth for very grief and rage of mind, because he seethe his neighbour prosper and do well: who but himself is the occasion thereof? None forceth any man to love. And so no woman ought to be urged to lose that (which is as precious unto her, as her own life) which is her honour, to satisfy and please such, who through their own vainness, and meche fondness, shall work their own hurt and decay.  
That desperate wretch, that drowneth himself, is he to thank any other than his ownself, for his drowning? And say, that Shepherd of whom thou talkest should die, through his own peevish sollie, think you that ● fear, lest the world would count me to be the cause thereof? or that I shall be blamed in that he hath done amiss? I warrant you no: For I never brought him into this narrow strait, which if he follow, it is his own fault, and not mine.  
Besides, to say I seek to covet, or to be the cause of his death, you do me wrong: for I delight not in cruelty, the contentment and well far of another, being as dear unto me, as mine own health. Yet nevertheless, this I must tell you, that I would be very loath he should live, to be so hurtful unto me, as to destroy the goodly building of mine honour, which being once overthrown, can never be repaired, or built new again.  
That he live, I most heartily wish: but yet, with the conservation of my good name & fame. For otherwise, I desire vengeance to light upon him, as on my most mortal foe, although I will never be but a friend unto his chaste Amity: provided always, that he give sufficient testimonies it be such, by his good carriage & modest behaviour.  
For I am not so ignorant, but that I know pure and chaste Love, to be a most divine and beautiful Virtue, and the honest affection of right generous, and Gentlemanlike spirits, to be commendable and prasse-worthie: seeing they are of power to make famous our memories for ever.  
All Portraitures, Tables, Counterfeits, and Pictures, soon lose their colours and decay, be they never so excellently well drawn, quickly are they spoiled, and soon doth Time devour them. No Picture of Achilles now remaineth, & yet his praise doth, through Homer's Muse. None of Alexander the great, although both Apelles and Lysippus, two exquisite Painters had often drew him. And yet although their famous works be consumed and gone, the brave writings of Quintus Curtius (blazoning forth the life of this mighty Monarch) live and flourish. Neither is the verse of Virgil dead, ringing out the virtues of AEneas, although the counterfeits of that Trojan Prince, be all turned unto dust.  
And so, if that Arcas, be (yet) alive, I wish he so may still continue; thy only entreaty and request being of force to command more of me then this, seeing it is thy pleasure he should be entertained.  
But if he will so unadvisedly, rashly, and so foolishly offend his own self, I here wash my hands, as clear from this matter, protesting here before all, that I am innocent of his death, because I never gave him any such occasion of discontentment: If perchance he have found me, that I have not been so courteous, nor so affable unto him at one time, as I have been at an other: Or if that I have looked more heavy & sad now and then, than I have used to do heretofore. Thinketh he therefore, that he hath just reason to lay all the blame upon me, as if I had been she, that was the Author of his overthrow? If so, he is deceived. For our bodies (which are subject unto the influences of the celestial Signs) are either joyful or sad, according unto their motions.  
This being the cause, that when we meet (by fortune) with one of our acquaintance, and he is (as then) troubled with many thoughts in his mind, or some bad celestial Planet is predominate over him: we then, (by his sour countenance) would take him for our enemy, but no sooner is his humour past and gone from him, but he is our good friend again, and as kind unto us, as ever he was before.  
The weaker must always yield (somewhat) unto the stronger, because the one is never distraught, nor carried away with our public affairs, where the other are drawn abroad with much business, and divers cares (which hindereth them oftentimes) to remember, or think upon their inferiors.  
Let him then live, if he be (as yet) living: For never let Diana wish to live, to see that day, wherein she shall be reproached to have been the cause of his death, who by his writings doth eternize the Virtuous, especially, when I may preserve his life, and that he seeketh not to have any thing of me, that is prejudicial unto mine honour.  
This was the answer of wise Diana, unto fair Orythia, who most kindly thanking her in my behalf, came merrily away, seeking to find me out: Who no sooner saw me, but that she delivered unto me my Lady's mind, and therewithal, advised me to go presently unto her, and to present myself unto her.  
How to requite this courteous Nymph for so exceeding a favour done unto me, I know not; Whilst I was framing a set speech in my mind, to show myself in some sort grateful unto her. How now (quoth she) it is no time now to study? away, and get you gone unto your Mistress. As for thanks, I look for none at your hands, I having done but what was my duty, seeing such as are bound, must needs obey: yet I beseech the goddess of Love, to make thee once to pity me, who wish thee no worse fortune, than I do unto mine own soul, although thy chief happiness, must needs be my bad overthrow.  
And having so said, casting a piteous eye towards me, and sighing most heavily, as if her heart would have burst, she went away from me, and so left me. I could not choose but weep, thinking upon her: When (remembering my Lady's message) I set forward speedily to wend towards her, carrying in my hand a certain Sonnet, which I had made in her praise not long before, meaning to present it unto her. Being arrived where she was, I found her accompanied with other Nymphs, sitting by the side of a Fountain, which issued forth from out the veins of a stately Rock, the water whereof, was far clearer than any Crystal, in whose bottom was a dainty yellow Sand, such as that of Pactolus, intermixed with a number of precious stones, of sundry colours, & had a man been able to have thrust his nimble hand deep enough, he might (without wetting of his arm) with exceeding great pleasure, have taken a number of little fishes, running up & down, and playing most wanton there: one while, hiding themselves within the entrails of the gravel, and another while, in sundry corners and holes of the Fountain.  
Whilst being slippery, and skipping too and fro, they would most cunningly get out of the fingers of him that had caught them. From this Fountain, there came forth two sweet Rivers, which growing into a great water, ran round about the whole Country, losing themselves as they fell into the Sea adjoining.  
This Fountain was shadowed over with beauteous Cypress, and lovely Orange ttees, the sweet buds and blossoms whereof, was able to ravish the minds even of bruit Beasts: within the Rock, were many seats to rest on, framed by nature so artificially, as no cunning could any way come near them, they being always covered with pleasing Camomile, the more to delight the sense of man.  
The ground all along was full of green grass, and other pretty herbs, which the teeth of cattle had never spoiled, nor over-heate of the day, scorched or burned.  
Many sweet Rosetrees sprung forth, from out the sides of that Rock, in divers places, and that in so iustand seemly an order, as you would have thought they had been planted, and set by the handy-labour of some curious Gardener: whilst all sort of Roots sprouted out in their right colours, the odoriferous sent whereof was such, and the situation of the place so delightful, as you would have thought yourself in Paradise, as long as you had continued there. Never was there Palace more beautiful.  
That Fountain which the warlike Horse caused to spring out of the ground, 
An Example.  with the hose of his foot, was nothing so dainty, (although more commended, by such as drank of the water thereof) they being inspired with the gift of Poetry ever after.  
In this so pleasant a seat then, did I find gracious Diana, passing away her time, one while, with washing her beautiful face: an other while, her Diamond eyes, and then again, her long and slender hands. No care as then troubled her, neither was she busied in canvasing in her brains, 
A Simile.  any serious matter of weighty importance.  
As that great Sacrificer, who thinking to sacrifice to juno the goddess of Riches, (finding her Image either bloody, or sweeting) suddenly withdraweth himself from thence, consulting with his fellow-Priest, about the strange chance, before he begin his Ceremonies again; Even so, I seeing so rare a beauty, stood as one amazed, without speech, and as if I had been in a sound.  
And now I began to consider within myself, whether I were best to go forwards on my journey, and offer my Present unto this Nymph, or whether without speaking unto her, I should turn back again, and go from whence I came.  
For although such only find Fortune to favour them, who are venturous, and of bold spirits, (yet thought I) it were far better, not to try all, (especially, when a man's life or credit lieth thereupon) then like bold Bayard, to run bluntly onwards, and so to take repulse, and be denied of his suit. For more sure and certain is the mean life, and estate, then is the richest and highest in authority, wherein there is nothing but trouble and danger.  
This was the cause I stood so long debating of the matter within myself, whether I were best to pursue my first enterprise or no: 
A Sentence.  For hardly dare a man speak to such a one as we fear & respect, but in the end, the same thing that made me most to doubt, did rid me out of the same, stifling my fear, & driving away all sorrow from me. For my Mistress having espied me, (who was near ready to go back again) called me unto her.  
O how sweet and comfortable was that sound unto me? I thinking I had been called by some God thereabouts. Gracious and full of courtesy was her speech, insomuch, as I counted my name most blessed, because it was pronounced by my lovely Goddess.  
No longer will I marvel now, although the voices of Saints heretofore, have been of power to call up dead Courses, from out the bottom of their graves, (where they lay buried) restoring them unto life again: since that of my fair Mistress was able to drive away all sadness and sorrow from me, and to revive fresh hope within me.  
This made me draw near unto her, when after many duteous Ceremonies done by me unto her, I presented her with my Paper, which the opening, with a cheerful countenance, read this Sonnet following.  

(Fair) thou the heaven (like to thyself) makest fair,  
So thou my Fortune blessest (thee) to love:  
He vanquished is not, though of Armour bare,  
When with the Sun, his strength Mars dares not pr●●ut.   

If I (thy Beauties stine) myself right call,  
Who (thee t'adore) can blame my loyaltses?  
The self same God, that lovers worship all,  
Is that sweet God, which breeds their miseris.   

(Fair) than I love thee, ah what be't I say?  
Nay more, I worship thee, and thee admire:  
M●verse, and voice, shall honour thee for ay,  
Sing still thy praise, thy glorse still desire.   

