THE HISTORY Of Astrea.  
The First Part.  
In Twelve Books: Newly Translated out of French.  
LONDON, Printed by N. Okes for john piper. 1620.   

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE, PHILIP, LORD HERBRT, BARON OF Sherland, Earl of Mountgomery, and Knight of the most Noble Order of the Garter, etc. And to the Right Noble and vert●ous Lady, the Lady Susan, Countess of Mountgomery.  
RIGHT HONOURABLE:  
AStrea finding so good entertainment in her own Country, as having passed the Press in the 3. principal Cities of FRANCE, namely, PARIS, ROUEN and LIONS, is now encouraged to cross the seas, and to try what welcome she shall meet with here in ENGLAND. And though it cannot be, but her riding-suit will take much away from her original beauty (it being the fortune of few Books to be bettered by the translation) yet she is so confident of her own Worth, that she expects acceptance only for herself, and not for her ornaments. And as at home she went abroad under the protection of a mighty King; so being abroad, and a stranger, she is desirous to shelter herself under the Honourable Patronage of your Lordship, and your right noble Lady, against the aspersions of the overcurious. In which choice joining with her, and presenting her to your favourable acceptance, I am in all humility to crave your honourable pardons for my presumption, and do rest  
Your Honours in all service to be commanded, john piper.   

A Table of the Histories contained in the first Part of Astrea.  

THe history of Alcippe. 35  
The history of Siluie. 59  
The history of Astrea and Phillis. 98  
The history of the deceit of Climanthe. 136  
The history of Stelle and Corilas. 137  
The history of Diane. 170  
The history of Tircis and Laonice. 224  
The Oration of Hylas for Laonice. 236  
The Answer of Phillis for Tircis. 238  
The judgement of Siluander. 240  
The history of Siluander. 248  
The history of Hylas. 264  
The history of Galathee and Lindamor. 288  
The history of Leonide. 331  
The history of Celion and Bellinde. 346  
The history of Ligdamon. 6. lib. 11  
The history of Damon and of Fortune. 20. lib. 11  
The history of Lydia's and Melander. 35. lib. 12   

A Table of the Letters.  
THe Answer of Celadon to Licidas. 11  
A Letter of Celadon to Astrea. 13  
A Letter of Amarillis to Alcippe. 39  
A Letter of Astrea to Celadon. 52  
Another Letter of Astrea to Celadon. 52  
A Letter of Astrea to Celadon. 53  
A Letter of Ligdamon to Siluie. 62  
The answer of Siluie to Ligdamon. 64  
A Letter of Aristander to Siluie. 70  
A Scroll from Leonide to Ligdamon. 73  
A Letter of Celadon to Astrea. ●06  
A Letter of Licidas to Phillis. 112  
A Letter of Astrea to Celadon. 116  
A Letter of Celadon to Astrea. 117  
The counterfeited Letter of Astrea to Celadon. 125  
A Scroll of Celadon for Astrea. 128  
A Letter of Astrea to Celadon. 129  
A Letter of Corilas to Stell●. 164  
A Letter of Filander to Diane. 179  
A Letter of Hylas to Carlis. 270  
The answer of Carlis to Hylas. 270  
An answer of Stilliane to Hylas. 271  
A Letter of Lindamor to Galathee. 302  
Another Letter of Lindamor to Galathee. 306  
An answer of Leonide to Lindamor. 307  
A Scroll of Leonide to Lindamor. 308  
A Scroll of Lindamor to Leonide. 313  
The answer of Leonide to Lindamor. 317  
The Reply of Lindamor to Leonide. 317  
A Letter of Celion to Bellinde. 348  
A Letter of Amaranthe to Celion. 349  
The answer of Celion to Amaranthe. 350  
A Letter of Celion to Bellinde. 363  
Another Letter of Celion to Bellinde. 361  
A Letter of Bellinde to Celion. 362  
A Letter of Lindamor to Leonide. 2. lib. 11  
A Letter of Lindamor to Galathee. 3. lib. 11  
A Letter of Ligdamon to Siluie. 16. lib. 11  
A Letter of Astrea to Celadon. 62. lib. 11    

THE HISTORY OF Astrea and Celadon.  

The First Book.  
near the ancient Town of Lions, on that side where the Sun sets, there is a Country called Forests, which in the small circuit of it, containeth in it, what so ever is most rare in all Gaul, for being divided into plains and mountains, the one and the other are so fertile, and situate in an air so temperate, that the ground is capable of all that which the Husbandman can desire. About the heart of the Country is the most beautiful part of the plain, compassed as with a strong wall by mountains near enough, and watered with the river of Loyer, that taking his head not far from thence, passeth almost thorough the midst, yet neither violent nor muddy, but sweet and peaceable. Many other rivers run there in diverse places, washing them with their clear streams: but one of the fairest is Lignon, which wand'ring in his course, and doubting of his original, goes creeping thorough this plain among the high mountains of Ceruieres and of Chalmaset, as fare as Flens, where Loyer receiving it, and causing it to lose his name, carries it for tribute to the Ocean. Now on the banks of these pleasant rivers, a man may see always store of shepherds, that what for the goodness of the air, what for the fertility of the soil and their own sweet nature, they live in so great good fortune, that they take small knowledge of fortune. And be assured that they need not envy the contentment of the former age, if love would as well have suffered them to conserve their felicity, as the heavens were truly prodigal unto them: but being asleep in their repose, they submitted themselves to this flatterer, who shortly after turned his authority into tyranny. Celadon was one of them that felt it to the quick, overtaken in such sort with the perfections of Astrea, that the hatred that was between their parents, could not hinder him from losing himself wholly in her. And it is true, that if in the loss of himself, a man may gain any thing that may content him, he may call himself happy, to be so luckily lost, to get the good will of Astrea, who having assurance of his love, would not requite it with ingratitude, but rather with a mutual affection, with which she entertained his love and service. So that if you see any change between them afterwards, you are to think that the heavens permitted it, only to manifest that there is nothing constant, but inconstancy only durable in her changes: For having lived happily enough, the space of three years, when they least feared the mischievous accident that befell them, they found themselves cast by the treasons of Semire, into the profound misfortunes of Love; so that Celadon desirous to hide his affection, to deceive the importunity of their parents, who out of an ancient hatred between them, interrupted by what means they could their amorous designs, enforced himself to make show, that the account he had of this shepherdess was rather ordinary then particular. A device truly good enough, if Semire had not maliciously disguised it, grounding upon this dissimulation, the treason by which he deceived Astrea, & for which afterwards she paid such sorrow, so much grief, and so many tears.  
By fortune one day the amorous shepherd having risen very early to entertain his thoughts, leaving his flocks to fresh pastures, went to sit down on the bank of the winding river of Lignon, waiting for the coming of the fair shepherdess, who stayed not long after him: for being kept waking with an over-thoughtfull suspicion, she had not closed her eyes all the night. By that time the Sun began to gild the tops of the mountains of Isour and Marsellyes, the shepherd might perceive from far, a flock which within a while he knew to belong to Astrea: for besides that Melampe, the so beloved dog of his shepherdess, came fawning on him as soon as it saw him, he noted that the sheep which his Mistress made so much of, had not that morning the ribbons of diverse colours which it was wont to wear on the head, in fashion of a garland, because the shepherdess overcharged with deep displeasure, had not the leisure to dress it up after her manner: she followed after with a soft pace, & as a man might judge by her behaviour, she had somewhat in her mind, that much ravished her, and so entirely took up her thoughts, that whether of neglect or otherwise, passing hard by the shepherd, she cast not her eyes to the place where he was, and went to sit down fare enough from him, on the bank of the river. Celadon not much heeding it, supposed she saw him not, or that she went to seek him where he was accustomed to attend her, hearding his flocks with his sheephook, drove towards her, who being set under an old tree, her elbow resting on her knees, and her hand sustaining her head, seemed so pensive, that if Celadon had not been bewitched with his own misfortune, he might easily have perceived, that this sadness could not grow, but from an opinion of the change of his love, all other displeasures being unable to work so sad & pensive thoughts. But for that a misfortune unexpected, is most difficult to be borne, I think, fortune purposed suddenly to assault him, that she might rob him of all means of resistance.  
Not knowing then the mishap that was so near, after he had made choice of a commodious place for his sheep, nearest to the flock of his shepherdess, he came to her to give her the good morrow, full of contentment that he had met with her: whom she answered both with countenance and speech so coldly, that the winter brings not with it more chillness and frost. The shepherd, that was not wont to see her in these terms, grew much astonished at it, and though he did not forecast the greatness of his disgrace, such as he found afterwards; yet the doubt that he had offended her whom he loved, so filled him with sorrow, that the least part of it was enough to take away his life. But if the shepherdess had vouchsafed to hear him, or if her jealous suspicion had suffered her to consider, what a sudden change the coldness, of her answer caused in his countenance, out of question, the knowledge of such an effect had made her lose all her mistrust: but it must not be, that Celadon prove a Phoenix of good fortune, as he was of love, nor that fortune do him more favour than other men, whom she never leaves long in assurance of contentment. Having then stayed some while thus pensive, at last he came to himself, and turning his eye toward his shepherdess, he saw by hap that she beheld him, but with a look so sad, that it left no kind of comfort in his soul; so forgetful had the doubt wherein he was, made him. They were so near the river of Lignon, that the shepherd might have touched it with his hook, and the stream held so strong a course, that all glorious and charged with the spoils of his banks, he descended very mainly into the Loire. The place where they were set, was a piece of earth somewhat mounted, against which the fury of the water beat in vain, sustained in the bottom with a naked rock, but on the top covered with a little moss. From this place the shepherd struck the river with his hook, wherewith he raised not more drops of water, than he found diverse sorts of thoughts that assailed him, which dashing on him like water, were no sooner come, than they were driven away by others more violent. There was no one action of his life, nor one thought of his, that he called not into his mind, to enter into account with, and to know wherein he had offended; but not being able to charge any one of them, his Love constrained him to demand of her the cause of her anger. She that either saw not his actions, or if she saw them, construed them to the disadvantage of the shepherd, went forward to fire his heart with a more burning despite, so that when he would have opened his mouth, she would not give him leisure to bring forth his first words, without interruption, saying, Is it not enough, perfidious and disloyal shepherd, to deceive and cousin the party that deserves it so little, but that going forward in thy unfaithfulness, thou stickest not to abuse her that hath obliged thee to all fair courses? How have you the hardness to come in my sight, when you have so much offended me? How dare you show, without blushing, that dissembling countenance, which hides a soul so double, and forsworn? Go, go, deceive another, faithless, be gone, and address thyself to some one, to whom thy perfidious dealings are unknown, and no longer think thou canst disguife thyself to me, that have found too much, to my cost, the effects of thy unfaithfulness and treasons. In what case this faithful shepherd was, he which hath truly loved may best judge, if ever such a reproach hath been unjustly fastened on him. He fell on his knees pale and ghastly, like a man dead. Is this, fair shepherdess (said he) to try me, or to cause me to despair? Neither for the one nor other, said she, but for the truth, there being no necessity to try a thing so well known. Ah! said the shepherd, why have I not put this unlucky day out of my life? It had been for the good of us both (said she) that not one day, but all the days that I have seen thee, had been put out both of thine and mine. It is true, that thy actions have made me hold myself discharged of one thing, which having done, displeases me more than thy unfaithfulness: That if the remembrance of that which is passed between us (which I desire for ever might be defaced) have left me any power; be gone, disloyal, and have a care I see thee not, until I command otherwise. Celadon would have replied, but love, which usually heareth readily enough, at this time, for his great hurt, had stopped his ears, and for that she would have been gone, he was constrained to hold her by the garment, saying unto her: I keep you not back, to ask your pardon for the fault I know not of, but only to make you see that it is the end I choose to put him out of the world, whom you make show to have in such horror. But she whom choler had transported, without turning her eyes to him, struggled with that fury, that she escaped from him, and left nothing but a ribon, on which by chance he had laid his hand. She was wont to wear it on her garment before, sometimes to set out her partlet with, sometimes to wind about flowers when the season served: at this time it had a ring at it which her father had given her. The sorrowful shepherd seeing her departed in such choler, stood a long time without moving, not knowing what he held in his hand, though he had his eyes on it. At last with a deep sigh, coming out of his pensiveness, and knowing the ribon: Be witness, said he, O dear string, that rather than I would break one of the knots of my affection, I choose to lose my life, to the end, that when I am dead, and that the cruel shall see thee about me, thou mayst assure her, that there is nothing in the world can be better loved, than she is of me, and a Lover worse understood than I. And then fastening it about his arm, and kissing the ring; And thou (said he) the token of an entire and perfect amity, be content not to part from me at my death, to the end that this may remain with me, at least for a gage from her, who hath made me such promise of affection. He had scarce ended these words, when turning his eyes toward Astrea, he cast himself into the river with his arms across.  
In this place was Lignon very deep, and the stream strong; for there was a world of waters, and the casting back of the rock made a kind of countermount, so that the shepherd was long before he could sink to the bottom, and yet longer before he could rise up; and when he appeared, the first was a knee, and after an arm, and then overwhelmed suddenly with the working of the waves, he was carried fare off under the water.  
In the mean time was Astrea set on the bank, & seeing that which she had so dear loved, and which she could not yet hate, so near to death for her cause, was surprised with such fear, that in stead of giving help, she fell into a swoon, & so near the brink, that at her first moving which she made when she came to herself (which was long time after) she fell into the water, with such danger, that all that some shepherds that were there could do, did but save her: with the help of her clothes, which held her above the water, they had leisure to draw her to the shore, but so fare besides herself, that without any feeling of her part, they brought her to the next Lodge, which they found to belong to Phillis, where some of her companions shifted her wet clothes, she not being able to speak, she was so much dismayed, both for the danger herself had run into, and for the loss of Celadon, who in the mean time was carried by the water with such violence, that he was driven aland a fare off, on the other side of the river, among some little shrubs, but with small sign of life.  
As soon as Phillis (who at that time was from home) knew the accident befallen her companion, she set herself to run with all her might; and had it not been that Licidas met her, she could not have been stayed by any other whosoever he had been: yet she told him in few words, the danger into which Astrea had run, not speaking any thing of Celadon, and indeed she knew nothing of him. This shepherd was Celadons brother, between whom the heavens had tied a knot more straight than that of parentage: on the other side, Astrea and Phillis, besides that they were cousin germans, were so linked with so straight an amity, that it well deserves to be compared to that of the two brethren: that if Celadon had sympathy with Astrea, Licidas had no less inclination to serve Phillis, nor Phillis to love Licidas.  
By fortune at this time that they came in, Astrea opened her eyes, and they were very much changed from that they were wont to be, when victorious Love showed itself triumphant over all those which saw them, and which they saw, their look was slow and abated, their lids heavy and sleepy, and their brightness turned into tears, but tears holding of a heart all inflamed, whence they came, and of those eyes scorching as they passed by, which burned up both with love and pity all those that were near her: when she perceived her companion Phillis, it was a new cause of astonishment, and much more when she saw Licidas: and though she were unwilling that they which were by, should know the principal cause of her evil, yet was she compelled to tell him, that his brother had endangered himself while he sought to help her. This shepherd at these news was so amazed, that without longer stay he ran to the unlucky place with all the shepherds, leaving Astrea and Phillis alone, who afterwards set themselves to follow them, but so sadly, that though they had much to say, yet were they not able to speak. In the mean time the shepherds coming to the bank side, and casting their eyes now this way, and after that way, found no show of that they sought for, except it were some that falling more low, found a great way off his hat, which the stream of the water had driven down, and which by chance was stayed among some trees, which the washing of the river had loosened at the root, and impaired. This was all the news they could meet with of that they sought; for he was fare enough driven away in a place where it was impossible for them to find him, because that before Astrea could be recovered of her swooning, Celadon, as I have said, driven by the water, fell on the other shore among some trees, where he might hardly be seen.  
And while he was thus between death and life, there came to that place three fair Nymphs, whose lose hair hung waving on their shoulders, crowned with a garland of diverse pearls, they wore their bosom bare, and the sleeves of their garments trust up to the elbow, from whence issued a very fine lawn, that gathered up, ended toward the hand, where two great bracelets of pearl seemed to fasten it. Every of them had at their side a quiver full of arrows, and bore in her hand a Bow of ivory, the lower part of their garment before, turned up behind, that their gold-wrought buskins were seen to the midleg. It seemed they came thither for some desire; for one of them spoke thus: This is the place, see here the bending of the river: behold where it comes with violence from above, dashing against the other shore, which breaks the force of it, and turns it short another way. Consider this tuft of trees; without doubt, this is it which was shown unto us in the glass. It is true, said the former, but there is no appearance of all the rest, and me think it a place somewhat too much withdrawn, to find that which we come to seek. And the third, which had not as yet spoke, There is, said she, appearance enough of that he told, for as much as it represented this place so fully to you, that I do not think there is a tree here, which you have not seen in the glass: with such words they came so near Celadon, that a few leaves only hid him. And for that upon particular marking of every thing, they knew that without doubt this was the place that was showed them, they agreed upon deliberation, to see if the end would prove as true as the beginning: but they no sooner looked down where to fit, but the principal among them spied Celadon, and because she thought it to be a shepherd fall'n asleep, she thrust forth her hand every way, over her companions: after, without speaking a word, putting her finger on her mouth, pointed with her other hand to that which she saw among the little shrubs, and rose as softly as she could, for fear of waking him: but seeing him somewhat nearer, she took him to be dead, for he had yet his legs in the water, his right arm raised gently over his head, the left turned half behind him, and as a prop under his body, the neck was wried by the weight of the head, that let itself hang backward, the mouth half open, and almost full of sand, dropped apace, the face in many places scratched and sullyed, his eyes half shut, and the hair (which he wore long) so wet, that the water ran down as from two fountains along his cheeks, whose live colour was so defaced, that a dead man looks no otherwise: the mid part of his reynes were so razed, that they seemed to be broken, and that made his belly show more swollen, though by reason of the fullness of water, it was big enough of itself. The Nymphs seeing him in this plight, took pity of him, and Leonide that spoke first (as the most pitiful and careful) was the first that laid hold on the body to draw it on shore, when presently the water which he had swallowed, poured forth in such abundance, that the Nymph finding him yet warm, was of opinion he might be saved. Then Galathea, who was the principal, turning towards the other that stood looking on, but not offering any help; And you, Silvia, said she, what will my minion say that you be so dainty? Lay your hand to the work, if not to help your companion, yet at least for pity of this poor shepherd. I am busied (saith she) in considering, that though he be much altered, yet me thinks I should know him: and then stooping down, she turned him on the other side, and looking nearer on him, Certainly (said she) I am not deceived, this is the man I meant, and indeed he is worthy to find succour, for besides that he is of one of the principal Families of this Country, he is of such desert, that our labour shall be well bestowed. In the mean time the water issued forth in such plenty, that the shepherd being well lightened, began to breathe, yet neither opens his eyes, nor comes wholly to himself. And because Galathea was of opinion, that this was he of whom the Druide spoke, she began to help her companions, saying: They were best carry him into the Palace of Isover, where they might best secure him. And so not without pain, they conveyed him to the place where the little Merill waited with the Coach: into the which all three having mounted, Leonide was she that guided them; and lest their prey might be espied by the warders of the Palace, she went about to enter at a privy gate.  
By that time that they were gone, Astrea coming out of her swooning, where she lay in the water, as I told you, while Licidas nor those that went to seek for Celadon, could hear other news then that I spoke of. Whereupon Licidas finding but too great certainty of the loss of his brother, came back to bewail with Astrea their common mishap. All that she did, was to get to the b●im of the river; where enforced with grief, she sat down so full of sorrow and amazement, that a little before she had been of so small consideration, and so jealous. She was alone, for Phillis seeing Licidas returned, was gone to learn some news as well as the rest.  
This shepherd arriving, what with weariness, what with desire to know how this mischance befell, sat down by her, and taking her by the hand, said, O God, fair shepherdess, what a mishap have we? I say we, for if I have lost a brother, you have likewise lost the man that was not so much his own as yours. Whether it were that Astrea heeded some other thing, or that this speech vexed her, she made no manner of answer, whereat Licidas being amazed, by way of reproach held on, Is it possible, Astrea, that the loss of this miserable son (for so she called him) touches your soul no more to the quick, to make you accompany his death at least with some tears? If he had not loved you, or his love had been unknown to you, it might be borne with, if we saw you have no feeling of his evil: but since you cannot be ignorant of it, that he hath loved you more dear than himself, this is a cruel thing, Astrea, believe me, to see you so little moved as if you knew it not.  
The shepherdess then turning a sad look towards him, after she had considered awhile, answered, Shepherd, I am sorry for the death of thy brother, not for that he loved me, but because he had other conditions which may make his loss worthy to be lamented, for as for the love you speak of, it was so common to other shepherdess my companions, that they are to take it as heavily as I. Ah unthankful shepherdess (presently cried out Licidas) I shall hold the heavens to be partakers with thee, if they punish not this injustice in thee. You have small reason to think him inconstant, when the displeasure of a father, the hatred of kindred, the cruelties of your rigour, could not lessen the least part of that extreme affection, which you cannot dissemble to have a thousand, and a thousand times acknowledged apparently in him. Truly this is a misunderstanding, which surpasses the greatest ingratitudes, since his actions and his services have given you no less assurance of the thing, which no body but yourself make doubt of. So (answered Astrea) is there no body whom it concerns as it doth me. Out of question it should (replied the shepherd) since he was so thoroughly yours, that I know not (and if he did I should know) that he was more ready to disobey the high God, than the least of your desires. Then the shepherdess answered in choler, Let us leave this discourse, Licidas, and think it cannot turn to your brother's benefit: but if he have beguiled me, and left me, displeased that I no sooner found out his deceits and craft, he is gone with a great spoil, and fair marks of his unfaithfulness. You make me amazed, replied Licidas: wherein have you found that which you reproach him with? Shepherd (added Astrea) the story would be too long and grievous; content yourself if you know it not, you only are in ignorance, and all along this river of Lignon, there is not a shepherd but can tell you, that Celadon loved in a thousand places; and not to go fare, yesterday I heard with mine own ears, the discourse of love which he had to his Aminthe, for so he called her, whereto I had made longer stay, but for shame: and to tell true, I had some business elsewhere, that stood me more upon. Then Licidas, as one transported, cries out: I will no more inquire the cause of my brother's death, it is your jealousy, Astrea, and jealousy grounded on great reason, to be the cause of so great evil. Alas, Celadon, at this time I see well, thy prophecies fall out true of thy suspicions, when thou saidst this wench will put thee to so much pain, that it will cost thee thy life: yet knewest thou not on which side this blow should be given. Afterward addressing himself to the shepherdess: Is it credible (said he) Astrea, that this disease is so great, that it can make you forget the commandments which you have so often enjoined him? I can witness, that five or six times, at the least, he hath fall'n on his knees before you, to entreat you revoke them. Do you not remember, that when he came out of Italy, it was one of your first ordinances, and that within yonder bower, where I saw you meet together so often, he besought you to award him death, much rather than to make show to love any other? Astrea, would he say (while I live, I shall remember the very words) it is not for that I refuse, but because I am unable to observe this injunction, that I cast myself at your feet, and beseech you, that to make proof what power you have over me, you command me to die, rather than to serve any other whomsoever, but Astrea. And you answered him (my son) I require this proof of your love, and not your death, which cannot be without mine own: for beside, I know it is most hard to you, yet will it bring us a commodity, which we especially are to look after; which is, to shut up both the eyes and mouths of the most curious and reproachful, whether he oftentimes replied hereto, and whether he made all the refusal which the obedience (to which his affection bound him unto you) might permit, I refer to yourself, if you have the mind to remember it: so fare am I from thinking he ever disobeyed you, but for this only cause, and in truth it was so heavy an imposition, that at all times when he returned from the place, where he was enforced to dissemble, he was compelled to take his bed, as if he came from some great piece of service, and there he would rest himself some while, and then he undertook it afresh. But now Astrea, my brother is dead, so it is, whether you believe it, or not believe it, it will do him neither good nor hurt, so that you are not to think that I speak to you in his behalf, but only for the truth's sake, yet may you credit me as you think good: if I swear unto you, that it is not above two days, since I found him engraving of verses on the bark of these trees, that stand by the great meadow, on the left hand of the Beech, and I assure myself, that if you will vouchsafe to turn your eyes, you may perceive it was he that cut them, for you may too well know his characters, if forgetful of him and of his passed services, you have not lost the remembrance of whatsoever concerns him: but I am assured the gods will not suffer it, for his satisfaction, and your punishment. The verses are these:  

MADRI●AL.  
I Have myself at such a bent,  
Although my Love be violent,  
That I can gain this favour small,  
To say, I do not love at all.  
But to dissemble love elsewhere,  
T● adore an eye the conquering part,  
As I do yours, with trembling fear,  
I know not how to have the heart:  
And if it must be that I die,  
Dispatch me hence then presently.   
It may be some seven or eight days past, that having had occasion to go for a time, over the river of Loire, by way of answer he wrote me a letter, which I am willing you should see, and if in reading it, you confess not his innocency, I will believe that you have purposely lost, for his sake, all kind of judgement: and then taking it out of his pocket, he read it to her. It was thus:  
INquire no more what I do, but know that I continue always in my ordinary pain, To love, and not to dare show it; not to love, and swear the contrary; (dear brother) is all the exercise, or rather the punishment of thy Celadon. They say true, contraries cannot be at one time in one place; yet Love and dissembled love are ordinarily in my actions: but wonder not at it, for I am compelled to the one, out of perfection; and to the other, by the commandment of Astrea. If you think this manner of life strange, remember that Miracles are the ordinary works of gods, and what would you my Goddess should work in me, but Miracles?  
It was long before Astrea would answer, because the words of Licidas had almost put her beside herself. So it was, that jealousy, which as yet hel● some force in her soul, made her take the paper, as doubting if Celadon writ it.  
And although she well knew it was he, yet argued she the contrary in her mind, following the custom of many more persons, who will always strongly maintain a thing, as if it were their opinion. And much about that time came diverse shepherds from seeking Celadon, where they found no notice of him, but his hat, which was nothing to the sad Astrea, but a fresh renewing of sorrow. And because she remembered herself of a sleight which love made them device, and she was loath it should be known, she made sign to Phillis to take it; and then every one betook them to their lamentations and praises of the poor shepherd: and there was not any that repeated not some virtuous action, only she that felt most, was enforced to fit mute, and to make less show, knowing well, that the main wisdom in love, is, to hold affection hidden, or at least, not to discover it unprofitably. And because the violence she did herself herein, was great, and she could hold out no longer, she drew near to Phillis, and prayed her to leave her, that the rest might do so likewise: and taking from her the hat she held in her hand, she went from them alone, and took the path she lighted upon, without any heed to her way. Now there was not a shepherd in the company, but he knew of Celadons affection, because his parents by their displeasures discovered more than their own actions, but it was carried with such discretion, that except S●mir●, Licida● and Phillis, there was not any that knew the good will she bore him, and though they knew well this loss afflicted her, yet did they attribute it rather to a good nature, then to love (such profit comes of the good opinion they have of a man:) in this mean time she held on her way, all which time a thousand thoughts, or rather so many displeasures, tormented her pace after pace, in such sort, that sometimes doubting, sometimes assured of the love of Cel●dō, she knew not whether she had more cause to complain of him, or of herself. When she remembered what Licidas came to tell her, she judged him innocent: but when the words which she heard him use to the shepherdess Aminthe, came into her mind, she condemned him as guilty. In this labyrinth of diverse thoughts, she went a long time wand'ring thorough the woods, without election of way; and by fortune or the will of heaven, that would not suffer that the innocency of Celadon should remain longer doubtful in her soul, her paces conducted her, before she was ware, along a little brook, among those trees that Licidas spoke of, where the verses of Celadon were engraven. The desire to know whether he said true, was of power sufficient in her to provoke her to seek for them very curiously, although they were much shadowed: but the cutting, which as yet was fresh, discovered them soon enough. O God, how soon she found them to be Celadons, and how quickly she ran to read them, but how to the quick, did they touch her soul? She sat down on the ground, and laying in her lap the hat and letter of Celadon, she held some while, her hand clasped together, and her fingers locked one in another, holding her eyes upon that which only remained to her of her shepherd & seeing that the hat was bigger about the place wherein he used to put his letters, when he would give them her in secrecy, she felt with her hand very curiously, and thrusting her fingers under the lining, she found the bare felt: wherein loosening the button, she drew forth a paper, which that day Celadon had put in. This device they invented between them, when the evil will of their Parents hindered them from talking together; for casting this hat from one to the other in sport, they might easily take and give their letters. All trembling she took this out of this pretty packet, & clean besides herself, spreading it abroad, she cast her eye on it to read it, but she had so scared the powers of her soul, that she was forced diverse times to wipe her eyes before she could do it, in the end she read these words:  
MY Astrea, if the dissembling which you enjoin me to, be to cause me die of pain, you may more easily do it with a word: If it be to punish my arrogancy, you are a Iudge too gentle, to appoint me a less punishment than death. But if it be to try what puissance you have over me, why do you seek out for me a readier witness than this, whose length may be so trouble some to you? for I cannot think it is to conceal our dess●ine, as you say, for that not being able to live in this constraint, my death (no doubt) will give a more speedy and deplorable a demonstration. judge then (my fair Astrea) that this hath been long enough endured, and that it is now time you should permit me to act the personage of Celadon, having so long, and with such pain, represented that of the person in the world, that is most contrary to him.  
Oh! what cutting razors were these words to her soul, when they brought into her memory the commandment which she had given him, & the resolution which they had taken to hide by this dissimulation their love? But see what the bewitchings are of love! she rook extreme displeasure for the death of Celadon, and yet she was not without some contentment in the midst of so great sorrow, knowing that in truth he was not unfaithful; and of which she was assured, the many proofs whereof had cleared the cloudy mist of her ielously: all these considerations joined themselves together, to have the more force to torment her in such sort, that not being able to run to other remedy than tears, as well to bewail Celadon, as to weep for her own loss, she gave beginning to her grief with a river of tears, and after, with a thousand pitiful alasses, distempering the quiet of her stomach with infinite sighs gasping for life, and with unpittifull hands beating her fair hands, she called to remembrance the faithful amity which she had formerly found in this shepherd, the extremity of his affection, her despair for having so readily thrust from her the life of her repose: and then were represented the happy time of his service, the pleasures and contentment which the honesty of their devices had wrought her, and what beginnings of sorrow she met with, since by his loss, which though she found very great, yet did she not judge it equal to her folly, since the continuance of so many years might have given her assurance enough of his fidelity.  
On the other side, Licidas, that was so little satisfied with Astrea, not being able with patience to suffer this grief, rose up hard by Phillis, but not to tell any thing of her companion, which displeased him, and went with a stomach so swollen, his eyes so filled with tears, and countenance so changed, that his shepherdess seeing him in this plight, and giving him some token of her love, followed him without fear of what men might say of her. He went with his arms cross his breast, his head hanging down, his hat pulled about his ears, but his soul more overwhelmed with sorrow. And because the commiseration of his evil bound the shepherdess that loved him, to take part in his sadness, they followed him, and lamented behind him: but this pitiful office of theirs was but a renewing of his grief. For extreme sorrow hath this going with it, that solitariness is his first garment, because that in company the soul dares not freely disgorge itself of the venom of the evil; and until that be vented, it is never capable of any remedy by consolation. Being thus pained, by fortune they met a young shepherd lying along on the grass, and two shepherdess with him: the one holding his head in her lap, and the other playing on an Harp, while he went breathing out these verses, his eyes lifted up to heaven, his hands laid on his breast, and his face covered with tears.  

Stanza's on the death of Cleon.  

THe beauty which to cinders death doth turn,  
despoiling it of mortal state so soon,  
Like lightning mounts, and doth like fire burn:  
So short a life hath so great beauty won.   

Those eyes, late authors of sweet undertake,  
From more dear Loves are closed for ever fast,  
Fair eyes that were of such a wondrous making,  
That none beheld, but loved them e'er they passed.   

If this be true, beauty from us departs,  
Love vanquished weeps, that conquered heretofore,  
And she that gave life to a thousand hearts,  
Is dead, yet life's in my heart evermore.   

What good henceforth is worthy of our love?  
Since perfectest is soon ranisht still,  
As shadow doth after the body move,  
So every good is seconded with ill.   

Cleon, it seems, thy destiny hath sworn  
Even in thy East to finish up thy day,  
And that thy beauty dead, as soon as borne,  
Should meet her coffin in her cradles way.   

No, thou diest not, it is much rather I,  
Since all my life I living taken from thee,  
If lover's life in thing beloved lie,  
I having loved thee, thou revivest in me.   

So if I live, Love gives the world to know,  
That his command he can to death impart,  
Or being God, his mighty power to show,  
Makes Lover live without or soul or heart.   

But Cleon, if the will of Fate be so,  
Of humane frailty that the smart you try,  
Love wils to yours my fortune equal grow,  
You by my plaints, I by your death do die.   

Thus I pour forth my plaints, that new life brings,  
Death to surprise my sorrow being lame,  
And my two eyes changed to lasting springs,  
Bewail mine ill, but cannot less the same.   

When Love with me (to show compassion)  
Laments this fair loss, whence my pains d●still,  
Dr●e (saith he) tears, mourn in another fashion:  
So much all tears are lesser than our ill.    
Licidas and Phillis were very curious to know the grief of this shepherd, if their own would have given them leave; but seeing he had as much need of consolation as themselves, they would not join another man's evil to their own, and so leaving the other shepherd's attentive to find it out, they held on their way, no man following them: for the desire every one had to know what this unknown company might be, Licidas was not gone far, before they heard another voice some good way off, which seemed to come towards them, and they willing to hearken, were hindered by the shepherdess, who held the shepherd's head in her lap, with these complaints: Well, thou cruel, well, shepherd without pity, how long shall this obstinate humour of thine endure against my prayers? How long hast thou determined that I should be disdained and contemned for a thing that is not? and for the sake of one dead, I should be deprived of that which cannot profit it? Consider Tyrcis, consider, thou Idolater of the dead, and enemy to the living; what the perfection of my love is, and begin at last, begin to love the person that life's, and not them that are dead, whom you must leave in rest to God, and not disquiet their happy cinders with unprofitable tears, and take heed, lest in holding on thus, you draw not on you the vengeance of your cruelty and injustice.  
The shepherd not turning his eyes to her, answered coldly, Would to God, fair shepherdess, I might be suffered to give you satisfaction with my death: for to free you and myself also of the pain wherein we are, I would choose it rather than my life: but since, as you have told me, this were but to increase your grief; I beseech thee, Laonice, enter into thyself, and consider how small reason thou hast, to make my dear Cleon dye twice. It is sufficient (since my mishap will have it so) that she hath once paid the tribute of her humanity; then, if after her death she be revived in me by force of my love, why (cruel) will you have her dye again, by the forgetfulness which a new love will cause in my soul? No, no, shepherdess, your reproaches shall never have such power over me, to make me to consent to so wicked a counsel, because that which you call cruelty, I name faithfulness; and that which you think worthy punishment, I judge it to deserve high commendation. I have told you, that in my Tomb, the memory of my Cleon shall live by my bones: that which I have said to you, I have a thousand times sworn to the immortal gods, and to this fair soul which is now with them: and think you that they will suffer Tyrcis to go unpunished, if forgetful of his oath, he become unfaithful? Ah! I shall sooner see the heavens cast forth their lightning on my head, than ever offend either my oath, or my dear Cleon. She would have replied, but that then the shepherd that went on singing, interrupted them, by coming upon them with these verses:  

The Song of Hylas.  

IF she disdain me, then adieu,  
I leave the cruel with her scorn,  
Not staying till the morrow morn,  
Before I choose a mistress new.  
It were a fault myself to pine,  
By force to draw her love to mine.   

They for the most part are so wise,  
They make no reckoning of our loves,  
Wherein their heart a fire moves:  
But that the flame must not arise;  
So that we kindle other fires,  
While we pursue our own desires.   

The over-faithfull vow-keeper,  
Abused by his loyalty,  
Love's beauty stuffed with cruelty▪  
Seems be not I doll worshipper,  
That from an Image nothing strong,  
Never finds succour for his wrong?   

They say, Who open passage leave  
To be importuned every day,  
At last must give himself away.  
But so we little good receive,  
When we may easily meet some one  
To be importunate upon.   

These Lovers, lo, that faithful are,  
Are always full of dolorous fears,  
Deep sighs, complaints, and showering tears,  
Are commonly their daintiest fare.  
It seems the Lover's chiefest part,  
Is only to weep out his heart.   

A man, how can you call him well,  
That manly honour laid aside,  
Cries like a boy, cannot abide  
Apples loss, or Wall-nuts-shell  
May you not rather call him fool,  
That love's such displing in Love's school?   

But I, who all such follies fly,  
That nothing bring with them but care,  
By others harms warned to beware,  
Do always use my liberty,  
And am not discontent at all,  
That they do me inconstant call.    
At these last verses the shepherd was come so near to Tyrcis, that he might discern the tears of Laonice, and because, though they were strangers, yet they knew one the other; and to busy them a while by the way, the shepherd knowing the sorrow of Laonice and Tyrcis, roused himself to accost them in this manner: O desolate shepherd (for by reason of this sad time of life, such was the name that every man gave him) if I should be like you, I should think myself most unhappy. Tyrcis hearing him speak, rose up to answer him. And I, Hylas, if I were in your place, how might you call me unhappy? If I must lament (rejoined he) as you do for all the Mistresses that I have lost, I should have cause to complain longer than I have to live. If you do like me, answered Tyrcis, you should lament but only for one. If you do like me, replied Hylas, you should lament for none of them all. Herein it is, said the desolate, that I account you miserable: for if nothing can be the sufficient price of Love, but Love, you were never loved of any, seeing you never loved any; and so you may trade in many loves, but not buy any, not having the money which is paid for such a commodity. But how know you (answered Hylas) that I never loved? I know it (said Tyrcis) by your perpetual changes. We are (said he) of a differing opinion; for I believe, the more expert the workman is, the more he exercises the mystery whereof he makes profession. It is true, answered Tyrcis, when one follows the rules of Art, but when they do otherwise, it falleth out to them as to men out of their way, the further they go, the more they wander from it. Therefore it is, that as the stone that continually rolls, gets no moss, but rather dirt and filth; in like manner, your lightness may gain you shame, but never love. You must know, Hylas, that the stripes of love will never be healed. God keep me (said Hylas) from any one such stripe. You have reason, replied Tyrcis, for if every time you are struck with a new beauty, you had received an incurable wound, I know not whether in all your body you had had a free place. But so you should be deprived of those sweets and happinesses which love brings to the true lovers, and that miraculously (as all his other actions) by the same stroke that he gave them, so that if the tongue were able to express that which the heart cannot entirely relish, and it were permitted you to hear the secrets of this god, I do not believe but you would willingly renounce your infidelity. Then Hylas smiling, Without feigning (said he) you have reason, Tyrcis, to put yourself into the number of them whom Love useth so kindly. As for me, if he use all others as he doth you, I will willingly forgo my part, and let you enjoy alone your felicities and contentments, and fear not that I shall ever envy you. It is above a month since we ordinarily met together; tell me the day, the hour, or the moment, in which I could see your eyes without the wished company of tears; and on the contrary, name me the day, the hour and moment, in which you heard me only sigh for my loves. Every man that hath not his taste perverted, as you have your judgement, will he not find the delights of my life more pleasing and lovely than the ordinary pangs of yours?  
And turning to the shepherdess which had complained of Tyrcis: And you (insensible shepherdess,) will never take the courage to free yourself of the tyranny, in which this unnatural shepherd makes you live. Will you by your patience make yourself companion in his fault? Know you not that he glories in your tears, and that your supplications raise him to such an arrogancy, that he thinks he bindeth you wonderfully to him, when he hears you with misprisall? The shepherdess with a great alas answered him, It is easy, Hylas, for him that is in health, to counsel the sick; but if you were in my place, you would know how vain it is thus to advice me, and that this grief may well drive my soul out of my body, but not by reason chase this overstrong passion out of my soul: So that if this beloved shepherd exercise any tyranny over me, he may do it with more absolute command when it pleaseth him, not having power to wish more of me, than his authority over me reacheth to already. Then give over your counsels, Hylas, and cease your reproaches, which can but increase my evil, without hope of assuaging. For I am so entirely the possession of Tyrcis, that I have not command of mine own will. How (said the shepherd) is not your will your own? What will it profit to love and serve you? Laonice answered, As much as the amity which I tender to this shepherd avails me. That is to say, replied Hylas, I shall lose my time and my pains; and when I discover unto you my affection, this is but to waken in you the words wherewith you may serve your own turn when you speak to Tyrcis. What would you, Hylas, that I should say more to you, but that it is long since I have gone bewailing this mishap, but much better in my consideration then in yours? I doubt not (said Hylas) but since you be of this humour, and that I have more power over myself than you can over yours: Go take the shepherdess (said he) reaching forth his hand, or give me leave, or take it of me; and be assured, that if you will not, I will not be long before I go back, as being ashamed to serve so poor a Mistress. She answered him very coldly, Neither you nor I shall receive any great loss, at the least I assure you, this shall never make me forget the hard usage which I have from this shepherd. If you have (answered he) as much knowledge of that which you lose in losing me, as you show small reason in the pursuit you undertake, you will rather complain for the loss of me, then to wish for the affection of Tyrcis? But the sorrow which you take for me shall be very small, if it can not equal that which I have for you; and then sung out these verses as he went away.  

A SONNET.  

SInce we must needs pull up that deep-set root,  
Which Love, in seeing you, plants in my breast:  
And which Desire, with so great longing thirst,  
Hath with so great care nur●'d to so small boot.  
Since it must be, that Time which saw it borne,  
Must triumph in the end as Conqueror:  
Attempt we bravely freed from Sorrow's power,  
Let us at one blow cut both flower and thorn.   

Chase we all these desires, those fires put out,  
Break we those lines knotted with many boughs,  
And of ourselves let us take free farewell.  
So shall we vanquish Love, that untamed Lord,  
And wisely do out of our own accord,  
That whereto Time at last will us compel.    
If this shepherd had come into this Country, in a time less troublesome, without doubt he had found many friends; but the sorrow for Celadon, whose loss was so fresh, as it made all them that dwelled thereabout so heavy, that they could not attend his conceits, and therefore they let him go without being curious to question either him or Tircis, what was the cause that led them thither. Some of them returned to their lodging, and others continued on their search for Celadon, and coasted now on this side, and then on that side the River, not leaving even a brier, nor tree, nor bush, whose shadowed hollowness they discovered not. Yet was this in vain, for they found no more news for all their search; only Siluander met Polemas alone, not far from that place, where a little before Galathe and the other Nymphs had taken up Celadon, and because he had the command of all the Country, under the authority of the Nymph Amasis, the shepherd, who had often seen him at Marseilles, did him all the honour he could in his salutation: and for that he asked, what it was he searched for along the shore, he told him of the loss of Celadon: whereat Polemas was displeased, having always loved them of that family.  
On the other side, Licidas, which was wand'ring with Phillis, after he had been somewhile silent, at last turning to her: Well, fair shepherdess what think you of the humour of your companion? She which as yet was ignorant of the jealousy of Astrea, answered; It was the smallest displeasure that might be fall her, and that in so great sorrow he might well be permitted to avoid and fly from all company. For Phillis thought he had complained, for that she was come forth alone. It is true, said Licidas, it is small, but yet I hold, that in truth it is the greatest, and I must tell you, she is the most unthankful in the world, and most unworthy to be beloved. See, for God's sake, what her humour is; my brother never had any desire, nay, so far was he of, he had not the power to love any but her only: she knew it well enough, cruel as she is; for the proofs which he hath given her, leave nothing in doubt, the time hath been overpast, the difficulties, or rather the impossibilities contemned, the absences overcame, the parents anger neglected, her rigours, her cruelties, her disdains sustained, and that for so long time, that I know no man could do more than Celadon, and yet for all this will not this fickle piece, who, as I think, having ingratefully changed her mind, is sorry to see him longer live, whom at other times she hath done little less than cause to dye by her rigours, and whom at this time she knew she hath unworthily offended: this fickle piece, I say, will not, who dissembling under a new pretence of hate and jealousy, commands him to eternal exile, and a despair even to seeking out of death. O God, said Phillis all amazed, what do you tell me, Licidas? is it possible that Astrea should commit such a fault? It is too true, answered the shepherd, she told me a part of it herself, & the rest I may easily judge of by her discourse. But well, though she triumph over the life of my brother, and that her perfidiousness and ingratitude give a vizard to her fault, as if she had overloved him, yet will I swear unto you, that never Lover had more affection and fidelity than he, not that I care she should know it, unless it might bring her some extreme displeasure by the knowledge of what might have fall'n our by her error: for hence forth I will be as much her mortal enemy, as my brother hath been her faithful servant, and she un worthy to be beloved. So went Licidas and Phillis discoursing, he infinitely displeased with the death of his brother, and as much enraged against Astrea, and she sorry for Celadon, troubled with the grief of Licidas, and astonished at the jealousy of her companion: but seeing that the stroke was yet very sensible, she would not as yet apply any strong remedies, but only gentle preparatives, to sweeten & not to confound; for in any case she would not that the loss of Celadon, should cost her Licidas: and she considered well, that if the hatred should continue between him and Astrea, of necessity she must break with one of them: and yet love was unwilling to give place to friendship, and friendship to love; and so the one would not consent to the death of the other. On the other side, Astrea even full with so great occasions of sorrow as I have told you, giving such way to her tears, and so languished in her dolours, that for not having tears enough to wash away her error, nor words to express her sorrow, her eyes and mouth gave up their office to her imagination, so long, that weakened with overmuch grief, she fell asleep with such thoughts.  
The end of the first Book.   

THE SECOND BOOK of Astrea and Celadon.  
WHile these things passed in this sort among the shepherds and shepherdess, Celadon received, from the three Nymphs in the palace of Isour●, all the best helps that possibly they might: but the weakness which the water brought him, was so great, that notwithstanding all the remedies they applied, he could not open his eyes, nor give other sign of life, but by the beating of his heart. In this sort he passed the rest of the day, and a good part of the night, before he came to himself, and then when he opened his eyes, it was not without great astonishment, to find himself where he was; for he remembered well enough what befell him on the shore of Lignon, and that despair had made him leap into the water, but he knew not how he came into this place: and after he had stayed some while confounded with these thoughts, he asked himself whether he were alive or dead? If I live (said he) how is it possible that the cruelty of Astrea doth not cause me to die? Or if I be dead, what is it, O Love, that thou comest to search for in darkness? Art thou not contented to have had my life, but thou wilt among the cinders kindle afresh the ancient flames? And because the busy care wherein Astrea had left him, was not abandoned, called to his mind all his thoughts, he went on: And thou, most cruel remembrance of my passed good, why dost thou represent unto me, the displeasure which she sometimes had for my loss, to make my too true hurt worse by her thoughts: whereas in place thereof, for mine ease, thou shouldest rather tell me the contentment she hath for the hatred she bears me? With a thousand such imaginations, this poor shepherd fell into so sound a sleep, that the Nymphs had leisure to come and see how he did: and finding him asleep, they softly opened the windows and the curtains, and sat down about to view him the better. Galathee, after she had somewhile considered, was the first that said in a low voice, that they might not awake him: How is this shepherd changed from that he was yesterday? & how fresh a colour is come into his face in so short time? For my part, I am not sorry for the travail of my journey, since we have saved his life: For as you say, maid (turning to Siluie) he is one of the principal of that Country. Madame, answered the Nymph, it is most true, for his father is Alcippe, and his mother Amarillis. What, said she, that Alcippe, of whom I have heard so much, and who to rescue his friend, broke up the prison of the Visigots? It is the very same, said Siluie: I saw him about five or six months agone, at an Holy-day-Feast, in the Hamlets that stand along the river of Lignon, and for that, above all the rest, Alcippe in my judgement, was most worthy to be respected. I long time held mine eyes on him: for the gravity of his beard and venerable old age, made him to be honoured and esteemed of every man. But as for Celadon, I remember, that of all the young shepherds, none but he and Siluander durst come near me. By Siluander I knew what was Celadon, and by Celadon what Siluander was. Both the one and the other had in their behaviour and discourse, somewhat more generous than the name of Shepherd required. While Siluy was thus speaking, Love, to make sport with the deceit of Climanth and Polemas, which were the cause of Galatees going forth that day, to the place where she took up Celadon, began to make the Nymph feel the effects of a new desire. For while Siluy spoke, Galatee had her eyes fast upon the shepherd; and the praises she gave him, were the cause, that at the same time, his beauty, and his virtue, the one, by the view, and the other, by the hearing, gave a blow to her soul, and that more easily, for that she was prepared by the practices of Climanthe, who seeming to be a divine, had foretell her, that he whom she should meet with, where she found Celadon, was to be her husband, unless she would be the most unfortunate person in the world, having before laid a plot, that Polemas (as it were by chance) should be there going at the hour which he had apppointed him, that being deluded by this trick, she might be made willing to marry him, which otherwise, the affection which she bore to Lindamor, would not suffer. But Fortune and Love mocking at this wisdom, made them find Celadon by the chance which I told you of. So that Galatee determining, in any sort to love this shepherd, went purposely to represent to herself every thing in him more lovely. And seeing that he awaked not, that she might leave him to his more quiet rest, she got out as softly as possibly she could, and went to entertain her new thoughts.  
There was by her chamber a pretty stair, which descended into a lower gallery, where by a drawbridge they might enter into a garden furnished with all the rarities which the place could admit, were it in Fountains, in quarters, were it in allies and arbours, nothing being forgotten that art could add to it. At the going out of this place, one might enter into a great wood of diverse sorts of trees, whereof one was of Hasels which altogether made so pleasing a Labyrinth, that though the paths by their diverse turnings lost themselves confusedly, the one within the other, yet were they very delightsome for their shadows.  
Not far off within another quarter, was the fountain of the truth of love, a spring indeed very marvelous: for by the force of enchantments, the lover when he looked into it, might see her whom he loved: if he were beloved of her, he should see himself hard by her: if it fortuned she loved another, the other should be represented, & not himself: and because it discovered the deceits of lovers, they named it The truth of Love.. In another of the quarters, was the den of Damon & Fortune; & lastly, the hole of Mandrague, full of such rarities and so many sorceries, that hour after hour there falls out always some new thing: besides that, throughout the rest of the wood, there be many other diverse caves lively counterfeited, that the eye often beguiles the judgement.  
Now it was within this garden that the Nymph came out to walk, attending for the awaking of the shepherd; and because her new desires would not suffer her to hold her peace, she feigned to have forgotten something, which she commanded Siluie to go and seek for, for that she put the less trust in her for her youth, then in Leonide, who was much elder; both these Nymphs were trusted with her greatest secrets. And being herself alone with Leonide, she said to her, What think you, Leonide? hath not the Druid great knowledge of things? and do not the gods very liberally communicate with him; since the things that are to come, are better known to him, than the present to us? Without doubt (answered the Nymph) he made you see right truly, in the glass, the very place where you found this shepherd: and he told you truly the time, in which you met with him; but his speeches were so doubtful, that I can hardly believe he understands himself. Why say you so (answered Galathee) since he told me so particularly all that I have found, that I know not now to say more than he did? So me thinks it was (answered Leonide) that he only told you, you should find in that place there, a jewel inestimable, which when it came to pass, was a thing to be scorned. Galathee then laughing at her, said, Why, Leonide, know you nothing else? Then must you learn what he told me in particular. Madame, you have two influences quite contrary; the one, the most infortunate that may be under heaven; the other, the most happy that a man may desire: and it dependeth of your own election, to take that which you will; and that you may not deceive yourself, know that you are, and shallbe served of many great Knights, whose virtues and merits may diversely move you; but if you measure your affection either to their merits, or to the judgement which you shall give of their love, and not by that which I instruct you, on the behalf of the gods, I foretell you, you shallbe the most miserable that lives: and that you be not deceived in your election, remember that on such a day, that you see at Marsellys a Knight attired in such a colour, who seeks, or shall seek to marry you (for if you admit him from thence, I shall ever bewail your misfortune, and I cannot sufficiently threaten against you the incredible disasters which attend you) and therefore I advice you to flee from that man whom you may rather term your misfortune then your lover. But contrarily, mark well the place which is represented within this glass, to the end you may know to find him along the river of Lignon. For such a day, at such an hour, you shall meet a man, in the love of whom the heavens have placed all your felicity. If you can so work that he may love you, think not the gods good of their word, if you can wish for more contentment than you shall have; but have care, that the first of you two that first sees the other, be the party that first loves. Think you not, that this is to speak plainly and clearly; especially for that I have since felt these predictions true which he gave me. For, having seen this shepherd first (I must not lie) me thinks I find in me certain sparkles of goodwill to him. How Madam! (said Leonide) will you love a shepherd? Do you not remember who you are? I do so Leonide, said she, I remember myself well enough, but you must also know, that these shepherds are as good as Druids or Knights, & their Nobility is as great as others, being all descended from the antiquity of the same stock, so that the exercise where to they addict themselves, cannot make us others then we are from our birth; so that if this shepherd be well borne, why should not I think him as worthy of me as any other? Finally, Madam (said she) he is a shepherd, how ever you disguise him. In fine, said Galathee, he is an honest man, how ever you will qualify him.  
But Madam (answered Leonide) you that are so great a Nymph, the Lady after Amasis, of all these goodly Countries, will you have a mind so base, to love a man borne of the meaner sort of people, a clown, a shepherd, a fellow of no worth? My friend (replied Galathee) leave these reproaches, and remember that Enone made herself a shepherdess for Paris, and when she had lost him, she lameuted, and wept away in hot tears. Madam (said Leonide) he was the son of a King; and beside, the error of another ought not to cause you to fall into the same fault. If it be a fault, answered she, I refer myself to the gods, who have counselled me by the Oracle of their Druide: but that Celadon is not borne of as good blood as Paris, my friend, thou hast no brain if thou sayest so; for, are they not sprung of one original? Moreover, have you not heard what Siluie talked of him and his father? You must know that they are not shepherds, for not having means to live otherwise, but to buy by this sweet life, an honest quietness. And how, Madam, rejoined Leonide, have you also forgot the affection and services of the gentle Lindamaur? I would not, said Galathee, that forgetfulness should be the reward of his services, neither would I also, that the love Lought to bear him, should be the ruin of all my contentments. Ah Madam, said Leonide, remember how faithful he hath been. Ah my friend, said Galathee, consider that this is the way to be eternally unhappy. For my part, answered Leonide, I shrug with my shoulders at these judgements of love, and know not what to say, but only, that extreme affection, and entire fidelity, the employment of an whole age, and a continual service, should not be so long received; or received, deserve to be paid with other money then a change. For God's sake, Madam, consider how deceitful they are, that tell other men's fortunes, that for the most part, they are but slight imaginations which their dreams brought forth; for the most part lying, that of an hundred accidents which they foretell, hardly one falls out to be true, and for the most part, ignorant, since busying themselves to know the fortune of another, they cannot find their own. And do not you, for the fantastical discourse of this fellow, make so miserable the man that is so dear to you. Set before your eyes how he love's you, in what dangers he hath been thrust into for you; what combat he had with Polemas, and what his despair hath been; what griefs do you now prepare for him, and what deaths will you cause him ●oinuent for his destruction, if he have knowledge of this. Galathee wagging her head, answered her: You see, Leonide, the business is not now about the choice of Lindamaur, or Polemas, as here to fore, but of my well, or evil doing. The considerations which you have, are good to you whom my misfortune touches not, but by way of compassion, yet to me they are exceeding dangerous, since it is not for a day, but for ever, that this misfortune threatens me. If I were in your place, and you in mine, it may be, I would advice you as you do me. But undoubtedly an everlasting misfortune terrifies me: as for the lies of these men you speak of, I will believe for your sake, that it may be it will not so fall out, yet it may be also, that it will fall out; and then tell me, I pray you, think you that party for wise, that for the contentment of another, will leave on the balance (it may be) all his good or evil? If you love me, hold not on this discourse, otherwise I must think that you respect more the contentment of Lindamaur, then mine. And touching him, make no question but he will seek his consolation by some other means then death: for both reason and time are both sovereign helps to this fury; and indeed, how many have you seen of these great despairers upon like occasion, that, some while after, have not repent of their despairs?  
Thus did these fair Nymphs discourse, when far off they saw Siluie return, from whom, because she was so young, Galathee was desirous to conceal it, as I said. This was the cause she cut off her discourse so short: yet she forbore not to say to Leonide, If ever you loved me, you would make it appear to me at this time, since it is not only far from my contentment, but from my felicity also. Leonide could not answer her, because Siluie was so near that she might overhear. Being come, Galathea knew that Celadon was awake: for at the door she heard him groan and sigh. And it was true: for in a while after they were gone out of the chamber, he waked suddenly, and because the Sun shone full on his bed, thorough the glass, at the opening of his eyes, he was so dazzled and confounded with so great brightness, that he knew not where he was, the travail of the day passed had so weakened him; yet by this time he felt no manner of grief: so that calling into his mind his fall into Lignon, and the opinion that he had had a little before of being dead, seeing himself now in so confused a brightness, he knew not what to judge, except it were that Love had taken him up into heaven for a reward of his faithfulness: and that which abused him more in this point, was, that when his sight began to extend itself, he saw nothing about him, but the deckings of gold and of lightsome pictures, with which all the room was adorned, & which his feeble eyes could not as yet discern from counterfeit.  
On the one side, he saw Saturn leaning on his sickle, with his hair long, his forehead rough, his eyes hollow, his nose hooked like an Eagle, his mouth dropping with blood, & full with the morsels of his children, whereof he held one half eaten in his left hand; in which, in the opening which he had made on the side with his teeth, a man might see the lights, as it were to pant, and the heart to tremble. A sight indeed full of cruelty: for that child had the head writhed over the shoulders, the arm hanging forward, and the legs stretching out one way and other, all red with the blood which issued from the wound which the old man had made, whose long beard & locks, in many places, were stained with the blood which fell from the morsels which he tore out to devour; his arms and legs full of nerves, and were in diverse places covered with hair, his thighs lean and flesh-falne, under his feet lay great pieces of bones, where of some were white for age, some began but to be bare, and others joined with a little skin and flesh half consumed, shown that they were but lately laid there.  
Near him one might see nothing but Sceptres in pieces torn, Crowns, great buildings ruined, & that in such sort, that hardly remained any lively resemblance of what they had been.  
Not fare from thence, one might see the Corebantes with their Cymbals and hautboys, hide the little jupiter in a den, from the devouring teeth of that father. Then a little beside, you might see him grown great with a visage inflamed, but grave and full of maiestly, his eyes mild, but striking an awe, a Crown on his head, in his left hand a Sceptre, which he rested on his thigh, where was yet to be seen the scar of the wound which he made, when through the imprudence of the Nymph Semele, that he might save the little Bacchus, he was constrained to open that part, and to bear him until the end of the term. In his other hand he had the lightning cast into three points, which was so lively represented, that it seemed then to fly in the air. He had his feet on a great Globe, and by him you might see a great Eagle, that bare in his hooked beak, a thunderbolt, and came near him, raising the head toward him, as high as his knees. On the back of this Bird was the young Ganymede, attired after the fashion of them that dwell in the mount Ida fat, plump, white, his locks golden and frizzled, that with one hand stroked the head of the Bird, and with the other, reached forth to take the lightning from jupiter, who with his elbow, and not otherwise, gently thrust aside his feeble arm. A little aside might one see the Cup and Ewer, in which this little taster that served Nectar to his Master, so lively set out, that this young servitor striving to wait at jupiters' hand, stumbled with one foot, it seemed to be ready to fall, and the little one purposely turned his head, to see how it came. At the foot of this god was a great vessel, on the right hand was the good, and on the other the evil, and within were vows, prayers and sacrifices, diversely figured: for the sacrifice was represented by the smoke, intermingled with fire; and within, the vows and supplications seemed like quick Ideas, and half marked, but so, that the eye might discern it.  
It would be too long a Discourse, to relate particularly all those pictures. So it was, that every part of the Chamber was full: even Venus herself within her marine shell, among other things, casteth her eye on the star the Greeks had made her in the wars of Troy. And on the other side, you might see little Cupid making much of her, with the hurt on his shoulder, from the lamp of the curious Psyche: And this so well represented, that the shepherd could not discern it from counterfeit. And after he had been long in these thoughts, the three Nymphs entered the Chamber, the beauty and majesty of whom ravished him yet into a greater admiration. But that which persuaded him the rather to the opinion that he was dead, was, that when he saw the Nymphs, he took them to be the three Graces, and especially, seeing the little Merill come in with them, whose height, youth, beauty, with his hair frizzled, and lovely fashion, made him judge him to be Love.. And though he were confounded in himself, yet so it was, that that courage which he had always greater than fitted the name of a shepherd, gave him assurance (after he had saluted them) to demand in what place he was. Where to Galathee answered: Celadon, you are in a place where they have a desire to recover you wholly: we are they, that finding you in the water, have conveyed you hither, where you have all at your command.  
Then Silvia raising herself, Celadon, said she, is it possible you should not know me? do you remember you have seen me in your hamlet? I know not, fair Nymph (answered Celadon) if the state wherein I am, may excuse the feebleness of my memory. How, said the Nymph? remember you no better, that the Nymph Siluie, and two of her companions went to see your sacrifices and sports, the day that you consecrated to the Goddess Venus? The accident befallen you, hath it made you forget, that after you had won the prize from your fellows, at the Lute, Siluie was she that gave you for reward a garland of flowers, which presently you see on the head of Astrea? I know not if all these things be blotted out of your memory: but this I know well, that when you laid the garland on the f●ire hair of Astrea, every one wondered, because of the hatred that had been between your two families, and particularly between Alcippe you father, & Alce the father of Astrea. And then was I desirous to know the occasion: but they so confounded me, that I could know nothing else but that Amarillis having been beloved of these two shepherds, and that between the rivals there hath always been small friendship, they came oftentimes to handblows, until Amarillis espoused your father, and then Alce, and the wise Hippolita whom he after married, nourished so great hatred against them, that it would never after suffer them to converse together. Now see, Celadon, if I know you not well enough, and if I give you not good tokens of that I say. The shepherd hearing these words, by little and little, came to memory of that which she said, and yet he was so astonished, that he knew not what to answer.  
For not knowing Siluie, but for the Nymph of Amasis, and by reason of his country life, having had no familiarity with her, nor with her companions, he could not judge for what cause, nor how he was at this present among them. In the end he answered: That which you say (fair Nymph) is very true: that on Venus her day three Nymphs gave the three prizes, whereof I had that for the Lute; Licidas my brother that for the course, which he gave to Phillis; and Siluander, that for the song, which he presented to the daughter of the fair Belinde; but remember the names which they had, I can not: so that being hindered from our sports, all that we were content to know, was, that they were the Nymphs of Amasis and Galathee. For as for us, as our bodies part not from our pastures, so our sports make us nothing curious. And then (replied Galathee) Have you known no more? That which informed my knowledge (answered the shepherd) was the discourse which my father made me often of his fortunes, in the which I have often heard him make mention of Amasis; but not of any thing particularly that concerned her, though I have earnestly desired him. This desire (replies Galathee) is very commendable, to give him satisfaction, and therefore I will tell you particularly, both what Amasis is, and what we are.  
Know then (gentle shepherd) that of antiquity, this Country which at this present is called Forests, was covered with great Lakes of water, and that there was nothing but the high mountains that you see round about that was uncovered, except some points within the middle of the Plain, as the rock of the wood of Isoure, and of mount Verdun, so that the Inhabitants abode on the tops of the mountains: And therefore it is, that even yet the ancient families of this Country have the buildings of their names in the more lofty places, and in the high mountains. And for proof of that I say, you may yet on the top of Isoure, and mount Verdun, and about the Castle of Marseilles, see great▪ rings of iron in the rock where the vessels were fastened, there begin no likelihood they could serve for any other use. But, it may be, about some fourteen or fifteen ages since, a certain Roman, who in ten years conquered all the Gauls, caused some mountains to be cut down, by which the water voided away; and not long after, the bosom of our Plains were discovered, which seemed so pleasant and fertile, that he purposed to have it inhabited; and for this purpose, he made all those that lived in the mountains, and within the forests, to descend, and willed, that the first building that was then made, should bear the name of julius, which he had; and because the place was moist and slimy, it yielded great store of trees. Some say the place was called Forests, and the people, Foresters, in stead of Segusiens', which they were named before: but they are much deceived. For the name of Forests cometh of Forum. which is Feurs, a little town which the Romans caused to be built, and which they named Forum Segusionorum, as if they would say, The place or the March of the Segusians, which properly is but the place where they kept their armies, during the time that they gave order to the neighbour countries.  
See, Celadon, what they hold for certain, of the Antiquity of this Province: but there are two opinions contrary to this, which I would tell you. The Romans say, that from the time that our plain was yet covered with water, the chaste Goddess Diana delighted so much in it, that she abode in it almost continually: for her Dryads, and Amadriades lived and hunted in this great Wood, and high mountains which environed this great quantity of waters: and because there were store of fountains, she came often to bathe herself with her Nayades, which kept there ordinarily. But when the waters were voided, the Nayades were constrained follow them, and to go with them into the bosom of the Ocean, so that the Goddess found herself at one instant destitute of the half part of her Nymphs. And this was the cause, that not being able with so small a troop to continued her ordinary pastime, she chose out some daughters of the chief Druids and knights, whom she joined with the Nymphs that remained, to whom she gave likewise the name of Nymph. But it fell out, as in the end, the abuse perverts all order, that many of them, which in their youth had been bred in the house, some among the commodities of a loving mother; others, among the allurements of sights and services of Lovers, not able to hold out in the travail of hunting, nor banish out of their memories, the honest affections of those, that sometimes made suit unto them, would retire to their own home, and marry: and some others, whom the Goddess denied leave, failed in their promises, and in their honesty; which so much provoked her, that she resolved to forsake that profane country, as she took it, for this vice, which she so much abhorred. But because she would not punish the virtue of some, with the error of others; before she went away, she ignominiously chased out, and for ever banished out of the Country all those which had offended, & made choice of one, to whom she gave the same Authority, which she had over all the Country; and willed, that for ever the race of her should have all the command, and then permitted them to marry, but with express prohibition, that the men should never succeed. Since that time there was never any abuse among us, and the laws have inviolably been observed. But our Druids talk in another manner; for they say, that our great Princess Galathee, the daughter of the King Celtes, wife of the great Hercules, and mother of Galathee, who gave name to the Gauls, who formerly had been called Celtes, full of love to her husband, followed him, whither his courage and virtue carried him, among the Monsters, and against the Giants.  
And by fortune, at that time the mountains which separated us from Avernus, and those which bend towards the left hand, which they call Cemene and Gebenne, served for a place of retreat to some Gaints, which by their force made themselves terrible to all men. Hercules being advertised hereof, came; and because he loved very tenderly his dear Galathe●, he left her, in this country which was next neighbour, and wherein she took great pleasure, what for the game, what for the company of the daughters of that country. And for that she was Queen of all the Gauls, when Hercules had vanquished the Gaints, and that the necessity of his affairs compelled him to go other where, before their departure to leave an eternal memory of the delight she took in this country, she made those ordinances, which the Romans say, the Goddess Diana did. But were it Galathee or Diana, so it is, that by a supernatural privilege we have been particularly maintained in our franchises, since that of so many peoples, which like a torrent, were poured out over all Gaul, there was not one that hath disquieted us in our repose, Even Alarick● king of the Visigots, when with Aquitaine he had conquered all the Provinces on this side Loire, having known our statutes, confirmed our privileges, and without usurping any authority over us, left us in our ancient franchises. It may be you may think it strange that I talk to you so particularly of the things, which are beyond the capacity of those of my age: but you must know, that Pimander, who was my father, hath been curious to search out the antiquities of this Country, in such sort, that the more understanding Druids discoursed to him ordinarily, while he was at his meal: and I, that almost always was with him, remembered that which liked me best. And thus I knew, that in one continued line, Amasis my mother was descended from them, whom the goddess Diana or Galathee made choice of. And therefore it is, that being Lady of all those Countries, and having yet a son called Clidaman, she brings up wi●h us a number of maidens and daughters of the Druids and knights, who being in so good a school, learn all the virtues which their age will permit. The maids go attired as you see us, which is a kind of habit that Diana or Galathee used to wear, and which we have always maintained in memory of her. See, Celadon, that which you desire to know of our estate, and I make account before you go away, (for I would you will see us all together) that you might say that our company giveth place to none other, neither in virtue nor yet in beauty.  
Now Celadon knowing who these fair Nymphs were, knew also what respect he was to show them; and though he had not been accustomed to be among others than Shepherds his like, yet such was the good breeding that he had, that it taught him well enough what was due to such personages. Then, after he had done them the honour which he thought he was bound to: But (said he, holding on) I can not but be astonished, to be among so many great Nymphs, I that am but a simple shepherd, and to receive so many favours of them. Celadon (answered Galathee) in what place soever Virtue is, it deserves to be loved and honoured, as well under the habit of shepherds, as under the glorious purple of kings; and for your particular, you are with us of no less account, than the greatest of the Druids or knights in our Court: for you are not to give place to them in favour, sith you do not in merit. And for your being among us, know you, that it is not without a great mystery from our gods, which have apppointed it, as you may know at leisure, whether it be, that they will no longer, that so many virtues remain among the Savages in the forest and country towns, or whether it be, that they will work a design in you, advancing you greater than you are, to make most happy by you, the person that loveth you. Live only in rest, and look to your health. For there is nothing you should more desire, in the state wherein you are, than health. Madam (answered the shepherd, who understood not the words well) If I be to desire health, the chief cause is, that I may be able to do you some service, in exchange of so many favours, which it hath pleased you to do me. It is true, that I need not tell you that I came from the wood or pastures, otherwise the solemn vow which our fathers have made unto the gods, will accuse us to them, as unworthy children of such fathers. And what oath is it, answered the Nymph? The history, replied Celadon, would be too long, if I should tell you the cause that my father Alcippe had to hold it. So it is, that many years since, of a general accord, all those that kept along the rivers of Loire, of Lignon, of Furan, of Argent, and of all other rivers, after he had well understood the discommodity, which the ambition of a people called Romans, made their neighbours feel, out of desire of dominion, assembled together in a great Plain, which is near the mount Verdun, and there by a mutual agreement swore all, to fly for ever from all sort of ambition, for that it alone was cause of so much pains, and to live, they and theirs, under the peaceable habit of shepherds, and since that, it hath been observed (the gods so well liked this vow) that none of them that made it, nor their successors, but he had travel and pains incredible, if he observed it not; and among all, my father is an example most remarkable, and most new: So that having known, that the will of heaven is, that we should keep in rest that which we have to live on; we have of late renewed this vow, with so many oaths, that he that breaks it, shall become most detestable. Truly (said the Nymph) I am well pleased to hear that you tell me, for it is long since I heard them talk of it, and I could never yet know, why so many good and ancient Families as I he are there are among you, employ themselves out of the towns, to spend their age in the woods and places most solitary. But, Celadon, if the case wherein you are, will suffer, tell me, I pray you, what hath been the fortune of your father Alcippe, to make him take again that kind of life, which he had so long time left; for I assure myself, the discourse is worthy to be known. Then, though he felt himself yet evil of the water which he had swallowed, yet he constrained himself to obey her, and began in this sort:  

The History of Alcippe.  
YOu command me (Madam) to tell you the fortune most cross and divers of any man in the world, and in which one may learn, that he that will work trouble to another, prepares a great part to himself. But since you will have it so, and that I may not disobey you, I will tell you briefly, that which I have learned by ordinary discourse from himself, to whom all these things have befallen: For, that we might understand how happy we were to live in quietness of spirit, my father hath often recounted unto us his strange fortunes. Know then (Madam) that Alcippe, having been bred by his father, in the simplicity of a shepherd, had a spirit so differing from his education, that every thing pleased him better than that that savoured of the village. So that this young Infant, for a presage of what he would come to, and to which when he was in years, he addicted himself, had no greater delight, then to make assemblies of other children like himself, whom he took upon to set in order, and to arm some with staffs, some with bows and arrows, whom he taught to draw right, the menaces of the old and wise shepherds not being able to divert him.  
The ancients of our Hamlets seeing his actions, foretell of great troubles in these countries; and above all, that Alcippe would be of a turbulent spirit, that would never rest with in the limits of a shepherd. When he came to the balfe part of his age, by chance he fell amorous of the shepherdess Amarillis, who at that time was secretly wooed of another shepherd his neighbour, called Alce. And because Alcippe had so good an opinion of himself, that he thought that there was not any shepherdess, who would not as freely entertain his affection as he offered it, he resolved to use no great Art to tell her it: so that meeting her at the sacrifice of Pan, as she returned home, he said unto her, I never thought I was of so small force, that I could not resist the blows of an enemy, that wounds me unawares. She answered; He that wounds by mistaking, should not be called an enemy. No, answered he, which rest not on deeds, but on words only; but (for my part) I find that he that offends, howsoever it be, is an enemy, and therefore I may well give you that name. To me (replied she?) I would neither have the deed nor the thought, for I make too great account of your merit. See (adjoined the shepherd) one of the blows wherein you offend me more, in telling me one thing for another, then if truly you would acknowledge in me that which you say, for that I hold myself wronged by you, in as much as you say you favour me. But I see well, you think it enough, to bear Love in your eyes, and in your mouth, without giving him place in your heart. The shepherdess then finding herself surprised, as not having understood his speech of love, answered him: I make account, Alcippe, of your virtue, as I ought, and not beyond my duty; and touching that you talk of love, believe it, I will have it neither in mine eyes, nor in my heart for any man, and much less for those base spirits, which live like Savages among the woods. I know well (replied the shepherd) that it is not the election of Love, but my destiny, which compels me to be yours, since that if Love ought to arise from the resemblance of humour, it would be very hard, that Alcippe should not be for you, who from his Cradle hath hated this country life, and protesteth unto you, if I must change my condition, to have a part in your love, from henceforth I forsake the Sheephook and my Flocks, and will live among men, and not among Savages.  
You may well (answered Amarillis) change your condition, but not make me change, being resolved to be never less mine own, than I am now, to give place to any stronger affection: if you will, we should continue, the life which we have led, for the time past; change this discourse of affection, & of Love, into that you were wont to use to me heretofore, or else think not strange, that I banish myself from your company, it being impossible that Love, and the honest Amarillis should remain together. Alcippe, that looked for no such answer, seeing himself so far from his hopes, was so confounded, that he stayed somewhile before he could answer. In the end, being come to himself, he began to persuade himself, that the bashfulness of her age, and sex, and not want of good will towards him, had made her hold this course: Therefore it was that he answered her; Whatsoever you think of me, I shall never be other than your servant; and if the commandment you give me, were not disagreeing with my affection, you were to think, that there is nothing in the world that might make me contradict it: you must then excuse me, and suffer me to hold on my purpose, which is but a testimonial of your merit, and wherein, will you, nill you, I am resolved. The shepherdess turning her eyes sweetly towards him, I know not, Alcippe, said she, whether for a wager, or out of obstinacy you talk thus. It is (answered he) for both, for I have laid a wager with my desires, to conquer you, or to dye; and this resolution is changed into obstinacy, there being nothing that can divert me from the oath which I have made. I would be well pleased, replied Amarillis, that you had taken any other for the But of such importunities. You may name my affections (said the shepherd) as it pleaseth you: yet shall not this make me change my mind. Nor you must not think much, replied Amarillis, if I be as firm in my obstinacy, as you in your importunity. The shepherd would have answered, but that he was interrupted by many shepherdess that came to them. So that Amarillis for conclusion said very softly to him, You may do me a displeasure, if your purpose be known: for I am contented to know your follies, and it will be small pleasure that any others should understand it. So ended the first discourse between my father and Amarillis, which did but increase the desire in him to serve her; for nothing addeth so much to Love, as honesty: And by fortune in the way, this company met with Celion and Bellinde, who were stayed to behold two turtles, who were cheering & making love each to other, no whit afraid to see many about them. Then Alcippe remembering the commandment which Amarillis had given him, could not hold from sighing out these verses:  

A Sonnet of the restraint of Honor.  
Venus' dear birds doves, loving over all,  
That double without end your kisses true,  
And tired with cares, do still by them renew,  
Now your sweet peace, and sometime your sweet brawl.  
When I behold you rest, or stir your wings,  
As ravished with the ease wherein you are,  
O God, then us, how be you happier far,  
That freely'nioy the sweets your true love brings:  
Your fortune gives you leave, freely to show  
The thing which we must hide, that none may know,  
By laws unjust which honour granteth us;  
Faint honour that makes us turn our own foes,  
For cruel reasonless, she wills it thus,  
That stealth in Love alone with passport goes.   
After this time he so suffered himself to be transported with his affection, that there was no bound which he overpassed not, and she, on the contrary, shown herself always more cold and icy to him, and one day when he was requested to sing, he said such verses:  

A Madtigall on the coldness of Amarillis.  
HEr heart of ice, her eye all fire,  
And mine directly contrary;  
I frieze without, but inwardly  
I scorch with flame of my desire:  
Alas! that Love hath chosen to possess  
My heart, and th●eies of my fair shepherdess  
God's grant, that once it may be well reversed,  
I, in mine eyes, she have it in her breast.   
At this time, as I told you, Alce made suit to Amarillis, and because he was a right honest shepherd, and esteemed wise, the father of Amarillis inclined rather to give her to him, and not to Alcippe, because of his turbulent courage; and on the contrary, the shepherdess better loved my father, because his humour came nearer to hers; which the wise father well perceiving, and not willing to use any violence, nor absolute authority over her, he thought, that fare distance might divert her from this will, and so resolved to send her for some time to Artemis, the sister of Alce, who dwelled about the banks of the river of Allier. When Amarillis knew the deliberation of her father, as always they endeavour to things forbidden; she took a resolution not to go away, before she had given Alcippe assurance of her good will: in this design she wrote these words:  
YOur obstinacy hath overpassed mine, but mine shall likewise overpass that, which constrains me to advertise you, that to morrow I go away, and that this day, if you may find me on the way, where we met yesterday, & that your love can content itself with words, it shall have occasion to be there, and adieu.  
It would be overlong, Madam, to tell you all that passed particularly between them, beside, that the case wherein I am, makes me unable to do it. It shall be sufficient in abridging it, to tell you that they met in that place: and this was the first time when my father had assurance that he was loved of Amarillis, and that she counselled him to leave the Country life, wherein he was bred, because she disdained it, as unworthy a noble courage, promising that there should be nothing so strong, that might divert her from her resolution. After they were parted, Alcippe engraves these verses on a tree in the wood:  

A Sonnet on the constancy of his Love..  

Fair Amarillis, full of lovely graces,  
As she went cropping of the flowers from stalks,  
Under her hand that gathered, as she walks,  
Sprung others suddenly up in their places.   

Those beauteous locks where Love did interlac●,  
Himself heaving them up with gentle air,  
If he spied any of them out of square,  
Right curiously he set them in their place.   

S●rare a sight Lignon stood still to see,  
Offers his waves her Looking-glass to be,  
And after says, So fair aportraiture,   

When thou art gone, my stream may bear away:  
But from my heart there shall not slip for aye,  
The fatal draught of thy face (Nymph) be sure.    
After she was gone, and that he began to feel the displeasures of her absence, going often to the same place where he had taken leave of his shepherdess, he sigheth forth these verses:  

A Sonnet on absence.  

River of Lignon, whose eternal stream,  
Through gracious forests runs, watering her bre●●,  
Wave upon wave driving, and tak'st norest,  
Until thou interest to thy father's realm:   

Seest thou not how Allier snatcheth from thee  
Thy fair, like wrongful laws of mighty strong,  
And from thy banks their honour bears along,  
To drive thee to iust plaints for remedy?   

Against this Ravisher call to thine aid,  
Those, that for her departure all dismayed,  
Pay tears, that thou mayst see thy channel swell.   

Dare only that those eyes and hearts of ours,  
May pour out for thy help, thousands of showers,  
That shall not dry, till thou be'st venged well.    
But not being able to live without sight of her there, where he had been used to the good of her view, he resolved, howsoever, to departed from thence; and while he searched for some occasion, he met with one as good as he could wish. Some little while before the mother of Amasis died, and they made preparation in the great town of Marseilles, to receive her as their new Lady with much triumph. And because the preparations which they made, drew for curiosity, almost all the Country, my father so wrought, that he had leave to go thither. And there it was whence the beginning of all his travails proceeded. He was about his half age, some Moons more, his face fair among those of that Country, his hair yellowish, curled, and crisped by nature, which he wore long: and briefly, Madam, such, as to whom Love (it may be) owed some secret vengeance. And see how he was seen of some Lady, and so secretly beloved of her, that we could never yet know her name. At the first that he arrived at Marseilles, he was clothed like a shepherd, but handsomely enough, for his father made much of him: and that he might not commit some foolish trick, as his manner was, in the Hamlet, he set two or three shepherds about him, to have a care of him; principally one, called Cleante, a man whose humour pleased his father well, so that he loved him, as if he had been his son. This Cleante had one called Clindor, of my father's age, who, by nature, seemed to have the same inclination to love Alcippe; Alcippe, who on the other side, knew his affection, loved him above any other; which was so pleasing to Cleante, that he had nothing that he could deny to my father. This was the cause, that after they had some days seen how the young Knights, who were at the Feast, went attired, how they armed themselves, and fought at the Barriers, and having showed his mind to his friend Clindor, they both together besought Cleante, to give them means, that they might show themselves among the other Knights. And how, said Cleante to them, have you the courage to equal yourselves to them? And why not, said Alcippe? have I not as much arm and leg as they? But you have not learned the civilities of the Town. We have not learned them, said he, but they are not so hard, that they should put us out of hope to apprehend them soon enough; and me thinks there is not such difference between theirs and ours, but we may readily change them. You have not, said he, been used to Arms. We have, replied he, courage enough to supply that want. And how, adjoined Cleante, would you leave the Country life? And what, said Alcippe, have the woods to do with men? and what can men learn in conversing with beasts? But, answered Cleante, this will be no great pleasure to you, to see yourselves disdained by the glorious Courtiers, which will always reproach you that you are shepherds. If it be a shame, said Alcippe, to be a shepherd, we must be such no more: if it be no shame, the reproach cannot be hurtful: or if they disesteem me for my name, I will strive by my actions, to make myself esteemed. In the end, Cleante seeing they were resolved to lead other lives then their fathers: But well, said he, my children, since you have taken this resolution, I will tell you, that though you be taken for shepherds, your birth always came from the most ancient stock of this Country, & from whence descended as many brave Knights, as of any other in Gaul; but a consideration contrary to that you have, made them choose this retired life. Therefore fear not that you shall be welcome among those knights; the principal of which are of the same blood that you are. These words served for no other use, but to inflame them the more; for this knowledge bred in them a desire to put their purpose to effect, without considering what might come of it; whether for the discommodities which that life brings, or for the displeasure that the father of Alcippe and his kindred might conceive. Afterword Cleante was at charge to provide for all things necessary. They were both so well borne, that quickly they worn the acquaintance and friendship of the principal: and Alcippe gave himself in that sort to Arms, that he became to be one of the good Knights of his time.  
During these Feasts, which lasted two months, my father was beheld, as I told you, of a Lady, whose name I could never know: and because he seldom was wanting in any thing that might make him beloved, she was in such sort overtaken, that she invented a sleight good enough to bring about her intent. One day, as my father stood in the Temple at the Sacrifices which they made for Amasis, an old woman came near him, and feigning to be at her prayers, she said twice or thrice, Alcippe, Alcippe, not looking on him. He hearing himself named, was about to ask her, what she would with him; but seeing her eyes turned another way, he thought she spoke to some other. She that perceived he hearkened, went on, Alcippe, it is to you I speak, though I look not upon you: if you desire to have the best fortune that ever knight had in this Court, be between day and night at the great cross way, which leads to the place of the Palace, and there you shall know the rest of me. Alcippe seeing her speak in this manner, without looking on her, likewise said, he would be there; wherein he failed not: for the evening approaching, he went to the place assigned, where he stayed not long, but the aged woman came to him, almost hidden under a Tastata that she had on her head, and drawing him aside, said to him, Young man, thou art the most happy that lives, being beloved of the most fair, and most lovely Lady in this Court, and with whom (if thou wilt promise that, that I shall demand of thee) at this hour I bind myself, to make thee enjoy all contentment. The young Alcippe hearing this proposition, asked who the Lady was. See, said she, the first thing that I would have you promise me, is, not to inquire after her name, and to keep this fortune secret: the other, that you suffer me to cover your eyes, when I bring you where she is. Alcippe said to her, Not to inquire after her name, and to keep this affair secret, I will willingly perform: but to blindfold mine eyes, I will never suffer. And what is it you fear (said she?) I fear nothing, answered Alcippe: but I will have mine eyes at liberty. O young man, said the old woman, that art yet to learn, why wilt thou procure the displeasure of a person that so love's thee? and will not this displease her, to desire to know more of her, than she would have thee?  
Believe me, make no difficulty, doubt nothing, what danger can it be to thee? Where is that courage that thy presence promiseth at the first sight? Is it possible that a peril imagined, can make thee forsake an assured good? And seeing that he moved not, Cursed be the mother, said she, that made thee so fair, & so little hardy; without doubt, both thy visage and thy courage are more of the woman, then of that thou art. The young Alcippe could not hear, without laughing, these words of the old woman uttered in such choler. In the end, after he had sometime thought in himself, what an enemy he might have, & finding that he now had none, he resolved to go, provided, she would suffer him to carry his sword, and so let her blind his eyes; and taking her by her garment, followed her whither she would lead him.  
I should be too long, Madam, if I should tell you all the particularities of this night. So it was, that after many turnings, and having (it may be) many times passed one way, he found himself in a chamber, where, his eyes yet bound, he was unclothed by the same woman, and laid in bed; awhile after, came the Lady, that had sent for him, & coming near him, uncased his eyes, because there was no light in the chamber: But for all that he could do, he was not able to get one word from her: So that he rose from her in the morning, without knowing who she was; only he judged her fair, and young: and an hour before day, she that brought him, came to carry him back, and lead him with the same ceremonies. From that day, they resolved between them, that whensoever he was to return, he should find a stone at a certain crossway before day.  
While these things thus passed, the father of Alcippe dies, so that he is now more Master of himself, than he was wont to be; & had not the commandment of Amarillis been, and his private intent, which he held, the love which he bore to his shepherdess, might haply have called him back into the woods: for the favours of this unknown Lady could not put her out of his remembrance, that if the great gifts which he had ordinarily of her, had not retained him in this practice, after the two or three first voyages he had retired, though it seemed, since that time, he was come into the favour of Pimander and Amasis. But for that a young heart can hardly keep any thing hidden long, it fell out, that Clindor, his dear friend, seeing him spend more then of custom, demanded of him, how he came by his means. Whereto, at the first, answering diversely, in the end he discovered all his fortune: and after, told him, that for all the Art he could use, he could never know who she was. Clindor being very curious, counselled him to cut out some half a foot of the fringe of the bed; and in the day he should resort to the greatest houses which he might best suspect, and there he might know her, either by the colour, or by the piece. This he did, and by this craft, my father had knowledge of her that thus favoured him. Yet he hath closely concealed her name, that neither Clindor, nor any of his children could ever know it. But, the first time that he went thither after that, when he was about to rise in the morning, he conjured her, that she would no longer hide herself from him, that it was labour lost, for he knew assuredly that she was such an one.  
She hearing herself named, was about to speak, yet held her peace, and stayed till the old woman came: to whom, when Alcippe was risen from the bed, she used such threatenings, thinking it was she that discovered it, that this poor woman came trembling to my father, and swore he deceived himself. He then laughing, told the craft he had used, and that it was the invention of Clindor. She well eased with that which he had discovered, after a thousand oaths to the contrary, returned to tell this to the Lady, who was risen of herself, to hear their discourse: and when she knew, that Clindor was the inventor, she turned all her choler against him, easily pardoning Alcippe, whom she could not hate; notwithstanding, after that day, she never sent more for him. And because a spirit offended hath nothing so sweet as revenge, this woman turned so of every side, that she wrought a quarrel against Clindor; for which he was enforced to combat with a cousin of Pimander, whom he slew; and though he were pursued, yet he saved himself in Auverne, by the help of Alcippe. But Amasis so wrought, that Alaricke, King of the Visigots, being then at Tholouse, sent him prisoner to usson, with commandment to his Officers, to deliver him over into the hands of Pimander, who looked for nothing more, then to find commodity to send for him, that he might put him to death. Alcippe left nothing unattempted to procure his pardon; but all was in vain: for he had too strong a party against him. Therefore, seeing the assured loss of his friend, he resolved upon any danger whatsoever, to save him. There was at usson (as I told you) a place so strong, that it might seem a folly to any other to undertake to get him out; yet his friendship, that found nothing so difficult, as to live without Clindor, was such, as he made an assault to defeat them which were of Pimanders' part. So, making show to retire himself as discontent, he went with twelve other, and one day of March, presenting themselves at the Port of the Castle, in the habit of clowns, and carrying under their garments, short swords, and baskets on their arms, as men that went to sell; I have heard him say, there were three fortresses, one within another.  
These resolute Peasants came to the utmost, where few of the Visigots remained; for the most part were gone down to the base town, to see the market, and to provide themselves of what was necessary for the garrison. Being there, they offered their wares at so good a price, that (almost) all that were within, drew down to buy. Then my father seeing the occasion good and fit, laying hold of the neck of him that kept the gate, thrust his sword into his body. And every of his companions (at the same instant) did like him, and entering in, put the rest to the edge of the sword; and suddenly shutting the gate, they ran to the prisons, where they found Clindor in a corner, and so many others, that they judged (being armed) sufficient to defeat the rest of the garrison. To make short, I tell you Madam, that though by the alarm, the gates of the town were shut, yet they got out, without the loss of a man, though the Governor (that in the end was slain) made all the resistance he could.  
Thus you see Clindor saved, and Alaricke advertised, that it was my father that had done this enterprise; whereof he was so much displeased, that he demanded justice of Amasis: and she which would not lose his amity, was willing enough to content him, and sent presently to apprehend my father; but his friend gave him such advertisements, that having set his battle in order, he went out of this Country: and being incensed against Alaricke more than is credible, went to put himself to a Nation that but lately was entered into Gaul; and who being warlike, seized on both the sides of Rosue and Arar, and a good part of the Allobroges, and being desirous to enlarge their bounds, they made continual war on the Visigots, Ostrogots and Romans. He was welcome with all those whom he would conduct: and being known for a man of valour, he was presently honoured with diverse charges. But some years being passed, Gondioch king of this Nation coming to die, Gondebaut his son succeeded to the Crown of Bourgonny: and desirous to assure his affairs, at the beginning made a peace with his neighbours, marrying his son Sigismond with one of the daughters of Theodoricke king of the Ostrogots: and to please Alaricke, who was infinitely offended with Alcippe, promised him to keep him no longer with him. So that (with his leave) he withdrew to another people, which on the side of Rhein's was seized of another part of Gaul, in despite of the Gauls, and of the Romans. But this discourse would be cumbersome to you, if particularly I should recount all his voyages. For from them he was constrained to go to London, to the great King Arthur, who at the same time (as I have heard him often tell) instituted the Order of the Knights of the Round Table.  
From thence he was enforced to go to that Realm, which bears the name of Port du Gaulois: and in the end, being sought for by Alaricke, he resolved to pass the Sea, and to go to Bisantium, where the Emperor gave him charge of his Galleys. But because the desire of returning into our Country, is above all others, my father (though very great with these great Emperors) yet had nothing nearer his heart, than once more to see his own chimney's smoke, where so often he had been made a wanton; and it seemed Fortune gave him a fit mean, when he least looked for it. But I have heard say sometimes by our Druids, that Fortune is delighted to turn on the other side, when the change is least expected. Alaricke came to die, & Thierry his son succeeded him, who for that he had many brethren, had much to do to maintain his estate, without heeding the hatred of his father. And so desirous to give content to every man (for Bounty and Liberality are the two lovers that draw all loves to them) at the entrance to his reign, he proclaimed a general abolition of all offences done in his kingdom. See a good beginning to compass the return of Alcippe; yet might he not return, because Pimander had not forgotten the injury received: notwithstanding, as the Visigots were the cause of his banishment, so Fortune would have them serve as the instrument of his calling back. Some little time before (as I told you) Arthur king of great Britain had instituted the Knights of the Round Table, which was a certain number of virtuous young men, obliged to go seek adventures, to punish evil doers, to do justice to the oppressed, and maintain the honour of Ladies.  
Now the Visigots of Spain, which then abode in Pampal●ne, in imitation of that, chose out Knights, who were to go diverse ways, to show their force and help. It fell out, that at this time one of the Visigots, after he had run thorough many countries, came to Marseilles, where having made his defiance accustomed, he overcame many of Pimanders Knights, whose heads he cut off, and out of extreme cruelty, for proof of his valour, sent them to a Lady, whom he served in Spain. Among others, Amarillis lost an uncle, who like my father, unwilling to abide the quiet of the country life, had followed the mystery of arms: and because that while he was abroad, she had been curious to have of ordinary some news of him, by means of some young boys, which he and she had appointed for it, as soon as this mishap was come to her knowledge, she wrote to him, not in mind that he should return, but as acquainting him with her displeasure. Love, which is never in a good soul, without replenishing it with a thousand generous dessignes, would not suffer my father to know, that Amarillis was offended with any man; but presently he takes a resolution to chastise this wrong: and so, with the leave of the Emperor, came disguised into the house of Cleante, who knowing his deliberation, attempted many ways to divert him, but Love had stronger persuasions than he. And in a morning, as Pimander was going to the Temple, Aloippe presents himself before him, armed throughout, & though he had his vizard up, yet was he not known for his beard, which grew since his departure. When Pimander knew his resolution, he made much of him, for the hatred he bore to this stranger, by reason of his arrogancy, and cruelty, and presently caused the Visigot to be advertised by an Herald of arms.  
To make short, my father over came him, and presented the sword to Pimander; and without the knowledge of any body, but Amarillis that saw him out of Cleantes house, he returned to Bisantum, where he was received as before. In this space, Cleante, that desired nothing more than to see him at liberty in Forests, discovered him to Pimander, who was very desirous to know the name of him that fought with the stranger. He at the first astonied, in the end moved with the virtue of this man, demanded if it were possible he should be alive? Whereto Cleante answered, recounting to him all his fortunes, and all his long voyages, & in the end, what account he was of, with all the Kings whom he served. Without doubt (than said Pimander) the virtue of this man merits to be esteemed, and not to be banished, besides the great pleasure he hath done me; Therefore let him return, and assure himself, that I will esteem of it, and love him as he deserves: And hence forth I pardon him all that he hath done against me. Thus my father, after he had stayed 17. years in Greece, came into his country, honoured of Pimander and Amasis, who gave him the chief charge, that was about their persons: But see what we are of ourselves! One may delight him, with all things in abundance, and the desire satiated remains without force. As soon as my father enjoyed the favours of fortune, as he could desire, behold, he lost the taste, and disdained them. And then some good Angel, that was willing to draw him out of this gulf, where so often he was like to make shipracke, represented to him (as I have heard him say) these considerations: Come hither, Alcippe, what is thy desire? Is it not to live happily, so long as Clotho spins out thy life? If this be it, or thinkest thou to find this good, but in quiet rest, or it may be, out of affairs, how can they bear the ambition of the Court, since the happiness of ambition, is the multiplicity of affairs? Hast not thou sufficiently proved the inconstancy whereof they are so full? at least have but this consideration in thee: Thy ambition is to command many, every of them hath the same desire that thou hast; these their desires propound the same ways; going the same ways, cannot they come to the same that thou art, and attain it, since ambition is a place so straight that it can hold but one alone, so that either you must oppose against a thousand that will set on you, or else give way to them? If thou oppose, what can be thy quiet, since you are to have an eye to your friends, and to your enemies, and that day and night their weapons are whetting against thee? If thou give way to them, there is nothing so miserable, as a country decayed. Then, Alcippe, come again into thyself, and remember that thy fathers and grandfathers have been much wiser than thou: be not more self willed, but fix the diamond nail at the wheel of this fortune, which thou hast so often proved changeable: come back to the place of thy birth, leave this purple, and change it into thy former habits; let thy lance be turned into a sheephook, thy sword into a coulter, to open the earth, and not the bellies of men; there shalt thou find that repose, which for so many years thou couldst never have elsewhere.  
See, Madam, the considerations which led my father to his formenr profession. And thus, to the great astonishment of all, but with the great praises of the wiser sort, he came to his former estate, where he caused our ancient statutes to be renewed, with so good liking of all men, that he might say he was at the height of ambition, though he were impoverished, since he was so well beloved, and honoured of his neighbours, that they took him for an Oracle. And yet this was not the end of his pains: for being after the death of Pimander retired to himself, he had not been long in our grounds, but Lo●●e renews his old blows, there being of all Love's arrows, none sharper than that of conversation. Then behold Amarillis so high in his thoughts, that she gave him more pain than all his former travails. It was at that time that he took again the device which he had borne, during all his voyages of the Pen of a jay, meaning to signify Peinjay. Of this love came great hatred; for Alce the father of Astrea, was infinitely amorous of this Amarillis, and Amarillis, during my father's exile, had permitted this suit by the commandment of her parents, and at this time she cannot withdraw it, without so great trouble, that he is ready to despair. On the other side, Alcippe, that casting off the habit of a knight, but had not left the courage, could not suffer a Rival, came to handy strokes many times with Alce, who wanted not courage: and a man may think, but for the parents of Amarillis, who resolve to bestow her on Alcippe, there had been much mischief between them. But though by this marriage they cut off the boughs of this quarrel; yet their hatred lived so, and grew so high, that there was never familiarity between Alce and Alcippe. And this is (said Celadon, addressing himself to Siluie) fair Nymph, which you heard them talk when you were in our hamlet; for I am the son of Alcippe, and of Amarillis, and Astrea is the daughter of Alce, and Hipolite. It may be, you may think it strange, that not parting from our woods and pastures, I know so many particulars of the neighbour Countries. But, Madam, all that I have learned, was but from my father, who recounting unto me his life, hath been driven withal, to tell me the things you have heard.  
So ended Celadon his discourse, and indeed, not without pain, for speaking hurt him much, having his stomach as yet distempered: and this was the cause that he recounted the History much shorter than otherwise he could. But Galathes rested more satisfied than he imagined, for that she knew of what Ancestors this shepherd was descended, whom she loved.   
The end of the second Book.   

THE THIRD BOOK OF Astrea and Celadon.  
WHile the day lasted, these fair Nymphs yielded so good company to Celadon, that had he not been displeased with the change of Astrea, he had had no cause of grief; for these were both fair and full of judgement: yet in the case wherein he was, all this was not enough to stay him from wishing himself to be alone. And because he saw it could not be without the help of the night, that would constrain them to withdraw, he wished for it every hour. But when he thought to have been alone, the● found he more company: for the night being come, and these Nymph's go● into their chambers, his thoughts came to accompany him with so cruel remembrance, that they made him feel their coming otherwise then he wished. What despairs presented not themselves to him? None that Love might bring forth, especially to a love so hopeless. For if against the unjust sentence of his Mistress, he opposed his innocency, suddenly the execution of the arrest came before his eyes. And as he fell out of one thought into another, his hand, by chance, touched the ribon where Astrea's ring was, which he had wound about his arm. Oh! what deadly remembrances came into his spirit? He represented to himself all the anger, which at that instant she had painted in her face; all the cruelty his soul could invent, both by words and actions, and all the disdains, with which she had pronounced the award of his banishment.  
Staying somewhile on that last mischance, he began to remember the change of his fortune, how happy he had been, how highly she had favoured him, and how long it had lasted; from that he came, to what she had done for him; how for his sake she had scorned diverse honest shepherds; what small reckoning she made of her father's will; the displeasure of her mother; and the difficulties, which arose against their loves: then he went on, bethinking himself, that the fortunes of Love are more assured then of other things, and what a little remained to him of so many favours, which at last came but to one bracelet of hair which he had on his arm, and a little picture which he hung at his neck, the case whereof he often kissed: as for the ring which he had on his other arm, he conceived that rather of force, than of good will, she gave him that. But then, at that instant he remembered the letters she had written to him, during his good fortune, and which he bore ordinarily about him, in a bag of silk. Oh! how great was his anguish? for he feared, that the Nymphs searching his clothes, had found it. In this doubt he calls loud upon little Merill, for he was lodged in a Wardrobe hard by, to attend him. The boy hearing him call twice or thrice, came to know what he would. My little friend (said Celadon) knowest thou not what are become of my clothes? for I have something thereabout, that I would be sorry to lose. Your clothes (said he) are not fare off, but there is nothing in them: for I have searched them.  
Ah, said the shepherd, thou deceivest thyself, Merill, I have something there that I had rather keep then my life; and then turning on the other side the bed, begun to bewail and torment himself some good while. Merill, that heard him, one way, was loath to displease him; and on the other, stood in doubt, whether he should tell him what he knew. In the end, not being able to suffer to see him any longer in this pain, he told him he need not so much disquiet himself, and that the Nymph Galathee loved him too well, not to restore him the thing he made show to be so desirous of. Then Celadon turning towards him, And how (saith he) hath the Nymph that which I demand? I believe (said he) it is the same. At least, I found nothing but a little bag full of papers; and as I was about to have brought them before you slept, she spied them, and took them from me. O Lord, than (said the shepherd) all things fall out the worst they may; and turning on the other side, would talk to him no more. In this mean time had Galathee read the letters of Celadon: for it was true that she had taken them from Merill, following the ordinary curiosity of them which love: But she had straight charged him to say nothing, because she had a purpose to give him them, but he should not know she had seen them. At that time Siluie carried a light before, and Leonide was somewhere else, and of necessity, now she was to be of counsel. We shall see (said Siluie) if this shepherd be the merchant he would seem to be, and if he be not amorous: for I assure myself, these papers will tell tales, and then set it on the table. By this had Galathee undone the string, which was so well tied, that the water had done no hurt; yet there were some papers wet, which she drew out as leisurely as she could, lest she might tear them, and having spread them on the table, the first she laid her hand on, was a letter in this sort:  
What is it you undertake, Celadon? into what confusion go you about to thrust yourself? Believe me that counsel you like a friend; give over your design to do me service: it is too full of discommodities. What contentment hope you for? I am so insupportable, that you were as good undertake a thing impossible; you must serve, you must suffer, you must have neither eyes nor love, but for me; for think not that I will have part with any other, nor that I will receive a good will that is but half mine. I am suspicious, I am jealous, I am hard to be won, and easy to be lost; soon offended, but very hardly appeased; the least doubt in me, is assurance. My will must be as the Destinies, my opinions as from reason, and my commandments laws inviolable. Believe me, for this once, retire thyself, shepherd, from this dangerous Labyrinth, and fly from a design so curious. I know myself better than you do: do not you imagine in yourself, that in the end you can change my nature; I shall break sooner than bend. And do not you hereafter complain of me, if now you believe not what I tell you.  
Never think me to be that I am (said Galathee) if this shepherd be not in love; for see a beginning which is not small. There is no doubt (said Siluie) being so honest a man. And how (replied Galathee) are you of opinion, that he must of necessity love, being so? Yes, Madam, (said she) as I have heard them say, Because that the lover desireth nothing more than to be beloved; to be beloved, he must show himself amiable: and that which makes a man amiable, is that which makes him honest. At this word Galathee gave her another letter, which was wet, to dry at the fire, and in the mean time she took another, which was thus:  
You will not believe that I love you, but desire that I should believe you love me: if I love you not, what will you gain by the belief which I have of your affection? It may be this opinion may bind me to do so. Hardly, Celadon, would this weak consideration effect it, if your merits and services which I have received of you, had not already done it. Now, behold in what state your affairs are, I would you should not only know that I believe you love me; but moreover, I will that you assure yourself, that I love you. And among other things, one only should make it unquestionable: if I loved you not, what would make me neglect the contentment of my parents? If you consider how much I do own them, you may (in some sort) know the quality of my love, since it not only counterpoises, but weighs down so great a weight. Farewell, and be no more incredulous.  
By this time Siluie brought back the letter, and Galathee told her (with great grief) that he loved, and more, that he was infinitely beloved, and read the letter to her again, which struck her to the heart, seeing she was to assault that place where so strong an enemy was already victorious: for by those letters she judged that the humour of this shepherdess was not to be an half Mistress, but with a right absolute power commanded over those, whom she vouchsafed to entertain for hers: she liked well of this judgement; when she read the letter that had been dried, it was thus:  
Licidas told my Phillis, that yesterday you were in a naughty humour; am I the cause, or you? if I, it is without cause: for would not I always love you, and be beloved of you? And, have you not a thousand times sworn to me, that you desire but this, to be content: if you, than you do me wrong, to dispose, without my knowledge, of any thing that belongeth unto me; for by the donation which you have made, and which I have received, both yourself, and all that is yours, do appertain to me. Advertise me then, and I shall forthwith perceive whether I may give you permission: but in the mean season, take this as a forbidding.  
With what empery (said then Galathee) doth this shepherdess deal? She doth him no wrong (answered Siluie) since she gave him warning from the beginning; and without fiction, if it be she that I think, she hath some reason, being one of the most fair, and complete persons that ever I saw. Her name is Astrea, and that which maketh me think so, is this word of Phillis, knowing that these two shepherdess are sworn friends: and yet, as I may tell you, though she be so extreme fair, yet this is that that makes her least amiable; for she hath so many other perfections, that this is least apparent in her. This discourse served but to wound the deeper, since they discovered nothing but the greatest difficulties in her design. And because she would not that Siluie as then should know, she shut up the papers, and went to bed, not without a great company of sundry thoughts, among which, sleep came stealing by little and little.  
It was hardly day, when the little Merill went out of the shepherd's chamber, who had complained all night, and his travel and his sickness had but little assuagement till the coming of the morning. And because Galathee had commanded him to mark particularly whatsoever Celadon did, and to repeat it to her, he went to tell her what he had learned. At that time Galathee being awaked, talked so loud with Leonide, that Merill hearing them knocking at the door, Madam (quoth he) all this night could I not sleep, for the poor Celadon is almost dead, by reason of the papers which you took from me yesterday; and because I saw him very desperate, I was constrained to give him some ease, by telling him you had them. How? (says the Nymph) knoweth he that I have them? Yes certainly, Madam (answered Merill,) and I assure myself, he will entreat you to restore them; for he esteemeth them very dear: and if you had heard him, as I did, I doubt not but he would make you pity him. Ah! tell me, Merill (said the Nymph) what he said. Madam (said he) after he had asked, if I had not seen his papers, and that in the end he knew you had them, he turned like a man transported on the other side, and said: Now all things fall out the worst they may: and after he had been silent some while, and that he thought I was in my bed, I heard him sigh very loud, and after uttered these words: Astrea, Astrea, ought these banishments to be the recompense of my services? If your love be changed, why do you blame me, to excuse yourself? If I have failed, why tell you me not my fault? Is there no more justice in heaven, than there is pity in your soul? Alas! if there be, why feel not I some favour, that having no power to die, as despair will have me, I may do so at least as the rigour of Astrea commands? Ha' rigorous! If I may not call it cruel commandment in such an accident as this, who could take a less resolution then that of death? would it not give sign of less love, then of great courage? And here staying a while, he thus began again:  
But wherefore (my traitorous hopes) come you flattering to me? is it possible you should dare to come near me? do you say she will change? Consider then (enemy of my repose) what likelihood is there, that so much time spent, so many services and affections acknowledged, so many disdains borne up, and impossibilities overcome, have done so little, and yet only absence may? Hope rather for a favourable tomb at thy death, than a favourable repentance from her. After many such discourses, he held his peace a great while: but when I was gone back, I heard him shortly after begin again his complaints, which he held on until day; and all that I could observe, was but his complaints which he made against one Astrea, whom he accused of change and cruelty.  
If Galathee had known less of Celadons affairs by the letters of Astrea, she had learned so much from the report of Merill, that for her own rest, it had been good for her to have been more ignorant. Yet in flattering herself, she conceited to herself, that the disdain of Astrea might make the way more easy to that which she desired. Young Scholar in love! that knows not that Love never dies in a generous heart, till the root be wholly plucked up. In this hope she wrote a little scroll, which she folded up, and put among the papers of Astrea. After, giving the bag to Merill: Hold here (said she) Merill: restore this bag to Celadon, and tell him, I would I were able to give him all the contentment he wants; that if he be well, and would see me, tell him that I am not well this morning. She said this, that he might have leisure to overlook his papers, and read that which she had written to him. Merill went forth; and because Leonide was in an other bed, she could neither see the bag, nor hear the charge which she had given him: but as soon as he was gone, she called her, and made her come to bed to her: and after some other talk, she spoke in this sort to her: You know, Leonide, what I told you yesterday of this shepherd, how much it importeth me that he love me, or that he not love me; since that time I have understood of his businesses, more than I would I had: you have heard that which Merill hath reported to me, and that which Siluie said of the perfections of Astrea: so that (she went on) since the place is taken, I see a double difficulty arise against our enterprise.  
This happy shepherdess hath much offended him, and a generous heart will hardly suffer a disdain without any sense of it. Madam, answered Leonide, on the one side, I wish you were contented: and on the other, I am well pleased with the discommodities, for you do yourself so much wrong, if you continue thus, that I know not if ever you can deface it. Think you, though you be never so secret, that this life of yours will not be known? and what will become of you, if it be discovered? the judgement which was never wanting in the rest of your actions, is it possibile that in this accident it should fail you? what would you judge of another, that should lead this life? You will answer, you do no evil. Ah, Madam, it is not sufficient for a person of your quality to be void of crime, but you be so also of blame. If this were a man worthy of you, I could brook it well: but though Celadon be one of the chief of this country, yet is he but a shepherd, and is known for no other: And this vain opinion of good, or ill luck, shall it have such power over you, that it shall so much abate your courage, that you will equal these keepers of sheep, these Rustics, and these halfe-savages, to yourself? for God's sake come to yourself, and consider with what mind I speak these words. She had gone forward, had not Galathee in choler interrupted her, I have told you, I would not have you use this discourse: I know not on what I shall resolve: when I ask your counsel, give it me, and once for all, talk no more to me of it, if you will not displease me.  
At this word, she turned on the other side, in such fury, that Leonide knew well she had throughly angered her. Indeed there is nothing strikes more to the quick, then to oppose honour against Love: for though all the reasons of Love be vanquished, yet will Love still be strong in his will. Soon after, Galathee turns again and says: I never thought, till now, that you had had a mind to be my governor: but now, I begin to have such a belief, that you figure such a thing to yourself. Madam, answered she, I never mistook myself so much, but I know what I own to you: but since you take in so ill part, that which my duty made me speak, I protest from henceforth, I will never give you occasion for this cause, to enter into choler against me. This is a strange thing in you, replied Galathee, that you must always have reason in your opinion: what likelihood is there, that any should know that Celadon is here? There are no more than we three, Merill & my Nurse his mother: as for Merill, he goes not forth: and beside he hath discretion enough for his age; for my Nurse, her fidelity is well known to me, and it is partly by her desire, that all is thus carried: for as having told her what the Druide foretold me, she that love's me more tenderly, then if I were her own child, counselled me not to contemn this aducrtisement: and because I propounded the difficulty of the great number, which would resort to the place where I am, herself advised me to make show, that I would take physic. And what is your purpose, said Leonide? To work so (answered she) that this shepherd may wish me well, and till that be, not to let him go away; that if once he come to love me, I may leave the direction of the rest to Fortune.  
Madame, said Leonide, God give you all the contentment you desire. But suffer me to tell you this once, you go about to ruin yourself in your reputation. What time must there be to the rooting out of an affection so thoroughly grounded, which he bears to Astrea, whose beauty and virtue, they say, is without a second? But presently interrupted the Nymph, She scorns him, she is angry with him, she hath driven him away: think you not, he will have courage enough to leave her? Oh! Madam, put this out of your hopes (said Leonide:) if he have no coragen, he will never feel this: and if he have, a man generous will never turn aside for the difficulties. Remember yourself, for example, how many contempts have you laid on Lindamer, and how cruelly have you handled him, and what hath he done the less, for these disdains, or cruelties. But be it so, that Celadon, because he is a shepherd, have not the courage of Lindamor, and that he hath bentat the blows of Astrea, what good hope you there of? think you that a spirit once deceived, will easily be deceived the second time in one kind? No, no, Madam, howsoever he be both by birth & conversation of the homelier sort, yet can he not be so, but he will dread the fire when the smart of it is yet in his soul. There must be (and that is it which you may best hope for) some time allowed to heal him sound of this burning, before he can turn his eyes upon some such like object. And what time will it ask? and in the mean time can it be possible to let, but that the guard which is in the base court, will come to the knowledge of it, or in seeing him (for you cannot always keep him close in one chamber) or by the prattle of Merill, who as discreet as he is for his age, yet is but a child? Leonide, said she, cease to travel longer in this business; my resolution is such as I told you: if you will make me believe you love me, favour my design in what you may, and for the rest, refer it to my care. This morning, if the weakness of Celadon permit it (me thought yesterday he was reasonable well) you may lead him into the garden; for this day I find myself not well, and I shall hardly rise out of my bed, tell towards night. Leonide being very sad, gave no other answer, but that she would be ready to do that, that might be to her content. While they were thus discoursing, Meril did his message, and having found the shepherd awake, gave him the good morrow, in the name of the Nymph, and presented to him the papers. Oh! how presently he raised himself in the bed? he made him open the curtains, and windows, not having the leisure to rise, such haste he made to see that, which had cost him so much sorrow. He opened the little bag, and after he had many times kissed it; O secretary (said he) of my life most happy, how camest thou into the hands of strangers! At this word he laid all the letters on the bed; & that he might see if he wanted any one, he placed them in their order according to the time he received them, and seeing there remained a little scroll, he opened it and read these words:  
CEladon, I would have you know, that Galathee love's you, and that the heavens have permitted the disdain of Astrea, for that they like not, that a shepherdess should any longer possess that which a Nymph desires: acknowledge your good hap, and refuse it not.  
The astonishment of the shepherd was great: notwithstanding, seeing that Merill observed his actions, he would make no show of it. Then locking them again together, and lying down in his bed, he asked who gave them to him? I took them (said he) out of my Lady's desk; and but for the desire I had to put you out of the pain wherein I saw you, I durst not have gone for them, for that she is not well at ease. And who is with her (demanded Celadon?) The two Nymphs which you saw yesterday, where of the one is Leonide, the Niece of Adamas, the other is Siluie, the daughter of Diante the glorious: and indeed, she is not his daughter, without reason; for she is the most lofty in her behaviour that you shall lightly see.  
So received Celadon the first advertisement of the good will of Galathee, for though there were neither cipher nor seal to the scroll he had received, yet judged he that it would not have been done without her knowledge. And then he foresaw that this would be a surcharge to his sorrows, and that he must undergo it. Seeing then, that half of the day was almost passed, and finding himself in good case, he would keep no longer in bed; thinking, that the sooner he left it, the sooner he might take his leave of these fair Nymphs. And being risen in this deliberation, as he was ready to go out to walk, he met with Leonide and Siluie, whom Galathee (not daring to rise, nor yet show herself to him, for shame of the scroll she had writ) had sent to give him entertainment. They went down into the garden: And because Celadon would hide his sorrow, he shown a countenance as pleasant as he could dissemble: and seeming to be curious to know every thing he saw, Fair Nymphs (said he to them) is it not hereabout that the Fountain of the truth of Love is? I am very willing, if it be possible, to see it. It is hard by, answered the Nymph, for we must go down but this great Wood But it is impossible to see it, and you must thank this fair that is the cause, pointing to Siluie. I know not (replied she) why you accuse me: For, for my part, I never heard the sword blamed which cut the fool that laid his finger under it. It is true, answered Leonide: but if I be not deceived, that which wounds, and your beauty, are not in the number of those, that are seen without homicide. Such as it is (answered Siluie, with a little blushing) it hath lines strong enough, ever to let that go, that it hath once tied up.  
She said this upbraiding her with the infidelity of Agis, who having sometimes loved her, for aielousie, or for an absence of two months, was entirely changed: and for Polemas, whom another beauty had rob her of, the which she understood well enough. So I confess, my sister, replied she, my lines are easy to slide, but that is, because I would never take the pain to stiffen them. Celadon hearing, with great pleasure, their pretty disputation, that they might not break off too soon, he said to Siluie, Fair Nymph, since from you the difficulty proceeds, of seeing this admirable Fountain, we shall a little be obliged unto you, if from yourself we know how this fell out. Celadon, answered the Nymph, somewhat smiling, You have business enough of your own, without need to search into any other: yet if curiosity can have any place in your love, this prattler Leonide, if you request her, will tell you the end, since without any motion, she hath so well told the beginning. Sister, answered Leonide, your beauty makes all them to speak much better that discourse of it: and since you give me leave to tell of one effect the world should take knowledge of, yet lest we too much should trouble the shepherd, I will abridge for this bout as much as I can possibly. Not for that, interrupted the shepherd, but to give leisure to this Nymph, to yield you the like. Make no doubt of that, replied Siluie, but according to her usage of me, I shall see what I have to do. So what by the one, and what by the other, Celadon shall learn from their own mouth, their life in particular: and that in the delivery he might better hear them, they placed him between them, and walking a soft pace, Leonide began in this manner:  

The History of Siluie.  
THey that say, that to be beloved, there needs nothing but to love, have not tried it neither in the eyes, nor courage of this Nymph, otherwise they were to know, that as the water of the Fountain runs incessantly from the spring, so the Love which rises from this fair, wanders from her as fare as it can. If when you have heard the discourse which I am to make to you, you will not aver that that I say, I am willing you should accuse me of small judgement.  
Amasis, the mother of Galathee, hath a son, named Clidamon, accompanied with all the amiable virtues, that a person of his age and quality may have; for he seemeth to be borne to all that pertain to Arms or Ladies. It is about three years since, that to give some proof of his gentle nature, with the permission of Amasis, he became servant to all the Nymphs, and that not by election, but by lot: For, having put all the names of the Nymphs into a vessel, and all the young Knights into another, before all the assembly he took the youngest among us, and the youngest among them; to the man he gave the vessel of the Nymphs, and to the maid, that of the men. And then after the sound of the trumpets, the Youth drew, and the first name that came out, was Siluie: and the same instant the lot was drawn by the youngest Nymph, who drew that of Clidamon. Great was the applause of every one, but greater the gentleness of Clidamon, who after he had received the scroll, came with one knee on the ground, to kiss the hands of this fair Nymph, who out of shamefastness would not suffer him, without the commandment of Amasis; who said, it was the least part of service that was due unto her, in the honour of so great a god as Love.. After her all the rest were called: to some it fell out as they desired, to others not: so it was, that Galathee had a most accomplished person, named Lindamor, who as then was but lately come from the Army of Meroue. As for mine, he was called Agis, the most inconstant and deceitful that ever was.  
Now of those that were thus bestowed, some served only in show, others of good will, ratified to these fair the devotion which fortune had made of them: and they that maintained themselves best, were such as before had conceived some affection. Among others, the young Ligdamon was one; this man fell to Siluie, a Nymph indeed amiable enough, but not for him, who had formerly set his mind otherwhere. And certainly, it was his good fortune to be absent then, for he would never have done the feigned homage to Siluie that Amasis commanded, and that might haply have wrought him some disgrace: for you must know, (gentle shepherd) that he was brought up very young among us, being not above ten years of age, when he was placed here; for the rest, so fair & direct in all his actions, that there was not a woman that thought not well of him: and above all, Siluie being very near his age. At the beginning, their ordinary conversation engendered the amity of a brother to a sister, such as their knowledge was capable to receive. By degrees, as Ligdamon grew in age, so likewise he increased in affection, so that his childhood changing into a state more settled, about the age of fourteen or fifteen years, he began to change his will into desires, and by little and little, his desires into passions: and yet he lived with that discretion, that Siluie had never knowledge that herself caused this desire. When he attained to some good understanding, and that he knew his evil, he judged within a while, what small hope there was of healing, not one of Siluie's humours being likely to be hid from him: So that the joy and liveliness which was in his countenance, and all his actions, were turned into sadness, and his sadness into so heavy a melancholy, that there was no body but might perceive the alteration. Siluie was not one of the last that asked him the cause, but she could draw out nothing but broken answers. In the end, seeing him continue still in this manner of life, one day when she began to complain of his small amity, and reproaching him that she had obliged her to conceal nothing from her, she heard that he was no more able to restrain himself, but that a deep sigh escaped from him in stead of answer. This brought her to be of opinion, that love might be the cause of his evil. And, see, if the poor Ligdamon did not discreetly carry his actions, since she was never able to imagine herself to be the cause.  
I believe well, that the humour of this Nymph (which shrunk not a jot from this purpose) might be, in part, the occasion. For hardly do we think of a thing estranged from our own intents. But, it must be confessed, that herein his wisdom was great, and his coldness also, that it could so wholly cover the heat of his affection. She than pressed him more than before, that if it be love, she promised him all the assistance, and all the good offices that might be hoped for from their amity. The more he did to avoid it, the more she desired to know it: in the end, not being able to defend it any longer, he protested to her, it was love: but he had made an oath never to name the party. For (said he) to love, is a great presumption in me; but constrained by so many beauties, it may be excused: and to dare name her, what excuse can cover the discovery of my rashness? Is this the friendship (presently answered Siluie) which you bear me? Truly (replied Ligdamon) I have done it, and your commandment also, which I beseech you set before your eyes, and this glass, which will make you see what you desire to know. At that word he took up that which hung at her girdle, and held it before her eyes. Think you how she was surprised, incontinently knowing what he would say; and she hath since sworn to me, that she thought at first it had been Galathee, of whom he would have spoken. In the mean time that he had stood to behold her, she stood as ravished to consider his simplicity in choler against him, but much more against herself, seeing well she had drawn this declaration by force from his mouth. Notwithstanding, her high courage would not suffer her to make any long defence for the justice of Ligdamon. For at an instant she lifts herself up, and without speaking to him, departs full of despite, that any durst presume to love her arrogant beauty, that judgeth none worthy of it. The faithful Ligdamon stayed, but without a soul, and as an insensible Statue. In the end, coming again to himself, he went as well as he could, to his lodging out of which he went not some good time, because the knowledge which he had of the small love of Siluie touched him so to the quick, that he fell sick, so that there was small hope of life, when he resolved to write her such a letter.  
The loss of my life was not of force sufficient to discover unto you the rashness of your servant, without your express commandment; yet, if you judge that I must die and hold my peace, say also, that your eyes must have had less absolute power over me. For if at the first summons which their beauty made me, I could not defend myself from giving them my soul, how having been so often urged, could I have refused the acknowledgement of that gift? yet, if I have offended in offering my heart to your beauty, I am willing, for the fault I have committed, in presenting to such merits, a thing of so small value, to sacrifice unto you my life, without sorrowing for the loss, either of the one, or of the other, sith they be no more pleasing unto you.  
This letter was brought to Siluie, when she was alone in her Chamber. It is true, that I came in at the same time, and indeed well for Ligdamon; for behold the humour of this fair Nymph: She had conceived so great a despite toward him, after he had discovered his affection, that not only she blotted out the remembrance of the amity passed, but so lost her will, that Ligdamon was like a thing indifferent to her. So that, when she heard that every one despaired of his recovery, she was no more moved at it, then if she had never seen him. I, that particularly observed it, could not tell what to judge of it, but that her youth made her easily lose the love of men absent. But when now I saw her refuse that which one delivered her in his behalf, I knew well that they needed no bad messenger between them. This was the cause that I took the letter that she had refused, and which the young boy that brought it (by his master's commandment) had left on the table. She then less heedful than she would have been, ran after me, and entreated me not to read it. I will see it (said I) and it be but for the denial you make. Then began she to blush, and said, Read it not, good sister, bind me to you for it, I conjure you by our friendship. And what shall that be then (answered I) if it may suffer you to conceal any thing from me? Think you, that if it allow you dissimulation enough to hide from me, it shall not give me curiosity enough to discover you. And how then (said she) is there no more hope of your discretion? No more (said I) then of sincerity in your amity. She stayed some while silent, looking on me, and drawing near me, said, At least promise me, that you will not look on it, till I have discoursed to you all that is past. I am content (said I) provided that you prove not a liar. After she had sworn to me, she would tell me all truly, and I sworn, not to make show of it, she recounted unto me all that I have said of Ligdamon: and at this present (going forward) he comes to send me this letter, and I have enough of his complaints, or rather, of his feignings. But (answered I) what if they be true? And if they be (said she) what have I to do with his follies? For that reason (said I) that they are bound to help the miserable, that have thrown him down headlong. And what can I do to his evil (replied she?) Can I do less than live, since I am in the world? Wherefore hath he his eyes? Why comes he where I am? All these excuses (said I) are nothing worth: for you are (without doubt) accessary to his evil. If you were of less perfection, if you could make yourself less lovely, think you he would be brought to this extremity? And truly (said she, smiling to me) You are very pleasant, to charge me with this fault. What would you have me to be, if I should not be the same that I am? And why, Siluie (answered I?) Know you not that he that puts a weapon in the hands of a mad man, is in part culpable of the harm he doth? And why should not you be so, since this beauty, which the heavens, at your birth, have given you, hath been by you so curiously sharpened with so many virtues and amiable perfections, which no eye (without being strucken) can look on? And shall not you be blamed for the murders which your cruelty commits? Behold yourself (Siluie) there is no necessity that you should be less fair, nor less replenished with perfections, but you are to study the more to make yourself good, as you are fair, and to put as much sweetness into your soul, as the heavens have in your face. But the mischief is, your eyes, to do the more hurt, have taken all away, and have left nothing at all but rigour and cruelty.  
Now gentle shepherd, that which makes me so affectionate to the defence of Ligdamon, was, that besides that we are some what allied, he was also well esteemed of all that knew him, and I knew he was brought to very hard terms. Then after such like talk, I opened the letter, and read it aloud that she might understand it: but she cast not so much as her eye to it, which I found very strange, and well foresaw, that if I used not wondrous great force, I should hardly draw from her any good remedy for my sick patient: which urged me to tell her, at the first blow, that in any case I would not suffer Ligdamon to undo himself. Good sister, said she, since you are so pitiful, heal him yourself. It is not of me, said I, that his healing depends; but I assure you, that if you hold in this sort towards him, as you have done for the time passed, I will cause you to have some displeasure: for I will make Amasis understand of it, and there shall be no one of our companions, to whom I will not tell it. So you shall play the fool well enough, replied she. Doubt not, answered I: for to make short, I love Ligdamon, and I will not see him lost, so fare as I can help it. You speak very wisely, Leonide, (said she in choler:) these are the offices that I always expected from your amity. My amity, answered I, should be the same for you against him, if he had done the wrong. At this we stayed some good while without speaking. In the end, I asked her what her resolution was. Such as you will, said she, provided, you do me not the displeasure, to publish the follies of Ligdamon; for, though I cannot be blamed, yet it would trouble me to have it published. See (cried I out then) what humour is this of yours, Siluie? You fear it should be known that a man love's you, & you fear not to have it known that you have caused his death. Because (said she) they may suspect the former to be produced by some consent on my part, but not the latter. Let us leave this, replied I, and resolve yourself, I will that Ligdamon for the time to come, be entertained in another sort. And then I went on, that she should assure herself that I would not suffer him to die, and that I would have her write to him in such a fashion, that he might no more despair, that when he were recovered, I was contented she should use him as she list, provided, that she let him live. I had pain enough to obtain this grace from her, though I threatened to make it known: so, after long debate, and having made her begin again, once, twice or thrice, in the end she wrote in this sort:  
IF there be any thing in you that pleases me, your death is the least of all other, the acknowledgement of your fault hath satisfied me, and I will have no other revenge of your boldness, than the pain which you shall have. Know yourself hereafter, and you shall know me. Farewell, and live.  
I wrote these words at the end of the letter, to the end he might hope for better, having so good a second.  
LEonide hath put the pen into this Nymph's hand. Love wils it; your justice requires it; her endeavour commands it: but her obstinate conceit hath great defence: since this favour is the first I could procure you, cherish yourself and hope.  
These letters were brought him so luckily, that yet having strength enough to read them, he saw the commandment that Silue had given him to live: and because till then, he would never use any remedy, that he might not disobey the Nymph, he governed himself so, that in short time he was better, were it for that his disease having spent its force, was declining, or that the contentment of the soul was a good remedy for the pains of the body: so it was, that after that, his disease daily lessened. But this so little moved this cruel beauty, that she changed not one whit towards him, and when he was well, the most favourable answer he could have, was; I love you not, neither do I hate you, rest contented, that of all those which seek me, you are he that displeases me least. If he or I requested some better declaration, she uses such cruel words to us, that no other but her courage could imagine, nor other affection bear them, then that of Ligdamon.  
But not to draw this discourse in length, Ligdamon love's, and served always after, without any likelihood of hope, but that which I have told you, until the time that Clidaman was chosen by fortune to serve her, than he had almost lost resolution; and had it not been, that he knew by me, that he should be no better used, I know not what would have become of him. Yet though this gave him some comfort, the greatness of his Rival gave him more of jealousy. I remember once he gave me this answer, upon that which I told him, that he should not grieve so much for Clidaman: Fair Nymph (answered he) I will freely tell you whence my care proceeds, and then judge if I have wrong. It is long time since I have proved, that Siluie cannot be moved, neither by fidelity of affection, nor by extremity of Love, that it is without doubt that she will never be wounded on that side. Notwithstanding, as I have learned of the wise Adamas, your uncle, every person is subject to one certain force, the stroke whereof they cannot avoid, when ought it is touched. And what may I think, may be that of this fair, if it be not the greatness and power, and, as I fear, the fortune & not the merits of Clidaman; his greatness, and not his affection? But indeed, herein he hath wrong: for neither the love of Ligdamon, nor the greatness of Clidaman, can ever move one glance of good will in Siluie. And believe not but love reserves her for an example to others, purposing to punish her by some unusual means, Now at that time there fell out a great testimony of her beauty, or at least of the force she hath to make her beloved.  
It was the day so celebrated, which every year we make holy, the sixth of the Moon of july, and on which Amasis used to make that solemn sacrifice, as well for the honour of the Feast, as for being the day of Galathees birth. When they were at Sacrifice, there came into the Temple, a number of men, clad in mourning, in the midst of whom was a Knighr, so full of Majesty above the rest, that he was easily judged to be their master. He was so sad and melancholy, that it appeared that he had somewhat in his soul that troubled him. His habit black, infashion of a mantle, training on the ground, which kept the beauty of his proportion from sight, but his face uncovered, and his head bare, the hair where of yellow and crisped, shamed the Sun, & drew the eyes of all men to him. He came with a stately pace to the place where Amasis was, and after he had kissed her robe, he withdrew, waiting till the sacrifices were done, and by fortune, whether good or bad for him, I know not, he stood right overagainst Siluie. A strange effect of love! He had no sooner set his eyes upon her, but he knew her, though he never saw her before; and to be better assured, he demanded of one of his followers, who knew us all: his answer was accompanted with a deep sigh from the stranger: and all the while the sacrifice lasted, his eye never went off her. At last, the sacrifice being ended, Amasis' returns to her Palace, where audience being given him, he spoke before them all in this sort:  
Madam, though the mourning you see in my garments, be much more black in my soul, yet can it not equal the cause I have. And though my loss be excreme, yet think I not I am the only man that have lost; for you are particularly weakened in your faithful servants, of one, which (it may be) was not the least affectioned, nor the most unprofitable in your service. This consideration hath made me hope to obtain of you some revenge of his death against his murderer. But since I entered into this Temple, I have lost all hope; judging, that if the desire of revenge die in me, that am the brother of the wronged, by much stronger reasou should it shrink in you, Madam, in whom the compassion of the dead, and the service which he vowed you, may without more ado, cause some good will to arise. Notwithstanding, since I see the arms of my brother's murderer, prepared already against me; not to avoid such a death, but to instruct others, I will tell you as briefly as I can, the fortune of him whom I lament. Though, Madam, I have not the honour to be known to you, yet, I assure myself, that at the naming of my brother, who never loved but your service, you will acknowledge me for your most humble servant. His name was Aristander, and we were both the sons of that great Cle●mire, which for your service visited so often the Tiber, the Rhine, the Danu●y: and for that I was the younger, it may be, about nine years, as soon as he saw me able to bear Arms, he sent me into the Army of the great Meroue, the delight of men, and the most pleasing Prince that ever came into Gaul. To tell you why my father sent me rather to Meroue, then to Thierry, King of the Visigots, or to that of the Burgonyans, it will be hard for me. Yet I am of opinion, it was, that I might not serve a Prince so near your estates, that fortune might make your enemy.  
So it was, that my success was such, that Childerick his son, a Prince warlike, and of great hope, seeing me near about his age, was pleased more especially to favour me with his love, than any other. When I came first to him, it was about the time, that great and wise Aetius treated of a peace with Meroue and the Franks (for so he called all that followed him) to resist that scourge of God; Attilla, king of the Huns, who having gathered together, from the Deserts of Asia, an incredible number of people, even to 500000. fight men, descended like a deluge, sacking furiously all the countries, where he passed; and though this Aetius Lieutenant general in Gaul of Valentinian, was come with a purpose to make war on Meroue, who during the government of Castinus was possessed of a part of Gaul, yet thought he it better to make him his friend, and the Visigots & Burgonians like wise, rather than to be overthrown by Attilla, who lately having traversed in Germany, was about the banks of Rind, where he stayed not long without advancing himself so into Gaul, that he besieged the town of Orleans, where the coming of Thierry, king of the Visigots, made him raise his siege, & take another way: but beset by Meroue & Aetius, with their confederates in the field of Cathalona, he was defeated more by the valiance of the Franks, & the wisdom of Meroue, than all the other force. Since Aetius having been killed, it may be, by the commandment of his master, for some discontentment, Meroue was received at Paris, Orleans, Sens, & other neighbour towns, for Lord, and King, and all that people have since borne him such affection, that they will not only be his, but cause themselues to be called by the name of Franks, & to please him the better, & their country, in stead of Gaul take the name of Frannce. While I was entered into arms among the Franks, the Gauls, the Romans, the Burgonians, the Visigots, and the Huns, my brother was among them of love: arms so much the more offensive, for that they turn all their blows upon the heart: his disaster was such, (if now I may be suffered to call itso) that being bred up by Clidaman, he saw the fair Siluie; but seeing her, he saw his death also, not having lived since that, but as drawing towards his tomb; t● tell you the cause I cannot: for being with Childerick, I knew nothing but that my brother was in extremity, though I found all the contentments that might be, as being regarded of my Master, beloved of my companions, cherished and honoured generally of all, for a certain good opinion they conceive of me, for affairs that fell out, which (it may be) got me with them, more authority & credit, than my age and capacity might merit. I could not, knowing the sickness of my brother, stay longer time with Childerick, but taking leave of him, & promising him to return very shortly, I came back with the haste that my love required. As soon as I was come, many ran to tell him that Guymantes was come: for so they call me. His love gave him strength enough to lift up himself in his bed, & he embraced me with the most entire affection, that one brother could do to another.  
It would serve but to trouble you, and wound myself afresh, to recount unto you the things, which our amity wrought between us. So it was, that either 2. or 3. days, after my brother was brought to that extremity, that he could hardly draw his breath, and yet that cruel love inclined him more to sighing, then to the necessity he had of breathing, and in all his raging fits, we could hear nothing, but the name of Siluie: I, to whom the displeasure of his death was so violent, that I could hardly dissemble, wished so much evil to this unknown Siluie, that I could not hold from cnrsing her; which when my brother heard, and his affection as yet greater than his disease, he enforced himself to speak this: Brother, if you will not be my greatest enemy, for bear, I beseech you, these imprecations, which cannot but displease me much more than my disease. I had much rather not be at all, then that they should take effect, and being unprofitable, what will it avail you, unless it be to witness to me, how much you hate that which I love? I know well, my loss will trouble you, and therein I have more feeling of our separation, then of my end. But since every man is borne to dye, why with me do you not thank the heavens, which have chosen me the fairest death, and the most fair murderer that ever man had? The extremity of my affection, and the extremity of the virtue of Siluie, are the arms by which her beauty is served, to put me into my grief; and why do you bewail me, & wish evil to her, to whom I wish more good then to my soul? I think he would have said more, but his strength failed, and I more wet with tears of pity, then when against Attila I was all on a sweat under my armour, and my arms sprinkled with blood, all over me. Brother, she that takes you from yours, is the most unjust that ever was: and if she be fair, the gods have done the injustice in her; for either they should have changed her face or her heart. Then Aristander, having gotten a little more strength, replied to me, For God's sake, Guymantes, blaspheme no more in this sort, & believe that Siluie hath an heart answerable to her face, that as the one is full of beauty, so the other is of virtue; that if for loving her I die, do not you wonder, because that if the eye cannot, without dazzling, abide the beams of one Sun without cloudy, how may not my soul remain dazzled at the beams of so many Suns, which glister in this fair? that if I have scarce tasted such divinities, without death, I may have the contentment of him, that dies to see jupiter in his divinity? I would tell you, that as her death gives witness, that no other had ever seen so much of divinity as she; so, that no man ever loved so much of beauty, nor so much of virtue, as I. Now I that came from an exercise, that made me believe there was no love forced, but voluntary, with which men go on flattering themselves in idleness, said to him, Is it possible, that one sole beauty should be the cause of your death? My brother (answered he) I am in such extremity, that I think I cannot answer your demands: but (said he on, taking me by the hand) for brotherly love, and for our particular, which binds us yet faster, I adjure you to promise me one gift. I did so. Then he said on, Bear as from me, this kiss to Siluy: and then he kissed my hand: and observe that which you find of my last will; and when you see this Nympho, you shall know that which you demand of me. At this word, with a blast his soul flew up, & his body lay cold in my arms.  
The affliction that I felt in this loss, as it cannot be imagined but by him that hath been in it, so it cannot be conceived, but by the heart that suffered it, and hardly can the word reach that, which the thought may not attain: so that without longer abode in bewailing this disaster, I will say, Madam, that as soon as my dolours would suffer me, I have set myself on the way, as well to render you the homage which I own you, and to demand justice of you for the death of Aristander, as to fulfil my promise which I made him against his homicide, and to present that which by his last will he left in writing, to the end that I may call myself as just an observer of my word, as his affection hath been inviolable. But at the instant when I was presented before you, and that I meant to open my mouth against this murderer, I have found my brother's words so true, that not only I excuse his death, but desire and require the like. This shall be then, Madam, with your permission, which I will perform: and then making a great reverence to Amasis, he chose from among us Siluie, and resting one knee on the ground, he said, Fair murderer, though on this fair breast there fall but one tear of pity, at the news of the death of the person which was so much yours, you cease not to have entire & honourable victory; yet, if you judge that to so many flames which you have lighted in him, so small a drop shall not be a great assuagement, receive at least the burning kiss which he bequeathes you, when presently his soul turned into this kiss, which he set in this fair hand, rich indeed with the spoils of many other men's liberties, but in none more fully than that of his. At this word, he kissed her hand, and then held on thus after he was risen:  
Among the papers where Aristander put his last Will, we have found this here; and because it is enclosed in the fashion you see, and that he directed it to you, I bring it you, with the protestation which by his testament he commanded me to make before you open it; that if your will be not to grant the request he hath made you, he beseecheth you not to read it at all, to the end, that as well in death, as in life, he may not feel the strokes of your cruelty. Then he presented her a letter, which Siluie, troubled with this accident, would have refused, but for Amasis' commandment: And after, Guymantes began his speech again thus: I have hitherto performed the last Will of Aristander: there remains, that I should pursue upon his homicide his cruel death; but if at another time the offence have given me the command, at this time Love ordains, that my most fair vengeance be the sacrifice of my liberty, on the same Altar that yet smokes with that of my brother, who being ravished from me, when I breathed nothing against you, but blood and death, gives witness, that every eye that sees you, owes you his heart for tribute, & that unjustly every man life's, that life's not in your service. Siluie somewhat confounded with this accident, stayed some long while from answer; so that Amasis took the paper which she had in her hand, and having said to Guymantes, that Siluie should make answer, she withdrew aside with some of us, and breaking the box, read these words:  
If my affection have not made my service pleasing, nor my service mine affection, at the least, either this affection shall make my death in you more pitiful, or my death assure you of the fidelity of my affection; and that as no man ever loved more of perfections, so did never any love with more passion. The last testimony which I will give you, shall be the gift by him whom I hold most dear next you, who is my brother; for I know well, what I give you, when I ordain, that he should see you, knowing well by experience, that it is impossible he should be, and not love you. Desire not (my fair murderer) that he should be inheritor of my fortune, but hear of this, that I have less justly merited of all others then of you. He that writ it, is a servant, who for having less of love then one heart was capable to conceive, would rather die then diminish.  
Amasis' then calling Siluie, demanded what so great cruelty she had used against Aristander, which brought him unto that extremity. The Nymph blushing, answered, that she knew not whereof he might complain. I would (said she) that you receive Guymantes into his place: then calling him before them all, she asked if he would observe his brothers will? He answered, Yes, so it be not a thing contrary to his affection. He requireth this Nymph (said Amasis) to receive you into his place, and that you have better fortune than he. To receive you, I command her; for the fortune whereof he speaks, it is neither the prayer, nor the commandment of another that can frame that, but the proper merit, or the fortune itself. Guymantes, after he had kissed the robe of Amasis, came to do as much to the hands of Siluie, in sign of servitude: but she was so displeased with him for the reproaches which he had given her, and with the declaration of his affection, that without the commandment of Amasis, she would not have permitted him.  
As they were ready to departed, Cl●daman coming from hunting, was advertised of this new servant of his mistress, for which he made so loud a complaint, that Amasis and Guymantes h●ard him; and because he knew not whence it proceeded, she told it him: and she had scarcely ended, when Clidaman snatching at her word, complained that she had permitted a thing so much to his disadvantage, that this was to call back those ordinances, which the Destinies had chosen for him, which none, nor she knew how to infringe, without life. Words which he spoke with affection and vehemency, because that out of good judgement he had loved Siluie. But Guymantes, who, besides his new love, had so good an opinion of himself, that he would give no place to any person in the world, answered, addressing his speech to Amasis: Madam, there be that would not I should be servant to the fair Siluie: they that speak it, know little of love, otherwise they would not think, that your ordinances, nor of all the gods together, were of source sufficient to divert the course of our affection: therefore it is that I declare covertly, that if they deny me that which heretofore hath been allowed me, I shall disobey and turn rebel, & that no consideration ought to change me. And then turning toward Clidaman, I know the respect I own you (said he) but I feel withal, the power that Love hath over me. If the Destinies have given you to Siluie, her beauty is it that hath got me judge, whether of these two gifts ought to be most allowable. Clidaman would have answered, when Amasis said to him, Son, you have reason to grieve, if they altered our ordinances, but they have not infringed them. You were commanded serve Siluie, but they denied to others. Sweet ointments give the better smell when they are chased. A lover likewise having a Rival, giveth more proof of his merits. So Amasis ordained, and now behold Siluie well served. For Guymantes forgot not any thing that his Love commanded: and Clidaman, out of envy, studied to appear more careful.  
But above all, Ligdamon served her with such discretion and respect, that oftentimes he durst not come near her, left he should give notice of his affection to others. And in my mind, his service was as pleasing as any of the rest. But indeed one time he almost lost his patience. It happened, that Amasis' hand lighted on a bodkin made in the shape of a sword, wherewith Siluie was wont to raise and dress her hair, and seeing Clidaman near her, she gave it him to bear to his mistress, but he kept it all the day, to put Guymantes to some pain. He doubted not Ligdamou: and see how often one may hurt one man for another; for the poison which was prepared for Guymantes, went to the heart of Ligdamon, who not being able to dissemble it, that knowledge might not be taken of it, he withdrew himself to his lodging, where, after he had somewhile envenomed his evil by his thoughts, he took his pen and writ this verse:  

A Madrigal on the Sword of Silivie in the hands of Clidaman.  
Love, that lay hid in treason  
Of weapon stained with blond:  
But not without all reason,  
Cuts from my hope the good:  
For wanting means to pay  
My heavy servitude,  
With wages that would way,  
To cover his ingratitude  
He entertains me cunningly,  
Though not in love, in soldiery.   
And at the end of these verses he addeth these words:  
ONe may aver (fair Leonide) that Siluie doth like the Sun, that casteth his beams as well on the most vile things, as on the more noble.  
Himself brought me this paper, I could not with all my study understand, nor draw other thing from him, but that Siluie had given him a blow with a Sword: and leaving me, he went away the most lost man on the earth. See how artificial a sencer is Love, that with so small weapons can make so great gashes! It grieved me to see him in this case. And to know if any new accident had befallen him, I went to Siluie; but she swore she knew not what it might be. In the end, having stayed some time to read the verses; on a sudden she lifted up her hand to her hair, and not finding her bodkin, she began to laugh, and said, That her bodkin had been lost, and some body had found it, and without doubt (it● might be) Ligdamon knew it. She had scarcely said this, when Clidaman came into the room with this murdering sword in his hand. I desired her to let him keep it no longer. I see (said she) his discretion, hereafter I will use the power I have over him. She failed not of her purpose: for being near him, she said; See a Sword that is mine. He answered, So is he that bears it. I would have it, said she. I would, answered he, you would all of me that is yours. Will you not give it me (said the Nymph?) How (replied he?) can I will any thing, since I have no will at all? And (said she) what have you done with that which you had? You have snatched it from me (said he) and now it is changed into yours. Since then (continued she) that your will is but mine, give me that bodkin, because my will is so. Since (said he) that I will that thing that you would, and that you will have this bodkin, it must of necessity be, that I will have it also. Siluie smiled a little, but in the end she said: I will that you give it me. And I also (said he) will, that you give it me. Then the Nymph thrust forth her hand, and took it. I will never refuse it (said he) though you will take it from me, and it were this heart for once. Siluie had her Sword, and I writ this scroll to Ligdamon:  
THe good which without knowledge hath been done to your Rival, with his knowledge is taken from him: judge in what terms his affairs are, since the favours he hath, proceeded of ignorance, but the disfavours, of deliberation.  
So Ligdamon was healed, not by the same hand, but by the same weapon that hurt him. In the mean time, the affection of Guymantes came to such an extremity, that (it may be) it came nothing short of that of Aristander; on the other side Clidaman, under the cloak of courtesy had let grow, in his soul, a most ardent and true love. After they had many times assayed, out of envy, who should be the most welcome to Siluie, and knew that she favoured and dis-favoured them both alike, they resolved one day, because that otherwise there was mutual love between them, to know which of the two was most beloved, and came for that cause to Siluie, from whom they had such ' cold answers, that they could not assoil the judgement. Then, by the counsel of a Druid, who (it may be) was displeased to see two such persons lose their time so unprofitably, which they might much better employ for the defence of the Gauls, whom so many Barbarians attempted to overrun, they came to the fountain of the verity of Love.. You know what the property of this water is, and how it declareth, against their will, the most secret thoughts of Lovers; for he that looks in it, sees his Mistress; and if he be loved, he sees himself hard by; and if she love any other, that is his figure that he sees. Now Clidaman was the first that presented himself, he laid his knee to the ground, kissed the side of the fountain: And having besought the Daemon of that place, to be more favourable to him then to Damon, he bent himself somewhat into it. Presently Siluie presented herself so fair and admirable, that the lover transported stooped to kiss her hand: bat this contentment was well changed when he saw no body near her. He wichdrew himself, much troubled, after he had stayed some while; And unwilling to speak any thing, he made sign to Guymantes, that he should prove his fortune. He with all the ceremonies requisite, having made his request, cast his eye on the fountain, but was served like Clidaman, because that Siluie alone presented herself, burning (almost) with her fair eyes, the water which seemed to play about her. They were both astonished at this accident, and demanded the cause of this Druid, which was a great Magician. He answered, that it was, for that Siluie as yet loved no person, as being not capable to be burnt, but only to burn. They that thought they could not be so much neglected, having gone before severally, now returned both together, and suddenly both the one and the other shifted on diverse sides; yet the Nymph appeared alone. The Druid smiling came to withdraw them from thence, and told them, that they should believe they were not beloved at all, and that the shifting from side to side, could not represent their figure in the water. For you must know (said he) that as other waters represent the bodies, which are before them, this represents the spirits.  
Now the spirit, which is but the will, the memory and the judgement, when it is beloved, transformeth itself into the thing beloved; and therefore it is, that when you presented yourselves here, it received the figure of your spirits, and not of your body; and your spirit being changed into Siluie, it represented Siluie, and not you. Whereas, if Siluie had loved you, she should as well have been changed into you, as you into her: and so representing your spirit, you saw Siluie; and seeing Siluie changed, as I told you by this love, you should have seen yourselves also. Clidaman stood very attentive to this discourse; and considering the conclusion was an assurance of that he feared, being full of choler, drawing out his Sword, he struck two or three blows with all his might on the marble of the fountain: but his Sword being at the first resisted, in the end, it broke in the middle, not leaving any mark of his blows; imitating herein the angry dog, that biteth the stone one flings at him. The Druid gave him to understand, that he travailed in vain, because that his enchantment could not be ended by force, but by extremity of love: yet if he listed to make it unprofitable, he knew the mean. Clidaman nourished for rarity within great Cages of iron, two Lions, and two Unicorns, which he oftentimes caused to fight with other beasts.  
Now this Druid demanded them to keep this fountain, and enchanted them in such sort, that although they were set at liberty, yet could they not leave the entry of that Cave, but only when they were to seek their food. For in that while there stayed but two, and ever since they have done no hurt to any, but those which attempted to go to the fountain; but they assailed them with such fury, that there is no likelihood that any will hazard himself. For the Lions are so large and terrible; they have their claws so long and so piercing; so nimble and swift, and so animated to this defence, that they do deeds incredible. On the other side, the Unicorns have their horns so pointed, and so strong, that they will pier●e a very rock: they strike with such force and swiftness, that no man can avoid them. As soon as this guard was thus ordered, Clidaman and Guymantes departed away so secretly, that Amasis nor Siluie knew nothing, until they were fare off. They went to seek out Meroue and Childericke. For they have told us since, that since they were so equally handled by their love, they would try if Arms would favour them as equally.  
Thus (gentle shepherd) have we lost the commodity of this Fountain, which so well discovered the secrets of deceiving thoughts, that if all were as Ligdamon, they would not have made us lose it: For, when I knew that Clidaman and Guymantes were gone, I counselled him to be the third, assuring myself he should be the more favoured; but he made me this answer: Fair Leonide, I always counsel them that are in doubt of their good or evil, that they hazard themselves sometimes, to know the truth. But would not this be folly for him, that having never conceived any hope of that he desires, to seek for a more sure knowledge of his disaster? As for me, I am not in doubt, whether the fair Siluie love me, or not; I am but too assured of it, and when I would know more, I need not ask but of her eyes and her actions. Since that time his affection hath still increased, like the fire, when they lay on more wood: For this is the property of that faculty, to make that which pleases, more delightful, and that which offends, most offensive: and God knows how this cruel hath handled him. The time is yet to come, that she would look on him without disdain or cruelty: and for my part, I know not how a generous man can have such patience, because indeed, the offences which she hath done him, touch more of outrage then of rigour. One day, when he met her going out to walk alone with me, because he had a sweet voice, I prayed him to sing: he said these verses:  

A Song on a desire.  

WHat is this ill that troubles me,  
And will not give me leisure still  
To find anayling remedy?  
Alas, it is a burning will,  
Which, like a flame, always aspires  
To place most high, and hard to gain;  
For that the good I most desire,  
Is it that I cannot attain.   

Desire hath, since first it bred,  
For mother and for sister dear,  
An hasty hope, right strong of head,  
That gives possession well-near.  
But though of course a woman's heart  
Takes never any hold of Love,  
Desire will not from my soul part,  
Though Hope from ●e have made remove.   

But if all Hope be clean put out,  
Wherefore desire so labour you  
To bring a greater work about?  
This will but show small virtue true.  
And she is always flinty hard,  
Without or favours or regard.  
So, though my Hope be fully dead,  
Yet will Desire lift up his head.    
He had no sooner ended, but Siluie takes him up thus: Ha! tell me, Ligdamon, since I am not the cause of your evil, why do you lay it on me? It is your own desire which you should accuse; for it is it that makes you travail in vain. The passionate Ligdamon answered, Desire, indeed, is chat which torment's me: but it is not that which should be blamed, but that which gives it birth, and that is the virtues and perfections of Siluie. If the desires, replied she, be not irregular, they torment not: and if they be irregular, and go beyond reason, they ought to be borne of another object then of virtue, and are not the true children of such a father, since they resemble him nothing. Till this time, answered Ligdamon, I never heard say, that any disavowed a child, for not resembling his father; and yet the extreme desires are not against reason: for, is it not reasonable to desire all good things, according to the degree of their goodness? and so an extreme beauty should be reasonably loved in extremity: so that if they must be blamed in any thing, a man should not say, they are against reason, but beyond reason. Let this suffice, replied this cruel, I am not more reasonable than reason: therefore it is, that I will not avow for mine, that which exceeds. At this word, not to leave him the mean to answer, she turned to meet some of her companions that followed her.  
One time, when Amasis returned from that little place of Montbrison, where the pleasure of the garden, and solitariness, had stayed her longer than she meant, the night came on her before she came to Marseilles. And because the evening was cold, as we went, I asked him on the way, of purpose to make him speak before his mistress, if he felt not the cold and humidity of the evening? Whereto he answered, that of long time the cold nor heat outward had done him hurt. And ask him, why, and what his receipt was? To the one, he answered me, I oppose my burning desires; and to the other, my frozen hopes. If it be so (said I suddenly) whence came it, that I have so often heard you say you burn, and sometime, that you frieze. Ah! (answered he) with a great sigh: Courteous Nymph, the evil whereof I complain, torments me not outwardly, but inwardly; and yet so deeply, that there is no secret part of my soul so retired, where I feel not the grief. For you must know, that above all other, that the fire and cold are incompatibles alike. But I have had within my heart continually the fire on a flame, and the cold frozen, and only feel the discommodity without any mitigation. Siluie could hold no longer from making him feel her accustomed cruelties, but till that word was ended. Yet me thought, she would scarce give him the leisure to bring forth, that so full of envy she was, to make him feel her stings, when turning toward me with a smile, she said disdainfully, casting her head on his side. Oh! how happy is Ligdamon, to have both cold and heat when he will? at least, he hath no cause to complain, nor to feel many discommodities: for, if the cold of his hope freeze, he may chafe himself with the heat of his desires; if his over-ardent desires do burn him, he may cool himself with the ice of his hopes. It is very necessary (fair Siluie, answered Ligdamon) that I should use this remedy to maintain me, otherwise I had not been long since; but this is but a small asswaging of so great a fire: so that the knowledge of these things is a fresh wound which offends me the more, for that in the greatness of my desires I know their weakness, and in their weakness their greatness. You figure your evil (replied the Nymph) such as you please: but I believe not, that the cold being so near the heat, and the heat so near the cold, neither the one, nor the other will suffer his neighbour to be much offended.  
Indeed (answered Ligdamon) to make me burn and freeze at one time, is not one of the least marvels that proceed from you; but this is the greatest, that it is of your cold, that my heat cometh, and of my heat, your ice. But yet it is more marvelous, to see a man have such imaginations, added the Nymph: for they conceive such impossible things, that he that believes them, may aswell be taxed for want of judgement, as you that tell them, for want of truth. I confess, answered he, that my imaginations conceive things impossible; but that proceeds from my overgreat affection, and from your overgreat cruelty: and as this is one of your least effects, that you reproach me with, so it is not one of my least tonments. I believe, said she, that your torments, and mine effects, are of greatest force in your discourse. Hardly, said Ligdamon, can a man say that which he doth not well understand. Hardly (replied the Nymph) may the conceits and vain Ideas of a distempered imagination come to be known. If the truth, adjoined Ligdamon, accompany not this imagination, I should hardly stand in so great need of your compassion. Men (answered the Nymph) make their trophies of our bounty. Do you any whit better, said he, out of our loss? I never saw (replied Siluie) any so undone, but they shifted well enough, as you do all.  
The more I tell you of the cruelties of this Nymph, and of the patiences of Ligdamon, the more comes into my memory. When Clidaman was gone, as I told you, Amasis would send after him the greatest part of the young Knights of this Country, under the charge of Lindamor, to the end he might be taken by Meroue for the man he was. Among other, Ligdamon, as a right gentle Knight, was not forgot. But this cruel would not bid him adieu, feigning to be sick: yet he that would not go, without she knew of it in some sort, writ me these verses:  

On a Departure.  

WHy Love, since thou dost so desire  
That I should s●●r●h in so great fire,  
Why must I go fare from my Dame?   

I answered him.   

TO work in her some mysteries,  
Knowest thou not thus from ashes rise  
The Phoenix, which dies in the flame?    
He had been an happy man with this answer, but this cruel having found what I writ, and unwilling to do him good herself, and not suffering any other should do it, snatched the pen with great strength out of my hand, telling me, that the flatteries which I use to Ligdamon, were the cause of the continuance of his follies, and he had cause more to complain of me, then of her: At last she writ this:  

Siluies answer.  
THe Phoenix from the cinders rise,  
Because that in the flame it dies.  
Absence gives a mortal stroke,  
If presence no more comfort cause.  
Never by cold there will be broke,  
The ice which fire never thaws.   
You may think with what contentment he parted: It was to some purpose, for him to be accustomed of long time to such blows, and that he remembered the disgraces which came from them whom they serve, ought often to take the place of favour. And I remember, that on this discourse, he called himself the most happy man in the world, since the ordinary disgraces which he received from Siluie, could not make him doubt that she had him in any great good memory, that she would not acknowledge him for her servant, and that since she used not to deal so with others that were not particularly affectioned to her; he made himself believe, that money was that wherewith she paid those that were towards her, and such as it was, he was to make reckoning of it, because it had her mark: and on this subject he sent these verses before he parted.  

A SONNET.  

THis sovereign beauty she will have it so;  
What is impossible, not what I can,  
To make good trial, that I am the man:  
Such is her will, and mine with hers shall go.   

She shall at last see, that my Love for store,  
Is at the spring, like to a springing well:  
The more of me she draws, by sorrows fell,  
The more she shall perceive, I love her more.   

The spring that brings forth my affection,  
Is without more of her perfection:  
Eternal in effect, and so is she.   

Assay then (rigorous) from my hard fate,  
To draw incessantly; my love wants date:  
The more you draw, the greater it will be.    
Leonide had held on discourse, if a far off she had not seen Galathee come, who after she had long stayed alone, and not able longer to deprive herself of the sight of this shepherd, she was dressed the best to her advantage that her glass could give counsel, and came forth without any other company then the little Merill; she was fair, & worthy to be beloved of an heart, that had not already had another affection. At that time, by the confusion which the water had wrought in Celadons stomach, he felt himself ill at ease, that by that time they came at the Nymph, they were constrained to carry him back, & the shepherd soon after went to bed, where he remained some days down lying, and uprising of his infirmity, without being either grievously sick, or very throughly recovered.   
The end of the third Book.   

THE FOURTH BOOK OF Astrea and Celadon.  
GAlathee, that was thoroughly taken, so long as the sickness of Celadon lasted, stirred not ordinarily from his bed's head; and when she was constrained to remove from thence, either to rest, or for some other occasion, she left him Leovide for the most part, whom she gave in charge to lose no opportunity, to give the shepherd to understand of her good will, believing that by this means, she might, in the end, give him hope of that which his condition denied. And indeed, Leonide deceived her not; for though she were desirous, Lindamor might me satisfied; yet she that looked for all her advancement from Galathee, had no greater desire then to content her: but love, which ordinarily makes pastime with the wisdom of lovers, and delights to conduct his effects contrary to their purposes, made Leonide, by conversing with the shepherd, to stand in more need of one to speak for her, than any other in the company. For the ordinary view of this shepherd, who wanted nothing that might win love, made her know, that beauty hath over-secret intelligences with our soul, to suffer it so freely to come near his powers, without suspicion of treason. The shepherd soon perceived it, but the affection which he bore to Astrea, which yet exceedingly raged, would not suffer him to endure this growing love, with patience. That was the cause that he resolved to take his leave of Galathee, when he began to find himself somewhat better. But as soon as he opened his mouth about it, How is it, said she, Celadon, are you hardly used by me, that you will be gone before you be throughly recovered? And when he answered, it was for fear of troubling her; and for some business he was constrained to return to his Hamlet, to assure his parents & his friends of his health: she interrupted him, saying, No, Celadon, doubt not my trouble, so I see you want nothing: and as for your affairs, and friends, without me, whose company (it seems) mislikes you much, you shall not be in this pain, since you will no longer. And me thinks the greatest business that you have to do, is to satisfy the obligation which you have to me, & that your ingratitude should not be small, if you grudge me some moments of your life, which you hold all of me. Henceforth you must not fet your eyes on things so base, as your life passed, but you are to leave your hamlets, and your flocks to them that have not the merits that you have; and for the time to come, you must place your eyes on me that can, and will do for you, if your actions altar not my mind. Though the shepherd seemed not to understand this discourse, yet he conceived it easily enough, and from that time avoided, what he could possibly, to talk with her in private. But the displeasure which this life brought him, was such, that almost losing all patience, one day Leonide hearing him sigh, demanded the cause, seeing he was in place where they desired nothing more than his contentment. He answered her (fair Nymph) among all miserable men, I may hold myself to be the most extremely handled by fortune; for commonly they that be in grief, have permission to complain, and have the comfort to be mon: but I dare not, for that my misfortune comes covered with the most of the contrary, and therefore in stead of being bemoaned, I am rather blamed, as a man of small judgement, that if you, and Galathee knew how bitter the wormwood is, wherewith I am fed, in this place, happy indeed to any other but me, I assure myself, you would take pity of my life. And what want you (said she) to comfort you? At this time (said he) I only want leave to be gone. Would you (replied the Nymph) I should speak of it to Galathee? I beseech you (said he) by whatsoever you hold dearest. Then it must be as by yourself (said the Nymph) blushing: and not turning her head toward him, she went out of the chamber to seek where Galathee was, whom she found alone in the garden, and who now began to suspect there was love on Leonide's part, fearing she nothing forwarded the charge she had given her, though she remained since all the day from him, for that knowing how sharp the weapons of the beauty of the shepherd were, she thought it might as well part two as one: yet being constrained to pass thorough her hands, she went about to deceive herself, as well as was possible; and so set on the same countenance toward the Nymph, as she had accustomed; and when she saw her coming toward her, she raised herself to ask how the shepherd did; and having known he was in the same state she left him, she held on her walk, and having gone some paces, without speaking, she turned to the Nymph, and said, But tell me, Leonide, was there ever man so insensible as Celadon, since neither my actions, nor your persuasions, can give him any feeling of that he ought to render me? For my part (answered Leonide) I had rather accuse him of want of spirit, and courage, then of understanding; for I think, either he hath not the judgement to know, whereto my actions tend, or if he know my words, he hath not the courage to attempt so high: and so, how much the love of your perfections and favours may raise him to you, so much the weight of his own small merit and condition may abase him. But you must not think this strange, since the Appletree beareth Apples, and the Oak Acorns; for every thing brings forth according to his nature: So, what can you hope the courage of a villain can produce, but the designs of a weak and base soul? I think well, answered Galathee, the great difference of our conditions do work in him a great respect, but I shall never imagine, if he knew the difference, but he hath spirit enough to judge, to what end I use him with this sweetness, except it be, that he be so fare engaged to Astrea, that he cannot go back.  
Assure you, Madam, replied Leonide, it is not respect, but sottishness, which makes him so misprising. For I may aver, as you say, that it is true he love's Astrea; but if he had judgement, would he not contemn her for you, who deserve so fare beyond comparison? Yet is he so ill advised, that at every turn, when I speak to him of you, he answers me but with grief, for being so fare removed from his Astrea, with such displeasure, that one may think, that his stay here is infinitely troublesome to him. And this morning, hearing him sigh, I asked him the cause. He made me answer, which would move the stones to pity; and in the end, the conclusion was, that I should desire you he might be gone. Yes, replied Galathee, red with choler, no longer able to dissemble her jealousy: Confess the truth, Leonide, he hath moved you. It is true, Madam, he hath moved me to pity; and me thinks, since he hath such a desire to be gone, you ought not to hold him by force. For Love never enters into the heart for the blows of a whip. I think not, replied Galathee, but he had moved you to pity; but speak no more of it: it may be, when he is recovered, he shall sooner find the effects of despite, which he hath caused to be bred in me, than those of love, which he hath wrought in you. In the mean time, to speak freely, let him resolve not to go hence at his own pleasure, but at mine. Leonide would have answered, but the Nymph interrupted her. No more, Leonide, said she, it is enough, content yourself that I say no more, but that this is my resolution. So Leonide was forced to hold her peace, and to been gone, taking this injury so to heart, that she resolved to go to Adamas her uncle, and to take no more care of Galathees secrets, who at that time called Siluie that was walking in another alley alone; to whom against her former purpose, she could not hold, in complaining of Leonide, from making her know that, which till then she had hid from her. But Siluie, although young, yet full of judgement, to pacify all things, endeavoured to excuse Leonide what she could possibly; knowing well, that if her companion meant a despite, and it should come to be known, they could not but bring much shame to their Mistress. And therefore she said unto her, after many words: You know well, Madam, you never acquainted me with this business; and yet I must tell you, of these particulars you may not judge me so ignorant as I seemed to be; but my humour is not to thrust myself into things, where I am not called. It is some pretty while since, seeing my companion so diligent about Celadon, I suspected that Love was the cause, and not Compassion of his disease: and because it is a thing that toucheth us all, I resolved to be assured before I would speak of it; and after that, I began to look into her actions more narrowly then of wont, and wrought so, that yesterday I got on the further side of the shepherd's bed, while he slept, and by and by Leonide came in, who by opening the door, waked him, without knowing any thing. After many common discourses, she came to talk of the love he bareto the shepherdess Astrea, and Astrea to him: But (said she) believe me, this is nothing to the price of the affection that Galathee bears you. To me, (said he?) Yes, to you (replied Leonide:) and make it not so strange, you know how often I have told you; yet is she greater than my words. Fair Nymph, answered the shepherd, I can neither merit, nor believe I shall have so great happiness. Besides, what should her meaning be to me, that am a shepherd borne, and desire to live and die so? Your birth (returns my companion) cannot but be great, since it hath given beginning to so great perfections. O Leonide, said then the shepherd, your words are full of mockery; but were they plain, have you an opinion, that I know not what Galathee is, & who I am? I know it indeed, fair Nymph, and can well measure my meanness, and her greatness with duty. True (answered Leonide) I think you will use the measure that men do, that is good for them that will buy and sell. And do not you know that gifts will not be measured? and Love being nothing but a gift, why will you draw it to the ell-wand of duty? Doubt no more of that which I tell you and not to be wanting in your duty, render her as much of love and of affection, as she hath given you. I swear unto you, Madam, till that time, I imagined that Leonide spoke for herself, and I have no cause to lie; from the beginning this discourse astonished me: but since, having seen with what discretion your actions have been carried, I much commend the power you have over them; knowing very well, that it is an harder matter to have absolute command over ones self, then over any other.  
Maid (answered Galathee) if you knew the occasion I have to seek the love of Celadon, you would commend it, and advice me to the same design: For, do you remember that Druid that foretold us our fortune? I remember it well, said she, it is not so long since. You know (continued Galathee) how many true things he hath told you, and Leonide also. Now know withal, that he assured me, that if I married any otherthen Celadon, I should be the most unhappy person on earth; and do you think it fit, that having had such proof of his predictions, I should contemn them that touch me so near? And this is it, that I find such fault with, that Leonide should be so much misadvised, to march my pace, making the same declaration to him. Madam, said Siluie, enter not into that doubt, for in truth I lie not. And me thinks you should not anger her too much, for fear that in her complaints she discover this design to any other. Friend (said Galathee, embracing her) I doubt not of that you told me, and I promise you, I will deal with Leonide, as you have advised me.  
In the mean time that they discourse thus, Leonide goes to seek out Celadon, to whom she recited, word for word, the talk that Galathee and she had for his cause, and that he was to think that the place where he was, bore the show of liberty, but indeed it was a prison: which struck him so to the quick, that whereas before his disease, he went but as it were creeping, now it grew so violent, that that very night the fever took him again so burning, that Galathee being come to see him, and seeing him so much impaired, was in great doubt of his life. The next morning his disease increasing so fiercely, he swooned away twice or thrice between their arms: and albeit these Nymphs were never further off, but that the one was at the head, and the other at the feet of the bed, without other repose, then that by broken sleeps extreme heaviness came stealing on them: yet so it was, that he was very poorly attended, having there nothing fit for a sick man; and not daring to fetch it elsewhere, for fear of being discovered. So that the shepherd ran in great hazard of his life, and in such sort, that that one night he felt himself in great extremity, so that the Nymphs esteemed him as a dead man; but in the end, he came back to himself, and shortly after lost a great deal of blood, which weakened him so, that he desired to rest. That was the cause that the Nymphs left him alone with Merill. And being retired, Siluie all afraid at this accident, addressing herself to Galathee, said: methinks (Madam) you are ready to fall into a great confusion, if you take not the better order: judge how great pain it will be to you, if this shepherd perish in your hands for fault of succour.  
Alas (said the Nymph) since the relapse of his disease, I found it too true, that which you say: but what remedy is there? We are here altogether unprovided of things necessary for him, and to have them from elsewhere, if my life lay on it, I would not do it, for the fear I have it would be known. Leonide, whom affection had made more resolute than Siluie, said: Madam, these fears are good, when they touch not the life of a man; but where it doth, we are not so much to consider or prevent other inconveniences which may arise. If this shepherd die, think you, his death can be kept unknown? Since it can sort but to punishment, you must believe, the very heavens will discover: but let us take it at the worst, and that it be known the shepherd be here. What of that? May you not cover it with the cloak of Compassion, whereto Nature inclines us all? And if it please you to refer this business to me, I assure myself to carry it so discreetly, that no man shall discover any thing. For Madam, I have (as you know) for my uncle, Adamas Prince of the druids, from whom no secret of Nature, nor virtue of herbs are hid; he is a man of great discretion and judgement: and I know, he hath a particular inclination to do you service: if you will employ him in this occasion, I make no question, but it will sort to your contentment. Galathee stood some while without answer. But Siluie, that saw it the most expedient, and forejudged, that by mean of the wise Adamas, they might divert Galathee from this shameful life, answered very readily, that this way, in her opinion, was the safest. Whereto Galathee consented, not being able to invent a better. There resteth (saith Leonide) to know (that I go not beyond your commandment) what your will is I should say to Adamas, & what I should conceal. There is nothing (answered Siluie, seeing Galathee stand silent) that more binds a man to secrecy, then frankly to discover an entire trust: and contrarily, nothing that more constrains to bewray, then apparent mistrust: So that it seemeth best, to tie Adamas more strongly to be secret, you must tell him before he comes, all things that he is like to discover when he shall be here. I am (said Galathee) so quite besides myself, that I hardly know what to say: and for that cause, I refer all to your discretion. So departed Leonide with her desire, though the beginning of the night were very dark, and rested not till she came to her uncle, whose abode was at the turning of the mountain of Marseilles, not fare from the Vestals and Druids of Laignieu: but her journey was longer than she looked for, for reaching thither by break of day, she found he was gone to Feurs, and that he would not return of two or three days, which was the cause, that without long abode, she set forward on her way, but so weary, that had not the desire of the shepherd's recovery been, which gave her no rest, without doubt, she had stayed for Adamas there, whereas now she stayed but half an hour, for that not having been used to such journey, she found it very hard; & when she was a little refreshed, she went the same way shecame. But hardly had she gone a mile, but she might see fare oft, a Nymph alone coming towards her, the same way that she had gone, whom afterwards she knew to be Siluie. This meeting brought her but a little comfort; believing that she came to deliver the death of Celadon, but it was contrary; for she understood by her, that since her departure, he had taken good rest, & at his waking, he found himself without the fever, and therefore Galathee had sent her to overtake her, and to tell her so much; and to say, that the shepherd being in so good case, there was no need to bring Adamas, nor to acquaint him with the business. It will be hard to express the contentment that Leonide had, hearing of the recovery of the shepherd, whom she loved. And after she had thanked God, she said to her companion, Sister, since I know by your speech, that Galathee hath not concealed from you her desire which she hath, touching the shepherd, it is necessary, that I should frankly tell you, that this kind of life infinitely distastes me, and that I hold it very shameful, both for her and us: for she is so passionate, that for all the small reckoning the shepherd makes of her, yet can she not withhold herself; and so hath before her eyes, the predictions of a certain Druide, that she thinks all her happiness depends upon this Love: and this is the good which she thinks every one ought to affect as well as she, as if all looked with her eyes; and that is my grief: for she is become so jealous of me, that she can hardly endure me to be near him. Now, sister, if this life come to be known (as without doubt it will, since there is nothing so secret, but shall be discovered) judge you what they will talk of us, and what opinion we shall have of all others that hear of it. I have done what I could possibly to divert her from it, but all to no purpose. Therefore am I resolved to let her love, since she will love; provided, that it be not at our cost. I have made you this discourse, to show you, that it is very expedient, we should seek some remedy; and that I find no means more ready, then by making my uncle a party, who will bring it to good pass by his counsel and wisdom. Sister, said Siluie, I infinitely commend your desine; and to give you the commodity of bringing Adamas to her, I will return back, and say, I have been at Adamas his house, but could neither find you nor him. It were very fit (answered Leonide) that we go to rest ourselves in some thicket, that as it seemeth, you have long sought for me; so am I so weary, that I must sleep a little, if I mean to finish my voyage. Let us go, sister (replied Siluie) and believe you shall effect no small matter, to free us of Celadon: For, I well perceive the humour of Galathee, that with the time, will turn to your great displeasure. At this word they took hands, and looking about for some place to spend a part of the day in, they spied one on the other side of Lignon, which they thought fit for their purpose. Passing over the bridge of the Botresse, and leaving Bonlieu, the place of the Druids and Vestals on the left hand, and going down along the river, they came to bestow themselves in a thick grove, which joined hard on the highway, and wherein there was an Arbour, that afforded a pleasant seat at all times; out of which, when they had made choice of the most shadowed corner, they fell asleep one after another.  
And while they thus rested, Astrea, Diane, and Phillis, came by chance, driving their flocks into that place, and not seeing the Nymphs, they sat down near them: and because the amities which are begun in bad fortune, are more straightly riveted in, than those that are conceived in happy times, Diane, who was tied in a fast league with Astrea and Phillis, since the mishap of Celadon, bore them so great good will, and they to her, that almost all the day they left not each other: and, indeed, Astrea had great need of consolation; the rather, for that about that time, she lost Alce and Hippolyta, her father and mother: Hippolyta, for the fright shotooke for the loss of Astrea, when she was in the water; and Alce, for grief, at the loss of his dear companion: which yet was a poor help to Astrea, who might bewail the loss of Celadon, under the cover of that of her father and mother: and, as I told you, Diane, the daughter of the wise Bellinde, that she might not be wanting in the duty of a neighbour, went often to visit her, and found her humour so pleasing, and Astrea again hers, and Phillis that of them both, that they swore so firm a league between them, that they never after separated: and this was the first day that Astrea came out of her lodging. So that these her two faithful companions were now with her: but they were no sooner set down, but they might perceive fare off, Semire, who came to find her. This shepherd had long time been amorous of Astrea, and knowing that she loved Celadon, thought that he was the cause of his bad success; being now persuaded, that having driven away Celadon, he might easily obtain his place, he came to seek her out, that he might begin his design, but he was much deceived; for Astrea having found out his craft, conceived such an hatred against him, that when she spied him, she would lay her hand over her eyes, that she might not see him, and desired Phillis to tell him from her, that he should never present himself to her. And these words were spoken with such a change of look, and so great a vehemency, that her companions easily found out her great stomach, which more readily incensed Phillis against the shepherd. When he heard this message, hestood so confused in his thoughts, that it seemed he could not move. At last, overcome, & enforced by the acknowledgement of his error, he said, Discreet Phillis, I protest, the heavens are just, in giving me more sorrow than an heart is able to bear, since they cannot equal their punishment according to mine offence, having been the cause of the breach of the fairest and most entire love that ever was. But that the gods may not more rigorously chastise me, tell this fair shepherdess, that I ask pardon both of her, and of the cinders of Celadon, assuring her, that the extreme affection which I bore her, without more, was the cause of this fault; that banished from her, and from her eyes, justly offended, I may go lamenting all my life long. At this word he went away so uncomfortable, that his repentance moved Phillis to some pity: and being come back to her companions, she told them his answer. Alas! sister, said Astrea, I have more reason to fly this wicked man, then to weep; judge you if I ought not, this is he, without more, that hath been the cause of all my sorrow. How? sister, said she, is Semire the cause of your sorrow? Hath he such power over you? If I durst tell you his wickedness, said Astrea, and mine own folly, you would say, that he hath used the greatest Art, that the craftiest spirit could invent. Diane knowing that that was the cause that she spoke no more plainly to Phillis, for that it was yet but eight or ten days that they grew to that familiarity, said to them, that it was no part of her purpose, to take any thing from them by constraint. And you, fair shepherdess (said she, turning to the sad Astrea) give me occasion to think that you love me not, if you be more reserved to me then to Phillis; for that, though it be not long, that I have enjoyed the good of your familiarity, yet are you to be no less assured of my affection, then of hers, Phillis then answered, I assure myself, that Astrea will always speak as freely before you, as before herself; her humour being not to love by halves; & since she hath sworn to be such, she hath nothing in her soul to conceal. It is true (continued Astrea) and that which held me from saying more, was only for that the putting the weapon again into the wound, will but poison it. Yet so it is, replied Diane, that oftentimes you must use the weapon to heal it: and for me, I think, that to speak freely of the disease to a friend, is, to make him a party: and if I durst desire you, it would be a great satisfaction, to know, what your life hath been, as myself also will not make it dainty, to tell you mine, when you shall be desirous to know it. Since you will have it so, answered Astrea, & that you have a mind to partake in my sorrows, I will, so that afterwards you impart to me of your contentments, and that, in the mean time, you suffer me to use that brevity in the discourse, which you desire to understand from me; and truly, an history so unfortunate as mine, will not please, but by being short: And being all three set in a round, she began to speak in this manner:  