(Fair) it is much, the Gods for to resemble,  
But more to be, like Virtue; yet without  
Sage Pallas help, jove near had made to tremble,  
Offurious Tytans, that rebellious Rout.  
To thee then like to Gods, to Virtue like,  
All praises we'll ascribe, as guerdon right.   
As she read these Verses, she seemed to smile, 
A Simile.  giving me a very kind look, and many thanks for the same. As the Vine-worker rejoiceth, when coming into the field, (betimes in the morning) he findeth his Vine sprung forth, and ready to bud all over, which promiseth him a bountiful Largesse, to come from Bacchus: Even so began I to be light for joy, to see so cheerful a countenance to come from her, hoping to have some good fortune afterward.  
O how sundry and sudden, are the alterations in love? One while a Lover is dead, and then again, he is alive: now he is merry, and then by and by, he is sad: a small matter, being able to make him hope or despair, as a little leaven, maketh a great deal of Paste sour.  
But as I was most unfortunate before, so began I now to be most happy of all: For no sooner had my Mistress read what was written, but she began thus. It is great grief and hart unto a gallant Courtier, who can, and feign would, make some excellent proof of his valour: when he cannot meet with a fit place, or field, wherein he might exercise and put in practise his Chivalry.  
Even so, it is great pity (Shepherd) that thou canst not encounter a subject, worthy of thy pen, which might be able, and of sufficiency enough, to make thy Muse show herself abroad, in her right colours. For this Poetical vein of thine, without having some rare, or divine matter to animate it, and to set it forward, is like unto a goodly body that hath no soul: which, although it show fair and beautiful, yet can it do little good, 
A comparison.  because it wanteth life. Or it may be compared unto a large and fat field, bringing forth much grass, which is a testimony of his fertile richness: But yet for want of labour and sowing, yieldeth not any Corn at all.  
I assure thee, I am right heartily sorry, that thou wantest an excellent subject, whereon to work. For then, I verily persuade myself, we should see most admirable conceits to come from thy Muse.  
As for myself, I neither will, nor dare refuse these Verses, which thou hast bestowed upon me, they sanouring of the same sweetness, for then worthily mightest thou judge me to be more prouder than the Gods, who thankfully accept of the smallest gifts, that mortal men do offer them.  
But yet I could wish with all my hart, that they had been meant unto some other more virtuous Saint: For worthy things belong unto such as are worthy personages, great matters unto great & mighty Potentates, & what is honourable, is due unto the virtuous: no otherwise, than shame & reproach do belong unto the infamous, & such as be wicked.  
Notwithstanding all this, I will not give over to account of thy Muse, seeing that (for all she hath taken so lean and barren a subject as myself) she doth so well, by reason whereof, she showeth herself to be the more worthy of commendation and praise.  
But far better, and more perfect (by great odds) would she appear, if the foundation whereupon she had built, had been but as goodly, as she herself is fair. For than no doubt, but she would bring forth most strange and matchless works, as of beautiful parents, sweet and well-favoured children are borne.  
Ah, say not so, most sacred Nymph (replied I) although these your speeches are like unto a lowly virtue, wherein (the more you humble yourself) the more you are exalted; For what Goddess is there reigning in the Skies above, that meriteth more praise than thou dost? And what mortal woman is there living, that carrieth a mind more chaste, a heart more virtuous, a beauty more excellent, or a judgement more perfect, than thou thyself dost?  
Although great persons are by the benefit of Fortune, raised and advanced unto many Titles of honour, and are enriched with Treasures mightily, we cannot therefore say, that for that only cause, they are more worthy of praise, than such meaner creatures, as are barred from such great wealth and authority, so long as they be as courteous as the others: For true glory is not given to blind and cheating Fortune, but unto divine and heavenly Virtue.  
He is worthy of little praise, who hath nothing of his own, but is feign to borrow of others: & such are rich men, who through the advancement of nature, 
A Sentence.  & not of their own industry, enjoy that which they have: whereas such as are wise, (who of their own selves, without the help of others) show many proofs of virtue, deserve to be commended indeed. Poor Homer is more accounted of, then rich Agamemnon: laudlesse Maro, then covetous Crassus: & poor Solon, more than golden Croesus. And so (fair Nymph) although thou hast not the name of a Goddess, (seeing in desert, thou dost merit the same) why shouldest thou refuse that praise, that is rightly due, and belonging unto the sovereign powers above.  
But I know thy mind, and by thy speech do gather what thou meanest. Thou seemest to refuse the fruits of my Muse, (and not without great reason) because they are too weak, and unable to display, and set abroach thy virtues. For as those that are excellent Poets, greatly honour wise and worthy spirits: so such as be gross and unlearned, rather bring discredit, than credit unto them, by their harsh and foolish vorses; It being far better for a brave Heroical mind, not to be praised at all, then to hear himself commended, by the mouth of an illiterated and simple Poetizer.  
This is the cause thou refusest my verse, but it is certain, that the more Virtue flieth from glory, the more doth glory follow her. The Sages in times past did well, 
An Example.  to reject the praises, which were attributed unto them, and because they would not be seen; when they put in practise many rare and admirable exploits, they hid themselves close, within some unfrequented Desert or other.  
And yet nevertheless, they had their due in the end, and when they least dreamt of any such matter. Glory passeth through the pikes of all difficulties, 
A Sentence.  yet it descendeth down into the Tombs of the dead: sounding like a Trumpet, the due praises of many when they are buried, who whilst they lived, would not accept of any such matter. For as the Clouds, although they show thick, dark, and gloomy, cannot for all that, hinder the brightness of the Sun, but for all their foggy vapours, he will break out, and appear in his splendent Majesty; Even so, (maugre the cruel times, yea, and in despite of their own selves) the virtuous are ever honoured, whom glory itself, doth never abandon or forsake. And therefore (gracious Nymph) reject not what my Muse in most humble manner bestoweth upon thee, seeing she doth the best she can. For the good will of the giver, & not the richness of the gift, doth perfect, & make better the present. Poor folk give as much (although it be of little value) considering their ability, as the mightier sort do, 
A Sentence.  although they bestow never so much: and the silly widows Mite, was as well accepted, as the richest men's gold, which in the Temple was offered.  
Dainethen to make me so fortunate, as to vouchsafe to accept of me to chant forth thy praises; And doubt not, but so earnest a desire shall so much animate and encourage my Muse, as she will think nothing can see me to be too hard for her. For this cause only do I live: nothing so much keeping life within my body, as a zealous desire (Herald-like) to blazon forth thy virtues, which If I thought I might not obtain, I would choose rather to die then live.  
My gifts are but small, and yet more commendable shalt thou be, for accepting of them, then if they had been richer: because the world shall see, that not any covetous humour of gain, nor any worth of the present, moved me to make a tender of the same, but only an humble mind, & the right nobleness, of thy more than courteous own nature.  
Thus did I argue for myself, when my fair Saint, who took some pleasure in my speech, began to answer me in this manner.  
Never ought any honest praise to be rejected, because it proceedeth from good will. The Gods themselves taking in good part the praises of the simple, as well as of those that are more mighty. I therefore accept of thine, if thou thinkest there be any thing in me, (as I doubt me there is not) worthy of thy study, but yet with this condition, that like a faithful historiographer, and not as a fawning Poet, thou set down the truth.  
For as that Crow, 
An Example.  when she was despoiled of her feathers, which she had borrowed of the other Birds, became naked and bare; & as that face is found to be more fowl, and fuller of wrinkles, which is used to be daubed with paintings, then that which never hath any other, than her natural beauty; So when one is praised, & afterwards his defects and vicious life cometh to be known abroad, he is more disgraced with infa●●ie & discredit, then if he had not been spoken of before, & only because of his own imperfections.  
Be then just and true in thy writings, and then no doubt, but the labour which thou shalt take, shallbe much lessened & abated, and small shallbe the pain thou puttest thy pen too, because thou shalt find little or nothing in me, worthy to be commended.  
But above all, I would wish thee, to have special regard unto this: that thy works (if by chance thou shalt find, I be worthy of thy Invention) breed neither jealousy of me, nor malicious envy against me, the two common plagues amongst all men.  
For it were far better to live bare and poorly, and without being made famous abroad, then to be rich, and be envied of all, and so to purchase the ill will of every one.  
This only desire, was Caesar's death, his enemies bearing malice at his virtues: and this was the loss of the life of Alexander the great, who was hated for his exceeding great victories.  
So said the beauteous Nymph, and that with so good a grace, as (although she seemed to make a show, that she was unwilling to accept of the praises of my Muse) yet did she so wittily order the matter, as I found by the circumstance of her discourse, she did not altogether reject mine offer. 
A Sentence.  Quickly did I find her meaning, for (who marketh so narrowly the manner & fashion, the gesture, and the countenance of his Mistress, as doth the Lover, seeing he findeth either good or hurt, in the least glance of her eyes?  
Soon did I conceive that she did not differ much from my mind, and I made myself ready to answer her: when behold, we might suddenly hear a great noise a far off, as if it had been of foam wild Beast, that broke through bushes, passed through hedges, and forced the very trees to stoop and shake, with his furious running against them.  
This noise made my Lady, and all her company marvelously afraid, for it was most terrible in their cares: whereupon, they began to take their flight, and that they might run the swifter, the fear of this strange accident, lent them wings.  
I seeing this, took my worthy Diana under the arm, (the greatest favour that ever I had before received of her) and yet was it not willingly granted by her: For never would she have suffered me to have done so much, but that the danger, and her present necessity was such, I helping her the better to get up unto the top of the foresaid high Rock, at the foot of which, was (as I told you before) a most fair and clear crystal Fountain. When being there, we thought ourselves to be quite out of all peril and danger: and that if it were a Bear, or a Lion, or any Tiger, it could not over easily get up to the top of the same: or at least, that we could not be discovered in so high a place: but yet nevertheless, my Lady still quaking & trembling, as one that could not abandon her pensiveness upon the sudden.  
She endured, that I should hold her under the arm, whilst in the mean time, I ventured to touch her white and dainty hand, which was to me, as if I had been in Paradise, for so much did fear possess her, as she never thought of any such matter. O what a happy time had I as then? and how much was I beholding unto that wild beast, although the terror thereof, did make me to shake? A right holy day was that day unto me, and the happiest that ever I had in all my life.  
Great was the pleasure my poor heart felt as then, when I had that liberty to touch those rare and victorious hands, as long since these desperate Pirates had, 
An Example.  who came from far, only to kiss the fist of Scipio, surnamed African, after he had taken his farewell of ungrateful Rome. Never was there so lily a white hand, never one so soft and supple, for many brave minds had they brought under their yoke, they not once daring to refuse her command.  
Although this favour was but small, yet stood I so much in awe to displease her, as I trembled more for fear of her, than I did of the Monster. For twice had I made trial of her anger already, which I felt more hot than fire itself, doubting greatly lest I should fall into the like danger again.  
Thus, whilst I now and then touched her sweet hands, she never perceived what I did, whether it were, either because she made show that she knew it not, or because fear had so hindered her, that she could not conceive of any such thing: for where dread seizeth upon one, there can be no other thoughts, she driving them away, and making herself only Mistress of that place. But howsoever it was, it fell out well for me, to enjoy so great a happiness.  
But if the only touching of her hand, was of force to bring me into an Ecstasy of joy and pleasure, what then (think you) would the kissing of the same have wrought in me, if I had had licence to have done so much unto her?  
No doubt I had died through extreme delight, as that Roman Gentlewoman did, 
An Example.  when she saw her son returned home safe and alive, from that bloody battle of Cannae, where she thought he had been slain.  
But I was not worthy of so great a good, and therefore was well contented with the fortune I had before. Mean space, this beast cometh with a most strange boldness, there not being his like in all the world, affrighting not only the Gods of the woods, but men, and other senseless creatures also.  
The Serpent Python was never so horrible, the Hydra that Hercules slew, not half so terrible: nor that great Crocodile, that was taken upon the banks of Nilus, and presentted unto King Ptolemy by his fishers, was half so hideous or fierce.  
He had the head of a wild Boor, having sharp and great prickles round about his throat, as red as any blood: his hair, his skin, and his ears, were as a Lions: his belly as a Leopard. His tail as a Serpent, his feet as a Griffon, & he had wings as an Eagle, 
The description of that ugly Monster PRIDE.  with great proudness did he come to drink at that clear Fountain, I wondering much, that the very spring thereof did not dry up, at the sight of so ugly a Monster.  
He drink at his pleasure, whilst very dread kept us within a little hole, which we by chance had found out upon the top of the Rock, into which we had gotten, because we would not be seen of this odious beast, but when we saw him winged, we then began to fear, more than ever we had done before; for than we thought verily, that he would take his flight up, unto the Rock, and so devour us, who stood trembling and shaking, because we imagined it could not be but that he had seen us: for always fear turneth everything to the worst, judging sinisterly of the same.  
To be short, he had seen us indeed, and (no doubt) to our great hurt, had he made after us, to find our fear true, 
The description of Humili. tie.  but that there arrived upon the sudden a young Damozell plainly appareled, in white linen, with a comely kind of attire upon her head, fair in face, sober in countenance, lowly in gate, and yet most lovely to behold. In her hand she had a Bow which bent when she pleased, and seven arrows, well headed and sharp, and though she were otherwise naked, not having other weapons at all, yet did she not stand in doubt of this fierce Monster, but boldly marched towards him, whilst though her pace was soft and humble, yet did it seem this huge beast did fear her, and feign would have been gone from her.  
divers were our opinions as concerning this Dame, some thought she was Diana, others that it was june, some Minerna, and some Venus. But to say truth, she resembled none of them, being more fair, than some of them, and less beautiful than the other: and yet more mild and courteous than any of them all.  
To conclude, we all agreed, with a general consent, that she was some divine creature, seeing she addressed herself to go against the Monster so boldly, who perceiving her to approach towards him, turned towards her, vomiting forth so great and flashing a flame, as all seemed to be on fire thereabouts, we thinking that she had been consumed with the same.  
But as gold taken out of the burning Furnace, 
A Simile.  is far more bright and fierce, then when it was first fling in, and as Camomile, the more it is trod upon, the thick and better it groweth: even so, might we see this fair Archeresh to show more clear and beautiful, when the flame was once past and gone than she had been before.  
No hurt had she at all, which made us to wonder, whilst putting one of her arrows into her Bow, she aimed so right, as she planted it within one of the eyes of this monstruous beast, who for very rage and madness, cast forth a most horrible roaring, mingled with fire, blood, & frothy foam; whereupon, he flieth up into the air, thinking to come down with great violence upon her, and so to gripe her within his Talents, but she quickly shot another shaft into his belly, as he was about to fly upon her, who slipping a little aside, suffered him to fall with great force upon the hard ground.  
This made him to leap up hastily again, and with strange fury to run towards his enemy to devour her, who never gave back one eight for the matter, but quickly let fliean other arrow, which lighted just upon one of his ears, which made him so outrageous through very grief and pain, as he flew upon her with great violence, and with his sharp paws (in despite of her) snatched her Bow & Arrows from her: which done, away he runneth with them through the wood, leaving the flight, and the fair Virgin, that followed after him. I seeing this, made all the hast I could to get down, to the end I might know what she was, and thereupon followed her hard.  
Having overtaken her, I was given to understand by her, that this Monster was PRIDE, having the head of a wild Boor, proud & greediet: he skin, the hair, and the colour, of a roaring Lion, stately and high minded, more than other beasts: the belly of a mutinous Leopard, wonderful insolent, the claws of a Griffon, by nature arrogant.  
The tail of a Serpent, subtle, perverse, and impudent: and the wings of an Eagle, who is by kind, lofty, and high minded. This Monster was borne before all time, proceeding from the Excrements of heaven and earth, 
Of the Original a●d first beginning of Pride.  when the Eternal jehovah, first divided them, since when it hath haunted men continually.  
The everliving Son of the everlasting God, coming amongst us, drove him away, since which time, he being returned into the world, hath done more hurt, than ever he had done before, as the thief doth, that hath once escaped out of gail.  
Never was there any so wise, that hath been able to resist him, no not the old Philosophers themselves, who composed many famous works in disgrace and contempt of vainglory, setting down their names in the forefront of their books, but were overcome by him.  
All Christians (for the most part) were in the same predicament, especially such, who term themselves to be Masters of the Law, and teach the same: for so sweet a thing is glory, as every one desireth, and runneth to have it.  
But (as I told you before) our Saviour Christ, being borne in an old rotten stable, within a Manger upon hay, and betwixt two harmless beasts, chased away this cruel Monster, unto the shame of all other mortal creatures. For his Palace royal was a stable, his Princely Chariot, a Manger: his fine sheets, hay and straw: his Servitors, an Ox and an Ass: and his Princes, poor and silly Shepherds.  
After this, the good Constantive, having given so much lands unto the Popes, as they began to dispute with armed weapons, what right they had unto the same, he 〈◊〉 in amongst the Clergy, and so by little and little, amongst all sorts of men else.  
Thus hath he long time run up and down, till at the length, 
An example● discouri●●●t 〈◊〉.  I myself who a●● called Humility, obtained so much, as either I might kill him, or at the least drive him out of the world.  
But the Traitor perceiving himself to be vanquishit, withdraweth himself from me, and closely hideth himself, one while in Monasteries, an other while in women's breasts, now in the Court of Princes, and then again amongst Soldiers and men of war, so as I can never chase him away, by reason be hath so many sure and common places, whereunto he doth retire.  
In the end (by chance) I found him in this Desert (a thing most miraculous) for seldom or never, was he wont to haunt solitarily places, his chief dwelling, being always in the proud Palaces, of haughty and high minded monarchs.  
And if I had been able to have fastened all mine Arrows which I brought with me, he had been dead ere this, but the damned wretch (being encouraged by the succours, which great personages lend him) hath grown insolent and bold, as he hath ventured to snatch four of them from me, which he never durst to have done, if he had fought with me only of himself, and had not been assisted and countenanced out by the aid of others.  
If thou hast well marked and considered of my carriage, and mine attire, thou ma●est easily guess I am Humility, his deadly enemy, but (at this day) so hated of all men, as they reject me, suffering me (as thou seest) to walk (in a manner) naked, as miserable and starved creatures void of all relief, whereas Pride, is well and richly clothed, full fed, and much made of, and well entertained of every one.  
If thou remember'st well our combat, thou sawest me, to shoot three Arrows at him, all which did hit him right. 
The Arrows that Humility shot at the Monster Pride. The first Artowe was shame● aft●es.   
The first, was the shape of Shamefastness, which struck out the eyes of Pride, for never shall any bashful and modest man or woman be subject unto Pride. as simple and debonair, was chaste Hippolytus, courteous, Alexander the great, and affable and mild the valiant Scipio.  
Of women, humble was Cassandra: Lucretia, meek and gentle: Oclatoia, and Cornelia, lovely and sweet in behaviour.  
The second Arrow, was the Arrow of Truth, for never can a just or upright conscience, 
The Second Truth.  be trouched with Pride, and this flew into his ears, which showeth, that no true man, will ever importune or abuse the cares of any, with false tales, and deceitful lies: as most true and just of their word, was Arist●des, Ph●cion, and Cato the elder.  
The third, which hit his belly, was the Arrow of Sobriety, for what man soever shall use to fast, and give himself to abstinence, shall never wax proud, 
The third Sebrictie.  because wine and gluttony engendereth Pride, dissension, quarrels, and strife; Witness, Epanondas, Cincinatus, Cate, Ci●●r●, and divers other. And these were the three Shafts, with which he was wounded.  
The other four, which he took away (perforce) from me, were these following.  
The first was of justice, which should have hit into the Muzzle or snout, for a just and upright judge, will never take delight in the sent of gifts and presents, 
The four other Arrows, that Pride took away from Humility. The first was of justice. The Second of Fortitude. The third of Patience.  lest he should be corrupted thereby; neither will he be insolent and high minded at all. A precedent we have of Samuel the Prophet, of Daniel, and divers others.  
The second was that of Fortitude, which should have pierced quite through his neck, for never was a valiant Conqueror proud, but rather courteous and mild, witness Alexander, Caesar, Edward the third, King of England: and Charles the fift, with divers others beside.  
The third was that of Patience, which should have deprived him of his wings; for the Patiented man that can stay the good hour, hath the advantage of these proud and ambitious persons, remaining master of his own will, where haughty minded spirits fall soon, when they seek to fly highest.  
Of the number of such as have been patiented, was that grave Camillus, who being exiled from his country, which he had so often offended, patiently attended her leisure, until at the length, she acknowledging her fault, called him home again.  
So likewise was Cicero another, choosing rather to live as a banished man, enduring with patience his unjust injury, than his City should for his cause, grow to civil Dissension and utter overthrow, his stayed forbearance giving him in the end the victory, against all his proud enemies.  
The fourth and last, being seven in all, was that of Mildness, for never was mild or friendly person, proud, and this Arrow should have struck off the legs of this Monster. For meek and humble minds, shall by little and little take down and tame the high courages of the proud: and such was Dyon, surnamed the courteous, who brought low the audacious boldness of the Tyrant Dennis: and such another was Scipio the gentle, who broke the insolent proceeding of haughty Hannibal.  
These be the Arrows by which this ugly beast might have been tamed and subdued, 
The forth, and last was of Mildness.  but he having taken four from me, I doubt mesore, that he will never be brought under Subjection by any. As for myself, I can no more (now) hunt, nor chase him away, sithence I am abandoned of men, and disarmed as thouseest, and therefore, seeing I find myself hated here in the world, and quite without armour, I must be forced to take my journey up to heaven, unto the other virtue: where I doubt not, but I shall be better entertained, than I have been here upon the earth.  
Mean space, I admonish thee, and all such as thou shalt think worthy to make acquainted with this matter, to detest and aborre this shameless Monster, and to follow me in my course of life; otherwise they shall be afflicted with like punishment, as those proud Giants, the Titanois were, for their more than audacious presumption. Having made an end of her speech, I might perceive wings to issue out of the sides of this beauteous Damozell: wherewith I saw her to fly up towards the element, passing through the airy Regious, until she came unto the heavenly Court of the Eternal King: since which time, she never descended, nor never (as I doubt) will she any more.  
This accident drove me into no small amazement, not unlike him, that seethe many strange enchantments done by a Magician, whereupon, with more haste then good speed, I went to find my Mistress, to declare this adventure unto her, but the fear she had of the foresaid beast, had driven her from thence, so as I found nothing but the corner within which we had hidden ourselves.  
But O me unhappy wretch, that reported that, which afterward was my utter ruin and overthrow. 
An Example.  O what evil sometimes this little tongue of ours doth unto us, for that of Demosthenes overthrew the liberty of Greece.  
And therefore thrice wise was that Philosopher, that thought nothing in this world to be worse than the tongue, because it not only bringeth calamity unto him that speaketh, but also unto the whole commonwealth beside.  
And therefore, well said that old Sage of Greece, who affirmed, that silence was commendable, and without blame, whereas speaking, was subject unto reprehension and reproach.  
The ancient wise men in times past, did offer Sacrifice unto dumb Silence, as unto a sacred Deity, adoring her with great reverence, for many a one have been cut short of their lives, because of their overrash and bold speech: and this found I, to be but too true, by mine own experience, and unto my no small grief.  
Well, I not finding my Mistress there, went seeking of her up and down, not making account of any pain, so I might once have a sight of her, love making that labour, to seem but easy and sweet, which Lovers undertake, when they follow in pursuit their fair and beauteous Ladies, for the desire which they have to see them, maketh them to think it is no travail at all, and that man thinketh that he rather playeth than worketh, who expecteth some worthy recompense when he hath brought his work unto an end.  
This made me to run up and down to see if I could find her, whilst being earnest in this business, I might hear a certain voice coming forth of a thick quickset, whereupon I stayed awhile to hearken if it were hers or no, but I knew quickly it was not, as soon as I hard the Song, which was as followeth.  
Withouten scope,  
To have the hopen  
My Lady any more,  
Since cannot be,  
That I may see,  
To death i'll fly therefore.  
Sweet death now come,  
And to me run.  
Since I to thee do cry,  
Be thou my friend,  
That I may end  
These dates of misery.  
Whilst I do line,  
I nought but grieve,  
Deprined of all joy,  
How can that hart,  
Of case have part,  
When Love doth him annoy?  
My sorrows sour,  
My cries each hour,  
My soul doth pinch with pain,  
My heavy moans,  
My sighs nor groans,  
Can never move my dame.  
Why then, so long,  
(Death) dost me wrong?  
That yet I am not dead,  
That man doth rest,  
Happy and blessed,  
Whose soul from hence is fled.  
No worldly strife,  
No ill so rife,  
Can hurt who is in graus,  
Die he doth not,  
But life hath got,  
That such a good may have.  
Thus was the Shepherd (amorous of my Diana) of whom I told you before, who reaped no more sweet fruits of his love, nor found any more courtesy at her hands, than I had done, which was in effect nothing, so that we being borne (both) under one Planet, became to become partners and companions in our love and misery together. He sighed and sobbed as I did, he wailed and wept as I used to do, and yet neither his sighing nor his tears, were any more profitable unto him than they were unto me.  
After his Song was finished, he began thus afresh to complain. O Cupid, how well have the Gods chosen thee to be the bloody butcher of their cruelties, since they could not bestow this office upon any that could discharge the place so well as thou, by reason thou art more cruelly given, than any one that is in heaven above, or else in hell below?  
There is no torture or torment, no Corsie or anquish, of what Nature or kind soever, that is without hope, Love only excepted: for to miserable Captains, there is some hope of their freedom, to poor and beggarly wretches, a conceit to become rich again: & to sick persons, some comfort to recover their former health; but love is without all likelihood or belief of hope whatsoever.  
Who then is more cruel than he, who more to be doubted, and who so hurtful and damageable unto mankind? and therefore when the Gods mean to punish us most cruelly, then do they send this cruel executioner unto us, he being far worse than the flashing lightning itself, for that (without languishing) quickly dispatcheth us, where this, after it once beginneth with us, never maketh an end, driving us to linger in a worse than deadly consumption.  
Too well find I this, and feel it to my smart, loving in despair, and yet in such sort, as death, which is hateful unto men (and is of force to rid me out of this agony and insupportable passions) is forbidden me, I not daring to die, for fear to lose the wished for presence of her who daily killeth me.  
So doth the Merchant alured with profit, scour so often the swelling Seas, that in the end, both he and his ship, with all his Merchandise is swallowed therein.  
And so I love, and yet will not give over that which in the end will drown me, and be the cause of my piteous overthrow: but as the Gods harden the hearts of such men whom they mean to chastise, who when it is too late begin to think how they might have aunided the same, so the more rigorously to punish me, the heavens have forced me to love, depriving me of all means how to help myself, because they are desirous of my fall.  
O thrice blessed Leander, Pyramus; and Paris, in respect of me, who for love left their lives, and yet had this good hap, that before they died, they enjoyed their Mistre●es company, and were beloved of them: where I on the other side, am hated and loathed of mine.  
But divers, and of sundry effects are the shafts of Love, some are of lead, and they rather cool and freeze, than heat: others, ●●hedded with gold, which pierce into our hearts, setting a fire many flames within the same.  
With the Leaden Arrow hath Cupid struck my Lady, which maketh her cold and cruel unto my mischief: and with a gold enove, is my poor hart wounded, burning the same incessantly, and making it to die remediless.  
As the waifairing man, who perceiving two or three wolves devouring a sheep most greedily in the corner of a field, goeth his way fair and softly, that he may not be perceived by them.  
Even so, I having he●rd what this Shepherd said, stole softly by him without any noise, because he should not see me in quest of my Lady; and yet had I no great need so to do; for Love taketh a man's sight and senses away from him, in such wise, as they become Rocks or Trees, as Myrrah was. And thus was I rid of my fellow in Love, whom I left alone to meditate thereupon, this musing, working mischief, not alone to his thoughts, but unto h● eyes and body also.  
Mean space, I seek up and down for my Diana. Never did those two brethren being Twins, wander more carefully to seek all about for their ravished sister, than I sought here and there for her, whom at the last I found dancing amongst other Nymphs, who to drive away the fear from her, which as yet held her, had devised this sportful pastime, to see if they could make her merry.  
One thought drowneth another, one exercise maketh another to be forgotten, and nothing sooner driveth away a Tempest, than the bright beams of the Sun, his chiefest enemy. Still and hushed did I stand to se● this trim dancing, not being a little proud to behold my Saint, who excelled all the rest (whi●●h they trod the measures) as well in beauty as in behaviour and good grace, as the Phoenix doth all other Birds.  
And now she had quite forgotten the foresaid Monster, and her fear was past and gone, when no sooner she espied me, but that her colour began to change, she showing not that liveliness in the Galliard, as she had done before, for my presence brought the danger before her eyes, which she had but lately sc●●ed, putting her in mind afresh of the foul deformity of the M●●rster. Accursedd, that should be occasion of grief unto her, upon whom my whole life and liberty did depend. But this was but a preamble or a beginning of my sorrows, the end whereof was more than lamentable and Tragical.  
Well may I say, too true is that poverty, which learneth us, that one pleasure engendereth a thousand cares, and that nothing is so much subject unto change, as is the prosperity of man.  
Quickly did I perceive how my D●●na was altered, yet knew I not well the occasion thereof, for one while I thought it was for mere pity of my pains that she looked so, who beholding me, began to bethink herself of the same: another while I doubted, lest some sinister conceit, was come into her head against me, she being loath to utter it with her own mouth unto me.  
Being thus troubled in mind with two contrary opinions, I thought it best to stay, until they had made an end of their pastime, the better to be resolved therein, being greatly moved, in that upon my first arrival, I saw her change her countenance, and therefore longed the more to know the cause thereof.  
It is strange to see, how we are always more desirous and curious to understand what is bad in our own behalfs, then that which is good for us, as if we ourselves and not others, would become murderers of our own healths.  
Mean space, many things ran in my brains, whilst my Mistress (passing by) cast now and then a glance upon me, which sometimes I took for the best, and then again I doubted the worst.  
To be short, I resembled the guilty Felon, who strucken cold with fear, attendeth his last sentence, either of life or death, whilst I listened unto their singing, and amongst divers other Sonnets, I brought this away with me, which one of the Nymphs warbled forth, and therather did I learn it by roate so soon, because it did somewhat answer unto my humour.  