The History of Astrea and Phillis.  
THey that know what it is, when friendship or hatred pass from father to son, may well conceive Celadons fortune and mine, and without doubt, may affirm, that they be not deceived: For (fair Diane) I believe you have often heard speech of the old hatred between Alce & Hippolyta, my father and mother, and of Alcippe and Amarillis, the father & mother of Celadon, their displeasures accompanying them even to their grave, which hath been cause of so great trouble among the shepherds of this Country, that I assure myself, there is no man ignorant of it along the shore of the cruel and dishonoured Lignon. And yet it seemeth that Love, to show his power of persons so opposite, would unite two so straight, that nothing could break the lines, but death. For, hardly had Celadon reached to the age of fourteen or fifteen years, and I of twelve or thirteen, but that at an assembly which was had at the Temple of Venus, which is on the top of this mountain, seated in the Plain, right over against Montsur, about a mile from the Castle of Monbusor, this young shepherd saw me: and as he hath told me since, he had long before conceived a good liking, upon the report which was made of me. But the let which I told you, our fathers took from him all means, and I must tell you, that I do not think he bore a greater liking, than did I; for I know not how, when I heard speech of him, my heart danced in my belly; and this was but a presage of the troubles, which since befell me on that occasion, Now at the instant, when he saw me, I know not how he found matter of love in me, so that within a while after, he resolved to love me, and to serve me.  
And it seemeth that at this first view, both the one and the other of us was at this pass, that we must love, so that as often as it was told me, that he was the son of Alcippe, I found a certain change in myself, which was not ordinary, and thenceforth all his actions began to please me, and much more agreeing to my liking, then of all the other young shepherds of his age: and for that as yet he durst not come near me, & that speech was denied him, his looks at his come and doings spoke to me so often, that at last I knew he had a longing to tell me more; and to effect it, at a game that was kept at the foot of the mountain, under the old elms, that yielded a pleasant shade, he used such art, that before I was ware, and seeming to be through want of heed, he got under my hand; for my part I seemed not to note it, & used him as I did all the others; but he on the contrary, took me by the hand, so that making show to cast down his, I perceived his mouth on mine. This act made me blush, and making show not to heed it, I turned my head away as harkening to the brawl: we danced. This was the cause that he stayed somewhile before he spoke to me, not knowing as I think where to begin. At last unwilling to lose this opportunity, which he had so long sought, he advanced himself before me, and rounded in the care of Corilas, that led me in that dance, so loud, yet feigning to whisper, that I heard these words: I would to God, Corilas, the contention between the father of this shepherdess, & mine, might be ended in us two: and then went to his place. And Corilas answered him loud enough: Make not you this attempt, Celadon; for it may be, you never attempted any thing more dangerous. What hazard so ever it hath (answered Celadon aloud) I will not deny that I have spoken, & give my heart in pawn. In such promises (replied Corilas) they use not to offer less assurance than that: & yet within a while after, it is gainsaid. Whosoever (rejoineth the shepherd) makes difficulties to run such a fortune as you threaten, I shall hold him for a man of small courage. It is a virtue (answered Corilas) to be courageous, but it is also a folly to be rash. By proof (replied Celadon) you shall know what I will do, and in the mean time, I promise you at a word, that I will never gainsay it. And because I made show, not to heed their discourse, directing his words to me, he said, And you, fair shepherdess, what is your opinion? I know not, answered I, of what you speak. He hath told me, said Corilas, that to draw a great good out of a great evil, he wishes your father's hatred were changed into love between their children. How (answered I, seeming not to know him) are you the son of Alcippe? And having answered me, Yea, and moreover, my servant? Me thinks said I, it were fit for you to join to some other, that may have more occasion to agree with you, than I. I have heard it said (replied Celadon) that the gods do punish the offences of the fathers on their children; but among men, it hath not been the custom: which is not, for that it is not allowed to your beauty, which is divine, to use the same privileges that the gods do: but if it be so, you are like then to grant pardon, when it is demanded of you. Is it so, shepherd (interrupted Corilas) that you begin your combat with crying mercy? In this combat (answered he) to be overcome, is a kind of victory: & for my part, I am willing enough, provided that she will take the spoil. I think they had continued their discourse longer, if the dance had held out longer, but the end of it separated us, and every one went to his place.  
Somewhile after they began to propound prizes, for diverse exercises which they were accustomed unto, as the Lute, to Run, and cast the Bar; whereto Celadon, for being too young, was not admitted but only to the course whereat he won the prize, which was a garland of diverse flowers, which was set on his head by the whole assembly, with great commendation, that being so young had overcome so many shepherds: He, without any long dreaming, took it off, came to me to set it on my head, saying very low, See the confirmation of what I said! I was so surprised, that I could not answer: & had it not been for Artemis your mother, Phillis, I had given it him again; not for that coming from his hand, it pleased me not, but because I feared Alce & Hippolyta would not think well of it. But Artemis, that rather desired to quench, then kindle these ancient hatreds, commanded me to take it and to thank him: which I did so coldly, that every one might well think it should not have been done, but by the command of my Aunt. All this day passed thus, & the next day also, the young shepherd losing no occasion to make his affection appear to me. And because that on the third day they had a custom to represent, in honour of Venus, the judgement which Paris gave of the three goddesses, Celadon resolved to thrust himself among the maids, under the habit of a shepherdess. You know well, that on that third day, about the end of the feast of the great Druide, they have used to cast among the maids an apple of gold, whereon are written the names of the three shepherdess whom they think to be the most fair in the company, with this word, 
Be it given to the most fair of the three:   
And that, after they have dressed her, which is to represent the person of Paris, who with the three shepherdess enter into the Temple of Beauty, dedicated to Venus, where, the doors being shut, she giveth judgement of all three, when she sees them naked, but only a thin Lawn, which covers them, from the girdlestead, almost to the knees. And for that once it was abused, and that some shepherds had thrust themselves among the shepherdess, it was ordained by a public Edict, That he that did commit the like fault, should (without remission) be stoned by the Maids at the gate of the Temple:  
Now it happened, that this Youth (without consideration of the great danger) that day attired himself like a shepherdess, and forcing himself into our company, was taken for a maid; and as Fortune would favour him, my name was written on the Apple, and Malthe and Stella; and when they came to set down the name of her that bore the personage of Paris, I heard him name Orithee, which was the name that Celadon had taken. God knows if his soul received not all the delight it was capable of, when he saw his design succeed so well. In the end, we were brought into the Temple, where the judge being set in his seat, the doors being shut, and we three only remaining with him, we began, according to the order, to unclothe ourselves; and because every one must go apart, and speak to him, and make the offers that the three goddesses had sometimes made to Paris; Stelle, who was most forward to put off her clothes, went first to present herself to him, whom he beheld some while: And after he had heard what she would say, he caused her to return, to give place to Malthe, who was got before me, for that ashamed to show myself naked, I delayed (as much as I could) the putting off of my clothes. Celadon, thinking the time long, and after he had some short while entertained Malthe, seeing that I came not, called for me. In the end, not able to delay it no longer, I was constrained; but, O God, when I think on it, I am yet ready to die for shame: yet my hair was dispersed, and almost covered me, on it I had no other ornament, than the garland, which the day before he had given me. When the others were gone back, and when he saw me in this sort; by him I observed that twice or thrice he changed colour, but I never suspected the cause: for my part, shamefastness had tainted my cheek with so fresh a colour, that he hath since sworn unto me, he never saw me so lovely: and he would have been contented, he might have been suffered to stay all the day long in that contemplation: but fearing to be discovered, he was compelled to shorten his contentment: and when he saw I said nothing, (for shame had tied up my tongue) And how, Astrea, said het, think you your cause so good, that you need not as well as others, seek the judges good will? I doubt not, Orithee, answered I, that I shall have more need to seduce my judge by my words, than Stella or Malthe: but I know well also, that I must as well give place to them in persuading, as in beauty: so that but for the constraint whereto the custom ties me, I had never come before you, in hope to win the prize. And if you bear it away (answered the shepherd) what will you do for me? I shall have, said I, the greater obligation to you, by how much I think it merits less. How then, replied he, will you make me no other offer? The demand (said I) must come from you, for I cannot teach you who deserves to be received. Swear to me, said the shepherd, you will give me that which I shall demand, and my judgement shall be to your advantage. After I had promised him, he asketh of my hair, to make him a bracelet: which I did; and after he had folded it in a paper, he said to me: Now, Astrea, I will keep these hairs for a pledge of the oath which you have made, that if ever you gainsay it, I may offer it to the goddess Venus, and demand vengeance of her. That, said I, is superfluous, since I am resolved never to fail. Then with a smlling countenance, he said to me, God be thanked, fair Astrea, that my design hath fall'n out so prosperously: for know, that which you have promised me, is to love me above any in the world, and to receive me as your faithful servant, who am Celadon, and not Orithee, as you suppose; I say, that Celadon, by whom love hath given proof, that hatred is not of power sufficient to disappoint his effects, since even among the displeasures of our fathers, he hath made me so yours, that I had no fear to dye at the gate of this temple, to give you testimony of my affection. judge, wise Diane, what became of me: for love forbade me to seek revenge of my shamefastness; and yet shame encouraged me against love: at last, after a confused disputation, it was impossible for me to consent to cause him dye, since the offence which he made, proceeded not but of too great love to me: yet knowing him to be a shepherd, I could no longer stay before his eyes; and without making other answer, I ran to my companions, whom I found almost dressed; and taking up my garments, scarce knowing what I did, I made myself ready as soon as was possible. But to be short, when we were all ready, the dissembled Orithee placed herself at the entry of the gate; and having us all three before her: I ordain (saith she) that the prize of beauty be given to Astrea: in witness whereof I present her the golden apple: & there is no cause any body should doubt of my judgement, since I have seen her; and though a maid, yet, I have felt the force. In saying those words, he presented me the apple, which I received, being much troubled; and the father, when with a loud voice he said, Receive this Apple as a pawn of my affection, which is as infinite, as this is round. I answered him, Be content, rash man, that I receive it to save thy life: and that otherwise I would refuse it, as coming from thy hand. He durst not reply, for fear he might be heard and known: and because the custom was, that she that received the Apple, was to kiss the judge, by way of thankfulness, I was constrained to kiss him: but I assure you, had I not known him until then, I should then have discovered him to be a shepherd: for it was not the kiss of a maid.  
Presently, the noise, and the applause of the company separated us, because the Druid having crowned me, caused me to be borne in a chair to the place of the Assembly, with so much honour, that every one wondered I was no more cheerful. But I was so troubled, and so sore beaten, between Love and Despite, that I scarce knew what I did. As for Celadon, as soon as he had finished the ceremonies, he lost himself amongst the other shepherdess, and by little and little, without the heeding of any body, got out of the company, and put off his borrowed garments, to put on his own natural clothes, with which he came again to us; with a face so confident, that no man would ever have suspected him. As for me, when I saw him, I might scarce turn mine eyes to him, being full of shame and choler. But he that noted it, and made no show of it, found the means to come to me, and to say loud enough; The judge which hath given you the prize of beauty, hath showed good judgement; and me thinks, that albeit the justice of your cause do well deserve so favourable a sentence, yet must not you be failing to bear him some kind of obligation. I believe, shepherd, answered I softly enough, that he is more obliged to me, than I to him: for that if he gave me an apple, which (in some sort) was due to me, I have given him life, which his rashness merited to lose. So he told me (answered presently Celadon) that he would preserve it only for your service. If I had not more respect (replied I) to myself, then to him, I had not let him go without chastisement for so great a presumption. But enough, Celadon, let us cut off this discourse, and content yourself, that if I have not punished you as you deserve, it was only for fear of giving occasion to others to talk their pleasure of me, and not for want of will to see you punished. If there be nothing but that (said he) to hinder my death, tell me in what fashion you will have me die, and you shall see I have no less courage to satisfy you, than I have had of love to offend you. This discourse would be too long, if I should tell you all our talk in particular.  
So it was, that after many replies now on the one side and the other, whereby it was impossible for me to doubt of his affection, if at least the diverse changes of countenance might bewray any thing I said to him seeming to be in choler: Bethink you, shepherd, of the hatred of our fathers, and believe, that that which I bear, shall not turn to nothing, if you ever more importune me with your follies, which your young age, and my honour, pardon for this time. I used these last words, to give him the less courage. For it is true, that his beauty, courage, and affection pleased me; and that he might make no further answer, I turned to talk with Stella, who was not fare off. He all astonished with this answer, withdrew from the company, so sad, that in few days he was scarce to be known, & so solitary, that his haunt was in the places most desolate and savage of all our woods. Whereof being advertised by some of my companions, who told me, without conceit, that I was the cause; I began to think of his pain, and resolved in my mind, to search some means to give him satisfaction. And because (as I told you) he forsook all company, I was constrained (that I might meet him) to drive my flock that way where I knew he resorted most. And when it fell out twice or thrice to be in vain, at last, one day, as I was seeking for him, me thought, I heard his voice among some trees: and I was not deceived; for coming softly towards him, I saw him lie along on the ground, and his eyes wet tears, so bend upward to heaven, that they seemed unmovable.  
The sight of him moved me so to pity, being somewhat inclined thereto before, that I resolved no longer to leave him in this pain. Therefore, after I had considered of it awhile, and not willing it might appear to him that I sought him out, I withdrew some good way from the place, whereseeming not to heed him, I sung so high, that my voice came to his ears. As soon as he heard me, I might see he raised up himself in a dump, and turning his eyes to the place where I was, he stood like one ravished to hear me, which when I marked, that I might give him commodity to come near me, I made as though I would sleep, and yet I held mine eyes half open, to see what it would come to; and, indeed, it failed not of that I purposed: for coming softly towards me, he came & kneeled as close to me as he could, and after he had long time stayed in this sort, when I made show to be fast asleep, to give him the more hardiness, I perceived, that after some sighs, he stoops down softly against my mouth, and kisses me. Then thinking he had taken courage enough, I opened mine eyes, as if I had been waked when he touched me; and rising up, I said to him, seeming to be angry, Uncivil shepherd, what hath made thee so unmannerly, to come to disquiet my sleep in this sort? He then, all trembling, and not raising his knees, It is you, fair shepherdess, said he, that have constrained me, and if I have offended, you must punish your own perfections, which are the cause. These are always, said I, the excuses of your malipertnesse: but if you hold on to displease me thus, believe it, shepherd, I will not bear it. If you call it a displeasure, answered he, to be loved, and adored, in good time begin to study, what punishment you will inflict on me; for, now I swear unto you, that I shall displease you in this sort all my life, and no rigour of your cruelty, nor enmity of our fathers, nor any let in the world can divert me from this design.  
But, fair Diane, I must shorten these pleasing discourses, being so contrary to the unfortunate season wherein I am, and must only tell you, that in the end, being overcome, I said to him, But, shepherd, what end is your design like to have, since that they which may frame you to their pleasure, disallow it? How, replied he presently, Frame to their pleasure? So fare is it that Alcippe hath power over my will, that I have it not myself. You may dispose of yourself, said I, at your own pleasure, but not of the obedience you own to your father, without committing a great fault. The obedience, answered he, which I own him, may not pass that which I can over myself: for this is no faulting, not to do that which one cannot. But be it so, that I own him it, since of two evils we are to shun the greatest, I choose rather to be failing toward him, that is but a man, then against your beauty which is divine. Our discourse, in the end, held on so fare, that I must suffer him to be my servant; and because we were young, both the one and the other, so that we had not Art enough to cover our design, Alcippe, within a while, took notice of it, & not being willing that this love should pass further on, he resolved with his old friend Cleante, to cause him to undertake a journey so long, that absence might blot out this young impression of Love.. But this distance availed as little, as all the other crafty tricks with which he served himself since. For Celadon, though he were young, yet had a resolution to overcome all difficulties: that, whereas others others meet their contraries with pain, he took them for trials of himself, and called them the touchstones of his faithfulness: and for as much as he knew, his voyage would be long, he desired me to give him the commodity to bid me adieu. I did it, fair Diane, but if you had seen the affection, wherewith he besought me to love him; the oaths, by which he assured me never to change; and the conjurations, by which he bond me never to love other; without doubt, you would judge, that things most impossible, might fall out sooner, than the loss of this amity. In the end, not daring to stay longer, he said, My Astrea, for so he did in private call me, I leave you my brother Licidas, from whom I have not concealed any one of my designs; he knows what service I have vowed unto you: promise me, if it please you, that I may departed with contentment, to receive, as coming from me, all these services that he shall do you, and that, by his presence, you renew the memory of Celadon. And, indeed, he had reason to make this request: for Licidas, during his absence, shown himself so curious to observe what his brother had given him in charge, that many thought he succeeded in the affection which his brother bore me. That was the cause that Alcippe, after he had kept him three years out of this Country, called him back, being of opinion, that so long a time had defaced the light impression, which Love had made in a soul so young; and that growing more wise, he might easily draw Licidas from affecting me. But his return was a strong assurance to me of his faithfulness: For the chillness of the Alps, which he had twice passed thorough, could nothing diminish the fire of his love; nor the admirable beauties of those Romans, divert him from the least part of what he had promised me. O God, with what contentment came he to meet me! he besought me by his brother, that I would give him opportunity to speak with me. I think I have yet his letter. Alas! I have more charily preserved that which came from him, than himself. And then she drew out letters which she had received from him, and pulling out the first (for they were all laid in order) after she had wiped her eyes, she read these words:  
Fare Astrea, my banishment hath been overcome of my patience, God grant the like of your love; I went out with such grief, and am returned with so great contentment, that not perishing, neither in going nor coming, I shall always give proof, that one may not die, neither of too much pleasure, nor too much displeasure. Let me then see you, that I may recount my fortune unto you, that are my only Fortune.  
Fair Diane, it is impossible I should remember the discourse which we had, without wounding myself, so that the least stroke is as grievous to me as death. During the absence of Celadon, Artemis my Aunt, and the mother of Phillis, came to see her kinsfolk, and brought with her this shepherdess, pointing to Phillis. And because our fashion of living better pleased them then that of the shepherds of Alleer, she resolved to dwell with us, which was no small contentment to us: for by this means we grew familiar, and though the friendship was not so straight, as it fell out afterward, yet her humour so pleased me, that I passed over many unquiet hours reasonably well with her. And when Celadon was returned, and that he had some while conversed with her, he gave so good a judgement, that I may truly say, he is the ground of the straight amity which hath since been between her and me. It was about this time, that he being of the age of seventeen or eighteeneyeeres', & I of fifteen or sixteen, we began to carry ourselves with more wisdom, so that (to hide our love) I entreated him, or rather, I constrained him, to make love to all the shepherdess that had any show of beauty, that the suit he made to me, might be judged to be rather common then particular. I say, I constrained him, because I think, but for his brother Licidas, he would never have given his consent. For, after he had many times fall'n on his knees before me, to call back the charge I gave him, in the end, his brother told him, that it was necessary for my contentment it should be so: and that if he knew no other remedy, he might therein help himself by his imagination: and when he spoke to others, he should conceit to himself, it was to me. Alas, the poor shepherd had good reason to make such difficulty; for he over-well foresaw, that from it would arise the cause of his death. Excuse me (wise Diane) if my tears interrupt my discourse, seeing I have so just cause, that it were impiety to forbid them me. And after she had dried her eyes, she renewed her discourse in this manner:  
And because Phillis was usually with me, it was she to whom, at the first, he addressed himself, but with such enforcement, that I could hardly refrain from laughter: and because Phillis thought he was in earnest, and that she used him, as they ordinarily do him that beginneth to be a suitor, I remember, that seeing himself rudely handled, he often sung this song which he made on that subject.  

A SONG.  

Upon a certain fountains banks,  
Which moldy moss all over-growes,  
Whose water with a winding flows,  
Wand'ring through plains in many cranks,  
A shepherd gazing on the wave,  
S●●g to his pipe these verses grave,  
Cease, one day, cease, too fair for me,  
Before my death cruel to be.   

Can it be that this grievous pain,  
Which I for loving you endure,  
If gods be not called just in vain,  
At last may ●e no good procure?  
Or can it be, that such a Love  
May never any pity move?  
The rather being great and true,  
As that with which I honour you.   

Those eyes, whose wanton passages  
Have often made me hope in vain,  
Full of so many forgeries,  
Will they forswear themselves so plain?  
They oft have told me, that her heart  
At last would rigour force to part:  
Agreeing to which false report,  
The rest of her fair face consort.   

But how, fair eyes of shepherdess,  
Shall they to such false courses yield,  
As are the Courtier's practices?  
It seems these beauties of the field,  
Though without fucus on their skin,  
Yet can they paint their heart within,  
And learn a lesson in their schools,  
To give but words, the bane of fools.   

Enough, it is high time, O fair,  
To end this over-cruell fit,  
And think that beauty, ne'er so rare,  
Which hath not sweetness mixed with it,  
Is as an eye that wants daylight,  
And fair, that is without love quite,  
As most unworthy of that coal,  
Is like a body wanting soul.    
Sister (interrupted Phillis) I remember it well you speak of, and I shall make you laugh at the manner of his speech to me. For, for the most part, it was with such broken language, that we had need of an Interpreter to make us understand them; and usually when he was to name me, he would call me Astrea. But see what our inclination is! I knew well that Nature had (in some sort) preferred Celadon before Licidas, yet not being able to tell you the reason Licidas was more welcome to me. Alas sister, (said Astrea) you bring to my remembrance the speech, which he used about that time of you, and of this fair shepherdess (said she) turning to Diane. Fair shepherdess (said he to me) the wise Bellinde, and your Aunt Artemis, are infinitely happy, in having such daughters: and our Lignon is much bound to them, since (by their means) it hath the happiness to see upon her shores these two fair & wise shepherdess. And believe me, if I know any thing, they only deserve the amity of Astrea: and therefore I advice you to love them: for I perceive by that little knowledge I have of them, that you shall find great contentment in their familiarity. Would to God, one of them would vouchsafe to respect my brother Licidas, with the like affection that I bear. And for that at that time I had no great knowledge of you (fair Diane) I answered, that I desired he should rather serve Phillis; and it fell out as I wished: for the ordinary conversation he had with her, at the first brought forth familiarity between them, and at last he loved in earnest. One day, when he found her at leisure, he resolved to declare his affection with much love, and with the fewest words he could. Fair shepherdess (said he) you have knowledge enough of yourselves to believe, that those which love you, can not but love you infinitely. It can not be, that my actions, have given you any knowledge of my affection, for the little you know of it, since none can love you but in extremity, you may swear, that my love is wonderful great: and yet being such, I demand of you, as yet, but a beginning of good will. Celadon and I were so near, that we could well hear this declaration, and the answer also that Phillis gave him, which indeed was more rude than I expected from her. For long time before, she and I well enough knew, by the eyes and actions of Licidas, that he was in love with her; and we have often talked of it, and I have found in her, rather goodwill to him, than otherwise: yet at this brunt she answered him so bitterly, that Licidas went away in despair. And Celadon, who loved his brother more than ordinary, not able to endure to see him used in this sort, and not knowing how to take it, grew almost angry with me; whereat, I could not hold from smiling, and at last I told him:  
Be not grieved at this answer, Celadon: for we are straight tied to it, since the shepherds of these times (for the most part) delight to make every one believe, that they have better fortunes than indeed they have, thinking that the glory of a shepherd shall be increased by the diminution of our honour. And, that you may know, that I know well the humour of Phillis, I took the charge upon me, to bring Licidas into her good grace: provided that he continue, and that he have a little patience. But I must tell you, that when I first talked with her, she put me off so fare, that I could but only hope, so that I resolved to win her in time. But Licidas, who had no patience, had a purpose to love her no more; and at that time he would ordinarily go singing these verses:  

STANZA'S On a resolution, to love no more.  

WHen I see those fair eyes that play the conquerors part,  
I straight yield unto them, as princes of my heart.  
Thinking that rigour should be banished from thence:  
But finding now too well their cruelties offence,  
(I think, to eternize on us their tyranny,)  
This cannot well be love, but rather treachery.   

It's true, it is of them from whence always arise,  
To meanest of their trains, some amorous novelties.  
But whereto serveth this, that like as from the head,  
No sooner water springs, but instantly 'tis fled?  
Right so it is with love, which with a ranging thirst,  
Flies far from those same eyes that brought it forth at first.   

By his example then, fly we from those fair eyes,  
Fly them, and let us think, in it our safety lies,  
And when they will have us to follow where they list,  
Let us not stay for blows, which we cannot resist.  
For better it is far to save ourselves by flight,  
Then to attend the death which we may well acquit.    
I think Licidas had not so readily put end to the cruelty of Phillis, in refusing his affection, if by fortune one day she and I, according to our manner, going forth to walk by Lignon, had not met this shepherd in an I'll of the river, in a place very dark, and where there was no appearance of dissembling. We saw him from one side of the river, which was large and deep, to hinder us from going to the place where he was, but not from hearing the verses which he went with complaining; and drawing (as it seemed) some cyphers on the sand with the end of his sheephook, which we could not know, for the distance between us: but the verses were these:  

A MADRIGAL, That he should not hope to be beloved.  

Think we, in loving her,  
Our faithful love can cast  
A groundwork that may last?  
Alas, in vain it were.   

I hold to my great pain,  
That that which with my hand,  
I writ in flitting sand,  
Will longer time remain,   

Then I for my avail,  
In her soul various,  
Shall fix (in loving thus)  
The hold, that will not fail.    
Within a while we heard, after he had been silent some time, he took again his speech in this manner, with a great alas, and lifting up his eyes to heaven: O God, if thou be'st angry with me, for that I have adored with more devotion, the work of thy hands, than thine own self; why hast thou not compassion of the error, which thou causest me to commit? Or if thou be'st not pleased, that Phillis should be adored, either thou shouldest have put less perfection in her, or in me less knowledge of her perfections: for is it not a kind of profaning a thing of that merit, to offer it less affection? I think, the shepherd held on in such like discourses, but I could not hear them, because Phillis, taking me by force by the arm, carried me away with her. And when we were some pretty distance removed, I said, Naughty Phillis, why hast thou no pity on this shepherd, whom thou seest ready to die for thy sake? Sister, answered she, the shepherds of this country are such dissemblers, that often their heart denies that which their mouth promiseth, that if without passions we look into the actions of such as he, we shall find nothing but cunning. And for the words we hear, (for my part) I judge, that having spied us afar off, he purposely set himself in our way, that we should hear his dissembled complaints; otherwise, would they not as well be spoken to us, as to these woods and wild rivers? But sister (answered I) you have forbidden him. See (replied she) a great proof of his small love! Is there any commandment strong enough, to stay a violent affection? Believe me, sister, the love that may bend, is not strong. Think you not, that if he disobey my commandment, I should think he loved me the better? But sister, in the end (said I) he obeyed you. And well (replied she) hath he obeyed me; and herein I held him very obedient: but in that he hath quite given over his suit to me, I hold him for a man very passionate. And why? was he of opinion, that at the first discovery of his good will to me, I should have taken some witness, that he might not hereafter gainsay it?  
If I had not interrupted her, I think she had held on her discourse very long; but because I desired that Licidas might be used in another fashion, for the pain that Celadon suffered, I told her that these kind of speeches were of some purpose to be used to Licidas, but not to me, who knew well, that we are bound to show more discontentment, when they talk to us of love, than we feel, that thereby we may try what mind they have that speak to us: that I would commend her, if she used those terms; but it is great want of trust toward me, who have not concealed from her that which was most secret in my soul: & that (for conclusion) since it was impossible she could avoid the being beloved of some, it was much better it might be by Licidas then by any other, since she could not choose but be assured of his affection. Where to she answered, that she never had the thought to dissemble with me; and she would be very angry I should have that opinion of her: and to give me more proof, since I desired she should entertain Licidas, she would obey me, when she should know that he loved her as he said. That was the cause that Celadon often finding her after with me, gave her a Letter that his brother had written by my advice.  
A Letter of Licidas to Phillis.  
IF I have not always loved you, let me never be beloved of any: and if my aff●●tion do ever change, let my present misfortune never change. It is true, that somewhile I have hidden my love within my heart, so that I have not suffered it to appear in my eyes nor words. If I have offended in it, accuse the respect I carry you, who have ordained I should do so. If you believe not the oath which I have made you, take what proof you will of me, and you shall know that you have me more yours, than I can assure you by my true, but most feeble words.  
In the end (wise Diane) after many replies on both sides, we so wrought, that Licidas was entertained; and from that time we began, all four, one life, which was not unpleasing, either of us favouring the other, with the most discretion we could possibly. And that we might the better cover our design, we invented many means, were it to talk, were it to write in secrecy.  
It may be, you have noted that little rock, that standeth upon the great way, to the Rock: you must needs know that it is painful to get up: but being there, the place is so fenced, that a man may be there unseen of any; and because it stands on the high way, we made choice of it to meet in, that none might spy us; and if any met us going by, we made show to be on our way, and that neither the one nor the other might go in vain, we put in the morning some bough at the foot of it for a mark, that we had somewhat to say.  
It is true that we were so near unto the high way; that our raised voice might easily be heard of them that passed by: this was the only cause that, usually we left either Phillis or Licidas to watch, that at what time soever they saw any come afar off, they should cough to give us warning. And because we were used to write always when we were letted or hindered, and could not come to that place, we chose out along that little river that runs by the great way, an old Willow tree half eaten for age; in the hollow whereof, we always laid our letters; and that we might more easily make answer, we usually left some paper and an inkhorn.  
To be short (wise Diane) we turned on every side that we possibly could, to keep us from discovery: And namely, we forthwith took this course, not to talk together, Celadon and I, nor Licidas and Phillis: so that there were many that thought that Celadon had changed his mind, because that as soon as he saw Phillis, he would haste to entertain her, and she shown him all the good countenance she could; and I likewise always, when Licidas came in place, broke company from any other, to go talk with him. It fell out in success of time, that Celadon himself was of opinion, that I loved Licidas; and I believed he loved Phillis: and Phillis thought Licidas loved me; and Licidas suspected that Phillis loved Celadon, in such sort, that unawares we found ourselves so cumbered with these opinions, that jealousy made us know, that a little show will cause him breed in an heart that loveth well. Indeed (interrupted Phillis) we were Lovers and Scholars at that time: for, to what purpose served it, to conceal that we truly loved, by making men believe a love that was not, since you may as well fear, that men should think you bear good will to Licidas, as to Celadon? Sister, sister, replied Astrea, clapping her hand on her shoulder; we fear not when men do think of us that which is not; and on the contrary, the least suspicion of that which is true, gives us no rest. Truly jealousy (continued she, turning toward Diane) so attached us all four, that I think that life had long lasted among us, if some good spirit had not wrought in us a clearing in the presence each of other. Some seven or eight days passed, that we saw not each other in the rock, and that the letters which Celadon and I laid, were so differing from those we formerly used, that it seemed they were differing persons. At last, as I told you, some good spirit having care of us, caused us (by chance) to meet all four in that place, without other company. And the love of Celadon (therein more strong than the rest, in that it compelled him to speak first) put these words into his mouth:  
Fair Astrea, if I thought time could give remedy to the pain I feel, I would refer myself to that which it might bring; but since the older it grows, the more it increaseth, I am enforced to seek out a better, by the complaint that I am to make to you of the wrong I receive, and I am more readily brought to it, for that I am to make my complaint both before my judges, and my adversaries. And as he was going forward, Licidas interrupted him, saying that he was in pain, that in greatness differed not from his. In greatness (said Celadon) it is impossible: for mine is extreme. And mine (replied Licidas) is without comparison. While the shepherds talked together, I turned to Phillis, and said, You see (sister) these shepherds will complain of us. Whereto she answered me, But we have more cause to complain of them. But yet (said I) although I have great cause to complain of Celadon, yet I have more of you, who under the colour of the friendship you seem to bear me, have drawn him from that he made show of to me; so that I may say, you have rob me. And for that Phillis stood so confused at my words, that she knew not what to answer, Celadon turning to me, said: Ah fair shepherdess! but fleeting as fair: Is it so, that you have lost the memory of the services of Celadon, and of your own oaths? I complain not so much of Licidas, though he have failed in his duty of proximity and amity between us, as of you to yourself: knowing well, that the desire which your perfections may bring into an heart, may make it forget all respect of duty. But is it possible, that so long a service as mine, so absolute a power as you have ever had over me, and so entire an affection as mine cannot somewhat stay the inconstancy of your soul? or in good time, if yet all that cometh from me, be of so small force, how comes it, that your faith so often sworn, and the gods so often called to witness, cannot withhold you from making a new election before my face? At the same time Licidas taking the fair hand of Phillis, after a great sigh, he said: Fair hand, wherein I had entirely placed my will, can I live, and know that thou delightest to be borne to another heart, then mine? then mine, I say, that have merited so much of fortune, if a man may be worthy by the most great, most sincere, and by the most faithful love that ever was.  
I could not hear the other words that Licidas went on with; for I was constrained to answer Celadon. Shepherd, shepherd, said I, all these words of faithfulness, and of amity, are more in your mouth, then in your heart: and I have more cause to complain of you, then to hear you. But because I make no more reckoning of any thing that comes from you, I will not vouchsafe to complain; so should you do, if your dissimulations would suffer you. But since our affairs be at these terms, go on, Celadon, love Phillis well, serve her well, her virtues deserve it: and if in speaking unto you, I blush, it is for spite that I have loved that which was so unworthy, and hath so grossly deceived me. The astonishment of Celadon was so great, hearing the reproaches I used to him, that he stayed a long time, not able to speak a word: which gave me opportunity to hear what Phillis answered Licidas. Licidas, Licidas, let him that owns me, demand me. You call me fleeting, and you know well, that that term agrees best with your actions. But, think you in complaining first, you can purge the wrong you do me? I falter not, but yourself: for it is more shame to you to change, than it is loss to me in your change. But that which offends me, is, that you will accuse me for your own fault, and fain a good reason of your own unfaithfulness. Yet it is true, that he that deceiveth a brother, may fail her that is not so near him. And then turning herself to me, she said: And you, Astrea, think that the gain you have made by diverting him from my amity, can no longer last, then until some other object present itself; though I know well, your perfections have that power, that if it be not an heart all of feathers, they are able to slay it. Phillis (replied I) the proof shall witness, that you are a flatterer, when you speak so of the perfections which are in me; since having deprived me of Celadon, they must needs be feeble, not being able to hold him, after they had gotten him. Celadon falling on his knee before me: It is not (said he) that I misprise the merits of Phillis: but I protest before all the gods, that she hath not kindled the least spark of love in my soul; and that I bear with less grief, the offence you do me in changing, then that you commit against my affection, in blaming it of inconstancy. It is to no purpose (wise Diane) to particularise all our discourse; for they would be too long, and might offend you; so that before we parted, we were so well reduced to our good senses, that I must tell you, we acknowledged the small reason we had to suspect one another. And we have good cause to thank heaven, that we made this declaration all four together; for I think, otherwise it had been impossible to root out this error from our soul: and (for my own part) I assure you, that nothing could have made me understand reason, if Celadon had not spoken after this manner before Phillis.  
Now since that time, we went with less heed than we were wont. But to leave this travail, I enter into another no less troublesome: for we could not so well dissemble, but Alcippe, that lay in watch, knew, that his son's affection to me was not altogether extinct; and for his more assurance, he looked so heedfully to his actions, that noting with what curiosity he went always to the old Willow, where we laid our letters; one morning he came first, and after he had long sought, noting the path which we had made on the grass, by often going, he took it for his guide; and the tract brought him right to the foot of the tree, where he found a letter which I had laid there overnight: It was thus:  
The letter of Astrea to Celadon.  
YEsterday we went out of the temple, where we were assembled to be present, at the hours which they did to Pan and Siringue, celebrating their day: I should have said feasting, if you had been there: but the love I bore you is such, that not the divine things (if it may be lawful for me to say so) without you can please me. I find myself so unfit, for our common business, that but for the promise, which I made to write daily to you, I know not if this day you should have heard any news from me. Receive them then at this time, for my promise set.  
When Alcippe had read this letter, he laid it in the same place again and hiding himself to see the answer: his son was not slack in coming; and not finding any paper, he writ on the back of my Letter, and hath told me since, it was thus:  
The Letter of Celadon to the Shepherdess Astrea.  
YOu bind me, and unbind me at one time: pardon me if this word offend you: when you tell me you love me, can I have any greater obligations to all the gods? But the offence is not small, that you had not written at this time, but for that you promised me: For I am indebted to your promise, and not to your love. Remember, I beseech you, that I am not yours, because I have promised you, but because I am truly yours; and that in like sort I desire not Letters for the conditions that are between us, but for the sole witness of your goodwill, not welcomming them as merchandises, but as being sent me from an entire good will.  
Alcippe knew not who the shepherdess might be, to whom this letter was directed, for there was no name to it: but see how it came from a spirit that would be cross! he thought not much of his pain, to stay in that place above 5. or 6 hours, to see who she should be that would come to seek it: assuring himself, the day would not be fully past, but some one would come fetch it. It was late before I went: but presently, when he saw me, for fear lest I should take him, he turned himself, and made show as if he were asleep. And I, that I might give no cause of suspicion, turning my pace, feigned to take another way. He contrarily well satisfied for his pain, as soon as I was gone, took the Letter, and carried it with him. Whereupon incontinently he made his design to send away his son, for that he would not in any case, there should be alliance between us, for the extreme hatred between Aloe and him, but rather to the contrary, he had a purpose to marry him unto Malthe the daughter of Forelle, for commodity (as he pretended) of their neighbourhood. The words which were used between us at our departing, have been but too much published by one of the Nymphs of Belinde. For I know not how that day Licidas, who was at the foot of the rock, fell asleep; and that Nymph, as she went by, heard us, and wrote down in her Tables all our discourse. And what? (interrupted Diane) are those the verses which I have heard sung to one of my mother's Nymphs at the departure of a shepherd? These be they, answered Astrea: and because I would not discover, that it any thing touched me, I durst not demand them. Trouble not yourself (replied Diane) for I will give you a copy to morrow. And after Astrea had thanked her, she went forward.  
Now, during this absence, Olympe, the daughter of shepherd Lupeander, dwelling on the confines of Forest, on the side the river Furant, came with her mother into our Hamlet: and, because this good old woman much loved Amarillis, as having in their youth been bred together, she came to visit her. This young shepherdess was not so fair as she was conceited, and had so good an opinion of herself, that she thought all the shepherds that looked on her, were in love with her; which is a rule infallible, for all those that love themselves. That was the cause, that as soon as she came into the house of Alcippe, that she began to busy herself with Licidas, thinking the civility he used toward her, proceeded of Love.. As soon as the shepherd perceived it, he came to tell us, and know how he should behave himself: we gave advice (that he might the better cover the affection he bore to Phillis) to maintain Olympe in this opinion. And shortly after, it fell out by mischance, that Artemis had some affairs on the coast of Allier, whither she carried Phillis with her, notwithstanding all the cunning we could invent to keep her back. During this absence, which might be about five or six months, the mother of Olympe returned, leaving her daughter in the hands of Amarillis, with a purpose that Licidas should marry her, judging, according to that they saw, that he loved her very dear. And because it was an advancement to her, she was counselled by her mother, to carry herself as lovely as she could. And assure you, fair Diane, she dissembled not, for thenceforth she rather sued unto him, than was sued unto by him: So that one day, when she found him at leisure, as she thought, within the inward parts of the wood of Bonlieu, where by fortune he went to seek a wand'ring sheep: after some common, speeches she laid her arm on his neck, and after she had kissed him, said, Gentle shepherd, I know not what I have in me so unpleasing, that I cannot by any demonstrations of good will, find place in your good graces. It may be, answered the shepherd smiling, because I have none. He that should say as you do, replied the shepherdess, may be thought to be as much blinded as yourself, if you see not the offer which I make of my amity; till when, shepherd, ordain you that I love without being beloved, and that I shall still seek you, without finding acceptance. I cannot think, that the other shepherdess whom you make so much of, are more lovely than myself, or have any thing above me, but the possession of your good graces. Olympe uttered these words with that affection, that Licidas was moved at it. Fair Diane, at all other times, when I remember this accident that befell the shepherd, I could not refrain from laughter, but now my misfortune forbids me, & yet me thought I could be angry with none but Phillis, who had so charged him to love her: for this feigning at last turned to earnest.  
Hereupon this miserable Olympe, thinking by her favours to make herself beloved the more, made herself to be so much dis-esteemed, that Licidas having had of her all that he might, disdained her so, that he could not abide she should be near him. Presently after this fortune befell, he came to tell me with such appearance of displeasure, that (I think) he was sorry for his fault; and yet it fell not out so: for this shepherdess committed such folly, that she grew to be with child; and about the time she first perceived it, Phillis returned from her journey: and if I expected her with great pain, I likewise welcomed her with much contentment. But as commonly they first demand of that which nearest toucheth the heart, Phillis, after two or three former words, failed not to ask how Licidas did, & how he behaved himself with Olympe. Very well (answered I) and I assure myself, he will not be long before he come to tell you news. I cut my speech the shorter, for fear I might tell her somewhat that might anger Licidas, who for his part was not without pain, not knowing how to aboard the shepherdess: at last he resolved to suffer all things rather than to be banished from her sight, and came to find her in her lodging, where he knew I was. As soon as she saw him, she ran to him with open arms to salute him: but giving a little back, he said, Fair Phillis, I have not hardiness enough to come near you, except you pardon me the fault I have done you. The shepherdess thinking he had excused himself for coming no sooner, as he was accustomed, (answered him) There is nothing can hold me back from saluting Licidas; and when he hath offended me, I must pardon him always. At this word she came forward, & welcomed him with great affection, but it was his pleasure when he brought her back to me, to pray me tell his error to his Mistress, that he might speedily know to what she would condemn him. Not for that the grief (saith he) shall not accompany me to my grave, but for the desire I have to know what you ordain of me. This word brought colour into the face of Phillis, doubting that her pardon was greater than her meaning: whereof Licidas taking heed, I have not courage enough said he to me, to hear the declaration you shall make of me. Pardon me then, fair Mistress (turning to Phillis) if I break company so soon, & if my life be unpleasing to you, and that my death may give you satisfaction, be not covetous of my blood. At this word though Phillis called him back, yet would he not come, but contrarily pulling the door after him, left us alone. You may not think that Phillis made dainty, to ask if there were any news, & whence so great fear came. Without stay in long discourse, I told her as it was, and withal, laid all the fault on ourselves, who did not foresee, that his youth could no longer resist the assaults of this folly, and that his displeasure was so great, that his error was pardonable. At the first I could not obtain that I desired of her; but some few days after, Licidas, by my counsel, came to cast himself on his knees, and she ran into another chamber that she might not see him, and from thence into another, flying from Licidas, who still followed her, and was resolved, as he said, not to let her rest, till he had either pardon or death. In the end, not knowing whither to fly further, she stayed in a closet; where Licidas entering, and shutting the doors, he set himself on his knees before her, and without speaking any other thing, attended the sentence of her will. This affectionate obstinacy had more force in her, than any persuasions; and so staying some while without speaking to him,  
Go, said she to him importunate, it is thy importunity, and not thee that I pardon. At this word he kissed her hand, and came to open me the door, to give me to understand, that he had got the victory; and then seeing his affairs in so good case, I would not let them part asunder, until all actions were entirely forgiven: and Phillis so pardoned the shepherd, that seeing him distressed extremely, to hide Olympes belly, which now grew great to the view, she offered to assist him in all that possibly she could. Certainly (interrupted Diane) see a strange proof of good amity, to pardon such an offence which is entirely against amity: and more, to provide that she which caused it, take no displeasure. Without feigning, Phillis, this is too much; and for me, I protest, my courage knows not how to brook it: yet my amity did so then, answered Phillis, and by that you may judge of what quality it was in me. Let us leave this consideration apart (replied Diane) for it would be too hard for you, since the not feeling the offences which be done against amity, is rather a sign of defect, than the overabundance of Love: and for my part, if I had been one of the friends of Licidas, I should have interpreted rather to the disadvantage of your good will. Ah! Diane, said Phillis, if you as well knew what it is to love, as you do to cause yourself to be beloved, you will judge it needful the friend should know himself, but heaven is pleased to have you be beloved, and not to love. If it be so, said Diane, I am more bound to it for such a benefit, then for my life; but I may be capable without loving, to judge of Love.. It cannot be, interrupted Phillis. I had rather hold my peace, answered Diane, then speak with so dear a permission: but if you will allow me the favour that you give to the Physician, who talks and judges indifferently of all sorts of diseases, though he never had them: I would tell you, that if there be any thing in amity whereof we may make reckoning, it ought to be the amity itself without more; for all other things that please us, are but to be joined with it: and therefore there is nothing that more offends him that love's, then to spy any defect in love: and not to feel such offences, is (indeed) to have a spirit feeble for that passion. And will you have me tell you what I think of Love? It is a music of many voices, that well concording, gives a right sweet harmony; but if there be but one discord, it not only displeases, but makes you forget all the pleasure which they yielded before. So said Phillis, Naughty Diane, you would say, that if a man have served you long, the first offence must blot out all the memory of that is passed. The very same said Diane, or little less. O gods, cried Phillis! shall not he that love's you, have work enough? He that love's me (replied Diane) if he will that I love him, must beware he offend not my love. And believe me (Phillis) that at this bout, you have done more injury to Licidas then, when he offended you before. Then said Phillis smiling, At another time I will say, that it is Love that made me do it; but at this time I will say, it is Revenge: and to the most curious, I will deliver the reason which you have taught me. They will judge (replied Diane) that at another time you know to love; but at this time you know what it is to love. Whatsoever it be (answered Phillis) if it be of defect, it proceeds of ignorance, and not of want of love. For I think I am bound: but if ever he return, I will look to myself for falling back again. And you, Astrea, are overlong silent: then tell us what assistance I gave for the birth of this child. Then Astrea took it up again in this sort.  
As soon as this shepherdess had made this offer of herself, Licidas accepted of it very boldly; and after that sent a young shepherd to Main to bring with him, the wise woman of that place; her eyes being closed, that she should not discern which way she went. Then Diane as astonished, laid her finger on her mouth, and says, Fair shepherdess, this is not so secret as you think: I remember I have heard them speak of it. I pray you, said Phillis, tell us what you have heard, that we may know whether it hath been told you true; I know not, added Diane, if I well remember the poor Philander was he that told it me, and I assure myself he had it from Lucina the wise woman, to whose ear it came; and that she would never have spoken of it, if any trust had been reposed in her. One day as she walked into the Park which is between Montbrison and Main, with many other her companions, she saw come towards her a man whom she did not know: who at his coming, did commendations from diverse of her kins-folks that were at Feurs, and then he told her some particular, that he might separate her a little from the other women which were with her: & when he saw her alone, he gave her to understand, that a better occasion had brought him to her; for it is (said he) to conjure you by all the pity you ever had, to give your helping hand to an honest woman, that is in danger if you deny your aid. The good woman was a little surprised to hear him change his discourse at once: but the young man besought her to hide her astonishment as well as she could; & that he had rather dye, than any should suspect this business: Lucina being assured, and having promised to be secret, and that he should only tell her at what time she should be ready: You must make no journey for these two months, said the young man; and that you may not lose by it, behold here the money which you might gain elsewhere in that space. At that word he gave her some pieces of gold in a paper, and returned without passing thorough the town: but after he had known of her, whether she could travail by night, and she answered, seeing the gain so great, No time could stay her: within fifteen or sixteen days after, as she went out of Maine, about five or six of the clock at night, she saw him come with a visage alchanged: and coming near her, he said, Mother, the time hath deceived us, we must be gone, the horses tarry for us, and necessity presses us. She would have gone back to her house, to give some order to her businesses: but he would not suffer her, fearing she should speak to somebody. So being come into a valley fare from the high way, she found two horses with a man of some sort, and clothed in black, that held them. As soon as he saw Lucina, he came to her with open face; and after many thankes, he caused her to sit up behind him that went to fetch her; after, mounting on the other horse, they road a round trot overthwart the field; and when they were some distance from the town, and that the night began to draw dark, this young man taking an handkerchief out of his pocket, bond it about the eyes of Lucina, for all the resistance she could make; and after they had twice or thrice turned about the horse whereon she road, that she might have no knowledge of the Way, which they meant to take; and then falling again to their trot, road a great part of the night, she not knowing which way she went, but that they made her pass a river (as she thought) t 〈…〉 or thrice, and then setting her on the ground, made her walk a while on her feet; and as she could judge, it was thorough a wood, where at last she sp●●d a little light across the handkerchief, which within a while after they took clean away. And then she found herself under a tent of tapestry, fitted in such sort, that the wind might not enter: on the one side she saw a young woman in a field bed, that complained much, & was masked, at the bed's feet she perceived a woman who had likewise her face covered, and who by her habit seemed to be aged, she held there hands joined together, and had tears in her eyes: on the other side there was a young maid of the chamber masked, with a light in her hand at the bed's head stood leaning that honest man whom she found with the horses, who seemed infinitely to feel the grief of this woman, which was leaning upon her stomach; and the young man which brought her behind him, went about to give that which was necessary, there being on the table in the midst of the tent two great candles lighted. It may easily be believed, that Lucina was astonished to see herself in this place; but she had not leisure to be long so: for one may judge, that this little creature waited but for the coming of this woman to come into the world. The mother felt the throws of her down lying, which lasted but half an hour, before the delivery of a daughter: but this was a diligence yet greater than ordinary, to deliver her, and lay her in bed, and put the child into a cradle, and send away Lucina, after they had well contented her, yet her eyes again closed as she came. Now if they had trusted her, she swore she would never have spoken of it, but she thought their mistrust gave her leave; and now you see all that I could know of Philander. Astrea and Phillis, who had been attentive to her discourse, looked one on the other much astonished, & Phillis could not choose but laugh; and Diane demanding the reason: It is, said she, because you have told us a story which we never knew, and for my part I cannot imagine how it may be: for, for Olympe, she was never in that danger; & of necessity it must be some other than a shepherdess that had so good furniture. Indeed (answered Diane) I take this honest man for Licidas, the old woman for the mother of Celadon, and the chambermaid for you; and judge you whether you disguised not yourselves, that you might not be known. I assure you, said Astrea, that this was not Olympe: for Phillis used no other art, but to cause her come to her house, and by chance her mother Artemis was then gone to the river of Alli●r; and because Olympe was under the hands of Amarillis, of necessity she must fain to be sick, which was easy for her to do, by reason of the disease she went with; and after she had spent some time, she told the mother of Celadom, that the change of the air might haply bring some assuagement, and that she was certain that Phillis would be well pleased to have her near her. Amarillis, that thought she should be charged with her sickness, was well contented with this resolution; and so Phillis came to fetch her. And when the term approached, Licidas went to bring the wise woman, and blind her eyes that she might not know the way: but when she was come, he unbound her, knowing well that she knew not Olympe, as having never seen her before. Thus you see all the art that was used: and as soon as she was well delivered, she went home, and they have told us since, that she used a pretty trick to bring up the child; for, as soon as she came thither, she suborned a simple woman, that feigned to have borne it, to come to father it upon a shepherd, who used to wait on her mother, saying that she had it by him. And for that this poor shepherd knew himself innocent, her refused it, and reviled her; so that she that was prepared for the purpose, followed him to the chamber of Lupander; and there, though the shepherd refused it, yet she left the infant in the midst of the chamber, and went her way. They told us, Lupander was very angry: but the conclusion was, that Olympe turning to her mother: Must it be so (said she) that this little creature should stay without nourishment? It cannot help another's fault, and it shall be a work pleasing the gods, to bring it up. The mother, who was good and charitable, agreed; and so Olympe brought up her child at home. In this mean time Celadon was with Forelle, where they gave him all the good entertainment they might; and especially Malthe had commandment from her father, to do him all the honest kindnesses she could: but Celadon was so discontented with our separation, that all their honest respects were in place of punishment to him, and he went about with such a sadness, that Forelle not being able to brook the contempt he had of his daughter, advertised Alcippe of it, to the end he might no longer expect this alliance, who knowing the disposition of his son, moved (as I think) out of pity, purposed once more to use some piece of cunning, and thenceforth never to torment him any more. During the abode that Celadon made with Malthe, my uncle Photion so wrought, that Corebe a very rich and honest shepherd, became a suitor to me; and because he had all the good parts that one might wish, many men talked of it, as if the marriage had been resolved on. Whereupon Alcippe meaning to make use of it, devised this crafty trick I tell you:  
There was a shepherd named Squilinder, dwelling on the bounds of the Forest, in an Hamlet called Argental, a cunning fellow, and untrusty, and who among his other industries, knew so well to counterfeit all kind of Letters, that the man whom he initated, can hardly discern thefalshood. To him Alcippe shows what he found at the foot of the tree, as I have told you before, and causes him to write another to Celadon (in my name) which was thus:  
The counterfeited Letter of Astrea to Celadon.  
CEladon, since I am compelled by my father's commandment, you may not think it strange, that I pray you to end this love which heretofore I have conjured you to hold eternal. Alce hath given me to Corebe; and though the match be to my advauncement, yet can I not leave to feel sensibly the separation of our amity. Yet, since it is folly to contrary that which must not fall out otherwise, I counsel you to arm yourself with resolution, and so to forget all that is passed between us, that Celadon have no more memory of Astrea, as Astrea is constrained, from henceforth, to lose (for duties sake) all the remembrance of Celadon.  
This Lentter was brought so sinely to Celadon, by a young shepherd unknown. O God what was he at the encounter, and how great was the displeasure that cut his heart? Then said he by Astrea, It is true that there is nothing of durance in the world, since that firm resolution which you have so often sworn, is so readily changed. Now you will make me be a witness, that what perfection soever a woman may have, she can not bereave herself of her inconstancy by nature. Have then the heavens agreed, that for my greater punishment, my life should remain after the loss of your amity, to the end that I should only live more extremely to feel my disastor? And then falling into a swowne, he came no sooner to himself, but the complaints were in his mouth. And that which most easily persuaded him of this change, was this, that the Letter did but confirm the common report of the marriage between Corebe, and me. He lay all that day on a bed, unwilling to speak to any person; and the night being come, he deprived himself of his companions: he took to the largest and desolatest wood, shunning the meeting of men, more like a savage beast, desiring to die fare from the society and company of men, since they were the cause of his sorrow. In this resolution he ran thorough all the mountains of Foreste, on the side of Ceruieres, where at the last he chose a place which he thought least frequented, of purpose to finish the rest of his sad and mournful days there. The place is called Lapau, where riseth one of the springs of the disastrous river Lignon; for the other spring proceedeth from the mountains of Cholmesel.  
Now on the sides of this fountain he built a pretty Lodge, where he lived retired more than six months, during which time, his ordinary nourishment were tears and plaints. It was at that time that he made this song.  

A SONG Of Celadon upon Astreat change.  

IT must be, that my constancy  
Hath quite bereft me of sense.  
If I feel not the injury  
Your change hath wrought to my offence:  
And feeling it, I should remain,  
Without recourse to your disdain.   

For sworn, you have disdained me,  
For one you scarce had in your eye:  
Because he hath more (it may be)  
Of goods, and wealthier is then I.  
Unfaithful, darest thou be so bold,  
To sacrifice to Calf of gold?   

Where are the oaths which we did make?  
Where are the tears that showering fell  
To gods, when we our leave did take?  
No doubt the heavens did mark them well.  
Though your heart do it now forget,  
Yet your own month did publish it.   

Perjured eyes, unfaithful flame,  
That lovest nothing but to change.  
Let Love on beauty like the same  
Of thine, for me, work vengeance strange,  
That makes a show of bearing love,  
Only the greater flame to move.   

So over-prestwith sad distress,  
In Love betrayed, one'gan complain,  
When it was told him his Mistress  
Did for another him disdain,  
And thundering heaven for mere pity,  
Promised to venge his amity.   

The wretched down himself he threw,  
Near Lignon flood, and as he sat,  
Upon the sand with finger drew  
There cyphers as he used of late.  
This happy cipher, oh (said he)  
To us no more will proper be.   

And then a tear chilled of the pain,  
Which dolour just thrust in his face,  
Upon the sand dropping amain,  
These double cyphers did deface.  
Deface (said he) oh showering tear,  
Them in my heart, but not these there.   

Thou Lover, that right cowardly  
So long bewayl'st so dolefully,  
A soul all made of forgery,  
Since thou her change knowst certainly,  
Either thou shortly art to die,  
Or else rec●●er presently.    
The solitariness of Celadon had been much longer, but for the commandment that Alcippe gave to Licidas, to seek out his brother, having a purpose in himself (since he so well saw how unprofitable his travail was) no more to cross this amity. Now Licidas had long sought him, but for a chance that befell us the same day.  
I was upon the banks of Lignon, and held mine eyes over his stream, thinking at that time of the loss of Celadon; and Phillis and Licidas talked together some good while, when we saw some little balls, that lay swimming on the water. The first that took heed to it, was Phillis, who shown it to us, but we could not guess what it might be. And because Licidas knew the curiosity of his mistress, to give her satisfaction, he went as far as he could into the water, and so reached with a long branch, that he took one; but seeing that it was but wax, because he was wet, and angry that he took such pain for a thing of so small worth, he cast it in a rage against the ground, and breaking it upon a great flint stone, it fell all in pieces, and there remained nothing but a paper, which had been put therein, which Phillis ran presently to take up; and having opened it, we read these words:  
Go, paper, more happy than him that sends thee, to see these shores so much beloved, where my shepherdess dwells: and if accompanied with tears, wherewith I make this River to swell, it chances thee to kiss the sands where her steps are imprinted, stay thy course, and abide with good fortune, where my mishap denies me to be. If thou happen to come to her hands, which have taken from me my heart, and she demand of thee, how I do, tell her, O faithful paper, that day and night I turn myself into tears, to wash away her unfaithfulness: and if touched with repentance, she wet thee with some tears, tell her, that by unbending the bow, she can never heal the wound which she hath made in her faith & my Love and that my griefs are witnesses, both before men and gods, that as she is the most fair, and the most unfaithful in the world, so I am the most faithful, and most affectionate that lives; with assurance, notwithstanding, never to have contentment but in my death.  
We no sooner cast our eyes on this writing, but we knew it all three to be from Celadon, which was the cause that Licidas ran to draw out the others which floated on the water, but the stream had carried them so fare, that he could not come by them; yet we guessed thereby, that he abode about the head of the Lignon; which caused Licidas in the morning to go seek him luckily, and used such diligence, that three days after he found him in solitariness, so changed from that that he was wont, that he might scarce know him: but when he told him that he must come to me, and that I so commanded him, he could hardly be persuaded, but that his brother came to deceive him. At last, the letter which he brought from me, gave him such contentment, that within few days he came to his former countenance, and came to find us out: yet not so soon, but that Alcippe died before his return; and some few days after Amarillis followed him. And then we were of opinion, that fortune had done her worst against us, since these two were dead that contraried us most. But it fell not out so, by the mischief that the suit of Corebe went on so, that Alce, Hippolyta, and Photion would give me no rest; and yet it was not from them that our mischief came, though Corebe were in part a cause: for when he came to make suit to me, because he was very rich, he brought with him many shepherds, among whom was Semire, a shepherd indeed replete with good qualities, if he had not been the most perfidious and subtle fellow that ever was. As soon as he cast his eye on me, he had a purpose to serve me, forgetting the friendship that Corebe bore him. And because Celadon and I, to cloak our amity, had laid a plot, as I told you, to dissemble; he, to make love to all the shepherdess, and I, to suffer indifferently the wooing of all sorts of shepherds: he thought at first, that the good acceptance that I gave him, was the breeder of some greater affection; and he had not so soon known what was between Celadon and me, if (by mischance) he had not found my letters: For though, to his last loss, it was well known he loved me, yet there were few that thought I loved him, I carried myself so coldly since Celadons last return. And because the letters which Alcippe had found at the foot of the tree, cost us dear, we would no more rely on those we wrote ourselves, but invented a new trick which we thought more assured. Celadon had fastened to a corner of his hat, on the inside, a little piece of felt, so cunningly, that he could hardly see it, and this was locked with a button on the outside, where he feigned to bind up the brim of his hat: in that he put his letter, and making show to play, either he cast me his hat, or I took it from him, or he let it lie; or feigning to run or leap better, cast it on the ground, and so I took and returned the letter. I know not by what misfortune, one day, when I had one in my hand to give him, running after a Wolf which came near my flocks, I let it fall, unhappily for me, which Semire, that came after, took up, and saw it was thus▪  
The letter of Astrea to Celadon.  
Dear Celadon, I have received your letter, which was as welcome to me, as I know mine are to you, and I find nothing that doth not satisfy me, except the thanks you give, which (me thinks) is to no purpose, neither for my love, nor for Celadon, who of long time is wholly given mine. For, if they be not yours, know you not, that whatsoever wanteth, that title can never please me? And if they be yours, why do you give me separated that, which at once I have received, when you gave yourself to me? Use it no more, I pray you, if you would not have me think, that you have more civility than Loune.  
After he had found this letter, he purposed to speak to me no more of Love, until he had done some evil to Celadon, and began in this sort. In the first place, he besought me to pardon him for being so rash, that he durst raise his eyes on me, which my beauty compelled him to do, but he well knew his small merit, and therefore he protested to me, never to mistake more, only he desired me to forget his boldness. And after that, he made himself so great a friend & familiar to Celadon, that it seemed there was nothing which he loved more; and to abuse me the more, he never met me, without finding some occasion to speak to the advantage of my shepherd, covering his intent so cunningly, that no man would think, that he had any such design.  
These praises of the person whom I loved, as I told you, deceived me so, that I took extreme pleasure to entertain him, and so two or three months passed right happily for Celadon and me: but this was (as I believe) the more to make me feel that, which since I cease not, nor ever shall cease to bewail. At this word, in place of speech, her tears represented her displeasures to her companions with such abundance, that neither the one nor the other durst open their mouth, fearing to increase her sorrow: for the more you labour by Reason, to dry the tears, the more they increase their springs. At last she began again thus: Alas, wise Diane, how can I remember this accident & not die? From that time Semire was so familiar, both with Celadon and me, that for the most part, we were together. And when he thought he had gotten sufficient credit with me, to persuade that which he meant to undertake: One day, when he found me alone, after we had long talked of diverse treasons that the shepherds did to the shepherdess, whom they made show to love: But I wonder much, said he, that there be so few shepherdess that take heed to their deceits, though otherwise they be very circumspect. That is, answered I, for that Love hath shut up their eyes. Without feigning, replied he, I believe so; for otherwise it were not possible, but you should know what they would do to you: and then holding his peace, he seemed to prepare himself to say more, but as if he repent that he had told me so much, he began again in this sort: Semire, Semire, what thinkest thou to do? Seest thou not that she delights in thy deceit? Why wilt thou trouble thyself?  
And then addressing himself to me, he went on: I see well (fair Astrea) that my discourse hath brought you some displeasure. But pardon me, for that I have been compelled to it by the affection which I have to your service. Semire (said I) I am bound to you for this good will; but I shall be much more, if you finish that which you have begun. Ah shepherdess (said he) I have told you too much; but, it may be, you shall (in time) know more of it, and then you shall judge, that (indeed) Semire is your servant. Ah most malicious! how true he seemed in his wicked promises! for I have since known but too much; to leave in me only the desire to live. So it was, that at that time he would tell me no more, to make me the more desirous; and he thought it was time, one day when (according to custom) I pressed him to let me know the end of my contentment: and I conjured him by the power which I had sometimes over him, to tell me all that which he had begun. He answered, Fair shepherdess, you so conjure me, that I hold it a great fault to disobey you: I would I had never begun that discourse, which I foresee the end will bring you. And after I had assured him of the contrary, he had the skill so well to persuade me, that Celadon loved Aminthe the daughter of the son of Cleante; that jealousy the ordinary companion of souls which love dear, began to persuade me, that it might be true: and this was a mischief extreme, that then I remembered not the commandment which I gave him, to make show of loving other shepherdess. Notwithstanding, desirous to make an end, to dissemble my displeasure, I answered Semire, that I did never believe, nor would, that Celadon made particular choice of me before others; that if it seemed we used any familiarity, it was but by reason of the long acquaintance which we have had together; but as for his love-suites, they were indifferent. Now answered the crafty companion, I thank God your humour is such: but since it is so, you cannot choose but take pleasure to hear the passionate discourse which he had to his Aminthe. I protest to you (wise Diane) when I heard him name his Aminthe, I changed colour; and because he offered me to hear their words, me thought I was not to shun the knowledge of the perfidiousness of Celadon, alas, more faithful than I well advised: and so I took his offer, and indeed he failed not in his promise. For, within a while after, he came running to me; and assuring me, that he left them close together, and that Celadon laid his head in Aminthes' lap, who sat and rubbed his head, telling me the particulars, the more to torment me: I followed him so besides myself, that I remember neither the way I went, nor how near he brought me to them; yet they perceived me not, because, as I have judged since, they cared not who heard, and therefore regarded not who harkened. So it was, I found myself so near, that I could hear Celadon say, Believe me (fair shepherdess) there is no beauty can be more lively printed in a soul, then that which is in mine.  
But Celadon (answered Aminthe) how is it possible that an heart stirring as yours, can have the hardiness, to hold long that which love can grave? Naughty shepherdess (replied my Celadon) let these reasons go by, measure not me by your wand, nor weights of any other; honour me with your good graces, and you shall see if I will not preserve them as well in my soul, and as long as my life. Celadon, Celadon, (replied Aminthe) you shall be well punished, if your jest turn to earnest, and if the heavens (in my revenge) make you love this Aminthe, whom you now sport yourself with. Hitherto there was nothing, but in some sort it might be bom. But O God to feign what was the answer he gave. I pray Love, said he, (fair shepherd) if I mock, that he cause the mockery to light on me; if I have deserved any grace from him, that he inflict on me the punishment you threaten. Aminthe not able to judge his intent by this discourse, answered him not but with a smile, and with a casting of her hand over her eyes, which I interpreted in my language, that she refused not, but that she believed his words for true: But that which touched me most to the quick, was, that Celadon, after he had been somewhile without speech, fetched a deep sigh, which she accompanied presently with another. And when the shepherd rose up to speak to her, she laid her hand over her eyes, & waxed red, as half ashamed, that this sigh had so escaped her: which was the cause that Celadon lying down in his former place, a little after sung these verses:  

A Sonnet when he knew how they feigned to love.  

Feigning to love me, she complains in want on wise,  
And after me she sighs, when me she sighing spi●s:  
And by her feigned tears, would witness to endure,  
The heat which in my soul she knows is over-sure.   

The lower most expert, when she the Mask puts on  
Of her deceitful trains, knows no way to be gone:  
He must be without heart, not to desire a whit,  
To be so sweetly gulled, by such her forging wit.   

Myself deceive myself, in fashood that I see,  
And my contentments all confederate against me:  
My heart's glass, traitors, lights that untrusty are.   

I know you all right well, your juggling tricks I spy,  
But whereto serves it me, since Love doth me deny?  
Seeing your treasons tricks, I should thereof beware.    
After he had held his peace awhile, Aminthe said, And why, Celadon, do you trouble yourself so much? I fear, said he, rather to trouble her, whom in any sort I would not but please. And who is that, said she, since we are alone? Ah! that she had deceived herself so: and it had been well for my part, as any other in the company. It is but you, answered Celadon, that I fear to importune, but if you command me, I will go forward. I dare not, replied the shepherdess, use any commandment, where even the payer is undiscreet. You may use, replied the shepherd, what terms please you, but in the end I am but your servant. And then he began again in this sort:  

A MADRIGAL. Upon a resemblance of his Lady and himself.  

I May be bold to say our hearts  
Are both made of the hardest rock;  
Mine, that endures such rigorous smarts,  
And yours, in that it bears the shock  
Both of Love's blows, and of my tears.   

But when the griefs I call to mind,  
Which makes my sufferings ever be  
In this extremity, I find  
I am a rock in constancy,  
And so are you in cruelty.    
Fair Diane, it was beyond my power to stay longer there, and so stealing softly from them, I returned to my flock, so sad, that from that day I opened not my mouth. And because it was very late, I drove my sheep into their folds, and passed a night, such as you may imagine: Alas! all this had been nothing, if I had not joined thereto the folly, which I shall bewail as long as I have tears, neither know I who inveigled me: for if I had had any judgement remaining in me, for this new jealousy, at the least, I might have inquired of Celadon, what his purpose was, & though he would have dissembled it, I should easily enough have found out his fiction. But without other consideration, the next morning, when he came to look me at my flock, I talked to him with such disdain, that desperately he cast himself into that gulf, where drowning himself, he hath at one blow drowned all my contentment. At this word she grew pale like death; and had it not been for Phillis, who raised her up, pulling her by the arm, she had been in danger of swooning.    

THE FIFTH BOOK OF Astrea and Celadon.  
THe noise that the shepherdess made, when Astrea fell into a swoon, was such, that Leonide waked with it, and hearing them talk near her, her curiosity gave her a mind to know who they were; and because after they had refreshed themselves, these three shepherdess rose to go away, all that she could do, was, to awaken Siluie, to show them her. As soon as she saw them, she knew Astrea, though she were much changed, for the displeasure she took for the loss of Celadon. And the other two, said Leonide, what are they? The one, said she, that is on the left hand, is Phillis, her dear companion; and the other is Diane, the daughter of the sage Bellinde, and Celio●, and I am angry that we have slept so long; for I am assured we should have heard some of their news, there being some likelihood, that the occasion which withdrew them from others, was but to talk more freely.  
Truly (answered Leonide) I protest, I never saw any more beautiful than Astrea, and comparing her with all others, I find her beyond them all. Guess (replied Siluie) what hope Galathee may have, to divert the affection of the shepherd. This consideration touched Leonide also to the quick, for her part, as well as Galathee. But love, which never looks on the expense of any person, without giving them, for their payment, some kind of hope, would not handle this Nymph more niggardly than others: and so, though there were no great likelihood, yet he would not fail to promise her, that the absence of Astrea, and the love which she made show to bear him, might haply make a change of will; and after some other such discourse, the Nymphs divided themselves, Leonide taking the way of Feurs, and Siluie that of Isoure, in which mean time the three fair shepherdess, having gathered together their flocks, went shortly after to their Lodges.  
They had hardly set foot in the great pasture, where they were wont to assemble, but they perceived Licidas talking with Siluander. As soon as the shepherd saw Astrea, he became pale, and so changed, that for fear lest Siluander should know any thing, he broke company with some bad excuse: but desirous to avoid the meeting with them, Phillis went to cross his way with Diane, after she had told Astrea the bad satisfaction this shepherd had of her; and because Phillis would not lose him, having (till then) so charily kept him, although he endeavoured to pass beyond them, yet she overtook him, & smiling, said: If in this sort you fly from your friends, what will you do to your enemies? He answered, The company which you so cherish, will not suffer you to hold that name. She (replied the shepherdess) of whom you complain, suffereth more pain for offending you, than yourself do. That is (said the shepherd) but to break the weapon, rather than heal the wound. By this time Astrea came, & addressing herself to Licidas, said thus: I am so fare (shepherd) from saying, that the hatred you bear me, is unjust, that I aver, you know not how to hate me so deadly, as you have occasion. Notwithstanding, if the memory of him which is the cause of this evil satisfaction, be yet as lively in your soul, as it shall ever be in mine, you should remember, I am that thing in the world he most loved; and it will be evil for you to hate me, since yet there is nothing that he loved, more than me. Licidas would you receive not this satisfaction, as you have had reason hitherto, so may you be blamed as much for being unreasonable. Astrea not resting on Diana's speech, took her hand from his mouth, and said: No, no, (wise shepherdess) restrain not Licidas, let him use all the rigorous words he pleaseth, I know they be the effects of his just grief: yet I know well also, that therein he hath no more loss than I. Licidas hearing these words, and the manner in which she delivered them, gave testimony (with his tears) that she had won him; and not being able to command himself so readily, notwithstanding all the defence that Phillis and Diane could make, he freed himself from their hands, and went on the other side; which Phillis perceiving, that she might have the whole victory, followed, and knew so well to represent him the displeasure of Astrea, and the villainy of Semire, that in the end she brought him back to the company.  
But in this mean time Leonide held on her way to Feur●, and though she made great haste, yet could she not reach beyond Ponsius, because she had slept overlong: that was the cause that she waked long before day, desirous to return in good time, that she might stay somewhile in her return with the shepherdess whom she left; yet durst she not go until the light might show her the way, for fear of losing herself, though she could not possibly close her eyes all the rest of the night. As she lay entertaining her thoughts, and as she was heedfully harkening, she heard one talk somewhat near her: for there was but a slight partition that divided one chamber into two, for that the Master of the house was an honest shepherd, that out of courtesy & the laws of hospitality, freely entertained all passengers, without enquiring what they were, and because his lodging was scant, he was fain to make that division, to make the more chambers. Now when the Nymph came thither, there were two strangers lodged, but because it was late, they were withdrawn already and asleep, and by fortune the chamber where the Nymph was lodged, was of this sort, and hard by theirs, without heeding it when she lay down, hearing one murmur hard by her bed (for the bed's head stood that way, that she might the better understand) she laid her ear to an open place of the wall: and by chance one of them lifting up his voice somewhat higher, she heard that he answered the other thus, What would you I should say more, but that love makes you so impatient? And well either she shall be found wearied, or sick, or distempered with some accident that hath made her stay. And must one despair for that? Leonide thought she knew the voice, but she could not remember it so well as the other, so soon as he answered. But look you, Climanthe, that is not the thing that puts me to pain; for her, failing shall never hurt me so long as I hope to have a good issue of our enterprise: that which I fear, and which lays me on thorns as you see me, is, that you have not well instructed her in what we deliberated, or else she gives no credit to your words. Leonide hearing this discourse, and knowing him well that spoke, astonished and desirous to know more, approached so near the wall, that she lost one word, and then heard Climanthe answer, God speed me with this man. I have told you diverse times heretofore, it is impossible. True, said the other, in your judgement. Well answered Climanthe, to give assurance, and to free you of this pain, I will once more tell you all the carriage.  

The history of the deceit of Climanthe.  
AFter we were parted, and that you made me know, Galathee, Siluie, Leonide and the other Nymphs of Amasis, as well by sight as I understood before from the discourse which you had made, I thought that one of the principal things which might serve our purpose, was to know how Lindamor would be apparelled at the day of his departure; for you know that Clidaman & G●yemantes were gone to seek out Meroue: Amasis commanded Lindamor to follow with all the young knights of that country, to the end that Clidaman might be made known to Meroue to be what he was. And by mishap (it seemeth) that Lindamor had a purpose to keep his  more secret than he did before. So it was, that as I went spying out some occasion, one evening as he was in the midst of the street, I heard him command one of his followers to go to the tailor that made his , to bring him the garment which he had caused to be made against the day of show, for that he would assay it: and because he had expressly forbidden him, to let any one see it, he gave him a ring for a token. I followed this man a far off, to know the lodging, and the morrow after in good time, knowing the name of the tailor, I entered boldly into his house, and told him I came from Lindamor, because Amasis pressed him to be gone, & that he feared those garments would not be made in time, & that I should not give credit to that he should say, but I should see them myself to tell him the truth. And then going on, I said, he would have given me the ring you wot: but he said to me, it would be sufficient that I should tell you, that yesternight he had sent for the garments, and marked the garments the best I could: and when I made show of haste, he answered it was time enough, for that, that very day he had seen a letter of Amasis in the assembly of the town, whereby she ordained they should put themselves in arms within five weeks, because that on the day which she had appointed, she would have the assembly in their town to make the general muster, which Lindamor and his troops were to make, to go to find Clidaman; and her will was, that the next morning you should be received for General of this country in his absence. By this means I knew the day of Lindamors departure; and moreover, that you were to stay in this country, which was an accident that fell out very luckily for our design, though you were well enough informed before. Following this, I drew aside into the great wood of Sarignieu, where, on the shore of the little river that runs across, I made me a cabinet of boughs, but so close, that many passed by without seeing it; and I concealed it, to the end that men might think that I had kept it long: for, as you know, no man knew me in this country: and the better to show that I had long stayed there, the leaves with which I covered this Lodge, had been long dry, and then I took the great glass which I had caused to be made, which I set on an Altar, which I raised of Hawes and Thorns, mingling them with some herbs, as Vervain, Suckary, and such other. On the one side, I placed the Guy, which I said to be of Oak: on the other, the serpent of gold, which I feigned to have taken the sixth of the first moon, and in the midst, the sheet in which I gathered it: and beside all these, I hung the glass in the darkest place, to the end my craft might be the less perceived: and just overagainst it, but somewhat higher, I fitted the painted paper, where I had drawn so lively the place which I meant to show Galathee, that there was no body but might know it, and that those which were beneath, if they lifted up their eyes, might not see it: on the side where I came in, I interlaced boughs and leaves in such fort together, that it was impassable; and because, if they came on the other side, and turned to the contrary, without doubt they had espied my craft, I made round about a reasonable great hedge, where I placed the Censers on a row, and forbade every body to go beyond them. Just before the mirror there was a table, whereon Hecathe was painted; and this table had the lower part of it wrought with steel, and, as you know, it hung by some horse hairs, so slender, that by reason of the darkness of the place, there was none could perceive them: as soon as they were drawn away, the table falls, and with the weight struck with the steel on a flint, so purposely placed, that it never failed of striking fire. I had set in the same place a mixture of brimstone and Salt-Peter, which should take hold on the fire, in such sort, that it would raise a flame with such suddenness, that there was not the man that was not much astonished. This I invented, to make them believe that it was either a divinity, or an enchantment. So it was, that I found all this so well placed, that there was nothing to reform. After all these things, I began to let myself be seen, but very rarely and suddenly: When I perceived any man saw me, I drew to my Lodge, where I made show to sustain my life only with roots, but in the night I went three or four miles off, in other habits, to buy me all things necessary.  
Within some few days after, they took notice of me, and the bruit of my life was so great, that it came to the ears of Amasis, who came often to walk in those great gardens of Montbrison. And among others, one time when she was there, Sylore, Siluie, & Leonide, and diverse other of their companions, came walking along my little river, where, at that time, I made show to gather herbs: as soon as I knew they perceived me, I went a great pace to my : they that were curious to see me, and talk with me, followed me to the great trees. I had by this time set me on my knees: But when I heard they approached, I came to the door, where the first that I met with, was Leonide: and for that she was ready to enter, thrusting her back a little, I said to her very rudely, Leonide, the Divinity which I serve, commands you not to profane his Altars. At these words she stepped back half amazed: for my habit of a Druid made them give me honour, and the name of the Divinity gave me fear, and after she was assured, she said to me: The Altars of your God, whosoever he be, cannot be profaned by receiving my vows, since I come but to render the honour which heaven demands of us. Heaven (answered I) demands, indeed, vows and honour, but not differing from that they ordain: so that if the zeal of the Divinity which I serve, hath brought you hither, then must you observe that which it commands. And what is his commandment, said Siluie? Siluie (said I) if you have the same intent that your companion hath, do you both that which I tell you, and then your vows shall be pleasing to him. Before the Moon begin to wane, wash your right leg to the knee before day, and the arm to the elbow, within this river that runs before this holy Cave: And then, the leg and arm being naked, come hither with a garland of vervain, and a girdle of Succory; after that I will tell you what you are to do to be partakers of the sacred mysteries of this place, which I will open and declare to you. And then taking her by the hand, I said, Will you, for testimony of the graces wherewith the divinity whom I serve, favours me, that I tell you part of your life, and what shall befall you? Not I (said she) for I have no such curiosity. But you, my companion (said she) (addressing herself to Leonide) I have seen you heretofore desirous to know it. Now satisfy your desire, I beseech you (said Leonide) presenting her hand to me. Then remembering that that you told me of these Nymphs in particular, I took her hand, and asked her, if she were borne in the day or night; and knowing that it was in the night, I took her left hand, and after I had sometime considerd of it, I said, This line of life, clean, well marked, & long, shows that you shall live, from the diseases of your body, in good health: but this little cross which is in the same line, almost at height of the angles, which hath two little lines above, and three beneath, and these three also which are at the end of the line of life towards the turning, show in you the diseases which Love shall give you, which will hinder you from that health of spirit, which you have of body. And those five or six points, which (like little grains) are sowed here and there on the same line, make me judge, that you never will hate them that love you, but rather, that you delight to be beloved and served.  
Now mark this other line, which takes his root from that we have already spoken of; and passing through the middle of the hand, lifts itself against the mount of the Moon, they call it the natural Mean: those cuttings that you see, which scant appear, signify that you are easily angry with them, over whom Love gives you authority. And this little star which turns against the ground of the pulse, shows that you are full of bounty and sweetness, and that quickly you will lose your choler.  
But behold, this line which we call Mensale, that joineth with the means natural (so that they two make one angle) this showeth you shall have diverse troubles in plotting for love, which will make your life somewhiles unpleasing; which I judge the rather, considering that soon after the mean sails; and that meets with that of life, so that they seem to be the angle of the Mensale and of the other; but this tells me, that late or never you shall have the conclusion of your desires. I would have gone on, when she took away her hand, and said, this was not the thing she demanded: for I speak too much in general, but she would clearly know what would become of a dossigne which she had. Then I answered her: The heavenly powers themselves only know that which is to come: but only that that by their bounty they give knowledge of to their servants, and that sometimes for the public good, sometimes to satisfy the ardent supplication of them that often importune their Altars; and many times to show, that nothing is hidden from them: and yet it is the part of a wise Interpreter, to tell nothing but what he thinketh necessary, because the secrets of the gods are not to be divulged without cause. I tell you this, that your curiosity might content itself, that I have discoursed with less clearness than you desire; for, it is not necessary I should say otherwise unto you. And that you may know that God is not so sparing of his graces, but that he talketh familiarly with me: I will tell you the things which have befallen you, by which you may judge how much I know.  
In the first place (fair Nymphs) you know, I never saw you before, and yet at the first meeting, I called you all by your names; which I did, for that I am willing you should think me to know more than the common sort, not to the end that any glory should befall me (that were too great a presumption) but to the Deity which I serve in this place. Now you must believe, that all that I shall say to you, I have learned from the same Master: and in this I lied not, for it was you, Polemas, that told me it: but because (continued I) it may be, the particularities will make me o●ex-long, it will not be amiss to place ourselves under these n●●ror trees. At this word we went, and then I began again in this sort. Truly (interrupted Polema●) you could not carry this beginning with more a●te. You will judge (answered Climanthe) that the proceeding was with no less wisdom. I began my speech then in this sort:  
Fair Nymph, It may be about three years, that the gentle Agis in a full assembly, was given you for servant, at the beginning you were indifferent, for till then, the young years of you both, was the cause that your hearts were not capable of the passions which Love conce●ued: but since that, your beauty in him, and his suit in you, began to kindle, by little & little, these fires, whereof Nature gave the first sparks in us at the hour of our birth, so that that which was indifferent, became particular to you both, and Love in the end form itself, and was borne in his soul, with all the passions which usually accompany it, and in you a good will, which made you like better of his affection and services, then of any other. The first time that in earnest he made his overture, was, when Amasis going to walk in the fair gardens of Montbrison, he took you under the arm, & after he had stayed some while without speech, he told you at last, Fair Nymph, it is not for nothing that I dispute in myself, whether I should, or whether I should not declare that which I have in my soul; for to dissemble, may be allowed in that which may sometimes be changed: but that which constrains me to speak at this time, shall accompany me even to my Tomb. Here I stayed, and said to her, Will you have me repeat (Leonide) the same words which you answered? Without lie, than (said Polemas) you put yourself into great hazard of being discovered. Not a whit (answered Climanthe) and to give you proof of perfection of my memory, I will tell you the very words. But (replied Polemas) what if I had forgot to tell them you? Oh (adjoined Climanthe) I doubt not of that: but so it is, that the subject of the words was that that you told me, & she herself doth not remember the words themselues: so that out of the opinion that it was a god that had told me, she believed they were the very same. If you had not 〈◊〉 so familiar with her, as your secre 〈…〉 affection made you, I had not so easily under taken it: but remembering that you had told me that you had served her long, and that service was well accepted of, till the time that you changed affection, and that you are become the servant of Galathee: and namely, that that was the cause, that to do you a displeasure, she held on Lind●●●ors part against you. I boldly told her all that had passed at that time, knowing, Love would not suffer that one should conceal any thing, from the person whom they love. But to come again to our purpose, she answered, I am willing you should say what you please, but we will believe what we list. This she said, as being a little pricked with that which she would should have been concealed from her companions. I went on: Well, Leonide, you may believe what you please, for I assure myself, that I have said nothing, which in your soul you have not found for true. You answered him as seeming not to understand what he would say. You have reason, Agis, not to hide by dissimulation, that which must accompany you so long as you live; otherwise it being impossible but it must be discovered, you shall be taken for a double person, a name which is honourable to no sort of people, but much less to them who make the profession that you do. This counsel then (answered he) and my passion, constrain me to tell you (fair Nymph) that neither the inequality of your merits to me, nor the small good will which I have found in you, could not hinder my affection nor my boldness, that they have not raised me up to you, so that if not the quality of the gift, but the will is to be received, I may say with assurance, that none can offer you a greater sacrifice: for that heart which I give you, I give with all the affections, and with all the powers of my soul: and so all that, which after this devotion is not found to be yours, I disavow and renounce it as not appertaining to me.  
The conclusion was that you answered, Agis, I will believe these words, when the time and your services shall have told me them, as well as your mouth. See the first declaration of amity which you had of him, whereof afterwards he gave you such proof, as well by suit he made to marry you, as by the quarrels which he had against many, whom he was jealous of. It was at that time, that when you would have frizeled your hair, you burned your cheek, whereupon he made this verse.  

A SONG Of Agis, on the burning of Leonides cheek.  

WHile Love did please himself to play,  
Within the gold of your fair hair,  
A sparkle of his fires rare,  
Vnhapp'ly on your cheek did stay.   

You cruel Nymph may judge thereon,  
How s●re the smart of fire stings,  
Since that but one small spark alone,  
So much of dolour with it brings.   

Mean while that your eye forth did dart,  
When yet with it the conquest goes,  
So many fires against my heart,  
Your cheek was hurt by one of those.   

You cruel Nymph may judge thereon,  
How sore the smart of fire stings,  
Since that but one small spark alone,  
So much of dolour with it brings.   

While that my heart, that flaming was,  
To dart as you had purposed,  
His fire that could no further pass,  
Burned your cheek in your fowls stead.   

You cruel Nymph may judge thereon,  
How sore the smart of fire stings,  
Since that but one small spark alone,  
So much of d●●our with it brings.    
And to make it appear to you, that I truly know these things by a divinity which cannot lie, whose eye & ear pierceth even to the depth of the heart, I will tell you a thing on this subject, that no man could know but you and Agis. She was afraid I would discover some secret which would anger he●; and it was my purpose to give her that apprehension: and that was the cause that she said to me (much disquieted) Man of God, though I believe not but that you and others may say that on this subject which imports me, yet this discourse is so sensible, that it will be hard to handle it with so gentle an hand, but the wound will bleed: therefore I beseech you to make an end. She uttered these words with such a change of countenance, and a voice so broken, that for her better assurance, I was constrained to say, You are not to think me of so small a consideration, that I know not how to conceal that which may offend you; nor that I am ignorant, that the least wounds are sensible enough in that part which I touch; for it is to the heart that all these strokes are directed: but because you will know no more, I will hold my peace. And it is time that I go to the Divinity that calls me. And at that instant I arose, and gave them the good day. Then after I had made some shows of ceremonies over the river, I said very loud; O sovereign Deity! which abidest in this place, behold, how with this water I cleanse myself, and unclothe me of all the profaneness which the conversing among men might leave in me, since I came out of thy holy Temple. At these words I dipped my hands thrice into the water: and then taking up in the hollow of the one, I received it thrice into my mouth, my eyes and hands lifted up to heaven, and so went to my  without speaking to them, and because I doubted they had the curiosity to come see what I did, I went before the Altar, where making a show to cast myself on the ground, I drew out the horse hairs, which taking their effect, let the little steel table that stood before the glass, fall, which fell so to purpose on the flint, that it struck fire, and instantly took hold on the composition which was under it, so that the flame burst forth so suddenly, that the Nymphs which were at the door, seeing at the first the Mirror glister, and presently the fire so sudden and violent, took such a fear, that they returned with great opinion both of my holiness, & of the respect to the divinity which I serve. Can this beginning be better carried than it was? No certainly (answered Polemas) and I think well, for my part, that every body which had not known of it before, might be easily deceived.  
While Climanthe talked thus, Leonide hearkened to it, so ravished from herself, that she knew not whether she slept or waked: for she saw well, that all that he told her, was very true, yet could she not well believe that it was so; and while she disputed in herself, she heard Climanthe begin again. Now these Nymphs went away, and I could not know what report they would give of me, yet by conjecture, there was no likelihood, but they: would tell to every one the admirable things which they had seen, and as renown increases always, the Court was full of nothing but of me. And at that time I had much ado to continue my enterprise, for an infinite company came to see me; some of curiosity, others to be instructed, and many to know, if that which they talked of me was so: And I was driven to use great cunning. Sometimes to avoid them, I gave out that that day was a mute day for the Deity that I served; another time, that some body had displeased it, and that it would not answer until I had appeased it by fasting: another time, I set down conditions for the ceremonies which I caused to use, which they could not perform without some good time: and sometimes when all was finished, I found matter to say, that either they had not well observed all, or that they had done too much or too little; and so I made them begin again, and went winning time. As for them whom I knew any thing by, I dispatched them quickly, and that was the cause, that others desirous to know as much as the former, submitted themselves to what I would. Now during that time, Amasis came to see me▪ and with her Galathee. After I had satisfied Amasis about that which she demaunded, which was in sum, to know what the voyage should be that Clidaman had undertaken, and I had told her, that he should run an happy fortune, that he should be wounded, and be in three battles with the Prince of France, but that in the end, he should return with all sort of honour and glory: she went from me wonderfully contented, and desired me to commend her son to the Deity which I served. But Galathee much more curious than her mother, drawing me aside, said; Father, bind me, intelling me, what you know of my fortune. Then I said, she should show me her hand: I stood looking on it somewhile, and made her scratch thrice upon the ground: and having set the left foot forward, I turned her towards the East, and there made her look upward. I took the measure of her foot, and of her hand; after that, the compass of her neck: and with that measure I measured the girdle, in height: and in the end, looking at once on both her hands, I said, Galathee, you are happy, if you knew your hour, & thrice-happy, if you let it not pass, either out of coldness, or for love, or want of courage. But if you make not yourself incapable of that good whereto heaven hath destinated you, you can not wish to attain to more happiness, and all that good, or all that evil is prepared you by love. Be advised then to take firm resolution, not to suffer yourself to be entangled with the persuasions of Love, nor the counsel of friends, nor commandment of parents; which unless you do, I think there is not any thing under heaven so miserable as you shallbe. O God said Galathee, you amaze me.  
Be not amazed, said I: for that which I tell you, is but to your good, and that you may carry yourself with all wisdom, I will discover unto you all that the Divinity that instructed me shall permit; but remember to keep it so secret, that you trust no living creature with it. After she had promised me, I continued in this sort: Daughter, for the office whereunto the gods have called me (suffer me so to name you) you are, and shall be served of many great and worthy Knights, whose virtues and merits may diversely excite and move you; but if you shall measure your affection, either by your merits, or by the judgement you shall have of their love and favour, and not according to that that I shall declare unto you, you fill yourself as full of misfortune, as any creature out of the graces and favours of the gods may in any wise bee. For I which am the Interpreter of their will and pleasure, in telling you this, I take from you all excuse of igaorance, so that now you are disobedient to them, if you do contrary; and you know, that the heavens rather demand obedience and submission, rather than any other sacrifice: and therefore bethink yourself well of what I am to tell you. That day that the Bacchanals run thorough the streets raging and storming, full of the Euthusiasme of their god, you must be in the town of Marseilles, where many gallant Knights shall see you. But take good heed to him that is clothed with cloth of gold, and green, and whose whole suit shall be of that colour: if you love him, I henceforth bewail your misfortune, and you cannot say other, but that you shall be the mark of all disasters, and of all misfortune, for you shall then feel that which I may not tell you. Father, answered she (somewhat astonished) I know a good remedy for this, not to love at all. My child (replied I) this remedy is very dangerous, for that, not only you may displease the gods, in doing that which they will not, but also, in not doing that which they will. Therefore take heed to yourself. And how (replied she) must I behave myself? I have told you heretofore (answered I) what you ought not to do: at this time I will tell you what you ought to do.  
It is necessary in the first place, that you know that all things corporal or spiritual, have every one their contraries, and their sympathisants, from the least we may come to the proof of the greatest: but for the knowledge which you ought to have, this discourse may be unprofitable; and, this that I say to you, is to no other end, but to cause you give the better heed, that as you have this misfortune contrary to your happiness, so have you a destiny so capable of making you happy, that your felicity can not be expressed; and in this the gods will recompense that, to which they have subjected you. Since it is so (answered she) I conjure you, father, by the Divinity which you serve, to tell me what it is. It is (said I) another man, whom if you espouse, you shall live with all the happiness that a mortal may have. And who is he? Presently answered Galathee: Fair Nymph, that which I speak, cometh not from myself, but from Hecate, whom I serve. So that if I say no more, think not it cometh from want of will, but it is because she hath not, as yet, discovered it unto me.  
But if you have a longing, observe the things that I shall tell you, and you shall know what shall be necessary. For though the gods do good to men that please them liberally; yet will they be known to be gods, and the sacrifices of mortals delight them as acknowledgements which they give, not to be unthankful for the benefits received. After some other talk, this Nymph, being much provoked, said unto me, that she desired no more, and that she would observe all that which I should ordain. Now is time, at this instant (said I) for the Moon is at the full, or little wanting; and if you suffer it to wane, you can do no more. And then I gave her the same commandment, which I had done before to Siluie and Leonide, to wash before day in the next river, the leg and the arm, and to come in that sort, with a garland of vervain, and a girdle of Succory, before this cave, and that I would prepare things necessary for the sacrifice: but there must be care that those which be present, be in other state than she. Well, said she, I will come with two of my Nymphs, and that so secretly, that no man shall know of it; but take heed you speak not before them, so that they take knowledge of this affair, for they will labour to divert me. I was much eased at this advertisement, having had the same fear; so that seeing her to have such providence, I judged she had a purpose to follow my advice, otherwise she would never have been so careful. Then went she away, with assurance to return the third day after. Now that which made me say, that it must be before the Moon wane, was, that if any others came to importune me in the like things, I might find excuse by the wane of the Moon, and so I said, it must be before day, that there might be the fewer persons: and for the day of Bacchanals, I made account, that it would be the day when Lindamor was to take his leave of Amasis at Marseilles, and consequently, of her, and that he should be clad in green. Now all these things thus resolved and prepared, I gave order to provide that which should be needful for the sacrifice which we were to make the third day. For though I knew not that mystery very well, yet must I make myself seem expert therein, that they that were better acquainted with it, might find nothing to gainsay. You know, that from the beginning we had made our preparation, and we had given order to provide all that was necessary.  
The morning being come, the day began scarce to peep, before I found her in state I ordained her with Siluie and Leonide, and without fiction, I wished then, that you had been there, to have enjoyed contentment, to behold that fair, whose hair (at the pleasure of the wind) hung waving about uncovered; but with a Garland of vervain you should have seen that arm naked, and that leg white like Alabaster, all full & polished, so that there was no appearance of bone; the thigh, long and straight, the foot small and fine, which shamen those of Thetis. I must tell you true, I delayed the time the more, that I might the better behold those beauties; so that I told them that they were to perfume all their body with Incense, mixed with brimstone, that the visions and deities of Styx might not offend them, and shown them a fit place for that purpose, some what removed aside, where they could hardly be seen.  
Upon the winding of the next hill, whose feet this little river waters, there groweth a Box tree, spreading branch upon branch, with diverse leaves, whose twigs having never been rounded with any tool, because that wood is dedicated to Diane, the one reaching and shadowing the one the other; so that hardly can the Sun pierce thorough, either at his rising or setting, and at noon, a kind of twilight compasseth it ordinarily.  
This place thus fit, encouraged them, but much more the curiosity of knowing what they desired. Then after they had taken the perfumes necessary, they went to unclothe themselves all three. And I, which well knew the place, stepping over the river, came on the other side where they were, and had the commodity to see them naked. Without feigning, I never in my life saw any thing so beautiful: but among all, I found Leonide admirable, what for the proportion of her body, what for the whiteness of her skin, or soundness of complexion, she surpassed them much, so as I condemned you as a man unexpert in beauties, for leaving her for Galathee, who in truth hath some good favour in her face; but for the rest, so poorly sorting with that she would seem, that in reason she may call herself an abuser. O God, Climanthe, than (said Polemas) who can hear one speak thus of her he love's▪ If you will please me, leave these 〈…〉 es, and hold on your discourse, for there is great difference, if you compare Leonides face with Galathees. In that (said Climanthe) you may have some reason, but believe me that know it by sight, the face of Leonide is that which is least beautiful in all her body. Then would I counsel her (said Polemas, all in choler) to hide her face, and to show what she hath more beautiful. But see you, you had your eyes so troubled with the darkness of the place, and your mind so wholly on your enterprise, that hardly can you show any good judgement. But let this go by, and on with your discourse, I pray you. Leonide, that heard all this talk, seeing with what disdame Polemas spoke of her, grew so much displeased with him, that never since she could pardon him: and on the contrary, though she wished evil to the impostures of Climanthe, yet loved she him in some sort, when she heard him praise her: for there is nothing that more wins a maid, than the commendation of her beauty, and especially, when she is out of suspicion of slattery▪ While she was in these thoughts, she heard him go on thus: Now these three fair Nymphs carne back to me, and found me before my Cave, where I made a ditch for the Sacrifice: for that presently when they began to  themselves, I returned and had the leisure to make a good party. I digged a trench some four foot about, and then I made three fires about it, with Incense of Smallage and Poppey, and with a Censer I perfumed the place three times about, and as often my ; and then I covered the body with vervain, and made every one of them a Crown of Poppeys, and put in their mouth some salt, which I made them chew. Afterwards, I took three black Heifers, and the fairest that I could choose, which had never been known of the Ram, whose hair black and long was like silk, it was so soft and pleasant: I drove these beasts, without felling, to the ditch, where turning me to the East side, I took hold on them on the head with my left hand, and with my right, I took the hair which grew between the horns, and put it into the Cruze, mingling it together with milk, flower, wine, and honey; and after I had four times called Hecate, I thrust the knife into the heart of the Beasts, one after another, and saved the blood in a basm; and then calling again on Hecate, I poured it by little and little. Then thinking there remained nothing to do more, I raised myself on tiptoe, and doing like one transported, I said to the Nymphs, It is time, and taking Galathee by the hand, we entered all four in. I was made ghastly, I looked staring, mine eyes rolling in my head, my mouth gaping, and my body shaking with the holy Eutheusiasme. Being near the Altar, I said, O holy Deity, which abidest in this place, grant me, that I may answer this Nymph truly, about that which she demands. The place was dark, and there was no light, but that which two little candles gave, which were 〈◊〉 on the Altar; and the morning, which by this time was clear, gave a little light to the painted paper, that it might be the better represented in the Looking-glass. After I had said some words, I fell on the ground, and hol●ing down my head some while, I raised it, and turning to Galathee, I said, Nymph, beloved of heaven, d●y 〈◊〉 and thy sacrifices are received; the Deity which we have called on, w●ls, that by sight, and not only by the ear, thou shouldest know where thou art to find thy good. Come near this Altar, and say after me, O great Hecate, which art resiant at the Lake of Styx, let the dog with three heads not bark at thee, when thou descendest; so let these Altars always s●oake with pleasing Sacrifices, as I promise every year to charge them with the like, provided, great Goddess, that by thee I may see that which I desire.  
At this last word I touched the horse hair, wherewith the little table ●ung, which falling, and nothing hindering it from striking on the flint, made the fire accustomed, with a flame so quick, that Galathee was surprised with fear. But I held her, and said; Nymph, be not afraid, this is Hecate, who shows you that which you demand. Then the smoke, by little and little, vanishing, the Looking-glass might be seen, but somewhat troubled with the darkness of the smoke, which was the cause, that taking a wet sponge which hung by for that purpose upon a Cane, I wiped twice or thrice on the Glass, which made it clear; and by fortune, the Sun rose at that time, shining so fitly on the painted paper, that it shown so lively in the Glass, as I could wish. After they had beheld it somewhile, I said to Galathee: Remember (Nymph) that Hecate makes thee know by me, that in that place which thou feast represented in this mirror, thou shalt find a Diamond half lost, which a fair and over-scornefull hath dis-esteemed, thinking it to be false, and yet it is of inestimable value: take it, and keep it curiously.  
Now this river is Lignon, this is Sanlag which is there, this is the coast of Mont-verdun, under that hill, where it seemed the river had his course heretofore. Mark well the place, and remember it. Afterwards, leading the Nymph aside, I said: My child, you have (as I have told you) an influence infinitely malicious, and another most fortunate as one would wish; the malicious I have told, keep you from it, if you love your contentment. The good is that which you see in this Glass: mark then well the place which I have caused you to see: and that you may the better remember it, after I have done speaking to you, return to see it, and note it well: for the day that the Moon shall be in the same state that it is in now, about this very hour, or a little sooner or later, you shall find him whom you ought to love. If he see you before you see him, he shall love you, but hardly shall you love him: on the contrary, if you see him first▪ he shall have somewhat to do to love you, and you shall presently love him. Now must you, by your wisdom, overcome this contrariety; resolve then, both to vanquish yourself, and him (if need be,) for without doubt, in time, you shall hit on him: if you find him not the first time, return the next Moon after at the same day, about the same hour; and do so the third time, if you meet him not at the second. Hecate will not make the day certain to me.  
It pleaseth the gods to mix pain in that they give us, that obedience which herein we render them, may witness how we esteem them. Then taking a little stick, I came to the looking glass, and pointed with it to every place. Behold (said I) the mountain of Isoure, see the Mont-uerdun, see the river of Lignon. Here see you a lake on the shore of it there, and a little lower la Pra: you may well remember it, having passed often that way as you hunted. Now, Nymph, Hecate sends you word by me, that if you observe not that which she sets down to you, as you have promised her, she will augment the misfortune which the Destinies threaten. And then a little changing my voice, I said, And I am right glad, that before my departure I have been so happy too, as to give you this advice: for though I be not of this country, yet so it is, that your virtue, and your piety to the gods, have bound me to love you, and to beseech Hecate that she would preserve and make you happy; and by this you may see I am wholly belonging to that goddess, since she, having commanded me to departhence, to morrow without gainsaying I am resolved, and bid you adieu. At this word I led them out of my , & taking from them the herbs I had set about them, I burned them in the fire, which as yet was flaming, and then withdrew myself.  
I will now tell you, why I said, It was at the full moon, for you were angry that I gave her so long term: I did it, to the end that Lindamor might be gone before she went, there being no likelihood that Amasis would suffer her before: and then, you that were to take the charge of all the Province, must have some time to stay about Amasis, after the going away of all the knights, to begin to set things in order; whereas if so presently you should have gone to hunt, every one might have murmured: for you know how much a man that deals in matters of state, is subject to envy and slander. I gave three moons after, to the end that if you fall one day, you might be there another. I told her, that if she saw you first, that she should easily fall in love with you; that if it were you, it should be otherwise: and that only, because I knew well that you should see her first: so that she should find this difficulty of Love true in herself; for as you know, she loved Lindamor. I told her I must be gone the next day, that she should not think it strange, if she came to seek me out for some curiosity: for having performed that which we resolve on, I had reason to make haste, that I might not be known of any Druide, who would have caused me to be punished, and you know well, that hath always been my fear. Think you, I have forgot any thing? No certainly, said Polemas: but what might that be, that hath kept her back so long time? For my part (said Climanthe) I know not, except it be, for that she hath mistaken the days of the moon: but since no business presses you, and you may yet stay here the time that I have set her, I would advice you to do it, and every morning two days before, and after, you fail not to go in good time; for it is true, that the first day we were too late. And what will you (said Polemas) that I should do? The loss of the shepherd that drowned himself, was the cause: and you know, the shore of the river was so full of folk, that I could not stay there alone without suspicion: but we have not foreslowed much, and there is no likelihood that she was there that day: for I assure myself, that the same occasion which hindered me, hath likewise stayed her, lest she should be seen. You shall never persuade me so, (replied Climanthe) she was too desirous to observe that which I appointed. But it seems to be time to rise that you may be gone: and then opening the windows, he saw the day break. Without doubt (said he) before you be at the place where you should be, the hour will be past: make haste; for it is better to have many hours to spare, them a moment too short. And will you (said Polemas) that we go now, being more than 15. days since the time is past? It may be, she hath reckoned wrong: let us not fail to find her. Leonide, who feared to be seen either of Polemas or Climanthe, durst not rise before they were gone: and that she might know the face of Climanthe, when it was day, she beheld him so, that she thought it impossible he could disguise himself to her: and as soon as she saw they were out of the house, she dressed herself, and having taken leave of her host, held on her voyage so confused in herself, at the malicious impostures of these two persons, that she thought any other might as well be deceived as she: so it was, that the small esteem which Polemas made of her beauty, struck her so to the quick, that she resolved to prevent his malice with her wisdom, and to work so, that Lindamor, in his absence, might not feel the effects of this treason, which she thought she could not better do, then by the mean of her uncle Adamas, to whom she had a purpose to declare all that she knew. In this resolution she hasted to go to Feurs, where she thought to find him, but she came too late: for that morning he was gone home-wards, having the day before dispatched that which belonged to the sacrifice. And the Sun began to wax hot, by that time he came into the plain of Mont-Verdun: and because on the left hand he perceived a tuft of trees, which as he thought, gave a lovely shadow, he turned his step thither to rest himself a little. As soon as he was there, he spied afar off a shepherd coming, that seemed to seek out that place for the same cause that brought him: and because he seemed to be very sad when he came, lest he might draw him from his thought, he would not salute him, but without showing himself to him, he would hearken what he went talking to himself: and shortly after he was set down on the other side of the bush, he heard him use these words, And why should I love this fleeter? In the first place her beauty cannot constrain me: for it is not enough to give her the name of fair, and then her merits are not such, as if they be not aided with other considerations, may hold an honest man in her service: and lastly, her love, which was all that bond me to her, is so changeable, that if she have any impression of love in her heart, I think, it be not only of wax, but of wax newly wrought, she so easily takes the figures of all novelties; and it is like her eyes, that receive the figures of all that is represented to them, but lose them, as soon as the object is no more before them, that is, I love her, I must avow, it is because I think she love's me: but if it be not so, I excuse her, for I know well, she thinks she love's me. This shepherd had gone on, but a shepherdess by fortune came to him, who seemed to have followed him afar off; and though she heard some words of herself, yet made she no show, but now contrary sitting down by him, she said, Well, Corilas, what new care is this that makes you so sad? The shepherd answered her as disdainfully as he could, without turning his head on that side: It is that which makes me search, with what new deceit you will bear them, whom from this time you shall begin to love. And why, said the shepherdess, can you believe that I affect any other than you? And you, said the shepherd, can you believe that I think you affect me? What think you then of me, said the shepherdess? All the worst (answered Corilas) that you can believe from a man whom you hate. You have (added she) strange opinions of me. And you (said Corilas) strange effects in you. O God (said the shepherdess) what a man have I found in you? It is I (answered the shepherd) that with more reason may retort it on you, Stelle, what a woman have I found: for there is nothing more capable of love than you, you, I say, who take no delight but to deceive those that trust in you, and who imitate the huntsman, who pursueth the beast with such care, whose heart afterwards he gives to his dogs. You have, said she, so small reason in that you say, as he should have less that will stay to answer you. I would to God (said the shepherd) I might always have as much in my soul, as I have now in my words; I should not have that sorrow that afflicts me. And after they had both held their peace awhile, she raised her voice, and spoke, singing to him in this sort, & he likewise, that she might not want answer, replied.  
A Dialogue between Stelle and Corilas.  STEL. 
WHat, will you then, my shepherd be,  
For want of an inconstant love?  COR. 
To follow your quick spirit free,  
Requ●●● a wing 〈…〉ble ●o ●●ue,  
Much rather than a courage high,  
To follow you, were foolery.  STEL. 
You have not always thought it so,  
That loving me is such a crime.  COR. 
Speak not of times past long age,  
He life's not well, m●nds not in time.  
Nothing returns that's passed before,  
And I remember it no more.  STEL. 
What's this, but not to know to love,  
Yet brag the contrary thereto?  COR. 
Wherefore will you me so reprove,  
For that yourself knows not to do?  
You love out of opinion,  
And not out of election.  STEL. 
I love you, and will love you still,  
Though your love changed be in this wise.  COR. 
Mine● no, no: change I never will  
Her, where my soul engaged lies.  
Think not, that every day like you,  
I change my old love for a new.  STEL. 
What, are you then resolved, tell,  
To seek a love that's fresh and rare?  COR. 
If heretofore you pleased me well,  
I judged you, then to be more fair,  
But now in very deed I see,  
Your beauty in a poor degree.  STEL. 
Will you unfaithful bring to nought,  
An amity that was so great?  COR. 
You charge me with your own default,  
So makes an ends he, whom you ●eate:  
But you may say what fit your bra●u●:  
The thing that was, comes not again.  STEL. 
But if you loved me indeed,  
What makes you then so soon to start?  COR. 
When one his error better heeds,  
To change his mind, is wisdom's part:  
It's better to repent, though late,  
Then still to h●ld a wand'ring gate.  STEL. 
Can neither duty nor yet honour,  
Know such an humour to subdue?  COR. 
What if I can see in you more,  
That may this amity renew,  
Wherein your feign s●ared me,  
Which I mistook so sillily?  STEL. 
I may (you see) for my revenge,  
Another love, and not be loved.  COR. 
Right soon of such disease to change,  
Shall heal me, as in yours I proved:  
And if I then do otherwise,  
I must have l●st my judgements 〈◊〉.  STEL. 
Have you then no kind of r 〈…〉 se,  
For so great infidelity.  COR. 
I have pronounced, that love of forc●,  
She owes me hers that asketh me,  
But you may ask and make your mo●●,  
All L●●● 'twixt us is dead and gone.  
The shepherdess seeing he stood not without reply to her demands, leaving to sing, said: And why, Corilas, is there no more hope in you? No more (said he) than faithfulness in you; and think not that your feigned nor fair words can change my resolution. I am too much grounded in this opinion, so that it is in vain for you to try your arms against me, they are too feeble, I fear their blows no more: I counsel you to prove them on others, whose knowledge may make them misprise them as I have done. It cannot be but you shall find some, whom the heavens (to punish some secret fault) have ordained to love you, and they shall be the more pleasing to you, for that novelty delights you above all things. At this bout, the shepherdess was stung in earnest: but feigning to turn the offence into laughter, she said as she was going away, I make good sport, Corilas, both at yourself and your choler, we shall see you shortly in your good humour. In the mean time, be content that I patiently suffer your fault, which you cast on me. I know (replied the shepherd) it is your custom to make sport with them that love you. But if the humour which I have, last, I assure you, you may longer play upon me, then on a man that shall love you. So parted these two enemies; and Adamas, who had heard them, having knowledge by their names, of the families of which they were, was desirous to know more of their affairs: and calling Corilas by his name, made him turn to him: and because the shepherd seemed to be astonished at this surprise, for the respect which is had to the habit and quality of a Druid, that he might be more assured, he caused him to sit down by him, and then talked thus unto him: My child, (for so I may call you) for the love I have always borne to them of your family, there is no cause you should be sorry for your speaking so freely to Stelle before me. I am glad that I have seen your wisdom: but I desire to know more, that I may the better counsel you in this affair, that thereby you may commit no error. And for me, I know not that there should be any difficulty, since the laws of coivility and courtesy do more bind me (it may be) than you may imagine. As soon as Corilas had the sight of the Druid, he knew him well, having often seen him at diverse sacrifices; but having never spoken to him, he had not the boldness to tell throughout what had passed between Stelle and him, though he much desired, that every one might know the justice of his cause, and the unfaithfulness of this shepherdess: which Adamas perceiving, that he might encourage him, gave him to understand, that he knew a good part already, and that many had reported it to his wrong, which he heard with no great pleasure, for the love he had always borne to his. It will (said Corilas) be loss of time for you to hear the particularities of our villages. So far is it (replied he:) it shallbe a great satisfaction, to know that you have not been wronged; and beside, I mean to pass away some part of the heat here, and so the time may be employed.   

The History of Stelle and Corilas.  
SInce you command it so (said the shepherd) I must begin my discourse somewhat higher. It is a good while since Stelle remained the widow of an husband whom the heavens had given her, rather for name sake, than effect; for besides that he was sickly, his age, which drew near to 75. years, so weakened his forces, that it constrained him to leave this young widow, almost before she was truly married: the love she bore him, wrought in her no great feeling of his loss, no more did her humour, which was never wont to take near to heart, the accidents that befell her. Remaining then well satisfied in herself, so see herself freed at one blow, of two so heavy burdens; to wit, the importunity of an angry husband, & the authority which her parents accustomed to have over her, presently she thrust herself in good earnest, into the world: and though her beauty such as you see, be not of that sort that may tempt men to love her, yet her behaviour, for the most part, displeased not them that saw her. She might be about 17. or 18. years: an age fit enough to commit many follies when they be at liberty. This was the cause, that Saliam her brother, an honest and wise shepherd, and one of the best friends I had, not able to endure her licentious and usual behaviour, that he might deprive her of such occasions, resolved to send her fare from her Hamlet, and place her in such company, where she might pass her more dangerous age without reproach. For effecting this, he prayed Cleanthe to like well, that she might be a companion to his little daughter, Aminthe, because they were about an age, though Stelle were some deal older. And because Cleantho liked well of it, they began a life so private and so familiar, that these two shepherdess were never the one without the other, many wondering, that being so differing in humour; they could be so straight joined; but the sweet behaviour of Aminthe, and the supple nature of Stelle, caused it, and so Aminthe never withstood the deliberations of her companion, and Stelle never found evil in what▪ Aminthe willed. In this sort they lived with such privacy, that there was nothing hidden between them. But at last, Lisis, the son of shepherd Genetian, leaving the frosty places of Mount-Lune, descended into our plains, where having seen her in a general assembly, which was had at the Temple of Venus, just overagainst Mount-Su●, then when Astrea got the prize for beauty: he grew so amorous of her, that I cannot tell whether he be in his grave; and she found him so to her liking, that after many voyages, and many messages, their affections were so forward, that Lisis began to talk of marriage, where to she made as good an answer as he could desire. In this space Saliam was constrained to make a long journey, so that he knew nothing of this treaty: besides that, she had now taken so great authority over herself, that she would impart none of her affairs to him. On the other side, Aminthe seeing her so soon resolved on this marriage, many times asked her, if it were in good earnest, and it seemed fit, in a matter of so great importance, to be well advised. Trouble not yourself, said she, I will easily dispatch this business. Hereupon Lisis, who served with great eagerness, set down a day assigned, to make the assembly, and put himself to the expenses usual in such occasions, holding his marriage most assured: but the accustomed humour of many women, to make no man master of their liberty, letted her from going on with her former purpose, which she endeavoured to break, by demands most unreasonable, that she thought the parents and friends of Lisis would never give their consent. But the love which he bore her, being stronger than all difficulties, she was (in the end) constrained to break it, without other cloak, than the smallness of her good will. If Lisis were offended, you may judge, receiving so great a wrong: yet could he not drive away this love, but he would be the conqueror. And, I remember, that upon this discourse he made these verses, which since (when we were friends) he gave me.  

A SONNET On a despite of Love..  

Despite, weak Warrior, captain audacious,  
That lead'st me to the field, under so feeble ar●es,  
Against a Love so armed with arrows, and with char●es,  
Love so accustomed to be victorious,   

If Love but of his wing (when first alarm appears)  
Do melt the Icicles which fill mine eyes like rhu●●e,  
What will the fires do, which even the gods consume,  
And which bear down amain by torrent of their t●●res?   

I mercy come to cry, vanquished, I heave my hands,  
Stooping unto her yoke, that so inhuman stands,  
Which of thine own defence shall much increase the glory.   

For safely I do● wish that pity armour proo●●,  
And of my shepherdess if she provoke the Love,  
My blood, my triumph, ●e my death my victory.    
That which caused this change in Stelle, was a new affection, which the wrong of a shepherd called Semire, bred in her soul, whereof Lisis was the last that knew it, because she kept it rather from him then any other. This shepherd, amongst all the men that ever I saw, is the greatest dissembler, and most crafty, otherwise an honest man, and a person that had many lovely parts in him, which gave occasion to this shepherdess to refuse (contrary to promise) the alliance of Lisis, setting that in place of a favour to her new lover, who yet triumphed not long in this victory. For it fell out, that L●pander making an affembly for the marriage of his daughter Olymp●, Lisis and Stelle were called thither: and because we were near of kin, Olympe and I, I would not fail to be there. I know not if it were the revenge of love, or the inconstant nature of the shepherdess, by her uncertain carriage, brought it about where she was party: so it was, that as soon as she saw Lisis again, she took a fancy to recall him: and to effect it, forgot none of those allurements, wherein Nature had been unwisely prodigal unto her. The displeased courage of the shepherd gave him armour enough, not to love her, but only to hide his affection.  
In the end, towards evening, that every one is busied, either in dancing, or in entertaining the person he likes best of, she followed him in such sort, that thrusting him against a window, from which he could not honestly escape, he was constrained to sustain the forces of his enemy. On the other side, Semire, who had always his eye on her, having marked the pursuites that she made all that evening to this shepherd, following the nature of every lover, began to let some jealousy breed in his soul, knowing well, that the Candle lately put out, will easily be lighted again; and seeing that she had showed him up against the window, that he might hear what she said to him; making show of talking with some other, he came so near her, that he heard her ask him, why he did fly from her so mainly. Truly (said Lisis) this is a strange kind of pursuing me, and with too brazen a brow. But though I know (said Stelle) whence these injuries grow, it may be, that hearing me, and judging without passion, all the wrong will not lie on that side you think. For God's sake (answered Lisis) shepherdess, leave me in peace, and let it suffice, that these injuries proceed from the hatred I bear you, and the occasion of my hatred from your fickleness, which makes it justifiable, that may it please heaven, that he that hath done all the wrong, may likewise feel all the displeasure. But let us tread all these things under foot, and lose you as well the memory, as I have lost the will to love you. I understand (answered Stelle) whence your anger grows; and indeed you have reason to carry yourself in this manner. Behold, I beseech you, the great wrong which is done, not to take one for an husband, as soon as he is tendered. Is it not the custom, always to make a demand twice? Indeed, if I had not taken you at a word, I had done you great wrong. But how apparent is it to refuse a man so constant, that had loved me but three months? Lisis seeing before his ey●s, that which her outrage would not suffer him to love, and which his love would not permit him to hate, knew not with what words to answer her: yet to interrupt this torrent of words, he said, Stelle, it is sufficient we have long since proved, that you do know better what to say, then to do, and that words flow highest in your mouth, when reason in you is at the lowest ebb. But, hold that which I tell you for inviolable; as much as I have heretofore loved you, so much at this hour do I hate you: and there shall never be day of my life, that I will not proclaim you for the most ungrateful and deceitful woman that is under heaven.  
At this word, offering violence to his affection, and the arm of Stelle, wherewith she leaned on the wall, to keep him in against the window, he left her alone, and went amongst the other shepherds, that (for that time) warranted him against his enemy. Semire (as I told you) heard all this discourse, and remained so astonished, and so ill satisfied with her, that from that time, he resolved never to make account of a spirit so flitting. And that which yet gave him more will, was, that by chance, having long sought occasion to speak to her; and seeing Lisis had left her alone, I went to her: for I must confess, that her allurements and tricks had more force in my soul, than the wrong she had done to Lisis: had given me knowledge of the imperfection of her spirit; and as every man goes flattering his desires, I went fancying, so that that which the merits of Lisis could not obtain of her, my good fortune might procure me. So that, so long as his wooing lasted, I would never let my affection appear; for besides the kindred that was between him and me, there was a very straight amity: but when I saw that he went off, thinking the place to be void (I never took heed to the suit of Semire). I thought it to some purpose to discover somewhat to her, rather than to attend till she had another design. So then, addressing myself to her, and seeing her very pensive, I said, It must needs be some great occasion which made her so changed, for this sadness was not usual to her quick humour. It is the rage of Lisis (answered she) that will always remember the time passed, and walks reproaching me, for the refusal I made of him. And that, said I, shall it grieve you? It cannot be otherwise, answered she, for we cannot put off our affection, as we may our smock. And he takes in so evil part my delay, that he always calleth it a farewell. Truly (said I) Lisis deserves not the honour of your good graces, since that, not being able to win them by his merits, he ought at least to endeavour it by his long services, accompanied with a strong patience; but his boiling humour, and it may be, his little love will not suffer him. If this good luck might befall me, with what affection would I receive it, and with what patience would I attend it? Father, it may be, you will think it strange, to hear me tell you the sudden change of this shepherdess; and yet I swear unto you, that she received the overture of my love, so soon as I made it; and so, that before we parted, she liked well of my offer of the service which I made her, and gave me leave to call myself her servant. You may well think, that Semire, who was listening, remained no more satisfied with me, than he had been with Lisis, and indeed from that time he withdrew his suit; yet so discreetly, that many thought Stelle had been the cause by her refusal: For she made no show of grieving much at it, because the place of his love was filled with a new design which she had in me, which was the cause that I received more favours from her then otherwise I should. Which Lisis soon perceived. But love, which will always triumphs over friendship, withheld me from speaking to him, fearing to displease the shepherdess; and though he were very angry that I concealed it from him, yet should I never have spoken to him of it, without the permission of Stelle, who made show to desire that this business might pass by his hands. And since (as I have noted) she did it with a purpose to reimbarke him once again with her. But I, who then took no heed to all her tricks, and who sought after nothing but the means to content her; one night when Lisis and I lay together, I used this language to him, I must confess (Lisis,) that at last Love sports himself with me: and more, there is nothing can defer my death, but that which shall come from you. From me (answered Lisis?) You may be assured that I will never be wanting to our friendship, though your mistrust hath made you commit as great an offence; and think not but I have known your love: but your silence, which displeased me, made me hold my peace. Since you (replied I) have known it, and have not spoken to me of it, I have the more cause of offence. For I confess, I have failed in some things against our friendship in my silence, but you must consider, that a lover is not himself, and in all his errors you are to accuse the violence of his disease: but you that have no passion, can have no excuse, but the want of friendship.  
Lisis began to laugh, when he heard my reasons, and answered me: You are pleasant, Corilas, to pay me with a demand; yet will I never gainsay you: and since you have this opinion, see wherein I may amend this fault. In doing for me (answered I) which you could not for yourself: that is, (I must tell you at last) that if I attain not the love of Stelle, there is no hope in me. O God, then cried Lisis, to what passage hath your misfortune led you? Fly (Corilas) this dangerous sea, where indeed there are nothing but rocks and banks, marked with the shipwreck of those which have taken the same course. I speak out of experience, as you know. I hope your merits may elsewhere gain you a better fortune than me, but neither virtue nor reason can do it here. I answered, It is no small contentment to me, to hear you use this language: for till now I was in doubt you had yet some feeling, and that made me the more reserved; but since (God be thanked) it is not so, I desire in this love to draw out an extreme proof of your friendship. I know that the hatred which succeeds love, measures itself after the greatness of the fall, and having so dear loved this fair shepherdess, coming to hate her, the hatred should thereby be the greater: yet having known by Stelle herself, that I cannot come to that I desire, but by your means, I adjure you by our friendship, to assist me, be it by persuading her, be it by entreating her, or in any sort that may be; and I call it an extreme proof. For, I doubt not, but that hating her, it will grieve you to speak to her: but it is my amity, which desires it might be manifested, that it is greater than your hatred. Lisis was surprised, expecting from me another prayer then this, whereby, besides the displeasure which he had to speak to Stelle, he now saw himself bereft for ever of the person he loved most. Yet he answered, I shall do all that you will: you cannot promise more to yourself of me, than I have of good will: but bethink you of what is passed between us, and that I have always heard them say, that for messages of Love, you must not serve yourself of persons that are hated. It is true, there is no necessity to look on Stelle so near, since I can assure you, you may as well dispatch your business of this kind, as well as any other. Behold then, the poor Lisis, instead of a Lover, becomes messenger of love, a mystery which his friendship commanded him to do for me, not of his own seeking, but with an intent to serve me as a friend, though since (it may be) Love caused him to change (in some sort) his purpose, as I will tell you. But in this we must accuse the violence of Love, and the over-absolute power he hath over man, and admire the friendship he bore me, which suffered him to agree to the bereaving of himself for ever of that which he loved, that I might possess it.  
Some days after, seeking occasion to speak with her, he found it so fitly to his purpose with her, that there was no body by, to interrupt their discourse, so long as he pleased to make it; and then renewing the remembrance of the injury he received, he so armed himself against her allurements, that Love had small hope he could vanquish him at that bout: which was not, for that the shepherdess studied not as much to surmount him, as he did to find sureties for his liberty: but because he opposed against love, despite and friendship; the first armed with offence, the other with duty, he remained unconquered at that combat. Before he began to speak, she seeing him to approach, went to meet him, with words of the same fashion. What good luck (said she) is that which brings me the much desired Lisis? what unhoped for favour is this? I begin to have good hope of myself, now you are come back: for I may truly swear, that since you left me, I never found entire contentment. Whereto the shepherd answered, More affected, then faithful shepherdess, I am more satisfied with the confession you make, than I have been offended at your infidelity. But let us leave this discourse, and forget it for ever, & answer me to that I demand. Are you yet resolved to deceive all them that love you? For my part, I know well what to believe, none of your humours to my cost being unknown to me: but that which I must demand of you, is to know at your shop, if a man may part at a better rate: for if you speak with affection oath, or other sort of assurance, that no man shall be deceived by you, for certain they are of my rank. The shepherdess looked not for these reproaches, notwithstanding she forbore not to answer him, If you come but to injure me, I thank you for this visitation▪ but you have good occasion to complain of me. I complain, (answered the shepherd?) I beseech you set that aside. I complain no more than I do injure you, and so far am I from using complaint, that I commend your humour: for if you should longer make show to love me, I should live the longer time in deceit: and did it please God, that the loss of your love brought me no more grief than damage, you should have no cause to say, I complained, no more than I will injure you, since injury and truth can be no more together, than you and faithfulness. But it is true; that you are the most deceitful and ungrateful shepherdess of Forests. Me thinks (answered Stelle) little courteous shepherd, this discourse might better fit another man's mouth then yours. Then Lisis changing a little his fashion, Hitherto (said he) I have used my tongue for the most despite of Lisis: now I will use it for one that hath more business with you, that is a little wise shepherd that love's you, and holds nothing at so high price as your good graces. She thinking that he mocked her, Let us leave this discourse, said she; & let it suffice, Lisis, that you have loved me, being at this hour unwilling to renew the remembrance of your error. Indeed (replied suddenly the shepherd) they were indeed errors that compelled me to love you but you err no less, if you think I speak of myself: it is for poor Corilas, who is so subjected to that that is not in you, that for any thing that I can say of your humour, it is impossible to withdraw him. I have told him that I have proved in you, the small love the little assurance that is in your soul, and in your words. I have sworn unto him, that you will deceive him, and I know you will not keep me from being perjured: but the poor miserable is so entangled, that he is of opinion, that what I could not attain, his merits may reach to; and yet, to free him of deceit, I cold him, that the greatest impediment to obtain any thing of you, is merit; and that you may credit that I tell you, see a letter which he hath written to you. I make no question but if he have failed, you will make him do penance. And because Stelle would not read my letter, Lisis opening it, read it aloud.  
The letter of Corilas to Stelle.  
IT is impossible to see you, without loving you, but much more to love, without being extreme in that affection: so that if for my defence in please you to consider this truth, when this paper shall present itself before your eyes, I assure myself, that the greatness of my hur● shall obtain by pity, as much pardon from you, as the boldness which hath raised me to this worth, may merit of just punishment. Attending the judgement which you shall give, suffer me a thousand and a thousand times to kiss your fair hands, without being able by such a number to equalise the death, which the refusal of this supplication shall give me, nor the felicities which shall accompany me, if you receive me, as truly I am, for your affectionate and faithful, servant.  
As soon as Lisis had done reading, he held on, Well, Stelle, what death shall he die? of how many shall he be quit? for me, I begin to complain, and you to think by what means you may hold him in the opinion he is in; and after, how you may make him find your denial more bitter. This speech touched the shepherdess in good earnest, seeing how far he was gone off from loving her; so that to interrupt him, she was constrained to say, Me thinks, Lisis, that if Corilas be of the mind this paper makes show of, he was ill advised to employ you, since your words are more able to win hatred then love, and you seem rather a messenger of war then peace. Stelle (replied the shepherd) he was so fare from being ill advised in this election, that if he had showed as much judgement in the rest of his actions, he should not stand in so great need of your succours: he hath had trial of your fancies; he knows what your allurements are; and of whom might he better serve himself, without suspicion of making himself a competitor, then of a loving friend, such as I am, whom you hate more than death? And yet the Art wherewith I serve myself, is not bad: for representing you so lovely as you are, you may the better acknowledge the honour he doth you to love you. But let us leave this talk, and tell me, in good earnest, whether he be in your good grace, and how long he shall continue; since, in truth, I dare not return to him, without bringing him some good answer: I conjure you by his love and ours passed. To this reason the shepherd added some others, with so many prayers, that the shepherdess believed he spoke in good earnest; whereto she easily persuaded herself, according to her good nature: for it is the custom of them that easily affect themselves, to think that they are more easily affected. It was so, that for this time Lisis could obtain of her nothing, but that the love of his cousin for default of his own, should not be unpleasing to her; but Time should be her counsellor. And after, at diverse times he solicited her, so that he had what assurance he would: and because he remembered her flitting humour, he laboured to bind her with a promise written with her own hand, and knew so well to turn her on every side, that he had what he would. He came back in that sort to me, and discoursed unto me all that he had done, except this promise; for knowing the humour of Stelle, he doubted always that she would deceive him, and if he spoke to me of that paper, I might be further engaged, and so more painful to withdraw me. All this was without the knowledge of Aminthe, from whom Stelle concealed it, rather than from any other. When I had received such assurance of that which I most desired, after I had thanked the shepherdess, I began, with her permission, to give order for the marriage, and made no difficulty to speak openly of it, though Lisis always foretell me, that in the end, I should be deceived: but the appearance of the good we desire, so flatters us, that hardly give we care to them that tell us the contrary.  
While this marriage was divulged, Semire, who, as I told you, had left his suit, by reason of Lisis and me, being provoked with a speech which she had used of him, resolved (to make the contrary appear, at what price soever) to return into her good graces, with a purpose to leave her in the end, with that boldness, that she might never say more, that this separation proceeded from her. There was no need to use any great Art, for her changing humour easily suffered her to return to her nature: and so at a blow, behold her resolve to forsake me for Semire, as a little before she had left Semire for me, yet was she not altogether without pain, because of the promise which she had written, not knowing how to gainsay it. In the end, the day of marriage being come, when I had assembled the most part of my kindred and friends, I held myself so assured, that I received the rejoicings of all the world: but she, that had another thought, while I was busied in welcomming those that were come, broke all this meeting, with excuses more poorly grounded then the former; wherewith I was so enraged, that getting from her without bidding adieu, I conceived so great disdain of her lightness, that never since she could cope with me.  
Now judge, father, if I have cause to complain of her, and, if they that tell it to my disadvantage, were well informed. Indeed (answered Adamas) you may see a woman unworthy of that name, and I wonder how it is possible that having deceived so many, there should be any that would trust her. I have not yet told you all (replied Corilas:) for after every one was gone but Lisis, she so wrought, that Semire stayed with her until evening. In the mean time, as I think, she laboured to use some art to have her promise back, because she saw well he was throughly angry with her. In the end, very boldly she spoke to him thus: Is it possible, Lisis, that you have so forgotten the affection which so often you have sworn to me, that you have no mind to please me? I, said Lisis, the heavens sooner kill me.  
At this word, what impediment soever she used, he got out of the house to be gone: but she took such hold on him, and taking his hand between hers, she went with him, clasping in such a fashion, that every one might judge, that there was love, and though he right well knew her humour and her deceits, yet could he not contain himself from being pleased with her slatteries, though he gave no credit to them, which he well witnessed, when considering her actions, he said, O God, Stelle, how do you abuse the graces, wherein the Heavens (without reason) have been so prodigal to you? If this body did enclose a spirit which had any resemblance with the beauty, who is he that could resist you? She, who knew what force her allurements had, placed all her art in her eyes; all her fictions in her mouth; and all her malice in her invention, wherewith she so turned him on all sides, that she almost set him beside himself, & then she used these words: Gentle shepherd, if it be true, that you be that Lisis, which sometimes have so dear affected me, I conjure you by the remembrance of the time so happy for me, that you will hear me in private, and believe, that if you have had any occasion to complain, I will make it plain unto you, that this second fault, or at least, as you esteem it so, was not committed but to remedy the former. At these words Lisis was overcome; yet, that he might not show his weakness, he answered, See, Stelle, how fare you are gone from your opinion; so far am I from desire to do any thing that might please you, that there is nothing displeasing, which I will not endeavour to do. Since there is no other remedy (answered the shepherdess) come back into the house to displease me. With this intent, answered he, I will. So then they went in: and as they stood by the fire, she began to speak thus: In the end (shepherd) it is impossible I should longer live with you and dissemble: I must put off the mask to all my actions, and so you shall know, that poor Stelle, whom you have accounted so slitting, is more constant than you imagine, and desires only that you should know it, that for the satisfaction of the wrongs you have done me, you would freely confess you have wronged me. But (said she) (suddenly breaking off that speech) what have you done with the promise which you have had of me in the behalf of Corilas? for if you have delivered it him, that only may break off our affairs; who being in the place of Lisis, would not believe she loved him, and would not be deceived like him. This shepherd being of opinion, that she would do that for him for which she refused me, without difficulty gave her this promise, which he had always kept most charily and most secretly: as soon as she had it, she tore it, and going near the fire, made it a sacrifice: and then turning toward the shepherd, smiling, she said. There is no more for you to do, gentle shepherd, but you may hold on your way, for it is over-late. O God, cried Lisis (finding her practices) Is it possible that the third time I should be received by one person? And what cause have you (said Stelle) to say you are deceived? Ah! perfidious and disloyal (said he) did you not come out to tell me, that you would make it plain, that this last fault was to repair the former, and to make proof that you are constant, you laid open your naked heart and intentions? Lisis (said she) you come always with your injuries; if I never loved you, am I not constant, not to love you now? And have I not made you see what my heart is? and whereto tend my actions, but having that I would of you, I leave you in peace? Believe, that all the words which you have made me lose for an hour together, was, but to recover this paper; and now (since I have it) I pray God to give you the good night. What an amazement, think you, was the shepherd in? It was so great, that without speech, or spending further time, half besides himself, he went homeward: But certainly, he hath had since good occasion to be revenged: For Semire, as I have told you, which was the cause of my evil, or rather of my good, so I may call that separation of amity, feeling in himself yet the displeasure of the first disgrace which she had done him, seeing this extreme levity, and considering that (it might be) she might serve him so, he resolved to prevent it: and so having abused her, as we were (Lisis and I) he broke the treaty of marriage, in the midst of an assembly, which he had purposely caused to be made, which procured many to say, that by the same weapon whereby a wound is given, oftentimes the punishment is received.  
Corilas ended in this sort; and Adamas smiling, said, My child, the best counsel that I can give you herein, is, to shun the familiarity of this deceiver, and to keep yourself from her practices, and to give contentment to your parents, that with great impatiency desire to see you married, and when any good proffer is offered, receive it, and stay not on these youthful tricks of Love: for there is nothing that can better warrant you from the plots and surprises of this deceiver, nor which will make you more esteemed among your neighbours, then to marry, not so much by Love, as by reason; it being one of the most important actions that you can ever do, and wherein all the happiness or misfortune of a man may depend. At this word they parted, for it began to wax late, and every one took the way to his lodging.   
The end of the fifth Book.   

THE SIXTH BOOK OF Astrea and Celadon.  
ON the other side, Leonide not having found Adamas at Feurs, went back the same way she came, not staying, but the time she was to dine: and because she resolved, that night to abide among the shepherdess, which she had seen the day before, for the desire she had to have more particular knowledge of them, she came back to that place where she met them, when looking about her, she seemed to see some; but not being able to know them, for they were so fare off, with a great compass she came as near to them as she might, and then looking on their faces, she found they were the same whom she sought for. She might be glad of this meeting; for by fortune they were come out of their Hamlet, with a purpose to pass the rest of the day together; and the better to spend the time, they had a meaning there should be no more than they three, that they might more freely speak of their greatest secrets; so that Leonide could not have come in a better time to satisfy her curiosity; especially, since they were but newly come. Lying then to listen, she heard Astrea (taking Diane by the hand) say, Now is the time, wise shepherdess, that you should pay us that which you promised; since upon your word, Phillis and I have not made dainty, to tell you all that you desired to know of us. Fair Astrea (answered Diane) without doubt, my word shall bind me to discourse unto you my life, but much more the amity that is between us; kowing well, that to conceal any thing in the soul from the person we love, is to be guilty of a very great fault: that if I have been so slack to satisfy that which you desire of me, it was, for that leisure would not permit me: for, though I be most certain, that I know not how to relate to you my youth, without blushing, yet it will be easy for me to overcome this shame, when I shall think it is to please you. Why should you blush (said Phillis) since there is no other fault but to love? If it be not (replied Diane) yet, at least, it is a resemblance of a fault; and they are so like, that oftentimes they are taken one for another. They (replied Phillis) which deceive themselves so, have a very ill sight. It is true, answered Diane, but it is our misfortune, that there are more of that sort then of the good. You will displease us (interrupted Astrea) if you have that opinion of us. The love which I bear to you both (answered Diane) may assure you, that I know not how to give bad judgement. For it is impossible to love that which we esteem not. Moreover, that which puts me to pain, is not the opinion which my friends may have of me, but all the world beside; for that with my friends I live always so, as my action may content them: and by that means, opinion cannot be very strong in them, but with others it is impossible; so that with them reports may greatly prejudice one: and for this cause, since you appoint me to tell you a part of my life, I conjure you by our love, never to speak of it; and both of them having sworn, she took again her discourse in this sort.  

The History of Diane.  
IT would be very strange, if the discourse which you desire to know of me, might not be offensive to you, since (fair & wise shepherdess:) it hath made me endure so much displeasure, that I think not I shall at this time use more words in telling it, than it hath cost me tears in suffering it. And since it pleaseth you, that at last I shall renew that grievous remembrance, suffer me to abridge it, that I may (in some sort) lessen the happiness, wherein I am by the memory of passed troubles. I assure myself, that though you never saw Celion and Belinde, yet you have heard they were my father and mother; and (it may be) have known the crosses which they had for the love of the one to the other, which lets me from telling them, though they were presages of those I met with. But you must know, that after the cares of love were ended in marriage, that they might not remain idle, suits of law and sundry troubles began to grow, and so plentifully, that wearied with charge of process, to make an accord, many, among the rest, a neighbour of theirs named Phormion, travailed so, that their friends were of advice at last, that to end all suits, they should give some promises of future alliance between them: and because neither the one nor the other, as yet, had any children, as having not been long married, they swore by Theurales on the Altar of Belenus, that if they both had but one son, and one daughter, they should marry together; and ratified this alliance with so many oaths, that he which broke them, should be the most perjured creature in the world. Some time after, my father had a son, which was lost, when the Goths and Ostrogots ransacked this province. Somewhat after that was I borne: but so unluckily for myself, that my father never saw me, being borne after his death.  
This was the cause that Phormion seeing my father dead, and my brother lost (for these Barbarians had carried him away, and it may be, killed him, or left him to die for want;) and that my uncle Dinamis was gone out with displeasure of this loss, resolved (if he might have a son) to pursue the effect of those promises. It fell out, that some while after, his wife lay down, but it was of a daughter; and because his wife was old, and he feared he should have no more by her, he made it be given out, that it was a son, and used so great wariness, that never any body heeded it; a trick easy enough, because there was no person that would suppose that he would use such a deceit; and until a certain age, it is hard (by the face) to know any thing: and the better to deceive the most crafty, he called her Filidas: And when she came to age, he caused her to use the exercise fit for young shepherds, whereto she was not very vn●●t.  
The design of Phormion was, seeing me without father and without uncle, to make himself master of my good by this feigned marriage: and when Filida● and I should be greater, to marry me to one of his nephews, which he loved best. And indeed he was not deceived in his former design. For Belinde was too religious towards the gods, to fail in that whereto she knew her husband was bound. It is true, that seeing me taken out of her own hands (for presently after this dissembled marriage) I was delivered into them of Pharmion: she took so great grief, that not being able to stay longer in this country, she went to the lake Leman, to be mistress of the Vestals and druids of Euiens, as the old Cleo●tin informed her from the Oracle.  
Now behold me in the hands of Phormion, who shortly after brought me home to him his nephew, to whom he meant to give me, who was named Amidor. This was the beginning of my pains, because his uncle let him know, that by reason of our young age, the marriage of Filidas and me was not so assured, but if the one could not like of the other, he could not well break it: yet if it should happen, he wished rather he should marry me then another, that he should make use of this advertisement with so much discretion, that no man might take notice of it, endeavouring, in the mean time, to win me to his love (in such sort) that I gave myself to him, if ever I came to be free. This young shepherd had so good a conceit of this design, that as long as this fancy lasted, he could not tell how good occasion I had to rejoice myself for him. About this time Daphnis, an honest and wise shepherdess, came from the coast of Furan, where she had abode many years; and because we were neighbours, the conversation which we had together (by chance) made us so good friends, that I began to be more vexed then of wont: for I must confess, that the humour of Filidas was so unsupportable to me, that I could not almost endure it; so that the fear which she had, that I might come to more knowledge, made her so jealous of me, that I might not scarce speak to any body. Things standing on these terms, Phormion on a sudden fa●leth sick, and the same day was choked with a Catar, that he could not speak, nor give any order to his affairs nor mine. Filidas, at the first was astonished; at last, seeing herself absolute mistress of herself and of me, resolved to keep this authority, considering that the liberty which the name of a man brings, is much more pleasing than the servitude to which our Sex is more subjected. Besides that, she was not ignorant, that when she should discover herself to be a maid, she should give no small cause of talk to all the country. These reasons made her continue the name which she had during her father's life: and fearing now more than ever, that some one might discover what she was, she held me so straight, that I was seldom without her. But (fair shepherdess) since it pleaseth you to know my young passages, you must, when you hear them, excuse them; and withal, have this belief of me, that I have had so many and so great troubles for loving, that I am no more sensible on that side, having been so hardened, that love hath, neither so strong, nor so sharp arms, that he can piercive. Alas! it is the shepherd Filander of whom I will speak: Filander, that first could give me some feeling of love, and who being no more, hath carried away all that that might be capable in me.  
Truly (interrupted Astrea) either the love of Filander hath been very little, or you have used great discretion; for that indeed I never heard speech of it. Which is a rare thing, for that the evil ●ongue will pardon nothing, no, not that which is not. That men have not spoken of it (answered Diane), I am more bound to our good intent, then to our discretion: and for the affection of the shepherd, you may judge what it is by the discourse which I shall make. But the heavens, which knew our pure and clean intents, would favour us from that good houte. The first time that I saw him, was on the day we celebrate to Apollo and Diane, when he came to the game with a sister whom he resembled so much, that they held on them the eyes of the greatest part of the assembly. And because she was near of kin to my dear Daphnis, as soon as I saw her, I embraced her, and I welcomed her with a face so open, that from that time she thought herself bound to love me: her name was Callyre, and was married on the coast of Furan, to a shepherd called Gerestan, whom she had never seen until the day whereon she was married, which was the cause of the little love she bore him. The entertainment which I used to the sister, gave occasion to the brother to tarry by me so long as the sacrifice lasted; and by fortune, I know not whether I should call it good or evil for him: I set out myself that day as well as I could, thinking (by reason of my name) that this feast concerned me more particularly than others.  
He that coming from far, had no other knowledge of the shepherds nor shepherdess, then that which his sister gave him, for sooke us not all that day, so that in some sort, thinking myself bound to entertain him, I did what I could to please him, and my labour was not unprofitable: for from that time this poor shepherd gave birth to an affection, which never ended but with his death. And even yet I am assured, that if in the grave they have any remembrance of the living, he love's me; and in the very ashes conserves the pure affection he swore to me. Daphnis took note both of the day and the deed, being that night in bed (because that Filidas not being well, could not come to the games) she told me it; but I rejected this conceit so long, that she said, I see wall (Diane) that this day will cost me many prayers, and Filander much pain: but howsoever it happen, you shall not be quite exempted. She used to war on me with such assaults, because she perceived I feared them; this was the cause that I stayed not to give her answer. So it was, that this advertisement was cause, that the next day, me thought, I found some appar●●e of ●hat which she had told me. After dinner we used to gather together under some trees, and to dance to the voice, where we sat down in a round, and spent the time with the discourse which we liked best of, that we might disquiet ourselves in that assembly, as little as possibly we could. It fell out, that Filander being unknown but to Daphnis and me, came and sat between her and me: and attending to know whereto all the troop would resolve, not to be dumb, I began to inquire of that which I I thought he could best answer, which Amidor taking heed of, entered into so great jealousy, that forsaking the company, without showing the cause, he went singing this Towne-song, having before cast his eyes on me, to make it known that it was of 〈…〉 e he meant to speak.  

A TOWNE-SONG Of Amidor.  

THat man shall have h●● in the end,  
That serves her last in place of friend.   

Of heart that hundred time is moved,  
More shifting than the nimble wind:  
Who thinks himself to be beloved,  
May not be held for wise of mind.   

For he shall have her in the end,  
That serves her last in place of friend.   

The weathercock to all winds moves,  
That stands on top of Tower tall.  
So she to every proffering loan,  
Turns both her heart, her head and all.   

For he shall have her in the end,  
That serves her last in place of friend.   

The Hunter doth not much esteem  
That which he takes, though fat it were.  
Th'inconstant overpasseth him,  
Disliking such as hold her dear.   

But he shall have her in the end,  
That serves her last in place of friend.   

As one nail drives another forth,  
The last, that comes into her grace,  
Shall of the first for all his worth,  
Right suddenly usurp the place.   

Therefore shall he have her in th'end,  
That serves her last in place of friend.    
I had had sufficient command over myself, to stay me from giving knowledge of the displeasure which this song brought me, had it not been that every one looked on me, and without Daphnis, I could not tell what would have become of me. But she full of discretion, not staying for the end of this song, interrupted it in this sort, addressing herself to me.  

A MADRIGAL Of Daphnis, on the love which she bore to Diane.  

SInce at your birth, beauteous Diane,  
Love made you Loadstoone of all hearts,  
Why should they say that I profane  
Such beauty, when my love imparts  
Worship to you by destiny?   

If Love, that is most absolute,  
Of likeness grows as it is said:  
Then ours should be of strongest suit,  
Since you and I one sex are made.    
And that I might better hide my blushing, and make them think I took no heed to the words of Amidor, as soon as Daphnis had made an end, I answered her thus:  

A MADRIGAL Of the same substance.  

WHerefore should it be thought so strange,  
That being as you are a maid,  
My Love on you should be so stayed?   

If Lover to be loved change,  
The change in me were not so hard:  
A shepherdess to shepherdess,  
As shepherdess unto a shepherd.    
After we had every one, as we sat on a row, sung some verses, and Filander, who had a good voice, when it came to his turn, said this with a good grace:  

STANZA'S Of Philander, on the birth of his affection.  

THat his desires are great, and his attempts in vain,  
His Love's full of great fires, and fuller much of pain,  
That love's, and cannot find requital of desire,  
Or if he be beloved, he takes but small delight,  
Unless he might have hope, or if he hope (oh spite!)  
It is but to the end to set him more on fire.   

Thus on my cradles head, by fatal ordinance,  
Hard Destiny itself did nine sad times pronounce,  
What should infallibly accompany my days:  
Upon the right hand, heaven thick clouded thunder had.  
And since I knew too well, that these presages sad,  
Cast eye on my designs, and follow them always:   

Then be not you amazed if after this decree  
My Love commencement take, when I your beauty see,  
That if I must be beat out of design foretell,  
It to my solace is, that men shall guilty find  
The Love of my hard Fate, and praise my faulty mind;  
Saying, A heart that's base, durst never be so bold.   

So, when the thoughtful care of an unfertile Love  
Consumes itself in beams of that world's star above,  
It seems in following it to say, Sun of my sky,  
Burn me with thine own rays, make that I die by thee;  
At least, in dying so, this pleasure rests with me,  
That other fire could not burn me, but thine eye.   

When Phoenix bird alone out of composure rare,  
By Nature taught thereto, doth first herself prepare,  
From relics of her tomb, her cradle yet to have,  
She● saith to that great fire, the garden of her soul,  
I shall in glory rise, by dying in thy coal,  
And take my life again from ashes of my grave.    
He said some others, but I have forgotten them, so that me thought it was I, to whom these words were directed: and I know not if that which Daphnis had told me, made me think so, or his eyes, which yet spoke more plainly than his mouth. But if this verse gave me knowledge, his discretion witnessed it much more afterwards: for it is one of the effects of true affection, to serve with discretion, and not to give knowledge of his disease, but by effects, over which they can have no power. This young shepherd finding the humour of Amidor, and for that Love had made him curious, and enquiring if it were but of Filidas, he thought that the best point of Art, to shut up the eyes of them both, was to compass a straight league with them, not giving any show of that he bore me. Love's made him so cunning and wise, that holding on his design, he deceived not only Amidor, but my eyes also; because that usually he would leave us to go to him, and he would never come but in his company. It is true, that the crafty Daphnis found it presently; because (said she) that Amidor is not so lovely, that he can draw so honest a shepherd as Filander, to use so careful a search; so that it must needs be for a more worthy subject.  
She was the cause that I began to have a care of myself: and I must confess, that then his discretion pleased me; and if I could have suffered myself to be beloved, it should be of him: but the hour was not then come, that I should be struck on that side; yet did I not forbear to please myself with his actions, and to approve his design in some sort. When he was to take his leave of us, he accompanied us a good way; and at our parting, I never heard such assurance of amity as he gave to Amidor, nor so many offers of services, as to Filidas: and the fool Daphnis, unhappy, whispered in mine care, Conceive you that it is to you that he speaks; and if you do not answer him, you do great wrong. And when Amidor began to thank him, she said, Oh what a fool he is to believe, that these offerings are ordained for his Altar! but he could so well dissemble, that he made Amidor wholly his, and got such ground on his good will, that when he returned, and was to deliver that which Filander had on his part desired him to say to Filidas, that this maid had a desire to see him; and some days after, he added so many over-lashing commendations, not saying any thing to me of it (because, that when I spoke of him, it was with such a coldness, that it seemed to be out of neglect) they sent for him, desiring him to come and see them: God knows whether he need be solicited more than once, for it was the thing he desired, thinking it was impossible that his design should have a better beginning. And by fortune, the day that he was to come, Daphnis and I went out to walk under some trees, which are on the other side of that pasture that is next to this; & scarce knowing to whom to go, while our flocks were feeding, we went, uncertain whither our feet without election guided us, when we heard a voice fare enough off, and we thought it some strangers. The desire to know it, made us turn directly to the place where the voice conducted us, and by reason Daphnis went first, she spied Filander before me, and made a sign to me to tread softly: and when I came near her, she whispered in mine ear, naming Filander, who sat leaning against a tree, entertaining his thoughts, wearied, as it seemed, with the length of his way, and by chance, just as we came, he began in this sort:  

A SONNET.  

IN pride of heart I did misprise  
Love, with his crafts and sorceries,  
When changing arms to these of yours,  
The crafty greater aid procures:  
And yet before he did me wrong,  
He used this language with his tongue.   

A God against my Laws grown proud,  
For having got the victory  
Over a serpent, disallowde  
The glory that is due to me.  
But what? I made him Daphne love,  
On him my greater force to prove.   

The fire that burned that glorious,  
Came but from Nymphs eyes beauteous,  
Whom he without her feeling loved:  
But I will yours more fiery proved,  
Comes not from Nymph, but Diana self.    
When I heard myself named (fair shepherdess) I trembled, as if I unawares had set my foot on a serpent, and without longer stay, I went away as softly as I could, that I might not be seen; albeit Daphnis (to cause my return) suffered me to go a great way alone. At last, seeing I kept on my way, she stole away from him by little and little, that she might not be heard, and at last overtook me; and being scarce able to take her breath, she went crying out a thousand broken reproaches. And when she could speak, Unfeignedly, says she, if the heavens do not punish you, I shall believe they are as unjust as you: and, what cruelty is this of yours, not to hear him that complains? To what end (said I) should I have stayed longer? To hear (said she) the evil you have done him. I? (answered I) You jest, in saying, that I do hurt the man that I think not of. That is (replied she) whereof you labour most: for if you thought often of him, it were impossible but you should have pity. I blushed at that word, and the change of colour gave Daphnis to understand, that these words offended me. This was the cause that smiling she said: I am pleasant (Diane:) that I said, was but to pass the time away: and believe not that I think it: and concerning that he sung when he named your name, it is for certain, that it was for another that bore your name, or to refresh himself, he sung these verses, which he had received of some other. We went discoursing in this sort; and so long, that being weary of walking, we came back another way, to the same place where Filander was: For my part it was by error: it may well be, that Daphnis did it of purpose; and finding him so near us, I could not choose but look on him: at the first he was sitting, and leaned against a tree: but now we found him laid all along on the ground, one arm under his head, and it seemed he was awake, for he had a Letter all be-wet with tears, which ran down his face; but indeed he slept, being likely, that while he read the paper, the travel of the way, and his deep thoughts, by little and little, made him slumber. But we were more certain, when Daphnis more bold than I, stooped down, reached me the Letter (wet with tears) which found passage thorough the paper badly folded: This sight touched me with pity, but much more the Letter, which was thus:  
filander's Letter to Diane.  
THey who have the honour to see you run a dangerous fortune, if they love you, they are saucy: if they love you not, they are without judgement: your perfections are such, that with reason they may neither be beloved, nor not be beloved: and I being enforced to lie down in one of these two errors, have chosen that which is most after my humour, and from which it is impossible for me to withdraw myself. Thinks it not hard (fair Diane) since none can see you without loving you; that having seen you, I love you. If this boldness deserve punishment, remember you, that I love rather to love you in dying, then to live without loving you. But why say I, I love rather? It is no more in my choice. For I must (while I live) as well be your true servant, as you know not how to be such as you are, without being the most fair shepherdess that life's.  
I had scarcely read over this Letter, but that I found myself all on a trembling, and Daphnis so softly laid it in the place where she found it, that he awaked not: and coming towards me, and I being hard by, Will you suffer me to speak (said she?) Our love (answered I) gives you all power. In truth (said she) I bewail Filander, for it is very true he love's you: and I persuade myself, in your soul you doubt not of it. Daphnis (said I) he that committed the fault, must do the penance. If it be so (replied she) Filander must not: for I will never confess it to be a fault, to love you, but think rather it is an offence, not to do it, since the fairest things had not been made but to be beloved and cherished. I refer myself to your judgement (said I) if my face may be numbered amongst the things that are fair. But I conjure you only by our love, never to let him know, that I take any notice of his intent. And if you love him, advice him, not to speak to me: for esteeming of you and Callire, as I do, I am sorry that I must banish him from our company: And you know well I shall be constrained so to do, if he have the hardiness to speak to me of it. Then, how will you have him live (said she?) As he lived (said I) before he saw me. But (said she) that he cannot do hereafter, for that then he was not attached with this fire which now burns him. Let him seek out the means himself, without offending me, by removing this fire. The fire (said she) that can be quenched, is not great, and yours is extreme. The fire (said I) how great soever it be, will not burn him that comes not near it. Though (said she) he that is burnt, fly from the fire, yet will not the burning leave him, and by flying, he brings more smart, For conclusion (said I) if it be so, I choose rather to be the fire then the burning.  
With such discourses we returned to our flocks, and towards night we driven them into our Hamlet, where we found Filander, to whom Filidas made so good cheer, and Amidor also, that Daphnis believed he had bewitched them, it not being their humour to deal so with others. He stayed some days with us, during which time he made no offer of speech, living with so great discretion, that, but for that which Daphnis and I had seen, we should never have suspected his meaning. At last, he was coustrayned to departed, and not knowing to whom to break it, he went to his sister, because he loved her, and trusted her as himself. This shepherdess (as I told you) had been constrained by authority to marry, and found no other contentment, but that which the love which she bore her brother might give her. As soon as she saw him, she was curious after the first salutations, to know what the cause of his journey was: and he having answered her, that he came from Filidas: she demanded what news of Daphnis and me. Whereto having given satisfaction, and hearing him speak with so great commendations of me; she told him in his ear: I fear (brother) you love him more than me. I love her (answered he) as her merit binds me. If it be so (replied she) I have divined well: for there is not a shepherdess in the world that deserves better; & I must confess unto you, that were I a man, would she, or would she not, I would be her servant. I believe, sister (answered he) you speak in good earnest.  
I swear unto you, (said she) by that which I hold most dear. I think (replied he) if it were so, you should not be without business; for by that that I can judge, she is of an humour that is not easy to bend: besides that, Filidas is ready to die of jealousy, and Amidor so watches her, that she is never without one of them two. O brother, cried she, you are taken: since you have noted these particularities, hide it no longer from me: and without fiction, if it be a fault to love, it is very pardonable. And without leaving him, she so pressed, that after a thousand protestations and so many supplications, never to be known of it, he confessed it to her, and with words so affectionate, that she had been very incredulous, if she had doubted it. And when she asked of him, how I received the declaration: O God (said he!) if you knew what her humour is, you would say, that never man enterprised a more difficult attempt. All that I could do till now, was to deceive Filidas and Amidor, that made me believe there is nothing in the world so dear to them as I; & I am come to this, that they sent for me, purposely to see me, and then told her all the discourse, which had passed between them. But, said he, holding on his speech, though I went with a purpose to discover to Diane, how much I was hers, yet durst I not, (respect had such force overme,) which made me despair ever to perform it, unless some long practice gave me the boldness; but this cannot be, but that Filidas and Amidor will take notice of it: So that (sister) to tell you the estate wherein I am, it is very near to despair.  
Callire that loved her brother more than any other thing, took his grief so to heart, that, after she had thought of it a while, she said, Will you, brother, that in this occasion I give you some proof of my good will? Sister (answered he) though I be in no doubt, yet heyther in this, nor any other accident will I refuse you ever. For the appearances of that we desire, will not suffer us to please ourself, though from elsewhere we have sufficient assurance. Well, brother, since your will is so, I will do that for you, which shall not be small, what hazard soever I thrust myself into. And then she went on: You know the likeness of our faces, of our stature and speech; and but for our habit, they that are ordinarily with us, would take us the one for the other. If you think the only mean to come to your purpose, is to converse with Diane without suspicion, how can we find one more easy, or more secret, then to change habits, you and I? For, being taken for a maid, Filidas will never conceive evil opinion, how near soever you come to Diane: and I returning to Gerestan in your habit, will tell him, that Daphnis and Diane keep you there perforce: and we must invent some good excuse for me to get leave of my husband, to go see them: but I know not what were best, since he is (as you know) so hard to be entreated. Indeed, sister (answered Filander) I never doubted of your good nature; but at this time I must confess, there was never a better sister: and since it pleaseth you to take this pain, I beseech you, if I enjoy her, to accuse my love which constrained it, and to believe that it is the only mean to conserve the life of that brother whom you love. And then he embraced her with so great an acknowledgement of the obligation which he hath had, that she became more desirous to pleasure him then before.  
At last she said, let us leave these words to those that love less, and let us only look to set our hand to the work. For leave (said he) we shall easily get it, dissembling that all the good cheer which was made me by Filidas, was to no other purpose, then that Amidor had to woe the niece of your husband. And because this charge will trouble him, I assure myself, it will be easy for you to go, if we give him to know, that you and Daphnis together may well treat of this marriage. But what order shall we take for our hair, yours being long, and mine over-short, which will be a great inconvenience? Trouble not yourself for that (said she:) if you suffer yours to grow a little, it will be enough to serve under a coif, as I use; and for mine, I will cut them like yours. But, said he, Sister, will you not be loath to clip your head? Brother (said she) think not, I hold any thing dearer than your contentment; besides that, I shall avoid many importunities while you wear my clothes, and not lying near Gerestan; so that if I must have my head shorn, I will not make difficulty to do it. With this word he embraced her, saying, that God would one day deliver him of that torment. And not to lose time, Filander on the first occasion that he thought fit, spoke with Gerestan, representing to him that alliance so easily to be compassed, and so profitable, that he will suffer himself easily to be led. But, because Filander would give time to let his hair grow, he made show to go to give order to his affairs, and that he would return very shortly. And Filidas no sooner knew of filander's return, but she went to see him, accompanied only with Amidor, and would not leave him, without bringing him to us, where he stayed seven or eight days, not having the hardiness to show himself to me more than at the first.  
During this time, to show how hard a thing it is to force nature long, though Filidas counterfeited the man as well as s●●●e could, yet was she constrained to feel the passions of a woman; for the courage and merits of Filander wrought the same effect in her, that he desired they should in me. But Love, which takes delight to turn the actions of the most advised, contrary to their purpose, made him give the blow on the side he lest looked for: So behold the poor Filidas, so fare besides herself, that she could not live without Filander, and wooed him with such apparent shows, that he was astonished at it; and, but for the desire he had to be near me, he would never have endured that fashion of life. In the end, when he thought his hair was long enough to put under a coif, he returned to Gerestan, and told him he had made a good entrance to their business: but that Daphnis thought fit, before she spoke, that Amidor might see his niece in some place, that they might know if she pleased him: and that the better way was, that Callire should bring her, that so there might be a beginning of amity, that could not choose but be available. Gerestan, which desired nothing with more passion, then to be discharged of his Niece, thought this proposition very good, & gave absolute commandment to his wife; who to egg him on the better, made show of not liking it well at the first, propounding some difficulty in the journey, and seeming to be sorry to departed from him, saying, that she knew well, that such affairs would not fall out as we would, nor so readily as was expected; and that in the mean time, their affairs would speed the worse at home. But Gerestan, that would not have her have any other will then his, was so earnest, that three days after, he caused her to go with her brother and his Niece. The first day she went to lodge at filander's house, where in the morning they changed habit, which fell out so well for the one and the other, that they which conversed with them, knew it not: and I must tell you, I was deceived as well as others, there being no difference between them, that I could observe. But I may easily be deceived, since Filidas was so, though she looked but with the eyes of Love, which are said to be more piercing than those of Linxe's: For, presently after their coming, they left us the feigned Callire, I would say Filander, and led the true into a chamber to rest in. As they were in the way, her brother instructed her what to answer; and especially, informed her of the Love-tricks she should use, resembling (said he) those that are in love; whereby, both the one and the other were offended: and, though Callire were fully resolved to bear all his importunities, for the contentment of her brother; yet so it was, that she, thinking Filidas to be a man, that it was no small horror to her, that she was constrained to speak to him. As for us, when we were withdrawn alone, Daphnis & I did all the kindnesses that are usual among women, I mean, among those where there is Love and privacy, which this shepherd took and gave with that transport, that, as he since swore, he was quite beside himself. If I had not been a very child, it may be, his actions might have made me know him, & yet Daphnis made no question, he knew so well to counterfeit. And because it was late, after supper we withdrew apart, whilst Callire and Filidas walked up and down the chamber: for my part, I knew not their discourse, but ours grew only from assurances of Love, which Filander used to me, out of so entire affection, that it was easy to judge, that if so often, and in another habit, he said nothing to me, we must not blame his want of will, but of boldness only. And I likewise made the same show to him: for taking him for a woman, I thought myself bound for his good will, for his merit, and for the kindred between her and Daphnis. From that time Amidor, that formerly had borne me good will, began to change his love, and to love the feigned Callire, for that Filander, who feared lest his abode might displease that young man, did what he could to give him contentment. The flitting humour of Amidor, could not permit him to receive these favours, without becoming amorous: which I thought not strange, for that the beauty, the judgement, and the curiosity of the shepherd, which in nothing belied the perfections of a maid, had given him overgreat cause.  
See what a fool Love is, and how he passeth his time, Filidas! that is a maid, he caused to fall in love with a maid, and Amidor a man; and that in such passion, that for one particular, that only subject was sufficient to entertain us. God knows if Filander knew how to play the maid, and if Callire counterfeited well her brother, and whether they wanted wisdom to draw on either his new Lover. The coldness that Callire used to me, was cause that Filidas had no jot of suspicion; beside, that his love was a sufficient hindrance. And I must confess, that seeing her so strongly to draw towards Filidas, Daphnis & I were of opinion, that Fi●●nder had changed his mind; whereupon I received extreme contentment, for the love I bore his sister. Seven or eight days passed in this sort, no one thinking the time too long, because every one had a particular defigne. But Callire, who feared, her husband might be grieved at this stay, solicited her brother, to make his purpose known to me, saying, there was no likelihood, but that the familiarity between him and me, might have permitted me to have refused his service: but he assaying on all sides, had never the hardiness to discover himself, and to abuse Gerestan. He desired her to go to her husband in the habit which she had, assuring her, he would find out nothing; and to let him know, that by the advice of Daphnis, she had left Callire at Filidas house, that at more leisure, she might treat of the marriage of Amidor and his Niece. At the first his sister was astonished, for her husband was very froward. At last, desirous to give all contentment to her brother, she resolved; and to make this excuse seem more probable, they spoke with Daphnis about the marriage of Amidor, which she long time misliked, for many considerations which she laid before them: but knowing they took this course to get leave from Gerestan, which otherwise they could never have had, she, that delighted in their company, acquainted me with it; and we were of opinion, that it was needful to make show, that this alliance might be easily compassed: and on this resolution, she wrote to Gerestan, counselling him to let his wife stay somewhile with us, that our friendship might be a mean, that this alliance might find the less difficulty, and that she believed all things should be well ended.  
With this resolution, Callire so attired, goes to find out her husband, who being beguiled by the habit, took her for her brother, and received the excuses for the stay of his wife, being well pleased she should stay there for that cause. judge, fair shepherdess, if I might not be deceived, when her husband could not know her. So it was, that by this, the good will he bore me, so increased, that there was no other mean to conceal it, whatsoever he could do, the conversation having that virtue with it, that it makes that which was loved, to be more beloved, and more hated what is found evil. And acknowledging his own weakness, he advised himself to persuade me, that though he were a woman, yet he failed not to be in love with me, with such a passion, and more than if he had been a man; and spoke it so feelingly, that Daphnis that loved me dear, said, Until that time, she never knew him: But that it was true, that she likewise was in love, which one might not think strange, since Filidas, who was a man, in such sort loved Filander: & the dissembled Callire swore, that one of the most forcible occasions which constrained her brother to go away, was the suit he made to him, whereof they could allege me so many reasons, that jealousy suffered myself to be persuaded that it was so, determining with myself, that there was nothing in it that imported me. Having then received this fiction, she made no difficulty to speak freely to me of her passion, but yet like a woman: & because she swore unto me, that the same feeling, and the same passions that men have for love, were in her, and that it was a great solace to her, to express them often being alone, represent unto me her true affections; and even Daphnis, who liked well of it, would sometimes avow it.  
Twelve or fifteen days passed thus, with such pleasure to Filander, that as he since swore to me, he neverspent more happy days, though his desires gave him extreme impaciencies, and that was the cause of the daily increase of his affection; and pleasing himself in his thoughts, he would oftentimes withdraw himself alone, to entertain them: and because he would not remove from us in the day, many times in the night, when he thought every body was asleep, he went out of his chamber, and entered into a garden, where under some trees he passed a great part of time in these his considerations; and for that many times he went out in this sort, Daphnis observed it, who lay in the same chamber: and as commonly we sooner suspect evil then good, she had some conceit of her, & Amidor, for the kindness which the young shepherd did her; and for more certainty she watched so, that seeming to sleep, she perceived the feigned Callyre to steal out of her bed, and followed her so close, that she was almost as soon in the utter yard, as the young shepherd, casting over her but one garment for haste; and following her, step by step, by the light of the Moon, she saw her go out of the house thorough a door not well locked, and enter into a garden, which was under my chamber window; and passing into the midst of it, saw her sit down under some trees, and lifting his eyes up to heaven, heard him say aloud:  