AN ODE.  

Worthies he of the bright Day,  
Who doth loyal LOVE obey.   

CUPID only I do love,  
Him I worship stillabove:  
Happy is he that by the same,  
Wisdom to himself doth gain.   

Worthies he of the bright Day,  
Who doth loyal LOVE obey.   

O how sweet is that warm Fire.  
Which our hearts heats with Desire?  
To our souls no sweetness is,  
Half so dulcet as is this.   

Worthies he of the bright Day,  
Who doth loyal LOVE obey.   

Blessed LOVE, withouten crime,  
Two Sonles pleaseth at one time:  
Then doth LOVE, his Lover right,  
When his love he doth requite.   

Worthies he of the bright Day,  
Who doth layall LOVE obey.   

Of two Souls he makes but one,  
In two Bodies all alone:  
LOVE more happy cannot he,  
Than we loving Couples see.   

Worthies he of thy bright Day,  
What doth loyal LOVE obey.   

Pleasure none upon the ground,  
Like to LOVE is to be found:  
Pieasures pass as transitory,  
LOVE (still) lines in great glory.   

Worhy's he of the bright Day,  
Who doth loyal LOVE obey.    
After the Nymph had made an end of her Song, which charmed my spirits, my Lady (as another Calliope, answered her. Ah renowned Father, how sweet, (and yet sour withal) was that voice of hers unto me? Empoisoned hippocras is not half so dangerous unto the health of man, as that Ditty was cruel unto my very soul.  
Never was those bewitching tunes of the alluring Sirens, half so gracious and delightful, which the prudent Duke of Ithaca, feared more than Death itself.  
One of the fairest parcels of a woman's beauty, is her voice, whilst it doth ravish the hearts of the stauders by, with true Harmony, and whilst her warbling Accents, pierce and enter into the very depth of their souls.  
By our ears, doth it enter down into our hearts, but it cometh not from thence, without spoil and riches. For it carrieth away the mind of man, playing as the subtle warlike foe doth, who marching upon his enemy's Country, setteth upon the same violently, & never returneth home again, until he be loaden with great prey & treasure.  
So sweet was her voice, and so bright her sapphire eyes, as I could not choose but cry out, (although softly, and unto myself,) Ah woe is me, I die. But now I pray you, hearken unto my Lady's Song, which was quite contrary unto that, that went before. For thus it was.  

Worthy is he of dark Night,  
That in Cupid doth delight.   

Nothing in this World can be,  
Sweeter than our Liberty:  
Which LOVE often takes away,  
And then all our joys decay.   

Worthy is he of blaeke Night,  
That in Cupid doth delight.   

LOVE doth never sorrow miss,  
(Who grieves) malcontented is:  
But LOVE (thus) doth lovers sting,  
Doth not LOVE, than sorrow bring?   

Worthy is he of Black Night,  
That in Cupid doth delight.   

Who that soul hath ere seen oasde,  
Upon whom fierce LOVE hath soasde!  
The Mistress and the Sernant both,  
Oft through LOVE, their lives do loath.   

Worthy is he of blaeke Night,  
That in Cupid doth delight.   

Gods from heaven have chast'e and some,  
This vile wretch, us to torment:  
Nor are we him to endure,  
That such plagnes us, doth procure.   

Worthy is he of blaoke Night,  
That in Cupid doth delight.   

Then most wretched him I deem,  
That of this blind Boy doth steam:  
Worse Plague there's not of ills,  
That consumes still, yet (near) kills.   