So my Diane doth surpass  
In beauty, other beauties fare:  
As doth the Moon by night, deface  
The brightness of each other Star.   
Though Filander spoke these words high enough, yet Daphnis heard but some of them, by reason she was fare off; but taking it somewhat remote, she drew toward him without being seen, as softly as she could, though he were so intentive to his imagination, that had she been before him, he would not have perceived it, as he since swore to me. Hardly had she got near him, but she might hear him fetch a deep sigh, loud enough, and after with a low voice say: And why will not my fortune have me as fit to serve her, as she is worthy to be served? and why may not she as well receive the affections of them that love her, as she give them extreme passions? Ah Callyre! how pernicious to my repose hath your disguising been, and my boldness punished with a right just infliction?  
Daphnis heard Filander very attentively, and though he spoke plain, yet could she not comprehend what he meant, abused by the opinion that he was Callyre: this was the cause, that bending an care more curiously, she heard him lifting his voice somewhat higher, say, But overbold Filander, who shall ever excuse thy fault? or, what great chastisement shall equal thine error? Thou lovest this shepherdess, and seest not, that how much her beauty commands, so much her virtue forbids thee: how often have I warned thee, and yet thou wouldst not believe me? Accuse none other of thine evil, but thine own folly. At this word his tongue stayed, but his eyes and sighs, in stead of it, began to give testimony what her passion was, whereof he had discovered but a little. And to divert him from his thoughts, or rather, to continue them more sweetly, he rose up to walk (as he used) and so suddenly, that he perceived Daphnis, though to hide herself, she fled away. But he that had seen her, to know who it was, pursued her to the entry of a very thick wood, where he overtook her; and thinking she had discovered that which he had so concealed, half in choler, said: What curiosity (Daphnis) is this, to come and spy me out in the night here? It is, answered Daphnis smiling, to learn of you (by craft) that which I should not know otherwise (and herein she thought she spoke to Callyre, not having yet discovered that it was Filander.) Well (held on Filander) thinking to be discovered) what great news have you learned? All (said Daphnis) that I desired to know. Will you then (said Filander) satisfy yourself with your curiosity? As well (answered she) as you; and you are like to find hurt of your deceit. For this keeping about Diane, and this great affection which you make show of to her, will bring you (in the end) but trouble and displeasure. O God (cried Filander) Is it possible I should be discovered? Ah discreet Daphnis) since you know so well the cause of my abode here, you have in your hands my life and my death; but if you will bethink you of what I am, and what offices of amity you have received from me, when occasion is presented, I will rather believe, that you wish my good and contentment, more than my despair and ruin.  
Daphnis as yet thought she spoke to Callyre, and had opinion, that this fear was because of Gerestan, who would take it evil, if he understood, that she did this office to her brother; and to assure him, said: You ought to be so fare from doubting that I know of your affairs, that if you had informed me, I should have yielded all the counsel, and all the assistance which you could desire of me. But tell me this design from point to point, that your freeness may bind me more to your service, than the mistrust you have had of me, gave me offence. I will, O Daphnis (said he) provided, that you promise me, not to tell it to Diane, until I give consent. This is a discourse (answered the shepherdess,) which we shall make to no good purpose to her, her humour herein being more strange than you are ware of. That is my grief (said Philander) having from the beginning known, that I enterprise a design almost impossible. For, when my sister and I resolved to change habit, she taking mine, and I hers, I well foresaw, that all that would be to mine advantage, was, that I might converse more freely with her, for some few days, (so disguised) that she might not know me for Filander. How! (interrupted Daphnis all surprised) how, for Filander? and are not you Callyre? The shepherd, that thought she had known it before, was half mad to be discovered so foolishly; but seeing the fault was past, and that he could not call back the words he had spoken, thought it to some purpose to prevent her, and said: You may see (Daphnis) if you have cause to be sorry for me; and to say that I trust you not, since so freely I discover unto you the secret of my life. For, that which I will tell you, is of that moment, that as soon as any other knows it, there is no more hope of health in me: but I will rely, and so refer myself to your hands, that I cannot live but by you. Know then (shepherdess) that you see before you Filander in the habit of his sister; and that love in me, and compassion in her, have been the cause of our disguising: and after went discoursing unto her his extreme affection, the favours he had of Amidor and Filidas, the invention of Callyre to change habit, & the resolution to go to her husband, attired like a man: Briefly, all that had passed in this affair, with such demonstration of love, that though, at the beginning, Daphnis wondered at his hardiness, and at his sisters; yet so it was, that she lost that wonder, when she knew the greatness of his affection, judging that they might draw him into more great follies. And albeit that if they had called her to their counsel, when they undertook the enterprise, she would never have advised them to it: yet seeing the effect had sorted to some good, she resolved to assist him in all that was possible, sparing neither labour, nor care, nor art, which she judged fit to employ; and having made promise, with all assurances of friendship, she gave the best advice she could, which was (by little and little) to engage me into his love. For (said she) Love among women, is one of those wrongs, the words whereof offend more than the blow. It is a work that none is ashamed to do, provided the name be hidden: So that I hold them the best advised, which cause themselves to be beloved of their shepherds, before they speak a word to them of love. So that I oue is a creature that hath nothing rude in it, but the name, being otherwise so pleasing, that there is none offended at it. And therefore, that Diane may entertain it, it must be without naming it, especially without seeing it, and such wisdom must be used, that she must love you, as soon as she may know that you love her out of love. For being once embarked, she cannot retire herself into the haven, though she see likelihood of torment round about her.  
It seems hither to you have been guided by great wisdom: but you must proceed. The show which you have used, to be in love with her, although you be a woman, is to good purpose; it being certain, that all love which is suffered, in the end, will prove answerable. But you must go forward. We do easily many things, which we thought very hard, if Custom had not made them easy. Therefore it is, that they which are not acquainted with a meat, find it at the first, to be of an harsh taste, which by little and little (afterward) becomes pleasing to the usage. You must frame yourself to use amorous discourses to Diane, to make it more easy, that by custom, that which she hath not been used unto, may be ordinary: and the better to attain it, you must device some invention to make her more to delight in your wooing; and that you may do, though you be a woman, in the same terms that the shepherd's use. For as the ear which is accustomed to music, is capable to fit his voice both by raising and abasing it to tunes that be harmonious, though otherwise they know nothing in that art: In like manner, the shepherdess, which often heaves the discourse of her lover, yields the powers of her soul, albeit she know not how to love, letting herself to be carried in an insensible manner to the feelings of love. I mean, she loveth the company of that person, in feeling a fare off some pity of his evil; and in conclusion, love's (in effect) without thinking so much. Look to it (Filander) you make profit of these instructions elsewhere, and think, that if I loved you not, and did not pity you, I would not discover this secret out of the school: but take that which I say, as an earnest of that I desire to do for you.  
With such words, seeing the day approached, they returned into their lodging, not without jesting at the love of Amidor, who took him for a maid, reporting some part of his speech to laugh at it. And about morning falling asleep in this resolution, they lay longer in bed, to recompense the loss of the night; which gave commodity to the young Amidor to surprise them. And had it not been, that at that time I came into their chamber, I believe, he had found out their deceit; for, addressing himself to the bed of the feigned Callire, though she played her part well, speaking with as great modesty as was possible, setting on it a severe countenance, to put him by the hardiness to hazard himself; yet it may be, his affection would have found licence, and his unwise hands might have discovered her bosom. But immediately upon my coming in, Daphnis desired me to stay him, which I did, to the great contentment of Filander, who saying to thank me for it, kissed my hand with so great affection, that if I had been any thing suspicious, I should have perceived, that indeed it had come of love. After I had given them the good day, I took Amidor away with me, that they might have leisure to cloth themselves.  
And because they had a purpose to perform that which they had propounded, presently after dinner, when we were withdrawn (as of custom) under some trees, to enjoy the fresh air, though Amidor were there, Daphnis thought the occasion fit, being well pleased that it was in his presence, to put him from all suspicion: and that if at any time, by mischance, he heard them speak like a man, he should not think it strange; when, making a sign to Filander, that he would further this design, she said to him: And what is it, Callyre, can make you dumb in the presence of Diane? Because (answered he) I go making many wishes to myself for the desire I have to the service of my mistress; and among others, one which I never thought to desire. What is that, interrupted Amidor? That is, continued Filander, that I wish to be a man, to do more service to Diane. How, added Daphnis, are you amorous of her? More, answered Filander, than all the rest of the world is ware of. I rather desire, said Amidor, you should be a woman, as well for my good, as for that of Filidas. The consideration neither of the one nor the other, replied Filander, shall not make me change my desire. And what, rejoined Daphnis, are you of opinion that Diane love's you again? I am to hope, said Filander, by the laws of Nature, if it be not, that as in her beauty she outgoes her forces, in her humour she will not disdain her ordinances. You may think of me, as it pleaseth you, said I: I truly swear unto you, that there is no man in the world, that I love more than you. So (replied he to me) there is no person that hath vowed so much service to you: but this happiness, will last with me, but until you find my small merit, or some other better subject present itself.  
Do you think me, replied I, so flitting as you make me to be? It is not, answered he, for that I suppose in you the imperfections of inconstancy, but I know well, I am the cause of the defaults that be in me. The defaults, said I, be rather on my side: and at that word I embraced him, & kissed him, with as sincere an affection, as if he had been my sister. Whereat Daphnis smiled in herself, seeing me so much abused. But Amidor interrupting us, jealous (as I believe) of them both: I think (saith he) it is in good earnest, and that Callire mocks not. How (said he) I mook? Let the heavens punish me more rigorously, than they ever chastised perjured wretch, if there were ever any love more violent, nor more passionate, then that which I bear to Diane. And you were a man, added Daphnis, you would learn well to use men's words, to declare your passion. Though, said she, I have less spirit; yet so it is, that my extreme affection will never suffer me to be dumb in such an occasion. Let us see (fair) said Amidor, if it be no trouble to you, how you will behave yourself in such an enterprise. If my mistress, said Filander, permit me, I will do it, with promise notwithstanding, that she condescend to three supplications which I shall make to her. The first, that she answer that I demand: the other, that she think it not dissembled, which under another person then Callire, I shall represent unto her, but take them for true, though feeble passions. And lastly, that she never suffer any other than me to serve her in this quality. I, that saw they all took pleasure, and likewise in truth loved Filander under his sister's habit, answered, that for the second and last demand, they were granted as she desired: that for the first, I was so unaccustomed to make such answers, that I assured myself she would take small pleasure in them: yet, that I might deny him nothing, I assayed to acquit myself the best I could. At this word, setting himself on one of his knees, because we were set round, taking one of my hands, he began in this sort: I should never have thought▪ fair mistress, considering so great perfections in you, that it should be permitted to a mortal to love you, if I had not proved in myself, that it is impossible to see you, and not to love you: but knowing well, that heaven is too just, to command you a thing impossible, I have held for certain, that it pleased you should be beloved, since it suffered you to be seen. On this belief I have fortified with reason, the hardiness I had to behold you, and in my heart bless that weakness, which as soon subjected me to you, as my eye was turned on you. Now if the laws ordain, that to every one is to be given that which is his, think it not evil, fair shepherdess, that I give you my heart, since it is so acquired by you, that if you refuse it, I will disavow it for mine. At this word he held his peace, to hear what I would answer, but in such a fashion, that had he not been in the habit he wore, hardly might one doubt he spoke in earnest. And not to contradict that I promised him, I made him this answer: Shepherdess, were the praises which you give me true, I might haply believe that which you tell me of your affection: but knowing well, that they be but flatteries, I cannot believe, but that the rest are dissimulation. This too much wounds your judgement (said he to me) to doubt of the greatness of your merit, but with such excuses you are accustomed to refuse the things which you like not of. I may truly swear by Teutates, and you know well, I will not beperiured, that you never refused any thing that was given you from a better, nor more entire good will. I know well (answered I) that the shepherds of this country are accustomed to use more words, where there is less truth; and that they keep among them as a thing approved, that the gods do not hearken to, nor punish the forswearing of the amorous: if it be the peculiar fault of your shepherds, I refer myself to your knowledge: but I, that am a stranger, should have no part of their blemish, no more than I commit their fault, and yet from your own more cruel words, must I draw some satisfaction for myself: for though the gods do not punish the oaths of Lovers (if I be not, as it seemeth you make doubt of) the gods will not forbear to send me the chastisement of perjury; and if they do forbear, you shallbe constrained to confess, that not being punished, I am then no dissembler; and if I be a liar and am not punished, you must confess that I am a Lover. And therefore, on which side soever your fair spirit turneth itself, it knows not how to deny, that there is no beauty on earth where Diane is fair; and that never beauty was beloved, as yours is, of that shepherd that lies at your knees, and in this case implores the succours of all the Graces, to draw one from you, which he thinks he merits, if a perfect Lover ever found merit. If I be fair, replied I, I refer it to the eyes which behold me with sound judgement: but you cannot deny that you are perjured, and a dissembler; and I must tell you, Callire, that the confidence with which you spoke to me like a man, makes me resolve never to believe words, since being a woman, you know so well to disguise. And why, Diane (said he then smiling) interrupt you so often your servant's discourse? Do you wonder, that being Callire, I speak to you with such affection? Think that there is no weakness of condition, that shall ever make me diminish, but it must rather be an occasion of preserving it, both more violent, & more eternal, since there is nothing which so much diminisheth the heat of desire, as the enjoying of that which is desired: and this not being to be had between us, you shall always, even to my coffin, be beloved, and I always a Lover. And yet if Tiresias, after he had been a woman, became a man, why may not I hope, that the gods may do me as great a favour, if it pleased you? Believe me, fair Diane, since the gods do nothing in vain, there is no likelihood, that having placed in me so perfect affection, they will suffer me to labour in vain: and if nature have made me a woman, my extreme love will make me such, as shall not be unprofitable. Daphnis, who saw that this discourse went sharply on, and that it might be dangerous, that this Lover should suffer himself to be carried so fare, as to speak the thing that might discover him to Amidor, interrupted him, saying, Without doubt, Callire, your love shall not unprofitably be bestowed, so long as you serve this fair shepherdess, no more than the candle which spends not itself in vain, so long as it gives light to them that are in the house: for all the rest of the world, being but to serve this fair, you shall have well bestowed your time, when you have spent them in her service. But let us change our discourse, said Amidor: for see, here comes Filidas, who will take no pleasure to hear it, though you be a woman. And presently Filidas came, who made us all rise to salute him. But Amidor, that passionately loved the feigned Callire, when his cousin arrived, made that use of the time, that stealing away with Filander from the company, and taking her under the arm, began to speak thus: Is it possible, fair shepherdess, that the words you use to Diane, be true? or have you only spoken them, to show the beauty of your spirit? Believe me, Amidor (answered he) I am no dissembler, and I never said any thing more truly, than the assurance which I have given her of my affection; and if in any thing I have failed in the truth, it was because I spoke less than I feel: but herein am I to be excused, since there be not words good enough to conceive. Whereto he answered with a great sigh, Since it is so, fair Callyre, I can hardly believe, but you will much better conceive the affection is borne you, since you feel the same blows wherewith you wound others, more than them that are altogether ignorant; and that shall be the cause, that I will not go to seek out other words, to show you what I suffer for you, nor other reasons to excuse my boldness, than those you have used in your speech to Diane; only I will add this consideration, to the end you may know the greatness of my affection; that if the blow, which cannot be avoided, must be judged according to the arm that gave it, the beauty of Diane, whose wound you feel, being much less than yours, must have wrought less hurt in you then yours in me. And yet if you love with so great violence, consider how Amidor ought to be used of Callire, and what his affection may be; for he knows not how to declare it better, then by the comparison with yours. Shepherd (answered he) if the knowledge which you have of the love I bear to Diane, have given you the boldness to speak to me in this fashion, I must bear the punishment, which my want of consideration deserves, in speaking so openly before you: but so likewise are you to regard, that being a woman, I cannot by that discourse prejudice her honesty; but you do mine, in talking so to me, who have an husband, that will not bear with patience this wrong, if he understood it. But beside, since you speak of Diane, to whom (in truth) I am entirely given, I must tell you, that if you will that I should measure your affection by mine, according to the causes which we have to love, I do not think you love much, since that which you name beauty in me, may not in any sort retain that name, being by hers. Fair shepherdess (said Amidor) I never thought one could offend you in loving you: but since it is so, I confess that I deserve chastisement, & am ready to receive what you shall award. It is true, you ought also to add to the same punishment all that I shall deserve in loving you the rest of my life, for it is impossible I should live without loving you. And do not think, the displeasure of Gerestan shall ever divert me: he that fears neither hazard nor death, will never dread a man. But for that which touches you, I confess I have failed in comparing you with Diane, being (without doubt) ill proportioned on her side. It is true, that it is not as of a thing equal, but as of the less with the greater: and being of opinion, that that which you feel, may give you more knowledge of my pain, I have committed this error, wherein, if you pardon me, I protest never to fall into it again. Filander, which loved me in good earnest, and was of opinion, that Amidor did so likewise, could hardly brook to hear him speak of me with such misprise, if he had not had a purpose to discover what it was, but desiring to clearen himself, and thinking he found a good occasion, he had so much power over himself, that without making show of it, he said, What, is it possible, Amidor, that your mouth should utter those words, which your heart gives the lie so strongly to? Think you that I know not well, that you are a dissembler, and that long since, your affection hath been for Diane? My affection (replied he as surprised?) let never any love me, if I love other shepherdess than you.  
I say not, but sometimes I have been one of her friends: but her unequal humour, sometimes all on fire, sometimes cold like ice, hath so removed me, that at this time she is indifferent unto me. How (said Filander) dare you say so, since I know, that indeed she hath loved you, and doth yet love you? I deny not (said Amidor) but she hath loved me: and going on somewhat smiling, I will not swear she love's me not yet: but I can suffer it well, so she be not beloved of me; and I leave all the care to her. This which Amidor spoke, was much after his humour; for it was his usual vanity, to desire that men might think he had great good fortunes: and for this cause it was his manner, to make himself (of purpose) so familiar with them he conversed with, that when he would draw back, he could (with his smile and cold laughter) make men believe what he listed of them. At this bout Filander found out his craft, and had it not been that he feared to discover himself, he found himself so touched with my wrong, that I think he had reproved him for his lie, yet could he not forbear to answer him sourly enough. Truly, Amidor, you are the most unworthy shepherd that life's in so good company, you have the courage, to talk in this sort of Diane, to whom you have professed so much goodwill, and to whom you are so much obliged: What may we hope, we that come short of her in merit, since neither her perfections, nor her friendship, nor your alliance can curb your tongue? For my part, I suppose you to be the most dangerous person living: and who desires quietness, must be careful to shun you as a disease most contagious. At this word he left him, and came to seek us. His visage so inflamed with choler, that Daphnis knew well he was displeased with Amidor, who stood so amazed at this parting, that he knew not what to do. Afterward, in the evening Daphnis enquired of Filander, of their discourse; and because she loved me, and judged that she could not choose but increase the love which I bore the feigned Callire; in the morning she told it me, with that sharpness against Amidor, & so commodiously for Filander, that I must confess, that since I could not easily hold myself from loving him, when I acknowledged (to my thinking) that his good will had bound me to him.  
But Daphnis, who knew well, that if I loved him then, it was because I thought him to be Callire, and daily counselled him to discover himself to me, saying, that at the first I would reject him, and be angry, but in the end, things should be so ordered, and for her part, she would labour in that sort, that she hoped it might be brought about. But she had not so strong persuasions, that they could give him courage, which made Daphne resolve to do it herself, without his knowledge, foreseeing well that Gerestan would have his wife home, and then all this craft would be to no purpose.  
In this resolution, one day, when she found me alone, after some ordinary discourse, But what shall become in the end (said she) of this folly of Callyre? I believe verily you will make her lose her right mind: for she love's you so passionately, that I think she cannot live. If Filidas go one day forth to lie abroad, and you will one night come out of your chamber, you shall see her in that case that I have often found her in: for almost every night that is fair, she spends them in the garden; and pleaseth herself so with her own imaginations, that I can scarce draw her (but with force) to her rest. I would gladly (said I) give her some comfort: but what would she have of me? Do not I render her love for love? Do I not express it sufficiently in all mine actions? Want I any kind of courtesy or duty towards her? It is true: but (replied she) if you heard her discourses, I think not but you would have compassion, and I beseech you, that, without her knowledge, you would come to hear her one night. I promised her very freely, and told her, it should be shortly: for Filidas told me the night before, she would go see Gerestan, and fall in league with him.  
Some days after, Filidas, according to his purpose, carrying Amidor with him, departed to see Gerestan, resolving not to return of seven or eight days, that he might give greater token of his love; and this remove fell out fitly for us; for if he had been at home, hardly should we have concealed the trouble wherein we were. Now the day of his departing, Filander following his custom, failed not to go down into the garden, half undressed, when he thought every body asleep. On the contrary, Daphnis that went first to bed, as soon as she saw her go out, made haste to tell me; and hastily casting a cloak about me, I followed her speedily enough, until we were in the garden. But when she perceived where he was, she made sign to me to come softly after. And when we were come near, so that we might hear, we sat down upon the ground, and presently after I heard him say, But wherefore is all this patience? to what end are all these delays? Must thou not die without succour? or where mayst thou lay thy wound open to the Surgeon that can heal it? And then resting a little while, he began again with a great sigh, Say not thou, O troublesome fear, that she will banish us from her presence, and that she will ordain us to a desperate death. Well, if we die, shall it not be a great solace to us to abridge so miserable a life as ours is, and by death satisfy the offence we have done? And as for banishment, if it come not from her, how may we avoid it by Gerestan, whose impatiency will not suffer us to stay longer here? If yet we obtain a longer stay of this importunate man, and that death do not befall us from the anger of the fair Diane, alas! can we avoid the violence of our affections? What must I then do? that I tell her of it? Ah! I shall offend her for ever, if it were possible for me. Shall I conceal it? and why conceal it, when my death shall give her a speedy knowledge? Why should I then offend her? Ah! Wrong and Love will never go together. Let us rather die. But if I consent to my death, do I not make ●er lose the most faithful servant that ever she had? I will tell it her then, and at that time I will open my bosom, that the iron may more easily punish my error, if she will. Behold (will I say) where the heart of the unfortunate Filander is, who under the habit of Callire, in stead of gaining your favour; hath met with your displeasure; revenge yourself and punish it, and be assured; that if the revenge satisfy you, the punishment shall be welcome to him.  
Fair shepherdess, when I heard Filander speak in this sort, I knew not what became of me, I was taken with such an astonishment. I know well I would have gone away, that I might see no more of this deceit, so full of despite that I trembled again. But Daphnis, for the full accomplishment of her treason, held me by force: and because (as I told you) we were very near the shepherd, at the first noise we made, he turned his head, and thinking it was but Daphnis; he came to her: but when he perceived me, and that he thought I had heard him, O God (said he) what punishment shall wipe out my fault? Ah Daphnis! I never looked for this treason from you. And, at this word he ran up and down the garden like a mad man, although she called him twice or thrice by the name of Callyre; but fearing to be heard of others, and the rather, that despair might not make Filander do some evil to his own person, she left me alone, and ran to follow him, saying to me in choler at her going: You shall see (Diane) that if you deal hardly with Filander, it may be you will ruin yourself so, that you may feel the greatest displeasure. If I were amazed at this accident (fair shepherdess) you may well judge when I knew not which way to return. At last, after I had some deal recovered my spirits, I searched so on every side, that I got into my chamber, where having laid me in my bed all trembling, I could not close mine eyes all that night.  
As for Daphnis, she made such search for Filander, that at last sheme found him rather dead then alive: and after she had chidden him, for not knowing how to make use of so favourable an occasion, and yet assured him that I was not so amazed at this accident as he, she brought him a little to himself, and in some sort assured him, but not so, that the next morning he had the boldness to go out of his chamber. I on the other side, infinitely offended with them both, was constrained to keep my bed, that I might not give notice of my displeasure to them that were about us; and particularly, to the niece of Gerestan: but by good fortune, she was not more spriteful than reason would; so that we easily hid from her this evil carriage, which was (almost) impossible for us, especially for Filander, about whom she ordinarily kept. Daphnis found herself not a little impeached by this occasion; for at the first I could not receive her excuses. At last, she so turned me on all sides, and knew so well to disguise this affection, that I promised her to forget the displeasure which she had done me, swearing notwithstanding, as for Filander, that I would never see him more. And I believe he had gone away without seeing me, as not able to endure my anger, had it not been for the danger whereinto he feared Callyre might fall; for she had to do with an husband that was froward enough.  
This was the consideration that held him back: but not rising from his bed, feigning to be sick, five or six days passed before I would see him, what reason soever Daphnis could allege in his behalf: and had it not been that I was advertised, that Filidas would return, and Callire also, I had not seen him of a long time. But the fear I had Filidas might not mark it, and that which was so secret might not been published throughout the country, made me to resolve to see him, on condition that he should make no show of that which was passed, having not sufficient power over myself, to stay me from giving some knowledge of my displeasure. He promised it, and performed it: for he durst hardly turn his eyes towards me; and when he did, it was a certain submission, which gave me no small assurance of his extreme love. And by fortune, presently after I was entered, Filidas, Amidor, and the dissembled Filander came into the chamber, the windows whereof being shut, gave us good commodity to hide our faces. Filander advertised his sister of all that had happened: and that was the cause that the stay of Filidas was not so long as he purposed; for seeing that her sister was sick, she constrained them to return.  
But this discourse would be too tedious, if I should not abridge all our small quarrels. So it was, that Callire knowing how things had passed, sometimes turning them into sport, sometimes seeking out some likelihoods of reason, knew so well to serve her turn by fair speech, especially being assisted by Daphnis, that at last I consented, that Filander should stay until his sister's hairs were grown, knowing well that it might ruin her, and myself also, if I should be overhasty of their return. And it fell out as she well foresaw, that during the time that her head grew, the ordinary conversing with the shepherd, which at the last was not unpleasing to me, and the trial of the greatness of his love, began to flatter me (in such sort) that of myself I excused his deceit; considering withal, the respect and wisdom wherewith it was carried: So that before he was to go away, he obtained this favour which he so much desired, to wit, that I would forget his crafty deceit; and so long as he went not beyond the terms of his duty, I loved his good will, and would cherish it for his merit as I ought. The acknowledgement which he gave me of his contentment, having this assurance from me, made me als as assured of his affection, as I was before certain of his displeasure: for he was such an one, that he could hardly dissemble. While we were in these terms, Filidas, whose love went on still increasing, could no longer hide the greatness of it, so that she resolved to set at once on the dissembled Filander.  
With this purpose, finding her at leisure, one day as they walked together under a tuft of trees, which took up one of the quarters of the garden, he spoke unto her in this sort, after he had been long denied: Well, Filander, shall it be true, that what love soever I can make show of, I cannot have the happiness to be beloved of you? Callire answered him, I know not what more love you can demand of me, nor how I can return you more, unless yourself give me the mean. Ah (said she) if your will be such as mine, I may well do it. For that trial which you have had of me till now, why will you doubt me? Know you not (said Filidas) that extreme desire is always attended by doubt? Swear unto me, you will not be wanting in point of Love, and I will show you a thing (it may be) you will be astonished at. Callire was somewhat surprised, not knowing what she would say; yet, to know the conclusion, she answered: I swear to you I do. At this word, for thanks, and almost besides himself for joy; Filidas taking her by the head, kissed her with that vehemency, that Callire waxed red, and in choler, thrusting her off, asked, what fashion this was? I know (answered Filidas) this kiss amazed you, and my actions, till now (it may be) have made you suspect some strange thing in me: but if you will have the patience to hearken to me, I assure myself, you will rather pity than have an evil opinion: and repeating from the beginning, till that bout, she gave him to understand the law suit between Phormion and Celion, the accord which was made to appease them, and lastly, the policy his father used to bring him up as a man (though she were a woman,) shortly, our marriage, and all that which I have told you, and then held on in this sort: Now that which I desire of you in satisfaction of your promise, is, that finding the extreme affection which I bear you, you will take me for your wife, and I will marry Diane to my cousin Amidor, whom my father hath purposely brought up in his house for that cause. And then moreover, added such words to persuade her, that Callire astonished more than I can tell you, and having some leisure to come to herself, answered, that unfeignedly she had told him very strange things, and such as she could hardly believe, if she did not assure them in another fashion then by words. She then unbuttoning herself, opened her bosom; Honesty (said she) forbiddeth me to show more: but me thinks this might satisfy you.  
Then Callire, that she might win the leisure to take counsel of us, made show to be well pleased, but that she had parents from whom she hoped to have all her advancement, and without whose advice she was not to make a resolution of that importance; and above all, besought her to keep this affair secret: for, divulging it, would give men occasion of speech, and she should assure herself, that when there remained nothing but her consent, she would give proof of her good will. With such talk they ended their walk, and returned to their lodging, where all that day Callire durst not come near us, for fear lest Filidas might think she had told it us. But at night, she recounted to her brother all the discourse, and then they both went to find out Daphnis, whom they made acquainted with it. judge, if the astonishment were great: but whatsoever it were, the contentment of Philander surpassed it fare, he thinking the heavens had offered him a fair way to the conclusion of his desires. In the morning Daphnis desired me to go see the feigned Callire, and the true one abode near Filidas, to the end he might not doubt it. God knows what became of me, when I knew all this discourse. I swear unto you, I was so astonished, that I knew not whether it were a dream. But this was the sport, that Daphnis complained infinitely of me, for having so long concealed it from her, and what oaths I made her, that I knew nothing till that time. She would not believe me to be such a child; and when I told her, I thought all men like Filidas, she fell a laughing at my ignorance. In the end we resolved, for fear lest Belinde would dispose of me at her pleasure, or that Filidas might make some attempt for Amidor, that we must do nothing at random, and without forthinking. For as then, by the solicitation of Daphnis and Callire, I promised Philander to marry him. This was the cause, that taking again their own habits, after he had assured Filidas that he went to talk with his parents, he returned with his sister to Gerestan, who never took notice of this disguising. From that time it was permitted to Philander to write to me: for sending ordinarily news to Filidas, I had always his letters, and that so cunningly, that neither she, nor Amidor ever perceived them.  
Now fair shepherdess, till this time, this passage never brought me sorrow; but alas! it is that which followed, that cast me into such a bottomless pit, that even to my coffin I must never hope to taste any sweet thing. It fell out to my misfortune, that a stranger passing thorough that Country, spied me sleeping at the fountain of Sicamores, where the coolness of the shadow, and sweet murmuring of the water about the midst of the day had made me sleep. He whom the beauty of the place had brought thither, to spend the heat of the day, no sooner cast his eyes on me, but he noted some thing that pleased him. O gods! what man, or rather, what monster was this? he had a visage shining again for blackness, his hair curled, and like the wool of our sheep, after they have been a month or two shorn, his beard in little tufts about his chin, his nose flat between his eyes, but high and large at the end, his mouth great, his brows frowning and hanging over his nose; but nothing was so strange as his eyes, for in all his face there appeared nothing white, but that which he shown when he rolled them in his head. This fair lover was destined me by the heavens, to put me quite out of love with loving: For, being ravished to behold me, he could not contain (transported, as I think, with this new desire) but approaches to kiss me. But because he was in armour, and on horseback, the noise that he made, awoke me, and in so good time, that as he was about to stoop to satisfy his will, I opened mine eyes, and seeing this monster so near me, at the first I cried out, and then laying my hand on his face, I struck him with all my might: he that was half leaning, not looking for this defence, was so surprised, that the blow made him stagger, and for fear (as I think) he should tumble on me, he chose rather to fall on the other side, so that I had leisure to rise: I think if he had touched me, I should have died of very fear. For imagine, that whatsoever is most horrible, yet it comes short of the terribleness of his fearful visage. I was gone a pretty way off by that time he could rise up: and seeing that he could not overtake me, by reason he was heavily armed, and that Fear tied wings to my feet, he mounted presently on his horse, and with a full gallop followed me, when (almost out of breath) the poor Filidas, which hard by entertained Philander, who was come to see us, and was fall'n asleep, as they talked, hearing my voice, ran to me, seeing this cruel fellow pursue me with his naked sword in his hand, for the choler of his fall wiped away all love, she generously opposed against his fury, manifesting to me, by that last act, that she had loved me as much as her sex would permit, and laid hold on the bridle of the horse; whereat this barbarous fellow was so offended, that without regard of humanity, he struck him with his sword on his arm, with such a force, that he cut it from the body; and she then almost dead with smart, fell down under the horses feet, who began to bond so roughly, that his master had much to do to stay him. And because Filidas (in dying) gave a great cry, naming Philander aloud, he being near, heard her, and seeing her in so pitiful a case, was extremely offended: but much more, when he saw this barbarous companion, being alighted from his horse, ran after me with his sword in his hand; and I, as I tell you, what with fear, and what with the course I had made, so much out of breath, that I could scarce set one leg before another: what became of this poor shepherd? I do not think, that ever Lion rob of her whelps, when she saw them carried away, ran more mainly after them, than the courageous Philander after this cruel wretch. And because he was laden with armour that hindered his running, he overtook him quickly, and cried: Forbear, knight, forbear any more to wrong her that deserveth rather to be adored: and because he would not stay, were it for that being in a fury, he heard not his voice, or being a stranger, understood not his language, Philander putting a stone into his Sling, cast it with such a force, that hitting him on the head, but for the armour which he wore, without doubt, he had killed him at that blow, which was such, that the stranger stooped again: but presently raising himself, and forgetting the anger which he had against me, he addressed himself in a rage towards Philander, who was so near, that he could not avoid the unhappy blow he gave him in his body, having nothing in his hand, but his sheephook for his defence. Notwithstanding, seeing the sword of his enemy so high, his natural generosity gave him that strength and courage, that instead of going back, he advanced himself forward, and setting his sheephook against his breast, ran the iron end of it between his eyes, so fare, that he could not draw it our, which was the cause, that thus leaving it fastened, he took hold on his throat, and with his hands and teeth finished the slaughter.  
But alas, this was a victory dear bought; for as this barbarous wretch fell down dead on the one side, Philander (for want of strength) was fain to let himself fall on the other; but so lighting overthwart, the sword which lay cross the body, hit in the point against a stone, and the weight of his body made it come out of the wound. I that from time to time turned my head, to see if this cruel monster had yet overtaken me, saw well where Philander ran, and then an extreme fear took me. But alas, when I saw him wounded so dangerously, forgetting all fear, I stayed myself; but when he fell down, the fear of death could not hold me from running to him, and almost as dead as he, I cast myself on the ground, and called him all be-blubbered by his name. He had lost much blood, and still lost more from both ends of the wound. And see what force Love hath: I that could not look upon blood without swooning, had then the courage to thrust my handkerchief into the wound, to stop the course of blood; and tearing a piece of my veil, I put it into the other part. This little help stood him in some stead; for, having laid his head in my lap, he opened his eyes, and came again to his speech: And perceiving me all covered with tears, he enforced himself to say: If ever I hoped for an end more favourable than this, I pray the heavens (fair shepherdess) that it take no pity on me.  
I saw well, that my small merit could not bring me to the happiness desired, and I feared, that at the last, despair would constrained me to some furious manner of resolution against mine own person. The gods that know better what is fit for us than we can desire, have well provided, that having of long time lived but for you●, I should likewise die for you. And judge what my contentment is, since I not only die for you, but withal, in preserving to you the thing which of all the world you hold most dear, which is your chastity. Now mistress, since there remaineth nothing more to my contentment, but only one point, by the affection which you have found in Philander, I hearty pray you to grant it me, to the end that this happy soul may go to expect you in the Elysian fields, with this satisfaction from you. He spoke this in broken words, and with much pain. And I that saw him in this case, to give him all the contentment he could desire, answered him: Friend, the gods have not raised in you so good and honest affection to extinguish it so presently, and to leave us nothing but sorrow: I hope they will give you yet so much life, that I shall make you know, that I give not place to you in love, no more than you do to any other in merit. And for proof of that which I do say, demand you that only thing which you would gladly have of me, for there is nothing that I can or will deny you.  
At these last words, he took me by the hand, and laying it to his mouth; I kiss (saith he) this hand by way of thankes, for the grace and favour you have done me; and then lifting up his eyes to heaven: O God (said he) I desire of you but so much life, as may serve for the accomplishment of the promise which Diane comes to make me: and then addressing his speech to me, with such pain, that he could hardly utter a word, he said thus unto me, Now (fair Mistress) hear then what it is I require of you: Since I feel not the anguish of death, but for you, I conjure you, by my affection, and by your promise, that I may carry this contentment out of the world, that I may say, I am your husband; and believe me, if I do obtain it, my soul shall most contentedly go into what place soever it must pass, having so great a testimony of your goodwill. I swear to you (fair shepherdess) that these words struck me so to the quick, that I knew not how I was able to sustain myself: and, I think (for my part) it was only the desire I had to please him, that gave me the courage. This was the cause that he had no sooner ended his demand; but I gripping his hand, said, Philander, I grant you that you demand of me: and I swear to you, before all the gods, and particularly before the deities which are in this place, that Diane gives herself to you, and that she taketh you both in heart and soul for her husband: and in speaking these words, I kissed him. And I (said he) take you, my fair mistress, and give myself to you for ever, right happy and content to bear the most glorious name of Diane. Alas, this word of Diane was the last word he uttered; for having his arm about my neck, and drawing me to him, to kiss me, he died, breathing his last upon my lips. How I looked, when I beheld him dead, you may easily judge (fair shepherdess) since I so truly loved him. I fell grovelling upon him, without pulse, and without sense, and fell into a swooning, so that I came to myself without my own knowledge. O God how liveth my heart since I felt this loss, and found that to be too true, which so oftentimes he had foretold me, that I should love him more after his death, then during life; for I have so lively preserved his remembrance in my soul, that (me thinketh) I have him always before mine eyes, and without ceasing he saith to me, unless I will be ungrateful, I must love him. So I do (O good soul) and with the most entire affection that I can: and if where thou art, there be any knowledge of that which is done here below, receive (O dear friend) this good will, and these tears which I do offer, in testimony that Diane loveth even to her coffin, her dearest Philander.   
The end of the sixth Book.   

THE SEVENTH BOOK of Astrea and Celadon.  
AStrea, to interrupt the sad thoughts of Diane, But fair shepherdess, said he, who was that miserable wretch that was cause of so great misfortune? Alas, said Diane, why would you I should tell you? He was an enemy that came not into the world, but to be the cause of my everlasting tears. But yet, answered Astrea, was it never known what he was? They said, replied she some time after, that he came out of certain barbarous countries beyond the Straits, I know not whether I can name the right, which they call the pillars of Hercules: and the cause that brought him so fare for my mischief, was, that he became amorous of a Lady in those countries, who commanded him to seek throughout Europe, to know whether there were any other as fair as she; and if he met with any Lover that would maintain the beauty of his Mistress, he was bound to fight with him, and to send her his head, with the picture and name of the Lady. Alas! I would it had pleased the heavens that I had not been so ready to fly when he pursued me to kill me that by my death I might have prevented that of poor Filander. At these words she set herself on weeping with such abundance of tears, that Phillis, to divert her, changed the discourse, and rising up first, We have (said she) fate long enough, me thinks it were good to walk awhile.  
At this word they all three rose, and went toward that part of their Hamlet, for it was well near dinner time. But Leonide, who was, as I told you, harkening, lost not one word of these shepherdess; and the more she heard of their news, the more she desired to hear. But when she saw them go away without speaking a word of Celadon, she was much troubled; yet in hope she might (staying that day with them) discover somewhat, as before she purposed. When she saw them gone a little off, she rose out of the bush, and making a short turn, she set to follow them, for she would not have them think, she had overheard them. By chance, Phillis turning backward, as they were going, espied her a far off, and shown her to her companions, who stayed; but seeing she came towards them, to do her the duty which her condition merited, they returned back and saluted her. Leonide, full of courtesy, after she had returned them their salvation, addressing herself to Diane, said, Wise Diane, I will this day be your gh●st, provided, that Astrea and Phillis be of the company: for I came this morning from my uncle Adamas, with a purpose to pass all this day with you, to know if that which I have heard of your virtue, Diane; of your beauty, Astrea; of your merit, Phillis; answer the report that is divulged of you. Diane seeing her companions referred themselves to her, answered, Great Nymph, it were better for us, haply, that you had knowledge of us only from report, since that is very favourable on our side; yet since it pleaseth you to do us this honour, we receive it, as we are bound to receive with reverence, the graces which the heavens are pleased to do us. At these last words they took her to them, and led her to Diane's Hamlet, where she was received with so good countenance, and with such civility, that she wondered how it was possible, that persons so accomplished, should be brought up among the woods and pastures. After dinner, they spent the time in devices and demands which Leonide made; and among others, she enquired what was become of a shepherd named Celadon, who was the son of Alcippe. Diane answered, that some while ago, he was drowned in Lignon. And his brother Licidas, is he married (said she?) Not yet (said Diane) & I think he hath no great haste, for the displeasure for his brother is yet too fresh in his memory. And by what misfortune (said she) did he miscarry? He would have succoured (said Diane) this shopheardesse, who was fall'n in before him; and then she shown her Astrea. The Nymph, who without making any such show, took heed to Astrea's actions, seeing that on that remembrance, she changed her countenance; and to hide this blushing, she held her hand before her eyes, knew that she loved him in good earnest; and to discover more, held on, And was the body never found? No (said Diane) only his hat was found, which was stayed at one of the trees, which the stream of water had made bare at the root. Phillis, who knew, that if this discourse held further, it would draw tears from the eyes of her companion, who had much ado to restrain them; that she might interrupt it, But great Nymph, said she, what good fortune for us was that, that brought you to this place? At our first meeting (said Leonide) I have told you it. It was only to have the good of knowing you, and to enter league with you, desirous to have the pleasure of your company. Since that is it (replied Phillis) if you find it good, it will be fit to go, as usually we do, to our accustomed exercises, and so you shall take more notice of our fashion of life; especially, if you will give us leave to use in your presence, the liberties of our villages. That is it, said Leonide, I would have requested of you, for I know, that constraint is never pleasing, & I come not hither to displease you. In this sort, Leonide taking Diane by the one hand, and Astrea with the other, they went forth, and with many discourse, came to a wood which runs along to the bank of Lignon, and there having more moisture, grew thicker, and made the place more like a forest. They were scarce set, when they heard one sing near them, and Diane was the first that knew the voice: and turning toward Leonide, Great Nymph (said she) do you take pleasure to hear the discourse of a young shepherd, who hath nothing of the village, but the name and the habit? for having been always brought up in the great Towns, and among civil persons, he hath less touch of our woods, then of any other thing. And who is he (answered Leonide?) It is (replied Diane) the shepherd Siluander, who hath made abode among us but 25. or 30. months. And of what Family (said the Nymph) is he? It is an hard matter (added Diane) to tell you, for himself knows not who is his father and mother, only he hath some light conjecture, that they were of the Forests: and for this cause, when he could, he returned hither, with resolution to go no more away; and indeed, our Lignon would have great loss if he should; for I do not think there was a more accomplished shepherd of long time. You praise him too much (answered the Nymph) to make me desirous to see him: let us go to entertain him. If he perceive us here (said Diane) and he think you desire it, he will not fail to come soon enough to us. And it fell out as she said, for the shepherd by fortune walking abroad, seeing them, turned his pace towards them immediately, and saluted them. But because he knew not Leonide, he made as though he would hold on his way; when Diane said to him, Is it so, Siluander, that you have learned this civility in the great Towns, to thrust yourself into so good company, and then to say nothing? The shepherd answered smiling, Since I have offended by interrupting you, I may the less hold on in the fault, and so, as I think, may my error be lesser. That is not it (answered Diane) that makes you part hence so soon, but rather, for that you find nothing here worth your stay; yet if you turn your eyes on this Nymph, I assure myself, that if you have eyes, you will not think you can find better elsewhere. That which draws any thing, replied Siluander, must have some sympathy with it: but you may not think it strange, that being no such between so great worth and my imperfections, that I have not felt this attract which you reproach me for. Your modesty (interrupted Leonide) hath made you put this unlikeness between us; but think you it is in the body, or in the soul? For the body, your countenance, and the rest which we see of you deny it; if it be in the soul, it seems (if you have it reasonable) it differs nothing from ours. Sluander knew well he was not now to talk to shepherdess, but with a person of an higher strain, which made him resolve to answer with stronger reasons, than he was used to have among the shepherdess, and therefore he said thus: The price, fair Nymph, of all things in the world, is not valued according to that we see of them, but according to the proper use of them: for otherwise, a man who is the most esteemed, should be the least; since there is no creature which surpasseth not him in some things peculiar: one in strength; another in swiftness; another in sight; another in hearing; & such like privileges of the body. But when we consider that the gods have made all these creatures to serve man, and man to serve God; we must confess that the gods have thought best of him. And by this reason I would tell you, that to know the price of any thing, we must have an eye to the service the gods have appointed it: for there is no likelihood, but that they know best the true value of every thing. Now in doing thus with you and me, who would not say but the gods are much mistaken in us, if being equal in merit, they serve themselves of you, as a Nymph, and of me, as a shepherd? Leonide, in her mind commended the gentle spirit of this shepherd, which so well defended so bad a cause: and to give him occasion to speak on, she said, Though this may be allowed in respect of me, yet wherefore is it that these shepherdess cannot stay you, since according to your speech, they are to have this conformity with you? Wise Nymph, answered Siluander, the lesser yields always to the greater part; where you are, these shepherdess must do as you do. And why (added Diane) disdainful shepherd, esteem you so slenderly of us? You should rather think (answered Sluander) that it is for the good opinion I have of you, that I thus speak: for if I thought hardly of you, I would not say that you were a part of this great Nymph, since that thereby I make you no whit her inferior, but that she deserves to be beloved and respected for her beauty, for her merits, and for her condition; and you, for your beauties and merits. You mock yourself, Siluander (answered Diane:) I would have you think that I have sufficient to win the affection of an honest shepherd. She spoke thus, for that he was so fare from all Love, that among them, he was always called the unsensible, and she delighted to make him talk. Whereto he answered, Your conceit may be as pleaseth you, yet I must tell you, that for effecting this, you want one of the principal parts. And what is that, said Diane? The will (replied he:) for your will is so contrary to this effect, that, said Phillis interrupting him, Siluander would never love more. The shepherd hearing her speak, drew aside to Astrea, saying, that they overcharged him, and that he was wronged, when so many set against him. The wrong (said Diane) is turned only to me: for this shepherdess seeing me in the hands of so strong an enemy, and conceiving a sinister judgement of my courage and force, would have helped me: It is not in this (said he) fair shepherdess, that she hath offended you; for she had had small judgement, if she thought not your victory certain: but it was, for that seeing me already vanquished, she would rob you of the honour, in attempting to give me a blow at the end of the combat; but I know not what her meaning was: for if you meddle no further, I assure you, she shall not so easily get this glory as she thinks. Phillis, who of her nature was pleasant, and who on this day resolved to pass away the time for Leonide, answered him with a certain lifting up of her head: It is good (Siluander) that you have an opinion, that to vanquish you, is a thing to be desired, and honourable for me, I say, for me, who will place this victory among the least that ever I won. You should not so much undervalue it, said the shepherd, since this serves not but to be the first that hath conquered me. As much (replied Phillis) as there is honour to be the first in that which is of worth, so much shameful is it in the contrary. Ah shepherdess (interrupted Diane) speak not so of Siluander: for if all the shepherds which are less than he, should be under-valewed, I know not him that we are to esteem. See Diane (answered Phillis) the first blows by which you come over him! without doubt, he is yours. It is the custom of these haggard & wild spirits, to suffer themselves to be taken at the first attracts; and for that they have not been acquainted with such favours, they receive them with such a taste, that they have not power to resist them. Phillis spoke these words to mock him: yet it fell out, that the gracious defence of Diane, made the shepherd think, that he was bound to serve her by the laws of courtesy. And after that, that opinion, and the perfections of Diane, had that power over him, that he conceived this bud of Love, that time and conversation might increase▪ as we will tell you afterwards. This disputation held some while among the shepherdess, to the good contentment of Leonide, who wondered at their gentle spirit. Phillis, at last, turning herself to the shepherd, said, But whereto serve so many words? If it be true that you are such, let us come to the proof of it, and show me what shepherdess makes any special account of you. She (answered the shepherd) whom you see me make especial account of. You mean (added Phillis) that you seek not after any: but that proceeds from want of courage. Much rather (replied Siluander) from want of will. And then going onward, And you which undervalue me so much, tell us what shepherd it is whom you love so especially? All them who have spirit and courage (answered Phillis.) For whosoever sees that which is lovely, without loving it, wanteth spirit or courage. That reason (said Siluander) binds you then to love me, or accuse yourself of great want. But let us not speak so generally: name one in particular, whom you love. Then Phillis, with a countenance grave and severe, I would with a good will there were boldness enough to undertake it. That is then (added Siluander) for want of courage. Rather (said Phillis) want of will. Wherefore then (cried out Siluander) would you it should be thought more out of want of will in you, than in me? Would it be well (said the shepherdess) that the actions which do besit you, should be permitted me? Would you think well of it, if I should run, play on the Lute, or leap, as you do?  
But our disputation is too long about so bad a subject: let Diane set down the conclusion, and see if I be not confident in the justness of my cause, since I take a partial judge. I shall be always (answered Diane) according to the reason of my knowledge. Well (said Phillis) when words cannot make good that which they would uphold, is he not bound to come to his proofs? Yes without doubt (answered Diane.) Condemn then this shepherd (said Phillis) to give proof of the merit which he says is in him, and that on this occasion to undertake to serve and love a shepherdess of that sort, that he will enforce her to confess that he deserves to be beloved, that if he cannot, that he freely acknowledge his little valour.  
Leonide and the shepherdess found this proposition so reasonable, that by a common voice it was enacted; Not (said Diane smiling) that he be constrained to love her. For in Love, Constraint can do nothing, and his birth must grow from a free will. But I ordain, that he serve and honour her as you say. My judge, (answered Siluander) though you have condemned me without hearing me; yet will I not appeal from your sentence: but only I require, that she whom I must serve, may merit and know how to acknowledge my service. Siluander, Siluander, (said Phillis) because your cunning fails, you seek out starting-holes: But I will put you beside all these means, by her whom I will name: for it is Diane, in whom there is wanting neither spirit to know your merit, nor desert to give you will to serve her. For my part (answered Siluander) I acknowledge more than you can speak; provided that it be no profaning of her beauties, to serve them for wages. Diane would have spoken, and excused herself of this charge; but at the request of Leonide and Astrea, she consented, yet with this condition, that this assay should last but three months.  
This business being thus stayed, Siluander casting himself on his knees, kissed the hand of his new mistress, as if he were to make the oath of his fidelity: and then raising himself, Now (said he) that I have received your ordinance, will you not suffer me (fair Mistress) to propound unto you a wrong that hath been done me? Diane answered, he had all liberty. He took it again thus: If in speaking overmuch of my merits against one that vilified me, I have justly been condemned to bring my proof, why may not this glorious Phillis, who is more vain than I, and who hath been the cause of this discourse, be sentenced to bring forth a like witness? Astrea not staying for Diana's answer, said, that she took this request to be so just and honest, that she made no question but it should be agreed unto. And Diane having demanded the advice of the Nymph, and seeing she was of the same opinion, sentenced the shepherdess as he requested. I expect not (said Phillis) a more favourable sentence, having such parties. But well, what must I do? You must seek to get (said Siluander) the favour of some shepherd. That is not reasonable (said Diane) for Reason is never contrary to Duty: but I ordain, that she serve a shepherdess; and that as well as you, she be bound to make her love her: and that party of you two that shall be less amiable, at the pleasure of them whom you serve, be compelled to give place to the other. I will then (said Phillis) serve Astrea. Sister (answered she) it seems you doubt of your merit, since you go about a work done already. But it must be the fair Diane, not only for the two reasons which you have alleged to Siluander, which are her merits and her spirit: but besides that, for that she may more equally judge of the service both of the one and other, so that you must address yourself to her alone.  
This ordinance seemed equal to them all, that they should observe (after they had drawn oath from Diane, that without regard of any thing, but the truth, the three months being ended, she should deliver her judgement.) It was a pleasure to see this new fashion of love: for Phillis played the servant very well, and Siluander in dissembling, became so in good earnest, as we will tell you afterwards. Diane on the other side knew so well how to play the mistress, that there was no body but would have thought her to be so without feigning. As they were in this discourse, and that Leonide in herself had judged this life to be most happy of all others, they saw come from the pastures side two shepherdess, and three shepherds, which by their habits shown to be strangers: and when they were come somewhat nearer Leonide, who was curious to know the shepherds and shepherdess of Lignon by their names, demanded who they were: whereto Phillis answered, that they were strangers, and that some months are passed since they came into their company; and for her, she knew no more of them. Then Siluander added, that she lost much, in not taking a more particular knowledge of them: for among the rest there was one named Hylas, of as pleasing an humour, as one would wish, for that he love's, as himself says, all that he sees; but he hath this good with it, that what doth him the hurt, gives him the remedy: for that if his inconstancy make him love, his inconstancy likewise will make him soon forget it, and he will tell you such extravagant reasons, to prove his humour to be the best, that it is impossible to hear him without laughter. Truly (said Leonide) his company must be very delightful, and we are to put him to his discourse, as soon as he comes to us. That will be (answered Siluander) without any great labour, for he will talk everlastingly. But as he is of this humour, there is another with him that is of a quite contrary, because he doth nothing but bewail a dead shepherdess whom he loved. This is a very stayed man, and seemeth to have judgement; but withal, he is so sad, that there comes nothing from his mouth that savoureth not of the melancholy of his soul. And what is it (replied Leonide) that stays them in this Country? To tell you true, said he, I have not yet been so inquisitive: but if you will, I will ask them the question; for me thinks they come to us. At this word they were very near, so that they might hear Hylas come chanting these Verses:  

The Town song of Hylas upon his Inconstancy.  

The fair that's able me to stay,  
The bell of Honour bears away.   

I Love to change, 'tis liberty,  
My humour bears me out in it:  
But what? if I inconstant be,  
That they misprise me, is it fit?  
So far is it, who me can stay,  
The bell of Honour bears away.   

To make a barbarous soul to love,  
Is sign of beauty wondrous fair:  
To settle mine so used to move,  
Would be a work that's much more rare:  
So that who ever can me stay,  
The bell of Honour bears away.   

To stay the weight none hath removed,  
What weakling cannot easily do?  
But to stay that is always moved,  
A harder labour longs thereto:  
Therefore it is, who can me stay,  
The bell of Honour bears away.   

And wherefore do you think it strange,  
That for the better I should change?  
He worthy is to want his eye,  
That will not change so happily:  
But she that's able me to stay,  
The bell of Honour bears away.   

They may well say, that that fame fair,  
That sets a stay unto my heart,  
Must needs surpass all beauty rare,  
Making me constant, used to start.  
Even so that fair that can me stay,  
The bell of Honour bears away.   

Then come, dear Mistresses, I pray,  
That will of Beauty win the price:  
And my too nimble spirits stay,  
By favours and allure nice:  
For she that's able me to stay,  
The bell of Honour bears away.    
Leonide smiling upon Siluander, said to him, that this shepherd was not one of those deceivers which dissembled their imperfections, since he went singing them so. That is (said Siluander) because he believes it is no fault, and so glories in it. By this they drew so near, that to salute them, the Nymph and the shepherd were forced to break off their speech. And for that Siluander kept well in his memory the Nymphs demand, of the state of these shepherds, as soon as the first words of civility were ended, But Tyrcis (said Siluander) for that was the shepherd's name, if it be not unseasonable, tell us the cause that made you come into this country of Forests, and what stays you here? Then Tyrcis setting his knee to the earth, and lifting up his eyes and hands, O infinite Goodness (said he) that by thy Providence governs the world, be thou ever praised, for that which it hath pleased thee to do to me. And then raising up himself, to the amazement of the Nymph, and all the company, he answered to Siluander: Gentle shepherd, you ask me what brought me, and what holds me in this Country? Know, that it is no other than you, and it is you alone, whom I have so long sought for. Me! (answered Siluander) how could that be, by reason I had no knowledge of you? That is, in part, a cause, (said he) why I seek you. If it be so (replied Siluander) it is a long while since you were with us; who will say that you everspake to me? Because (answered Tyrcis) I know you not; and to satisfy the demand you have made me, for that the discourse is long, if it please you, I will tell it, after you have again taken your places under those trees which you had before our coming. Siluander then turning to Diane, Mistress (said he) is it your pleasure to sit down again? It is, Leonide (answered Diane) of whom you should have asked that question. I know well, answered the shepherd, that Civility commands me so, but Love ordains it otherwise. Leonide taking Diane and Astrea by the hand, sat down in the middle, saying; That Siluander had reason, because Love, that hath any other consideration but of itself, is no true love: and after them the other shepherdess and shepherd sat in a round. And then Tyrcis turning toward the shepherdess that was with him; See the happy day (said he) Laonice, which we have so much desired, & that since our first entry into this Country, we have expected with such impatiency! It concerneth none more than you, that we get out of this pain as the Oracle hath ordained. Then the shepherdess, without making him other answer, directing herself to Siluander, spoke thus:  

The History of Fyrcis and Laonice.  
OF all friendship, there is none (so fare as I can hear of) which is more affectionate, then that which is bred in youth, because custom, which this young age takes hold of, by little and little, groweth to be changed into Nature, which if it be hard to put off, they know, that endeavour to contrary it. I say this, to serve myself of some kind of excuse then (gentle shepherd) when you see me constrained to tell you, that I love Tyrcis; for this affection was almost sucked in with the milk; and so my soul raising itself with this nourishment, receives in herself (as her own) the accidents of that passion; and it seemed, everything from my birth gave agreement to it: for we continued neighbours, the friendship between our fathers, our ages, which were very even, and the gentleness of the young years of Tyrcis, gave me but overgreat commodity; yet misfortune would, that much about that time Cleon was borne in our Hamlet, which (it may be) had more graces than I, but out of question, with much more better fortune. For even when this Maid began to open her eyes, it seemed that Tyrcis received the flame into his heart, seeing that in the very Cradle he took pleasure to behold her.  
At that time I might be about six years, and he ten years old, and see how the heavens disposed of us without our consent! From the hour I first saw him, I loved him; and from the time he saw Cleon, he loved her: and though our lives were such as our years might bear, yet were they not so small, but there might very well be found the difference between us. Afterward, as we grew, so did our love likewise, and that to such an extraordinary height, as (it may be) there was not any that might surpass it.  
In this youth (you may we●lthinke) I went without any great heed taking to his actions; but growing to more age, I noted in him such a want of good will, that I resolved to turn another way; a resolution which many delights made me conceive, but which no true Lover could execute, as I proved long time after. Yet my courage being offended, had sufficient power to make me dissemble: and if I could not indeed withdraw myself entirely; yet, at least, make show to take some kind of leave. That which took from me all means to do it, was, that I could not see that Tircis affected any other shepherdess; for all that he did to Cleon, could not move suspicion that it was any thing but childishness, for that as than she could not be above nine years old: & when she began to grow, and that she could feel the tracts of Love, she so removed from him, that it seemed, that this withdrawing would have warranted her against all such blows. But Love, more crafty than she, knew so well to come near, and set before her soul, the merits, the affection, and the services of Tircis, that at last, she found herself in the very midst, and so turned on all parts, that if she avoided wounding on the one side, the stroke that she received on the other, was the greater and more deep: So that she could not fly to a better remedy than dissimulation; not to avoid the blows, but only to keep it from the knowledge of her enemy, or any other. She might well use this dissembling, while it began to be but a little scratch; but when the sore became great, then must she yield and confess herself to be vanquished. Thus you see Tircis beloved of Cleon, and behold him playing with the honest sweetness of an amity, though at the beginning he scarce knew what his disease was, as these verses witness, which he made at that time:  

A SONNET.  

O God, what ill is this thus tortures me?  
Since time that first I did fair Cleon see,  
I felt within my heart new rising pain,  
Although her eye took it from me again.   

Since by an hot desire I have been galled,  
If such a motion may desire be called,  
Whose judgement is bewitched in such wise,  
That it my will joins to his practices.   

And from that spring my harm beginning takes,  
For this desire so great increasing makes,  
That I thereby lose both my sleep and food,  
In place whereof grows an unquiet mood:   

That helps desire to build my servitude:  
Thus it the ill I feel not understood.    
After Tircis had knowledge of the good will of happy Cleon, he received it with so great contentment, that his heart being unable to hide it, he was forced to impart it to his eyes; which God knows, how suddenly changed from that they were, gave but too manifest knowledge of their joy. The discretion of Cleon was such, that she gave no advantage to Tircis for his duty: so that jealousy of her honour persuaded her to make show of loving me, that they which noted her actions, might stop at those which were more evident; and go no further to seek out those which she would conceal. She made choice of me rather than any other, for that she had long before perceived that I loved him: and knowing well, it is hard to be beloved, and not to love again, she thought that every body would believe, that this friendship, not having been long between us, might be thought to grow from the good will which I bore him.  
He that had no design, but that which Cleon allowed, presently endeavoured to effect that which she had commanded him. O God, when I remember the sweet words which he used to me, I cannot (though they were lies) contain myself from entertaining them; and thank Love for those happy moments, wherewith he delighted me at those times; and wish, since I cannot be more happy, that I might at least, be always so deceived. And indeed, Tircis found it no great pain to persuade me, that he loved me: for beside, that every one easily believes the thing they desire, me thought it might have been so, because I did not judge myself to be so unlovely, but that so long a conversing as ours was, might have gained somewhat of him; especially with the care I had to please him. Whereby this glorious Cleon oftentimes passed the time with him: but if Love had been just, he should have made the deceit fall on herself, by suffering Tircis to come & love me unfeignedly: yet it fell not out so, but contrarily, this dissimulation was so unsupportable, that he could not continue it: and did not Love shut up the eyes of them that love, I could not choose but have perceived it, as well as the greater part of them that saw us together; to whom, as to my professed enemies, I would give no credit: and because Cleon & I were very familiar, this cunning shepherdess feared, that time, & the sight I had, might put me out of the error wherein I was. But gentle shepherd, it had been necessary that I had been as forecasting as she: yet the better to hide herself, she invented a sleight, which was not evil. Her purpose, as I have told you, was to shadow the love which Tircis bore her, by that which he made show of to me: and it succeeded as she set down, for they began to talk somewhat loud, and to my disadvantage, and though it were but they that looked no further than to appearance, yet this number being greater than the other, the bruit ran presently, and the suspicion that they had before of Cleon, died at that instant; so that I may say, that she loved at my cost. But she that feared, as I told you, lest I should come to discover the practice, would cloak it under another; and counselled Tircis to let me know, that every body began to find out our love, and to censure it shrewdly enough, and that it was necessary to cause it to cease by wisdom, and that it was fit he should seem to love Cleon, that by this diverting, they which talked the worst, might reform themselves. And you may tell her, said she, that you have chosen me rather than any other, for the commodity you have to be near her, and to speak to her. I, that was all honest, and without craft, found this counsel good, so that (with my permission) from that day, when we three were together, he made not dainty to entertain Cleon as he was accustomed. And indeed, it was very pleasing to them, and to any other that knew this dissimulation: for, seeing the suit that he made to Cleon, I thought he ●ested, and could hardly hold myself from laughter. On the other side, Cleon noting my fashions, and knowing the deceit wherein I thought her to be, was extremely pained to dissemble it; especially, when this crafty companion made certain winks with her eye, which oftentimes were so fare from the purpose, that I might accuse the love she bore to the shepherd, and the contentment that this deceit brought him. And see if I were in my right mind, that of pity I felt the displeasure which she should have, when she knew the truth! But since I found, that I complain in her person, yet may I excuse myself; for who hath not been beguiled, since that Love, as soon as he gets entire possession of a soul, spoils it presently of all distrust in the person beloved? And this dissembling shepherd played his part so well, that if I had been in Cleon's place (it may be) I should have doubted his shows had been true.  
Being sometimes in the middle between us two, if he laboured to make overgreat demonstration of his love to Cleon, he would instantly turn to me, and ask me in mine care, if he had not done well. But his master-fraud stuck not at so small a thing: hear you, I beseech you, whereto it passed. In private he spoke more often to Cleon, then to me; he would kiss her hand; he would be an hour or two on his knees before her, and would not conceal it from me, for the cause I have told you: but generally he would never budge from me; sued to me with such dissimulation, that the greatest part held on the opinion they formerly had of our loves; which he did of purpose, desirous, that I only should see his courting of her, because he knew well I would not believe it: but he would not in any case, that they, who might judge rightly, should come to the least knowledge. And when I told him, we could not put out of men's heads the opinion of our love, and that none would believe it, when it was told me that he loved Cleon: How (answered he) will you have them believe a thing that is not? So it is, that our plots, in despite of the worst conceits, shall be believed in general. But he, that was well advised, seeing an occasion presented to pass yet further, said to me, That above all, we must deceive Cleon; and if she were once deceived, we had then almost accomplished our purpose; that for this cause, of necessity, I must speak to her for him, and I should do it confidently.  
She (saith he) that already hath this opinion, will with all her heart, receive those messages which you bring her, and so we shall live in assurance. Oh! what a miserable fortune do we oftentimes run into? for my part, I thought that if at any time Cleon believed that I loved this shepherd, I should make her lose that opinion, when I prayed her to love him, and confidently spoke for him. But Cleon knowing what speech I had with the shepherd: and seeing in what restraint she lived, judged she might by my means have messages, and especially letters. This was the cause that she took in good part the proposition which I made her; and from that time she treated with him as with the man she loved and I served to no other use, than to carry letters from the one to the other. O Love! to what an occupation didst thou then put me? Yet may I not complain, for that I have heard say, that I am not tho first that have done such offices to others, thinking to work for themselves.  
About that time, because the Frankes, Romans, Goths and Burgonians raised a cruel war, we were constrained to go into the Town, which bears the name of that shepherd that was judge to the three goddesses; for our place of abode was not fare from thence, upon the banks of the great river of Seyne. And for that by reason of the great access of people, which from all parts came to withdraw them there, and the want of those commodities which they were used unto in the Champain, the contagious sickness began to take so violent a course throughout the Town, that even the great men could nor defend themselves. It fell out that the mother of Cleon was attainted with it. And although that this disease were so fearful, that there was neither parentage, nor obligation of love, that could retain the sound about them that were infected; yet the good nature of Cleon had such power over her, that she would not departed from her mother, whatsoever she said unto her: but on the contrary, when some of her familiars would have withdrawn her, representing the danger whereinto she thrust herself; and that it was offensive to the gods, to tempt them in this sort: If you love me, would she say, use not this speech to me, for, do I not owe my life to her that gave me it? and can the gods be offended that I serve him, that taught me to worship them? On this resolution she would never abandon her mother: and staying with her, served her as freely, as if it had been no infectious disease. Tyrcis was all the day long at their door, burning with desire to enter into their lodging; but the for bidding of Cleon stayed him, who would not suffer him, for fear lest they that were ready to think the worst, might judge his presence prejudicial to her chastity. He that would not displease her, not daring to enter, caused to be carried to them all things necessary, with so great care, that they were never in want of any thing. Yet (as the heavens would) this happy Cleon would not escape the infection of her mother's disease, whatsoever preservatives Tyrcis could bring. When this shepherd knew it, it was no more possible to keep him back from entering into their lodging, thinking it was now no time to dissemble, nor to fear the biting of the bad-speaker. He then set in order all his affairs, disposed of his goods, and declared his last will: then having left a charge to some of his friends, to send him secure, he shuts himself in with the mother and the daughter, resolving to run the same fortune that Cleon did. It would serve to no purpose, but to lengthen the discourse, to tell you, what were the good offices, what the services that he did to the mother, for the consideration of the daughter; for he could not imagine more than those which his affection made him perform.  
But when he saw her dead, and that there remained no more than his Mistress, whose disease growing worse and worse, I do not think that this shepherd rested one moment. He 〈◊〉 her continually in his arms, or else dressed her sores. She on the other side, who had always loved him so dear, acknowledged so great love in this last action, that her own was much increased, so that one of her griefs was, the danger wherein she saw him for her cause. He on the contrary side, took such satisfaction, that Fortune (though his enemy) yet had offered him this mean, to give testimony of his goodwill, that he could not give her thankes enough. If fell out, that the disease of this shepherdess (being in case needful to be lanced) there was no Surgeon that would (for fear of danger) hazard himself to touch her. Tyrcis, whose affection found nothing hard, being instructed what he was to do, took the launcer, and lifting up her arm, lanced it, and dressed it without fear. Shortly (gentle shepherd) all the most dangerous things and most noisome, were sweet unto him, and very easy. So it was, that the disease hourly increasing, brought this Nymph (beloved Cleon) to that estate, that there remained no more strength, but to speak these words: I am sorry that the gods will no longer draw out the thread of my life, not that I have a desire to live longer time; for this desire can never make me wish it, having had trial of the discommodities which follow mortals: but only, that (in some sort) I would not die so much obliged to you, but that I might have time to give you testimony, that I am not attainted with Ingratitude, nor misprising. It is true, that when I consider what are the obligations which I own you, I think the heavens are right just, to take me out of the world, since that if I should live as many ages as I have done days, I know not how to satisfy the least of that infinite number which your affection hath brought forth. Receive then for all that which I own you, not an equal good, but indeed, all that I can, which is an oath which I make you, that even death shall never wipe out the memory of your love, nor the desire I have to make all the acknowledgements that a true loving person may yield to him, to whom she is bound. These words were uttered with much pain, but the love she bore the shepherd gave her the strength to deliver them. Whereto Tyrcis answered (Fair Mistress) I can hardly think I have bound you, nor that ever I shall, because that which I have hitherto done, hath not satisfied myself: and whereas you say, you are obliged to me, I see well, you know not the greatness of the love of Tyrcis, otherwise you would not think, that so small a thing was able to pay the tribute of so great duty. Believe me (fair Cleon) the favour you have done me, so kindly to receive the services which you say I have done you, charge me with so great a burden, that a thousand lives, and a thousand such occasions know not how to discharge me.  
The heavens which have caused me to be borne but for you, will accuse me of misprisall, if I live not for you: and if I have any design to employ one single moment of this life, other then to your service. He would have held on longer, but the shepherdess (overladen with her sickness) interrupted him, Cease, friend, and let me speak, to the end, that the small remainder of my life may be employed, in assuring you, that you may not be better beloved, than you are of me, who finding myself ready to departed, give you an eternal farewell, and entreat you for three things, always to love Cleon; to cause me to be buried near my mother's bones; and to take order, that when you are to pay the duty of mortality, your body be laid near mine, that I may rest with this contentment, that not having the power to be united to you in life, yet I may be so at least in death. He answered, The gods should be unjust, if having given beginning to so good an amity as ours, they should sunder it so soon. I hope they will yet preserve you, or at least, they will take me away before you, if they have any compassion of the afflicted: but if they will not, I only desire of them so much life, as may satisfy the commandments which you make me, and then permit me to follow you, that if they cut not off my thread, and my hand be free, assure yourself (fair Mistress) you shall not be long without me. Friend (answered she) I enjoin you beyond this, to live as long as the gods please; for in the length of your life, they shall show themselves pitiful unto us, since that by this means I shall make relation in the Elysian fields of our perfect amity, you may publish it to the living: and so the dead and living men shall honour our memory. But friend, I perceive, my disease enforces me to leave you; farewell, the most lovely, and the best beloved among men. At these last words she died, leaning her head on the bosom of her shepherd.  
To tell you the displeasure he took, and the complaints he made, were but to strike the sword deeper into the wound; besides that, his gashes are yet so open, that every man seeing them, may well judge what the blows were. O death, cried Tyrcis, that hast rob me of the better part of myself! either restore me that thou hast taken, or take away the rest. And then, to give room to tears and sighs, which this remembrance plucked from his heart, he held his peace for a while: when Siluander told him, he was to resolve himself, since there was no remedy: and that for things happened, and may no more be, complaints were but witnesses of weakness. So much the rather (said Tyrcis) find I occasion of complaint: for if there were any remedy, it were not the part of a man advised, or one of courage, to complain; but he may be well allowed to bewail that, which can find no other assuagement. Then Laonice taking again her speech, continued in this sort: At last this happy shepherdess being dead, and Tyrcis having rendered the last offices of love, he took order she should be buried by her mother, but the ignorance of them to whom he gave the charge, was such, that they placed her elsewhere: for as for him, he was so afflicted, as he stirred not from off his bed, there beingnothing to preserve his life, but the commandments she had given him. Somes days after, enquiring of those who came to visit him, in what place the body so beloved was laid, he knew it was not by her mother; whereat he conceived such a displeasure, that contracting for a great sum with those that used to bury, they promised to take her up, and to lay her with her mother. And indeed they went about it, and having opened the ground, they took her up between three or four of them; but having carried her a little way, the infection was so great, that they were compelled to leave her in midway, resolved rather to die, then to carry her further.  
Where of Tyrcis being advertised, after he had made them yet greater offers, and seeing they would not respect it: And why (said he aloud) canst thou hope, that the love of gain may do more in them, than thine in thee? Ah Tyrcis! this is too great an offence to thy Love.. He spoke thus, and as one transported, he runs to the place where the body was, and though it had been three days buried, and that the stink was extreme, yet took he it between his arms, and carried it to her mother's grave, which was by that time covered. And after so good a deed, and so great a testimony of his affection, withdrawing himself out of the Town, he stayed forty nights separated from all men. Now all these things were unknown to me, for one of my Aunts being sick of the like disease (almost) at that time, we conversed not with any: and the same day that he came back, I returned like wise. Having understood only of the death of Cleon, I went to him to know the particularities; but coming to his chamber door, I laid mine eye to the keyhole, because I came near, I heard him sigh: and I was not deceived, for I saw him on his bed, his eyes lifted to heaven-ward, his hands joined together, and his face covered with tears. If I were astonished (gentle shepherd) judge you; for I did not think he had loved her, and came (in part) to delight myself with him. At last, after I had beheld him some while, with a sigh which seemed to part his stomach in pieces, I heard him bring forth these words:  

Stanza's on the death of Cleon.  

WHy dough hide our tears? this is no time to feign,  
A Love, which her sad death, by my dole maketh plain:  
Whoceaseth to have hope, ought likewise cease to fear,  
The hope that fed my life, lies closed in her bear.   

She lived once in me, and I always in her,  
Our spirits with thousand knots, so straight combined were:  
Each knit to other so, that in their faithful love,  
We two were but an one, and each as two did move.   

But in the point that Love upon a firm laid ground  
Assured me pleasures, I the quite contrary found:  
For that my happiness had touched the point that was  
Allotted me to reach, and not to overpass.   

It was in Paris town, that those delightful thoughts,  
Which Love infused in me, her death did bring to nought:  
What time a man might see the Gauls right sore distressed.  
Against th'invading force of strangers do their best.   

And must there be a tomb of less celebrity  
Than Paris, holding that I nursed so charily?  
Or that my ill should fall in times less sorrowing,  
Then when all Europe stood at point of perishing?   

But I am wide (O God) my Cleon is not dead,  
Her heart to live in me, fare from herself is fled:  
Her body enely dies, and so by contrary,  
My spirit dies in her, and hers doth live in me.    
O gods! what became of me when I heard him speak thus? my amazement was such, that unawares leaning against the door, I entered but half in, whereat he turned his head; and seeing me, he made none other sign, but holding out his hand to me, prayed me to sit on the bed by him: and then wiping his eyes, for so he should always need an handkerchief, he spoke to me in this sort: Well, Laonice, the poor Cleon is dead, and we are left to bewail her ravishment. And because the pain I was in, gave me no power to answer, he went onward: I know well (shepherdess) that seeing me in this plight for Cleon, you are amazed, that the feigned love I bore her should give me so true feelings. But alas! leave that error, I beseech you, so me thinks I should commit a greater fault against Love, if without cause I should hold on that dissembling, whereto my affection (till now) commanded me: Know then Laonice, that I have loved Cleon, and that all other suits were but to cloak that; and if you did ever bear me friendship, for God's sake, Laonice, condole with me this disaster, that at once have laid all my hopes in her coffin. And if you be in any sort offended, pardon Tyrcis the error which he hath committed against you, that he might not be wanting in that which was due to Cleon. At these words, transported with choler, I went away (so fare besides myself) that I could hardly find out my lodging, from whence I stirred not of a long time. But after we have crossed Love a thousand times, yet must we submit ourselves: and therefore, behold me as much to Tyrcis as ever I was. I excuse in myself, the treasons which he had done me, and pardon him the wrongs and feignings where with he offended me, naming them, in pardoning them, not dissemble nor treasons, but violences of love. And I was the easilier drawn unto this pardon, for the Love, who professeth himself a party in this fault, went flattering me with a certain hope to succeed in Cleon's place. While I was in this thought, behold, one of my sisters came to tell me, that Tyrcis was lost, so that he was no more to be seen, and no body knew where he was.  
This recharge of grief surprised me so forcibly, that all that I could do, was to tell her, that this sadness being overpassed, he would return as he went. But from that time I resolved to follow him, and that I might not be hindered by any, I got out so secretly, about the beginning of the night, that before day I found myself fare off. If I were astonished at the first, seeing myself alone in the dark, the heavens know it, to whom my complaints were directed; but Love, which secretly accompanied me, gave me courage enough to accomplish my purpose. So I pursued my voyage, following (without more ado) the way which my feet met with, for I knew not whither Tyrcis went, nor myself neither. So that I was a wandere more than four months, hearing no news of him. At last, p●ss●●● the mount Dor, I met with this shepherdess (said she pointing to Malonthe,) and with her, that shepherd called Thersander, sitting under the shadow of a Rock, waiting until the midday's heat were abated. And for that my custom was to demand news of Tyrcis of all I met, I addressed myself to the place where I saw them, and knew that my shepherd (by the marks they had given me) was in those deserts: and that he went always bewailing Cleon. Then I told them what I tell you, and conjured them to tell me the most certain news they could. Whereto M●donthe (moved with pity) answered me with that sweetness, that I judged her strucken with the same disease that 〈◊〉 was; and my opinion was not false: for I knew since the long history of her griefs, by which I found that Love strikes as well in the Court as in our woods: and for that our fortunes had some sympathy betwixt them, she desired me to tarry and end our journey together, since we both made one kind of search. I that was alone received (with open arms) this commodity; and from that time we parted not asunder. But what serves this discourse to my purpose, since I will only relate to you what concerns Tyrcis and me? Gentle shepherd, this shall be enough, to say to you, that after we had stayed more than three months in that country, at last, we knew he was come hither: where we no sooner arrived, but that I met him, and so unseasonably for him, that he stood as amazed. At the first he received me with a countenance good enough: but at last, knowing the occasion of my voyage, he declared to me all at length, the extreme affection he bore unto Cleon: and that it was not in his power to love me. Love (if there be any justice in thee) I demand of thee, and not of this ingrateful, some acknowledgement of so much travel passed.  
So ended Laonice, and seeming she had no more to say, wiping her eyes, she turned them pitifully to Siluander, as ask favour, in the justice of her cause. Then Tyrcis spoke in this sort: Wise shepherd, though the history of my misfortunes be such as this shepherdess hath told you, yet is the story of my griefs much more pitiful, wherewith yet I will entertain you no longer, for fear of troubling you and the company, only I will add to that which she hath said, that not being able to endure her ordinary complaints (by common consent) we went to the Oracle, to know what he would ordain of us, and we had such an answer by the mouth of Arontyne:  

ORACLE.  
On Lignons' banks which glideth peaceably,  
Lover, thou shalt a curious shepherd see,  
That first inquires the ill that tortreth thee:  
Believe him. Heaven appoints him judge to be.   
And though we have been long here, yet are you the first that asked of the state of our fortunes; therefore it is that we cast ourselves into your arms; and we desire you to set down what you will have us do. And for that nothing may be done, but according to the will of God, the old woman, who gave us the Oracle, told us, that having met with you, we were to cast Lots, who should maintain the cause both of the one and other: and for this effect, all they whom we met, should put a gage between your hands in a hat. The first that draws, shall be he that speaks for Laonice; and the last of all, for me. At these words he desired them all to be willing to it; whereto every one consented. By fortune, that of Hylas was the first; and that of Phillis the last: Whereat Hylas smiling, Heretofore (said he) when I was servant to Laonice, I should hardly have had the mind to persuade Tircis to love her; but now, that I am for M●donthe, I willingly obey to that the god commands. Shepherd (answered Leonide) you are to understand by the way, what the providence of this divinity is, since to move each one to change of affection, it hath given the charge to inconstant Hylas, as to him, that by use well knows the means: and to continue a faithful love, it hath given the persuasion to a shepherdess constant in all her actions: and to judge of them both, it hath chosen a person that cannot be partial; for Siluander is neither constant, nor inconstant, since he never loved any. Then Siluander taking the word, Since therefore you will, O Tircis, and you Laonice, that I be judge of your difference, swear both of you between my hands, that you will inviolably observe it; otherwise, it will be but more to displease the gods, and for us to take pain to no purpose. Which they did, and then Hylas began thus:   

The Oration of Hylas for Laonice.  
IF I were to maintain the cause of Laonice, before a person unnatural, I would fear (it may be) lest the want of my capacity, might lessen in some sort, the justice which is in it: but since it is before you, gentle shepherd, that have the heart of a man; I mean, which know what the duties are of an honest man, I not only not mistrust a favourable judgement, but hold for certain, that if you were in the room of Tircis, you would be ashamed to be noted for such an error. I will hold myself then from seeking out more reasons for this cause, which is so clear of itself, that all other light would serve but for a shadow: and I will only say, that the name which he bears of man, ties him to the contrary of that he doth, and that the laws and ordinances of heaven, and of nature, command him to dispute no longer about this cause. Do not the duties of courtesy ordain to render good turns received? Do not the heaven's command, that for enery service some reward should be given? And doth not Nature constrain to love a fair woman that love's him, and to abhor, rather than to cherish a dead body? But this quite contrary; for the favours received of Laonice, he renders discourtesy; and in stead of services, which himself confesses she hath done him, serving him so long under the coverture of Cleon's love, he pays her with ingratitude; and for the affection which she hath borne him from her cradle, he makes no show but of misprisall. Are you so honest a man, Tircis, and do you so seem to know the gods? and yet me thinks, this shepherdess is such an one, that were it not that her influence east's her into misfortune, it were more proper for her to make others feel, then for herself to feel the wrongs where of she complains. If thou be'st a man, knowest thou not that it is proper to a man to love the living and not the dead? And if thou acknowledge the gods, knowest thou not that they can punish them that contradict their ordinances? and that, 
Love never pardons him that never love's?   
If thou confessest, that from the cradle she hath served thee, and loved thee, O God, shall it be possible, that so long an affection, and so pleasing services, should, at last, be paid with contempt?  
But be it that this affection, and these services, being voluntary in Laonice, and not sought for of Tyrcis, may weigh little with an ingrateful soul; yet will I not believe that you will award (O just Siluander!) but that the deceiver is to give satisfaction to the party deceived: and as Tircis (by his dissimulation) hath so long time deluded this fair shepherdess, shall he not be bound to repair this injury to her, with as much true affection, as he hath made her take lies and falsehoods? that if every one ought to love his like, will not you (our judge) ordain, that Tyrcis love a person living, and not one dead, and place his love there where he may live, and not among the cold a she's in a coffin? But Tyrcis, tell me, what may be thy design? after thou hast met with a flood of tears, the sad relics of the poor Cleon, thinkest thou that thou canst raise her up again with thy sighs and tears? Alas! they pay Charon but once, and they never but once enter into his boat: You may well call her back from thence, but he is deaf to such cries, and never sendeth out person that comes aboard him. It is impiety (Tyrcis) to go about tormenting the rest of those whom the gods call away. Love is ordained for the living, and the Coffin for those that are dead. Desire not to confound their ordinances (in such sort) that to a dead Cleon thou give a living affection; and to a quick Laonice, a grave. And herein do not arm thyself with the name of Constancy, for it hath no right to it. Dost thou think it fit, that a man should go naked, because he hath worn out his first garments? Believe me, it is as much worthy of laughter, to hear thee say, that because Cleon is dead, thou wilt never love more. Re-enter, re-enter into thyself, confess thine error, cast thee at the feet of this Fair, acknowledge thy fault, and so thou shalt avoid thy constraint, whereto our just judge (by his sentence) will subject thee. Hylas' ended in this sort, to the great contentment of all but Tyrcis, whose tears gave notice of his grief: Then Phillis (after she had commandment from Siluander) lifting up her eyes to heaven, answered thus to Hylas:   

The answer of Phillis for Tyrcis.  
OFaire Cleon, which understandest from heaven, the injury which they purpose to do thee, inspire me with thy Divinity, for such I will esteem thee, if the Virtues may ever make a mortal become divine; and work so, that my ignorance may not weaken the reasons that Tyrcis hath, that he should never love but thy perfections. And you (wise shepherd) that knows better what I should speak in her defence than I can conceive, supply the wants which are in me, by the abundance of reasons which are in my cause; and to begin, I will say, Hylas, that all the reasons which thou hast alleged to prove, that being beloved, one ought to love, though they be false, yet they are agreed upon for good: but wherefore wilt thou conclude by it, that Tyrcis must leave the love of Cleon, to begin a new with Laonice? Thou demandest things impossible, and contraries; impossible, because no man is bound to do more than he can: and how wouldst thou have my shepherd love, if he have no will? Thou laughest, Hylas, when thou hearest me say, that he hath none. It is true (interrupted Hylas) what hath he done with it? He that loveth (answered Phillis) hath given his very soul to the person beloved, and the will is but one power. But (replied Hylas) this Cleon to whom you would he should be sent, being dead, hath nothing remaining of a person, and so Tircis is to take that again which was his. Ah! Hylas, Hylas (answered Phillis) you speak as if Love were a Novice: for the donations which are made by his authority, are always irrevocable. And what (rejoined Hylas) shall become of this will since the death of Cleon? This little loss (said she) hath followed that great extreme loss which he had in losing her: for that if pleasure be the object of the will, since now he can have no more pleasure, what hath he to do with will? and it hath followed Cleon so, that if Cleon be no more, no more is his will, for he never had it but for her: but if Cleon be yet in any place, as the Druids teach us, this will is in her hands, so content to be in that place, that if she herself would d●●●e it away, it would not return to Tircis, as knowing well, it should be unprofitable, but would go into her coffin, to rest with the beloved bones. And this being so, why accuse you the faithful Tircis of ingratitude, if it be not in his power to love elsewhere? And see, how you command, not only a thing impossible, but contrary to itself: for if every one be bound to love that that love's him, why will you not that he love Cleon, who never failed in love to him? And as for the recompenses which you demand for the services, and for the letters which Laonice carried from one to the other, let her remember the contentment which she received; & how many happy days she passed, before this deceit, which otherwise she should have spent miferably: let her balance her services with that payment, & I assure myself, she shall be found their debtor. Thou sayest, Hylas, that Tircis hath beguiled her. This is no beguiling, but a just punishment of Love, that hath made her blows fall on her own self, since her purpose was not to serve, but to delude the wise Cleon; that if she have cause to complain of any thing, it is, that of two deceyvers, she hath been the less crafty. See, Siluander, how briefly I have thought fit to answer the false reasons of this shepherd, and there remains nothing but to make Laon●ce confess, that she hath done wrong to pursue this injustice; which I will easily do, if it please her to answer me. Fair shepherdess, said Phillis, tell me, do you love Tircis well? Shepherdess, replied she, no man that knows me, doubted ever of it.  
If it were of constraint (replied Phillis) that he were to go fare off, and that some other came in the mean time to woe you, would you change this love? No (said she) for I should always hope he would come back. And, rejoined Phillis, If you kn●w he would never return, would you cease loving him? No certainly (answered she) O fair Laonice! (continued Phillis) think it not then strange, that Tyrcis, who knows, that his Cl●on for her merits is lifted up into heaven, who knoweth, that from above she sees all his actions, and joys in his fidelity, will not change the love he bore her, nor suffer that the distance of place should separate their affections, since all the discommodities of life have no more to do? Think not (as Hylas hath said) that never any came back over the flood of Acheron, Many, who have been beloved of the gods, have gone and returned: and whom shall we rather think than fair Cleon, whose birth hath been beheld by the Destinies with so sweet and favourable an eye, that she never loved any thing, whereof she gained not the love? O Laonice, if it were permitted your eyes to see the Divinity, you might behold this Cleon, who (without doubt) is at this hour, in this place to defend her cause, and is at mine ●are to prompt the words that I must speak. Then you would judge that Hylas hath done wrong, to say, that Tyrcis love's but cold cinders. Me thinks I see her in the midst of us clothed with immortality, in stead of a frail body, and subject to all accidents; which reproaches Hylas for the blasphemies which he hath used against her. And what wilt thou answer, Hylas, if the happy Cleon say to thee; Thou (inconstant) wouldst train up my Tyrcis in thy unfaithfulness: if he have heretofore loved me, thinkest thou it was my body? if thou sayest, Yes: I answer, He ought to be condemned (since no lover is ever to withdraw himself from a love begun) to love the ashes which I have left him in my coffin, so long as they endure. If he confess he loved my spirit, that is my principal part; then why (inconstant) will he change that will at this time, when it is more perfect than ever it was? Heretofore (so will the misery of the living have it) I might be jealous, I might be importunate, I must serve, I was marked by more than him, but now freed from all imperfections, I am no more capable to bear his displeasures.  
And thou Hylas, thou wouldst with thy sacrilegious inventions turn from me, him in whom only I live in earth, and by a cruelty more barbarous than hath been heard of, assay to lay on me another death. Wise Siluander, the words which I deliver, sound so sensibly in mine ears, that I do not think but you hear them, and feel them at your heart. This is the cause, that to leave this divinity speaking in your soul, I will hold my peace, after I have only told you, that love is so just, that you are to fear the punishments in yourselves, if the pity of Laonice, rather than the reason of Cleon, move and carry you. At this word, Phillis rising with a courteous reverence, made sign she would say no more for Tyrcis. When Laonice would have made an answer, Siluander forbade it, saying; It was not now time to defend herself, but to hear only the sentence which the gods pronounced by his mouth: and after he had some while considered with himself the reasons of them both, he pronounced such a sentence:   

The judgement of Siluander.  
THe principal point of the causes debated before us, is, to know if Love may die by the death of the thing beloved? Whereupon we say, that a love that may perish, is no true love; for it ought to follow the subject that gave it birth: Therefore it is, that they which love the body only, must enclose all their loves of the body in the same tomb where it is shut up; but they that beyond this, love the spirit, aught with their loves to fly after this beloved soul to the highest heavens, no distances being able to separate them. Therefore, all these things well considered, we ordain, That Tyrcis always love his Cleon, and that of the two loves which may be in us, the one shall follow the body of Cleon to the tomb, and the other the spirit into heaven. In like sort, it is ordered, That suits of Laonice be forbidden, that she no longer disquiet the repose of Cleon; for such is the will of the gods that speaks in me.  
Having said thus, without regarding the complaints and reproaches which he foresaw in Laonice and Hylas, he made a great reverence to Leonide, and the rest of the company, and so went away without other companion than Phillis, who would stay no longer to hear the sorrows of this shepherdess. And because it was late, Leonide withdrew into the Hamlet of Diane, for that night; and the shepherds and shepherdess, as they were accustomed (except Laonice) who infinitely offended with Siluander and Phillis, swore not to go out of that Country, before she had done them some notable displeasure; it seemed that Fortune brought her as she could have wished. For, having left that company, and being placed in the thickest of the wood, to mourn at liberty, at the last, her good spirit set before her eyes the insupportable contempt of Tyrcis, how much unworthy he was to be beloved of her, and made her so ashamed of her fault, that a thousand times she swore to hate him, and for his cause, Siluander and Phillis.  
It fell out while these things thus passed in her memory, that Licidas, which some days before began to be evil satisfied with Phillis, by reason of some coldness, which he thought he found in her, perceived Siluander to come talking with her. It was true, that the shepherdess used more coldness towards him, or rather, want of heat, than she had done before she frequented the company of Diane, for that this new friendship, and the pleasure that Astrea, Diane, and she took together, so possessed her, that she no more heeded those small wanton tricks, wherewith the affection of Licidas was nourished, and he which knew well, that a love cannot build up itself, but with the ruin of the former, was of opinion, that that which made her more lukewarm towards him, and less careful to entertain him, was some new amity, which turned her aside. And not being able to know who was the subject, he went all alone gnawing upon his thoughts, and withdrew into the most covert places, that he might complain to himself with most liberty, and by mishap, when he was minded to return, he saw (as I told you) Siluander and Phillis come along: a sight that brought him no small suspi●ion. For knowing the worth of the shepherd and of the shepherdess, he easily supposed that Siluander, having never yet loved any, was now given to her, and that she following the humour of those of her Sex, had willingly enough received the donation. All these considerations gave him much suspicion, but much rather, when passing by him, without seeing him, he heard, or he thought he heard the words of love; and that may well be, by reason of the sentence which Siluander came from giving.  
But to put him out of all patience, it fell out, that suffering them to pass by, he went from the place he was in; and that he might not follow them, he took the way they had come: and fortune would, that he went to sit down, near the place where Laonice was, not seeing her. Where, after he had some while railed out of his displeasure, transported with overmuch grief, he cried out aloud: O Love! is it possible thou shouldst suffer so great an injustice without punishing it? Is it possible, that in thy kingdom, wrongs and services are equally recompensed? And then holding his peace for a while, at last, his eyes lifted up to heaven, and his arms across, letting himself go backward, he began again thus: For conclusion, it pleaseth thee, Love, that I must give witness, that there is no constancy in any woman; and that Phillis, for being of that Sex (though furnished with all other perfections) is subject to the same laws of natural inconstancy: I say, that Phillis, whose love heretofore hath been more assured to me than mine own will. But why, O my shepherdess! am not I the sam● Licidas, whose affection thou hast made show to nourish so much? That which you have at other times judged commendable in me, is it so much changed that you take more delight in an unknown Siluander, a vagabond, a man, whom the whole earth contemues, and will not profess him for hers? Laonice, who heard this shepherd, and Phillis and Siluander named, desirous to know more, began to give her ear in good earnest, and so fitly for her, that she learned before she went from thence, all that she could desire of the most secret thoughts of Phillis; and thereon taking occasion to anger her or Siluander, resolved to set this shepherd yet further into this opinion, assuring herself, that if she loved Licidas, she would make him jealous; and if it were Siluander, she would publish the love, so that every one might know it.  
And as soon as this shepherd was gone, (for his evil would not suffer him to stay long in a place) she also went from thence; and setting forward after him, came very near him, talking with Corilas, whom he had met in the way, and seeming to demand of them news of the desolate shepherd, they answered, they knew none such. It is a shepherd (said she to them) that goes lamenting a dead shepherdess, and who (as they tell me) is almost, ever since dinner, in the company of the shepherdess Phillis, and of her servant. And, who is that (answered presently Licidas?) I know not (continued the shepherdess:) If I knew to tell his name right, I think he is called Silander, or Siluander, a shepherd of a reasonable handsomeness of visage, somewhat long, and of an humour pleasing enough, when he list. Who told you (answered Licidas) that he was her servant? The actions of them both (answered she:) for I have passed by such straits; and I rememberyet upon what feet they go. But tell me if you know any news of him I seek; for night draws on, and I know not where to find him. Licidas could not answer her, he was so surprised: but Corilas told her, that she must follow that path, and as soon as she was out of this wood, she should see a great pasture, where doubtless she might learn some news; for it was there that every night they met together, before they drew homeward; and that for fear lest she might wander, he would bear her company, if she pleased. She that was willing to dissemble yet more (feigning not to know the way) received with great courtesy the offer he made her, and giving the good night to Licidas, took the way which was showed her, leaving him so quite besides himself, that he stood a great while unmoveable in one place; at last, returning as out of a long swound, he went repeating the words of the shepherdess, whereto it was impossible but he should give credit, not able to suspect her of falsehood. It would be too long to repeat here the sorrow he made, and the wrongs he did to his faithful Phillis. So it was, that all the night he did nothing but go compass in the most retired part of the wood; where toward morning (wearied with sorrow and long travail) he was constrained to lie down under some trees, where all wet with tears, at the last, his extreme grief enforced him to sleep.   
The end of the seventh Book.   

THE EIGHTH BOOK OF Astrea and Celadon.  
AS soon as the day appeared, Diane, Astrea, and Phillis, came together, to be at the rising of Leonide, who not able to esteem sufficiently of their worth and courtesy, was ready dressed, by that time the light shone full into her chamber, that she might not lose one moment of the time, that she was to stay with them; so that these shepherdess were astonished, to see her so diligent. When they had opened the door, and taken each other by the hand, they came out of the Hamlet, to begin the exercise of the former day. They had hardly passed beyond the uttermost houses of the Town, but they might perceive Siluander, who under the dissembled wooing of Diane, began to feel a new growing and true love; for troubled with this new care, he had not closed his eyes all the night long, his thoughts were so busy in representing to him the discourse, and all the actions which he had seen of Diane the day before, that not being able to stay for the morning in his bed, he got him down, and had till now waited about the village, to see when his new mistress would come forth; and as soon as he spied her, he came toward her, singing these verses:  

STANZA'S On an high raised Desire.  

Hope's like Ixion's in boldness,  
Disdaining heavens dire menaco●,  
Will you aspire above your size?  
With Icarus t'assail the sky,  
Is but to tumble from on hi●:  
Forbear, not yet to enterpriz●●.   

Even so sometimes, Prometheus  
With breast pecked by birds ravenous,  
His torments did immortal make,  
By stealing down Celestial fire,  
He said, to this good I aspire,  
To do what none dares undertake.   

My heart on rock of constaney,  
Devoured by my paciency,  
Will say, The sprights of loftiest size  
Have they not dared to steal that coal?  
So may this glory take my soul,  
To do what none dares enterprise.   

Echo, that for Narcissus' love,  
Betrays her grief, the rocks to move,  
Comforts herself in her dismay,  
And tells them in her angry mood,  
If I of this be not beloved,  
There is no other else that may.    
Phillis, that was of a pleasant disposition, and would well discharge herself of the experiment whereto she had been enjoined, turning to Diane, Mistress, said she, will you hereafter give any credit to the words of this shepherd? Yesterday he loved you not at all: now he is dead, at least, for love. Since he would say so much, he ought to begin in a better hour to serve you, or pause somewhile before he proffer such words. Siluander was so near, that he might hear Phillis, that made him cry out a fare off, O mistress, shut your ears against the evil words of mine enemy. And then being come at them, Ah, naughty Phillis, said he, is it so, that by the ruin of my contentment, you seek to build your own? You do well (answered) Phillis to talk of your contentment; have not you with others, this perfection of the most part of shepherds, who out of a vanity, say, they are infinitely content, and favoured of their mistress, though contrarily they be hardly used? talk you of contentment? You, Siluander, have you the boldness to use these words, in the presence even of Diane? what will you say in other places, when you have the sauciness to talk so before her? She had gone on, but that the shepherd, after he had saluted the Nymph, and the shepherdess, interrupted her thus: You would have my mistress mislike that I should speak of the contentment which I have in her service: and why will you not have me say so, if it be true? Is it true (answered Phillis?) see what vanity this is! will you say yet that she love's you, and that she cannot live without you? I may not say (replied the shepherd) that it is so: but I may well say, I wish it were so: but you seem to think it so strange, that I say I have contentment in the service which I tender my mistress, that I am compelled to ask you if you have not? At least (said she) if I have, I do not brag of it. It is ingratitude (replied the shepherd) to receive good from any, without thanks: and how is it possible we can love that person to whom we are unthankful? By that (interrupted Leonide) I judge that Phillis love's not Diane. There are few that give not the same judgement (answered Siluander) and I believe she thinks so herself. If you have reasons good enough, you may persuade me, replied Phillis. If there want nothing but reason to prove it (said Siluander) I have no more to do: for whether I prove a thing or deny it, it cannot make it other than it is; so that since I want but reasons to prove your small love, what have I to do to convince you? That that is to be done, that you love not Diane, belongs to you to prove. Phillis here stayed a little troubled to answer: and Astrea said to her, It seems, sister, you approve that which the shepherd saith. I do not approve it (answered she:) but I am much troubled to disprove it. If it be (added Diane) you love me not at all: for since Siluander hath found the reasons which you demand, and against which you cannot resist, you must confess, that that which he saith, is true.  
At this word the shepherd came to Diane, and said, Fair, and just mistress, is it possible that this enemy shepherdess hath yet the hardiness, not to suffer me to say, that the service which I yield to you, brings me contentment, when this cannot be for the answer which you make so much to mine advantage? In saying (answered Astrea) that Phillis love's her not, she doth not say therefore, you do love her, or that she love's you. If I could hear these words, answered he, I love you, or you love me, out of my mistress' mouth, it should not be a contentment, but a transport, that ravisheth me from myself, for overgreat satisfaction: and yet if he that holds his peace, seem to consent to that he hears, why may not I say, my fair mistress confesses that I love her, since, without contradiction she hears what I say? If Love (replied Phillis) consist in words, you would have more than all other men together; for I do not think they will ever fail you, as bad a cause as you have.  
Leonide took wonderful pleasure at the discourse of these shepherdess; and, had it not been for the pain wherein she was for the disease of Celadon, she would have tarried many days with them: for albeit she knew he was out of his fever, yet she could not but fear his relapse. That was the cause she desired them to take with her the way of Laigneu to the river, for that she might the longer enjoy their company. They agreed willingly; for besides courtesy so commanded them, they were exceedingly pleased with her company. So then, taking Diane on the one side, and Astrea on the other, she went toward the Buttress. But Siluander was deceived, who (by chance) was gone further from Diane than was Phillis, so that she took that place that he desired. Whereat Phillis, being very glorious, went mocking the shepherd, saying; that his Mistress might easily judge, that he was too slothful to serve her. She may grant so much (answered he) to your importunity, but not to your affection. For, if you loved her, you would not have left me the place you had. That should rather be a sign of the contrary (said Phillis) if I suffer another to come nearer than myself: for if the party that love's, desires almost to be transformed into the thing beloved, he approacheth nearest, and so attains the perfection of his desires. The lover (answered Siluander) that hath more regard to his own contentment than of the person beloved, deserves not that title at all. So that you which regard more the pleasure which you take, in being near your Mistress, than you do her commodity, may not say you love her, but yourself only: For, if I were in the place you are, I would help her to go, and you do but let her. If my Mistress (replied Phillis) should handle me as you do, I do not know if I should love her. I know then assuredly (replied the shepherd) that if I were in your Mistress' place, I could not love you. How now (said he?) have you the hardiness to threaten her thus? Ah Phillis! one of the principal laws of Love, is, that that party which can imagine, that he may (at some times) not love, is no more a lover. Mistress, I demand justice of you, and beseech you in the behalf of Love, that you would punish this offence of treason, and that thrusting her out of the place, too honourable for her that love's not, you would set me in it; me that would not live, but to love you.  
Mistress (interrupted Phillis) I see well, that this envious person of my good, will not let me be quiet, unless I quit him this place; and, I fear, with his language, he will compel you to give consent: therefore it is that I desire to prevent him, if you think good, and to leave it him on this condition, that he declare one thing to you that I shall propound. Siluander then without staying for Diane's answer, said to Phillis: Only go out, (you shepherdess) of your own accord, for I will never refuse this condition, since without this ado I will never conceal any thing from her that she desires to know of me. At this word he set himself in her place: and then Phillis said to him. Envious shepherd, though the place where you are, may not be bought, yet have you promised more than you are ware of. For you are bound to tell us what you are, and what occasion hath brought you into this Country, since you have been here so long, and we could never yet know but little of it. Leonide that was of the same mind, taking hold of the words, Questionless (said she) Phillis, you have not hitherto shown more wisdom than in this proposition. For at one instant you have freed Diane and me out of some pain; Diane, for the discommodity you did her, in hindering Siluander from supporting her as she went; and me, for the desire I had to know him more particularly. I wish earnestly (answered the shepherd) fetching a sigh, I were able to satisfy you in this curiosity; but my fortune denies me it (in such manner) that I may truly say, I am both more desirous, and almost as ignorant as you. For it pleased her to cause me to be borne, and to make me know that I live, hiding from me all other knowledge of myself. And that you may not think but that I will perform my promise Isware unto you by Theutates, and by the beauties of Diane, said he, turning to Phillis, I will tell you truly all that I know.  