Worthy is he of black Night,  
That is Cupid takes delight.   
If this Song did astenne me, driving me into a heavy dump, you may caslly judge; For I assure you, I began now to give over all hope to have any more joyful days in this world, and I was of this opinion that my Ladit had (for the nonce) delivered the same in my presence, to the end I should not look for any favour at her hands, and that by this Song, she had as it were bidden me farewell.  
For such women as are wise and of discretion, have a thousand devices to take their leaves, and to be rid of their Lovers, whom they esteem not: as well to shadow their cruel minds with the same, as to be free and clear from them, without reproach or blame. For what need had my Mistress to bid me Adieu, since I never was worthy, nor accounted to be one that she should love?  
No, no: I was not a man good enough, to hear (of a beauty so perfect) so much as this one small word (Go thy ways.) But haughty and high minded LOVE, useth to distribute his pride amongst his followers: in such sort, as you shall seldom or never, see a Lover, but that he is insolent and proud, promising far more unto himself, than he is like to obtain. He that is a servant, will be always sure to have one quality or other of his Masters, as a new vessel retaineth still the sent of that liquor, with which he hath been first seasoned.  
And so I (before this time) began to think better of myself, than I had cause, but my vainglorious humour was quickly taken down, resembling the Lightning flash, which no sooner is borne, but that it dieth: or a bubble of water, which is no sooner come, but that it is gone again presently.  
The Dance ended, my Lady came strait towards me, demanding, and inquiring of me, what that Monster and that Maid were, and what became of them? I told her all (as I did unto you, without forgetting any thing) describing unto her, (with all the best cunning I had) both the ugliness of that deformed beast, and the beauty of the damosel that did encounter with him.  
As that brave Cavalier whom his enemy doth dare to Combat, standeth musing within himself (sometime) before he doth answer, debating in his mind, whether he should accept or refuse the Combat, so stood my Mistress mute and still at my speeches, studying a great while, before she spoke any one word. In the end she sitteth her down, when having willed us to sit by her, she beginneth with a most sober and sad look, thus to deliver her mind.  
Seeing (Shepherd) that this Monster is called Pride, thou couldst not describe so fowl a Beast (and so horrible) bade enough, neither must thou speak too much in the praise of so sweet, so fair, and gentle a Virgin as that damosel was, because she is Humility: For what thing is there in the world, more ugly than Pride? What more disagreeing from the Nature of Gods and men? what so great an adverfarie unto Virtue? and what more contrary unto the glory of mankind?  
Pride, was first placed in heaven amongst the Angelical spirits, which the Almighty God had made beautiful, immortal, and without corruption: 
An excellent discourse against Pride.  but this Monster having defamed and disgraced them, was (with them) thrown downefrom thence, from whence he came to inhabit in the terrestrial Paradise.  
There did this damned wretch, poison our first Parents, persuading them, 
The fall of Lucifer through Pride.  that they should be like unto their Creator, if they would (by transgressing his sacred Ordinance) eat of the forbidden Tree.  
These poor souls believed him, but they overthrew themselves, for having harkened unto him, God driving them out of that dainty Paradise, condemned them to die, 
The fall of our first parents Adam and Eve, through Pride.  after they had (in much sorrow and care) finished their natural live With them, was this Serpent hunted away, who retired himself amongst mortal men, living here in the world, and few were there of the sons of men, which did not entertain and make much of him.  
Cain nourished this hellhound a long time, being induced through him, to kill his humble and meek-harted brother, who could not abide this insolent Dragon. Afterward, 
The fall of Cain through Pride.  as men grew & increased, so hath this Monster done, both in power and credit: insomuch as he counseled the children of the earth to build a Tower, which might reach up into heaven. These vain fools believed him, busying themselves about their high Turret, and taking great pains to accomplish and effect this rash and haughty enterprise.  
But the HOLY ONE of Zion, overthrew their building, 
The overthrow of the Tower of Babylon, through Pride.  destroyed the work of their own hands, and broke their audacious attempts, driving the Monster himself, almost out of his wits, to see such an alteration and change.  
Hereof was it, that the first Poets feigned: That those huge Giants, the Tytans, being sons of the earth, went about to set hill upon hill, and mountain upon mountain, that they might scale up to heaven, and that (therefore) jupiter destroyed them with Lightning, by the aid and assistance of Minerva, the Goddess of wisdom: overthrowing their prefumptuous action, with his foresaid Thunderbolts.  
Since when, this Monster hath entered into the Courts of Princes and Kings, empoisoning them so strongly with his accursed venom, 
The overthrow of the Persian Kings, through Pride.  as they grew to be exceeding proud, causing themselves to be worshipped and adored of men, as the Kings of Persia did, he giving address unto some of them, that they should imitate jupster, making his Thunder to roar, and to cast Lightning abroad, as he used.  
This proud Conceit was entertained in the Palace of Alcxander the great, after he had brought the Empire of Persia under subjection: 
The overthrow of Alexander the great through Pride.  For he grew so arrogant and so high minded, as he would needs be adored by his people, but death (quickly) extinguished both his glory and his life, after he grew to be odious amongst his own followers, through his insolent Pride.  
So would Nabuchadonozar be worshipped, causing his Image to be set up, he commanding every one to offer sacrifice and prayer unto it, 
The fall of Nabucadnezar, through Pride.  as unto a God. But the three Children of the jowes refused this unjust law: who for that cause, were cast into a hot burning Oven, they being nevertheless taken forth from thence, without having any hurt at all, through the help of an Angel, which their God had sent to secure them. Yet the same God, being jealous of his Glory, which he will not have attributed unto any, but unto himself, scourged that proud Monarch, for forgetting himself so much. In so much as he made him to live (the space of seven whole years) amongst bruit Beasts, eating the like pasture that they did, and having in a manner, the selfsame skin, and very form as they had, so as he became both hairy and rough as an Oxt.  
This hellish Monster seeing so mighty a Potentate brought so low, so miserable, and into so piteous an estate, left him, and went to seek out the Romans, who being Lords of the whole world, received him with great joy, but he infected their minds upon a suddrine, making them so proud, as (one not being able to endure the greatness of another) they took up Arms, revenging upon their own selves, those great wrongs and outrages which they had done unto other strange Nations.  
Thus was their Peacock's plumes taken down, and their pride assuaged, haughty Pompay, 
The fall of Pompay the great, through Pride.  being worthily murdered, because he refused such honest conditions of peace which Caesar offered him, who desirous to be a Monarch, and to reign as absolute, bragged that he was able to levy and make a thousand Legions of armed Soldiers out of Italy, with holding up his hand only.  
The Romans being overthrown through Civil dissension, and this subtle Serpent seeing them at so low an Ebb, that they could not at that time, be any longer at charges with him: 
The overthrow of the French Nation, by the valiant Englishmen, through Pride.  he cometh over the Mountains, and so into France, unto the Frenchmen, whom likewise he undid, through his wicked poison: for (they forsooth) would needs be monarch of all the world, but their brave courages were quickly cooled, for they were brought so low, and had so many terrible overthrows, by their ancient enemies, the valiant ENGLISHMEN, as they lost all, not having so much as a little ho●e, wherein to put their heads, after they had seen their Kings taken prisoners alive, and all the flower of their Nobility discomfited and slain.  
Which this Monster perceiving, and that they looked so pale and lean, as they could not cherish him as they had done heretofore: away he flieth unto the Ottomans, who as then began to lay a foundation of their Tyranny in Asia the less, 
The fall of Bajazet the great Turk, through Pride.  whom he so infocted, as they would needs be kneeled unto, as unto Gods, but small time did their vainglory last; For Tamburlaine came, who spoiled their Empire, took Bajazet, Prince of the Turks, prisoner, and the more to Eclipse and abase his haughty stomach, he caused him to be fed in a Cage of gold, making him to serve in steed of a footstool, when he went to horseback.  
Which this Monster seeing, he taketh his lean of the Turks, following him, who had overcome them, who grew so insolent and proud, as he termed himself The Scourge of God.  
Neither would he take any City or Town which he had besieged, unto his mercy, if they had exceeded three days before they had surrendered themselves unto him.  
But this insolent man was punished of God, his children within a while after, 
The fall of Tamburlaine, through Pride.  losing all that he had gotten before, which the old Serpent espying, back he returneth once more to Rome, thrusting himself amongst the Roman Emperors, whom he likewise did ruinated.  
For Sopor King of Persia, overthrew one of them in battle, 
The fall of the Roman Emperors, through Pride.  and taking him prisoner, used him in steed of a form or threshold, when he would get up upon his horse.  
And yet for all this, did not this Monster give over Rome, 
Pride lodged among Ecclesiastical persons in Rome.  but get himself amongst the Ecclesiastical persons, whom he sorely endangered, and that done, he cometh back into France, where in the time of Charles the great, he was honoured, was bid welcome, and was entertained with great credit in his Court.  
He passing the Alps, to place the Pope in his Pontifical chair this wicked Monster followed him, remaining long in Italy, 
Pride amongst Heretics.  insomuch as the Devil began to raise up new Teachers and Sowers of false doctrine, with which he acquainted himself, puffing up these turbulent Spirits with such pride, as they disdained, both Saints, Angels, and Princes. From thence he took his journey unto the Swissers, who called themselves, the Correctors of Princes.  
But Francis, the first of that name, and King of France, abated their Surquedry, 
Pride amongst the Zuitzers, & they plagued for the same.  bravely overthrowing them, and learning them unto their cost, that they might be tamed and beaten. From whence he went to dwell amongst Heretics, where he yet continueth, and so will do still, and this hath been the life of this horrible Monster Pride, so much hated and detested of good men.  
But now (quite contrary unto him) there is nothing more sweet, more sacred, or more devout, then is fair HUMILITY, which gave victory unto chaste judith, against Holofernes: to religious Hester, against Aman: to simple David, 
A praise of HUMILITY.  against huge Goliath: to kind judas Machabeus, against fierce Antiochus: and to courteous Godfrey of Bullion, against the Turks and Sarracins: to Charles the great, (the honour of France) against paynim, and unbelievers: to Charles the fifth, against the High Dutchmen: and to Great Francis, the French King, against Italians and Spaniards.  
Then let us follow Humility, and chase from us Pride: For never shall any proud person find the gates of Heaven open unto him. God hath not driven from thence those proud Angels, that others, (as proud as they) should be entertained there. Only the humble and lowly minds shall mount up thither, as our humble Saviour JESUS CHRIST did most gloriously, and so his mild Mother, that blessed Virgin, S. Marry, his single-hearted apostles, and those meek and patiented Martyrs, they shall inhabit that glorious Kingdom for ever.  
The proud man, may be resembled unto the Cedar of Libanon, 
A Simile.  which a sudden Thunder cracketh, bendeth, & breaketh in pieces: or as a sharp edged Axe doth hew asunder; Even so shall a proud man quickly fall, but shall pass away, as if he had never been.  
This was the cause the high judge Celestial, caused the earth to open, and swallow down Corah, Dathan. and Abyram, in that they durst rise up against their guide Moses: This was the death of mutinous Absalon, taking Arms against his own Father. 
An Example of Pride.  This made insolent jeroboam so miserable, who would pill and pole his harmless subjects. This overthrew impudent jezabel, suffering her to be devoured of Dogs. And to be brief, this punished ambitious Antiochus: highminded Senacherit, with ten thousand more.  
His Parable is most true, who sent home the poor Publican (being humble and meek) more justified unto his house, than he did the proud Pharisie, who stood vaunting so much upon his own goodworks, with this sentence, Free that bu●● 〈◊〉 himself shall be glorified: and he that glorifieth himself, shall not be exalted. O how much better and comelier is it, that a man should say unto one, Friend sit up higher, at the Table, & take a more honourable place unto you: then to say, Come down, & sit lower, that a worthier person than thyself, may sit where thou dost.  
Hence then Pride, and fie upon Haughtiness, pack hence Ambition, and away with vainglory. these being most dangerous plagues unto men, infecting as well their consciences, as their minds within them.  
On the other side, sweere and profitable is Humility, for so doth the wise man teach us, when he saith, Boast not thyself of to morrow, for little dost thou know what tuill this day may bring unto thee.  
Amilcar, 
Amilear deceuted through Pride.  chief General of the Carthaginian forces, besieging Syracuse, had an answer from his false Gods, that he should sup the day following within the same Town: whereupon, he straightways began to wax proud, and yet did it fall out otperwise then he expected, for although he supped the same night within the City, it was not as a Conqueror, but as a prisoner, he being taken in a Skirmish, which they of the besieged Town made against him.  
Let us not therefore vaunt ourselves overmuch, lest we be taken down sooner than we look for: for he only that is lowly in mind, shall be accounted of. Let us then shun all Prids: to avoid the same, we must leave all companies, all Cities, and all Courts of Princes.  
So did the devout and mortified Marie Magdalene, leave the world, retiring herself into a Rock, 
The death of M. Magdalen.  where being all alone, she lamented her sins past, with great contrition and repentance, passing the rest of her life, in this devout manner.  
To leave this Monster, the Ancient good Fathers, ran into Woods and Deserts, leaving their Towns and Cities, as Paul, Anthony, Hierome, and divers more, because Prsde seldom or never haunteth solitary places, for fear he should be starved for him, ger, (but rather runneth amongst the Rich, and where there is good store, and plenty of every thing, and thither likewise must we withdraw ourselves, if we mean to live devoutly indeed.  
The Almighty Son of the everliving God, chose a Wilderness for his field of war, 
A solitary place better for Meditano of heavenly matters, than Cities, or company of men.  at what time he did combat with the Devil, after that he had fasted forty days, and forty nights.  
O thrice happy they, who giving over the world, pass the rest of their lives in true holiness and virtue, in some secret and remote place, as if it were an Hermitage, where neither Ambition, nor Envy, neither Covetousness, nor vain Love, trouble them not at all, whilst they with great contentment and pleasure, pass the rest of their lives, free from all dangers whatfoever.  
There they grieve not to see their enemies wax rich, and themselves to grow poor. There no brawlings at the Bar about Law matters, no confused noise for the profit of Cities, no toiling and moiling like Drudges in the Country, doth trouble or molest them at all, whilst they only live unto their God, not regarding or once minding any matters or business of the world.  
After this manner of life, 
A proof of the Contemplatius life.  mean I to end mine own, and I will study to find out this sacred Humility, which never deceiveth any. For hardly can he miss of his purpose, or be frustrated of his enterprise, who goeth willingly about the same, not being troubled with any thing else in his mind at all.  
Hence than all Ambitious creatures, for I must needs leave you, since you soil our souls, as oil doth stain a garment. A solitary and sequestered kind of life is best, 
Pride is never in poote and virtuous places.  more pleasing, and more secure than any other. So will I live, and such a one will I be, to avoid that furious Monster Pride, who never cometh in chaste and private places, which are well governed, and where good exercises are used, in all laudable sort that may be.  
And therefore here I protest, that from hence forward, I will leave this wicked world, and that most willingly, with all the vain pomps, and flattering greatness of the same, wishing every one that is wise to follow me, taking the same course I am in hand to do.  
So horrible and terrible is the foulness of that Beast, as it maketh me (yet) to tremble for very fear, and never shall I think thereof, but that I shall find myself the worse a long time after: Therefore to prevent the worst, and not to fall into his griping paws, I am resolved to forsake all company of men, shutting myself within some uncouth and unfrequented place, like unto a Recluse, where without ever seeing any body, I will end the remnant of this my too long life, far from Pride and ambition, and void of all love and envy.  
This is my constant and certain resolution, which I propose to such as (minding to follow me) are willing to be partakers of true Humslitie, gaining thereby rest in this world, and in the world to come peace everlasting.  
Therefore (my dear and sweet companions) although I be loath, yet must I needs leave you, to seek out this rough and austere kind of abode, where my dreary eyes shall be exempted from the view of this strange Monster, which would make me to die for very fear only, if they should by chance once more have never so little sight of him: yea, yea, I will seek to avoid his loathed presence by this good means, whilst following the steps of humble Humility, I shall imitate that great vessel of election, who rejoiced in nothing so much, as in the cross of Christ.  
That religious S. john the Baptist, who called himself, the voice of a crier in the wilderness, and that godly Elias, who termed himself to be a feather blown up and down by the wind, all which three, were lowly and humble adversries to Pride, and void of all ambition.  
Therefore have I set up my rest to cast Anchor in this Haven, after my sailing through so many and dangerous mortal Seas, desiring you all (my dear and loving sisters) most humble entreating you, that none of you do me that great wrong, as to seek to dehort me from this so holy a resolution, which if you should, yet were it but in vain, and to no purpose at all: he is accursed, that seeks to lead astray that sinner, who is entered into the path of his salvation, he having a sorrowful heart, and being penitent in his mind for the same.  
Now (reverend Sire) judge you if this Oration was pleasing unto me or no, I stood mute and still, as that huge Grecian Horse made of wood, wherein were hidden the enemies of Troy, for never (until then) did I feel the piercing darts of sorrow aright.  
In respect of this, all my other pains were but pleasures, nay mere toys (to speak of) in a manner, compared unto this Corfie, which so violently seized upon me, as I felt most bloody pangs, and cruel conflicts to make war within me, the anguish thereof being so insupportable, as I looked every hour when my soul and body should have parted asunder. Ah most unlucky tongue, who taught thee to talk so much?  
Alas, that man should be so unwife, as to make way unto his own overthrow, whilst he thinking to do for the best, it falleth out unto him for the worst, and where he looketh to have praise, there oftentimes he purchaseth most blame and discredit. Full little did I think, but that whilst I reported the filthiness of the Monster, she would have given me great thanks for the same, and that made me with the best terms I could, to set out my tale, but it fell out quite contrary, for I seeking to get somewhat, lost all. Well do I see, that the prudency of man is nothing, whilst God scosteth at their wisdom, changing their designs, quite contrary unto their desire.  
Great reason had I to curse that luckless Monster, unto the bottomless pit of hell, although (before) I had praised him so much, because through him I was permitted to touch the fair hand of my froward Mistress.  
And thus Lovers, either hate or love, what their blind God putteth into their heads, they being still wavering and inconstant in their opinions.  
divers were the heavy thoughts, which as then seized upon me, I being grown (in a manner) to follow black despair, because I saw I was like to be deprived of the presence of my Lady for ever, if she (going onward as she began) would seclude herself from all companies, like unto an Anchoress. another while, I imagined that I myself was culpable of all this woeful mischance, fearing shroadly, that all such as should deplore or lament the loss of her, would lay all the fault upon me. And therefore had I great reason to mourn and sorrow as I did, I showing by many signs, and expressing by divers ways, how my feeble heart was wounded, with an incurable fore.  
But whilst I stood (thus) sighing, and lamenting unto myself, and whilst all the sad Nymphs had fixed their weeping eyes upon the ground, not knowing what to say unto the speech which their Lady made, the Shepherd who was amorous of her, arrived there, who after he had with a dutiful Congee, saluted her, and all her troop, presented her with these verses foilowing.  

My piteous eye (in mailing) nothing more,  
Bel oldeth fair, than thy divinest grace:  
Nothing I see more sacred to adore,  
Then that pure virtue, that shines in thy face.   

For thee I live, for thee I (willing) die,  
Wishing no Sun to see, but for thy sake:  
But should I thee offend, then wretched I.  
Thus good, and ill, alike for thee I take.   

For so rare subject as thyself divine,  
My hart can never suffer overmuch:  
Although these cares gnaw this poor hart of mine,  
And (to the quick) in every part me touch.   

Happy is he that suffereth for pure Love,  
For whilst he loves so, he himself doth find  
Transformed into such beauty, as doth move  
Life, whereas death before to him was signds.  
A Deity, than beauty is aright,  
When it such wonders worketh in her sight.   
Another.  

(Cruel) for loving thee, i'll end my days,  
Since (dying) I shall live still in thy beauty:  
Who dieth Conqueror merits double praise,  
But far more be, who dieth for loving duty.   

Immortal glory Pyramus did gain  
For this; besides his loyal chastity  
Was much commended, when by death the same,  
Freed Thisbe from most woeful misery.   

As he for her, so I for thee will do,  
For thee i'll die, of my chaste Love the honour:  
And as the Phoenix i'll consume for you.  
I (as himself) consuming, in that manner.   

Whilst of my bones so burned shall revive,  
Thousands of Lovers created by this fire:  
Who for their constant Love shall be alive  
World without end, renowned through true desire.   
Of these Sonnets she made no account, but having read them (which she did rather to be rid of him, than otherwise) she gave them back again unto the Shepherd (contrary unto her wont custom) with these words. Little hath she need of praise, who because she should avoid the same, maketh herself of a live creature, but a deadly coarse, and yet of her own valuntarle will and pleasure.  
Wretched are such men as take pleasure to have their ears tickled with praises. God only, who is immortal, infinite without sin, and everlasting, deserveth glory alone.  
Then (Shepherd) talk no more unto me of such vanities as these are, for I am no better than a most miserable caitiff, who am going to die, and to give over the world, if that ancient Greek, refused all titles of honour, affirming that he knew only one thing, which was, that he knew nothing: thinkest thou then, that I can deserve it, I who am as brittle as glass, descended from that first woman, yea, and from her own sex, who through her pride, overthew all the world?  
O Shepherd, Shepheard, if as (now) our first Grandmother Eve lived, so far would she be from looking for honour and reverend duty to be done unto her, as she would do nothing but weep continually, whilst her hair (with which we set out and beautify our faces) should serve her to do nothing else, then dry and weep those dreary tears of hers.  
Away then withal vainglory. Behold, Saladine Emperor of the Infidels, who dying, commanded that this Epitaph should be set upon his Tomb. 
An excellens Epit aph.  Here lieth famous Saladine, who of so many Kingdoms, victories, Riches, and Titles of honour, which he had whilst he lived, hath carried away with him, nothing but a plain sheet into his grave.  
All is mere vanity that man doth, every thing passeth away like wind, and after they are dead, there is no more remembrance of them. That deserveth no glory at all, 
A Sentence.  which is subject unto ruin, and corruption: nothing is more mortal, or declining then man: why then wouldst thou have him commended, seeing he perisheth, and being perished, the cause of his honour (which thou so much chauntest) doth perish also? But God, who is without beginning, without middle, or ending, and who decayeth not at all, doth merit praise only, because he cannot fade, and therefore the subject of his glory is always living, which we sing continually unto his name.  
Away then, away with these foolish verses, rather flattering, then true, and let me never hear nor see any thing that hath never so little a taste or show of this misshapen Monster Pride. Is it possible that man should presume, that he merriteth praise, who being made of earth, is no better than earth, and yet before he can return to be the same again, he is found to be so miserable, as he must feed the worms which are his brethren, as prudent job wisely did acknowledge as much?  
Doth he think that he hath greater force then wild beasts have? if so, why then he is deceived: for many a thousand of them is there, that are stronger than he: doth he think he is more lively in body than they? no he is not: is he longer lived than they? neither: is he wittier or more provident than they be? no: Or doth he think that he is better able to withstand the weakness of Nature better than they? nor that neither: for they are brone, armed with a skin, with hair, and with paws, whereas he is brought into the world naked, crying and howling for hunger and sickness.  
Away then Vainglory, hence. Canst thou (poor earthly creature) magnify thyself in thy malicious mind, because thou art mighty in sin, and in iniquity? God shall destroy thee, and root thee out from the earth, as the good Gardener plucketh up the bad Grafts. God shall dissever thee from his children, and thou shalt not enjoy that Land of promise, which is appointed for such as are simple, godly, and just.  
Ah subtle Poesy, how many good spirits hast thou abused? Mean commonwealths having been brought unto nothing, by reason of Poets and Orators, 
Against the abuse of Poets and Orators.  because they have both wittingly and willingly done injury unto Truth.  
The Orators of Athens, overthrew their city, because they incensed Philip, 
Against Demosthenes.  King of Macedon, against them, through their smooth and flattering Orations, whilst they concealed the verity of the cause (for the nonce) from the people: and that Roman Orator, how often did he blind the eyes of the judges, 
Against Cicero.  persuading them to condemn the guiltless, and to set at liberty the guilty, as he himself (although most impudently) hath not be ashamed to confess? O rather wicked, then right wise and learned men, that bestow these good gifts which are given you from above, to so bad use, and to so ill an end, you making your Auditors believe, that black is white, wresting their honest minds, quite contrary unto their just and upright meaning.  
And yet although you are bad, yet are Poets far worse. For thou (Homer) being a notable Liar, hast made Hector to be vanquished, and Achilles' victor, 
Against Homer.  the Greeks' to be Masters of the field, and the Trojans to be overthrown; but herein thou errest, and liest mightily, for all was quite contrary; and thou bringest a Ulysses to be prudent, valiant, and a perfect, and an accomplished man every way. But here again thou feignest, for a base coward was he, and of no reckoning nor regard; his wife being far worse, and of a most shameless life, whom thou settest out to be the only flower of chastity.  
Cruel and lying Virgil, 
Against Virgil.  thou writest of one Aeneas, father of Gods, and of his country, one that was full of valour, of justice and of piety. Ah false and unhonest Poet, do not we all know, that he was a Traitor unto his country, that he sold his own city, delivering it up into the hands of the Greeks' his mortal enemies, like another judas, there being nothing worthy of commendation in him, but that he was a perjured wretch, a white liuered Caitiff, and a most notorious impudent villain.  
Besides, thou hast left us one Dido, to be a harlot, and amorous (forsooth) of this fugitive: but here thou liest again, for never did she (poor soul) see him in all her life, being a most honourable Lady, and far more virtuous, then either thou, or thy forsworn Trojan were. O shameless and deceitful Poets, how happy is that city, that entertaineth no such Monsters as you: As was Sparta sometimes, when it had neither Poets nor Orators, nor gold nor silver, and all because they would not be abused.  
Unfortunate then and foolish are such, as make account of you, devising how they might be extolled and lifted up with praises unto the skies, through your dissembling Pens Away then I pray thee (my friend) and take thy verses again, and never hereafter venture to present me any more with such trash as this: but rather call to mind, that fond Poet, who made a bargain with Alexander the great, that for every good verse he should present unto him, he should have a crown in gold: and for every bad, a box upon the ear: but so often was he strucken, and so many blows had he, as in the end he died, he not having been able to have made any verse worthy of reward.  
Think of this silly Poet, 
A foolish Poet.  when thou goest about to indite, for better were it for one to hold his peace, then to talk without reason. And therefore let no person hereafter be so bold, as presume to write any verse concerning my name, for I make account rather to purchase blame then credit any way thereby: and it will sooner hurt me, then be a help unto me. Let us then go unto some far secret and solitary place, and there let us enclose ourselves as it were in a Religious Monastery, and with us, let us imprison our youthful desires and motions, our Ambition and Vainglory, and there let us so live, as the dark clouds of Pride may never eclipse the Sun of our Humility.  
And you (my Masters) who have been nourished and fed with this foolish study, losing most vainly your young and golden time, 
Young Scholars ought to use their gifts, and time well, and not vainly and ill.  go your ways, and sing your Sonnets unto others, and seek some other Subject than myself, on whom you may bestow them. heavens grant my name may never be heard of more in any mouth, and that giving over the world, I may give over all worldly affects, since he only is right happy, that is exempted from mortal vanities, being gotten alone to dwell by himself in some uncouth wilderness, through which, he is free from thousands of mischances and encumbrances, which bring much trouble unto our souls.  
This is the course I mean to take, from which before I will be turned, I will endure the torments and tortures of any cruel death whatsoever. O how bitter a Pill was this unto my stomach, and what anguish and sorrow did the other Shepherd conceive in his mind, when he hard this irrevocable sentence of his utter undoing pronounced by her.  
He stood confounded and amazed, as Diomedes the Greek did, when fight with brave Hector, he might see the lightning of heaven to fall before his eyes. His speech failed him, his tongue faltered in his mouth, and being ashamed to see he had the repulse, he knew not what to say.  
And no marvel, for the worthiest Philosophers in the world, have become mute, before meaner persons than she, witness Demosthenes, with divers others. And now I found myself deprived of all hope to describe the rare virtues of my Mistress, seeing she so constantly refused the praises which (and but of right) was attributed unto her: therefore I esteemed myself rather the more unfortunate, because I had but only this one way to show my loyal mind unto her, of which when I was hindered, I felt myself to die, a more than languishing death.  
As that messenger, who perceiving his Master to be angry with him, presenteth him with some pretty gift or other, hoping thereby to pacify & appease his choler, but when he seethe that he rejecteth the same, he falleth presently into despair, and dieth for very grief and anguish of mind: Even so I, when I saw a countermand, whereby I was forbidden to blazon forth the rare parts, & matchless qualities of my Mistress, I became as one senseless, through pure sorrow of the same, because I was barred of my will in that which I so much desired.  
Long time did I stand like a dumb Image or Idol, whilst I perceived, that none durst control the proceeding of unkind Diana, so wise and prudent, did every one hold her: and in the mean time, the other Nymphs, did as the followers of that wise Philosopher, who never gave any other reason for the opinions which they held, but this; Ipse Dixit.  
Pi●hagoras said so, they not daring for their lives to contradict their chief head in any thing, such awful respect, and dutiful fear did they carry towards her.  
A lively apprehension of a most passionate and sudden sorrow hindered my speech, so as I could not answer as I might; confuting her former resolution, with most lively and apparent reasons. It is easy for poison that is entered into a man's body, to work as it list, urging him to his end, if no remedy be sought to resist the same: Even so, the opinion of my Mistress (not being refelled) whereby she might be persuaded to give it over, made her to continue the more firm and resolute therein.  
And now feign would I have spoken, although (before) I wished I had never opened my mouth, but I durst not, for fear of offending her whom I coveted to please more than myself. Every one of the Nymphs (without daring as much as once to reply against Diana) stood stone still, holding down their head s, as if they allowed of her proceed; which was the matter, that the more afflicted me, I thinking that they were of the selfsame conceit, and that they had persuaded her first, to leave and give over the world: yet if I might have had but that liberty as but now and then to have seen her in her solitary Receptacle or Cell, I would not have cared half so much: but that was impossible, for I knew none but women might come there (all men being banished from that place) as they were from those sacrifices, which the Roman dames used to solemnize and offer secretly and in the night, unto the Goddess. Bona Dea.  
These were the reasons that made me so sad, and these the occasions, that wrought me such sorrow, yet in the end may heart was so great, and I longed so much to speak, to see if I could dehort her from her former determination, as grief forced me to burst out yet with a woeful gesture and a heavy look, in this manner. Most sage and prudent Nymph, God hath not forbid us to honour those that be his creatures, but rather the more to induee us to do the more reverence unto them, calleth them Gods, for the glory that others give unto them, returneth back unto him again.  
That King, whom his Subjects obey, doth not hinder, neither is he angry that they bear respect unto his Leftenants, because the same duty reboundeth back again unto him who is their Sovereign, and for that without him, no such reverence should be done. He hath promised unto those that are his children, that they shall sit as judges upon his Throne at the last day, to judge the twelve Tribes of Israel. Is he then jealous, if mortal men be honoured? No doubt he is not. For if this were true, then would he never have given them so great power (as he hath done) here in this world, neither have set them in the place of his own authority and government, wherein they are installed, because he knew well, that they had never been able to execute their office, nor to have done such miracles as he suffered them to do, unless they had been honoured and admired by them. Therefore is he not angry, that good men are highly accounted of, but rather punisheth such as will not be obedient and dutiful unto them, as he did the jews who mocked and despised Moses, who praying to him for them, he made this answer. Nogro, it is not thou, whom they have despised, but mine own self.  
By which we may gather, he will have his elect to be respected. Wherefore (most gracious Nymph) if that great and everlasting God, to serve him here below upon the earth, hath reigned down upon thee thousands of goodly and beautiful virtues, being willing thou shouldest be honoured and esteemed of every one, why then shouldest thou refuse such favours offered unto thee? judith after she had overcome cruel Holofornes, and delivered her country from tyranny and Bondage, refused not the honours which were done unto her, knowing that glory is the daughter of Virtue, and that the one can never be parted from the other.  
So likewise, let us humbly beseech thee, to accept in good part our small praises (although I confess far unworthy for thee) seeing they are all we can bestow upon thee, for so doing, thou shalt not fall into suspicion of Pride, as long as thou dost but what is the pleasure of God, whose mind was, that some creatures should be more perfect than other some, to the end he would have himself glorified by them, and because they should be more admired and wondered at, than the rest.  
In which number, you (fair Lady) may place yourself, for you were form and made, that the wonderful workmanship of the Eternal jehovah might be the more admired: and therefore you have no reason to hinder that honour which is done unto him through your means, he himself speaking of the worthiness of his Elect, saith thus. If any one shall follow and administer unto me, my father who liveth in the heavens, shall honour him again. If God himself disdaineth not to do honour unto those that are his, who dare (then) oppose himself against that which he commandeth us?  
Ought not we to imitate the Eternal Father, who is the Author of all wisdom, in doing of which, we must as he hath taught us, give reverence and respect unto the just and best worthy, who are not to refuse it, seeing it proceedeth from his divine ordinance?  
Contemn not that honour which is due unto you, lest you show yourself an eneynto his sacred will, it being done unto you, by the father of all wisdom, because he will have you to be commended amongst mortal men.  
And whereas you condemn and disdain both Orators and Poets, yet have there been many of them that have not done good unto their private friends only, but also unto their whole country and commonwealth.  
Besides, 
A praise of Cicero.  that famous Orator of Rome, did he not preserve his city through his prudent Eloquence, from being utterly spoiled and overthrown, when Catiline, Cethegus, Lentulus, with divers other of their complices, had conspired together, first to cut the throats of the chief Citizens, and then to set Rome on fire; he alone bringing to pass through his prudent policy, that which the bravest Roman Captain amongst them would never have effected, without the effusion of blood, of millions of Citizens?  
Therefore did Cicero show himself more stout and more profitable, than the greatest Commanders and bravest Soldiers of them all, 
Cicero preserved Rome from the cons●itacie of Careline and other noble Romans.  who with the loss of many a man purchased a Conquest unto their country, whereas he, without the death of any one, overthrew his adversaries, who were the more dangerous, in that they kept within the city itself.  
Besides this notable exploit of his, how often hath he saved many a good Citizen, and worthy Gentlemen from death, as that Roscius, most unjustly accused before the Tyrant Scilly, Ligarius, and Deioterus, with many more, all which (through his divine Eloquence) he restored unto life: yea, he did more than all this; for he rather chose to go into voluntary exile, then to encounter and withstand the force of his unjust enemies (although he might very easily have done the same) and so by that means saved Rome, which otherwise was ready to take his part (if so he had pleased) he having the mayor part of the greatest persons, and in a manner the whole youth of Rome to be on his side.  
Many other good deeds did this worthy man, leaving divers learned pieces of works behind him, to the no small profit and benefit of that royal city.  
Where you blame Homer, 
A praise of Homer.  you do that which never any in the world hath done before, for so highly was he accounted of, as there were divers goodly cities, which falling at debate and contention amongst themselves, committed their whole business unto his judgement, they receiving for an irrevocable Sentence, but only one of his verses, and after he was dead, they fell out, and strived, who should have his body to inter the same. He is counted the Author of all Arts and Sciences.  
But say he should (sometimes) spare the truth now and then in his writings (as if he seemed to be a little partial) yet was he nevertheless to be borne withal, and could do no otherwise then he did, in speaking (somewhat) in the praise and commendation of his own Country: For, for our Country we are borne, and are bound to do more for it, then for ourselves.  
Again, you must consider, he was a Poet, and no historiographer, and that Poets have more liberty, to write according unto their own fancy or affection, than Historiographers have, who (without great reproach) cannot abuse sacred Verity itself.  
But howsoever it is, the works of Homer, are full of judgement and Learning, from whence, as from a deep Fountain, every great Scholar draweth forth his learning, and without his books, gross Ignorance had darkened the whole world with her black gloomy Clouds.  
As for Virgil, how could he do less, than what he did, seeing he did but praise such, from whom he had received so many benefits, and good turns, and who had restored him, unto his former living and Lands, all which he (before) had lost? The ungrateful man is as bad, and as worthy to be punished, as is the Homicide.  
Besides, it is better (now and then) to strain courtesy with Truth, then to murder a man, for there may be amends made for a lie, but not for ones life, when it is gone, and taken away.  
And therefore that great Mantua Poet, is more to be excused, in that he somewhat dissembled the verity of the story, which he wrote, praising his benefactors, because he would not be unthankful unto them, then, if he had spoken the Truth, and so concealed those great kindnesses which he had received, whereby he should be taxed of ingratitude.  
But for all this, he is reputed for the Prince of Latin Poets, his Aeneidos showing to be a most learned and beautiful work, in so much as he dying (before he had sufficient time to make a final end thereof, especially of those verses which he left unperfect) Augustus the Emperor, would not permit that any of his own Poets should take the same in hand to correct it. Being loath that so famous a Poem should be injuried any way, he choosing rather to leave it unfinished, as he found it, then that it should be perfected by the hand of any other. Not unlike that picture, which excellent Zeuxis began to make for Venus, no Painter daring (after his death) to take upon him to end the same.  
Cicero, (before Octanius his reign) coming (by chance, before he died) to have a sight of some of Virgil's verses, cried out with great admiration:  
Behold another hope of Rome● for I know not how the wit of man can devise a greater work than this.  
Poet's then, are not so much to be blamed, as you imagine, for without them, we should be deprived of many goodly Inventions, and grave Morals: ●ca, and from many divine praises, which we attribute unto God, as are the Psalms of David, which are in verse, proceeding from that sacred Prince and Poet of the jews.  
Contrary unto your mind, was Alexander the great, who made so great account of Homer's verse, as he had always his Iliads under the pillow of his bed, lying hard by his sword, affirming oftentimes, Achilles to be most fortunate, because he was renowned by so famous a Poet, wishing that he had been as then alive, to the end he might have graced him so much, as to have set forth his valiant exploits.  
Where you allege Demosthenes, to have made the Macedonians and the Athenians, to wage battle together; I answer you, that he could do no less, then persuade his Countrymen to defend the liberty of their Country, it being the greatest Treasure that free people esteemed, especially the Grecians, who continually were up in Arms, to conserve their ancient Liberties.  
In so much, as it is reported of Demosthenes, that if he had had as much force, power, and valour, as he had of good affection, and true zeal towards his Country, the Macedonians had never conquered Athens.  
But he cannot be blamed, who fighteth until the last gasp of life, dying with the first and chiefest, for the health of his Country: as did that stout Orator, who lost his life for that cause, having done many good services, and brought much profit unto the Athenians before. For being banished from amongst them, he went presently without losing anit time at all, up and down such Cities as belonged unto the Spartans, who were deadly enemies unto Athens, whom he persuaded so vehemently, and with such exceeding rare Eloquence, as he brought them to be willing to yield, and to be under the government of his Country.  
The valiant Pir●●us king of the Epirotes, was not of your advise, he being wont to say, that his Orator Cineas, got more Towns by his Eloquence, than he could do by his Army Royal, and Soldiers.  
Thus do you see, that whom you have disliked, the greatest monarchs in the world have accounted of, and so should you do (most beautiful Virgin) if you did well. But least reason of all have you to be of opinion to leave this Active life, for to follow the Contemplative; because he that laboureth most, is worthy of the greatest hire: he that adventureth most dangerously, deserveth most praise: and he that effecteth, and bringeth to a good end, a work more admirable, and more excellent, than others, doth merit greatest reward and honour.  
Now in the Active life, there is more travail, more profit for our Country, and more labour in the same, which if it be so, then are they worthy of more guerdon, and commendation, that live in this world, than such (as retiring themselves, to live in a corner) only profit themselves.  
Our Saviour Christ, the right Mirror of Christian virtue, took upon him this course of life: living, conversing, and dwelling amongst men, without withdrawing himself altogether into the Wilderness, to the end he might be profitable unto himself only.  
After him followed his Apostles, who gave not over the world, to seek some uncouth place of dwelling, to live privately unto themselves: But rather chose to come abroad into the face of the world, where they laboured, travailed, sweat, and suffered much affliction for others, and not for themselves.  
God will not have that any should hide his Talon under the ground, (and so put it to no use) seeing he hath lent it him, for the public commodity of all men. Neither will he, that a Lamp be hidden under a bushel, unto no end, but rather that it shall give light abroad. For in what doth that man stand in steed of, (who fearing to be employed about the public good) seeketh only to profit himself?  
If every one were of your opinion, what Magistrates, what Governors, or what Officers, should we have to rule and govern Commonwealths? For so none would willingly take upon him the business of his Country, remembering the troubles belonging unto the same, but rather withdraw themselves from thence, to live quietly, and at their own contentment. But the Laws both of God and man, forbidden such kind of dealings. For they will, that such, whom God hath made sufficient and fit for the Commonwealth, shall serve the same: yea, though against his will, and not live idly, at his own pleasure, in as much, as it is not reasonable, that the Master of a Ship shall sleep and take his rest, whilst the Vessel is tossed with the storm and Tempest upon the Sea, and the passengers therein, stand in danger to be drowned.  
Even so, it is a most unjust thing, that the business of the Weal public, and those that may profit them by their virtue, should live quiet and at ease, without doing any thing at all, but lie at pleasure, in some one odd corner or another, privately unto himself; and the rather, because our Country (most justly) claimeth to have interest in our bodies, and in our souls.  
Also this was the reason, 
Many great Princes forced to take upon th●m the government of the Commonwealth, for eag●n●● their ●als.  that long agone, the Romans constrained Cincinnatus and Fabritius, to leave their Country Houses, and the delights they found abroad, to make them take charge of the commonwealths affairs, and to fight against their enemies. So was grave S●neca. called from his study (maugre himself) and from his sweet liberty, to trouble himself, with his Prince's business.  
So in times past did the Frenchmen, use to take their Kings out of Monasteries, to follow the charge of the Commonwealth and Kingdom.  
And so was that cruel Amurath, Emperor of the Turks, withdrawn from out a certain solitary place, which he had chosen to finish his life in, (having before installed his son, that bloody Mahometh, in his Estate royal) to encounter with the Christian Army,) so much feared of those Pagans, and which, (for that cause) craved the presence of old Amurath himself.  