The History of Siluander.  
WHen Aetius was made Lieutenant genenrall in Gaul, by the Emperor Valentinian, he found it very dangerous for the Romans, that Gondioch the first king of the Burgonians, should possess the greatest part, and resolved to chase him out, and to send him back over the Rheyne, from whence he was lately come; when Stilico for the good service which he had done to the Romans, gave him the ancient provinces of the Authunes, of the Sequans, and Allobroges, whom from that time they called Burgonians, from their name, and without the commandment of Valentinian: it is easy to believe what he would have done, to get all the forces of the Empire into his hands: but the Emperor seeing a great number of enemies at his elbow, as Goths, Huns, Vandals and Frankes, which were all busy in diverse places, commanded Aeti●● to leave them in peace. Which was not so soon, but that the Burgonians were gathered together into routs, and that so, that their Provinces, and those that neighboured them, felt the smart of it, the enemies making waste, with so grenat cruelty, that whatsoever they found, they carried away.  
Now I at that time being about five or six years old, was, with many others, brought by the Burgonians into the uttermost town of the Allobroges, who to revenge themselves, being entered into the Country, confederate with their enemies, committed the same disorders they had received. To tell you what was the meaning of them that took me, I know not, unless it were to have some sum of money. So it was, that Fortune was so good to me, after she had been my secret enemy, that I fell into the hands of an Helvetian, who had a father that was an old man, and a right honest, who conceiving some good opinion of me, as well for my countenance, as for some pleasant answers, which in that age I had given him, took me to himself, with a purpose to make me a student; and indeed, though his son contraried him what he could possibly, yet for bare he not from following his former design, and so spared no cost to cause me to be instructed in all kind of learning, sending me to the University of Marseilles, in the province of the Romans. So that I may say with good reason, that I had been lost, if I had not been lost. And though (according to my Genius) there was nothing more pleasant to me than letters, yet was it a continual punishment to me, to think, that I knew not from whence, nor who I was, imagining, that this misfortune never befell any other. And being in this care, one of my friends advised me, to inquire of some Oracle, to know the truth. For for my part, I was so young, that I had no more remembrance than I have now, either of the place whence I was taken, or where I was borne; and he that gave me this counsel, said, that there was no likelihood, but that the heavens, having had such a care of me, as I have found since I was lost, they would yet show me more favour. This friend knew so well how to persuade me, that we went both together, and the answer we had was this:  

Thou wert borne in the Land where was Neptune,  
From whom thou drawest descent thou shalt not know:  
Until Siluander die, to such fortune  
Thou wert from cradle marked: Fate will's it so.   
judge (fair Diane) what satisfaction we had in this answer: for my part, without longer stay I resolved never to inquire further, since it was impossible I should know it without dying, and to liu●●fterward with much quiet of spirit, referring myself to the guiding of heaven; and employing myself only to my studies, wherein I made so good progress, that the old Abariel (for that was the name of him who brought me up) had a mind to see me before he died, presaging his end almost at hand. Being then come to him, and having received the most sweet usage that I could desire: one day, when I was alone with him in his chamber, he spoke to me in this sort, My son, (for as such I have always loved you, since the rigour of war cast you into my hands) I do not think you so misunderstanding what I have done for you, that you may make question of my good will; yet, if the care I have had to instruct your youth, have not given you sufficient knowledge of it, I would you should take notice of it, because I desire to do for you. You know that my son Azahyde, who took you, and brought you to me, hath a daughter, whom I love as myself: and because I determine to pass the few days behind, in quietness and tranquillity, I have a purpose tomarry you to her, and to give you so good a part of my wealth, that I may live with you, so long as it pleaseth God. And think not, that I have had this purpose on a sudden, for it is long since I prepared for every thing. In the first place, I was desirous to know what your humour was, even when you were a child, to judge if you could frame yourself to be with me, for that in such an age there could be but little art, and so might we see (as naked) all the affections of a soul; and finding you such as I wished Azahyde to be, I thought good to settle the repose of my last days upon you, and for that cause I put you to study, knowing well, that there is nothing makes a soul more capable of reason, than the knowledge of things. And during your long absence from me, I have determined to marry my young daughter to you, who (to please me) desires it almost as much as myself. It is true, she would gladly know, who, and of what place you are.  
And to satisfy her, I have enquired of Azahyde many times, in what place he took you; but he hath always told me, that he knew nothing but that it was at the river of Rosne, of the province of Viennois, and that you were given by one that brought you two days journey, for exchange of some armours. But it may be, you can remember better, for you might be about five or six years of age; and when I asked him whether the  which you then wore, might not give some conjecture of what parents you were descended, he answered no, for that you were then so young, that hardly could one judge by your habit, of what condition you were. So that, my son, if your memory do not help you herein, there is no body can free us of this pain. So the good old Abariel held his peace, and taking me by the hand, besought me to tell him all that I knew. Whereto, after all the thankes I could give him, as well for the good opinion he had of me, as for the nurture he had given me, and for the marriage which he propounded, I made him answer, that in truth I was so young when I was taken, that I had no remembrance neither of my parents, nor of my condition. This is (replied the good old man) somewhat cumbersome, yet we will not let to proceed further, provided you like of it, not greatly caring to speak with Azahyde, but to know your good will. And when I had answered him, that I were very ingrateful, if I did not wholly obey his commandment, at that instant causing me to go aside, he sent to seek out his son, and to tell him his purpose, which before my return he knew of by his daughter; and the fear of losing the goods which Abariel would give us, made him so much to dislike it, that when his father spoke to him of it, he so long rejected it, and with such reasons, that in the end the good old man not being able to get his consent, told him frankly, Azahide, if you will not give your daughter to whom I will, I will give my goods to whom you would not; and therefore resolve to agree to Siluander, or I will choose him to be mine heir. Azahyde, who was very covetous, and fearing to lose that good, seeing his father in these terms, came better to himself, and besought him to give him some few day's space to think of it; whereas his father being a good old man, easily condescended, desiring to do all things with gentleness, and after told me of it: yet he needed not have done it, for I perceived so much by the eyes and speech of his son, who began to deal so roughly with me, that I could hardly endure it. Now during the time that he had taken, he commanded his daughter, who had a better mind than he, on pain of death (for he was a man of blood and murder) to make show to the old man, that she was sorry her father would not satisfy his will, and that she could not help it, but with her disobedience, that she was ready to marry me secretly, and when it was done, time might work her father's content; and this he had in purpose to procure my death. The poor wench was much entangled: for on the one side the ordinary threatenings of her father, whose mischievous nature she knew too well, egged her on to play this part; on the other side, the love which from her childhood she bore me, with held her. So it was, that her tender years (for she had not passed above half an age) would not let her have resolution enough to deny; and so, all trembling, she came to use that speech to the good man, who received it with that confidence, that after he had kissed her forehead twice or thrice, at last he resolved to put it in practice as she had said, and enjoined me so peremptorily, that notwithstanding all the doubts I had in it, I durst not contradict it.  
Now the resolution was taken in such sort, that I was to climb thorough a window into the chamber, where I must marry her secretly. This Town is seated on the utmost bounds of the Allobroges, on the side of the Helvetians, and it is on the banks of the great lake Leman, in such sort, that the waves beat upon the houses, and then disgorge themselves into Rosne, which passeth thorough the midst of it. The meaning of Azabyde was, because their lodgings were that way, to draw me up with a cord, half the height of the wall, and then to let me fall into the lake, where being drowned, they might never hear more news of me; because that Rosne with his swiftness, would have carried me fare off, or touching on the hard rocks, I might have been so bruised, that no man could have known me. And, without doubt, his design had taken effect, for I was resolved to obey the good Abariel, had it not been, that the day before this was to be done, the poor wench, that was commanded to show me good countenance, that I might be the more abused, moved with compassion, and out of horror to be the cause of my death, could not hold from discovering it to me, all trembling, saying to me a little after, You see, Siluander, in saving your life, I procure mine own death, for I know well, Azahyde will never pardon me; but I had rather dye an innocent, then live guilty of your death. After I had thanked her, I told her she should not fear the fu●y of Azahyde; and that I would so provide, that she should have no displeasure; that for her part, she must only do that which her father had given in charge, and that I would find a remedy both for her safety and mine own: but above all things, she must be secret. And then toward night I provided myself of all the money I could get, without the knowledge of Abariel, and set so good an order to that I was to do, that the hour being come when I must go to the place apppointed, after I had taken leave of the old man who came with me to the shore, I mounted into a little bark which he had provided, and then going softly under the window, I made show to tie up myself, but it was only my clothes filled up with gravel: and suddenly withdrawing myself aside, to see what would happen, I heard them fall at once into the lake, where, with the ore, I gently beat the water, that they might think, when they heard the noise, that it was I that beat so: but I was quickly compelled to be gone from thence, because they cast down so many stones, that I could hardly save myself, and soon after I saw a light set in the window, whereby fearing to be discovered, I hide myself in the boat, lying all along grovelling.  
This was the cause, the night being very dark, and myself gotten a pretty was off, that they could not see me, but thought the boat did float so of itself. Now when every one was gone from the window, I heard a great noise about the place where I left Abariel, and as I might judge, me thought I heard his exclamations, which I took to be occasioned by the noise that he had heard in the water, fearing I was drowned: so it was, that I resolved never to go to him more, not that i● grieved me to serve him in his old days, for the great obligation that I was tied to him in, but for the overgreat assurance of the evil will of Azahyde. I knew well, that if it were not at this brunt, it would be at another, that he would accomplish his wicked design. So then being come to the chains which lock the port, I was forced to leave my boat, to go swimming over to the other side, whither being come with some danger, by reason of the darkness of the night, I went to that place where I had hid my other clothes, and whatsoever I had of worth; and taking the way of Agaune, I came by the point of day to Euians; and I assure you, I was weary: for having gone fast, I was constrained to rest all that day there, where, by fortune not being known, I was willing to take counsel, as others did in their most urgent affairs, of the wise Bellinde, who is mistress of the Vestals which are along the lake; and as I learned since, is the mother of my fair mistress: so it was, that letting her know all my disasters, she consulted the Oracle, and the next day she told me that the god commanded me not to be distempered for so great adversities, and that it was necessary, if I would be gone, to seek our the fountain of the verity of Love, because in that water was my only remedy, and as soon as I should be there, I might know both my father and my country. And ask her in what place this fountain was: she gave me knowledge, that it was in this country of Forests; and then told me the property and the enchantment, with that courtesy, that I am infinitely yet bound unto her. From that time I resolved to come hither; and taking my way by the town of Plancus, it is some month since I came, where the first that I met with, was Celadon, who at that time was returned from a long voyage, by whom I understood where this admirable fountain was: but when I should go, I fell sick, so that I came not out of my chamber for six months together: & somewhile ●fte●, finding myself strong enough, so that I set myself on the way, I understood by them , that a Magician, by Clidamans procurement, had put it under the custody of two Lions, and two Unicorns, which he had enchanted, and that the sorcery might not be undone, but with the blood and death of two the most faithful Lovers that ever were in this country. God knows whether this news brought not me sorrow, seeing myself almost out of hope of that I desired: yet considering this was the Country, which the heavens had destined for me to know my parents, I thought fit stay here, and (it may be) these faithful in love may at last be found out; but yet it is a merchandise so rare, that I dare not have too great an hope. With this purpose I resolved to cloth myself in shepherd's weeds, that I might more freely live with such good companies which are along the river of Lignon; and that I might not be idle, I employed all the remnant of my money which I had, upon cattles, and a little , to which I have since retired.  
See, fair Leonide, that which you desired to know of me, and behold my payment to Phillis for the place which she sold me, which hereafter she shall not have the boldness to take, since she hath given it for so good a price. I am much delighted (answered Leonide) in hearing you tell your fortune; and I must tell you, that you ought to hope well of yourself, since the gods, by their Oracles, show themselves to have such care of you: for my part, I pray them for it with all my heart. And so do not I (comes in Phillis writhing herself:) for if he were known (it may be) the worth of his father might make him carry away our mistress; it being very certain, that good and alliance may do more in marriages, than their worth or love. Take heed what you say (said Siluander) you are so fare from wishing me so much hurt, that I hope by your means, to come to the knowledge I desire. By my means (answered she?) how can that be? By your means (continued the shepherd:) for since it must be, that the Lions shall die by the blood of a Lover, and of a faithful beloved, why may not I think, that I am this Lover, and you the Beloved? Faithful I am, it is true (answered Phillis) but valiant I am not; so that in well loving my mistress, I will give place to none; but for my blood & life, talk no more of it: for what service can I do her when I am dead? I assure you (answered Diane) that I wish your life of the two, and not your death, and I desire rather to be in danger myself, then to see you so by my occasion.  
While they discoursed in this sort, and as they drew near to the bridge of the buttress, they might see far off, a man coming apace towards them, and drawing nearer, was quickly known of Leonide; for it was Paris, the son of the great Druide Adamas, who being returned from Feurs, and having known that his Niece was come to seek him, and secing she came not back, he sent his son to let her know he was returned, and to understand what occasion had brought her so alone, for that it was not the custom to go without company. As soon as the Nymph spied him a fare off, she told his name to the fair shepherdesses: and they, that they might not be wanting in their civility, when he came near them, saluted him with so great courtesy, that the beauty and pleasing fashion of Diane gave him that delight, that he stood as almost ravished, and had it not been that the welcoming of Leonide diverted him a little, the could hardly have hidden this surprise: yet after the first salutation, and that he had told her what brought him to her, But sister (said he) (for Adamas would have them call brother and sister) where found you this fair company? Brother (said she) we have been together two days, and yet I assure you, we are not weary.  
This here (showing him Astrea) is the fair shepherdess, whom you have so often heard speech of, for it is Astrea; and that there, is Diane, the daughter of Belinde and Celeon, and the other is Phillis; and that shepherd is the unknown Siluander, whose virtue is so well known here, that there is none in this Court but love's him. Undoubtedly (said Paris) my father did not well, to fear you were ill accompanied; and if he had known, that you had been so well, he would not have been so disquieted. Gentle Paris said Slunder) a person that hath so much of virtue as this Nymph, can never be ill accompanied. And yet much less (answered he) when she is among so wise and fair shepherdess. And as he spoke this word, he turned him to Diane, who perceiving herself to be summoned, answered; It is impossible (courteous Paris) that one can add to a thing that is accomplished. Yet so it is (replied he) that (in my judgement) I love better to be with her, when you are near, than when she shall be alone. This is your courtesy (answered she) that you use these terms, in the behalf of strangers. You cannot (answered Paris) call yourselves strangers to me, but withal, you must term me a stranger to you, which is a reproach to me, whereof I am much ashamed, because I cannot be freed from blame, to be neighbour to such beauties, and so great merits, and yet be almost unknown to them: but, to amend this error, I resolve to do better for the time to come, & to converse with you, as much as without reason, I have been removed from you heretofore: and in speaking these last words, he turned towards the Nymph, And you sister, though I be come to seek you (said he) yet shall you go alone, since it is not fare from hence to the house of Adamas. For, for my part, I will tarry till night with this good company. I would I might do so too (said she;) but for this time I am constrained to make an end of my ivorney. Yet am I purposed, so to order my affairs, that I may live as well with them, as you: for I do not think there is a more happy life than theirs. With such other like discourse she took her leave of the fair shepherdess; and after straight embracements, promised to come again to them very soon: and so parted, much contented and satisfied with them, so that she resolved to change the vanities of the Court, to the simplicity of that life: but that which moved her most, was, that she had a desire to free Celadon out of the hands of Galathee, and thought that he would presently return into the Hamlet, where she determined to converse under the shadow of these shepherdess.  
Thus you see what was the voyage of Leonide, who saw the birth of two great loves, that of Siluander, under a feigned wager, as we have said, and that of Paris, as we will speak of, to Diane. For since that day he grew so amorous, that to be more familiar with them, he forsook the life he used, and attired himself as a shepherd, and would so be called among them, that so he might make himself more pleasing to his Mistress; who, for her part, honoured him according to his merit, and as his good will obliged her. But for that, in the course of our discourse, we are to speak after of it, we will say no more at this time. Then, returning to their Hamlets, as they drew near the great meadow, where the most part of the flocks fed ordinarily, they might see come from fare, Tircis, Hylas and Licidas, whereof the two first seemed to disport in good earnest; for the gesture of his arms, and the rest of the body of Hylas shown as much: as for Licidas, he was by himself, his hat pulled down, and his hands behind him; he went looking on his feet, showing well he had something in his soul that much troubled him: and when they were so near that they might know them, and that Hylas perceived Phillis among the shepherdess; and for that since the former day he began to love her, leaving Tircis, he came to her, and without saluting the rest of the company, took her under the arm, and in his accustomed humour (without other show of words) told her the desire he had to serve her. Phillis, who began to know him, and was contented to pass the time, said; I know not (Hylas) whence this will springs, for there is nothing in me that may move it. If you think that you say (said he) you own me the greater obligation; and if you do not think it, you may judge me a man of spirit, that can know what is worthy to be served, and so you may esteem of me the better. Doubt not (said she) howsoevert it be, that I esteem you, and that I receive your love as it merits; and were it not for any other consideration; yet at least, for that you are the first that loved me. By fortune, while they were talking, Licidas comes in, whose jealousy was so high grown, that it overtopped his affection; and for his greater hurt, he came in evil time, so that he might hear the answer that Hylas made to Phillis, which was thus: I know not (fair shepherdess) if you will continue as you begin with me: but if you do, you shall be the truer; for I know well, that Siluander, at least, will help to give you the lie: and if he will not do it for fear of displeasing you, I assure myself, that all that were here yesterday, will witness Siluander was your servant. I know not whether he hath left his love under his pillow. Siluander, that thought not of the love of Licidas, thinking it would be a shame for him to disprove Hylas: and besides that, that he should offend Phillis, to say otherwise before her, answered; Shepherd, you must seek no other witness than me in this matter 〈◊〉 and you are not to think that the shepherds of Lignon can  and unclothe themselves so readily of their affections; for they are gross, and therefore heavy and slow in that they do. But as a nail, the grosser it is, and the more weight it holds, the harder it is to be wrested out: so, the tougher and grosser our affections are in us, the longer they last in our souls: so that if you have seen me servitor to this fair shepherdess, you may see me so still, for we change not every time we sleep. But if this befall you, I say, you that have an hot brain, as well as a bald head, and a red hair, betrays much, you are not to give the same censure of us. Hylas hearing as his shepherd speak so frankly and so truly to his humour, thought that either Tyrcis had told him somewhat, or that he must know it elsewhere: and therefore all astonished; Shepherd (said he) have you seen me at any time? or where learned you this you speak of me? I never saw you (said Siluander) but your physiognomy and your discourse made me judge that I say. For hardly may a man suspect in another that fault, whereof he is wholly exempted. Of necessity then (answered Hylas) you cannot be exempted from that inconstancy which you suspect in me. The suspicion (replied Siluander) grows, either out of some small likelihood, or of the appearance of that which is not, but only in imagination, and that a man cannot have of another, without himself be spotted. But that which I said of you, is not of suspicion, but of a certainty.  
Call you that suspicion, when we hear you say, that you have loved Laonice, and leaving her for this second, who was here yesterday with her, now you have left them both for Phillis, whom without doubt you will leave for the first comer, whose eyes will vouchsafe to look on you? Tircis, who heard them thus discourse, seeing Hylas stand as overcome, began to speak in this sort r Hylas, you must no longer hide yourself, you are discovered. This shepherd hath clear eyes to see the spots of your inconstancy, you must confess the truth. For if you fight against it: besides that, at the last, you shall be counted a liar, you being not able to resist, for that nothing is so strong as Truth, you shall be fain to show your weakness.  
Confess it then freely to be as it is, and to encourage you, I will begin. Know (gentle shepherd) that it is true, that Hylas is the most inconstant, the most disloyal, and the greatest traitor to shepherdess, (to whom he promises goodwill) that ever was. And so (added Phillis) that he will oblige them whom he love's not at all. And Me? mistress, (answered Hylas) are you also against me? will you believe the impostures of these malicious? Do you not see that Tircis, finding himself bound to Siluander for the judgement he gave in favour of him, thinks fit to pay him in some sort, by giving you an evil opinion of me? What doth this import, said Phillis to Siluander? What doth this import, said the inconstant? know you not it is harder to take a place possessed, then that which no man holds? He would say (added Siluander) The more you love him, the harder it will be for me to acquire your good graces. But, my friend Hylas, how much are you deceived? so fare, that when I see she deigns to cast her eye on you, I shall be assured of her love. For I know her to be of so good judgement, that she hath always knowledge to choose the better. Then answered Hylas, It may be (glorious shepherd) you think to have some advantage over me. Mistress, believe him not, for he is of no worth, and indeed, what man can he be that never had the hardiness to love, nor to serve, but one only shepherdess, and that so coldly, that you would think he jested? Whereas I love as many as I see fair, and of them all I have been as well entertained as I would wish. What service can you hope for of him that is such a novice, that he knoweth not how to begin? But I that have served of all sorts, of all ages, and of all humours, know of what fashion, and what ought, and what ought not to please her: and for proof of what I say, suffer me to question him, if you would know his ignorance. And then turning toward him, he went on, What is it (Siluander) that aught most to bind a fair shepherdess to love us? That is (said Siluander) to love none but her. And what is that (continued Hylas) that may please her most? That is (answered Siluander) to love her extremely. Now see then (says the inconstant) how ignorantly amorous is this man: so fare is that which he says from truth, that it engenders contempt and hatred. For, to love but her alone, gives her cause to think, that it is want of courage, that he dares not undertake: and so thinking herself to be beloved for want of another, she will despise such a lover: Whereas if you love in common, for the small worth of the thing, she will not think when you come to her, that it is not for that you know not whither else to go; and this will bind her more to love you, especially, if you come to particulars, and make it appear to her, that you rely more upon her: and to persuade her the better, you tell her all that you know of others, and once in the week, you bring to her all that you have said, and what they have answered, fitting the encounter as occasion requireth, to the end you may make her the more pleasing: & draw her to cherish your company. This way (young lover) this way shall you bind her to any love. But to please her you must on the contrary, fly, as from poison, the extremity of love, because there is nothing more grievous between two lovers, than this so great affection: for you that love in this sort, to please yourself, labour to be always near her, to be always talking with her: she cannot cough, but you must ask her, what she ails; she cannot turn her foot, but you must do the like. To be short, she is almost constrained to carry you, you press her, and importune her so. But the mischief is, if she be sick sometimes, and that she smile not on you, if she speak not to you, and entertain you not as she was wont, than you fall to whining, & to tears; but such plaints (I say) as wherewith you so fill her ears, that to free herself of these importunities, she is forced to restrain herself; and sometimes when she would be alone, and lock up herself for a time to her own thoughts, she must be compelled to come see you, to entertain you, and tell you a thousand tales to content you.  
Think you this to be a good mean, to have her love you? You must do in love, as in other things, the mediocrity is only commendable, so that you love after an indifferent fashion, to avoid all those troublesome importunities: neither yet is this sufficient for to please her: it is not enough not to displease, but you must have some allurements which may be lovely; and that is, to be pleasant, cheerful, to be always ready to tell a merry tale; and above all, to be never silent before her. Thus, Siluander, must be bind a shepherdess to love us, and so gain her good Graces. Now see, mistress, if I may not go for a master, and what reckoning you are to make of my affection. She would have answered, but Siluander interrupted her, beseeching her to suffer him to speak. And then he questioned Hylas in this sort: What is it (shepherd) that you most desire, when you love? To be beloved (answered Hylas.) But (replied Siluander) when you are beloved, what do you wish for most in this love? That the person whom I love (said Hylas) make more of me then of any other; that she trust me, and endeavour to please me. Is it possible then (infers Siluander) that to preserve life, you take poison? how will you have her trust you, when you will not be faithful? But (said the shepherd) she shall not know that. And see you not (answered Siluander) that you will do that with treason, which you should do with sincerity? If she know not that you love another, she will think you faithful, and so this dissembling may profit you; but judge if dissembling may do you as much good as truth.  
You talk of contempt and despite; and there is nothing that soonenr brings them both in a generous spirit, than to think that he, whom now I see before me on his knees, is weary with doing so before a score that may not compare with me: that mouth, with which he kisses my hand, is dried up with the kisses it gives to the first hand it meets; and those eyes, with which he seems to commit idolatry to my face, are yet sparkling with the love of all those that have the name of woman: and what have I to do with a thing so common? And why should I make much of him, when he will do nothing more for me, then for the first that vouchsafes to look on him? When he talks to me, he thinks it is to such or such an one; and the words that he uses, he learned at the school of such an one, or, he comes to study here, that he may go utter it there. God knows how soon contempt and despite may make her conceive this thought: and so for the second point, that to make himself beloved, he must love but a little; he must be merry and pleasant. For, to be jocund and always laughing, is fit for a jester, and one of such a mould. But for a lover, that is, for another ourself, O Hylas, he must have other conditions. You say, that in all things mediocrity only is good. That is it (shepherd) that hath no part of the extreme of the mean or defect, as faithfulness. For, he that is but a little faithful, is not faithful at all; and he that is, is in the extreme, that is to say, there can be none greater than other in faithfulness; so it is of valiancy, and so it is of love: for he that can measure it, or that can imagine any other greater than his own, love's not: So you see, Hylas, that when you command to love in a mean, you set down a thing impossible; and when you do so, you do like unto the melancholic fools, that think they know all Sciences, and yet know nothing, when you have an opinion you love, but indeed you love not.  
But be it so, that one may love a little: and know you not, that Love hath no other harvest but love, and all that it soweth, is but only to reap that fruit? And how would you have her whom you love but a little, love you a great deal, since it must fall out, that what she gaineth, she shall lose a part of that which she soweth in so ingrateful ground? She shall never know (says Hylas) that I love so. See (said Siluander) the same treason which I reproached you with before. And imagine you, whereas you say, the effects of an extreme love, are the importunities which you have reckoned, that if you render them not, she will not easily conjecture the feebleness of your love. O Hylas, how little you know in love!  
These effects which the extremity of Love brings forth, and which you call importunities, are such (it may be) to those that, like you, know not to love, and never approached near unto that god. Who hath lost his sight, but they that are thoroughly touched, they which do love in earnest, and know what are the duties, and what the sacrifices which they offer at the Altars of Love? So fare are they from giving to such effects the name of importunities, that they call them felicities and perfect contentments. Know you well, that to love, is to die in himself, to revive in another, that it is not to love himself, but so much as he is pleasing to the beloved; and shortly, it is to transform himself entirely (if it may be) into her. And can you imagine, that one that love's in this sort, can be cumbered with the presence of him whom she love's, and that the knowledge which she hath to be truly loved, is not a thing so delightful, that all others in respect of it, cannot so much as be tasted?  
And if you had at any time proved, that it is thus to love, as I say, you would never think that he which thus love's, could do nothing but displease, when that should not be but only for this, that whatsoever is marked with this character of Love, cannot be displeasing; and yourself will confess, that it is so desirous to please, that if it commit a fault, even that error pleases, seeing with what intent it is done; whereas the desire to be pleasing, gives such force to a true love, that though he render himself not so to all the world, yet is he never failing to her whom he loveth.  
Thence it comes, that many which are not judged in general more lovely than others, yet are beloved and esteemed by some one. Now you see, Hylas, if you be not very ignorant, that till now you believed you loved, and yet you did but abuse the name of Love, & abuse them whom you thought you loved. How (said Hylas) did I never yet love? What have I then done with Carlis, Amarauthe, Laonice, and so many others? Know you not (said Silander) that in all sorts of Arts, there be some that do right, and others wrong? Love is of that kind: for one may love rightly, as myself, and wrongfully, as you; and so one may call me a master, and you a marrer of Love.. At these last words there were none could hold from laughter, but Licidas, who hearing this discourse, could not but more strengthen himself thereby in his jealousy, which Phillis greatly regarded not, thinking she had given proofs great enough of her love; so that in reason, he was not to doubt it; but ignorance knows not that jealousy in Love is ivy, that draws to itself the nourishment which should go to the good branches, and good fruit; and the greater it is, the more it shows the fertility of the place, and the strength of the plant. Paris, that admired the great spirit of Siluander, knew not what to judge of him, and thought, that if he had been bred among civil folk, he had been without parallel, since living among shepherds, he was such, that he knew none more gentle. That was the cause that he resolved to make friendship with him, more freely to enjoy his company. And to procure them to hold on their disputation, he turned to Hylas, & said, that he must confess he had taken the worse part, since he stood so long mute. He need not be astonished for that (said Diane) since there is not so violent a judge as the conscience; Hylas knows well, he argues against the truth, and it is only to flatter his fault. And though Diane held on this discourse some while, yet Hylas answered not a word, being busy in beholding Phillis, who when she was near Licidas, entertained him coursely enough: and because Astrea would not have him overhear what she said to him, she diverse times interrupted him, until at last she constrained him to say, If Phillis be so importuned, I will not love at all. Truly shepherd, said she, (expressly to hinder him from harkening) if you be as ungracious to her, as uncivil to us, she will make no great account of you. And for that Phillis, without taking heed to this dispute, held on her discourse, Diane said to her, What, Phillis, do you thus show the duty you own me? Will you leave me then to entertain a shepherd? Whereat Phillis surprised, answered, I would not, mistress, this error should displease you, for I was of opinion, that this goodly discourse of gentle Hylas, would have kept you from heeding me, who in the mean time was giving order to an affair that this shepherd spoke of to me; and indeed she lied not, for she was much busied for the coldness she ●ound in him. It were good than Phillis (said Diane with the words of a true mistress) you think to pay all your faults with excuses: but remember that all these defects are but small proofs of your little love, and that in time and place I shall remember in what fashion you serve me. Hylas had taken Phillis by the waste, and not knowing the wager of Siluander and her, was amazed to hear Diane speak so: therefore seeing her ready to begin her excuse, he prevented her, saying, Who would say, fair mistress, that this glorious shepherdess would handle you thus coursely? will you yield to her in any thing? Commit not this fault, I beseech you: for though she be fair, yet have you beauty enough, to make you a part, and which (it may be) gives no place to hers. Ah! Hylas (said Phillis) if you knew against whom you speak, you would rather choose to be mute the rest of your life, then to be provided of a word that might displease this fair shepherdess, who in the twinkling of an eye, may (if you love) make you the most unhappy m●n that ever loved. On me, said the shepherd, she may raise or cast down, open or shut her eyes: but my misfortune, no more than my happiness shall never depends, neither of her eyes nor of her whole face, and yet I love you and will love you. If you love me (added Phillis) and I have any power over you, she hath much more, for I may be moved either by your love, or by your services, not to use you hardly: but this shepherdess being neither loved nor served of you, will never have pity.  
And what need have I (said Hilas) of her pity? Yes certainly (replied Phillis) you want her mercy: for I will nothing but what she wills, and can do nothing but what she commands: for behold, the Mistress I love, whom I serve, and whom I adore, so that she is all my love, all my service, and all my devotion. Now fee, Hylas, whom you have offended, and what pardon you are to sue for. Then the shepherd casting himself at the feet of Diane, all astonished, after he had a little be held her, said; Mine own fair Mistress, if he that love's, may behold any other thing then the subject beloved, I might well have seen in some sort, that every one was to honour and do reverence to your merit; but since I have mine eyes closed against all other things, but my Phillis, you should show too great cruelry, if you pardon not the fault which I confess, & for which ●●ry you mercy. Phillis that was sorry to be thus pestered with this man, that she might talk with Lieidas, as he had desired, made haste to answer him before Diane, and to tell him that Diane would not pardon him, but with condition, that he should tell them the suits and adventures which he had had since he began to love; for it was impossible but the discourse would be very pleasing; since he had served in so many sorts, the accidents must needs be accordingly.  
Truly Phillis (said Diane) you are a great diviner: for I had a purpose never to pardon him, but with that condition: and therefore, Hylas, resolve to do it. How (said the shepherd?) will you constrain me to tell my life before my Mistress? and what opinion will she have of me, when she shall hear say that I have loved above an hundred? that to some I have bid farewell before I left them, and left others, before I said any thing to them? when she shall know that at one and the same time I was divided among many, what will she think of me? Nothing worse than she now thinks (said Siluander:) for she will then but judge you inconstant, as she doth already. It is true (said Phillis) but that you may not enter into this doubt, I have business elsewhere, whither Astrea shall go with me, if she please, and in the mean time you shall obey Diane's commandment. At this word she took Astrea by the arm, and withdrew to the side of the wood where Licidas was even now gone: and because Siluander had overheard her answer to Licidas, he followed afar off, to see what his meaning was: whereto the evening somewhat served his turn that he might not be seen, for it waxed late; besides that, he went behind the bushes hiding himself so, that he followed them at pleasure unseen, and came so fitly, that he heard what Astrea said to her: what humour is this of Licidas, to desire to speak with you at this hour, and in this place, having so many other commodities that I know not what he means to choose out so unfit a time? I know not, said Phillis: I have found him very sad this evening, and I cannot tell what hath befallen him; but he hath so conjured me to come hithor, that I cannot delay it. I beseech you to walk ●here-about while we are together, for above all, he desires I should be alone. I will do (answered Astrea) what pleaseth you: but take heed it be not evil thought of, to see you talk with him at so unfit hours, especially being alone in this dark place. It is for that cause (answered Phillis) that I have put you to the pain to come hither; & therefore, I pray you to walk so near us, that if any one come on us, he may think that we three are together. While they talked thus, Diane and Paris prenssed Hylas to tell them his life, to satisfy the commandment of his Mistress; and though he made much difficulty, yet at last he began in this sort.   

The History of Hylas.  
YOu will then, mine own fair Mistress, and genntle Paris, that I tell you the adventures befallen me, since I began to love. Think not that my refusal was, for that I knew not what to say: for I have loved too much to want matter, but rather for that I have too little day to have the leisure not to tell you all (that would be too long) but not to begin alone. Yet since for obedience I must satisfy your will, I pray you hearken to me: while I put you in mind, that all things are subject to some superior power, which almost enforceth us to actions, which it pleaseth us, and that whereto mine inclines so violently, is love, for otherwise, it may be you would wonder to see me so carried, that there is no chain either of duty or obligation, that may withhold me. And I freely confess, that if every one must have some inclination of nature, mine is of inconstancy, for which I am not to be blamed, since the heavens ordain me so. Have this consideration before your eyes, while you hear the discourse which I am to make.  
Among the principal Countries, that the Rosne in his swift course visits, after it hath received Arar, Isere, Durance, & other rivers, he comes dashing upon the ancient walls of the town of Arles, chief of that country, and the most peopled and richest of the Roman province. near this fair town, there encamped a great while since, as I heard our Druids tell, a great Captain, named cain's Marins, before the notable victory which he got against the Cimbres, Cimmerieux, and Celtoseites, at the foot of the Alps, who being divided by the deep Scitique Ocean, with their wives and children, purposing to sack Rome, were so overthrown by this great captain, that there remained not one alive: and if the Roman arms had spared any one, the barbarous fury that was in their courage, made them turn their own hands against themselves, and in rage kill themselves, that they might not live being vanquished. Now the Roman army, to assure their allies and friends of their common wealth, coming to encamp, as I told you, near that town, and according to the custom of that wary nation, compassing their camp with trenches, it fell out that being ne'er to Rosne this river which is most violent, and which threatens and beats incessantly his banks, by little and little in time met with these large & deep ditches, and with main strength entering into the channel which he found already made; runs with such fury, that makes the ditches stretch out to the sea, where he goes discharging himself by this means, two ways: for the ancient course hath always followed his ordinary way, and this new one is grown so great, that it equals the greatest rivers, making between both a most delectable and forcible Island, and because they were the trenches of cain's Marins, the people by corruption of the word, call it Carmage, of his name: and since, for that the place is environed with these two arms of Rosne, and the midland sea they call it the Isle of Camarge. I would not have said so much about the original of this place, had it not been that it was the country of my nativity, and where they, of whom I am descended, have long time dwelled: for by reason of the fertility of the place, and that it is as it were cut out from the rest of the land, there is a number of shepherds that are withdrawn thither, which for the abundance of pasturage, they call Pasture, and my fathers have always been held in some consideration among the principal, were it for that they were thought good and virtuous men, were it for that they had honestly, and after their condition acquired the goods of fortune; so they left me sufficiently provided: for, when they died, which was (without doubt) too soon for me, for my father died the day that I was borne, and my mother bred me up with all manner of delicateness, an only child, or rather a marred child, endured but till I was twelve years of age. judge what master of an house I was like to prove: among other imperfectious of youth, I could not avoid that of presumption, supposing there was not a shepherd in all Camarge which ought not respect me. But when I was a little advanced, and that Love began to mingle with this presumption, me thought all the shepherdess were in love with me, and that there was not one which received not my love with obligation. And that which fortified me in this opinion, was that a fair and wise shepherdess my neighbour, called Carlis, made me all the honest shows, which neighbourhood might challenge. I was so young as yet, that none of the incommodities which love uses to bring to the lover, by his violent transports, could reach me, that I felt nothing but sweetness, and on that subject, I remember, that some time I went singing these verses.  

A SONNET On the sweetness of Love..  

WHen speaks my shepherdess, or rather when she sings,  
Or with her eyes sweets gla●ce to mine she dazzling brings,  
Love seems to talk in her, and with her gracious sounds  
Ravishes us by th●●are, with charms our sight confounds.   

Not as you see him, when he cruelly torments  
The hearts that are possessed with passions violent,  
But then when like a child full wantonly he moves,  
Plays on his mother's lap, and forms a thousand loves.   

Nor when he sport's himself with those the Paphean maids,  
Nor when on grace's lap himself to rest he laid,  
You could see him so pleased as near my shepherdess.   

But when he burteth so, may we him Love confess?  
He is so when he plays, and makes his place of rest,  
In Carlis bosom sweet, as on his mother's breast.    
Though the age wherein I was, suffered me not to know that it was Love, yet forbore I not to delight myself in the company of that shepherdess, and to use those devices wherewith I understood, that they whom they call Lovers, served their turn; so that the long continuance made many think, that I knew more than my age would allow of. And that was the cause, that when I was come to 18. or 19 years, I found myself engaged to serve her. But for that my humour was not to care much for this vainglory, which the most part of them which trade in Love, will arrogate to themselves, that is to be esteemed constant: the good countenance of Carlis tied me more than this imaginary duty. From thence it came, that one of my greatest friends took occasion to divert me from her: his name was Hermante; and without any heed of mine, was become so amorous of Carlis, that he took no contentment but to be near her. I, who was young, never perceived this new affection, as I had but two little craft to find it, since the subtlest in that mystery are scarce able to do it. He was older than I, and by consequence wiser; so that he knew so well to dissemble, that I do not think that any at that time suspected him. But that which brought him most discommodity, was, that the parents of this shepherdess desired there might be a marriage between her and me, for that they were of opinion, that it would be for her advantage. Whereof Hermante being advertised, especially knowing by the speech of the shepherdess, that indeed she loved me, he thought she would withdraw from me, if I began to withdraw from her. He well found out (as I told you) that I would change as soon as occasion was offered. And after he had considered with himself, how he might begin this design, he thought, that working in me an opinion of my greater worth, he might ma●●me neglect, for uncertainty, that which was most assured to me. He brought it about very easily: for besides that I believed him as my friend, this good could not be very dear unto me, which befell me without pain, & made me believe I might compass any thing of the best, if I would bestow the study. He on the other side knew so well to persuade me, that I held for certain, that there was not a shepherdess in all Carmage, that would not more willingly entertain me, than I would make choice of her. Assured by this belief, I thrust Carlis wholly out of my soul, after I had made election of another, whom I judged the worthier: and, without doubt, I deceived not myself, for she had beauty enough to win love, and wisdom to carry it: her name was Stilliane, esteemed among the fairest and wisest of all the Island, otherwise lofty, and such an one, as I must have to put me out of the error wherein I was.  
And see what my presumption was! Because she was served by many, and they all lost their time, I began to woe her the more willingly, that the world might take better knowledge of my merit. Carlis, which truly loved me, was astonished at this change, not knowing what cause I might have, but she must needs suffer it. She did much to recall me, and at the first used all forts of allurements which she could think of: which I took no heed of to return, I was in the deep seas, there was no mean to come back to land so readily. But if she took displeasure at this separation, she was fully revenged on him that was the cause of the evil: for conceiting to myself, that as soon as I assured Stilliane of my love, she would more willingly give herself to me; at the first time I met her, to talk within an assembly which was purposely made; dancing with her, I said, Fair shepherdess, I know not what your force is, nor with what charms your eyes furnish themselves; so it is, that Hylas sees himself now so much become your servant, that no man can be more. She thought I mocked her, knowing well the love that I had borne to Carlis, which made her answer smilingly, These discourses, are they of those that you learn in the school of fair Carlis? I would have answered, when  to the order of the dance, there were that separated us, and I could not come near her afterward, howsoever I laboured it: so that I was constrained to stay until the assembly broke up. And seeing her go with the foremost, to withdraw themselves, I advanced myself, and took her by the arm. She at the first began to smile, and after said, Is it upon resolution, Hylas, or commandment, that this night you have enterprised thus on me? Why (answered I) make you this demand? Because (said she) I see so small likelihood of reason, in that you do that I can not suspect, but from those two occasions. It is, said I, for them both; for I am resolved never to love but the fair Stilliane, and your beauty commands me to love none other. I believe (answered she) that you think not that you speak to me, or that you know me not; and, that you may no longer deceive yourself; know that I am not Carlis, and that I call myself Stilliane. I must be much deceived (answered I) to take you instead of Carlis; for she is too imperfect, to be taken for you, or you for her. And I know too well, for my liberty, that you are Stilliane, and it were more for my rest that I knew less. We were come as fare as her lodging, and yet could I not find, whether she liked of it or no. The next morning, it was no sooner day, but I went to seek out Hermante, to tell him what befell me. In the evening I found him yet in his bed. And seeing me somewhat moved: How now, said he! what news? Is the victory obtained without combat? Ah my friend (answered I) I have found out one I may talk to; she disdains me, she mocks me, she sends me at every word to Carlis: to be short, she uses me like a Mistress. He could not hold from laughter, when he had heard all the discourse at length, for he expected no less. But knowing well my changing humour, he feared I would go back to Carlis, and that she would entertain me, which was the cause that he answered me: Did you hope for less from he●? Would you think her worthy your love, if not yet knowing in truth, that you love her, she should give herself to you? How may she give credit to a few words which you have used, having heretofore heard so much, or that you swear the contrary to Carlis?  
Undoubtedly, it were a very easy conquest, that she should show herself vanquished for so small a fight. But (said I) before I am beloved of her, if it be needful that I tell her, what I have done to Carlis, when should this be by your advice? Truly (answered Hermante) you little know what belongs to Love: you must learn, Hylas, that when one says to a shepherdess, I love you, especially when they make some demonstration, she doth not so easily believe it; for that it is the custom of shepherds well bred, to have it of courtesy, and it seemeth their Sex, for the weakness of it, binds men to serve and honour them. And on the contrary, upon the least show of mislike which one gives them, they quickly think they are hated; because loves are natural, but enmities are not so: and they that go against nature, it must be on a resolute design: whereas they that follow that way, seem to do by custom. Therefore, Hylas, I tell you, that you shall more easily make Carlis believe you hate her, upon the least evil will you show her, than you can persuade Stilliane you love her. And because you may see she hath on her heart that you love Carlis, believe me, that that which you have to do of most necessity, is to give her knowledge that you no more love this Carlis: which you must do by some action, known not only to Carlis, but to Stilliane, and many others. To be short (fair shepherdess) he knew so well to turn me on every side, that at last I writ to the poor Carlis this letter:  
The Letter of Hylas to Carlis.  
I Writ not at this bout (Carlis) to tell you that I love you, for you have believed it but too well; but to assure you that I love you no more; I know certainly you will be amazed at this declaration, since you have always loved me almost beyond my desire. But that which draws me from you, is, I must confess, your misfortune, that will no longer continue to you the pleasure of our amity, or rather, my good fortune, which will have me no longer stay at so poor a thing. And to the end you may not complain of me, I bid you farewell, and give you leave to take it as you think good: for you are to have no more hope in me.  
By fortune, when she received this Letter, she was in very good company; and Stilliane herself was there, which so much misliked this action, that there was none in all that troop that blamed me more. Which Carlis understanding, I pray you, said she to her, bind me for ever, and make him an answer. For my part (said Stilliane) I shallbe a good Secretary; and then taking paper and ink in the presence of all the rest, wrote thus to me in the name of Carlis.  
The answer of Carlis to Hylas.  
Hylas', thy arrogancy hath been such, that thou art persuaded thou art beloved of me; and the knowledge which I have of thy humour, and my will, which have always jarred, are such that they have kept me from loving thee, so that all the love which I have borne thee, hath been only in thy opinion, and such was my unhappiness, and thy good fortune: and herein there is nothing of certainty, but that indeed when thou thoughtst thou wert beloved of me, thou were deceived. I swear unto thee, Hylas, by all the merits which thou thinkest thou hast, and which are not in thee, which are a greater number than those that disable me from being worthy of thee:  
The advantage which I pretend in all this, is to be exempted hereafter from thy importunities, and not to be utterly unthankful for the pleasure thou hast done me in this; I cannot wish better for thee, nor for myself, but that the heavens would make thee always hold on this resolution to my contentment, as they have given thee the will to reject me for my importunities. In the mean time, live content; and if thou hast as much as I, being freed from so cumbersome a burden, believe me, Hylas, it shall not be small.  
I must not lie: the reading of this letter touched me a little, for I knew well in my conscience, I had done wrong to this shepherdess; but the new affection which Stilliane had bred in me, suffered me not to stay long; and at last, howsoever it was, I cast the fault on her. For, said I, in myself, If she be not so fair nor so lovely as Stilliane, is it I that am guilty? Let her complain to them which have made her of less perfection: And for my part, what can I contribute, but to be sorry, and bewail with her her poverty? But this ought not to hinder me from adoring and desiring the riches of another. With such reasons I endeavoured to chase from me the compassion which Love had made in me. And thinking I had no more to do than to receive Stilliane, who by this time, me thought, was wholly mine; I desired Hermante to carry to her a letter in my behalf: and withal, I let him see the Letter I writ to Carlis, that she should no more doubt her. He that truly was my friend in every point that concerned Carlis, made not dainty; and taking a fit time, when she was alone in her lodging, as he pre●ented to her my Letters, he said smiling to her: Fair Stilliano, if the fire burn the fool that comes too near it; if the Sun dazzle the blind that dares look full on it; and if the sword give death to him that receives it into his heart: you must not think it strange, if the miserable Hylas coming too near you, is burned; if daring to behold you, he be dazzled; and, if receiving the faral stroke of your eyes, he feel the mortal wound in his heart. He would have gone on, but she all impatient interrupted him: Cease, Hermante, you labour in vain, neither Hylas hath worth enough, nor you persuasion sufficient, to give me the will to change my contentment for his: Nor wish I myself so much evil, nor so much good to Hylas, that I will consent to mine own unhappiness, by believing your words. It suffices me, Hermante, that the humour of Hylas is known to me at another's cost, without mine own trial: And it should be enough to you, that Carlis is weakly deceived, though you serve not as an instrument for the ruin of some other. If you love Hylas, I love Stillaine much more; and if you will give him the counsel of a friend, counsel him as I counsel her, that is, that she never love Hylas: say to him likewise, that he never love Stilliane. And if he will not believe you, assure yourself, to his confusion, he shall employ his time in vain: and for the letter which you present me, I will make no difficulty to take it, having so good defences against his weapons, that I fear not a whit the blows. At this word unfolding my letter, she read it aloud, it was at last but an assurance of my affection by the Congee which I had given to Carlis for her sake, and a right humble supplication, that she would be pleased to love me. She laughed, after she had read it; and turning to Hermante, asked him if he were willing she should make an answer. And he answering that he desired it passionately, she willed him to have a little patience, and she would go write. It was thus:  
The answer of Stilliane to Hylas.  
Hylas', see how weakly founded your dessignes are, you would that in consideration of Carlis, I should love you; and there is nothing that pronokes me more to hate you, than the memory which I have of Carlis. You say, you do love me. If a more credible person than you should tell me so, it may be I might believe him: for I know well I deserve it. But I that never lied, assure you, that I love you not at all, and therefore doubt not of it: so should I seem to have small judgement, to love an humour so contemptible. If you find these words somewhat t●o rude, remember, Hylas, I am constrained, to the end you may not persuade yourself, that you are beloved of me. Carlis is witness to me of the condition of Hylas, and Hylas shallbe of mine, if at least he will at any time say true. If this answer please you, give thankes to the prayer of Hermante: if it displease, remember, you accuse none but yourself.  
Hermante had not seen this Letter, when he delivered it me, and yet he had an opinion there was much coldness in it, yet did not he think she should have made it so strange, neither was he so much astonished as myself: for I stood like a man bereft of his wits, letting the Letter fall on the ground; and after, being come to myself, I pulled down my hat over mine ears, cast mine eyes down on the earth, crossed mine arms over my breast, and a great pace, without speaking, began to walk about the chamber. Hermante stood immoveable in the midst, not so much as casting his eyes towards me. We stayed some time in this manner, not speaking; at last, in an instant striking one hand against the other, and making a leap in the midst of the chamber: At her peril, said I aloud: let her seek who will love her, that she may know if there want in Carmaine shepherdess more fair than she; and who will be well pleased that Hylas would serve them? And then turning to him; O what a fool is Stilliane, said I, if she think I will love by force? and I shall have but little courage, if I ever trouble myself for her: and why thinks she herself better than another? It is true; she deserves one should suffer some pain for her. I assure myself, Hermante, she resolved it while you talked with her; and that could not be, without making at least her eyes narrow, without biting her lip, and without rubbing one hand on another, to make them white. I scoff at her fancies, and herself too, if she think I take more care for her, than I do for the greatest stranger in Gaul. She knows not how to reproach me but with my Carlis. True it is I love her, and in despite of her, I will love her still; and I make no question, but she shall soon enough find her want of wisdom, but she must never hope that Hylas can love her. I spoke such like words: at which I saw Hermante change colour; but I was then ignorant of the cause: since, I have judged it was for the fear he had, that I might come again into the good graces of his Mistress. Yet made he no other show, but that he strained himself to laugh, and told me it would make them much amazed, when they should see that change, if I took that resolution, as readily would I execute it: and in that disseine I went to find out Carlis, of whom I asked a thousand pardons for the Letter which I had written to her, assuring her, that it was not want, but transport of affection. She that was angry with me, as one may well think, after she had heard me quietly, at last, answered me thus: Hylas, if the assurances you make to me of your good will be true, I am satisfied; if they be false, think not that ever you can remove the amity which for ever you have broken, for your humour is very dangerous. She would have said on, when Stilliane, to show her the Letter I had written to her, coming to visit her, interrupted us, when she saw me by Carlis. Wake I, or dream I, (said she) all astonished? Is this Hylas that I see, or is it some fancy? Carlis well pleased with this meeting, It is Hylas indeed (companion) said she, deceive not yourself: and if it please you to come near, you shall hear the sweet words, with which he cries me mercy; and how he unsayes all that which he had written to me, submitting himself to such punishment as shall please me. His chastisement (answered Stilliane) ought to be no other than to make him continue the affection he bears me. To you (said Carlis?) so fare is it, that he swore when you entered in, that he loved none but me. And since when (added Stilliane?) I know well, at the least, that I have a good writing that Hermante an hour since brought me in his behalf: and, that you may not doubt of that I say; read this paper, and you shall see if I lie. O God, what became of me at these words? I swear unto you (fair shepherdess) that I was not able to open my mouth for my defence. And that which ruined me for ever, was, that by mishap many other shepherdess came in at the same time, to whom they told this tale, so much to my disadvantage, that I could not possibly tarry there any longer, but without speaking a word unto them, I came to tell Hermante my misadventure, who had like to have died with laughter, as indeed the matter deserved. This bruit so spread over all Carmague, that I durst not talk to any one shepherdess, that cast it not in my teeth, whereat I conceived such shame, that I resolved to go out of the I'll for some time. You may see, if when I was young, I took such thought to be called inconstant, I ought not at this hour to give back a step. See what it is (said Paris) one must be an apprentice before he be a master. It is true (answered Hylas) and the worst is, we must often pay for our apprenticeship. But to come to our discourse, being no longer able to endure the ordinary war which every one made on me, the most secretly I could possibly, I gave order for my business, and referred the whole care to Hermante; and after I put myself into a great vessel that launched out with many others. I had then no other purpose, but to travel and pass away the time, grieving no more for Carlis nor Stilliane, than if I had never seen them: for, I had so lost their remembrance, when I lost their sight, that I had not the least sorrow. But see how hard it is to cross the natural disposition! I had no sooner set my foot into the Bark, but I saw a new subject of Love..  
There was among many other passengers, an old woman which went to Lions, to render her vows in the Temple of Venus, which she had made for her son, and carried with her her daughter in law for the same cause; and who with good cause might bear the name of fair, for she was no less than Stilliane, and much more than Carlis: her name was Aymee, and could not reach above 18. or 20. years, and though she was of Carmague, yet she knew me not, because her husband being jealous (as ordinarily old men are, that have young and fair wives) and her mother in law suspicious, held her so short, that she never came into any assembly. At the instant that I saw her, she pleased me, and what purpose soever I had to the contrary, I must love her; but I than foresaw well, I should find some pain, being to deceive the stepmother, and the daughter in law. Yet not to yield to the difficulty, I resolved to employ all my wits; and judging that I was to begin my enterprise by the mother (for she kept me from coming near my enemy) I thought nothing fit than to make myself known to her: and that could not be, for that being of one place, no ancient amity of our family, or some former alliance, would make easy the mean to grow familiar with her; but the occasion afterwards taught me what I had to do; I was not deceived in this opinion: for as soon as I told her who I was, and that I had feigned some bad reason to cloak that I went about, which she took for good, and that I had assured her, that that which made me discover myself to her, was but to desire her freely to make use of me. My son (answered she) I do not wonder that you should show such good will towards me, for your father loved me so well, that you should much degenerate, if you had not some sparks of that affection. Ah my child, thou art the son of an honest, and the most loving man that was in all Carmague: and speaking these words, she took me by the head, and holding me to her breast, and sometimes kissing my forehead; and her kisses made me remember the harths' that yet retain a gentle heat after the fire is out: for my father should have married her, and it may be, he had done her too much service for her reputation, as I understood afterward: but I, that little cared for such kindnesses, but as they might be profitable for my purpose, feigning to receive them with much obligation, thanked her for the love she had borne my father, beseeching her to turn that good will towards the son; and that since the heavens had made me heir to the rest of his goods, she would not dis-inherrit me of that which I esteemed most of, which was, the honour of her good graces; and that for my part, I would succeed in the service which my father had vowed to her, as to the best of all his fortunes. To be short (fair shepherdess) I knew how to flatter my old woman; so that she loved nothing more than me: and contrary to her custom, to gratify me, she commanded her daughter in law to love me. Oh how well had she been advised, if she had followed her counsel! but I never found any thing so cold in all her actions: so that though I were with her all the day, yet had I not the hardiness to make my purpose appear by my words, till we came near to avignon; for Stilliane had made me lose much of that opinion which I had of myself. But besides this, she was always at the feet of the old woman, who entertained me with the times passed. It fell out, that this company with which we went, as I have told you, and many merchants assembled together, made a fair, to traffic in the Island near avignon; and for as much as we that were not used to such voyages, found ourselves benumbed with sitting so long, while the boatemen were about their business, we set foot on land to walk about; and among others, the mother of Aymee was of the company. As soon as my shepherdess was in the I'll, she began to run along the river, and to play with the other wenches which were come forth of the boat of that company, and I thrust myself among them, to have the mean to take time for my purpose, while the old woman was walking with other women of her age. And by hap Aymee being somewhat separated from her companions, gathering flowers that grew by the water's side, I advanced myself, and took her by the arm: and after we had gone some while without speech, at last, as coming from a sound sleep, I said unto her, I should be ashamed (fair shepherdess) to be so long mute so near you, having so good cause to speak to you, if I had not more to hold my peace, and if my silence did not proceed from thence, whence my words should arise. I know not, Hylas, said she, what cause you have to hold your peace, nor what you may have to speak; and less, what words or silences you mean. Ah, fair shepherdess (said I) the affection which consumes me with a secret fire, gives me such occasion to show my hurt, that hardly can I hold my peace; and on the other side, that affection makes me fear so to offend her whom I love, in declaring it to her, that I dare not speak: so that the affection which ought to put words into my mouth, is that which denies me them when I am near you. Me, said she, presently? Think you well, Hylas, of what you say? Yes: of you (replied I) and believe you not, but I have well thought of what I say, before I durst utter it. If I thought these words were true, I will speak to you in another sort. If you doubt (said I) that these words be true, cast your eyes on your perfection, and you shall be fully assured. And then with a thousand oaths, I told her all that I had in my heart. She without being moved, answered me very coldly, Hylas, accuse not that which is in me, for your own follies: for I know well to remedy it, so that you shall have no cause: as for the rest, since the love which my mother bears you, nor the condition wherein I am, cannot turn you from your bad intent, believe that, that which duty cannot work in you, it shall in me; and that I will avoid all manner occasions for you, to continue that you shall know I am such as I ought to be, you see how coldly I speak to you: it is not for that I feel not sensibly enough your indiscretion, but to let you know, that passion transports me not, but that reason only makes me speak thus, that if I see that this mean will nothing prevail to alter your dessine, I will after run to some more extreme. These words delivered with such coldness, touched me more to the quick, than I can tell you: yet could not this withdraw me: for I knew well, that the first skirmishes are ordinarily maintained in this fashion. But by chance, when Aymee seeing me without words, and so astonished, turned away without saying more, there was one of her companions, that seeing me so mated, came towards me; and blowing her nose, passed by twice or thrice with her hand before her eyes, and afterwards began to run, as if she had alured me to run after her. At the first, I was so amazed with the blow, I made as though I heeded it not: but when she came back the second time, I fell on running after her: and she, after she had somewhat run about her companions, started from them; and when she was a little from them, feigning to be out of breath, lay down behind a thick bush. I that at first ran without any dessine, seeing her on the ground, and in a place where she might not be seen, seeming desirous to be revenged for the pain she had put me to, began to clap her: whereto she made a small resistance, but so, that she shown this privacy displeased her not, especially for that seeming to defend her, she discovered purposely, as I think, to make her white skin seem whiter by much, than one would judge by her face. At last being risen up, she said to me, I did not think, Hylas, you had been so rude a gamester, otherwise I would not have meddled with you. If this displease you (said I) I crave pardon: but if it be not so, I was never in my life better paid for my indiscretion then now. How mean you that, said she? I mean, said I, fair Floriante, that I never saw fairer than that I spied e'en now. See, said she, what a liar you are! and at this word strooke me gently on the cheek, and ran back to her companions. This Floriante was the daughter of an honest knight, that then was sick, and kept near the shore of Arar: and she hearing of her father's sickness, went to seek him out, having stayed somewhile with one of her sisters, who was married in Arles: her face was not very fair, for she was somewhat brown: but she had such conceits, and was of so lively an humour, that I must tell you, this meeting made me lose the will I had to Aymee, and that so quickly, that I felt little displeasure in leaving her; so that the contentment in finding this, cleared me of all grief. I than forsook Aymee, me thought, and addicted myself wholly unto Floriante: I may say me thought; for it was not true altogether, seeing that often when I saw her, I took pleasure to talk with her, though the affection which I bore the other, drew me with a little more violence: but indeed when I considered sometime what I said, I found, that whereas I was wont to love but one, I did now serve two. It is true, that this was with no great pain: for when I was near Floriante, I never remembered Aymee; and when I was near Aymee, Floriante had no place in my memory. And there was nothing so much tormented me, as when I was far from them both: for I was sorry for them both together. Now, gentle Paris, this entertainment lasted with me to Vienna; but being by chance at our lodging (for almost every night we went ashore, and specially when we passed by any good towns) lo, there comes a shepherdess to entreat the master of the boat where I was, to let her have a place, as fare as Lions, because her husband being wounded by some enemies, had sent unto her to seek him out. The master, who was courteous, received her willingly, & so the next morning she placed herself in the boat with us. She was fair, but somodest and discreet, that she was to be no less commended for her virtue: otherwise so sad and full of melancholy, that she moved pity from all the company. And because I have always had much compassion on the afflicted, I had it infinitely over this, & endeavoured to comfort her the best I could: whereat Floriante was not contented, what countenance soever she set on it, nor Aimee neither: for conceive (gentle Paris) that though a woman dissemble, yet she cannot choose but feel the loss of a lover; for that it seemeth to be a wrong to her beauty; and beauty being the thing that this Sex most esteems, is the most sensible part in her. Yet I that with my compassion began to mingle a little love, not seeming to look on those two wenches, I held on talk with her; and among other things, to the end our discourse might not fail, and to have the greater knowledge of her, I entreated her to tell me the cause of her sorrow. She then full of courtesy, began to speak thus:  
The compassion which you have of my pain, binds me (courteous stranger) to give you more satisfaction than that you demand; and you would think it a great fault, if I refused so small a thing. But I beseech you to consider withal, the state wherein I am, and to excuse my discourse, if I abridge it as much as I can. Know then (shepherd) that I was borne about the banks of Loire, where I was as charily brought up to the age of fifteen years, as one of my sort might be. My name is Cloris, and my father is called Leonce, the brother of Gerestan, into whose hands I was delivered, after the death of my father and my mother, being of the age I told you, and from that time I began to feel the blows of Fortune; for my uncle having more care of his own children than of me, thought himself overlaid with my charge. All the comfort I had, was from his wife called Collire, for she loved me, and provided for what she could possibly, without her husband's knowledge. But the heavens would afflict me in all: for when Filander the brother of Collire was slain, she took such a grief, that none could persuade her to survive him; so that within few days after, she died, and I abode with her two daughters, who were so young, that I had little contentment to be with them. It fell out, that a shepherd of the province of Vienna, named Rosidor, came to visit the Temple of Hercules, that stands on the shore of Furan, on the top of a rock that rises in the midst of the mountains, much above them all that are thereabout. On that day there were together a great company of us young shepherdess: For it was a solemn day for for that place. I should use but needless words, to tell you the speech we had together, and the fashion wherewith he shown me his love. So it was, that from that day he gave himself to me so, that he never made show of contradicting it. He was young and goodly: for his wealth, he had much more than I might hope for; for the rest, his spirit so like that which appeared outwardly in his body, and there was a perfect agreement. His suit lasted four years, and I cannot say, that in all that time, he either did, or thought any thing wherewith he acquainted me not, and asked my advice.  
This extreme submission so long continued, made me most certain of his love; and his merits, which then had not a little bound me to love him, have since that time won me in such a fashion, that I may say with truth, there was nothing in the world better beloved, than Rosidor was of Cloris, with which he thought himself so strongly tied to me, that he increased his affection, if it could have been increased. We lived so, more than a year, with all the delight that so perfect a love might bring to two Lovers.  
At last, the heavens seemed willing to make us entirely contented, & suffered, that all the difficulties which impeached our marriage, were removed. Behold us now as happy as mortals might be! for we were led into the Temple, the voice of Hymen, Hymene, sounding on all sides. To be shor●, being returned to our lodging, nothing might be heard, but instruments of rejoicing; nothing seen but dances and songs; even then as mischief would, we were separated by one of the most unlucky occasions that might befall me. We were then at Vienna, where are the most part of the Rosidors possessions. It fell out, that some forlorn young men of the villages without Lyoas, on that side where our Druids went to lay the Guy, where they had used it in the forests of Mars, called Ayrieu, meant to commit some disorder: my husband not able to brook it, after he had gently admonished them, impeached them for executing it: where at they were so enraged, that thinking the greatest offence they could do to Rosidor, was to hurt me; there was one of them about to throw a viol of ink at my face: but seeing it coming, I turned my head aside, so that I was not touched but on my neck, as (said she stooping down) you may yet see the marks plain. My husband, that saw my breast full of ink and blood, thinking I had been grievously wounded; and beside, conceiving this outrage to be so great, that taking his sword into his hand, he struck it thorough the body of him that gave the blow, and then thrusting among the others, with the help of his friends, he drove them out of his house.  
judge, shepherd, if I were troubled: for I thought I was worse hurt than indeed I was, and saw my husband besmeared with the blood of him whom he slew, as also of a wound which he had on his shoulder. But when this first fray was in part passed, and by that the wound was dressed, and he apparelled, the justice came to seize on him, and carried him away with such violence, that they would not suffer me to bid him farewell: but my affection more strong than their defence, made me way at last to him; and casting myself on his neck, clasped so fast about, that it was as much as they could do to put me off. He on the other side, when he saw me in this case, desiring rather to dye then to be separated from me, used all the violence which a great courage and an extreme love was able to work, which was such, that all wounded as he was, he got himself out of their hands, and went out of the Town.  
This defence kept him from being a prisoner, but it made his cause the worse with the judge, who in the mean time sent out threatenings and Proclamations: during all which, his greatest displeasure was, that he could not be with me; and because that desire pressed him fore, he disguised himself, and came to me one evening, and passed all the night with me. God knows what my contentment was, but yet my fear was as great: for Iknew that they which pursued him, understanding the love which was between us, did all they could to surprise him; and it fell out as I always feared: for at last he was found, and brought into Lions, where presently I followed him, and to good purpose for him, for that the judges whom at all hours I solicited, took such pity on me, that they shown him favour: and so, notwithstanding all the pursuit of the adversaries, he was set at liberty. If I found much sorrow in this accident, and pain when I saw him, believe, courteous shepherd, that I had no less satisfaction, to see him out of danger, and acquitted from all that had passed. But because the displeasure which he had received in the prison, had made him sick, he was enforced to stay some days at Lions: and I being always about him, to give him the best comfort I could; at last, being past the danger, he prayed me to set things in order at home, that we might entertain our friends with that mirth that he desired, for the good success of his affairs: and behold, these dissolute fellows, who had been the cause of all our pain, seeing they could have no other remedy, resolved to kill him in his bed: and being entered into his lodging, gave him 2. or 3. stabs with a poniard, & leving him for dead, fled away. Alas! courteous shepherd, judge what I ought to be, and in what repose was my soul like to be, that in truth is touched with the most sensible accident that could befall me.  
So ended Cloris, having her face covered with tears, which seemed so many pearls that rolled down her fair bosom. Now, gentle shepherd, that that I will tell you, is a new head-spring of Love.. The affection which I saw in this shepherdess, touched me with so much compassion, that though her face had not been able to have won my love, yet the pity struck me so to the quick, that I must confess, that Carlis, Stilliane, Aymee, nor Floriante, never tied me with a stronger chain than this desolate Cloris: Which was not, for that I loved not the others, but I had yet besides their place this void in my soul. Behold me then resolved into Cloris as well as into the others, but I knew well it was to no purpose to speak to her, while Rosidor were either not dead, or not healed; for the pain wherein she was, possessed her altogether. We came in this sort to Lions, where presently every one parted. It is true, that the new affection which I bore to Cloris, made me accompany her to her lodging, where especially I visited Rosidor, to have some acquaintance with him, judging it best so to begin, thereby to come to the good graces of his wife. She that thought him worse hurt than she found it (for they always make the evil greater than it is, and the apprehension much increaseth the accident which they doubt) changed her countenance and behaviour, when she found him up, and walking about his chamber. But, see what befell me! the sadness which Cloris had in the boat, was (as I told you) the cause of my affection: and when being near Rosidor, I saw her joyful and content, look how the compassion had made this love to grow, so also her joyfulness and contentment caused it to dye: proving well as then, that every evil aught to be cured by the contrary. I entered then a slave and captive into that lodging, and I came out a freeman, and master of myself. But considering this accident, I endeavoured to remember Aymee and Floriante, and presently wished to find them at their lodging; and turning on all hands, at last I met them by fortune together.  
A good meeting: the next day was the great Feast of Venus, and because, according to custom, the day before the solemnity, the young women sing in the Temple, the Hymns which are made in the honour of the Goddess; and they watch there until midnight: I heard them resolve with the mother of Aymee, to pass the night as the others, that she might the better perform her vow. Floriante at the secret request of Aymee, promised to do so too. And because they stayed there a great liberty, I had a design, without any speech of it to go in likewise, feigning to be a wench, when it should be dark: but knowing that the Druids were themselves at the gate, when it waxed dark, I purposed to hide my s●lfe some good while before. And indeed, being got into a corner little frequented, and most dark, I tarried there till nine or ten of the clock in the night. Then the Temple was shut up, and there were no more men but myself, unless there were some that were as curious as I: and by that time the Hymns had long continued, I came out of my lurking place. And because the Temple was great, and there was no light but that which the tapers lighted on the Altar, might give all about, I easily fet myself among the weaches, without their knowledge: and as I was searching with mine eyes for that part where Aymee might be, I saw a little candle brought to a young wench, who rising up, went with it to the Altar, and after di● some ceremonies: she began to sing certain couplets, to which at the end all the company answered. I know not whether it were for that the light was dim (for sometimes they will help themselves by hiding the imperfection of the painting) or that indeed she were fair: yet so it was, that assoon as I saw her, I loved her. Let them now tell me that say that love comes from the eyes of the party beloved, that canont be: for she could not see me; besides that, she turned not her eyes towards me; and hardly could I behold her so well, that I might know her another time: and that was the cause that I thrust forward: by curiosity I crept gently among those shepherdess that were next her. But by mishap, being (with greater danger) come hard by her, she ended her Hymn, and sent back the taper where it was wont to be: so that the place was so dark, that hardly (though I might touch her) could I see her.  
Notwithstanding, the hope that she or some other near her, might begin again to sing, I stayed there a while. But I saw to the contrary, that the taper was carried into the other Choir, and presently after, one of those that were there, began to sing, as my new and unknown mistress had done. The difference that I noted, whether in voice, or face, was great; for she had nothing that came near her whom I began to love: which was the cause, that being no longer able to command my curiosity, I went to a Dame that was some what fare off, and counterfeiting the best I could, I asked what she was that sung before the last. You must be a stranger (said she) if you know her not. It may be, I know her (answered I) if heard her name. Who knows her not (said she) by her face, demands her name in vain; yet to free you of your pain, know, she is called Cyr●●●●, one of the fairest maids that dwell on the banks of Arar, and so held in all this country; so that if you know her not, you must be of another world. Till than I had so well counterfeited my voice, that as the night deceived their eyes, so my voice beguiled their eared: but at that time, not remembering where I was, after many other thanks, I said to her, that if in exchange of the pain that she had taken, I could yield her any service, I did not think any man happier than I was.  
How now (said she) who are you that talk in this fashion? And looking more heedfully on me, she knew by my habit what I was. Whereat, all astonished (said she) How come you to have the hardiness to break our laws in this sort? Know you not, that you cannot pay this fault but with the loss of your life? I must tell you true, that though I knew there was chastisement ordained, yet I did not think it was such, whereat I was not a little astonished, yet alleging unto her that I was a stranger, and knew not their Statutes, she took pity on me, and said, that from the beginning she well perceived it; and that I must know that it was impossible to obtain pardon for this fault, for that the law was so rigorous, to free those watches from all the abuses which were wont to be committed.  
Notwithstanding, seeing that I came not of any wicked intent, she would do what she could to save me. And therefore I was not to tarry till the midnight bell rang, for then the Druids came to the gate with their torches, and looked them all in the face. That now the gate of the Temple was shut, but she would attempt to open it: and then casting a veil over my head, which covered me to the haunches, she fitted my cloak so underneath it, that it could not be discerned in the night from a gown: and having thus dressed me, she told some of her neighbours, who came with her, that she was not well: and they all went to require the key of the most ancient of the company; and we going together towards the gate with a little wax-candle only, which herself bore, and which she almost covered with her hand, feigning, as if she would preserve it from the wind, we went out of the press: and thus happily I escaped out of this danger through her courtesy: and the better to disguise me, & withal, for the desire I had to know to whom I was so much bound, I went with the other to her lodging.  
But fair shepherdess (said he) turning to Diane, this discourse is yet but half done, and me thinks the Sun is down long since; will it not be fit to refer the rest to another time, when we have more leisure? You have reason said she (gentle shepherd) one must not spend all his goods at once: that which remains, may cause us make another pleasing journey; besides that Paris, who is to pass the river, cannot stay longer without committing himself to the night. There is nothing (said he, fair shepherdess) that can trouble me, when I am near you. I wish (answered she) there were any thing in me that might please you; for your worth and courtesy bind every one to yield you all sorts of service. Paris would have replied, but Hylas interrupted him, when he said: I would to God, gentle Paris, that I were you, and that Diane were Phillis, and that she would use this language to me. When that shall be (said Paris) you shall have but the more obligation to her. It is true (said Hylas) but I shall not be afraid to bind myself in part to her, to whom I am already so entirely. Your obligations (said Diane) are not of those that continue for ever, you can revoke them when you will. If the one (answered he) bring loss, the others have advantage; and ask Phillis if she be not well eased, that I am of that humour: for if I were otherwise, she might make some account of my service. With the like discourse Diane, Paris & many other shepherdess; came to the great meadow, where they used to meet before they went home; and Paris giving the good night to Diane, and the rest of the company, took his way by the side of Laigneu.  
But in the mean time Licidas was talking with Phillis; for the jealousy of Siluander had tormented him so, that he could not stay until the next morning, to tell her what was in his heart. He was so fare besides himself, that he took no heed who heard him; but thinking he had been alone with her, after two or three great sighs he said; Is it possible, Phillis, that the heavens have preserved my life so long, to feel thy unfaithfulness? The shepherdess that looked for some other discourse, was so surprised, that she could not answer him. And the shepherd seeing her mute, and thinking it was to invent some excuse, went on. You have reason (fair shepherdess) not to answer, for your eyes say as much indeed, too plainly for my quie: And this silence tells and assures me but too well of what I demand, and which I would not know. The shepherdess that felt herself offended at these words, answered him in anger: Since mine eyes speak so much for me, why will you have me answer in another fashion? And if my silence give you more knowledge of my small love, than my actions passed, could of my good will, think you I can hope to give you better proof by my words? But I well see what it is, Licidas; you would make an honest retreat; you have a design elsewhere: and because you dare not, without giving your fickleness some reasonable coverture; you fain to yourself Chimres, and build up occasions of displeasure, whe●e you know well there is no cause, purposely to make me blamed for your fault. But, Licidas, bring forth your reasons, let us see what they are: or if you will not do it, give back, shepherd, without accusing me of the error which you have committed, and for which I shall do long penance: but let it content you, to leave the mortal displeasure, but not the blame which you go about to raise by your ordinary complaints, where with you importune both heaven and earth.  
The doubt which I have had (replied the shepherd) makes me complain, but the assurance which you give me by your eager words, makes me die. And what is your fear (answered the shepherdess?) judge, replied he, if it may be small, since the complaints that proceed of it, importune both heaven and earth, as you cast in my teeth. If you will know it, I will tell you in few words. I fear that Phillis loveth not Lieidas. Yet, shepherd (said Phillis) you may think I love you not, and bear in your memory what I have done for you, and for Olympe. Is it possible that the actions of my life passed, should return before your eyes, when you conceive these doubts? I know well (answered the shepherd) that you have loved me; and if I had been in doubt, my pain should not be such as I now seel: but I fear that a wound, as great as it is, if it bring not death, may heal in time: so that which Love hath made you do for me, is by this time so fully healed, that hardly the scar only may be seen. Phillis at these words turning her head aside, and her eyes with a plain gesture of discontentment: Since, shepherd, (said she) that until now by the offices and those testimonies of affection which I have done you, I perceive, I have got nothing, assure yourself, that which I complain most of, is the pain, and time which I have employed about it.  
Licidas knew well the shepherdess was much moved, but himself was so overcome of jealousy, that he could not hold from answering her. This anger (shepherdess) gives me, but more knowledge of that wchich I feared; for to trouble one's self for the speech which an overgreat affection hat sometime brought out, is it not a sign he was never touched? Phillis hearing this reproach, came a little to herself, and turning her face to him; You see, Licidas, all dissembling displeases me in any, but I cannot bear it in them with whom I would live. How now? hath Licidas the hardness to tell me, that he doubts the love of his Phillis, and I not think he dissembles? and what testimony may be given, that I have not given you? Shepherd, shepherd, believe me, these words make me think hardly of the assurance which sometimes you have given me of your affection. For it may be, you deceive me in that which concerns you, as it seems you deceive yourself in that that touches me; or as you think you are not beloved, being, indeed, more than the rest of the world: so you imagine you love, when indeed, you do not. Shepherdess (answered Licidas) if my affection were of that common sort, that have more of appearance then of effect, I would condemn myself, when the violence of it did transport me beyond reason, or when I demand of you great proofs of a great amity: but since it is not of that kind, and that you know well it embraces whatsoever is greater, know you not that extreme love never goes without this fear, though it have no cause? and for the little it hath, this fear changes itself into jealousy, and jealousy into pain, or rather into madness, wherein I find myself.  
While Licidas and Phillis talked thus, thinking their words were heard but of them two, and that they had no other witnesses, but the trees, Siluander (as I told you) lay like a scout, and lost not a word. Laonice on the other side, which had been asleep in that place, awaked at the beginning of their speech; and knowing them both, was infinitely glad to be found to so good purpose, assuring herself, that they would not part until they had acquainted her with much of their secrets, where with she happened to serve her own turn to their ruin. And it fell out as she hoped; for Phillis hearing Licidas say that he was jealous, demanded very loud, both of whom and wherefore? Shepherdess (answered the foolish Licidas) ask you me that question? Tell me, I pray you, whence proceeded that great coldness towards me of late, and from whence that familiarity which you have in so straight a sort with Siluander, if the love which you were wont to bear me, be not changed to his benefit? Ah shepherdess! you may well think, that my heart is without feeling of your blows, since it hath so lively felt those of your eyes. How long is it since to talk you have withdrawn yourself from me, since you took no pleasure to talk with me; and that it seemed you send about for other company, that you may avoid mine? Or, where is the care you were wont to have of my business, or the grief which my stay from your presence brought you? You may remember how sweet the name of Licidas hath been to you, and how often it slipped out of your mouth, for the abundance of your heart, when you meant to name some other. You may remember yourself, I say, and have at this time nothing in the same heart, and in the same mouth, but the name and affection of Siluander, with whom you live in such asort, that there is not so great a stranger in our Country but knows that you him. And think you it strange, that I which am the same Licidas, which I have always yet been, and was not borne but only for you Phillis, have entered into some doubt of you?  
The extreme displeasure of Licidas raised so great abundance of words in his mouth, that Phillis, to interrupt him, could not gent a time to answer him; for if she opened her mouth to begin, he went on with the more vehemency, not considering that his complaining made it worse: and if there were any thing that might help him, it was only her answer, which he would not hear; and on the contrary, not heeding, that this torrent of words took away all leisure for the shepherdess to answer him, he judged that her silence proceeded of the sense of her being guilty; so that he went on amplifying his jealousy at all motions, and all actions that he saw her use. Whereat she found herself so surprised, and so much discontented, that she thus letted, knew not with what words to begin either to complain of him, or to remove him out of the opinion where in he was, but the passion of the shepherd, which was so extreme, that it gave him not leisure to dream of i●; for though it were almost night, yet he saw her blush, or at least he thought he saw her, which was the conclusion of his impatience, holding that for certain, where of as yet he had no cause to doubt. And so without further stay, after he had called twice or thrice on the gods, as just p●nishers of the unfaithful, he ran into the woods, unwilling to hear or tarry for Phillis, who went after him to discover to him his error, but it was in vain. For he ran so swiftly, that soon left him in the thicket of the trees. And in the mean time, Leonice well pleased that she had discovered this affection, and saw so good a beginning of her design, withdrew, as was the custom, with the shepherdess her companions; and Siluander, on the otherside, resolved with himself, since Licidas took such jealousy at so cheap a rate, to sell him it for the time to come at a dearer, making show to love Phillis in sadness, when he should see him near her.   
The end of the eight Books.   

THE NINTH BOOK OF Astrea and Celadon.  
LEonide, in the mean time arrived at the house of Adamas, and gave him to understand, that Galathee had infinite occasion to use him; and upon urgent cause which she would tell him by the way. That he might not disobey, he resolved to be gone, as soon as the moon would shine, which was some half hour before day. On this resolution, as soon as the light began to appear, they set themselves on the way; and when they were come to the foot of the little hill, having no more than one plain to bring them to the Palace of Isour, the Nymph at the request of her uncle, began her speech in this sort:  

The History of Galathee and Lindamor.  
MY father (for so she called him) be not moved, I beseech you, to hear that which I have to say to you, and when you have occasion, remember that the same love caused this, which at some other time hath driven you to the like or more strange accidents. I durst not speak to you of it, if I had not a commission, namely, if I had not been commanded: but Galathee, whom this business concerns, is willing, since she hath chosen you as the Physician for this sickness, that you should know both the breeding, and the proceeding; yet hath she enjoined me to draw some words from you, that you will never speak of it. The Druide, which well knew what respect he was to bear to his Lady (for so he esteemed her) answered that he had wisdom enough to conceal that, which he knew might concern Galathee; & that therein the promise was more than needed. Upon this assurance (continued Leonide) I will attempt to tell you, what you are to know. It is now a long time, since Polemas became to be in love with Galathee: to tell you how it grew, were unprofitable: so it was, that he loved her, so that in earnest one might call him amorous. This affection passed on so far, that Galathee herself could not be ignorant of it, so much it wanted, that in particular, she made it diverse times appear, that his service was not displeasing to her, which tied him so fast, that nothing since could ever withhold him; and without doubt, Galathee had some good occasion to favour Polemas, for he was a man that merited much: for his race, you know he is of the ancient stock of Surien, that in nobility gives not place to that of Galathee: as for his person, he is very lovely, having both a face and fashion able to win love: above all he hath great knowledge, yet ashamed of it before the wisest. But why go I about to tell you these things? Your father knows them better than I. So it was, that these good conditions made him so commendable, that Galathee vouchsafed to favour him more than any other in the court of Amasis: yet it was with that discretion, that no man noted it. Now Polemas having the wind so favourable, lived with that contentment to himself, as a man founded upon hopes might. But this inconstant Love, or rather this inconstant Fortune, which delights in change, as in her nourishment, was willing that Polemas, as well as the rest of the world, should feel what the stripes are, that come from her hand: you may remember that it is somewhile since Amasis permitted Clidaman to bestow us on his servants: from this occasion, as from a swarm, have issued so many loves, that besides that the court was pestered with them, all the country feels them.  
Now among others, by chance Lindamor was given to Galathee, he hath much worth, yet she received him so coldly, as the ceremony of that feast would suffer. But he that before, it may be, had some such intention, which he durst not make show of, beyond the bounds of his discretion, was well pleased, that this subject presented itself so luckily, to unlock those dessines, which love had made him conceal, and to give birth, under the veil of that fiction, to most true passions. If Polemas felt the beginning of this new love, the progress of it was troublesome to him, for that the beginning was covered with the shadow of courtesy, and the example of all the other Nymphs; so that though Galathee entertained him with that apparancy of delight, yet in reason that might not offend him, because she was tied to it by the law, which was common; but when this suit continued, and more than that, when passing the limits of courtesy, he saw that it was in good earnest, than he felt the effects which jealousy works in the soul that truly love's. Galathee, for her part little thought, or at least believed not, it was so far gone, but the occasions, as threads sowed together, draw the one to the other, carried him so far, that Polemas may be in some sort excused, if he would suffer himself to be wounded with so sharp a blade; and if jealousy could do more than the assurance which his services might give him. Lindamor was gentle, & there was nothing which you could wish in a person welborn, wherewith he was not furnished; courteous among the Ladies, brave among the warriors, full of valour, and courage, as any that hath been in our court these many years. He was about 25. years of age, without feeling the effects which love is used to work in hearts of that age, not for that out of nature he could not serve Ladies, or that he wanted courage to hazard any one; but because he was always busied in exercises, which drive out idleness, he had not given leisure to his affections to fix their roots in his soul, for from the time he was able to bear arms, thrust forward with that generous instinct, that carries noble courages to the most dangerous enterprise, he let pass no occasion of war wherein he gave not witness of what he was. Afterward being returned to see Clidaman to perform duty to him to whom he was obliged, at the same time he gave himself to two, to Clidaman, as to his Lord, and to Galathee, as to his Lady, and to them both without receiving disgrace.  
But the courtesy of young Clidaman, and the merits of Galathee had too great power over those Lovers, to be drawn from their service. Behold then (as I tell you) Lindamor become amorous, but so, that his affection could no longer be hidden with the veil of courtesy. Polemas, as he that had interest, found it out soon enough: yet though they were friends, would he make no show of it, but to the contrary, kept it close to himself: he laboured nothing more, then to get more assurance of this Love, to the end he might ruin him by all the tricks he could, as he tried afterward. And because since the return of Lindamor, he had (as I told you) made profession of friendship to him, he thought fit to continue it. About this time, Clidaman began to delight in Tourneys and Tilt, wherein he profited well (as they said) for a beginner. But above all, Lindamor bore away the glory of the goodliest and gentlest; whereat Polemas was so vexed, that he could not dissemble his ill will, and he thought that if he made a match with him, he might carry away the greater glory, for that being older, and of longer abode in Court, he was always in all the designs of his Rival: but Lindamor, that suspected not the occasions that made him do so, went on freely, and that made his actions more pleasing, which Polemas did not, who had a secret purpose where he must use some cunning, so that he served but for a show. And especially, the last day of the Bacchanals, when the young Clidaman made a Tourney, to maintain the beauty of Siluie, Guymantes and Lindamor did as much as men might, but among all, Lindamor got that grace and happiness, that if Galathee had not judged it, yet love had given sentence against Polemas.  
The Nymph, that then began to have eyes as well for other men, as till then she had for none but Polemas, could not contain from speaking much to the good of Lindamor. And see how Love mocks and sports with the wisdom of Lovers! That which with such care and craft Polemas went about, seeking to advance himself above Lindamor, hurts himself the more, and makes him almost his inferior: for every one comparing their actions together, found such difference, that it had been better for him either not to have assisted him, or to have been declared his enemy at once. It was that very evening that Lindamor thrust forward by his good Angel, (I think, for my part, there be good days, and unhappy days) avowed himself, in earnest, servant to the fair Galathee; but the occasion was also as good as he could wish: for, dancing a dance which the Frankes have lately brought out of Germany, where one goes to take away her whom he likes, led on by love, but rather spurred to it (as I think) by destiny, he took away Galathee from Polemas, who more attentive to his discourse then to the dance, took little heed, and was at that time reproaching the Nymph for the new breeding love which he foresaw of Lindamor. She, who till then never thought him to be in earnest, offended at his discourse, took his words in so ill part, that she told him what words Lindamor had used, which were so much the more pleasing, for that she thought she was thereby revenged of him for his suspicion.  
That which makes me speak thus, is, for that there is none that may know more than I, who may seem to be destined to hear of all these Loves: for as soon as we were withdrawn, and that Galathee was in bed, she willed me to stand at the bed's head, and hold the light, while she read the dispatches that came to her, and specially those of importance. That night she caused the Nymphs to leave her alone: and when they were all gone, she commanded me to lock the door, than made me sit at the bed's feet, and after she had smiled a while, she said, You cannot choose but laugh, Leonide, at the gracious accident that befell me at the dance. You know it is somewhile since Polemas had a mind to serve me, for I concealed it not from you; and for as much as me thought he carried himself towards me with that honour and respect (I need not lie) his service was not unpleasing to me, and renceived it with a better liking, then from any others in the Court, not that he had yet any love of my part: I will not say but that it may be (as Love always flatters his patients with hope) he imagined that which he desired: but the truth is, that I never yet judged, that he had never any thing able to make me love him. I know not what may fall out her easter, and I refer myself to that that shall be, but for that which is yet, there is no likelihood.  
Now Polemas seeing that I heard what he would say, and that I hearkened to it with patience, being there by made the more hardy, not marking that I lived with others in the same sort, is gone so far, that he knows not what he does, he is so much beside himself. And indeed, this night he danced with me some while, at the first so chiding, that I was constrained (without thinking of it) to ask him what the matter was. Shall it not displease you (said he) if I discover it? No, answered I, for I never ask for the thing I would not know. Upon this assurance he went forward.  
I must tell you, Madam, that it is not in my power, not to be offended at the actions which I see ordinarily before mine eyes, and which touch me so to the quick, that if I had as great assurance, as I have suspicion, I know not if there were any thing able to keep me alive. In sadness I was yet so simple, that I knew not what he would say; yet thinking his love had tied me to some sort of curiosity, I asked what actions those were that touched him so to the quick. Then pausing a little, and looking steadfastly on me, he said: Is it possible, Madam, that without fiction you ask me this? And why (answered I) would you not have me do so? Because (added he) it is you whom all these things concern, and it is from you that they proceed; and then seeing that I spoke not a word, (for I knew not what he would say) he began togoe on, and told me, I would not have you dissemble in this business, without blushing. For resolutely I will enforce myself to tell you, though the discourse cost me my life. You know (Madam) with what affection, since the heavens made me yours, I have endeavoured to give proof that I was truly the servant of the fair Galathee: you can tell, if even untill-now you have known any action of mine tended to other end than your service. If all my dessignes have not taken that point for their mark; and if all my desires arising from thence, have not shown themselves satisfied and contented, I assure myself, that if my fortune deny me to deserve any thing more in serving you, yet at the least she will not refuse me this satisfaction from you, that you will confess, that truly I am yours, and no others but yours. Now if this be so, judge what grief I ought to have, after so much time spent (not to say, lost) when (if there be any reason in Love, I ought with greater reason to have expected some reward of my affection: I see another favoured in my place, and an inheritor (as I may say) of my goods before my death. Excuse me for speaking in this manner: the extreme passion draws these just complaints out of my soul, which though it would, yet can it not longer be silent, seeing he that triumphs over me, hath got the victory, rather by destiny than merit. It is Lindamor, of whom I speak; Lindamor, whose service is the more happily received of you, by that that he is to give me place, both in affection and faithfulness. My grief is not to see him more happy than he durst wish for: but indeed to see him so at my cost. Excuse me, Madam, I beseech you, or rather accuse the greatness of my affection, if I complain, since it is but a more manifest proof of the power which you have over your most humble servant.  
And that which makes me speak so, is, that I note you use towards him the same words, and the same fashion of treaty that you did towards me, at the first breeding of your goodwill, and when you permitted me to speak to you, and that I might say to myself, you knew mine affection.  
This putteth me so fare besides myself, with such violence, that hardly can I command over these furious extremities which you put me to, and which the offence bringeth to my soul, and can produce no effects of discretion. He would have said more, but the passion wherein he was, so suddenly took from him his voice, that it was impossible for him to hold on longer. If I were offended at his words, you may judge, for they were both rash and full of vanity, and not to be borne with: yet that I might not give knowledge of this brabble to them that have eyes, but to spy the actions of others, I was compelled to make him an answer a little less eager than I had done, had I been elsewhere: and I said, Polemas, that which I am, and that which you are, will not suffer me to doubt that you are my servant, so long as you stay in the house of my mother, and perform the service of my brother; but I cannot wonder enough at the follies which you mix in your discourse, in talking of heritage, and of your goods. In that which is from my love, I know not by what right you pretend yours.  
My intention, Polemas, hath been to love you, and esteem you as your virtue deserves, and you are not to imagine beyond that. And for that you talk of Lindamor, get out of that error, for if I use him as I have done you, you are to think I will do so to all those that hereafter shall merit it, without other design greater than to love and esteem him that deserves it, in what subject soever it be found. And how, madame, said I then interrupting her, think you this a gentle answer? I know not how you could have honestly said more: for indeed, it must be confessed he is arrogant: but yet it may not be denied, but this arrogancy is bred in him, upon some show of reason. Of reason (answered the Nymph presently?) What reason can he allege? Many, Madam, replied I, but to conceal them all but one, I may say to you, that truly you have allowed him to serve in a more peculiar manner then any other. That is (said Galathee) for that he pleased me more than the rest of my brother's servants. I confess it, madame, said I, and seeing himself so fare in your good graces, how could he hope for less than to be beloved of you? He had heard talk of so many examples of love between unequal persons, that he could not flatter himself less, then to hope the same for himself, which he heard spoke of others, & I remember, that upon that subject he made verses which he sung before you: it is some while since you commanded him to conceal his affection: they were these:  

A SONNET.  