So you, (most lovely Nymph) who by your prudent behaviour, are able to do much good service unto the Weal-public, ought not to refuse so honourable a labour, but rather be the more willinger, when you may do good unto your followers and friends. For what shall become of this goodly company of Nymphs, which are committed unto your charge and conduct, if you shall leave them? They shallbe like unto a fair flock, that hath no Shepherd, and therefore in great danger to be devoured of ravenous Wolves.  
Change then, change I beseech you, this your late conceited opinion, and if not for love of your ownself, yet at the least do it, in favour of these sweet Nymphs, who, without you, are most miserable creatures, abandoned and given over unto the rage of most unfortunate mishaps.  
Thus did I plead mine own cause, every one of the Nymphs commending and applauding my persuasions, being glad of my discourse, and allowing of my speeches, whilst they all (with one consent) made the same suit unto her, they themselves being now become bold, (since I had broken the ice before them) to deliver in effect, as much unto her, as I had done already; And the more to move her unto pity, no tears, nor sighs were spared, no mournful complaints forgotten, neither any piteous entreatings left unremembered.  
After this followed a long narration of the dangers which her absence was like to bring unto them (after they had a little blamed her) first to take them as her charge and guide, and then to leave them thus upon the sudden.  
To be brief, there was nothing left unspoken, whereby she might be dissuaded, 
A Simile.  to give over this her enterprise. But as an old Beech tree, deeply rooted in the ground, being strong and huge in growth, is not moved any thing at all, with the small blasts of Summer winds; and as the stubborn Rock that standeth in the midst of the Sea, never stirreth for all the waves, that beat and flash against him: Even so, my cruel Lady, was not moved at all, although with tears, with cries, and with laments, we called still upon her, she being resolute in her first purpose and determination, affirming the heavens themselves, not to be sufficient to alter her mind.  
For (said she,) it is to those (whom the sovereign of all Kings, hath given force and power to serve their Commonwealths) you should address your speeches and not unto me, who am but a poor silly Maid, who stand in no other stead, then to eat the fruits which proceed from the earth, & who can no way be beneficial unto my Country, but only by my prayers, which I shall far better deliver and present before the divine Majesty, I being in some remote place, separated and alone, then if I should live, where I should behold the fond vanities of worldlings continually.  
As for you (my dear companions) a worse guide than myself, Heaven never can bestow upon you. That Goddess Diana, whom you serve, shall take care of you, neither will she leave you unprovided of some one or other worthy protectress, that may always defend you. Should I have stayed with you still, (yet could not you have hoped, that I could have done any good for you, by reason of the small power & ability, which unconstant Fortune hath bestowed upon me. And yet I must needs confess, that your absence will be an exceeding corsie & grief unto me, and that losing you, I shall lose the chiefest stay of my joy & contentment. But notwithstanding all this, so sweet and comfortable is the thought of spiritual things, as I must leave all mortal pleasures for them. This only is my comfort, that the separation of our bodies shall never part our former affection, which we have borne one another. Then I beseech you all, forget not me, as I will ever remember you. You shall have parcel of my prayers, and I will think upon you in my soul when I am alone. Weep not then for her, who goeth away to lead a most blessed life: otherwise, I shall take you to be my mortal enemies, envying my good fortune, neither bewail her loss, who never could be half so profitable unto you, whilst she lived with you, as she shall be, when she is sundered from you.  
Flinty Rocks sometimes are divided, through lightnings and Thunder's, much more may earthly creatures be severed one from another.  
All Companies and all Acquaintance, must needs (one day) break off, whereas their true Friendship and loyal Amity, never departeth, nor dieth at all.  
If ever you have loved me, then rejoice with me, and wish unto me that glory and felicity, which I prepare for my life, to finish the rest of these wretched days of mine. But it now draweth on towards the evening, I therefore will trouble you no more at this time, but bid you all good night, & let every one withdraw themselves unto their lodgings  
Whereupon, they all went homewards, whilst I myself stayed all alone behind, for I was not able to rise up from the ground whereon I sat, by reason of the exceeding grief I felt within me.  
Movelesse I lay, like unto a Tower, cold I was as any stone, and senseless I seemed, resembling a dead Coarse, which is laid in a Tomb, without moving, speaking, or sighing at all.  
All that long night did I spend, falling into cold sweats, and heavy soundings, weeping and sobbing until my hart nigh burst, without either sleep or rest, no not so much as once closing mine eyelids.  
The day being come, I found myself a little, and (God knows, it was little indeed) amended, whereupon, with much ado, I got up, and went to my lodging, where finding paper and Ink, shedding thousands of tears, and sending forth millions of sighs, I wrote these doleful verses following.  
Since far exiled from me doth wound my soul,  
And that a mortal desperate strange disease,  
Doth stealing seize upon my bloodless Coarse,  
What should I longer linger for to eaten?  
Since Death alone can cure this uncouth flame,  
Mine eyes have wept, mine hart hath sighed too much,  
My soul is wearied with enduring pain,  
He dieth not, that in dying ends all grief.  
Those lonely Eyes are now debasht from me,  
So is that gracious Favour, more than fair,  
For whom I breath, and feed upon this Air,  
Blest is that man that than yields up his Ghost,  
When as he finds himself in heavens disgrace,  
And seethe the Welkin for to wound him still,  
With me shall wend into my Fatal Tomb,  
My bloody griefs, and more than doleful Dole,  
And all those thoughts of her, who, when I lived,  
Made me to prove a worse than treble Death.  
Let no man then seem for to wail my loss,  
Since friendly Death by it my cares doth cross.  
It is enough, since for my worthless Death,  
My Mistress fair, forbeareth to lament,  
Nor grieves that I should part (so soon) her fro,  
Dead I should please her, better than when life  
Did sojourn in this earthly Inn of mine,  
And therefore I will end my loathed days.  
My prying Eyes, first authors of mine ill,  
My gentle hart, o'er loyal in his love,  
(As they deserved) sharp pain shall first endure,  
Reason it is, that they who first offended,  
Should be inflicted with due punishment,  
For so the heavens will guerdon each aright.  
Cupid, doth use for to abridge our days,  
Nor, for our woes, doth quit us otherwise.  
First he doth wound, and then he heals again,  
By two Devises, and both contraries:  
The first our heart burns, th'other kills our strength,  
Th'one cruel is, the other's amiable.  
Blessed is he, that LOVE serves, since (in one day)  
He happy, or unhappy, make him may.  
Having made this sorrowful Song, I determined to present it unto my Lady, (come of it (whatsoever could) for my last farewell, that ever she should have of me; whereupon I went to seek her, and such was my good fortune, as I found her all alone, walking under the shadow of a number of sweet Cypress trees.  
No sooner had I a sight of her, but that a certain timorous respect, joined with a kind of amazement, seized upon me, so that I became upon the sudden, as cold as any Ice.  
Whereupon I began to be astonished, quite forgetting my former resolution, whilst I remained as a Pillar fixed in the ground, not being able to do any thing, but to gaze upon her more than Angelical face.  
My vital spirits, were all flown into mine eyes, who held them very earnestly busied in contemplation of this her more than peerless beautiful countenance.  
Whilst I thus beheld her, I remembered the unsupportable loss I was like to endure, losing her divine presence, knowing that the more I viewed her, the more was my grief, when I thought I should be deprived from her: and yet nevertheless, I took a wonderful great contentment, to lose myself in this sweet River, as the fly doth, when he is drowned in sweet milk.  
Minerva, never seemed more grave, nor fuller of majesty, unto poor Arachne, (when she was punished by her) neither did Diana show more amiable or lovely, when she accompanied her Shepherd Endymion, than my Mistress did in mine eye.  
Being thus ravished with so heavenly a sight, I could not withdraw myself from the same, desiring no other death in my mind, but in beholding her, so to give up the Ghost, which the Virgin perceiving, thus saluted me.  
What is the matter (Shepherd) that you are up so early this morning? what seekest thou here, and why lookest thou so sad and heavily? Away with this dampish melancholy, the butcher of man's life, for he liveth not, but rather languisheth, as one dying, who being over sad and heavy, cannot shake this pensive humour from him.  
What (man) be of good courage, we must he ordered by the will of the Gods, and (without killing ourselves, with these inward passions) must attend the good hour, until it shall please them to call us: For neither weeping nor wailing can alter our Destinies, neither can they be mended thereby, because it lieth not in our hands, but in the heavenly Powers, to amend what is amiss.  
This is my advise, in that I wish thee well, for we are given by nature, to wish well unto those whom we know are our friends and well-willers, whereas otherwise we should be worse than bruit beasts, who acknowledge courtesies which they have received.  
Then take this counsel from me, although I was borne rather to learn counsel, then to give counsel unto others. But the Gardener sometimes can give good herbs for Physic, and a wise man now and then, may be advised, by one that is simple and without learning: as Moses did, who took the opinion of his Father in law, being far less skilful than he.  
I doubt not, but thou knowest by experience, that this which I have said, will be profitable unto thee, and that thou wilt hereafter remember me, for the good advise which I have given thee.  
Thus spoke the Nymph most kindly, her courteous speeches, putting life into my body again, making me blush with a vermilion colour, which she seemed to like well of. Whereupon, I taking hart at grass, (although still crazed with inward heaviness) began thus to answer her.  
Oh sacred Goddess, is it possible that he, that is stiffened and benumbed in all his limbs and joints, with an extreme cold, should be warm without Fire?  
Even so, can he comfort and delight himself, who without having the least subject of joy in the world, hath all his Body attached with a wonderful strange and heavy sadness?  
Amongst all the wise Sages of the world past, there have been very few, that have been able to have dissembled and concealed their inwdard griefs and sorrows.  
Elias, that great Prophet, could never do it, but rather flying into a Desert, to avoid the fury of wicked Achab, most piteously desired to die. Neither could job, the pattern of all patience, smother the same, but rather weeping, and taking on most lamentably, wished to be rid from his miserable life.  
And think you, I that am so poor a wretch (in respect of them) am able to hide mine anguish, and drive away these inward afflictions which so much torment me, especially when I have so great reason to lament my Disasters?  
Wonder not then (gracious Nymph) that I seem thus to wail and weep, but rather suffer me to go through with the same, to the end I may the sooner be brought unto my grave, for that is the only comfort of such forlorn and forsaken Caitiffs as myself, yea Death, sweet Death, is the Port and Haven, of all such distressed minds as I am.  
O that I were blind, that I might not see the mischief that is ready to take hold upon me: or that I were senseless, and void of all passions, to the end I might be exempted from such dangerous plagues, as are already ready to infect me.  
Must I be well in body, and yet deadly sick in mind? Must I be sick in mind, and yet not consume away? And must I consume away, and not yet die, but languish thus in horror, worse than in hell, yea, and that continually?  
O unjust Heavens, o too unkind and barbarous LOVE, what have I done unto thee Cupid, that for all my loyal love, thou (thus) shouldest reward me. Have I ever defied or denied thee, as Apollo did, after he had slain that huge Serpent Python, when he mocked at thee, and at thine Arrows, as thou flewest in the Air; that thou shouldest thus wound me, with so uncurable rigour, and exasperate thus, thy worse than savage Tyranny against me?  
Ah Mistress, dear Mistress, behold here before you, the most wretchedst creature that ever lived under the Cope of heaven, the very Anatomy of misery, and the true Mirror of all misfortunes: And believe I beseech you, that the terrors which every minute of an hour, affright his inward soul, is far worse than ugly Death itself.  
But justly am I punished, seeing (as over presumptuous) I durst be bold to fly so high, like unto another Phaeton, presuming to adore your more than divine and sacred Beauties.  
Yet (sweet Lady) pardon me, because LOVE is the cause, who was assisted by your fair eyes, to make me his base prisoner, and abject bond slave for ever: against whom, no force, neither heavenly, nor human, is able to prevail.  
Thus was I bold to plead like an earnest suitor for grace, unto my Lady, I knowing well that I was never like to find so fit an occasion again, as than I had, because I saw she was resolute to enter into a kind of life, far worse, and harsher, than any Monastical living whatsoever. And therefore I thought with myself, that seeing I was fully bend and purposed to die, I knew the worst, and worse than Death, I could not be adjudged.  
Thus you see how desperate persons sometimes help themselves, although quite contrary unto their own expectation.  
So fought that sick and diseased Soldier, being full of valour, under his General, king Antigonus, only because he would be rid of his disease, which did so much afflict him; but no sooner was he cured thereof, then that he became a notable Coward, as one that was desirous to sleep in a whose skin, and never after would venture in the wars again.  
The fair Virgin, hearing me thus earnest, were it, either because she was loath to leave behind her (she being now ready to departed from us) any cause to conceive hardly of her, or whether it were that my pitiful speeches had moved her unto remorse, and to have compassion upon me, I know: not but I found her nothing so austere nor sour towards me, as she was wont to be, which I gathered by her indifferent mild answer, she replying thus.  
If thy disease (Arcas) be incurable, and that as thou thyself thinkest, it will hardly be healed, why then hast thou been so obstinate, as thou wouldst not in time seek what thou mightest to have been rid of the same?  
Very simple is he, who undertaketh to transport a huge Rock from one place to an other, when it is not by nature to be removed. So if thou seest that my love can no way be profitable unto thee, why then, wilt thou be so self-willed, as to persist therein, it being such an other piece of work, as those Giants took in hand, when they went about to scale up to heaven? for say I were willing to show thee what favour I might, yet could I do thee no good, because of my credit, assuring myself, that if thou lovest me indeed, (and as thou so often hast protested) thou wilt not desire any thing of me, that might overthrow me, in doing of thee good.  
True love is of this nature, that it will never suffer any injury to be done, unto that which it loveth, neither can it (rightly) be termed Love, but rather furious rage, if it be cause of any such wrong.  
But I pray thee tell me, what is it that thou wouldst have of me? wouldst thou that in saving thee, I should utterly undo myself? or wouldst thou have, that thy contentment should be built and founded, upon the ruins of my discontentments, and dishonour? I cannot tell, neither know I what thy meaning is, and yet this good conceit have I of thee, that I am persuaded thou harbourest no such bad thought within thee, and therefore let me entreat thee, that thou wilt be content, since I grieve at thy distress, and that I would most willingly ease thee of thy pain (if possible I could) so it did not stand with the loss of mine honour. Then if thou lovest me, I do not think thou wouldst suffer me to endure such an inestimable damage.  
Consider well of this matter, and thou shalt find that I can no way pleasure thee as thou desirest, and as I myself covet, unless I would overthrow my estate for ever. Of two evils the least is to be chosen. It is far better to cure a little hurt betimes, then standing obstinate therein, permit the same to grow to be incurable, and so to die.  
Therefore show now the loyal affection which thou hast always protested to have borne me, insatisfying thyself with these m●●e honest reasons, without seeking any more by saving th● self, to be the cause of my fall, and utter ruin: but if this will not content thee, then must I needs 〈…〉 lust, and not modest Love that is in thee, and that as a ●●orcallene●ne, thou ●●●est about to undo me, and therefore have great cause to fear thee, unto thy rash 〈…〉, without going about to excuse me unto thee any way, but to fly from then, as from a deadly foe.  
Having so said, she held her pea●e, seeming to be much troubled in her mind, as I might easily gather by her colour, which did often go and come in her face, and yet these speeches so much pleased me, as I was confounded therewithal, as I knew not what to say.  
Never was that alluring song, of the daughters of Acholous more charming, neither the love potion of subtle Circe's, more swept and pleasant, then that was.  
No heart, were it never so hard, but her tongue was able to mollify, it being of power to take down, and make gentle the proudest mind that ever man bare. And now I made account I was sufficiently satisfied for all my travails past, and that I had a full and large recompense for all my former afflictions, in that it had pleased my Lady to con●●●● my meaning with so great favour: whereupon I presumed to reply thus upon the sudden.  
Virtuous, and peerless Diana: what testimony have I ever given you, and how have I ever carried myself towards you, but that my Love was always chaste and modest? If so, why then should you now mistrust me?  
Alas, if I be now changed, (my miseries being so wretched as they are, and that you think I am worse than I have been) why then do you not quickly pronounce the sentence of Death against me, without permitting me to live any longer?  
No; no: my desires were never others then thine. Never did I think to disobey thy commandments, nor offer injury unto thine untainted honour, rather shall this body of mine be swallowed up by wild and savage beasts; and think not (I beseech you) otherwise of me, but that I would take revenge upon mine own proper self, for your honour's sake, if through my default it should happen to receive the least hurt or damage that may be.  
Nay, should I go about but to cross thee in thy will, and not do as thou biddest, I should think the worse of myself as long as life shall last; whilst living so, I would commit it no life, but rather worse than death itself. Sufficient enough, and too much am I pleased for my pains, enough am I recompensed for my travails, and am satisfied at the full, for all my labours past, seeing thou hast so much vouchsafed to abase thy worthy self (in striking a Sail so low) as to speak to me so much thine inferior. Only this only small boon, let me entreat of thee, which by thy facred Virtue, by thy rate prudency, by thy excellent wit, and by thine exquisite beauty, I shall desire thee not to deny, that is, to give meleave, to kiss thy fair and victorious hand, which shall content me as much as if I were Monarch of the whole universal world, the remembrance whereof shall make the rest of my days to prove most happy and fortunate.  
Advise you then, if this my prayer be just and civil, which if it be so, then grant me so much grace. But if not, thy will be fulfilled, thy pleasure be done, and thy desire be accomplished every way. It is the first that ever I begged, and it shall be the last that ever I will crave.  
Thus did I boldly put forward myself, urging my Mistress with great vehemency for the same, who stood still studying upon the matter a while, whilst she blushed like the damask Rose in May: I in the mean time hovered between hope and scare, half dead and half alive, to hear what she would answer, who in the end replied thus.  
Ah Shepherd, how easy a matter is it, to find a small thing, that may hurt much? and how quickly may we obtain and purchase that, which happeneth most to our displeasures afterward?  
This natural appetite of ours, which inviteth us to desire so many things, which we imagine to find sweet and pleasing, passeth away as doth a flash of lightning in the air, leaving us never a whit the richer, nor the more contented than we were before.  
What profit doth that pleasure bring unto Lovers, which they so earnestly covet to enjoy, but a most heavy and sad repentance, when it is once gone and past? Things that are virtuous, aught to be desired alone, because they last, and not such as are mortal, weak, and frail, although they seem sweet at the first beginning.  
This which thou demandest of me, will do thee no good, and though perhaps thou supposest thou shalt feel some shadow thereof, yet will it so soon vanish and be gone, as thou shalt not have leisure to have so much as a true taste thereof.  
Ah Arcas, Arcas, didst thou but know, how much this honour is recommended unto us, what great care and heed there is given unto us, to accompany it, and how much we are bound and obliged to look: most narrowly and straightly unto the same, I verily believe, thou wouldst not wish me that I should break the least duty belonging unto the conservation thereof, not for all the living in the world.  
But perhaps thou wilt say, it is very true and yet I answer, that he that offendeth in any small matter, is suspected to be culpable of greater: and the first opening of a fault, is difficult unto a virtuous mind, but very easy, when he shall be permitted to take an habit in the same.  
For so small a trifle, and such a thing as can do thee no good, be not (I beseech thee) the cause that I be esteemed or taken for other, then hithereto I have been: for hare and lean, should that triumph be, which thou shouldest purchase by mine honour, because my blood should presently make satisfaction for the same. Content thee then, with what I have said, and think that I will not deny thee any thing, which may stand with my credit: but considering that this which thou requirest, may some way impeach the same, I cannot justly yield unto thy demand. Leave (than I say once more) to importune me for that, which will do thee no good, yet will hurt me much, and then shall I think that thy speeches are true, and that thy love is chaste and virtuous, as thou hast hitherto protested.  
This was my Ladies sharp reply, which drove away all my former joy I had conceived of hope, by reason of her first kind words; so as now my complaints began afresh again, my tears renewed, and my sighs came forth faster than they had done before.  
I was so galled with sorrow, and so much gripped at the heart with this her unexpected denial, as I could do nothing but weep, holding down mine eyes towards the ground, as not daring to look upon her.  
In the end, surcharged and oppressed with contrary passions, I burst out into these woeful terms, having before sent forth thousands of scalding sighs, as precursors of the same. O cruel Love, O miserable Stars, jealous of my good, O dismal day wherein I was borne, and more than thrice accursed life of mine, since I am more wretched than any whatsoever living.  
After much labour taking, and many a years sailing, the Pilot at length arriveth unto his Haven, but I (Caitiff that I am) find no end of my torments: None giveth succour unto me, neither doth any as much (as a little) ease me, my sickness increaseth with the day, continueth all night long, and yet never amendeth.  
Alas, alas, why died not I at the first, when having offended you (my dearest Lady) you exiled me from you lovely presence? Unfortunate Shepherd that I was, to persuade myself to live, and hope the best, when I find no cause but of despair and death. Ah had I then taken that ready course, I had been (now) free from these hellish pangs which every minute oppress my heart, and I had been partaker of those rare beatitudes, which the souls of happy Lovers enjoy for ever.  
Sacred and Religious Diana, since you adjudge me unworthy of any small favour at your hands, and that without yielding to agree unto so little a matter, you are desirous of my end, yet at the least do thus much for me, as to permit me to die (in leiu of all my troubles) before thy beauteous face.  
This I beg at your hand, for default of that other courtesy which you judge me unworthy of: for although you have denied me the first, yet I hope you will agree unto the secod: otherwise I vow, after I have a hundred thousand times termed you by the name of Cruel, I will most desperately lay violent hands upon myself, crying out that you have been the cause of mine untimely overthrow.  
Grant me then one of my requests, the last of which you cannot well deny, because it costeth you nothing. What hurt can this be unto you any way, but rather good, when you shall do so charitable a deed unto the commonwealth, as to permit him to die, who is unprofitable unto the same? Without licence from you, I neither may nor will take this bloody course in hand, seeing I hold my life from you, and that you alone and none but you, have puissance over me. Linger not then, to yield unto my desire, for if you think, that my travails past, have merited any reward, you cannot better recompense them, then to grant me death, which is the only thing I covet, seeing I must be deprived of your cheerful presence, as one not worthy to enjoy it.  
As the Hunter is amazed, having lost the tracing of the Dear which he hunteth (his dogs being at a bay) knoweth not which way to go, nor well what path to take, whilst his Hounds barking upon some dich side round about him, he standeth musing what to do.  
Even such a one my Lady seemed to be, she seeing herself charged with two contrary demands, both which she judged adversaries unto her honour, which to take she knoweth not well, and therefore standeth studying (as one sad and pensive) what to say unto this matter.  
If she should give me her hand to kiss, she feareth lest I should foolishly, and without wit, speak something that might discredit her: and if she should suffer me to die (she being now ready to give over the world, and to become (as it were) a Religious Nun, she doubted least the world would say, she had done it for grief of me.  