WHerefore if you love me,  
Fear you the world should know?  
Then honest Amity,  
What can make fairer show?   

The spirits virtuous,  
It each to other ties,  
And far from humane hearts,  
Expelleth vanities.   

But if your choice be such,  
That you displeased are,  
And that you think me vile,  
Unworthy such a share:   

Disdainful beauty, that  
Liest hid from all men's eyes,  
And never mad'st appear,  
That 〈◊〉 thee pity lies:   

Yet Dido did not scorn  
A wanderer by sea.  
Paris, a shepherd young,  
Won love from Oenone,   

Diane found some grief,  
For her Endymion.  
Love not regards the state,  
Or pomp of any one.   

The sheephook with the mace  
Of Kings he equal makes:  
And in the purest Love,  
All his contentment takes.    
Then Adamas asked her: And how, Leonide? it seems by the words of Galathee, that she despised Polemas, and by these verses there is no man but will judge she loved him, and that only he could not brook with patience, that she should dissemble! Father (replied Leonide) it is true that she loved him, and she had given him that proof, that if he gave credit to it, he was not so arrogant, but that one might very well have thought him to be of small understanding, if he did not believe it; and though she would dissemble with me, yet I know she had drawn him by shows and hopes of good will, whereof the earnest was not so small as the first, but that many others have been deceived, and I know not, considering what assurances were given, that any would think she would lose them, and gainsay her going forward, but he deserved this chastisement for his unfaithfulness which he used to a Nymph, whose deceived affection cries vengeance, so that love at last gave an care: for without feigning he is the most deceitful, the most unthankful, and most unworthy to be beloved for this misprifall, of any under heaven, and deserves not to be pitied, if he now feel the grief which other have suffered for him.  
Adamas seeing her so much moved against Polemas, demanded who the Nymph was that he deceived, and said, that she was some of her friends, since she took the offence so to the quick. Then she perceived that she had yielded too much to her passion, and that unawares she had made known that which she had kept so long secret; yet as she had a quick spirit, and that would not lie long in her fault, she covered by her dissimulation, this error so well, that Adamas then took no great heed to it. And how, my daughter (said Adamas) know you not, that men live with a purpose to overcome and finish all that they undertake, and that the love which they make show of to other women, is but to make the way easy? You may see, Leonide, that all love is for the desire of the thing that is wanting; and the desire being satisfied, there is no more desire; if there be no more desire, there is no more love: therefore you may behold, that they which will be long loved, are they that give least satisfaction to the desires of their lovers. But (added Leonide) she whereof I spoke, is one of my particular friends, and I know, she never treated with Polemas, but with as great coldness as she could. That likewise, replied Adamas, makes the desire to be lost; for desire is nourished with hope and favours.  
Now look how the match of the Lamp goes out when the oil fails, so desire dies, when the nourishment of it is put out: therefore it is, that we see so many loves are changed, some for too many, othersome for too few favours. But let us return to that you said to Galathee; what was that that she answered? If Polemas (answered Leonide) had had (said she to me) as much judgement to measure himself, as he had rashness to dare to love me, he would have taken these favours as from my courtesy, and not from my love. But (continued Galathee) this is nothing to the worth of the accident which befell at that time; for I had scarcely answered Polemas, what you have heard, but Lindamor following the course of the dance, was come to snatch or rob, and with that dexterity, that Polemas could not avoid it, and by that means not answer me, but with his eyes; but certainly, with a look so frowning, that I know not how I held from laughter. As for Lindamor, whether he took heed to it, or perceiving it, would not let it appear, so it was, that presently after he spoke to me in that sort, it had been enough to have made the poor Polemas mad, if he had heard it. Madame, said he to me, is it possible that all things should go so quite contrary, and that jesting should turn to so true earnest, and the presages likewise which your eyes speak of to me, when I behold them? Lindamor, said I to him, so you may be punished as you deserved, if jesting you meet with earnest. This punishment, answered he, is so welcome to me, that I should beshrew myself, if I did not love and cherish it, as the greatest happiness that might befall me. What mean you by that (said I) for it may be we speak of diverse things? I mean (said he) that in this course of the dance, I have stolen away you, and in the truth of love, you have stolen from me both soul and heart. Then blushing a little, I answered him in choler, How now, Lindamor, what discourse is this? remember you what I am, and what you are? I do so, Madam (said he) and that is it that makes me speak so unto you, for are you not my Lady, and am not I your servant? Yes (answered I) but not as you take it, for you ought to serve me with respect, and not with love: or if there be any affection, it should grow out of your duty. He presently replied, Madam, if I serve you not with respect, never was divinity honoured by a mortal man: but whether this respect be the father, or child of my affection, it concerns you but little, for I am resolved, whatsoever you are to me, to serve you, to love you, and to adore you, and think not herein, that the duty whereto Clidaman by the law of the game hath subjected us, is the cause, well it may be the coverture: but to conclude, your merits, your perfections, or to say true, my destiny gives me to you, and thereto I assent: for I must acknowledge, that what man soever sees you, and love's you not, deserves not the name of a man. These words were delivered with such a vehemency, that he made it appear to me, that he truly told me what was in his soul; & behold, I pray you, this pleasant encounter. I never heeded this affection, thinking that all he did, was in sport, & should have never perceived it, but for the jealousy of Polemas: but since I have always had an eye to Lindamor, and I should not lie, I have found him as well capable of love as jealousy: so that it seams, that the other hath whetted the knife, wherewith he would cut the thread of the small love I bear him: for I know not how Polemas hath ever since so displeased me in all his actions, that I could hardly endure him to be near me the rest of that night. On the contrary, all that Lindamar did, came so kindly to me, that I wonder I marked it no sooner. I know not whether Polemas, by reason of his being crossed, have changed his behaviour, or whether the evil opinion which I have conceived of him, have altered my eyes when I behold him: yet so it is, that either mine eyes see not as they were wont, or Polemas is no more the man he was wont to be.  
I must not lie to you, when Galathee spoke in this sort against him, I was no whit sorry because of his ingratitude: on the contrary, the more to hurt him, I said, I do not wonder, Madam, that Lindamor is more welcome to you, than Polemas: for the qualitites and perfections of them both are not equal; every one that sees them, will give the same judgement that you do of them. It is true, that here in I foresee a great hurly burly, first, between them, and after between you and Polemas. And why (said Galathee?) Are you of opinion he hath any power over my actions or of Lindamors. Not for that (said I) Madam, but I knew the humour of Polemas so well, that he will leave nothing unattempted, and will remove heaven and earth, to recover the happiness that he thinks he hath lost; and for it he will commit these follies which cannot be hidden, but to those that will not see them, and so shall you have displeasure, and Lindamor be offended: and God grant it fall not out worse. No such thing, Leonide, answered she, if Lindamor love me, he will do as I command him; if he do not love me, he will not care what Polemas doth: and as for him, if he pass the bounds of reason, I know how to reform him: leave that labour to me, for I can provide well enough for that. At this word she commanded me to draw the curtain, and let her rest, if at least these new designs would suffer her. But at the breaking up of the dance, Lindamor, who had noted what countenance Polemas had made when he took Galathee from him, had a conceit that he loved her. Notwithstanding, having never perceived any thing by his actions passed, he would ask him the question, resolved, that if he found him in love, he would endeavour to divert himself, for that he thought himself some what bound to it, for the love he made show of, which he thought to be unfeigned; and so going to him, desired he might have a word with him in private.  
Polemas, who used all manner of cunning that a Courtier was capable of, painted his face with a feigned show of good will, and said, What is it that Lindamor is pleased to command of me? I never use commoundement (said Lindamor) where my prayer only may take place; and at this time I need neither of them, but only as a friend, demand a thing of you which our friendship binds you to tell me. What may it be (replied Polemas?) since our friendship so binds me, you are to think that I will answer you with the same freedom that you desire to know. This it is (replied Lindamor) that I have some while served Galathee, as I was tied by the ordinance of Clidaman, at last, I am constrained so to do by that of Love.. For it is true, that after I had long time served her, by the disposing of that fortune that gave me to her, her merits have since so won me, that my will hath ratified that gift with so great affection, that to draw back, would be as much want of courage, as it is now arrogancy to say, that I dare love her. Yet the friendship which is between you and me, having been of longer date, than this of Love, gives me resolution enough to tell you, that if you love her, and have any pretention to her, I hope as yet to have that power of myself, that I can withdraw, and give proof, that Love is less in me than Friendship, or at least, the follies of the one shall give place unto the Wisdom of the other.  
Tell me then frankly that which you have in your soul, to the end that neither your friendship, nor mine, may complain of our actions. That which I say, is not to discover the secrets of your intentions: since I lay open to you mine, you are not to be afraid that I should know yours: besides that, the laws of friendship command you, not to hide them from me; provided, that not curiosity, but the desire of preserving our goodwill, makes me demand it of you. Lindamor spoke to Polemas with the same freedom that a friend should, poor and ignorant Lover, that thought he could since it in love! On the contrary, the dissembling Polemas answered him; Lindamor, this fair Nymph, of whom you speak, is worthy to be served of all the world; but as for myself, I have no pretention; yet this I will tell you, that as concerning love, I am of opinion, that every one, for his part, should do what he can. Then Lindamor repent that he had used a language so full of courtesy and respect, since he required it so ill. Here solued to do his best to advance himself into the good graces of the Nymph; and yet he answered him, Since you have no such design, I am right glad, as of the thing most welcome to me, for that to have withdrawn myself, it would have been a pain to me, little less than death.  
So fare off a● I (added Poleman) from having any pretention of love, that I never looked on her, but with an eye of respect, such as we are all bound to give her. For my part (replied Lindamor) I honour Galathee as my Lady; but I likewise love her as a fair Lady: and me thinks, my fortune mayayme as high as it is permitted mine eyes to look; and that I shall offend no divinity by loving her. With such like discourses they parted, neither of them well satisfied, yet some what differing, Polemas out of iclousie, and Lindamor, for having found the unfaithfulness of his friend. From that day they lived in a pleasant fashion, for they were ordinarily together, and yet they concealed their dessignes. Yet not Lindamor in appearance, but in effect, hide himself in all he propounded and purposed to do: and knowing well, that occasions passed, may not be recalled, he would not lose a moment of leisure, which he employed not to make his affection apparent to the Nimph. In which he neither lost his time, nor his pain; for she liked so well of this good will, which he made show of, that if she had not so much love as he in her eyes, she had it at the least in her heart. And because it is an hard matter to hide a great fire so well, but something will discover it: their affections which began to burn in good earnest, were hardly to be concealed for all the wisdom they could use.  
This was the cause that Galathee resolved to speak with Lindamor, as seldom as she could, and to find some invention for him to send his Letters, and to receive their secrets; and for this purpose she made a design on Fleurial, nephew to the Nurse of Amasis, and brother of hers, whose good will she had long known, for that being Gardener of those fair gardens of Monbrison, as his father during his life had been, when they carried Galathee abroad, he took her often in his arms, and went up and down, gathering what flowers she would; and you know that these loves of infancy, being as it were sucked in with the milk, turn almost into nature: besides that, she knew well, that all country swains are covetous; dealing bountifully with him, she won him entirely to her. And it fell out as she purposed, for one day being some distance removed from us, she called him to her, feigning to ask him the name of some flowers which she held in her hand; and after she had asked him aloud of them, somewhat abasing her voice, she said to him, Come hither, Fleurial, dost thou love me well? Madam (answered he) I should be the veriest wretch living, if I loved you not above all the world beside. May I be assured (said the Nymph) of what thou sayest? May I (replied he) never live a moment, if I choose not rather to be wanting to heaven than to you. What, (answered Galathee) without any exception, were it in a thing that might displease Amasis or Clidamon? I care not then, said Fleurial, whom I displease in serving you: for I am to none but to you: and whosoever pays me, yet it is of you that this benefit befalls me, and when this shall cease to be: I always had such an affection to you, that ever since your childhood, I gave myself entirely to you. But, Madam, whereto serve these words? I shall never be so happy to be able to give proof of it. Then Galathee said, Harken, Fleurial, if thou live in this resolution, and thou wilt be secret, thou shalt be the happiest man (of thy condition) in all the world: and that which I have done for thee heretofore, is nothing to the value of that which heereaster I will do. But look that you be secret, and remember, that if you be not, besides that of a friend (as I am) I will henceforth become your mortal enemy; yet must you assure yourself, that it will cost you no less than your life. Go● find out Lindamor, and do what he shall bid you, and believe thou, that I will consider better than thou canst hope for, for the services which thou shalt do for me in this; and beware you have not a tongue.  
At this word Galathee came to seek us out, and laughing, said, That Fleurial and she had talked a good while of Love, but, said she, it was love of the garden, for that is the love of the simple. Fleurial, for his part, after he had turned some turns about the garden, went forth some what troubled with this affair; for he was not so ignorant, but he knew well the danger into which he put himself: whether with Amasis, if he should discover it, or with Galathee, if he should not do as she commanded him, thinking it was about love: and he had heard them say, that all the ofsences of Love strike to the heart. At last, the amity he bore to Galathee, and the desire of gain, made him resolve, since he had promised to perform his promise: and then he went to seek out Lindamor, who expected him; for the Nymph had assured him that she would send him, and that only he should direct him what he was to do.  
As soon as Lindamor saw him, he made show before others, not to know the cause, & asked him if he had any business with him. To whom he made answer aloud, that he came to beseech him to present to Amasis' his long services, and the small means he had to be paid that which was due to him: and at last, speaking some what lower, he told him the occasion of his coming, & offered him his service at his pleasure. Lindamor thanked him, & having shortly instructed him what he was to do, he judged the thing so easy, that he made no difficulty: from that time (as I told you) when Lindamor would write, Fleurial made show to present some suit to the Nymph, and when she made answer, she returned it back with such an order as she could obtain from Amasis. And because ordinarily, these old servants have always some thing or other to ask, this man never wanted matter to exhibit at all times of some new request, which oftentimes received an answer beyond his hopes.  
Now during this time, the love which the Nymph had borne to Polemas, lessened in such sort, that hardly could she speak to him without disgrace, which he could not bear: and knowing well, that all this coldness proceeded of the love of Lindamor, he suffered himself to be transported so fare, that not daring to speak against Galathee, he could not abstain from speaking many things to the disadvantage of Lindamor: and among other, that though he were an honest man, and accomplished with many remarkable parts, yet the good opinion which he had of himself, was not like theirs that know how to measure themselves; and for proof of it, he had been so proud as to raise his eyes to the love of Galathee, and not only to conceive it in his soul, but to vaunt of it in speech to him. A discourse, which at last came to the ears of Galathee, namely, so fare passed, that almost all the Court knew it. The Nymph was so offended herewith, that she resolved to use Lindamor so, that hereafter he should not have occasion to publish his vanities: and that was the cause, that shortly after this bruit was extinct, for that she (who was in choler) pake no more to him, and that they that observed his actions, finding no appearance of Love, were constrained to believe the contrary: and at that time was the sending away of Knights, which fell out fitly, and aided her much, for that Amasis had sent him about a business of importance to the banks of Rhine. But his departure could not be so sudden, bu● he found occasion to speak to Galathee, to know the cause of her change; and after he had spied out a time, the morning as she went to the Temple with her mother, he was so near her, and so in the midst of us, that hardly could Amasis perceive him. As soon as she saw him, she would have changed the place, but holding her by the garment, he said, What is my offence? or what is your change? She answered as she went, Neither offence nor change, for I am always Galathee, and you ar● always Lindamor, who are too base a subject to offend me. If these words touched him, his actions gave witness; for though he were upon his departure, yet could he give order to no other business, but to search in himself wherein he had failed. At last, not finding himself guilty, he wrote her a letter.  
The letter of Lindamor to Galathee.  
IT is not to complain of my Lady, that I dare take up my pen, but only to deplore the misfortune which make me so co●●●m●ed of her, that at other times was not wont to use me in this sort: I am the same man that have serve (you with all sort of respect and submission, and you are the same Lady that first was mine: si●ce you received me for yours, I am become no less, nor you greater: if it be thus, why do you not judge m● worthy of the same entertainment? I have called my soul to account for her actions: since it pleaseth you, I will display them all before your eyes: for my part, I cannot accuse any one of them, if you shall judge otherwise, when you have heard them, it shall be no small consolation to the poor condemned, to know, at least, the cause of his punishment.  
This letter was brought her as of custom by Fleurial, and so fitly, that though she would, yet durst she not refuse it; and without lying, it was impossible that any other could have played this part better than he: for his request was so suited with words of pity, and reverence, so well sorting to that which he seemed to demand, that there was 〈◊〉 but might have been deceived; and for my part, if Galathee had not told me, I should never have regarded it: but for that it was hard, or rather impossible, but the tender heart of the Nymph must discharge her sel●● of it, to some trusty person, to whom she might freely impart that which pressed her so sore; among the rest, she chose out me as the most assured, as she thought, and most affectionate. Now suddenly, as she had received this paper, feigning to have forgot something in her cabinet, she called me, and told the other Nymphs, that she would come back presently, and that they should attend her there. She went up into her chamber, and then into her cabinet, without saying any thing to me: I judged she had somewhat that troubled her, but I durst not ask her, for fear of troubling her: she sat down, and casting the request of Fleurial on the table, she said, This beast Fleurial always comes to molest me with the letters of Lindamor: I pray thee, Leonide, bid him bring me no more. I was somewhat astonished at this change: yet I knew well, that love could not long last without brawls; and that these disputes are as bellowes, that do more kindle the coals: yet I forbore not to say to her, Since when, Madam, hath he done thus? Some good while (said she) and know you nothing of it? No truly, Madam (said I.) Then she with a little frowning brow, It is true (said she) that heretofore I have liked it, but now he hath abused my favoues, & offended me by his rashness. And what is this fault, replied I? The fault (added she) is not great, yet it displeaseth me more, then if it were of importance. Think you what his vanity is, to make it known that he love's me, and that he hath told me so?  
O Madam (said I) this cannot be true: his enemies have invented it to undo him, both with you & with Amasis. It is well (replied she) but in the mean time, Polemas talks of it every where; and is it possible any should know it, and that he only should be deaf at this bruit? or if he hear it, should not remedy it? And what remedy (answered I) would you he should have? What (said the Nymph) sword and blood. It may be (said I) ●e doth it with great reason: for I remember I have heard it said, that that which touches us in love, is so subject to slander, that the less light is given it, the better it is. See (said she) these good excuses, at least he should have demanded of me what my will was he should do; herein he had done as he ought, and I should have been satisfied. Have you seen the letter (answered I) which he wrote you? No (said she) and I will tell you more, I will never see them more, if it be possible, and will avoid as much as I can, to speak to him. Then took I the paper that Fleurial brought, and opening the letter, I read aloud that which I told you even now, and added at last, Well, Madam, ought not you to love the thing is wholly yours? and not to be so soon offended with him that hath not committed any fault? Then it is well (said she.) Is there any likelihood that he alone should not hear these bruits? But dissemble he as long as he will, at least I will comfort myself, that if he love me, he shall truly pay the interest of the pleasure which he hath had in vaunting of our love; and if he love me not, let him assure himself, that if I have given him any subject for the time passed, to conceinue such an opinion, I will put him out of it hereafter, and give him occasion to smother it, how great soever it hath been. And to begin, I pray you command Fleurial that he be not so hardy, to bring any thing from this arrogant. Madam (said I) I will do what pleases you to command me, yet it shall be very necessary, to consider ripely of this affair, for you may do yourself much hurt, thinking to offend another. You know well, what manner of man Fleurial is, he hath no more spirit than will serve to keep his garden: if you let him know this evil carriage between Lindamor and you, I am afraid, that out of pure fear he will discover it to Amasis, or else run away, & that which shall make him discover it, shall be to excuse himself of mischief: For God's sake, Madam, consider what displeasure this will bring: will it not be better, without breaking forth, to device some means to complain to Lindamor? And if you will not do it, I will, and I assure myself, he will satisfy you: or if he do not, then shall you have occasion to break off all love with him, telling him so much yourself, without giving Fleurial knowledge of it. How to speak to him I know not, said she, and to hear him speak, my courage will not snffer me, for I wish him much evil.  
Seeing her to have a heart so swollen with this offence, At the last, said I, you must write to him. Talk no more of that (said she) he is too proud, he hath too many of my letters already. At the last, not being able to get other thing at her hands, she suffered me to fold up a piece of paper in fashion of a letter, and to put it in to the request of Fleurial, and to carry it to him: And this that he might not perceive this dissension. What the astonishment was of poor Lindamor, when he received this paper, it is hard to say to one that never proved it. And that which afflicted him more, was, that he must of necessity departed the next morning to go his voyage, where the affairs of Amasis and Clidaman tied him to stay some long time. To defer his departure, he could not; and to go, was death.  
At last he resolved presently to write to her, yet a course rather to hazard, then to hope for any good fortune. Fleurial did what he could to present it speedily to Galathee, but he could not do it, for that she feeling this displeasure at her heart, was not able to bear this dis-union, but with such grief, that she was constrained to keep her ●ed, out of which she rose not many days. Fleurial, at last seeing Lindamor gone, took the hardiness to seek her chamber: and I must tell you true, because I wished ill to Polemas, I did what I could to piece up this affection of L●ndamor; and for this cause I gave means for Fleurial to enter. If Galathee were surprised, judge you, for she looked rather for any thing then that, yet she was constrained to dissemble, and to take that which he presented, which were but flowers in appearance: I would be in the chamber, that I might be of the counsel, and to bring somewhat that might be to the contentment of poor Lindamor. And indeed I was not altogether unprofitable: for after Fleurial was gone, and that Galathee found herself alone, she called me, and told me, she thought to have been exempted from the importunity of the letters of Lindamor, when he had been gone, but for aught she saw, he had nothing to be his warrant. I that would serve Lindamor, though he knew nothing of it, knowing the Nymph to be in an humour to talk of him, made it very cold, knowing well that if I contraried her at first, it was the way to lose all, and to affirm that which she said, would serve the more to punish her: for though she were not well satisfied toward him, yet love as yet was the more strong, and in herself, she was willing that I should take Lindamor● part, not to give me way, but to have more occasion to speak of him, and put her choler out of her soul: so that having all these considerations before mine eyes, I held my peace, the first time she spoke to me. She that would not have this silence, added, But what think you, Leonide, of the arrogancy of this man? Madam (said I) I know not what to say, but if he have failed, he must do penance. But (said she) what may I think of his rashness? why goes he disgracing me with his tales? had he no other fit discourse than of me? and then, after she had looked on the letter he writ, I have some what else to do that he continues to write to me: to this I answered nothing.  
After she had held her peace a while (she said) And why, Leonide, answer you me not? have I not reason to complain? Madam (said I) is it your pleasure I should speak freely? You shall please me, said she. I must tell you then (continued I) that you have reason in all, except it be when you seek for reason in love: for you must know that he that refers himself to the laws of justice, puts the principal authority out of himself, which is to be subject but to himself: so that I conclude, that if Lindamor have failed in that he love's you, he is culpable, but if by the laws of reasou and providence, it is you that deserve chastisement, that will put love that is free and commands others, under the servitude of a superior. And why (said she) have I not heard it said, that love, to make it praise worthy, must be virtuous? If this be so, he must be tied to the laws of virtue. Love, answered I, is a thing some what greater than this virtue, of which you speak, and therefore it gives itself laws without the publishing of any other person: but since you command me to speak frankly, tell me, Madam, are not you more culpable than he, both in that for which you accuse him, and in that which concerns love? for if he have had the hardness to say he loved you, you are the cause, in that you have suffered him. Though it be so, answered she, yet by discretion he was bound to conceal it. Complain you then (said I) of his discretion, and not of his love? But he hath more occasion to complain of your love, since upon the first report at the first conceit that hath been given you, you have chased from you the love you bore him, without taxing him that he hath been wanting in affection.  
Excuse me, Madam, if I speak so frankly: you do the greatest wrong in the world to use him in this sort: at least if you would condemn him to so great a punishment, it ought not to be without convincing him, or at leastwise to make him blufh at his error. She stood somewhile, before she answered me: at last she said, Well, Leonide; the remedy shall be timely enough when he returns, not that I am resolved to love him, nor to permit him to love me, but to tell him where in he hath failed, and so I shall content you, and bind him from importuning me more, if he be not a● impudent as rash. It may be, Madam, you will deceive yourself, to think it will be time enough at his return: if you knew what the violences of love are, you would not believe that these delays were like other affairs: at least look on the letter. That is to no purpose (replied she) for by this time he is well gone: and with that word she gave it me, and saw it was thus:  
The letter of Lindamon to Galathee.  
Sometimes love, at this time the despair of love, hath put the p●n into my h●●d, with a purpose, if it return me no assuagement, to change it into a sword, which promiseth 〈◊〉 a full, though a cr●●ll healing. This bla●●● paper, which you have sent me for an answer, is a true testimony of my innocency, since it is as if it had said you have found nothing to accuse me of, but it is also an assurance to me of your disdain; for from whence can this silence proceed unless it be from ●t? the one contents me in myself the other makes me despair in you. If you have any remembrance of my faithful service, for pity I demand of you, or life or death. I depart, the most desperate that ever had cause of despair.  
It was an effect of Love which brought a change in the carriage of Galathee, for I saw her much mollified; but this was no small proof of her lofty humour, not to give knowledge of it, and not being able to command her countenance, which was become pale, she so tied her tongue, that she spoke no word which might accuse her of relenting; but going out of her chamber, to walk in the garden, not speaking a word of the Letter: for the Sun began to grow low, and her disease, which was but travail of spirit, might find more refreshing out of the house, than in the bed: so, after she was quickly made ready, she went down into the garden, and would have none but me with her. By the way I asked if it pleased her to make an answer: and telling me no: Will you (Madam) that I do it? See (said she next) what would you write? That which you command in, said I What you will (said she) so you speak not of me. You shall see (answered I) what I writ. I have nothing to do with it (said she) I refer myself to you. With this leave, while she walked, I writ in the same alley, in a pair of Tablets, an answer, such as I thought fittelt, but she that would not see it, would not have the patience to let me make an end, without reading it while I writ it.  
The answer of Leonide to Lindamor for Galathee.  
DRaw from your evil the knowledge of your good; If you had not been beloved, there would never have been sense of any thing: you may not know what your offence is, till you be here present, but hope in your affection, and in your return.  
She would not the Letter should be thus: but at last I prevailed above her courage, and gave my Tables to fleurial, with the key, commanding him to deliver them to the hands of Lindamor only. And drawing aside, I opened my Tables, and added these words, without the knowledge of Galathee:  
A Billet of Leonide to Lindamor.  
I Was desirous to have known when you went away: the pity of your evil maketh me tell you the occasion of your disaster. Polemas hath given out, that you love Galathee, and you go about bragging of it. A great courage, as here is, cannot suffer so great an offence without feeling. Let your wisdom direct you in those affairs with the discretion which hath always gone with you, that for loving you, and taking pity of your evil, I may not have, in exchange, matter to grieve for you, to whom I promise all aid and favour.  
I sent this Billet, as I told you, to deceive Galathee, and indeed I repent me of it shortly after, as I will tell you. It was about a month after Fleurial was gone, when behold, there comes a knight, armed at all pieces, an unknown Herald with him; and, to keep all men from knowledge of him he had his visor down. By his port, every one judged of him as he was indeed. And because at the towne-gate the Herald had demanded to be conducted to Amasis, every one, desirous to hear some news, accompanied him. Being come up to the Castle, the Guard of the town left him to them of the Gatehouse. And after they had given notice to Amasis, they were brought before her, who had sent for Clidaman, to give audience to these strangers. The Herald, after the Knight had kissed the robe of Amasis, and the hand of her son, said thus with words half outlandish: Madam, this knight whom you see, being borne of the greatest of his country, having known, that in your Court every man of honour may demand reason of them that offend him, is come upon this assurance, to cast himself at your feet, and to beseech you, that justice which you never denied to any, may be allowed him in your presence, and before all these fair Nymphs, to draw reason from him, who hath done him the injury, by the means usual to persons so wronged. Amasis, after she had some while thought with herself, at last answered, that it is true, that this sort of defence of honour had always been used in this Court: but she, being a woman, did never suffer them to come in arms, yet her son was of age to manage greater affairs than these, and she would refer herself to that he should do. Clidaman, without staying for the Herald's reply, turning to Amasis, said: Madam, it is not only to be served and honoured of all those that inhabit this Province, wherein the gods have established you the Sovereign Lady, and your Ancestors also: but much rather to punish them that are faulty, and to honour those that deserve well, the best means of all is, by Arms, at the least, in those things that cannot otherwise be searched out; so that if you abolish out of your estate this most just fashion of discovering the secret practices of the wicked, you give way unto licentious lewdness, that will never fear to do evil, so that it may be performed in secret. Beside that, these strangers being the first, that in your time have had recourse to you, have some reason to complain, to be the first refused. So that since you have referred them to me, I will tell you (said he) turning him about towards the Herald, that this Knight may frankly and freely accuse whomsoever he will, for I promise him to assure himself of the field.  
The Knight then set his knee to the ground, kissed his hand, by way of thankes, and made a sign to the Herald to hold on. Sir (said he) since you do him this grace, I must tell you, he is here in search for a Knight called Polemas, whom I desire may be showed me, that I may finish what I have undertaken. Polemas hearing himself named, came forward, saying in a fashion lofty enough, that he was the man whom he sought for. Then the unknown Knight presented to him a piece of armour; and the Herald said: This Knight would say, that he presents you this gage, promising that he will be tomorrow, by the Sun rising, at the place that shall be appointed, to fight with you, to the uttermost, to prove on you, that you have wickedly invented that which you have said against him. Herald, I receive (said he) this gage; for though I know not thy Knight, yet will I not leave to be most aslured to have justice on my side, as knowing well, that I never said any thing against the truth: and let the morrow be the day of trial. At this word the Knight, after he had saluted Amasis and all the Ladies, returned into a Tent, which he caused to be spread near the towne-gate. You may think that this put all the Court into diverse discourses: especially Amasis and Clidaman, who loved Polemas well, had much grief to see him in this danger, yet their promise bound them to grant the field. As for Polemas, he prepared himself as full of courage to the combat, without having knowledge of his enemy. And for Galathee, that by this time had almost forgotten the offence that Lindamor had received from Polemas, (besides that, she believed not that he knew his evil came from thence) she never thought of Lindamor, nor I neither, who took him to be an hundred leagues from us, and yet it was he, who having received my Letter, resolved to be revenged in this sort, and so unknown, came to present himself, as I told you. But to make short, for I am no great good warrior, and so I should (if I would particularise this combat) talk somewhat improperly.  
After long combat, they had both of them equal advantage, and they were both so loaden with blows, that the soundest of the two was as much certain of his death, as of his life, their horses began to sink under them; but they on the contrary, so fresh, as if they had not fought all that day, began to pour out their blood, and to open wide gashes, with such cruel●y, that every body took pity to see two persons of that valour to be so lost.  
Amasis' among others said to Clidaman, that it were fit to separate them: and there was none that might better do it than Galathee. She that for her part was already touched within, and waited but for this commandment, to effect it with a good heart, with three or four of us came into the field. When she entered, the victory lay on Lindamors side, and Polemas was brought to evil terms, although the other were not much wounded, on whom, by chance, she lighted, and taking him by the scarf, which tied his helmet, and which hung somewhat low behind him, she pulled him with some stress. He that felt himself touched, turned rudely on that side, thinking he had been betrayed, and with that fury, that the Nymph thinking to give back, lest she should be hurt, trodden on her robe, and fell down in the midst of the field. Lindamor, who knew her, ran presently to help her up; but Polemas, without any regard to the Nymph, seeing this advantage, when he was in despair of the combat, took his sword in both his hands, and gave him, behind on the head, two or three blows, with such force, that he constrained him with one great wound to set one knee on the ground, from whence he rose so incensed, for the discourtesy of his enemy, that afterwards, though Galathee requested him, he would not leave off until he had laid him at his feet; where leaping on him, he dis-armed his head, and being ready to give him the last stroke, he heard the voice of his Lady, that said to him: Knight, I ad●u●e you by her whom you love best, to give me this Knight. I will (said he) Madam, if hae will confess he hath spoken falsely of me, and of he● by whom you adjure me. Polemas being, to his own thinking, at the last point of his life, with a loud voice confessed what they would.  
So Lindamor departed, after he had kissed the hand of his mistress, who never knew him though he spoke to her, for the Helmet, and the fear wherein she was, kept her from marking his voice. It is true, that passing by me, he said very softly, Fair Leonide, I am much bound unto you, to conceal me to yourself: thus you see the effect of your letters: & without longer stay, mounted on horse back, and though he were sore wounded, yet galloped he away, until they lost the sight of him, unwilling to be known.  
This travel of his did him much hurt, and brought him to that extremity, that being arrived at the house of one of Fleurials Aunts, where he resolved before to withdraw, if he were wounded, he found himself so feeble, that he stayed more than three weeks before he could recover himself. In the mean time, behold, Galathee returning in great choler against the unknown Knight, for that he did not leave the combat at the second time, seeming to be more offended in this refusal, then obliged, in that he gave him to her. And because Polemas held one of the first ranks, as you know, Amasis and Clidaman, with much sorrow, caused him to be carried out of the field, and looked unto with such care, that in the end they began to have hope of life in him.  
Every one was very desirous to know who this unknown Knight was, the courage and valour of whom, had won him the favour of many. Galathee only was she that conceived an evil opinion; for this proud beauty remembered the offence, but forgot the courtesy. And because I was the party whom she trusted with her most secret thoughts, as soon as she saw me in private, Know you (said she) this discourteous Knight, to whom Fortune, not valour, gave the advantage in this fight? I know (said I, Madam) this valiant Knight, & I know him to be as courtcous as valiant. He hath not showed it (said she) in this action, otherwise he would not have refused to leave the combat when I requested him. Madame, answered I, you blame him for that, for which you are to esteem him, since that, to give you the honour which every one owes to you, he was in danger of his life, and saw his blood pour down on the earth. If (said Galathee) therein Polemas did wrong he had the advantage shortly after, when notwithstanding any prayer I could make, he would not give over. And had he not reason (said I) to be desirous to chastise this pride, for the small respect he bore to you? And for my part, I find, that in this, Lindamor hath done very well. How, (interrupted she) was it Lindamor that fought? Indeed I was overtaken, for I named him before I thought it: but seeing it was done, I resolved to ●ell her, Yes, Madam, it is Lindamor, who felt himself offended at that which Polemas had spoke of him, and would make it apparent by Arms. She stood as if she were beside herself: and after she had some while thought of this accident, she said, Then is it Lindamor that hath done me this displeasure? Is it he that yielded me so small respect? Had he than so 〈◊〉 consideration, that he durst put my honour into the hazard of Fortune, or of Arms? At this word she paused out of extreme choler: And I, that in any case desired she should know he had done no wrong, answered, Is it possible, Madam, that you can complain of Lindamor, without acknowledging the wrong you have done to yourself? What displeasure hath he done you, since in vanquishing Polemas, he hath vanquiyour enemy? How, my enemy (said she?) Ah! Lindamor is much more: for if Polemas talked, Lindamor gave him the subject. O God (said I then) what is that I hear? Lindamor your enemy? that hath no soul but to adore you, and hath not a drop of blood which he would not spend for your service: and he your friend, that by his forged discourses, hath endeavoured by practices to wound your honour? But who knows (said she) if it be not true that Lindamor, thrust forward by his usual arrogancy, hath used such language? Well then, replied I, how much are you bound to Lindamor, that he hath made your enemy confess that he invented it? Oh! Madam, pardon me, if you please: but I cannot but herein accuse you of a great mistaking, that I may not say ingratitude. If he hazard his life to make it appear that Polemas lied, do you accuse him of inconsideration? And if he have made the liar confess it, will you tax him of discourtesy? And if he had not committed his right to Arms, how should the truth of this business have been found? And if, when you commanded him the second ●i●e, he had left the battle, Polemas had never confessed that you or any other should have heard. O poor Lindamor, how must I bewail thy fortune? And what is it thou canst do, when thy most notable services are offences and injuries? But well, Madam, it may be, you shall not have long time to use these cruelties: for a most pitiful death may bring end to your mistake and his punishment; and (it may be) even now, when I speak, he is no more; and if it be so, the Nymph, Galathee, is the only cause. Why do you accuse me, said she? Because (replied I) that when you would have separated them, and in recoiling, your knee touched the ground, he would have helped you up: in the mean time that courteous Polemas, whom you commend so much, wounded him in two or three several places, out of that advantage, where I saw the blood make the ground red: but if he die for this, it is less evil than that he receives from you: for seeing himself mistaken, having done his endeavour, this (me thinks) is a displeasure to which no other can be equalled. But, Madam, may it please you to remember, that heretofore you have said to me, in complaining of him, that to blot out these speeches of Polamas, he knew no other remedy; he was to serve himself of sword and blood. And now he hath done that which you judged he should do, and yet you find it not well done.  
If Siluie, and some other Nymphs had not interrupted us, before I had left off my discourse, I had well assuaged this great mind of the Nymph; but seeing so many persons, we changed our talk. And yet my words were not without effect, though she would make no show of it to me, but by a thousand passages I found the truth: for, from that day I resolved never to speak to her more of him, unless she asked me some news. She on the other side, looked that I should speak first, and so more than eight days passed without speech. But in the mean time, Lindamor was not without care to know both what was said of him in Court, and what Galathee thought of him. He sent Fleurial to me for this cause, and to give me word in a letter. He did his message so well, that Galathe● took no notice of it: his Billet was thus:  
The Billet of Lindamor, to Leonide.  
MAdam, who doubts of my innocency, shall be no less guilty against the truth: yet if the closed eyes see not the light, though without shadow it shine on them, I may be suffered to doubt, that my Lady for my misery, hath her eyes shut against the brightness of my justice, bind me, by assuring her, that if the blood of my enemy cannot wash away the stain, with which he hath gone about to defile me, I will voluntarily add thereto mine own, that I no otherwise preserve my life which is hers, but that her rigour shall make me ready to render it.  
I enquired particularly of Fleurial, how he fared, & if there were any that knew him: and I understood that he had lost much blood, and that much hindered his healing: but there was no danger: that to be known, it could not be, because the Herald was a Frank of the army of Meroue, who kept about the banks of Rhine at that time; and they that attended him, were not suffered to go out of doors, and that his Aunt and Sister took him but for the knight that fought with Polemas, whose valour and liberality won them to serve him with that care, that they were not to doubt but he would be better; that he had commanded him to come know of me, what the bruit was in the Court, and what he was to do. I answered him, that he should carry to Lindamor, that all the Court was full of his valour, though he were unknown, that for the rest he should look to his healing, and that I, for my part, would bring what I could to his contentment. Thus, I gave him mine answer, and told him the day before your departure, When Galathee comes into the garden, invent some occasion to go to see your Aunt, and take leave of her, for it is necessary for our business, that I speak with you again. He failed not, and by fortune the next day, the Nymph being come toward evening into the garden, Fleurial came to make his reverence, and would speak with her: but Galathee, that thought it was to giver her letters from Lindamor, stood so confused, that I saw her change colour, and looked pale like death. And because I feared, Fleurial would perceive it, I came forward, & said to her, Madam, here is Fleurial, that would go to see his Aunt because she is sick, and desires you to give him leave for some few days. Galathee turning her eyes and words to me, asked what her disease was. I think (answered I) it is so many years passed, that it takes from her all hope of recovery. Then she turned to Fleurial, and said, Go and return quickly, but not before she be well if it be possible: for I love her well, for the special good will, which she hath always borne me. At this word she held on her walking, and I set myself to speak to him, and shown in my gesture more than indeed of displeasure, and admiration, that the Nymph might note it: at last I told him, See, Fleurial, you 〈◊〉 sacrer and wise, thereon depends all our good, or all your evil, and above all, do what Lindamor shall command you. After he had promised me, he went his way, and I disposed my countenance the best I could to sadness and displeasure; and sometimes when I was in place where the Nymph only might he are, I feigned to sigh, and lift up mine eyes to heaven, and strike my hands together, and to be short, I did all I could imagine to give her some suspicion of what I would. She, as I told you, that looked always when I should speak of Lindamor, seeing I said nothing, but on the contrary avoided all occasions, and in stead of that pleasant humour, which made me be esteemed of among my companions, I had but a troubled melancholy, by little and little began to be of opinion, that I would give it her, but not all: for my purpose was to make her believe, that Lindamor going from the combat, was so sore wounded, that he was dead, that pity might obtain that of that glorious soul, which neither affection nor services could. Now, as I told you, my plot was so well fitted, that it fell out as I did forecast, for though she would dissemble, yet could she not choose but be as lively touched for Lindamor, as any might be. And so seeing me sad, and mure, she imagined either he was in very hard case, or some thing worse, and felt herself so pressed with this unquietness, that she could not possibly longer hold out her resolution.  
Two days after, that Fleurial was gone, she made me come into her cabinet, and seeming to talk of another matter, said to me, Know you how Fleurials Aunt doth? I answered, that since he went I knew nothing. Truly (said she) I would be very sorry, if the old woman should not do well: you have reason (said I) Madam, for she love's you, and you have had many services of her, which are not yet fully acknowledged. If she live (said she) I will do it, and after her, I will remember Fleurial for her sake. Then I answered, Both the services of the aunt, & those of the Nephew, deserve some good recompense, and especially Fleurial; for his faithfulness, and affection cannot be bought. It is true (said she) but because you speak of Fleurial, what great matter had you to say to him? or he to you, when he went away? I answered coldly, I recommended me to his aunt. Recommendations (said she) were not so long: then she came nearer me and laid her hand on my shoulder: Tell truth, continued she; you spoke of some other thing. And what might it be (replied I) if it were not that? I had no other business with him. Now I know (said she) that at this present you dissemble: why did you say you had no other business with him, and have had so much for Lindamor? O! Madam, I little thought you would have remembered a man so unfortunate; and then holding my peace, I fetched a deep sigh. What is the matter (said she) that you sigh? tell me true; where is Lindamor? Lindamor (answered I) is no more than earth. How, (cried she out) Lindamor is no more? No indeed (answered I) the cruelty which you have used towards him, hath rather slain him then the strokes of his enemy: for going from the combat, and knowing by the report of many, the evil satisfaction which you had of him, he would never suffer himself to be dressed; and because you have such a desire to know, that was it that Fleurial told me, whom I commanded to assay, if he could wisely withdraw the letters which we have writ him, to the end that as you have lost the remembrance of his services by your cruelty, so might I consume in the fire the memories which might remain. O God (said she) what is that you tell me? Is it possible he should be so lost? It is you (said I) that may say you have lost him: for his part, he hath gained by dying, since by death he hath found rest, which your cruelty will never permit him, while he lived.  
Ah! Leonide (said she) you tell me these things, to put me to pain: confess the truth, he is not dead. Would to God it were so (said I) but for what cause should I tell you? I answer, his death or life are indifferent to you; and specially since you loved him so little, you may be glad to be exempted for the importunity he would have given you: for you are to believe that if he had lived, he would never have ceased from giving such proofs of his affection, as that of Polemas. Indeed then, said the Nymph, I am sorry for the poor Lindamor, and swear unto you, that his death touches me more to the quick, than I though it would: but tell me, had he never no remembrance of us at his end? and did he not show to be grieved to leave us? See, Madam (said I) a question which is not usual! He died for your sake, and you ask if he remembered you? Ah! that his memory and his sorrow had not been too great for his health! I beseech you talk no more of him. I assure myself, he is in the place where he receives the reward of his fidelity, and where it may be, he shall see himself revenged at you cost. You are in choler (said she.) You must pardon me (said I) Madam: but this is the reason that constrains me to speak thus, for there is none that can give more testimony of his affection and fidelity than I, and of the wrong you have done him, to give him so unworthy a recompense for so many services. But (said the Nymph) let us set this aside; for I know that in some thing you have reason: but I have not done so much wrong as you impute. And tell me, I pray you, by the love you bear me, if in his last words he remembered me, and what they were? Must you (said I) triumph in your soul at the end of his life, as you have done over all his actions, since he begun to love you? If this must be to your contentment, I will satisfy you. As soon as he knew that you went about to blemish the honour of his victory, and that in stead of pleasing you, he hath by this fight got your hatred, it shall never be (said he) O injustice, that thou shalt, for my cause, lodge longer in so fair a soul. I must by my death wash away my offence. Then he took all the clouts which he had on his wounds, and would no more suffer the hand of the Chirurgeon: his wounds were not mortal, but the rankling brought it to those terms, that he perceived small strength in him to live: he called Fleurial, and being alone, he said, My friend Fleurial, thou now lofest him that had great care to do thee good: but you must arm yourself with patience, since it is the will of heaven: I would yet have one piece of service from thee, which shall better please me, then that thou ever didst, And having drawn from him a promise that he would do it: he continued, You must not fail in what I bid you. As soon as I shall be dead, rip up my belly, and take out the heart, and carry it to the fair Galathee, and tell her that I send it her, that at my death I may keep nothing that belongs to any other. At these last words, he lost both speech and life.  
Now this fool Fleurial, that he may not be wanting in that which was commanded him, by a person whom he held so dear, hath brought hither the heart, and without me would present it to you. Ah! Leonide, (said she) is it certain he is dead? Oh God, that I knew not his sickness! and you would never tell me of it! I would have found some remedy. O what a loss have I sustained! & how great is your fault! Madam, (answered I) I knew nothing: for Fleurial stayed with him to attend him, because he had none of his own: but if I had known, I think I should not have spoken to you of it, I knew your mind was so far removed from that subject. At these words, resting her head on her arm, she commanded me to leave her alone, to the end, as I thought, that I might not see her tears which already increased their drops: but hardly was I gone, before she called me back, and without lifting up her head, she bid me command Fleurial to bring her that which Lindamor had sent her, in what fashion he listed. And presently I went out, fully assured that the knights affairs for whom I pleaded, would fall out as I had propounded. In the mean time, when Fleurial returned to Lindamor, he found him in pain, for the long tarrying he made at Montbrison: but my letter rejoiced him so, that at an instant a man might see him amended. It was thus:  
The answer of Leonide to Lindamor.  
YOur justice so clears, that the eyes fastest shut, cannot deny the brightness. Content yourself, that they whom you desire should see it by me, having known your resolution, have found it most just: it is true, that as the wounds of the body are not all healed, though they be out of danger, so are they of the mind: but having removed the danger by your valour and prudence, you must give time leave to work his ordinary actions, remembering that the sores which heal oversoon, are subject to putrify, which is afterwards more dingerous than the wound. Hope for all your desire: for you may have it with reason.  
I writ to him in this sort, that sadness might not hurt his wounds, and that he might heal the sooner. He writ back to me thus:  
The reply of Lindamor to Leonide.  
SO, fair Nymph, may you have all sort of contentment, as all mine comes and depends on you alone. I hope now you command me, but lone which is ever accompanied with doubt, commands me to tremble: but let heaven do with me what it pleaseth: I know, it will not deny me the grave.  
Now, that which I answered (that I may not trouble you with so many letters) was in sum, that as soon as he might endure travel, he should find means to speak with me, that then he should know how true I was; and as shortly as I could, I let him know all the talk that Galat he and I had, and the displeasure she had of his death, and the will she had to have his heart. See what the force is of a strong affection! Lindamor had been wounded in many places, and lost so much blood, that he was in danger of his life; yet beyond the hope of the Surgeous, as soon as he received the last letter, you might see him walk, you might see him apparel himself, and within two or three days after, he assayed to mount on horseback; at last, he hazarded himself to come to me: and because he durst not come by day, that he might not be seen, he clad himself like a Gardener, and calling himself the cousin of Fleurial, resolved to come into the garden, and to behave himself as occasion should be offered.  
As he set down, so he put it to effect; and causing his clothes privily to be made ready, he told the Aunt of Fleurial, that before the combat, he had made a vow, and that he would render it before he went out of those parts: but that fearing the friends of Polemas, he would go in that disguise, and desired her to say nothing. The good old woman would have dissuaded him from the danger wherein he was, counselling him, to put off his journey, till some other time. But he that was carried with too ardent a devotion to break off, told her, that if he did it not before he went out of the country, he believed, all the misfortunes of the world would befall him. So about evening he departed, that he might meet no body, and arrived so happily, that unseen, he entered into the garden, and was led by Fleurial into the house, where (at that time) he had but one servant to help him to work, whom he made believe, that Lindamor was his cousin, whom he would teach the mystery of a Gardener. If the knight waited for the morning with great desire, and if the night seemed not to him longer than usual, he that hath been in attempt of that he desires, may judge.  
So it was, that the morning was no sooner come, but Lindamor, with a spade in his hand, enters the Garden. I would you had seen him with this tool: you might well know he was not used to it, and that he knew better to carry a lance. He hath sworn to me an hundred times since, that he was never more ashamed in his life, than to present himself thus attired before the eyes of his mistress; and he was twice or thrice in mind to return. But in the end, Love surmounted the shame, and made him resolve to stay our com●ing. By fortune, that day the Nymph, to refresh herself, came down into the Garden, with many of my companions. As soon as she saw Fleurial, she was glad, and presently made a sign with her eye: but though I assayed to speak to him, yet could I not do it, because the new Gardner was by, who was so changed in his habit, that none could know him. For my part I excuse myself for not knowing him. For I would never have thought that he would have done this define, without acquainting me with it. But he hath since told me, that he concealed it from me, knowing well, that I would never have suffered him to come thither, in that sort. Thinking then of any other rather than of him, I was very curious to ask of Fleurial, who this stranger was? He answered me coldly, that he was 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 son, whom he would teach what himself knew in gardening. At this word Galathee, as curious, but less courageous than I, seeing me talk with him, came to him, and hearing that he was Fleurial● cousin, asked him how his mother did. Then it was that Lindamor was much troubled, for he feared that that which was covered by his habit, might be discovered by his speech; yet counterfeiting as well as he could, he answered in a country language, that she was past all danger, and then followed a reverence after the same fashion, with such a grace, that all the Nymphs fell on laughing: but he, without show of ●eeding them, put his hat upon his head with both his hands, and fell to his work.  
Galathee smiling, said to Fleurial, If your cou●●● be as good a Gardener, as he is a speaker, you have gotten a good help. Madam (said Fleurial) he can speak no better than those that taught him: in his village they speak also. Yes, said the Nymph, it may be he is taken for some great man among them. At this word she walked away. This gave me some commodity to speak to Fleurial. But my companions, to pass the time, placed themselves about Lindamor; and every one to make him speak, said somewhat: and he answered them all, but with things so fare from the purpose, that they could not choose but laugh; for he sp●●e so, that he seemed to be in earnest: and though he answered, yet did her never lift up his head, feigning to be busy at his work. In the mean time, going to Fleurial, I asked him how Lindamor did? He answered, he was yet ill enough: Lindamor had willed him to say so. And whence comes his evil (said I) for you told me his wounds were almost healed? You may know, answered he, by the Letter he hath written to my Lady. My Lady (said I) thinks he is dead; but give it me, and I will let her see it, feigning that it was long since written. I dare not (answered he) because he hath expressly forbidden me, and hath tied me by oath. How (said I) is Lindamor entered into mistrust of me? Not so, said he, but contrarily he prays you make the Nymph believe he is dead. But for his good, and my advantage, the Nymph must receive the letter at my hands. I was put into choler, and had said more, if I had not feared to be perceived. But he did so well that he was commanded, that I could draw no other thing from him; but for conclusion, that if the Nymph would have that which Lindamor gave her, she must receive it at his hands. And when I told him, that it might be long before he could speak with her, and that may do hurt: he answered me not, but with nodding his head: by which he let me know he would not do it.  
Galathee perceiving that we talked, desirous to know the subject, returned from her walk sooner than of custom; and having called me, would know what it was. I said to her freely, I would tell her that which was the resolution of Fleurial, but in stead of the Letter, I said it was the heart of Lindamor, and that having been in any case commanded by him at his death, he thought he should commit treason, if he did not perform his promise. Then Galathee answered me, that she meant to speak with him particularly, and that she thought he could not have a sitter mean than to fayne the bringing of some fruit in a basket, and in the bottom they might lay the heart. I answered, This might well be so done: but I knew him to be such a beast, that he would do nothing, because Avarice gave him hope to have much from her, if himself presented (in delivering the heart into her hands) the services which in these occasions he had done. O (said she) if he keep it but for this, let him tell you what he will have only: for I will give it him. That shall be (replied I) a kind of ransom which you must pay for that heart. That is not (said she) of money that I must pay, but of my tears, and those drawn from my blood. It may be, she was sorry she said so much. So it was, that she commanded me in the morning to speak to Fleurial: which I did, and set before him all that which I thought might move him to give me this Letter, even to threatening. But all was in vain: for, for resolution he said, Look, Leonide, till the heaven and earth meet together, I will do no otherwise. If my Lady will know what I have to say to her, the evenings are so bright, that she may come with you to the foot of the stairs, which descend from her chamber: the Moon shines, I have seen her come often, the way is not long, no body shall know of it: I assure myself, that when she hath heard me, she will not complain of the labour she hath taken.  
When he had said thus, I was in extreme choler with him, representing to him that he was to obey Galathee, and not Lindamor: that she was his mistress, that she could do him good or ill. Shortly, that there was no likelihood that she would take the pain. But he, without being moved, told me, Nymph, it is not to Lindamor that I obey, but the oath which I have made to the gods; if she cannot in this sort●, I can soon return thither from whence become. I left him with his obstinancy so vexed, that I was half besides myself; for if I had known the design of Lindamor, since the matter was so forward, without doubt I had helped him. But not knowing it, I found Fleurial with so small reason, that I knew not what to say. At last, I returned to give answer to Galathee, who was in such choler, that she would make him be beaten, and thrust out of her mother's service, if I had not set before her the danger whereinto she put herself, that she discovered not what had passed. Three or four days p●ssed while the Nymph remained obstinate, not to do as Fleurial required: at last, Love being overstrong to conquer all things, forced her so, that in the morning she told me, that all the night she had taken no rest; the ghost of Lindamor was all night about her, so that she thought it was the least thing she owed to his memory, to go down the stairs to receive his heart from another; and that I should signify to Fleurial, that he should not fail to be there. O God what was the contentment of the new Gardner? He hath told me since, that in his life he never had such a surfeit of joy: because he perceived his device began to take effect. And seeing the Nymph came no more into the Garden, he was afraid that she knew him.  
But when Fleurial advertised him of the resolution she had taken, this was a new resurrection of Love, at least, if one may die for sorrow, and revive by contentment. He prepared himself to go about what he had to do, with more curiosity than ever against Polemas. The night being come, and every man retired, the Nymph failed not to attire herself but only with a robe for the night; and making me to open the former door, she made me go out first; and I swear, she trembled so, that she could hardly go. She said she had a certain pain in her stomach, which she was not used to, and took from her all strength. She knew not whether it were for being abroad in the night without light, or for going so late at an unfit hour, or because she was to receive the present of Lindamor; but whatsoever it was, she was not well. At the last, being somewhat assured, we went down, where we had no sooner opened the door, but we found Fleurial, who had long waited for us. The Nymph went out before, and going under a shelter of W 〈…〉 in●e, which for the largeness might 〈◊〉 v● both from the 〈◊〉 of the Moon, and from being 〈◊〉, from the windows of those ●●dgings that answer the garden, she began all, in choler to say to Fla●●ial; Well, Flatbill, how long have you been, so firm in your opinion, that though I command, yet you will do nothing? Madam (answered he) without being moved, I have obeyed you in sailing you, if there be a fault: for, have not you commanded me expressly, that I should do what Lindamer appointed me? Now, Madam, it is he that hath thus commanded me, and who delivering me his heart, besides his commandment, bound me by oath, that I should not deliver it into any other hands b●● yours. Well, well, interrupted she, fetching a sigh, where is the heart? Behold, Madam, said he, stepping back three or four paces to a little Arbot, If it please you to come, you shall see it better than where you are. She rose up, and came thither: bu● when she would enter, behold, a man that cast 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 her feet, and without saying any thing, kissed her robe. O God, said the Nymph, who is this, Fleurial? see, a man! Madam (said 〈◊〉 〈◊〉) it is an heart that is yours. How, said she, an 〈◊〉 And then she would have fled away for fear: but he that ●●ist her to be, 〈◊〉 her back. Hearing these words, I drew near and presently I knew it was ●e, that Flourial said was his cousin. I knew not suddenly what to think: I saw Galathee and myself in the hands of these women, the one of 〈◊〉 was unknown to us. What could we resolve to do? 〈◊〉 wee 〈◊〉 to fly, Galathee could not; to trust to ou● own 〈◊〉 there was no appearance. At last, all that I could do, was to cast●●● self into the hands of him that held the Nymphs 〈◊〉 not being able to do more, I began to scratch and to bite him. That which I did, was with such speeds that the first thing that he felt, was the biting. Ah, courmous 〈◊〉 said he, how do you handle your enemies, when you deal so ridely with your servants? Though I were almost besides myself, ye I almost knew the voice, and ask him who lie was? I am (said her) the man that bears the heart of Lindamon to this ●aire Nymph: and then not raising himself from the earth, turning to her, he went on:  
I must confess, Madam, that this rashness is great, yet is it no way equal to my affection, which hath caused it. See the heart of 〈◊〉, which I bring you: I hope, this present shall be as well accepted from the hand of the giver, as from a stranger: yet it my misfortune deny me what Love hath promised me, having offended the divinity who● I only adore, condemn this heart, which I bring you to all the cruel 〈◊〉 you please: for so the pain may satisfy you, it shall bear it patiently; and with as much contentment as pardon it. I easily knew him then to be Lindamor, and so did Galathee: she seeing him at her 〈◊〉 whom she bewalled for dead; and in the place of a Gardener, the Knight that gives place to none in all the Country. And knowing that Galathee was so surprised, I said, Is it so, Lindamer, that you surprise Ladies? This is not the act of a Knight, especially such as you are. I confess, said he, gracious Nymph, that it is not the act of a Knight, but withal, you cannot deny, but it is of a Lover; and what am I more than a Lover? Love, that hath taught others to spnine, teaches me to be a Gardener. Is it possible (said he, turning to the Nymph) that this extreme affection which you have caused, is so displeasing to you, that you would have it end in my death? I have had the hardiness to bring you that which you would have of mine, this heart, is it not more welcome to you in life then in death? Now, if it be your pleasure that it die, behold here a dagger, which may abridge that, which your rigour in time may bring.  
The Nymph to all these words made no answer, but Ah, Leonide, have you betrayed me? and with these words went out into the Alley, where she found a seat sit for the purpose; for she was so besides herself, that she knew not where she was. There the Knight cast himself on his knees, and I came on the other side, and said. How, Madam, say you you are betrayed? Why do you accuse 〈◊〉 so? I swear by the service I have vowed you, that I knew nothing of this act, & Fleurial hath deceived me as well as you. But God be praised that the, deceit is so commodious to cuery one: behold one heart of 〈◊〉, which Flourial promised you; but see him in a state to do you service: may you not be glad of this treason?  
It would be too long, to tell you all the discourse we had. So it was, that at last we made a peace, and so, that this love was more strongly tied then ever before: yet with condition, that, for that present he should departed, to go whither Amasis and Clidaman had sent him. This departure was unpleasing; yet he must obey: and so, after he had kissed Galath●●● hands, without any greater favour, he departed. Well, he went in great assurance, that at his return he might see her at that hour, and in that place. But to what purpose should I particularise every thing? Lindamor returned to them that being his followers expected him, & from thence, with great ●●●gence went where Clidaman thought he was, and by the way he framed a thousand wise excuses of his stay, sometimes accusing the incommodities of the mountains, and sometimes the sickness which yet appeared in his face, by reason of his wounds, and thinking that all the while he was absent from from his Lady, his business was not worth the stay, he came back with the permission of Amasis and Clidaman, into Forests, where being arrived, and having given a good account of his charge, he was honoured and made much of, as his virtue deserved. But all this went not to his heart, in respect of that aspect, which he had from the Nymph, who since his last departure increased so her good will, that I know not if Lindamor had cause to call himself more loving, then beloved.  
This suit passed so fare, that one night being in the garden, he pressed her oftentimes to permit him to demand her of Amasis, that he was certain he had done such services to her and her son, that they would not deny him this grace. She answered, You may more doubt of their good will then of your deserts; & you may be less assured of your merits, then of my good will: but I would not that you should speak of it, until Clidaman be married. I am younger than he, I may stay so long. You may well (answered he) but so will not the violence of my passion at least, if you will not agree to this remedy, give me one that cannot hurt you, if your will be as you tell me. If I may (said she) without offending myself, I will promise you. After he had kissed her hand, Madam (said he) you have promised me to swear before Leonide, and the gods, that hear our discourse, that you will be my wife, as I take an oath before them; never to have any other. Galathee, was overtaken: yet feigning, that it was partly for the oath she had taken, and partly by my persuasion, though indeed it were her own affection, she was contented, and swearing between my hands, with condition, that Lindamor should never come into that garden, until the marriage were declared; and that to prevent the occasion that may make them pass further; behold, Lindamor, the most content that ever was, full of all sources of hope, at least, of all those that a lover might have, that was beloved, and waiting but for the promised conclusion of his desires, when Love, or rather Fortune would mock him, and give him the most cruel displeasure that any might have. O Lindamor, how vain are these thy propositions?  
At this time Clidaman being departed with Guymantes, to seek the adventures of arms, and then he went to the army of Merone, and though he went privately, yet his actions made him well enough known; and because Amasis would not have him stay there in that sort, she levied all the forces she could make, to send to him, and as you know, gave the charge to Lindamor, and kept Polemas for governor under her of all her provinces, until the coming of her son: which she did, as well to give satisfaction to these two great personagens, as to separate them a little: for ever since the return of Lindamer, they have had some brabble together, were it, for that there is nothing so secret, which in some sort is not discovered; and for that Polemas had some conjecture, that it was he against whom he fought, or that love only was the cause: so it was, that all men knew how little good will, they bore each to other. Now Polemas was well content, and Lindamor went away with no ill will; the one, that he might be near his Mistress, the other, that having occasion to do service to Amasis, he might thereby bind her, hoping by this way to make easy the passage to that good which he aspired. But Polemas, that knew by the eye, how much he was out of favour, and contrarily, how many favours his rival had received, having now no hope, neither in his services not in his merits, ran to subtlety. And behold how he sets up a man! but the most crafty and deceitful that ever was in his mystery, whom, without acquainting any in the Court, he caused secretly to see Amasis, Galathee, Siluie, Silere, me and all the other Nymphs, and not only showed him their face, but told him what he knew of them all, namely the things most secret, whereof being an old Courtier, he was well informed, and after desired him to feign himself to be a Druid or great divine. He came into that great wood of Savigneu near the fair gardens of Montbrison, where by asmall river, where he might pass over, he made his lodging, and tarried there some while, seeming to be a great diviner; so that the bruit of him came to us, and specially Galathee went to him to know her fortune. This crafty companion could so well play his part, with such circumstances and ceremonies, that I must confess the truth, I was deceived as well as others.  
So it was, that the conclusion of his cunning, was, to tell her that the heavens had given her by influence, the choice of a great good, or a great evil, and it was wisdom to choose: That both the one and the other, was to proceed from that which she should love; and if she neglected his advice, she should be the unhappiest woman in the world: and contrarily, most happy, if she made a good election; that if she would believe him, he would give her so certain knowledge both of the one and the other, that she had no more to do, but to discern them. And looking in her hand, and after on her face, he said, Such a day being within Marseilles, you shall see a man clad in such a colour: if you marry him, you are the most miserable in the world. Then he let her see in a mirror, a place which is by the river of Lignon, & said, You see this place, go at such an hour, you shall find the man that shall make you most happy, if you marry him. Now Climanthe (so is this deceiver called) had eunningly known both the day that Lindamor was to departed, and the colour of his : and his dessine was, that Polemas seeming to go hunt, should be at the place which he shown in the glass. Now hear, I pray you, how all fell out: Lindamor failed not to come forth apparelled as Climanthe had foretold, and that day Galathee, who had good remembrance of Lindamor, stood so astonished, that she could not answer to what he said. The poor knight thought it was for the grief of his departure so fare off: so that after he had kissed her hand, he went away to the Army more contented than his fortune required. If I had known she had been of that opinion, I would have endeavoured to have diverred her from it, but she kept it so secret from me, that as then I had no knowledge of it. Afterward, the day drew on that Climanthe had told her, that she should find about the Lignon, him that should make her happy. She would not tell me all her design, only she let me understand, if the Druid were true in that which he said: that the Court was so empty, that there was no pleasure in it: that for a while Solitariness would be more pleasing: that she was resolved to go to her Palace of Isour, as privately as she could possibly: and that of her Nymphs she would have but Siluie and me, her Nurse and the little Merill. As for me that was cloyed with the Court, I said, that it would be fit to withdraw a while: and so letting Amasis know, that she would take physic, she might be gone the next morning.  
But it was her Nurse that confirmed her in that opinion: for this good old woman that loved her Nurcechild very tenderly, easily being drawn to credit these predictions, as (for the most part) all of her age are, counselled her to it, and pressed her so that finding her already so inclined, It was an easy thing to thrust her into this Labyrinth. For my part, I was never more astonished: for suppose there be but three persons in this great building. But the Nymph, which well marked the day that Climanthe had set, prepared the evening before to go thither, and in the morning dressed herself, the most to her advantage she could, and commanded us to do the like. In that sort we went in a Coach to the place assigned: where being arrived, by chance, at the hour which Climanthe had said, we found a shepherd almost drowned, and half covered with mud and gravel, whom the fury of the water had cast on our shore. This shepherd was Celadon: I know not if you know him, who, by chance, being fain into Lignon, wanted of drowning himself: but we came so fitly, that we saved him: for Galathee beleeuing it was he that was to make her happy, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 time began to love him so, as she thought 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 pain to her us lay him in the Coach, and then to the Palace: he all this whi●● not coming to himself. As then the sa●●, the fright of death, & the scratch●● he had in his face kept him, that his beauty could not be perceived, And, for my part, I ours the Enchanter and Divine, which was the cause we took so much pain: for I swear, I never had the like in my life.  
But after he came to himself, and that his face was without soil, he seemed the goodlieft man that I can tell of; besides that, he had a spirit savouring of any thing, rather than of a shepherd. I have seen none in our Court mo●● civil, nor more worthy to be beloved: in somuch as I do not wonder that Galathe should be strongly enamoured, that she can hardly go from him in the night. But indeed she deceives herself, because this shepherd is lost for the love of a called Astrea.  
Thus, all these things gave no small blow to Lindamor, because the Nymph, having found that true which this liar told her, is resolved to die, rather than to marry Lindamor, and studies by all her skill to make herself amiable to this shepherd, who doth nothing, especially in her presence, but sigh his absence from Astrea. I know not whether the constraint he is in, (for she will not let him go from the Palace) or whether the water which he swallowed, when he fell into the river, be the cause: so it is, that ever since he goes puling, sometimes in bed, sometimes out, but at last, he hath gotten a fever so burning, that knowing no remedy for his health, the Nymph hath commanded me to seek you out diligently, that you may see what is necessary to save him alive.  
The Druid was very attentive during this discourse, and gave diverse judgements, according to the subject of his Niece's words, and (it may be) near the truth: for he knew well, that she was not altogether exempted, neither from Love nor fault; yet as well advised as he was, he dissembled it, and said to his Niece, that it was no hard matter to serve Galathee, especially in the person of Celadon, whose parents he had always loved, and though he were a shepherd, yet descended he from the ancient line of Knights; and that his Ancestors had chosen that kind of life, for the more quiet and happier than that at Court, and therefore he was to be honoured and well served. But this fashion of life which Galathee used, was neither good for the Nymph, nor honourable for her, that coming to the Palace, and having seen the manner of things, he would tell her how she should govern herself. The Nymph, some what ashamed, answered, It was some long time since she had a purpose to tell him, but she neither durst, not met with opportunity: for indeed, Climanthe was the cause of all the evil. O (answered Adamas) if I can catch him, I will make him pay, with usury, the false title which he hath usurped of a Druide. That will be easy (said the Nymph) by a mean that I will tell you. He told Galathee that she should return twice or thrice, to the place where she was to find this man, if she found him not the first time: I know that Polemas and he having been so tardy the first day, will not fail to come the others following: he that will take this deceiver, he need but hide him in the place which I will show you, whither, without doubt, he will come: and for the day, you may know it of Galathee; for, for my part, I have forgotten it.   
The end of the ninth Books.   

THE TENTH BOOK OF Astrea and Celadon.  
WIth this discourse the Nymph deceived, in part, the length of the way, both of them being so attentive, that, almost before they were ware, they found they were near the Palace of Isour. But Adamas, that desired in any wise to remedy this life, instructed her what he would have her say to Galathee; and above all, not to let her know that he disliked her actions: for (said he) I know well, that the courage of the Nymph must be overcome with gentleness, and not with force. But in the mean time (my Niece) remember you to do your duty; that these allurements are shameful, both to those that are attained with them, and to them that favour them.  
He had gone on with his advices, if at the entry of the Palace they had not met Siluie, who led them to the place where Galathee was. At that time she was gone to walk into the next Garden, while Celadon rested. As soon as she saw them, she came towards them, and the Druid, with one knee on the ground, saluted her, kissing her robe, and so did Leonide; but lifting them up, she embraced them both, thanking Adamas for the pains he had taken in coming, with assurance that she would requite it in those occasions which might turn to his pleasure. Madame, said he, all my services cannot deserve the least of these good words: I am only sorry, that that which is presented, is not a stronger proof of my affection; to the end, that in any case you might know, that if I be grown old without doing you service, it is not for want of good will, but for that I have not had the happiness to be employed. Adamas (answered the Nymph) the services which you have done to Amasis, I take for mine; & those which I have had from your Niece, I take them as from you; so that you cannot say, but in the person of my mother, you have well served me; and in that of your Niece, you have been often employed. Always as I may, I will acknowledge your services together. But in that which is offered at this time, bethink yourself; that since there is nothing more grievous than the strokes that are laid on the part most sensible, that having my spirit wounded, you cannot find the means to do me more acceptable service then in this. We will talk of it at leisure, in the mean time, go to your rest, and Siluie shall bring you to your chamber, and Leonide render account to me of what she hath done.  
So the Druide went away: And Galathee using Leonide more kindly then of wont, demanded the news of her voyage, wherein in she satified her willingly: But (going forward) Madame (said she) I thank God, I find you more joyful than I left you. Friend, said the Nymph, the likely healing of Celadon hath brought me this good: for you must know, that you were not gone above a mile hence, before he waked without his fever: but since he is so much amended, that he himself hopes to rise within two or three days. See (answered 〈◊〉!) the best news that I could have wished to have had at my return, so that if I had known it sooner, I had not brought Adamas hither.  
But to the purpose, said Galathee, what said he of this accident? For I assure myself, you have told him. Pardon me, Madam, said Leonide, I told him nothing but what I thought could not be hidden from him when he was to be here. He knows the love which you bear to C●ledō, which, I have told him, proceeded of pity: he knows well the shepherd, and those of his family; and assure himself, he shall be able to porswade him to all things that he shall please: and for my part, I think, if you will employ him, he will do you service; but you must speak plainly to him. O God, said the Nymph, is it possible? I am assured, that if he will undertake it, it cannot but all turn to my contentment: for his wisdom is so great, and his judgement also, that he cannot choose but bring about whatsoever he begins. Madame, said Leonide, I speak not without ground: you shall see, If you will serve yourself by him, what will be. Now behold the Nymph the most contented in the world, already figuring to herself the accomplishment of her desires.  
But while they discoursed thus, Sil●y and 〈◊〉 spent the time about the same business: for the Nymph, who was well inquainted with the Druid, talked of them very openly. He that was very wary, that he might know if his Nee●e had told him true, prayed her to tell him what she knew. Silay, that desired in any case to break off this discourse. did it without dissimulation, and the shortest she could, in this manner:  