Besides, she was unwilling that I should die, unto whom (despite of herself) she thought herself somewhat beholding, knowing that death was but a cold recompense, for so great love as I had borne her. Much was she perplexed in her mind about this business, my hard fortune did somewhat soften her stony heart: but then again, the respect of her honour did harden it as much, but had Love had but some interest or power in her, she had quickly brought these two contraries unto an agreement: but alas, he then had not, neither is he like (ever) to have. What should she do in these two extremities, and how should she thoroughly satisfy and content her honour?  
One while she putteth forth her hand for me to kiss, and then (upon the sudden) putteth it back again: one while she is about to casshire me with rough speeches, and then again, she seemeth willing to yield unto my request: one while she careth not although I die, and then by and by she cannot endure she should be counted so cruel. Mean space, she seethe me to rain whole rivers of tears, and to send forth black clouds of scalding sighs, whilst with a sobbing heart I thus (once more) follow mine old suit unto her.  
What is the reason (fair Goddess) that you thus stand lingering through delays, and not suffer this forsaken and abject wretch to die?  
To what end doth he live? which way can he profit his country? and what reason have you to lament his destruction? Pronounce, pronounce thy faithful sentence quickly, for he attendeth for nothing else, to the end he may with a more brave courage wend his way, to put in practise the same.  
Speak then, and give our this musing: when the judge sitteth upon the life or death of an offender, he standeth not studying upon the same, but soon pronounceth his final judgement. Deliver (then) my sentence, as a fatal Oracle, without delaying any longer: for to what end is it to win time, for that which cannot be avoided. Free and discharge my doubtful soul, from farther care, and seem not to envy at the good fortune which I am like to have by laying violent hands upon myself.  
Diana seeing me look so pale and ghastly, began to be a little moved with compassion towards me, whereupon she thus answered.  
Ah Shepherd, why dealest thou so hardly with me? and why dost thou constrain me to do that which is against my will? and why (to save thyself dost thou seek that I may perish? Hard hap had I, to be borne under so unlucky a Planet, sithence (inaccording unto thy request) I shall leave unto the world a bad opinion of my chaste mind, and in resusing to yield unto thee, I shall be counted the murderer of thy life.  
Ah would to God that that day wherein I first saw thee, had been the last hour that ever mine eyes had seen thee any more.  
But seeing there is no remedy in extremities, come what will, I will rather engage mine own life, then venture thine, and if it be my fortune to die for this fault, yet will I think to find my death more sweet unto me, then if I had put thee to suffer the same, seeing thou hast endured so much for my sake only.  
Take then this accursed hand (accursed because of mine honour) and do with it as thou shalt please, yet with this solemn protestation, that if this my courtesy, shall bring the least suspicion or scandal of my good name and fame unto me, the self same hand that hath been the cause thereof, shall make amends by shedding the purest blood which is within this body. Whereupon she presented me her fair hand to kiss.  
But in this exploit, I behaved myself as that brave Cavailier, who doth swear to be the death of his enemy, whilst he keepeth him close and standeth out against him; but no sooner doth he submit himself unto him, but that he receiveth him most courteously, forgiving all displeasures that is past: Even so played I, for holding this pretions pawn within my power, and perceiving that it grieved my Mistress to give the same as she did, I utterly refused her kind offer, resolving with myself, rather to languish still like a miserable creature, then to give her the least displeasure that might be, and yet nevertheless, I disputed of this question a good while, before I let her hand go from me.  
One while the great delight which it presented unto mine eyes, longing sore as a starved man for food to possess this rich jewel, pressed me very much to take that happy occasion, not unlike unto that man, who having not of long time eat any thing (& finding a Table furnished with great store of meat) falleth unto his Victuals, and cannot for his life forbear from eating that, though he would never so feign.  
another while, the extreme Love which I bore unto my Lady, compelling me to seek and prefer the contentment of her, above mine own quiet, opposed itself against me, counterchecking my desire; And therefore well might she perceive how far I was from seeking the purchase of her dishonour, when I resolved to endure millions of torments, before I would be an occasion that she should grieve or be discontented any way at all.  
Having long time debated within myself about this matter, in the end I did as that prudent King of the Spartans', who being almost dead for thirst, caused all his followers to drink their fills, he himself refusing to taste as much as one drop of the water (although he sat upon the fountains side) to the end he might save his people from servile bondage: and so did I refuse this worthy gift, seeing I saw how dearly my Mistress accounted of the same; and therefore taking her by that fair hand, I said thus unto her. No, no (my sacred Goddess) never shall it be objected as a foul reproach unto wretched Arcas that he went about to force the virtuous Diana.  
Death shall be more agreeable unto me then life, before I will constrain or compel thee to any thing, that is against thine own will.  
Suffer me I pray thee to continue the same, as I am, and let neither the one nor the other of my requests be granted: I will not offer to touch thy beauteous hand, with my polluted lips, seeing I perceive) thou thinkest that it will be some disparagement unto thee; neither will I die at all, seeing my death is not agreeable unto thee, but rather living (as I do) a most languishing life, I will still attend thy last will & pleasure. First shall my soul fly forth from out this body, rather shall my heart burst in sunder within my breast, and sooner shall this vital breath of mine be stopped on the sudden, before I will do any thing, that shall any way mislike thy mind. If I demand aught that is unlawful, pardon me I beseech you, seeing Love is the cause thereof.  
As for myself, I will meekly bear, and patiently endure my tedious troubles, and still vexing corsies, without lodging any more such two unwelcome guests within me, as you shall dislike of. Then O ye miserable wretches, all you that sometimes have lived here upon the earth; come, come, and rid yourselves of all your cares, and lay them all upon me, who am able and of force to bear them. And now you my dreary eyes, everlasting let your tears be; my scalding sighs, never give over to smoke from out my breast, whilst thou my tongue shalt do nothing else, but piteously report thy heavy Martyrdoms.  
Alas, when will that hour come, wherein (after I have sufficiently wept and wailed, sighed and sobbed)! may departed this vail of misery. Ah (Lady) must mine eyes endure to behold thine absence? and shall my tongue be able to bid thee farewell? No no, rather let mine eyes be blind for ever, and let my tongue never pronounce word more.  
Ah kind death, gentle death, courteous death, if ever thou hast brought succour unto any sorrowful wight, then come and help me. Behold I call thee, hear how I cry unto thee, nay more, I summon thee in justice to appear.  
But is it possible that a solitary place, shall seclude so sweet a Saint from my company? and must I be feign (losing the substance) to feed upon the shadow? No it cannot be, I first must die, not being able to endure her absence.  
Madam, your most wretched, and yet more loyal Servant Arcas, cannot leave your presence, but he must (withal) leave his own life: he must die before your eyes, before he depart from you: and feign would he sacrifice his heart upon the Altar of your beauty, if he might have but your good will and leave.  
But I see it will not be, for I am yours and not mine own, you may not be without me, and therefore I will follow you wheresoever you go, and when I can go no farther, then will I shorten my days to end mine endless sorrows. For many Lovers have there been, less faithful than I am, and nothing so zealous in love as myself, that have finished their lives when they were deprived of their loving dames: and shall not I be as fortunate as they, every way as virtuous as they? especially when I have deserved more than they have? which when I have done, I hope (gracious Virgin) your chaste soul will do no less then testify, what great respectand duteous affection I bore unto you, until my latest gasp, having long served you, and yet never had any reward at all.  
But what talk I of reward, when I desire to die, were it only for this thing in that I durst presume to love you? and yet, it is not death that daunteth not at all, only I grieve, because I fear, I never shall find so sweet a face in the other world, with which I may delight me.  
But I am not the first Lover hath been sent away unrewarded of his Mistress, and yet too great hath my recompense been, in that I have had that great good hap, as to have seen you whilst I lived, and now I must lose you, can I do other than lose myself? you go your way, and think you, I shall stay behind? Ah then how much are you deceived, for I will die, yea I will die, although not by your commandment, yet because I shall see you no more: and this I here protest, I am most resolutely minded to do, come whatsoever will thereof: mean space, withdraw thy hand from me, which I desire not to kiss, since 'tis with thy displeasure: whilst I lived I sought to please thee, and now I die, I will not seek to cross thee.  
Away then with this thy hand, too fair for me to touch, assuring thee that I am as much contented with thy good will, as if I had enuoyed the greatest pleasure in the world.  
Then once again (I beseech thee) let me alone, and trouble me no more, I bid the world adieu, and take my last farewell of thee, for die I will, since 'tis the only thing which I desire.  
Diana, seeing me look so ghastly, began to be afraid of me, doubting lest I would presently have laid violent hands upon myself, as I swear unto you (reverend father) I had done, but that I found her more tractable and more kind, which was the cause, that after she had many times sighed (beholding me with a most pitiful and courteous aspect) and mourning (as it were to see me in so heavy a plight) she spoke thus mildly unto me.  
Ah Arcas, most faithful Arcas, if thou wilt die for my sake, there is no reason but I should be miserable for thee, to requite this thy great kindness towards me. So will I be for thee, and such a one do I wish myself to be, as long as I shall live.  
Say not then, that thou art the most miserable wretch alive, since Diana is a partaker of thy miserable fortunes, who to have regard unto her honour, and for the love she beateth unto thee, shall live most miserable all the rest of her sad life, being somewhat comforted in this only, that she cannot suffer for two more worthy subjects.  
As sweet shall be my griefs, when I shall think of thee, as my joy shall be, when displeasing I remember thee not at all: I see it is the will of the Gods, that things should thus fall out, and I will not be repugnant against the same: more proofs I have not to manifest my good meaning unto thee (being hindered through mine honour) in leiu whereof, I will give thee a taste of the rest, by my continual Martyrdoms.  
Therefore I conjure thee by that chaste Love, thou hast so long borne me, offer no violence unto thyself, but stay the will of the heavens, for it may so fall out as (thou mayst) perhaps (see me once more) before thou diest, and seeing the hour is now come (that without seeing me more) I must absent myself from thee, I will not conceit mine affection from thee, for I know thou wilt not seek thy profit by my hindrance.  
Too well do I know, and must needs acknowledge thy faithful and infinite Love towards me. If ever man hath been worthy of a Lady's Love, than it is thine own self, therefore think that nothing in the world hath hindered me, to make requital unto thee, as full well thou hast deserved, but chaste honour, and seeing I cannot do otherwise, let me increate thee, have patience.  
Besides, if the assurance of my amity, may comfort thee (seeing thou canst not receive any other consolation at my hands) assure thyself I love thee dearly, yea (dear Arcas) dearly do I love thee; and to give a most plain testimony of the same, I will and command thee, upon that power and authority which thou hast given unto me over thee, that thou kiss my hand as thou before desirest: and I pray thee most heartily, to believe that I am wonderful sorry, because I cannot give thee a more ample sign of my Love unto thee: content thee then with this small favour of mine, and think it is greater than it is, because it cometh from so willing a mind, (and from her) who wisheth unto thee more happiness, than she doth unto her own self.  
O sweet words, which as a luscious kind of poison, infected my soul with true joy, although afterwards they cost me dearly, I having bought them at too high a rate, and yet what could I now desire more!  
But as the fall from an high Tree, is far more dangerous, then from a lower: and as the afflictions of rich men spoiled of their goods, is far more grievous than those of the poor, because they never had any such wealth to lose.  
Even so, these delightful speeches wrought my miseries to be far more cruel afterwards unto me, then if my Lady (never) had pronounced them. Yet did they me great good (as then) in respect I enjoyed her company, and in that she showed herself so kind unto me. But alas, it was my Fortune, and not her fault, since none can withstand his hard destiny.  
Mean time, I being astonished and amazed (trembling like that wayfaring man, when he beholdeth a Snake, winding about his leg) took my Lady by the Lily-white hand, going about (with great reverence to kiss it) when a sudden fear, coming freshly into my head, that my Diana, would mislike of the same, made me to forbear a while.  
Whilst I thus said unto her: Sweet Lady, I beseech you forbear, and let me after (my wont manner) languish away secretly in my sorrows, rather than any discontentment should trouble you at all. For too great a plague would that be unto me, if I should live to behold the overthrow of her, whom I esteem more pretiousthen mine own life, and the rather, sithence I am predestinate to be unhappy.  
Let me I pray you be pardoned in this, because I know myself every way unworthy of so rich a courtesy, having received but too much favour already at your hands, in that you have vouchsafed to permit me to enjoy your more than Angelical presence, thus long and all alone. Nevertheless, I most humbly thank you, as much for the proffer thereof, as if I had enjoyed the same, I being every way contented and satisfied, as I would myself. Thus did I excuse myself, as one unworthy of so great a kindness, (making dainty of the matter) when my Lady, seeming as it were (to be angry, that I refused the same) and somewhat blushing through Choler, thus replied.  
Well shepherd, well, I now perceive that you will not accept of this small favour, because vo● would have some colour to complain of me, after my departure from you. Willingly I offer it, then willingly accept it: for say that any thing otherwise then well, should happen unto me about this matter, yet would not I have thee to think I love thee so ill, as I would lay any blame upon thee at all. More pleasing is a hurt come (by chance) from a friend, than a pleasure or good turn done unto us, proceeding from an enemy.  
Then if I may do any thing with thee, let me entreat thee, to do as I will have thee, which if thou wilt not, then wilt thou make me to think thou never didst affect me.  
The refusal of a gift, presented in good will, argueth a perverse mind of him against the giver, that doth refuse the same: Even so, I cannot imagine otherwise of thee, but that thou rather hatest me, than lovest me truly, and therefore do as thou pleasest. But I will call the heavens to witness of mine offer, proceeding from a pure good will, to the end the blame shall be thine, and not mine, (if hereaster without cause) thou shalt exclaim against me.  
Therefore, if ever thou meanest that I shall remember thy love, and that I shall think thou hast ever affected me, with a chaste and an unspotted heart, then let me entreat thee, to accept of this gift, which as I know it will be pleasing unto thee, so shall it be no way hurtful unto me at all.  
Seeing then, (said I) lovely Diana, that such is thy pleasure, I will obey the same whether I live or die: and not a little will I glory herein, that I have lived to fulfil the will of so great and gracious a Lady as yourself: swearing by those your Diamond eyes, that what mischance so ever shall hereafter light upon me, I never will accuse you for the same.  
Whereupon, I gently took her ivory soft hand, which I kissed, bedewing it with many a loving tear. O sweet thought thereof, o pleasing remembrance of that good Fortune, and o sacred memory of that blessed time, although they cost me dearly, not long after. That poor vassal who findeth himself punished, for presuming to have hunted within the Parks of his Lord, receiveth not half so deep a conceit of his displeasure, as this Favour made me afterwards to endure.  
So much was my delight, as I seemed to be ravished therewithal, nothing in the world being able to have contented me so much, as that did. That thing which a man loveth, and hath a mind unto, he thinketh can never be too dearly bought: Even so, I found nothing so precious in my thoughts, as was those kisses, which I then enjoyed: Alas, never do I think thereof, but that I am ready for to sound.  
That wicked Tyrant Dennis, being driven out of his kingdom of Sicily, never thought himself so wretched, (when he remembered his utter overthrow) as I do, when I call to mind my former life and happiness.  
I stood still as a stone, sighing and crying out, as indeed I had reason, for two causes especially. The one was the absence of my Lady, the other, the loss of that sweet contentment, which I then enjoyed, and was to give over presently.  
But the day now beginneth to be late, and therefore I will briefly make an end of this my more than woeful Tragedy.  
No sooner had I let go my Lady's hands, but that the whole troop of Nymphs were arrived, they all saluting Diana their Governess, who was not slow to return them the like kindness again.  
Alas, this was that dismal day, which did me both good and bad, and all at one time together: wherein I may compare her unto the Viper, which being venomous, doth sting deadly, and yet nevertheless, serveth for many necessary helps and uses; For than was it, when my Mistress, (still settled in her first resolution) took leave of all the Nymphs, her companions, to go and enclose herself within some solitary Cell, for none could dissuade her from the same, although with sighs & tears she was persuaded to the contrary.  
Whilst I poor wretch, being not able to endure to behold so pitiful a departure, weeping and crying out, like an other Niobe, conveyed myself behind a Rock, to bewail my loss at the more leisure.  
O how heavy were the complaints I made as then? how doleful the mournings? how bitter the laments? and how pitiful was the moestfull sound of my dying voice?  
I must needs make you acquainted with some part of them, because I have no other delight, then to call to mind these my forepast miseries. Be these then (cried I out) the last speeches, that ever I shall make unto my dear Mistress? and thou (most glorious Sun) is it possible that I should be able to behold this black gloomy day, when thou thyself hast hid thy head before times, for less matter than this? If so, why then dost thou not now hide thyself? to the end thou mayest not view the most wretched Caitiff that ever lived.  
Who ever knew a body to live without a soul, breath, or blood? no more shall mine do, for thou holdest my soul and heart (lovely Diana.) The cruel Destinies shall not deprive thee of me, but of my life also. In losing of thee, I will lose myself: neither shall mine eyes see any more, since they cannot behold thy gracious presence.  
Unfortunate I, that did not a while since go kill myself, before I was deprived from my chiefest joy, I now living to be but a common receptacle for all mischances whatsoever.  
As possible is it for a man to support upon his shoulders, the huge weight of the Heavens, as for me to bear the absence of thee my sacred Diana. Since the nourishment of my life is gone, what can mine Eyes behold to see? seeing their Sun is Eclipsed, who shall give light unto mine heart? and how shall my hope flourish green, since all comforts be quite blasted and gone?  
How many Lovers have there been, that have either died with grief, or else have slain themselves, with their own swords, only because they have lost their fair Mistriffes'? What then should let or hinder me, but that (in like manner) I may follow their examples?  
The Merchant that hath no merchandise, shutteth up his shop, and liveth idly: Even so, I having lost my Saint, must shut up mine eyes, with the sweet slumber of death.  
O blessed Eyes, in that you have beheld so perfect a beauty, but far more blessed, if being deprived of her, you likewise deprive yourselves of all light. O royal Recluse, that shalt enjoy the company of my Diana; Ah, why am not I transformed into thee? what shall I do, or what shall become of me? whither should I go, or what should I say? and what can I hope for, that may please me in this world?  
Too long have I lived, since the longer I live, the more my pai●e increaseth: Dispatch then (forlorn and forsaken Shepherd) seeing thou art exiled, from what thou most of all didst delight in, whilst ye mine Eyes, who of late served to contemplate so divine a countenance, shall now stand me in stead, to rain down bitter tears: and thou my Tongue, who of late wert an instrument to commend such rare and divine virtues, shalt serve me (now) to lament their loss, and bid them all Adien.  
Must I then bid Adieu unto those golden locks, which served as bands to tie my heart must I bid Adieu to those fair and dainty tresses, curling in cirkles, and waving with the wind, resembling those of the Paphian Goddess? shall I never see you more, after you are enclosed within those unooth walls?  
Must I needs bid Adieu unto that goodly and spacious Forehead, smooth as Get, and free from every wrinkle and frown? that For head whereas all Virtue lodgeth, the seat of justice, and receipt of all Chastity? Must I needs languish and pine away, without seeing you any more? Oh unhappy day of my birth, o miserable my chance, and unfortunate the time wherein I live.  
Must I needs bid Adieu unto those thin and slender Eyelids, the foes of care, and enemies unto grief, descending (vaultwise) like a fine Arch of Ebony, delightful to behold, but far more pleasant to touch? Is it possible I can live, and not see you? I cannot. Now woe is me, I cannot: needs must ye take my life away, my sorrowful life must you take away with you.  
But chief you fair Eyes, must I needs bid you Adieu? my two glorious Suns, have you resolved never to shine more? and must I needs still live in darkness?  
O sapphire Eyes, the throne of LOVE the bright lamps of Chastity, the lodges of virtue, & true mirrors of honest & majestic modesty, must I needs beforsaken of you? Cruel as you are, you first inflamed my hart, ravishing the same, whilst it consumed with the fire of desire; yet think not for all this, that I will leave you: your glances shall be my guides, and your looks the paths, wherein I will trace; I can no more lose or leave you, than the traveler can walk in the thick dark wood, without the light of the day. O fair Mouth, and must I needs bid thee Adieu? woe is me, & shall I never see thee more?  
Ah sacred Mouth, wherein my soul reposed, the happy chair of my chaste Desires, resembling a garden of Musk roses, and Clove gillyflowers, from whence proceeded so many wise and honey speeches, charming our ●indes, as the great Priest of Thracia did the stones and Trees, with the sound of his bewitchitching Harp: shall it be said I shall never see you more? it cannot be.  
Arcas shall never be seen to joy in this world, when he is deprived of the heavenly sound of thy Harmonious voice. And ye fair lovely Cheeks, shall I bid you Adieu? Cheeks vermilion, without cunning or painting, whose natural Die is the Lily, sweetly mixed with the Damask-rose, never can I part from you, without parting from life & all. Ah beauteous Breasts, & must I needs bid you Adieu? where reposed the nine Muses, with their sage brother. Breasts more fair than Summers' day, and far more white than Mountain snow: sweet lobby of virtue itself, and pleasant prison of my entangled heart. Never shall I be able to bid you Adieu? sooner must my days be shortened, and my wretched self cut off, before my time appointed. In the mean space (live thou my peerless Saint) in all happiness, full of joy, and freed from all annoy: live to be honoured, both of Gods and men. Adieu for ever and a day, the light of my soul, & life of my mind: farewell & Adieu, my gracious, sweet, chaste, virtuous and religious Mistress: Heavens grant thee all happiness, according unto thine own contentment, whilst I take my course to die, despite of the malevolent stars, that have so long prolonged my life. But yet before my death, leave ye mine Eyes (some tears) to accompany (in weeping) so many fair and goodly Nymphs, (who as well as yourself, mourn for the loss of their best Gonernesse, and yet it is not for brave and generous minds to shed tears, but rather for base Cowards, weak Women, and little powling Children.  
Cato when he died, never wept at all, so we without lamenting, will give up the Ghost: it shall suffice, that the gory drops of my purple blood, shall be in stead of salt tears.  
Too much have I sighed and sobbed, too much have I wailed and wept, and overmuch have I lamented and cried out.  
And yet before my fatal hour approach, I will leave some piteous signs of my grief behind me, that the world may see after my death, how rare and constant my love hath always been.  
Hereupon, I made an end of my speech, falling down (through very faintness) all along upon the grassy ground, whilst holding mine arms across, (as a token of my gricuous cares) and lifting up mine eyes towards the heavens, I began afresh to weep most bitterly.  
That done, I began to apprehend so lively a passion of exceeding bitter sorrow, that the very conceit thereof, made me to sound, and so, for a long time, I lay, (as it were) bearest of all my senses.  
At the last I revived, and therewithal rose up, when taking my knife, I engraved in the Rock, these mournful Verses following.  

Unto the soundlesse Vaults of Hell below,  
I'll wail noy griefs (remediless) amain:  
Whilst frightful Ghosts, as pitiful shall show,  
And Flinty Rocks, remorse take of my pain.  
Yea Death itself, my bitter pains shall know,  
To witness that my life in noy hath lain.  
For lovers true, can never die indeed,  
Whose loyal hearts, a beanenly fire doth feed.   

My Course being laid along within my Grave,  
Shall show his tears, his torments, and his love?  
And (for his mind; did never change nor wave)  
far brighter than the Sun, the same shall prone,  
By him the picture of his Lady he shall have,  
Which (he being dead) afresh shall make him moon.  
Like to the fire, in ashes contred,  
Which (though at show no flame) yet is not dead.   

LOVE is not tarn'de by Death, but still doth live,  
Although that life doth flit and pass away:  
Then (Lady) think not though by death (thou grieve  
My body) that thou LOVE canst make decay,  
As long as Fancy, ●oth thy beauty drive,  
Into my soul? No, this will bide for eye.  
Within my heart, thy beauty printed is,  
LOVE in my Tomb, to harbour will not ●●isse.   

Thinkest thou, I'll leave to love thee being dead,  
When thy fair portraiture revives my sight?  
If mortal voice, from Tombs, have some men lead,  
Restoring unto them their senses right.  
Then how much more, ought LOVE be hovonred,  
Whom (than the greatest Gods) is more of might?  
Then think not though my Corpse in Vault thou see,  
That from thy love, (as thou wouldst) I am free.   

Below in Monument still shalt thou hear,  
How I will sigh, for (without soul) thy Fire  
Shall hold me up; whilst living I'll appear,  
(Being dead) as fore my death, I did desire.  
Nor deadly pangs thereof, will I once fear,  
Nor part from thee, as thou wouldst feign require.  
For in thy life, so cruel thoust not been,  
But in my Death, as loyal I'll be seen.   

Yet is my Fortune better far than thine,  
For, without breach of Faith (as thou hast done)  
I shall have leave to plain of sorrow mine,  
Thou thinkest (in killing me a Martyrdom,  
More tedious (than before) me to assign,  
But thou'rt deceived, a wrong Race hast thou run.  
For whilst I lived, thy Rigour was my bane,  
But now being dead, I freed am from the same.   

Death then, both thee and me preserves from ill,  
Thee, that no more thy Beauty I molest:  
Me, that I feel not now thy cruel will,  
O happy Death, that two desires hath blest.  
Then let me die, thy mind for to fulfil,  
Yet first I will, this Rock shall be possessed,  
Of this my doleful verse, true witness,  
How (undeserved) I brought was to distress.   

For though (to die) it shall me much please,  
Yet must I grieve at thy lost Company:  
Then Rocks, Caves, Woods, Groves, Springs, and greenie Leaze,  
Witness you all, LOVE Arcas made to die.  
To noise this in the world, do never cease,  
If I report shall, where as dead I lie,  
How all of you (although by Nature wild,  
Yet (than my Mistress) are more meek and mild.   
No sooner had I engraven these Verses, but that I got me up unto the top of the same Rock, minding to cast myself down into the swelling Seas, when upon the sudden, an other new conceit came into my brain, which was to see, if I could devise a mean, how I might restore Diana again, not only unto myself, but also unto the other Nymphs, who (as well as I) sore lamented the loss of her departure.  
Whereupon (I knowing that she would not be persuaded, by any reasons whatsoever, to be reclaimed or altered from her first determination) I went and sought out her Friends and Parents, unto whom I bewrayed the intention of their fair daughter, persuading them, with all the earnest speeches I could, & by all the lively reasons as might be devised, that they should not in any wise permit her, to have her will therein.  
They hearing me tell so strange a Tale, were wonderfully amazed and daunted therewith: (For Diana never meant to have made them privy, in this her secret business,) promised me, that they would so work, as they would (if they could) cross her in this her resouled purpose, they themselves being much unwilling she should take upon her any such Austere and Melancholic course.  
Whereupon, I being glad, that they jumped with me in opinion, (having received hearty thanks from them, for my kind Intelligences,) came away wonderfully well pleased, in that I had sped so well. And not long after, they took so good an order, as the fair Nymph, (although very much against her will) was constrained to obey their hests, and giving over her former resolution, living amongst us, as she had used before.  
But alas, as he that buildeth goodly houses, oftentimes erecteth his grave, it being his chance to be slain therein:  
Even so I, thinking to prolong mine own life, framed mine own proper death, and over throw. For my Mistress (who before time) was wont still to use me kindly, showing me good countenance when she saw me, (although for the most part, she was sad and heavy in her mind, because she was barred from her most wished for Design) came at the length to know that I only was the chief cause that her Parents had so much hindered and crossed her against her will.  
As that Master, who bearing great affection unto one of his servants (particularly) both hateth and detesteth the same man, after he findeth how he is runaway, and hath rob him of his goods and Treasure.  
Even so, no sooner came these dismal news unto her cares, but that suddenly she began to alter her mind towards me, hating me unto death; yea, and that in so cruel a manner, as she began (now) to loathe me, a thousand times more than ever she had loved me before. Whereupon she vowed in her mind to be revenged upon me, imagining and devising in herself, how she might best do it. But alas, what need had she, to have troubled herself so much? For she needed no other to execute this spiteful malice towards me, than her own poor self.  
Thus we see, how changeable and uncertain, the fortunes of Lovers are in their Loves. For one morning, I finding her alone, began (as I was wont to salute her: when she presently) looking as red as any ●●re, (with extreme choler) began thus to requite my kindness.  
O cruel and ungrateful wretch, out of my sight, if thou meanest that I shall live: Is this the reward for so many courtesies as thou hast received at my hands, to seek most Traitreously to hinder me in my sacred and religious intention?  
Away I say, and out of my sight, for I forbidden thee my presence, and think (or else It shall go hardly with me) but that I will most grievously plague thee, for thy unthankful and lewd dealing.  
In the mean while, I command thee upon pain of death, that thou never presume to come (again) before me; Cruel, ungrateful, falseharted, and wicked Creature as thou art, that hast thus requited me with evil for good, most injuriously opposing thyself against my most just and godly desires.  
And having so said, away she fling, swelling for very rage and anger, and not so much as (once) staying to hear what answer I could make in mine own defence.  
That woman whom her husband hath taken tardy, as guilty of some heinous faculty, is not half so heavy & sorrowful, neither so confounded with fear and shame, as I was then. Long did I stand stone still, as if my feet had grown unto the ground, neither was I able, or had the power, to open or lift up mine eyes, so much had grie● seized upon me, as I thought verily, I should have died (as then) in that place.  
In the end, coming unto myself again, and remembering the more than cruel threatenings of my dread Mistress, without wailing any more, or bethinking me of any other devise, how to excuse myself, I ran up unto the top of the Rock, upon which I had been so often before.  
That done, I closed both mine eyes, flinging myself down from thence into the main Sea, resolving to drown me within the bottom of the same. No sooner was I in the water, but I began to repent me of my rash enterprise, whilst the fear of death (being not far off) so terrified and affrighted me, as I began to swim most lustily in the waves to save my life.  
Thus as I was tumbled and tossed too and fro by the churlish Surges, a certain Ship (by great good fortune, sailed by) the Mariners and Sailors whereof, being moved with pity, took me up by a rope, being very heavy and sad, as you may well suppose.  
And within a while after, whether it were by reason the inward grief I conceived for my Lady's unkindness, or because of the great pain and labour which I had taken in swimming, I know not, but I fell to be most extremely sick in the Ship, upon the sudden. They doubting lest I would die, as those who were very unwilling to have any diseased folks in their vessel (although forie for the same) yet forced, and as it were half against their wills, set me on land in this desert, leaving me some victuals to live upon, until better foretune should happen.  
In the end I recovered my health again, and am miserable ARCAS, confined to five in this comfortless wilderness, and deprived the company of my dear Mistress for ever: my comfort is, that my days will soon be shortened, and that I have not long to live. And thus (good Father) have you heard the true & doleful discourse of my more, then wretched misfortunes, which will never end, until my life shall part, from this his unwelcome mansion.  
I doubt I have troubled you, in being over long, but (alas) it was sore against my will, for sooner (if I could) would I have sinisht the same.  
Not a whit, (answered the old Magician,) for you rather have pleased me very much, and I like your discourse marvelous well. And God (I pray) comfort you, for great need have you thereof. But it is (now very near night;) Let us then go (replied the Shepherd) seeing I have (now) set down, and reported the restless lives, the pitiful complaints, and the most lamentable kinds of such as have loved.   
FINIS.  Nec morte, moritur Amor.  

LONDON PRINTED BY THOMAS Creed, dwelling in the old Change, near old Fish-street, at the Sign of the Eagle and Child, 1610.