The History of Leonide.  
KNow, that the better to instruct you of all that you demand, I am constrained to touch the particulars of some other besides Galathee. And I shall do it the more willingly, for that it may be behooveful for the time to come, that they should not be hidden from you. It is Leonide of whom I speak, whom (it seems) destinies would entangle more than ordinary in the dessignes of Galathee. This that I tell you, is not to blame her, or to make it known. For telling it to you, I believe it is no less secret than if you had not known it. You must then understand, that it is long time since the beauty and merits of Leonide won her, after long suit, the affection of Polemas: and because the deserts of that knight were not so slender, but they could procure themselves to be beloved: Your Niece was not contented to be beloved, but she would also love; but she carried it with such discretion, that even Polemas was long without the knowledge of it. I doubt not but you have loved, and that you know better than I, how hardly Love will be hidden: so it was, that at last it burst out, and both knew they were lovers, and beloved: yet was this amity so honest, that it would not suffer them to dare to show it. After the sacrifice that Amasis made every year, on the day that she married Pimander, it fell out, that after dinner we were all in the Gardens of M●nt-brison: the more cheerfully to pass this happy journey, she and I to defend us from the Sun (being set under some trees) which gave a pleasing shadow. We were scarcely there, but Polemas came to sit by us, seeming that it was by chance he met us; but I observed, that he had some good while followed us with his eye. And because we sat without any words, and that he had a good voice, I said to him, that he should bind us much to him, if he would sing. I will (said he) if that fair will command me, pointing to Leonide. Such a commandment (said she) would be a great indiscretion; but I will make use of my prayer, especially if you have any new thing. I will willingly (answered Polemas;) and moreover I assure you, that this which you shall hear, was made but in the time of the Sacrifice, while you were in your prayers. And how (said I?) is my companion then the subject of this song? Yes in deed (answered he) and I am witness. And then he began to sing.  
We sat very attentive, and (it may be) I had known more, had it not been for Leonide, who fearing that Polemas would show that which she would hide from me, suddenly as he had ended, took hold. I dare lay a wager (said she) that I can divine for whom this Song was made: and then drawing near his ear, made as if she named some; but indeed she bade him take heed what he said before me. He being discreet, drew back, and answered; You have not divined right: I swear unto you, it is not for her whom you named. Then I perceived she would hide herself from me, which was the cause, that feigning to gather some flowers, I went from them on the other side, yet not without having an eye to their actions. Now Polemas himself since hath told me all, but it was after his affection was passed over; for so long as that lasted, it was not in my power to make him confess any thing. Being then alone, they took up again the discourse which they had left, and she was the first that began.  
And why Polemas (said she) do you jest thus with your friends? Confess the truth, for whom are these verses? Fair Nymph (said he) in your soul you know for whom they are as well as I. How! (said she) do you believe me to be a diviner? Yes certainly (answered Polemas) and of those that obey not the gods, who speak by their mouth, but make themselves obeyed of him. What mean you by that enigmatical speech (said the Nymph?) I mean, said he, that Love speaks by your mouth, otherwise your words would not be so full of fire and love, that they can kindle in all that behold them, so burning coals, and yet you obey him not, though he command, that he who loveth, should be beloved: for disobedient, you work that they who die of love for you, may well feel you fair, but never loving, nor so much as only pitiful. I speak for mine own particular, that may swear with truth, that in the world there was never beauty better beloved than yours of me. In saying these last words, he blushed, and she smiled, answering him, Polemas, Polemas, the old soldiers show their scars for witness of their valour, and complain not at all; you that complain of yours, would hardly show them, if Love, as your General, to give you a worthy reward, should demand to see them. Cruel Nymph, said the knight, you deceive yourself, for I may only say to him, Love, put away thy scarf, and behold the eyes of mine enemy, for he can no sooner open his eyes, but he shall see the wounds that I bear in my heart, not as you say, in my complaint, but in making it my glory, to have so worthy an Author of my wounds. So that you may judge, that if Love will enter into reason with me, I can sooner satisfy him than you, for he can perceive the blows which you cannot, because that the fire cannot burn itself; no more are you: being insensible of your own beauties, to be so of our tears, nor offended where the arms of merit cannot resist; if those of pity at the least abate the sharpness of your rigours, to the end, that they that adore you for fair, may commend you for courteous. Leonide loved this knight, but would not he should know it as yet. But she likewise feared, that putting him quite beside all hope, she might also make him lose his courage: which was the cause that she answered him, If your love be such, the time will give me more knowledge than these words, too well delivered to proceed from affection. For, I have heard say, affection cannot be without passion, and passion will not suffer the spirit to have so free a discourse. But when the time shall have told me as much as you, you are to believe, that I am not of stone, nor so void of understanding, but your merits are known to me, and your love may move me. Till then, hope not of me, no more than of the rest of my company in general. The Knight would have kissed her hand for this assurance; but because Galathee looked on, Knight, said she, be discreet, every one hath eye on us, if you do thus, you undo me.  
And at this word she rose and came among us that were gathering of flowers. Behold the first discovery that they had of their good wills, which gave Galathee occasion to meddle in it. For, perceiving what had passed in the Garden; and having of long time a purpose to win Polemas, she would know that night, what was done between Leonide and him; and because she always made herself very familiar with you Niece, and had acquainted her with the particulars of her secrets, the Nymph durst not altogether deny the truth of this love-suite. It is true, that she concealed what concerned her own will: and upon this discourse Galathee would know the very words that they had used; wherein your Niece satisfied her in part, and in part dissembled. So it was, that she said enough to increase the purpose of Galathee, so that from that day she resolved to be beloved of him, and undertook this work with that cunning, that it was impossible it should fall out otherwise. At that meeting she forbade Leonide to go on in that affection, and after told her, that she should cut off all the roots, because she knew well, that Polemas had another design, and that this would serve but to delude her. Besides that, if Amasis came to knowledge of it, she would be offended.  
Leonide, who at that time had no more malice than a child, took the words of the Nymph, as from her Mistress, without searching into the cause, which made her say so, and so remained some days estranged from Polemas, who knew not from whence it might grow. At the first this made him more earnest in his suit. For it is the ordinary custom of young spirits, to desire with more eagerness, that which is hard to come by; and indeed he went on in that sort, that Leonide had much enough to do to dissemble the good will she bore him; and at last, knew so little how to do it, that Polemas perceived he was beloved. But see what Love had appointed!  
This young lover, after he had three or four months continued this suit with the more violence, as he had the less assurance of the good will he desired: as soon, almost, as he was certain, lost his violence, by little and little loved so coldly, that as Fortune and Love, when they begin to decline, fall at once, the Nymph perceived not that she alone went on in this affection. It is true, that Galathee, who came on, was, in part, the cause. For having a design on Polemas, she used such craft, and sped so well, what by her authority, and what with time, that one might say, she rob her insensibly; for that, when Leonide handled him roughly, Galathee favoured him: and when the other fled from his company, she drew him to hers. And this continued so long, and so openly, that Polemas began to turn his eyes towards Galathee, and shortly after, the heart followed: For seeing himself favoured by a greater than her that neglected him, he blamed himself for suffering it without sense, and minded to embrace the fortune which came smiling on him. But O wise Adamas! you may see what a gracious encounter this was, and how it pleased Love to play with their hearts. It is some while since, by the ordinance of Clidaman, Agis was allotted servant unto your Niece, and (as you know) by the election of Fortune.  
Now though this young Knight was not given to Leonide out of his own choice, yet he agreed to the gift, and approved it by the services which he afterward did perform, and that she misliked not, was showed by her actions. But when Polemas began to serve her, Agis, as a covetous man, that hath his eyes always on his treasure, took notice of the growing love of this new Lover, and sometimes complained to her of it: but the coldness of her answers (instead of extinguishing his jealousies only) by little and little deadened his love; for considering what small assurance he had in his soul, he laboured to get a better resolution then formerly he had had; and so, that he might not see another triumph over him, he chose rather to withdraw fare off. A receipt, that I have heard say, is the best that a soul infected with this evil, can have to free itself: for as love, at the beginning, is brought forth by the eyes; so it seemeth that the contrary should be for want of sight, which can be in nothing more than absence, where the forgetful, covered as with ashes, the over-lively representations of the thing beloved. And indeed, Agis happily attained his purpose: for he was hardly gone, but love likewise parted from his soul, lodging in the place of it the neglect of this flitter: So that Leonide purposing by this new plot to win Polemas, lost him that already was entirely hers. But the confusions of Love ended not here: for he would, that Polemas likewise for his part, should have sense of that which he made the Nymph to feel. Almost about the same time, the affection of Lindamor took birth; and it fell out, that as Leonide had disdained Agis for Polemas, and Polemas Leonide for Galathee, so Galathee disdained Polemas for Lindamor.  
To tell the follies of them all, would be an hard piece of work. So it was, that Polemas seeing himself paid in the same money in which he paid your Niece, yet could not lose not hope nor love, but contrariwise searched all sorts of plotting, to enter again into her favour, but all in vain. It is true, that as he could get nothing more to his own benefit, yet he hath so wrought, that he, who was the cause of his evil, is not come to be possessor of his good: for whether it were by his cunning practices, or by the will of the gods, that a certain devout Druid hath imparted to him, since that time Lindamor is no more beloved: and it seemeth, Love hath a purpose not to suffer the heart of Galathee to be at rest, the memory of the one being no sooner defaced in her soul, but another takes place. And now behold us at this hour reduced to the love of a shepherd, who for a shepherd, in his quality may deserve well, but not to be the servant of Galathee; and yet is she so passionate, that if her evil hold on, I know not what will become of her: So as I may well say, I never saw such a curiosity, nor so strange a dream as she hath had, since she endured this evil. But this is not all: your wisdom (sage Adamas) in this which I am to tell you, must work one of his ordinary effects. Your Niece is so overtaken with Celadon, as I know not if Galathee be more. Above all, ●elousie is so mingled among them, and I have endeavoured to excuse and abate the blows of it, the best I could; yet I am out of hope for the time to come. Therefore it is, that I thank God for your coming: for without fiction, I know not how things can be carried without you: you must excuse me, if I speak to you so freely of that which touches you: the 〈◊〉 which I bear them both, enforces me to it.  
Thus ended Sil●●● ●er discourse, with such a demonstration of mistake, to see this evil life, that Adamas thought well of her for it: and to give beginning, not to the healing of the shepherd, but of the Nymphs; for that evil was the greater. Adamas asked what her advice was? For my part (said she) will you begin to remove from them the cause of this evil, which is the shepherd? but this must be done with some cunning: for that Galathee will not let him go. You have reason, answered the Druid; but while we labour to do that, we must take heed that he fall not in love with them, for that youth and beauty have no small sympathy, and so we travail in vain, if he happen to love them. O Adamas, said Siluie, if you knew Celadon, as I do, you would never have this fear: he is so fare in love with Astrea, that all the beauty of the world cannot please him, and after, we shall have enough to look to other things than to his healing. Fair Siluie, said the Druide, you speak well, like one that never knew what Love meant, and as one that never felt his forces: This little god, the more power he hath over every thing, the more sport he makes with every thing; so that when there is least likelihood that he should do any thing, it is then especially, that he is pleased to make his power to be known. Live not you with that confidence, for that, as yet, there was never any sort of virtue, that could be exempted from Love.. Chastity itself could not, witness Endymion. Why, presently said Silui●, O wise Adamas, do you presage so great a disaster? To the end, said he, that you might arm yourself against the forces of that god, for fear, that being over-assured in the opinion that it is impossible, you be not overtaken before you are prepared. I have heard say, that Celadon is so goodly, so discreet, and accomplished, that there is no perfection wanting in him which may win love. If it be so, there is danger; for that the treasons of love are so hard to discover, that as yet, there was never the man that could do it. Leave the pain to me, said she, and only see what you will have me do in this business we talk of. Me thinks, said the Druid, this war must be made by the eye; and when I have seen how the world goes, we will dispose of our affairs to the least hurt that we can; and in the mean time let us keep our design secret.  
Then Silui● left him to his rest, and went to seek Galathee, who, with Leonide, was about the bed of Celadon, for having known he was awake, neither of them had the power to stay longer from the sight of him. The welcomes that he gave to Leonide, were not small: for, for the courtesy with which she bond him, he loved and esteemed well of her, though Siluie's humour pleased him better. Within a while after, they fell in talk of Adamas, commending his Wisdom, his Wit, and Bounty: whereupon Celadon asked if he were not the Son of the great Pelion, of whom he had heard spoken so many marvels. It is the same, answered Galathee, who is come expressly for your disease. O, Madame, answered the shepherd, it must be a good Physician that can heal that, but, I think, when he shall know it, he will sooner despair of my health, than dare to undertake the cure. Galathee thought he spoke of the sickness of his body. But, said she, is it possible you should think you are still sick? I assure myself, if you will, within two days you may leave your bed. It may be, Madame, answered Leonide, he is never the better for that; for sometimes we carry our sickness so hidden, that ourselves know nothing till we be in extremity.  
Their discourse had held longer, had not the Druid come to find them, that he might see what was necessary for his purpose. He found him well disposed for his body, for the disease had spent his fury and came to decline: but when he spoke to him, he judged his spirit distempered, though he was not of belief that it was for these Nymphs: and knowing, that the wise Physician ought always to apply his remedy to the evil that is ready to offer violence, he resolved to begin his cure on Galathee. And on this design, desirous, at once, to be certified of the will of Celadon, at night, when all the Nymphs were gone, & he took heed that Meril might not be by, having shut the door, he spoke in this sort: I think, Celadon, your astonishment is not small, to see yourself suddenly raised to so good a fortune as that you now possess; for I assure myself, it is beyond your hope, that being borne as you are, a shepherd, and bred in the villages, you now see yourself cherished of the Nymphs, made much of, and served, I will not say of Ladies, that have been used to be commanded, but by her, that absolutely commands over this Country: A fortune, indeed, which the greatest have desired, but whereto none could attain but yourself; for which you are to praise the gods, and give them thanks, that they may continue it to you.  
Adamas talked thus to him, that he might draw him to tell the truth of his affection; thinking, that by this means, making show to approve it, he should make him best discover it. Whom the shepherd answered with a great sigh, Father, if this be a good fortune, then must my taste be distempered, for I never felt more bitter Wormwood, than that which this fortune, that you call good, hath made me taste, since I came to be in the state wherein you see me. And how, (added the Druid, the better to cover his craft) is it possible you should have so small knowledge of your good, that you see not to what greatness this adventure hath raised you? Alas, answered Celadon, it is that which threatens a greater fall. Why? do you fear (said Adamas) that this good luck will not last? I fear, answered the shepherd, it will last longer than I desire. But wherefore is it, that our sheep are astonished and dye, when they be long in a great water, and yet fishes delight and are nourished in it? Because, answered the Druid, it is against their nature.  
And think you, father (said he) that it is less against the nature of a shepherd to live among so many Ladies? I am a shepherd borne, and nothing can please me, that is not of mine own condition. But is it possible (added the Druid) that ambition which seems to be borne with man, cannot make you part from your woods, or that beauty, whose allurements are so strong for a young heart, cannot divert you from your former purpose? The ambition that every one ought to have (said the shepherd) 'tis to do well that which we are to do, and in that to be the foremost among them of his condition, and the beauty which we are to regard, and which ought to draw us, is that which we may love, not that which we should reverence, and may not look on but with the eye of respect. Why (said the Druide) do you conceit to yourself, that there is a greatness among men, to which merit and virtue cannot attain? Because (answered the the shepherd) I know that all things are to be contained within the terms that nature hath set them; and that as there is no likelihood that a Ruby fair & perfect, though it be may become a Diamond, so he that hopes to raise himself higher, or to speak truer, to change nature, and make himself other then that he is, loses in vain both his time and hispaines.  
Then the Druide, astonished at the considerations of the shepherd, and well pleased to see him so far removed from the dessines of Galathee, began again in this sort: Now my child, I praise the gods for that wisdom which I find in you, and assure you that if you carry yourself thus, you shall give the heaven's cause to continue to you, all sort of felicity. Many borne up by their vanity, have gone out of themselves, upon hope more vain than these that I have propounded. But what is befallen them? Nothin, g but after a long and incredible pain, repentance for being so long time abused. You may thank heaven, that hath given you this knowledge, before you have occasion to have their repentance, and you are to entreat it to preserve you, that you may continue in the tranquillity, and sweet life wherein you have lived hitherto. But since you aspire not to these greatness nor these beauties, what is it then O Celadon that may stay you here among them? Alas (answered the shepherd) it is only the will of Galathee, who holds me almost like a prisoner. It is very true, that if my sickness had permitted me, I had attempted to have escaped by one means or other, though I knew the enterprise was full of difficulty; and if I could not have the help of any other, setting all respects apart, I would have gone away by force: for Galathee held me so short, and the Nymphs, when she is not here, and little Merill, when the Nymphs cannot stay, that I know not which way to turn my foot, but they are at mine elbow. And when I would speak to Galathee, she sets on me with reproaches in such a choler, that I must confess I dare speak no more to her; and this abode hath been so troublesome to me, that I may accuse it as the principal cause of my disease. Now, if you ever had pity on a person afflicted, dear father, I adjure you by the great gods, whom you so worthily serve, by your natural bounty, and by the honourable memory of that great P●lion your father, to take pity on my life, and join your wisdom to my desire, to set mee free from this offensive prison: for so I may term the stay I make in this place. Adamas, very glad to hear with what an affection he besought him, embraced him, kissed his forehead, and after said, Yes my son, be assured I will do what you demand of me; and as soon as your weakness will suffer, I will fit you with means to go hence without violence, only hold on your purpose, and look to your health. And after many other discourses, he left him: but with such contentment, that if Adamas would have permitted him, he would have risen at that inastnt.  
In the mean time, Leonide, that would not leave Galathee long in the error wherein Climante had put her, that evening when she saw Siluie, and the little Meril withdrawn, kneeled down by the bedside, and after some ordinary speech she went on, O Madam, what news have I met with in this journey? and news which concerns you? and I would not for any thing but I had known it, to clear your error. And what is it, answered the Nymph? It is (added Leonide) there hath been put on you the cunningest practice that ever love invented; and me thinks you should not grieve at my journey, though I had done no other thing. That Druide, who is the cause of your stay here, is the wickedest man, and the most crafty that ever set himself to beguile any. And then she told her from point to point what she had heard from Clemanthe's mouth, and of Polemas; and that all this practice was invented, but to dispossess Lindamor, and set Polemas in his place.  
At the first, the Nymph stood a little astonished, in the end, the love of the shepherd that flattered her, persuaded, that Leonide spoke this out of despite, and to turn her from the love of the shepherd, that she might possess him alone. So that she believed nothing of that she had told her: but contrarily turning into laughter, she said, Leonide, go to bed, it may be, to morrow you will rise up more wife, and then you shall know better to hide your craft; and with this word, turned to the other side, somewhat smiling: which offended Leonide so sore, that she resolved to set Celadon at liberty, whatsoever it might cost her. And in this purpose, the same evening she went to seek her uncle, to whom she used this language: Father, since you see that Celadon is so well, what would you have him do here longer? I have not concealed from you, what Galathees will is.  
judge what mischief may befall. I would have freed the Nymph from the abuse whereto this Impostor Climanthe had persuaded her, but she is so won to Celadon, that all that labour to withdraw her, are declared enemies, so that the surest way is to remove this shepherd from thence, which cannot be done without you: for the Nymph hath such an eye to me, that I can turn no way but she heeds me, and suspects me. Adamas was some what astonished to hear his niece talk thus, and was of opinion, that she feared, the good will which she bore the shepherd, was perceived, and she would prevent it: yet judging that to cut off the roots of these lovers, the best means was to remove Celadon, and said to his niece, the sooner to discover her plot, that he desired that she spoke of above all things: but he knew not the mean. The mean (said she) is the most easy in the world, only get the  of a Nymph, and dress him in them, he is young, and as yet hath no beard: by this device he may getaway unknown, and no body the wiser by whose help it was, and Galathee shall neu●r know whom to blame. Adamas found this invention to be good: and the sooner to execute it, resolved at that time, after the night were passed, to go seek for such an habit, under pretence of seeking for remedies to heal the shepherd, giving Galathee to understand, that though the shepherd were freed from his fevers, yet he was not clear from danger of a relapse, and they must prevent it with wisdom. And communicated this dessine to Siluie, who approved it, provided that he slacked not his return. Celadon was not thoroughly awaked, when Galathee, and Leonide came into the chamber, in show to know how he did, and then Adamas, who knew well, seeing the great watchfulness of the Nymphs, that delay was dangerous, after he had asked Celadon some ordinary questions about his sickness, he drew near; and turning to the Nymph, wished her to permit him to inquire of some particulars which he durst not demand before her. Galathee, who believed it was concerning his sickness, drew aside and gave way to Adamas, to acquaint the shepherd with his dessine, promising him to come within two or three days at the furthest. Celadon conjured him by the strongest prayers he could, knowing well that without him this imprisonment would continue longer.  
After he had given him assurance, he went where Galathee was, and told her that the shepherd for the present was well: but as he had before told her, it was to be feared lest he might relapse, and to prevent the evil, it was necessary he should go seek that which was fit for him, and he would return as soon as he had found them. The Nymph was well pleased with this, for on the one side she desired the entire recovery of the shepherd: and on the other, the presence of the Druide began to trouble her, foreseeing that she could not converse so freely with her beloved Celadon, as before she had done, he knew well what her purpose was: but he seemed not to heed it; and presently after dinner, he set himself on the way, leaving the three Nymphs in some pain: for every one had a differing dessine, and all three being desirous to effect it, it was necessary they should be finely deluded. That was the cause, that all three were more usually about his bed, but Siluie, above the rest, that she might keep them from speaking in private to him: Yet could she not keep so good watch: but Leonide found a time to tell him the resolution, which she had taken with her uncle, and then she went on:  
But tell true, Celadon, are you yet so without understanding, that when you have received this good office from me, you will remember no more that you see at this present, the love I bear you? At least, call to your mind the wrongs that Galathee doth me, for your sake; and if the love which in all others meriteth love, growing in me, cannot bring it forth in you, let me have this contentment, to hear once from your own mouth, that the affection of such a Nymph as I am, is not altogether distasteful to you. Celadon, who had already known this growing love, desired it might die in the cradle: but fearing lest the despite which she conceived, might cause in her contrary effects to the resolution which she had taken with her uncle, he purposed to give her some words, that he might not lose her altogether, and thus answered her, Fair Leonide, what opinion may you have of me, if forgetting Astrea, whom I have so long served, I should begin a new amity? I speak freely to you, for I know well, you are not ignorant of what I am.  
O Celadon, answered Leonide, hide not yourself from me, I know as much of your affairs as yourself. Then, fair Nymph, replied the shepherd, if you know it, how can you wish that I should force this love which hath such force in my foul, that my life and my will depend of it? But since you know what I am, read in my actions passed, and see what remaineth in me to satisfy you, and tell me what you would have me do? Leonide, at this speech was not able to hide her tears, as wise as she was: after she had considered how contrary to her duty it was to live in this fashion, and that she travelled in vain, she resolved to be mistress of her own will; but for that it was so difficult a work that she could not attain to it at once, there must be some time to prepare her humours, that they might be capable to receive the advice of wisdom. And in this resolution she spoke to him thus: Shepherd, I cannot (at this time) take the counsel that is necessary for me, to get sufficient force; I must have leisure to gather together the powers of my soul: but remember you the offer you have made me: for I mean to benefit myself by it. Their discourse had held on longer, if Siluie had not interrupted them, who coming upon them, and addressing herself to Leonide, Sister, said she, you know not that Fleurial is come, and hath so overtaken the Guard of the gate, that he was with Galathee before we were ware. He hath given her letters, and I know not whence they come: But it must be from some good place, for she hath changed colour twice or thrice. Leonide presently doubted it was Lindamor, which caused her to leave the shepherd with Siluie, and went to Galathee to know the certainty.  
Then Siluie, seeing herself alone with him, began to entertain him with that courtesy, that if there had been any place for Love, without doubt she had had it. And see how Love sport's himself with contrarying our dessignes! The other two Nymphs, with all their Art, sought it, and could not effect it; and she that regarded it nor, came nearer the mark than the others. By that, a man may know how free Love is, since he will by tied to nothing, but what pleases him. Whilst Celadon was in this thought, Siluie, that sought for nothing more than occasion to set him into discourse, because she delighted much in his conversation, and to hear him speak, said, You will not think, shepherd, what pleasure this hap to have known you, brings to me; and I swear to you, if Galathee would believe me, since her brother went out of this Country, we have had your company more than heretofore. For, for aught that I see in you, I think there is pleasure in your villages, and your honest liberties, since you are exempted from Ambition, and consequently from troubles, living without craft, and without backbiting, which are the four plagues that our life brings. Wise Nymph (answered the shepherd) this that you say, is more than true, if we were out of the power of Love; but you must know, that the same effects, which Ambition bringeth forth in Courts, Love causeth to grow in our villages. For the envy of a Rival, is no less than of a Courtier: and the artificial practices of Lovers and Shepherds give no place to others. And that is the cause that slanderers retain the same authority among us, to make good their own actions, as well as among you. It is true, that we have one advantage, that instead of two enemies that you have, which is Love and Ambition, we have but one; and from thence it comes, that there be some things particularly among us, which we may call happy, but none (as I suppose) among Courtiers; for they that love not at all, need not avoid the allurements of Ambition: and whoso is not ambitious, shall not for it have his soul frozen, to resist the flames of many fair eyes: so that having but one enemy, we may the more easily resist him, as Siluander hath done hitherto, a shepherd indeed replete with many perfections, yet more happy (a man may say, without offence,) than wise: for, though this may (in some sort) proceed out of his wisdom, yet this is it that I hold, That it is a great happiness, never to have met with a beauty that pleased him: and having never found the beauty that drew him, he never had familiarity with any shepherdess, which is the cause that he so preserves his liberty, because I think (for my part) that if one love not elsewhere, it is impossible for him to converse long with an amiable beauty, but he must love it. Silkie answered him, I have so small knowledge in this learning, that I must refer myself to what you say: yet do I think, that it must be some other thing than beauty that causes love; otherwise, the Lady that is loved of one, should be so of all. There be many answers (said the shepherd) to this objection. For all beauties are not seen of one eye, so that as among colours, there be that please some, and displease others, so we may say of beauties; for all eyes do not judge alike: besides that, these fair look not on all with the same eye, and one shall please such whom she endeavoureth to please, and another quite contrary, whom she seeks not to be pleasing unto. But, above all these reasons, me thinks, that of Siluander was very good, when one demanded of him, why he was not in love? He answered, he never yet found his Love-stone, and when he found such an one, he knew well, he must infallibly love as others did. And (answered Siluie) whom meant he by the Love-stone? I know not (replied the shepherd) whether I can better instruct you: For he is well studied, and among us we hold him for a man of great understanding. He says he learned it from the druids, that when the great God form all our souls, he touched every of them with a piece of a Love-stone, and that after, he put all those pieces into a place apart; and likewise those of the women, after he had touched them, he locked them into another store-house by itself. After, when he sent the souls into the body, he brought forth those of women, where are the love-stones, which touched those of the men, and those of men to those of women, and caused them to fasten each to other. If there be wicked souls, they take more pieces, which they hide. It happens, that as soon as the soul is in the body, and that it meeteth with it that is his love-stone, it is impossible but he should love: and from hence proceed all the effects of love. For, as for them that are beloved of many, it is for that they were thievish, and had taken more pieces; as for that which love's every one, and is not beloved, it is for that he had his love-stone, and she had not hers.  
Many oppositions were made, when he spoke these things: but he answered them all very well. Among others, I said, But what would he say, that diverse times one shepherd love's diverse shepherdess? That is, said he, for that the piece of love which touched it, being among others when the god mixed them, brake, and being in diverse pieces, they all, as many as there were, drew to them that soul.  
But withal, mark, that those persons which are taken with diverse loves, love not much: that is, for that these little pieces, being separated, have not that force as if they were united. Moreover, he said, that hence it comes, that we see often some in love with others, which in our eyes, have nothing amiable in them: whence proceed likewise, those strange loves that fall out sometimes, that a Gaul bred up among the most beautiful Ladies, came to love a barbarous stranger. It was Dia●e that asked him what he said of Timon of Athens, that never loved any, nor any loved him? His piece of love, said he, either was in the great gods Storehouse when he came into the world; or she which had it, died in the cradle; or before that Timon was borne, or of years to know her. So that ever since, when we see any that is not beloved, we say, his piece of Love was forgotten. And what said he (said Siluie) of that, that no man loved Timon? That sometimes (answered Celadon) the great god reckoned the stones that remained, and finding the number disagreeing, because some of the thievish souls had taken more (as I have told you) that he might set the pieces in their even number, the souls which were then ready to enter into the body, carried none with them. And thence it comes, that sometimes we see shepherdess complete enough, which are so neglected, that none love them. But the gracious Corilas asked him a question concerning himself at that time, what he would say of one, that having long time loved, came to leave her and to love another. Siluander answered to this, that the piece of Love that changed, was broken, and that that which he first loved, should have had a greater piece than the other for whom he left her. And as when we see iron between two loadstones, suffers itself to be drawn by that which hath most strength, so the soul leaves itself to be carried by the stronger part of his love. Truly, said Siluie, this shepherd must be gentle, having so good conceits, but tell me, I pray you, what he is. It will be hard for me (answered Celadon) to tell, for himself knows not; yet we hold him to be of a good house, according to the judgement that may be made of his good qualities: for you must know, that it is some years since he came to dwell in our village, with small means, & without knowledge of himself, but that he said he came from the Lake Leman, where he was bred a child.  
So it was, that after he was known, every one helped him: besides that, having knowledge of herbs, and of the nature of beasts, the beasts profited so well under his hands, that there is none that desires not to put them to him, whereof he makes so good an account, that besides the profit that he makes thereof, there are few that gratify him not with something, so that at this hour he is in good case, and may call himself rich: for, O fair Nymph, we want not much to make us so: for that nature being contented with a few things, we seek after nothing but to live according to it; we are as soon rich as content, and our contentment being easily compassed, our riches are quickly gotten. You are (said Siluie) more happy than we.  
But you told me of Diane: I know her not, but by sight: tell me, I pray you, who was her mother? That is Bellinde, answered he, wife of the wise Celion, who died young. And Diane, said Siluie, what is she? and what is her humour? She is, said Celadon, one of the fairest shepherdess of Lignon; and, if I were not partial for Astrea, I would say she were the fairest: for, in truth, besides that she is to the eye, she hath so many beauties in her spirit, that there is nothing superfluous nor defective. Many times, three or four of us shepherds, have been together, to consider of her, not knowing what perfection might be wished for, that she had not: for though she love nothing of love, yet love's she all virtue with so sincere a will, that she binds more to her by that sort, than others most violent affections. And how, said Silkie, is she not served of many? The deceit, answered Celadon, which the father of Filidas did her, is the hindrance that there are none now, and indeed, it was one of the most not able that ever I heard of. If it were not painful to you, added Siluie, I would be glad to learn it of you, and also to know who this Celion was, and who this Bellinde. I fear, answered the shepherd, the discourse will be so long, that it will trouble you. On the contrary, said the Nymph, We know not better how to employ the time, while Galathee reads the letters that she went to receive. Then, to satisfy your commandment, answered he, I will do it as briefly as I can: and then he held on in this sort:   

The History of Celion and Bellinde.  
IT is true, fair Nymph, that virtue spoilt of all other ornament, ceases not to be of itself lovely, having so many allurements, with which as soon as the soul is touched, it must be beloved, and followed: but when this virtue meets with a body that is fair, it is not only pleasing, but admirable, for that the eyes and spirit are ravished in the contemplation and vision of this beauty: which shall be manifested by the discourse which I mean to make you of 〈◊〉.  
Know then, that near the river of Lignon, there was a very honest shepherd, named Philemon, who after he had been long married, had a daughter, whom he called Bellinde, who coming to growth, made as great a show of beauty in her spirit, as might be seen in her body. Hard by her house lodged another shepherd, called Leon, with whom neighbourhood had tied a strong bond of amity: and fortune unwilling to do more for the one then for the other, gave him likewise at the same time a daughter, whose youth gave great promise of ●●ture beauty; she was called Amaranthe. The friendship of the fathers caused that of the daughters to increase, by frequenting together: for they were bred up together from the cradle, and when their age permitted them, they led their stlocks alike, & at night brought them in companies to their lodgings. But because, as they grew in body, their beauty likewise increased to the view of the eye, there were many shepherds that sought their love, whose services and affections could not obtain more of them, then that they were received with courtesy.  
It fell out, that Celion, a young shepherd of those quarters, having lost a sheep, came to seek it among Bellindes flock, whither it was strayed. She restor it with such courtesy, that the recovery of his sheep was the beginning of the loss of himself; and from that time he began to feel with what force two fair eyes were able to offend: for before he was so ignorant, that the very thought of it never came into his soul. But what ignorance soever was in him, it brought him to that pass, that it made him by his wooing know what his disease was, and the only Physician from whom he was to have his health. So that Bellinde by his actions perceived it almost as soon as himself: for, at the first he knew not what to say his design was: but his affect on growing with his age, came to that greatness, that he found the discommodity in good earnest, and then acknowledged it, being constrained to change the pastimes of his youth into a very curious pursuit. And Bellinde on the other side, though she were served of many, received his affection above any other, yet no otherwise, then if he had been her brother, which she made appear one day, when he thought to have found the commodity to declare his good will. She kept her flock along the river of Lignon, and beheld her beauty in the water. Whereupon the shepherd taking occasion, said to her, holding after an amorous fashion his hand before his eyes, Take heed, fair shepherdess, withdraw your eyes from this water, fear you not the dangers that others have run into by such actions? Why say you so, answered Bellinde, that as yet understood him not? Ah then, said the shepherd, fair and dissembling shepherdess, you represent within this happy river, more beauty than Narcissus in the fountain.  
At these words Bellinde blushed, and that increased her beauty the more, yet she answered, Since whence, Celion, have you wished me so well? without doubt, it is well done of you. To wish you well said the shepherd, it is long time since I did it, and you are to believe, that this will shall be limited by no other terms then that of my life.  
Then the shepherdess casting down her head on this side, said, I make no doubt of your amity, receiving it with the same good will, that I offer you mine. Where to Celion presently answered, Let me kiss that fair hand by way of thankes, for so great a good, and for an earnest of the faithful service, which Celion is to render you the rest of his life. Bellinde, knew as well by the fervour wherewith he uttered these words, as by the kisses which he imprinted on her hand, that he figured to himself his amity, of another quality than she meant; and because she would not have him live in this error, Celion (said she) you are far from that you think: you cannot sooner banish me from your company, then by this means, if you desire that I should continue the amity I have promised you, continue likewise yours, with the same honesty that your virtue promises me: otherwise, hence forth I break all familiarity with you, and protest never to love you. I may as the custom of them that are beloved, is, abuse you: but I use it not, because I freely wish you should know, that if you live otherwise then you ought, you are never to have hope in my amity. She added yet other words, which so astonished Celion, that he knew not what to answer: Only he cast himself on his knees, and without other discourse, with this submission demanded pardon, and then protested to her, that his amity proceeded from her, and that she might rule it as that which she had bred. If you use yourself thus (replied than Bellinde) you shall bind me to love you, otherwise you shall constrain me to the contrary. Fair shepherdess (replied he) my affection is borne, and such as it is, it must live, for it cannot die but with me, so that I cannot well remedy it but by time: yet to promise you, that I will study to make such as you command, I swear it unto you, and in the mean time, I desire never to be honoured with your good favour, if in all my life you knew any action, that for the quality of my affection may displease you.  
At last the shepherd consented to be beloved, on condition she might know nothing in him, which might offend her honesty. So these lovers began an amity, which lasted very long, with such satisfaction to them both, that they had cause to rejoice therein for their fortune. Sometimes, if the young shepherd were letted, he sent his brother Diamis to her, who under the colour of some fruit, brought her letters from his brother. She often returned answer with such good will, that he had cause to be contented, and this affection was carried with that prudence, that few perceived it. Amaranthe, though she were ordinarily with them, was ignorant of it, had it not been that by hap she found a letter which her companions had lost; and see, I beseech you, what the effect was, and how dangerous a thing it is for a young soul to come near these fires! Until this time, the shepherdess had not, not only the lesst feeling of love; but not a thought to be beloved; and as soon as she saw this letter, were it for that she bore some envy to her companion, whom she estee●●d not to be the fairer, & yet she saw her often wooed by this honest shepherd, were it for that she was of an age which is proper to such burning, that they can no sooner come near the fire, but they feel it, were it for that this letter had so lively heats, that she had noise to resist them. So it was, that she took a certain desire not to love, for love it may be, would not attach her at the first in extremity, but to be loved, & served of some shepherd of worth; and in this point, she read the letter oftentimes, which was thus:  
celion's letter to Bellinde.  
Fair shepherdess, if your eyes were as full of variety, as they are to cause love, the sweetness which they promise at the first, would make me adore them, with as much of contentment, as they have produced in me of vain hope. But so far are they from performance of their deceitful promises, that they will not so much as confess them, and are so wide from healing my hurt, that they will not call themselves authors. Yet can they hardly deny it, if they consider well who she is, having no likelihood that any other beauty than theirs could do so much. And yet, as if you had a purpose to equal your cruelty to your beauty, you have ordained, that the affection which you have caused to be borne, shall cruelly die in me. O God, was there ever a more unpittifull mother? But I, who held more dear that which comes from you, than my life, being unable to suffer so great an injustice, am resolved to carry this affection with me into the grave, hoping that the heavens moved at last with my patience, will bind you at sometimes to be as pitiful, as you are dear, and cruel to me for the present.  
Amaranthe read this letter over diverse times, and without heed taking drank up the sweet poison of love, no otherwise then one weary suffers himself by little to fall asleep. If her thought set before her eyes the face of the shepherd, oh! how full of beauty found she it to be? if his behaviour, how pleasing did it seem? if his spirit, how admirable did she judge it? briefly, she saw him so perfect, that she thought her companion happy to be beloved of him. Then taking again the letter, she read it over: but not without much pausing on the subjects that touched her most at the heart. And when she came to the end, and that she saw the reproach of cruel, she flattered her desires, which lately borne, call for foeble hopes as their Nurses, with opinion that Bellinde, as yet loved him not, and so she might more easily win him. But the poor soul heeded not, that this was the first letter that he had written to her, and that since many things might be changed. The amity which she bore to Bellinde, sometimes drew her back; but presently Love overtopped that amity. At last, the conclusion was, that she writ such a Letter to Celion.  
Amaranthes Letter to Celion.  
YOur perfections may excuse my error, and your courtesy receive the amity which I offer you. I wish evil to myself, if I love any thing more than you. But for your merit, I make my glory, whence would proceed my shame for any other. If you refuse what I present you, it must be for want of spirit or courage. From which of these two it is, it shallbe as dishonourable to you as to me, to be refused.  
She gave this letter herself to Celion, who not able to imagine what she would, as soon as he was in a private place, he read it, but with no less astonishment than disdain, and had he not known her to be infinitely beloved of his mistress, he would not have vouchsafed her an answer, yet fearing it might offend her, he sent this answer by his brother.  
celion's answer to Amaranthe.  
I Know not what there is in me to move you to love me, yet I account myself as happy, that such a shepherdess will deign to regard me, as I am unfortunate, in not being able to receive such a fortune. I would it pleased my destiny, that I could as freely give myself to you, as I am wanting in power. Fair Amaranthe. I should think myself the happiest that liveth, to line in your service, but being no longer at mine own disposition, accuse not, if it please you, neither my spirit, nor my courage of that whereto necessity compels me. It shall always be much to my contentment, to be in your good grace, but yet more grievous to you, to note at all times the weakness of my affection. So that I am enforced by your vertueite beseech you to turn this over-ardent passion into a moderate amity, which I entertain with all my heart. For this is not a thing impossible; and that which is not so, cannot be over-hard to me for your service.  
This answer had been sufficient to have diverted her, if Love had not been of the nature of powder, which is then most violent, when it is most restrained. For against those former difficulties she opposed some sort of reason, that Celion ought not so soon to leave Bellinde, it would be too great lightness, if at the first summons he should be gone. But Time taught her to her cost to deceive herself. For after that day the shepherd disdained her so that he shunued her, and often chose rather to be absent from Bellinde, than to be forced to see her. It was then that so easily she shipped herself on so dangerous a sea, and so notable for the ordinary shipwrecks of them that ventured on them, and not long able to bear out this displeasure, she grew so sad, that she fled from her companions, and the places where in before she delighted, and at last, fell sick in good earnest. Her dear Bellinde went presently to see her, and unawares desired the shepherd to bear her company. But as the sight of the good we cannot get, doth but increase the desire; so this visitation did but make Amaranthes evil worse.  
The night being come, all the shepherdess withdrew, and there stayed but Bellinde with her, so sorry for the evil of her companion (for she knew not what it was) that she took no rest; and when she asked her of it, for answer she had nothing but sighs. Whereat Bellinde at the first being astonished, in the end, offended with her, said, I never thought, Amaranthe had so little loved Bellinde, that she could have concealed any thing from her; but by that I see I was deceived. And where as I might have said heretofore, I had a friend, I may now say, I love a dissembler. Amaranthe, who for shame had shut up her mouth until then, seeing they were alone; and being pressed with such an affection, resolved to try the last remedy, which she thought fittest for her defence. Casting from her all shame, as fare off as she could, twice or thrice, she opened her mouth to tell her all, but her words died so between her lips, that this was all she could do, to bring forth these broken words, laying her hand over her eyes, as not daring to look on her to whom she spoke: My dear companion (said she) for so they called themselves: Our amity will not suffer me to hide any thing from you, knowing well, that though it be told you, what concerns me, shall be as carefully kept secret by you, as by myself. Excuse then, I beseech you, the extreme error, which to satisfy our amity, I am constrained to discover to you. You ask me what my grief is, and whence it comes; know, that it is Love borne from the perfections of a shepherd. But alas! at this word overcome with shame and displeasure, turning her head another way, she held her peace with a torrent of tears.  
The astonishment of Bellinde could not make her conjecture; yet to give her courage to make an end, she said; I did not think that a passion so common to all, would have brought you this trouble. To love, is a thing ordinary; but, that it is from the perfections of a shepherd, this happens but to persons of judgement. Tell me then who this happy man is. Then Amaranthe taking her speech again, with a sigh drawn from the depth of her heart, said; But alas! this shepherd love's elsewhere. And who is he, said Bellinde? It is (answered she) since you will know, your Celion. I say yours (my companion) because I know he love's you, and that this sole amity makes him disdain mine. Excuse my folly, and without seeming to know it, leave me alone to complain, and endure mine evil. The wise Bellinde was so ashamed when she heard this discourse of the error of her companion, that though she loved Celion, as well as any might be loved, yet she resolved on this occasion to give proof of that she was not. And therefore turning towards her, she said: Indeed, Amaranthe, I suffer in pain more than I can speak of, to see you so transported in this affection: for it seemeth, our sex will not permit us so entire an authority of love; but since you are in these terms, I thank God it lights in such a place, that I may give proof of what I am to you. I love Celion, I will not deny it, as if he were my brother. But I love you also as my sister, and I wish (for I know he will obey me) that he love you more than me; rest yourself on me, and rejoice you alone, provided, you acknowledge when you are recovered, what Bellinde hath been unto you.  
After some other like discourse, the night constrained Bellinde to withdraw, leaving Amaranthe with such contentment, that forgetting her sadness, in few days she recovered her former beauty. In the mean time Bellinde was not without pain, who studying for some mean to make her purpose known to Celion, found at last as fit a commodity as she wished. By fortune she met him, as he was playing with his Ram in the great pasture, where the greatest part of the shepherds fed their flocks. This beast was the leader of the troops, and so well taught, that he seemed to understand his master when he spoke to him. Whereat the shepherdess took such pleasure, that she stayed long at it. At last she would try if it knew her as well as him; but it was much more ready to every thing she willed; whereupon drawing aside from the company, she said to Celion: What think you, brother, of the acquaintance between your Ram, and me? It is the pleasantest that ever I saw.  
Such as it is, fair shepherdess (said he) if you will do me the honour to receive it, it is yours. But you are not to wonder that he gives you all obe●sance: for he knows well, I would else disclaim him for mine, having learned by so many songs which he hath heard of me, as I pass up and down, that I was more yours than mine own. This well expresses (saith the shepherdess) the obedience of your Ram, which I will not receive to to be employed, more for you then me: but since you give me so entire power over you, I will try it, by joining to a commandment a most affectionate prayer. There is nothing (answered the shepherd) which you may not command me. Then Bellinde, thinking she had found the commodity she sought for, pursued her discourse thus: from the day that that you assured me of your amity, I judged the same good will to be in you, so also it bindeth me, to love and honour you, more than any person living. Now, though I say thus to you, I would not have you think that I have diminished this good will: for it shall accompany me to my grave: and yet it may be you would do it, if I had not forewarned you: but bind me by believing that my life, and not my amity may diminish. These words put Celion into much pain, not knowing whereto they tended, at last he answered, that he attended her will, with great joy and great fear; with joy, for that he could imagine nothing more beneficial to him, than the honour of her commandments; and with fear, for that he knew not for what cause she threatened him: yet death itself could not be unwelcome to him, if it befell him by her commandment. Then Bellinde held on:  
Since, besides your sayings at this time, you have always given me that witness of this assurance which you make me, that with reason I cannot doubt; I will make no more difficulty, not to entreat, but to conjure Celion by all the amity with which he favours his Bellinde, to obey her at this time. I will not command him a thing impossible, much less draw him from the affection which he bears me: rather on the contrary I will, if it may be, that he increase it more and more. But before I pass further, let me know, I beseech you, if ever your amity hath been of other quality than it is now, Celion, then showing a countenance less troubled, then that which before the doubt had constrained him to have, answered, that he began towrope well, having received such assurance, that to satisfy her demand, he would again avow that he hath loved her with the same affections and passions, and with the same desires that youth did usually produce in hearts transported furthest by love; and that therein he would not except any one, that since her commandment had such power over him, it had got the like over his passion, that his sincere amity had so far surpassed his love, that he did not think he should offend a sister, to love her with that mind. On my faith, brother (replied the shepherdess) for so I will hold you the remainder of my life, you so bind me by living thus with me, that never any of your actions ever got more over my soul than this. But I cannot see you longer in pain. Know then, that that which I would have of you, is only, that preserving inviolably this good amity which you now bear me, you place your love on one of the fairest shepherdess of Lignon. You may say this is a strange office for Bellinde: yet if you consider that she, of whom I speak, would have you for her husband, and that she is, after you, the person whom I most love, for it is Amaranthe, I assure myself you will not wonder at it. She hath entreated, and I command you by all the power I have over you.  
She made haste to give him this commandment, fearing that if she stayed long, she should not have the power to resist the supplications which she foresaw. What think you, fair Nymph, became of this poor Celion? he grew pale like a dead man, and so besides himself, that he could not for a good while bring forth a word. At last, when he could speak, with such a voice as they have that are in the midst of punishment, he cried out, Ah, cruel Bellinde, have you preserved my life till now, to take it from me with such inhumanity? This commandment is too cruel, to let me live, and my affection too great, to let me die without despair. Alas, suffer me to dye: but let me die faithful: that if there be no mean to recover Amaranthe, but by my death, I may sacrifice myself most willingly for her health: the change of this commandment shall be no less witness that I am beloved of you, than whatsoever you shall be able to do to me. Bellinde was moved, but not changed. Celion (said she) let us leave all these idle words, you shall give me less occasion to believe what you say to me, if you will not satisfy the first request, which I make you. Cruel, presently said the afflicted Celion, if you will that I change this amity, what power have you more to command me? but if you will not that I change it, how is it possible to love virtue and vice? and if it be not possible, why for proof of my affection, will you have a thing which cannot be? Pity thought to overcome her; and though she had ●uch pain for the grief of the shepherd, yet was it some contentment which could not be paralleled, to know herself so perfectly beloved of him, that she loved so dear; and is may be, might have got something over her resolution, had it not 〈◊〉 that she would put from Amaranthe all opinion that she was attainted with her evil: though she loved the shepherd, and was well beloved, yet she enforced her pity, which already had brought forth some tears into her eyes, to return into her heart, without giving knowledge that it was come: and in the end, that she might not fall again into the same pain, she went away, and at her departing, she said; Account of me, as pleases you, I am resolved never to see you, until you have effected my prayer and your promise; and think, that this resolution shall over-live your obstinacy, If Celion were beside himself, seeing himself so fare from all consolation and resolution, he may judge that hath loved. So it was, that he stood two or three days like a man lost, running into the woods, and flying from all those whom formerly he had conversed with. At last an old shepherd, a great friend of his fathers, one indeed that was very wise, and who had always loved Celion passing well, seeing him in this case, and doub●ing there was no passion strong enough to work such effects, but love, so sifted him on all sides, that he made him discourse his pain, where to he gave some assuagement by his good counsel: for in his youth he had often passed thorough the same straits. And at last, seeing him a little tractable, he mocked at him, for that he had such pain for so small a matter, telling him that the remedy was so easy, that he might be ashamed, that it should be known, that Celion esteemed wise by every man, and a person of courage, should have so little understanding, that he knew not how to resolve in an accident that was not very difficult, or at the worst, could not dissemble; and then he went on: But it had been fit, that at the beginning you had made these difficulties, for so she shall think your affection extreme, and this shall tie her to love you the more: but since you have made that demonstration, it will suffice that to content her, you make show of that which she commands. This counsel at last was received of Celion, and executed as it was propounded. It is true that he wrote this letter to Bellinde before.  
celion's letter to Bellinde.  
IF I have deserved to be soroughly used, as I have been by you, I choose rather to dye, then to suffer it: but since it is to your contentment, I received it with little more pleasure, then if in exchange you had awarded me death: notwithstanding since I am dedicated to you, it is reasonable that you should absolutely dispose of me. I will endeavour then to obey you: but remember you that so long as this constraints lasteth, so many days of my life must be crossed out: for I can never call it life, that brings more grief than death. Abridge it then, rigorous shepherdess, if there be any one spark, not of amity, but even of pity.  
It was impossible, but Bellinde must have feeling of these words, which she knew came from an entire affection, but it was not possible for these words to divert her from her design. She advertised Amaranthe, that the shepherd should love her, & that her health only kept back the knowledge of it. This advertisement hastened her recovery so, that she gave proof, that for the health of the body, the health of the mind is most profitable. How extreme was this constraint to Celion, and what pain did he endure? It was such, that he waxed lean, and so changed, that he might not be known. But behold what the severity was of this Shepherdess! It was not sufficient to handle Celion thus▪ for judging that Amaranthe had yet some suspicion of their amity, she resolved to push those affairs so forward, that neither of them both might gainsay it. Every man saw the apparent suit that the shepherd made to Amaranthe: for it was openly declared, and the father of the shepherd knowing the commendable virtues of Leon, and how much honoured his family had always been, did not mislike this suit.  
One day Bellinde desirous to sound him, propounded it as a friend, and he that judged it fit, agreed willingly to it: and this marriage was fare forward without the knowledge of Celion. But when he perceived it, he could not be letted from finding a mean to talk with Bellinde, to give her such reproaches, that she was almost ashamed: and the shepherd seeing he must use other remedy than words, ran presently to the best, that was, to his father, to whom he made this speech: I shall be very sorry to disobey you at any time, and less in this than any other. I see, you like well of the alliance of Amaranthe: you may well know, that there is not a shepherdess that I affect more: yet I love her for a mistress, but not for a wife; and I beseech you command me not to tell the cause. The father at this speech, suspected that he had found some bad condition in the shepherdess, and in his soul commended his son's wisdom that had that command over his affections: so that blow was broken: and for that the thing was so fare passed, that many knew it; many also asked why it proceeded so coldly? the father could not choose but say somewhat to his most familiars, and they to others, that at last it came to Amaranthe, who at the first tormented herself much, but afterward setting before herself what her folly was, to seek to make him love her by force, by little and little she fell off, and the first occasion that she saw fit and convenient to marry herself, she took hold on. So these lovers were eased of a burden so hard to be borne. But this was not, but that they might be overcharged with another much more heavy.  
Bellinde was now of age to be married, and Philemon infinitely desirous to bestow her, to have in his old days the contentment to behold himself renewed in that which might come of her. He would have received Celion; but Bellinde that shunned marriage even as death, had forbidden the shepherd to speak, only she had promised him, that if she were constrained to marry, she would give him notice of it, that he might demand her: which was the cause, that Philemon beholding the coldness of Celion, would not offer her unto him. And in the mean time Ergaste, a principal shepherd of that Country, and who was well esteemed of every one for his commendable virtues, procured that she was demanded; and because he would not have it vented before he were assured; he which managed the business, dealt so secretly and warily, as the promise of marriage was as soon known as it was demanded. For Phil●m●● assuring himself of the obedience of his daughter, bound himself by word, and after told her of it.  
At the first she found the resolution hard which she was to take, because he was a man whom she had never seen: yet that good spirit that never stoops under the burden of misfortune, raised up itself presently, overcoming that displeasure, and would not suffer only her eye to give signe of sorrow for that consideration. But she could never obtain this over herself for Celion: and of necessity, her tears must pay the error of her over-obstinate hatred of marriage. So it was, that to satisfy (in some sort) her promise, she advertised the poor shepherd, that Philemon would marry her. On the sudden, having the permission so much desired, he so solicited his father, that the same day he spoke with Philemon.  
But now was no time, for which the father of Bellinde was much grieved, for he loved him better than Ergaste. O God what was the sorrow when he knew the award of his misfortune? he went out of the house, and ceased not, until he found out the shepherdess. At the meeting he could not speak, but his face manifested well enough what philemon's answer was. And though she stood in as great need of good counsel as he, and strength to support this blow; yet would she declare herself as well un-vanquished by this displeasure, as she had always gloried to be in all others. But likewise would she not appear to be so insensible, but the shepherd might have some knowledge that she felt her evil, and that it displeased her. Whereupon she demanded, to what the demand which he made to her father amounted? The shepherd answered her with the same words that Philemon had said to him, adding so many complaints and desperate laments, that she had been a Rock, if she had not been moved. Yet she interrupted him, fight against herself with more virtue than is credible, and told him, that complaints are proper to weak spirits, and not to persons of courage: That he did himself great wrong, and her also, to use that language. And (said she) at last, what is become of that good resolution which you said you would have against all accidents, but the change of my amity? and can you have an opinion, that any thing can shake it? Do you not see that these words can not boot us anything, but to make them that hear us conceive an evil opinion of us? For God's sake do not set a stain in my forehead, which with such pain I have hitherto avoided: and since there is none other remedy, pacify yourself, as I do; and (it may be) the Heavens will turn all things more to our contentment, than at this time we are permitted to wish for. For my part I will break this misfortune as much as I can possibly.  
But if there be no remedy, yet must not we be without resolution, rather let us part asunder.  
These last words brought the despair of all, making him think, that this great courage proceeded from small amity. If it were as easy for me, answered the shepherd, to resolve against this accident, as you, I would judge myself unworthy to be beloved; for so feeble an amity cannot merit so great happiness. Well, for end and reward of my services, you give me a resolution in the assured loss which I see of you, and secretly to say to me, that I must not despair, though I see you become another's. Ah Bellinde, with what eye will you see this new friend? With what heart can you love him? And with what favours will you entertain him, since your eye hath a thousand times promised, that it would look on none other with love but me; and since this heart hath sworn to me, that it could never love any but me; and since love hath destined your favours to no less affection than mine? Well, you command me to leave you: to obey you, I will do so; for I will not at the end of my life, begin to disobey. But that which makes me undertake it, is, to know assuredly, that the end of my life shall not happen, before the end of your amity; & though I call myself the most unhappy that lives, yet I cherish my fortune the more, for that it hath presented unto me such an occasion, to make my love known to you, that you may not doubt of it: and yet I shall not be satisfied in myself, if the last moment that remains, be not employed in assuring you. I pray the heaven (see what my amity is!) that in this new election, it fill you with as much happiness, as you cause in me despair. Live happy with Ergaste, and receive him with as great contentment, as I have had will to do you service, if my days would have permitted me, that this new affection, full of pleasures, which you promise to yourself, may accompany you to your grave, as I assure you, that my faithful amity shall close mine eyes for your sake, with extreme grief.  
That Bellinde let Celion talk so long, it was for fear, that speaking, her tears would do the office of words, and that, that would increase the grief of the shepherd, or that it would give proof of the small power she had over herself. Proud beauty, that lovest rather to be judged to have too little love, than too little resolution! But at last, finding her strengthened enough to give answer, she said, Celion, you think you give me proof of your amity, and you do the contrary: for, how have you loved me, having so evil an opinion of me? If since this last accident you have conceived it, believe the affection was not great, which could so readily suffer a change: But if you had no evil opinion of me, how is it possible you should believe that I have loved you, and that now I love you no more? For God's sake have pity on my fortune, and conspire not with her to increase my sorrow: consider what small likelihood there is, that Celion, whom I love above the rest of the world, and whose life pleases me as much as mine own, may be changed for an Ergaste, who is unknown to me, and in whose place I choose rather to espouse my tomb; that if I be forced, it is the commandment of my Father, whom my honour will not suffer me to contradict. But is it possible you should not remember the protestations I have so often made to you, that I would not marry myself? And you ceased not to love me: whence hath it this change? For, if without marrying me, you have loved me, why can you not now love me, without marrying me, having an husband who can forbid me to have a brother whom I may always love with that amity I ought? Good will holds me nearer to you then is permitted me. Farewell, my Celion: live and love me, who will love you even to my end, whatsoever becomes of Bellinde.  
At this word she kissed him, which was the greatest favour that hitherto she had done him, leaving him so besides himself, that he was not able to frame a word to give her answer. When he was come to himself, & that he considered that Love stooped under du●y, and that there was not a spark of hope remaining, which might shine among his displeasures, as a person void of resolution, he went into the Wood, and into the places most covert, where he did nothing but complain of his cruel disaster, what advice soever his friends could give him. He lived in this sort many days, during which, he made the ro●ks to pity him. And that she, who was the cause of his evil might have some, feeling, he sent her these verses:  

STANZA'S Of Celion, on the marriage of Bellinde and Ergaste.  

Do then the heavens agree, after such love,  
After such services, that you should be  
Another man's sweet heart, and so must pr●●●e.  
His dear delight, and dearer moiety,  
And that I have at last for love most true,  
But memory, my sorrows to renew?   

You once did love me well, what ' vaileth me?  
This amity now it is gone and passed.  
If you in others arms embraced I see,  
And if for her I be constrained at last,  
You now turned his, to keep in silence still,  
Displeasures cruel that my patience spill.   

If he had more of Love, or of desert  
Than I, I know not what to say but cry  
Alas! Oh, is not this a cruel smart,  
That he should gain in one days space well-nigh.  
Without desert, what heavens will not behoove  
To infinite desires of endless love?   

But (oh weak reason) duty you will say,  
By her sad laws compels me to do thus.  
What duty strong, or law more holy may  
Be found then this, that clearly speaks for us,  
The faith so often sworn, when hand in hand,  
We promised a love for aye to stand?   

May hand (you said) forthwith grow dead and dry,  
My hand, as of a person most for sworn,  
If I be failing in the thing that I  
Assure, or if I any thing have borne  
Nearer my heart, or else hold aught more dear,  
Then this affection which your faith did swear.   

Ob cruel memory of passed good,  
Be gone, and ever banished from my minds,  
Since happiness that in such glory stood.  
Alas, I now so much defaced find,  
Deface it then, it is not reasonable,  
Thou be in me that am so miserable.    
Though he made it not appear in any one of his actions, that there remained any hope in him, yet he always had some little, because the contract of marriage was not yet passed; and for that he knew well, that oftentimes those meetings were often broke off, sometimes they that were thought most certain. But when he knew the articles were signed on both sides, fair Nymph, how can I tell you the least of his despairs? He wrung his hands, he tore his hair, hebeat his breast with thumps: to be short he was a man transported, and so without reason, that he oftentimes went out with a purpose to kill Ergaste. But when he was ready for it, some spark of consideration, which in the midst of so great fury withheld him, made him fear to offend Bellinde, to whom, notwithstanding, transported with passion, he wrote oftentimes letters so full of love and reproaches, that she could hardly read them without tears. Among others he, sent her such an one:  
Celions letter to Bellinde in his transport.  
MVst then, inconstant shepherdess, my pain survive my affection? Must it be, that without loving you, I have such pain, when I know you are in another man's hands? Is it not that the gods will punish me for loving you more than I ought? Or rather is it not, that when I imagine not to love you yet I have more love for you then I had before? Yet why should I love you, since you are, and cannot be any other man's, than one I love not? But on the contrary: why should not I love you, since I have so much loved you? It is true, that I ought not to love you? For you are an ingrateful soul, altogether forgetful, and that hath no sense of Love: yet whatsoever you are, you are Bellinde: and can Bellinde be, without Celion love her? Then do I love you, or if I love you not, judge in yourself, shepherdess; for, for my part, I have a spirit so disquieted, that I can discern nothing else, but that I am the man in the world most afflicted.  
At the end of the letter were these verses.  

STANZA'S.  
Excuse I cannot this inconstancy,  
Which wrought this bad change of affection,  
Change to the better, I call prudency,  
But to the worse, shows small discretion.   
When Bellinde received these letters and verses, she was in pain to send him any of hers, because that hearing talk of the strange life he led, and the words which he uttered against her, she could not suffer it without great displeasure, considering what great cause of speech this gave to them, who have their ears but to listen afternewes of others, and tongues to be telling them. Her letter was thus:  
Bellindes letter to Celion.  
IT is impossible for me longer to endure the wrong, which your strange fashion of living brings to us both. I deny not but you have occasion to complain of our fortune: But I say withal, that a wise man knows how to enjoy what is permitted him, without the imputation of becoming a fool. What a frenzy is this, that keeps you from seeing, that, while you publish to the rest of the world, that you die for love of me, you constrain me to think, that truly you never loved me? For, if you loved me, would you displease me? And, do you not know, that death cannot be more grievous to me, than the knowledge you have ginuen to every man of our amity? Forbear then, brother, I beseech you, and by that name which ties you to have ●are of that which touches me, I conjure you, that if at this present you cannot bear this disaster, without discovering your sorrow, you would at least take are solution to go so far off, that those who hear your complaint may not know my name, but condole with you your own grief, not being able to suspect any thing to my disadvantage. If you give me content in this resolution, you shall make me believe that it was superfluity, and not want of affection, which hath made you commit this error against me. And this consideration shall bind Bellinde, besides the amity which she bears you, to conserve always dear the memory of that brother that love's her, and whom she love's among all these cruel insupportable displeasures.  
Though Celion were so transported, that his spirit was almost incapable of reasons, which his friends could present him, yet so it was, that affection opened his eyes at that blow, and made him see that Bellinde had counselled him to some purpose, so that resolving to be gone, he secretly gave order for his voyage, and the day before he would departed, he writ to his shepherdess, having a purpose to obey her, and he besought her to give him the commodity that he might take leave of her, to the end he might departed with some sort of consolation. The shepherdess that truly loved him, though she foresaw that this farewell would but increase his displeasure, would not deny him this request, and apppointed the next day in the morning at the fountain of Sicomores.  
The day had scant begun to dawn, when the desolate shepherd leaving his  with his flock, driven the right way to the Fountain, where casting himself at length, and his eyes on the water's course, he began, while he attended his shepherdess, to entertain himself about his approaching misfortune; and after he had been somewhile silent, he breathed out these verses:  

A comparison of a Fountain to his displeasure.  

THis Spring, that ever flowing,  
Doth never make an end,  
But aye itself renewing,  
By wa●es that fare extend,   

Resembles mine annoys, whose sorrows me oppress:  
For even like to it, that never means to cease,  
As from a fruitful spring the griefs that I complain,  
Are still renewed, and always borne again.   

Then with a winding course,  
All as the flowing wa●e,  
Runs wand'ring from it source,  
And no repose will have:   

So me with troubles great, with main & many pains,  
As through the somewhile spared sandy plains,  
The overflowing waters cover quite,  
While I with tears bewail my heavy plight.   

And as a vagabond,  
It with a murmur flies,  
Where waves the waves beyond,  
Floating along it cries.   

In like sort I complain of my most sad mischance,  
And against Love my murmuring voice advance.  
But what availeth me, since in the end  
I follow that that Destiny doth send?    
While this shepherd talked thus with himself, and that he uttered loud enough many words at random, he was so troubled with this disafter; Bellinde, that had not lost the remembrance of the appointment which she had given him, as soon as she could free herself from them about her, went to seek him, so much traveled with sorrow to lose him, that she could not hide it, but that it appeared in her countenance. Ergaste, who that morning was risen in good time to see her, by chance perceived her afar off, and seeing her go alone, and (as he thought) sought out the thickest bushes, had a mind to know whither she went. That was the cause, that following her fare off, he saw she took the way to the fountain of Sicomors; and casting his eye a little further off, though it were very early, he observed, that already there was a flock feeding. He that was very advised, and was not ignorant of the affairs of this shepherdess, but that he had heard speech of the love which Colion bore her, suddenly entered into conceit, that this flock was his, and that Bellinde went to seek him.  
Now though he made no doubt of the chastity of his mistress, yet did he easily believe, that she hated him not, thinking that so long a suit could not have been continued if she had misliked it. And, to satisfy his curiosity, as soon as he saw her under the trees, and that she could not spy him, fetching a compass somewhat about, he hide himself among some bushes; where he perceived the shepherdess set on the turfs, which were raised about the Fountain in the fashion of seats, and Celion on his knees by her. What an assault received he at this sight? Yet, for that he could not heat what they said, he went softly, and he came so near them, that there was nothing but an hedge (which compassing about the fountain like a pale) shadowed him. From that place then casting his eyes between the opening of the leaves, and being very attentive withal to their discourse, he heard the shepherdess answer him, And how, Celion, is it power or will to please me, that makes you wanting in this occasion? Shall this accident have more force over you, than the power you have given me? Where is your courage, Celion, or rather, where is your amity? Have you not heretofore overcome for the love you bear me, greater misfortunes than these? If it be so, where is the affection, or where is the resolution that made you do it? Would you have me believe that you have less now, than you had then? Ah shepherd! consent thou rather to the shortening of my life, than to the lessening of that goodwill which you have promised me: and as hitherto I have had that power over you that I listed, so for the time to come, let nothing be able to diminish the same.  
Ergaste heard that Celion answered her: Is it possible, Bellinde, that you can enter into doubt of mine affection, and of the power you have of me Can you have so great a want of understanding? and can the heavens be so unjust, that you can forget those testimonies which I have given you? and that they have suffered that I should survive the good opinion which you are to have of me? You, Bellinde, you may call into question that which never any one of my actions, nor of your commandments left doubtful: At least, before you take so disaduantagious opinion against me, demand of Amaranthe, what she believes; demand the respect which makes me silent; demand of Bellinde herself, if ever she imagined any thing difficult, that my affection did not surmount.  
But now that I see you entirely another's, and after the end of my disappointed love, leaving you in the arms of a more happy man than myself, I must be gone, and banish myself for ever from you. Alas, can you say it is want of affection, or of will to obey you, if I feel a pain more cruel than that of death? How shepherdess! can you think I do love you, if without dying I know you another man's? Will you say, it should be love and courage that make me insensible of this disaster? rather, in truth, shall it not be neither love nor courage to suffer this without despair? O shepherdess! oh that you and I shall be a Fable a long while! for if this weakness, which makes me unable to live, and support this misfortune, makes you doubt of my affection; on the contrary, that great constancy, and that extreme resolution, which I see in you, is to me an over-certaine assurance of your small amity. But withal, why must I hope more of you, when another (O the cruelty of my destiny!) is to enjoy you? At this word the poor shepherd fell on the knees of Bellinde without strength, or sense.  
If the shepherdess were touched to the quick, as well at the words, as at the swooning of Celion, you may judge (fair Nymph) since she loved him as much as was possible; and she must dissemble, that she had no feeling of this dolorous separation. When she saw him in a swoon, and that she thought she was not heard, but of the Sicomors, and the water of the fountain, unwilling to hide from them the displeasure which she had kept so secret from her companions, and those whom she ordinarily saw; Alas (said she) wring her hands! Alas, O sovereign goodness! take me out of this misery, or out of this life; for pity, either break off my cruel disaster, or let my cruel disaster break me! And there casting down her eyes on Celion, And thou (said she) over-faithfull shepherd, which art not miserable, but in that thou lovest miserable me, let the heavens be pleased, either to give thee the contentments thou deservedst, or to take me from the world, since I am the only cause that thou sufferest the displeasures which thou meritest not. And then holding her peace a while, she began again, O how hard a thing it is to love well, and to be wise withal? For I see well, my father hath reason to give me to the wise Ergaste, whether for his merits, or for his substance. But alas! what doth this knowledge avail me, if Love forbidden mine affection to delight in him?  
I know that Ergaste merits more, and I can hope for nothing more to my benefit than to be his. But how can I give myself to him, if Love have already given me to another? Reason is on my father's side, but Love is for me; and not a love lately borne, or that hath no power, but a Love which I have conceived, or rather, which the heavens have caused to be borne with me, which grew up with me from my cradle, and which by so long tract of time is so insinuated into my soul, that it is more my soul than my soul. O God can I hope to put it off without loss of life? And if I cannot undo it, tell me, Bellinde, what will become of thee? In bringing out these words, the great tears fell from her eyes, and running down along her face, wet both the hand and cheek of the shepherd, who by little and little coming to himself, caused the shepherdess to break off her complaints, and wiping her eyes for fear lest he should mark it, changing both her countenance, and voice, she spoke to him in this sort, Shepherd, I will confess that I have a feeling of your pain, (it may be) as much as yourself, and that I cannot doubt of your goodwill, unless I were the most misunderstanding person in the world.  
But, to what end serve this acknowledgement, and those feelings? since the heavens have subjected me to him, that hath given me being, would you have me so to be, that I disobey him? But be it, that affection more strong prevail above duty, shall we therefore, Celion, be at rest? Is it possible, if you love me, that you can have any contentment to see me all the rest of my life long full of displeasures and griefs? And can you think that the blame which I shall incur, whether for disobeying my father, or for the opinion that every one shall have of our life passed, to my disadvantage, can leave me one moment of quietness? It may be, this will be more credible of another than of me, that have always so blamed them that have carried themselves thus, that the shame to see myself fall'n into their fault, will be more insupportable to me, than the most cruel death which the heavens may ordain. Arm yourself therefore with this resolution, O shepherd, that as for the time passed, our affection never made us commit any thing that was against our duty, though our love were extreme; so for the time to come, we must not suffer that it compel us to do it. Besides that, to things which have no remedy, complaints seem unprofitable.  
Now it is certain, that my father hath given me to Ergaste, and that gift can never be revoked, but by Ergaste himself. judge you what hope we can have ever that will be. It is true, that having disposed of my affection before my father did of me, I promised and swore to you, before all the gods, and particularly, before the deities which dwell in this place, that for affection I would be yours, until I were in my tomb: & that there was neither father nor husband, nor tyranny of duty should ever make me do against the oath which I have made you. The heavens have given me to a father, that father hath given my body to an husband. As I may not contradict heaume, so my duty forbids me to refuse the appointment of my father. But, neither the heavens, nor my father, nor my husband shall ever keep me from having a brother, whom I will love, as I have promised him, whatsoever may come of it. At these last words, foreseeing that Celion would fall again to plaints and tears; to put it off, she rose, and taking him by the head, kissed his brow, and bidding him farewell, and going away: Shepherd, God grant thee as much contentment (said she) in thy journey, as thou leavest me little in the case I am in.  
Celion had neither the strength to answer her, nor the courage to follow her; but being risen, and holding his arms across, he went, accompanying her with his eyes, as fare as he could see her; and when the trees took away his view, lifting up his eyes to heaven, all laden with tears, after many great sighs, he ran away on the other side, without care, either of his flock, or of any thing he left in his . Ergaste, who lay hid behind the bush, and had heard their discourse, was more satisfied with the virtue of Bellinde, than he could express, admiring both the force of her courage, and the greatness of her honesty. And after he had long stayed, ravished with this thought, considering the extreme affection that was between these two lovers, he believed that it would be an act unworthy himself, to be cause of their separation, and that the heavens had ordained him to meet with that farewell so fitly, but to let him see the great error which he went about to commit unawares. Being then resolved to work for their contentment, all he could possibly, he set himself to follow Celion, but he was by this time so fare gone, that he knew not how to overtake him and thinking to find him in his , he took a narrow path that led directly to it. But Celion was gone a contrary way: for without speaking to any of his kindred or friends, he went wand'ring many days, without any other purpose than to fly from men, and fed on the wild fruits which extreme hunger enforced him to gather in the woods. Ergaste, that saw his purpose was broken on that side, after a day or two's search, went to find out Bellinde, hoping to know of her, what way he had taken: and by chance, he found her at the same place, where she had bid Celion adieu, all alone on the side of the Fountain, at that time meditating on the last accident that befell her in that place; the remembrance whereof brought tears from the depth of her heart. Ergaste, that saw her long before, came purposely to take her in the most private sort he could possibly: and seeing her tears like two Springs, run down into the Fountain, he had so much pity, that he swore, not to take a good night's slee●●, until he had remedied her displeasure. And to lose no time, advancing himself at once towards her, he saluted her.  
She that saw herself overtaken with tears in her eyes, that she might hide them, making show to wash herself, and nimbly casting her hands into the water, wet her face all over, so that if Ergaste had not seen her tears before, he could hardly have known she wept: which yet made him more to wonder at her virtue. At that time she painted in her face a smiling countenance, and turning to the shepherd, said to him, with a fashion of courtesy, I thought to have been a lone (gentle shepherd) but for that I see you are come for the same cause (as I think) that brought me hither, I would say, to refresh you, and without feigning, see the best Spring, and the most fresh that is in this Plain. Wise and fair shepherdess (answered Ergaste smiling) you have reason to say, that the same cause; which made you come hither, hath likewise brought me. For it is true; but where you say, that you and I come to refresh ourselves, I must contradict it, for that neither of us had it for our purpose. For my part, said the shepherdess, I confess I may be deceived for you: but for mine own particular, you must permit me to say, that there is none that knows more than myself. I grant (said Ergaste) that you know more than all others. But you shall not therefore make me confess, that the cause that brought you hither, is the very same you have spoken of.  
And what think you then (said she) it was? At this word she laid her hand on her face, seeming to rubbe her eyebrows, but, indeed, to hide (in some sort) the redness which was risen. Which Ergaste marking, and willing to free her of the pain wherein he saw her, answered thus: Fair and discreet shepherdess, you must use no more dissimulation with me, that know as well as you, that which you do think you have most secret in your soul: and to manifest unto you that I lie not, I tell you, that at this present, you are here at this water's side, thinking with great displeasure on the last adieu, which you gave unto Celion in this place where you are. I (said she) presently all overtaken? Yes, you (said Ergaste:) but be not grieved that I know it. For I do so esteem of your virtue and worth, that it shall be so fare from hurting you, that I desire it should be the cause of your contentment. I know the long service which this shepherd hath done you: I know with how much honour he hath wooed you. I know with what affection he hath continued these many years: and moreover, with what sincere and virtuous amity you have affected him.  
The knowledge of all these things makes me desire death, rather than to be the cause of your separation. Think not that it is jealousy that causeth me to speak in this manner: I shall never enter into any doubt of your virtue, since I have heard with mine ears the wise discourse which you have had with him. No more think you, but that I believe, that losing you, I shall likewise lose the best fortune that I could wish for: but the only cause that driveth me to give you to him, whose you ought to be, is this (O wise Bellinde) that I will not buy my contentment with your everlasting displeasure: and truly, I should think myself to be culpable both before God and men, if by my occasion, so good and virtuous an amity should be broken off between you.  
I therefore come to tell you, that I choose rather to deprive myself of the best alliance that ever I shall have, to set you in your former liberty, and to give you back again the contentment which mine would have taken from you. And besides that, I think to do and perform that which I believe my duty commandeth me; it shall be no small satisfaction to me, to think, that if Bellinde be contented, Ergaste was an instrument of her contentment. Only I do require, that if herein I bind you being the cause of the reunion of your amity, you will be pleased to receive me as a third to you two, and that you will yield me the same part of goodwill, which you promised to Celion, when you did think to marry Ergaste: I mean, that I may be a friend to you two, and be received as a brother.  
Can I (fair Nymph) show you the contentment unhoped for of this shepherdess? I think it is impossible: for she was so surprised, that she knew not with what words to thank him: but taking him by the hand, she went to sit down on the turfs of the fountain; where, after she had paused a while, and seeing the good will wherewith Ergaste bond her, she declared all along, what had passed between Celion and her, and after a thousand kinds of thankes, which I omit, for sear of troubling you, she besought him to go seek him, for that the transport of Celion was such, that he would not come back with any man in the world that should seek him, for that he would never believe that good will of his, whom he had never given such cause to, if it were assured him by any other: But on the contrary, he would imagine it were a trick to bring him back. Ergaste, that desired in any case to end the good work he had begun, resolved to be gone the nextday, with Diamis the brother of Celion, promising her not to come back without bringing him with him.  
Being then departed with this purpose, after he had sacrificed to Thautates, to desire him to direct them to the place where they might find Celion, they took the way that first offered itself to them. But they had sought long in vain, before they had any news, if himself, transported with fury, had not resolved to return into Forests, to kill Ergaste, and then with the same weapon to pierce his own heart, before Bellinde, not being able to live and know that another enjoyed his good. In this rage he set himself on his way: and because he nourished himself but with herbs and fruits, which he found along the way, he was so feeble, that he could scarce go: and had not his rage carried him, he could not have done that; yet must he diverse times of the day rest him, especially when sleep pressed him.  
It fell out, that wearied in this sort, he lay down under some trees which gave a pleasing shadow to a Fountain, & there, after he had some while thought of his displeasures, he fell asleep. Here Fortune, who delighted herself with the griefs she had wrought him, disposes to make him entirely happy. Ergaste and Diamis passed by this way, and by chance Diamis went first: on the sudden when he saw him, he knew him, and turning softly, came, to advertise Ergaste, who very joyful, would have gone to embrace him, but Diamis held him back, saying, I beseech you, Ergaste, do nothing herein that may turn to evil: my brother, if at once we should tell him this good news, would dye with joy; and if you known the extreme affliction that this accident hath brought him, you would be of the same mind. Therefore, me thinks, it will be better that I tell it him by little and little, and because he will not believe me, you may come after to confirm it.  
Ergaste finding this advice good, got behind some trees where he might see them, and Dianis went to him. And it must needs be, that he was inspired by some good Angel: for if at the first Celion had spied Ergaste, it may be, that following his resolution, he had done him some displeasure. Now, at the time that Dianis came towards him, his brother awaked, and beginning again his ordinary entertainments, he set himself to complain in this manner:  

A PLAINT.  

BEsides the wees of humane state,  
Lighting on nought to comfort me,  
Unless it be to wail my Fate,  
I sigh for death, which will not be.   

My shield is hope that cannot fall:  
But that same sword that entring is,  
Which mischief anger's me withal,  
Is evils too assured to miss.   

I hope in my long misery,  
To see my dole some end to have:  
But how? I must not hope to see  
Unless it be within my grain.   

Count you him not most miserable,  
And all the gods his enemies,  
Whose hope that is most favourable,  
In death, and in his last Fate lies.   

Where are the thoughts of courage high,  
Resolved for evil heretofore?  
But where am I? or who am I?  
I understand myself no more.   

My soul through grief is so confused,  
That what as now it seems to crane,  
It on a sudden leaves refared,  
Than whom with ease she might it have.   

Brought to this state it cannot see  
Nor what it hath, nor what it is.  
O wherefore then must we needs be,  
When every thing tastes ●s amiss?    
D●amis would not come suddenly on him: but after he had hearkened somewhile, he made a noise purposely, that he might turn his head towards him; and seeing that he beheld him astonished, he went softly to him, and after he had saluted him; he said, I thank God, brother, that I have found you so fitly, to do you the message that Bellinde sends you.  
Bellinde, said he presently? It is possible she should have any remembrance of me, between the arms of Ergaste? Ergaste, said Diamis, hath not Bellinde between his arms: and I hope, if you have any resolution, she shall never be his. And doubt you, answered Celion, that resolution shall be wanting to me in such an affair? I would say, replied Diamis, wisdom. I think, answered Celion, there as no wisdom that can cross the order that Destiny hath resolved. Destiny, said Diamis, is not so contrary to you, as you think: and your affairs are not in so evil terms as you believe: Ergasts refuses Bellinde. Ergaste, said Celion, refuse her? It is certain, continued Diamis, and that you may be better assured, Ergaste himself seeks you out to tell you so much. Celion hearing these news, stood without answer, almost besides himself; and then speaking again, You deceive yourself, brother, said he, or say you this to abuse me? I swear, answered Diamis, by the great Thautates, Hesus, and Tharamus, and all that which we account most sacred, that I tell you true, and you may soon know it of the shepherd Ergaste. Then Celion lifting up his hands and eyes to heaven: O God, said ne, to what more happy end do you reserve me? His brother, to interrupt him, said; You must talk no more of misfortune and death, but only of joy and contentment: and above all, prepare to thank Ergaste for the good which he hath done you, for I see him come towards us. At this word Celion rises up, and seeing him so near, ran to embrace him with as much good will, as a little before he had borne him malice. But when he knew the truth of this affair, he cast himself on his knees before Ergaste, and would have kissed his feet. I cut off all their discourse (fair Nymph) and will only tell you, that being returned, Ergaste 〈◊〉 him Bellinde; and with the consent of his father, he caused her to be espoused to him, and only desired, as he had before requested Bellinde, that Celion would accept him for a third, in their honest and sincere affection; and giving himself entirely to them, would never marry.  
See, (fair and wise Nymph) that that it pleased you to know of their fortune, which was pleasing to all three, so long as it pleased God they should live together: for some while after, there was borne them a son, whom they called Ergaste, for the amity they bore to the gentle Ergaste, and long to preserve his memory. But it fell out, that in the cruel pillage which some strangers made in the provinces of the Sequans, Viennois and Segusians, this little Insant was lost, and died, without doubt, for want: for they never heard news of him. And some years after, they had a daughter, named Diane: but Celion nor Ergaste had not long the pleasure of this child, because they died shortly after, and both on one day: and this is Diane, of whom you asked me news, and who is accounted in our Hamlet, for one of the fairest and wisest shepherdess in all Forestes.   
The end of the tenth Book.   

THE ELEVENTH BOOK OF ASTREA AND CELADON.  
CELADON went on in this sort, telling to the Nymph the history of Colion and Belinde, while Leonide and Galathee talked of the news which Flurial brought them: for as soon as the Nymph perceived Leonide, she took her aside, and bid her take heed, that Flurial saw not Celadon; for (said she) he is so entirely for Lindamor, that the beast will tell him all he sees: entertain him then, and when I have looked over my Letters, I will tell you what news I have. At this word, the Nymph went out of the chamber, and led Flurial with her, and after some other speeches, she said to him: Well Flurial, what news bring you to my Lady? Very good, answered he, and such as she and you would wish; for Clidaman is well, and Lindamor hath done such wonders in the battle, that it is found, that Meroue and Childerick esteem of him as his virtue deserves: but there is a young man with me, that would speak with Siluy, whom they at the Gate would not suffer to enter, who will tell you much better all the particulars, for that he came from thence; and I received these Letters at my Aunts, whither one of Lindamors followers brought them, and expects an answer. And knowest thou not, replied the Nymph, what he would say to Siluy? No, answered he, for he would never tell it: He must (said the Nymph) come in. At this word going toward the Gate, she knew the Youth presently, for she had seen him oft with Ligdamon; which made her judge, he brought some news to Siluy: And because she knew well, that her sister desired these affairs might be secret, she would ask him nothing, feigning not to know him; only she told him, she would advertise Siluy of it. Then drawing Flurial aside: Thou knowest well Flurial, said she (my friend) the misfortune that is befallen Lindamor. How, answered Flurial? we should rather think him happy: for he hath got such glory where he is, that at his return, Amasis dares not deny him Galathee. O Flurial, what sayest thou? If thou knewst how things have passed here, thou wouldst protest, that the voyage of our friend is for his part the way of death. O God (said he) what say you? for I doubt not, but at his return he will dye of sorrow. Flurial (said she) it is as I tell thee, and believe not, that there is any remedy, unless it come from thee. From me, said he? if it may come from me, hold it for most certain, for there is nothing in the world that I will not do. Now, said the Nymph, you must then be secret, and this evening I will tell you more: but now I must know what the poor absent man writes. He sent, said he, these Letters by a young man, who had charge to carry them to mine Aunt, she hath presently sent me with them, and see one that he w●it to you: she opened it, and saw it was thus.  
The Letter of Lindamor to Leonide.  
AS absence hath small power over mine own soul, so fear I it hath much over her whom I adore; my faith tells me no, but my fortune threatens the contrary: yet the assurance which I have in the wisdom of my Confident, makes me live with less fear, then if my memory were alone. Have care then not to frustrate the hope which I have 〈◊〉 you, nor belie the assurances of our amity.  
Well, said the Nymph, go to the next place where thou mayest lodge this night, and come hither betimes in the morning, and then thou shalt know a story which will make thee wonder at it. Then she called up the Youth which would speak with Siluy, and led him into the withdrawing chamber of Galathee, where willing him to attend, she went in, and gave the Nymph to know what she had done with Fleuriat. You must, said the Nymph, read this Letter which Lindamor hath written to me.  
The Letter of Lindamor to Galathee.  
NEither the delay of my Voyage, nor the horrors of War, nor the beauties of these new Hostesses of Gaul can so possess the memory of your faithful servant from you, but that it continually flies back to the most happy abode, where, while I am so fare distant from you, I leave all my glory: so that not being able to deny my affection the curiosity, to know how my Lady doth, after I have a thousand times kissed your Robe, I present you with all the good fortunes wherewith Arms are pleased to favour me, and offer them at your feet, as to the Diuiniti● to which I acknowledge them. If you receive them for yours, Renown will give them you in my behalf, which promises me as well as yourself the honour of your good graces to your most humble servant.  
I care not then, said Galathee, neither for him nor his victories; he shall bind me, more to forget me. For God's sake (said Leonide) Madam say not so: if you knew how well he is esteemed both by Meroue and Childerick, I cannot believe (being borne as you are) but you will make more of him then of a Shepherd, I say a Shepherd that love's you not, and whom you see sighing before you for the affection of a Shepherdess. You may think, that all that I speak, is out of cunning. It is true, presently answered Galathee. Well Madam, answered Leonide, you may believe what pleaseth you, but I swear unto you by all that may be most fearful to the perjured, That in this journey by great chance I saw that Impostor Clemanthe, and that cunning Polymas, talking of what happened to you, and discovering between them all the tricks they had used. Leonide (added Galathee) you lose time, I am resolved what I will do, talk no more to me of it. I will do Madam what you command, said she; but suffer me to say one word: What do you mean to do with this Shepherd? I will have him love me, said she. Wherein, replied Leonide, purpose you that this amity shall be concluded. You are overbusy, said Galathee, to wish me to know the things to come; only let him love me, and then we will see what we have to do. Yet (continued Leonide) though one know not what will happen, yet in all our designs, we must have some Butt whereto we may aim. I think in all, said Galathee, except those of love: and for my part, I will have no other design, but that he love me. Then replied Leonide, it must be so, for there is no likelihood that you will marry him; and not marrying him, what will become of that honour which you have preserved to yourself? for it cannot be, that this new love can blind you so, but that you will find the wrong you do to yourself, to wish for your lover the man whom you would not marry. And you (said she) Leonide, that are so scrupulous, tell me true, are you envious that I should marry him? I, Madam, answered she, I hold him to be too mean a thing, and I humbly beseech you, not to think me of so small courage, that I will deign to cast mine eye on him. And if ever there were any man that had the power to give me feeling of love, I freely protest to you, the respect which I have borne you, hath made me withdraw. When was that, added Galathee? Then, said she, when you commanded me (Madam) to make no more of Polemas. O what grace you have (cried Galathee?) by your faith did you never love Celadon? I will swear unto you by the faith I own to you, Madam, answered she, that I never loved Celadon otherwise, then as if he had been my brother. And in that she lied not: for after the shepherd spoke so plainly to her at the last time, she found out the wrong she did to herself, and so resolved to change the love into amity, Well Leonide, said the Nymph, let us leave this discourse, and that likewise of Lindamor, for the die is cast. And what answer, said she, will you make to Lindamor? I will make him, said she, no other, but by silence. And what think you, said she, will become of him, when the man he sent, returns without Letters? Let what may, said Galathee, become of him; for, for my part; neither his resolution nor any others, shall ever be cause for me to make myself miserable. Is it not then necessary, answered Leonide, that Flurial go back? No, said she.  
Leonide then told her coldly, that there was a young man that would speak with Siluy, and that she believed he was come from Ligdamon, and he would not tell his message but only to Siluy herself. We must, answered the Nymph, send him where. she is: we must not think much to draw the Curtains of the Bed where Celadon lies, for I assure myself, he will be glad to hear what Ligdamon hath written; for me thinks you have already told him all their loves. It is true, answered Leonide: but Siluy is so disdainful, and so lofty, that without doubt she would be offended, that the messenger should speak to her, especially before Celadon. We must, said she, take her on the sudden: Only go before, and will the shepherd not to speak a word, and draw the Curtains, and I will bring him in. So parted these Nymphs.  
And Galathee knowing the young man, as having often seen him with Ligdamon, demanded whence he came, and what news he brought from his Master. I come Madam, said he, from the Army of Merove, and as for news from my Master, I must not tell them, but to Siluy. Truly (said the Nymph) you are very secret: and think you I will suffer you to say any thing unto my Nymphs, which I shall not know? Madame, said he, it shall be before you, if it please you, for I have that commandment, and principally, before Leonide. Come then (said the Nymph) and so she brought him into the Chamber of Celadon: where already Leonide had given the order as she had appointed, without saying any thing to Siluy; who at the first was astonished, but afterward seeing Galathee enter with this young man, she judged, that it was to keep the shepherd from being seen, The amazement she found was great, when she saw Egide (that was the young man's Name) whom she knew presently: for though she had no love for Ligdamon, yet she could not exempt herself from all kind of good will; she judged rightly, that he would tell her some news, but she would not ask him.  
But Galathee turning to the young man, said: See where Siluy is; you have no more to do, but to go through with your Message, since you desire that Leonide and I should be by. Madam (said Egide, turning to Siluy) my Master, the most faithful servant that your merits ever won you, hath commanded me to let you know what his fortune hath been; wishing no other thing from Heaven, as a recompense of his fidelity, but that one spark of pity may touch you, since none of love could come near the ye of your heart. How now (said Galathee, interrupting his speech) it seems he hath made his Testament: how doth he? Madam (said he, turning to Galathee) I will tell you, if it please you to give me the leisure: and then turning to Siluy, he went on in this sort.  

The History of Ligdamon.  
AFter Ligdamon had taken leave of you, he went with Lindamor, accompanied with so many goodly designs, that he promised himself no less then to win by this voyage that which his services could not by his presence, resolving to do so many famous acts, that whether the name of valiant, which his victories gave him, might be pleasing unto you, or well dying, he might leave you to sorrow. With this design he came into the Army of Meroue, a Prince filled with all perfections which are necessary to a Conqueror, and arrived so luckily, that the battle was assigned the seventh day after; so that all the young Knights had no other greater care, then to visit their Arms, and to put their Horses into good plight. But it is not of them that I am to speak: Therefore letting pass all under silence which touches not Ligdamon, I will tell you, that the day assigned for this great fight being come, the two Armies came out of their Camp, and had sight the one of the other, setting themselves in battle array; here a squadron of Horsemen, there a battalion of Footmen; here the Drums, there the Trumpets: on the one side, the neighing of Horses, on the other, the voice of Soldiers raised such a noise, that one might well say, that Bellona the dreadful was tolling in this Plain, and that she had brought forth whatsoever was most horrible in her Gorgon. For my part, I (who was never in the like occasion) was so deaffed with that I heard, and so dazzled with the brightness of the armour, that indeed I knew not where I was; yet my resolution was not to leave my Master: for the bringing me up from my childhood, me thought bound me to it, and not to go fare from him in this occasion, where nothing was presented to our eyes, but with the ensigns of death. But this was nothing to the strange confusion, when all these squadrons and all these battalions met together, when the sign of battle was given: for the Horsemen set on the enemy, and the Infantry likewise, with so great a noise which the Men, Armour, and Horses made, that one could not hear it thunder.  
After there had passed many clouds of arrows, I cannot tell you true how I found myself with my Master in the midst of the enemies, that I could not but admire the great gashes of Ligdamons' Sword: and without feigning, fair Nymph, I saw him do such marvels, that one made me forget the other. So it was, that his valour was such, that Meroue would know his name, as having noted him that day among all the other Knights.  
By this time the former Squadron grew victorious, and our men began to order themselves to set on the second; when the enemy, to make up one entire push, caused all his forces that remained, to march forward, that he might with that speed infest them, before Meroue should be able to secure them in time. And indeed, if he had had to do with a Captain less experienced then him, I think his purpose had taken effect. But this great Soldier judging the despair of the Adversary, at the same time divided three new Squadrons, two to the two Wings, and the third in the tail of the former, so fitly, that they sustained a great part of the first shock; yet we who were advanced forwardest, found ourselves much over▪ laid with great numbers. But I will not now trouble you with a particular description of this day's work, and I know not how to bring it about. So it was, that then the two bodies of the footmen being encountered, that of Meroue had the better, and as much as we gained of ground of them on horseback, so much lost the Infantry of the enemy. At the shock which we received, there were many of ours borne to the ground, besides those whom the arrows of the Infantry, from the beginning of the battle, had unhorsed: for at the meeting, the enemy causing some Archers to shoot off, made us draw through the Wings so many Arrows, that our horsemen not daring to leave their ranks, had much ado to bear them, before Meroue had sent some of his to skirmish with them. And among those that at the second brunt were put to the worse, Clidaman was one, for his horse fell down dead, by three wounds of three arrows. Ligdamon, that had always his eyes on him, suddenly, seeing him on the earth, spurred his horse in extreme fury, and did such deeds of arms, that he made a Round of dead bodies about Clidaman, who in the mean time had leisure to free himself from his horse. The fury of the enemy, which by this fall of Clidaman was renewed in that place, had at last trod him under the horses feet, but for the help and valour of my Master, who alighting, set him on his own horse, staying on foot so wounded and so charged with the enemy, that he could not mount on the horse that I brought him. At this instant, our men were forced to give back, as feeling their weakness, as I think by the invincible arm of my Master; and the mischief was so great for us, that we found ourselves in the midst of so many enemies, that there was no more hope of safety: Yet would never Ligdamon yield himself, though he were so wounded and so wearied as may be imagined; yet was there none so hardy, seeing what gashes he gave with his arm, that durst lay hold on him. At last, with all the fury of their horse five or six came to strike him, and so suddenly, that having bestowed his Sword in the belly of the first horse, it broke near the hilt, and the horse strucken to the heart, fell down upon him. I ran to help him up; but ten or twelve that cast themselves on him, hindered me: and so both of us half dead, were raised up.  
And this accident was yet more unfortunate, in that, that almost at the same time our men recovered the ground they had lost, by the succours which Childerick brought from the rearward, and after went on gaining the field, until it was wholly gotten at evening, and the lodgings of the enemy burnt, and themselves for the most part taken or slain. As for us, we were carried to their principal Town, called Rouen: whither my Master was no sooner come, but many came to visit him; some of them calling themselves his kinsmen, and others, his friends, though he knew them not. For my part, I knew not what to say, not he to think, when he saw those strangers make so much of him: but we were more astonished, when an honourable Lady, well followed, came to visit him, saying, that he was her son, with such demonstration of amity, that Ligdamon was like one besides himself; and much more, when she said to him: O Lydia's, my child, with what contentment and fear do I see thee here? for I thank God, that at the end of my days I see thee so much esteemed of by the report of them that have taken thee: but alas, what is my fear, to see thee in this cruel Town, since thy enemy Aronte is dead of the wounds which he had of thee, and that thou hast been condemned to death by the Lords, of justice? for my part, I know no other remedy, but to ransom thee presently, and lie close till thou be'st healed, that being able to mount on horseback, thou mayest be gone with the Franks. If Ligdamon were astonished at this discourse, you may judge, and then knew well she took him for another. But he could not answer her, because at the same instant he which had taken him, entered into the Chamber with two Officers of the Town, to take the names and quality of the prisoners, for there were many of their men taken, and they would exchange them. The poor Lady was surprised, fearing they came to carry him to prison, and hearing they asked him his Name, she was about to tell it herself, but my Master thrust her back, and called himself Ligdoman the Segusian. She than had an opinion, he meant to dissemble; and to put out all suspicion, she withdrew herself, with a resolution to ransom him with all speed, that he might not be known. And it was true, that my Master resembled Lydia's so much, that all that saw him, took him for him. Now this Lydia's was a young man of that Country, that being in love with a fair Lady, had fought with Aronte his Rival, whose jealousy was such, that it let him go beyond his duty, speaking evil both of her and him. Whereat Lydia's offended, after he had spoken twice or thrice to make him change his discourse, and thinking, that he took it as out of fear, which indeed proceeded from the wisdom of the young man, he was at last enforced both out of duty and love to come to Arms, and with that happiness, that having left his enemy as dead on the earth, he had the leisure to save himself from the hands of justice; which, after that Aronte was dead pursued him so, that though he were absent, yet they condemned him to death. Ligdamon was so wounded, that he dreamt not of these things: I, that foresaw the evil that might befall him, always pressed his mother to redeem him; which she did, but not so secretly, but that the enemies of Lydia's were advertised of it: so that at their request, the same day the good Lady having paid the ransom, and carrying him to her house, those Officers of justice came upon them, and made him take the way to prison, whatsoever Ligdamon could say; deceived like others, by the resemblance of Lydia's. So behold him in as great danger as a man might be, that had not offended. But this was nothing to the next day's work; when he was questioned of points whereof he was so ignorant, that he knew not what to say: Notwithstanding, they forbore not to ratify the former judgement, and gave him no further term, then to the healing of his wounds.  
The bruit presently ran throughout all the Town, that Lydia's was prisoner, and that he was condemned to dye, not as a Murderer only, but as a Rebel, having been taken with Arms in his hand for the Franks, that for this cause he was to be put into the Cage of the Lions; and it was true, that their custom was such: but they would not pronounce this award to him, that he might not make himself away. Yet they talked of no other thing within the Town: and the voice was so spread, that it came to my ears. Wherewith being feared, I disguised myself so, with the help of this good Lady which had redeemed him, that I came to Paris, to find out Meroue and Clidaman, whom I gave to understand of this accident: whereat they were much astonished, thinking it almost impossible, that two men should be so alike, that there might be no difference. And to remedy it, they sent speedily two Heralds of Arms, to let the enemies know the error wherein they were: but this served but to persuade them the more, and to make them hasten the execution of their judgement.  
The wounds of Ligdamon were almost healed; so that to give him no longer time, they pronounced the Sentence, That attainted of Murder and Rebellion, justice had ordained that he should dye by the Lions, appointed to such an execution: yet because he was nobly borne, and their countryman, they did him the grace, to suffer him to carry his Sword and Dagger, as being the Arms of a Knight, wherewith if he had the courage, he might defend himself, or at least assay generously to revenge his death. And at this time in their Council they made an answer to Merove, That so they would chastife all their countrymen that were traitors to their Country. Behold the poor Ligdamon in extreme danger: yet that courage which yet never bended but under love, seeing there was no other remedy, resolved to look to his own safety the best he could. And because Lydia's was one of the better Families among the Normans, almost all the people assembled to see this Spectacle. And when he saw they were ready to put him into this horrible close field, all that he requested, was, that he might fight with the Lion's one by one. The people hearing so just a demand, agreed to it by their acclamations and clapping of hands, what difficulties soever the contrary part propounded. So that behold him thrust alone into the Cage: and the Lions on the other side the bars seeing this new prey, roared so fearfully, that there was none of the standers by that trembled not. Without more, Ligdamon seemed confident among so many dangers, and having an eye on the first Gate that was to open, lest he might be surprised, he saw a furious Lion come forth with staring look, and having three or four times strucken the earth with his tail, began to thrust forth his great fore-feets, and to open his paws, as if he would show him what death he was to die. But Ligdamon seeing well there was no safety but in his valour, as soon as he saw him rise up, he cast his poniard so fitly at him, that he planted it in his stomach even to the haft, wherewith the Beast being touched at the heart, fell down dead presently. The cry of the people was great; for every one being moved with his confidence, with his valour, and with his courage, favoured him in his soul: but he that knew well that the rigour of his judges would not stay there, ran readily to take again his poniard; and almost at the same time, see another Lion, no less fearful than the former, that as soon as the Gate was opened, came with open throat in such fury, that Ligdamon was almost surprised: yet as he passed, he turned himself a little aside, and with his Sword gave him such a blow upon one of his paws, that he cut it off, whereat the Beast in fury so suddenly came on him, that he cast him to the ground, but his fortune was such, that in falling, and the Lion ramping over him, he could but hold out his Sword, which fell out so luckily to be under his belly, that he fell down dead almost as soon as the former.  
In the mean while that Ligdamon was disputing for his life, behold a Lady fair among the Normans, that cast herself on her knees before the judges, beseeching them to cause the execution to cease until she had spoken. They that knew her to be of the principal of the Country, willingly yielded her that favour; and indeed it was she for whom Lydia's had slain Aronte: her name was Ameryne, and then she spoke to them in this sort, with a modest voice.  
My Lords, Ingratitude is to be punished as Treason, because it is a kind of it: Therefore seeing Lydia's condemned for being on the contrary side, I fear I should be counted so, if not of you, yet of the Gods, if I thought not myself bound to save his life that hazarded his to save my honour. This is it for which I present myself before you, relying on our privileges, which ordain, That a man condemned to death, shall be delivered, when a maid demands him for her husband. As soon as I knew of your judgement, I came with all diligence to require it, and I could not be here so soon, but he hath run the fortune that all men have seen; yet since God hath preserved him so happily for me, you are not justly to deny me.  
All the people that heard this demand, cried with a joyful voice, Grace, Grace. And though the enemies of Lydia's laboured the contrary, yet was it concluded, that the privileges of the Country should take place. But alas, Ligdamon came out of this danger, but to enter into a greater: for being brought before the judges, they let him know the customs of the Country were such, That any man attainted & convicted of any Crime whatsoever, might be delivered from the rigours of justice, if a maid demanded him for husband; so that if he would marry Ameryne, he should be restored to his liberty, and might live with her.  
He that knew her not, found it hard to answer: notwithstanding, seeing no other remedy to escape the danger wherein he was, he promised it, hoping that time would bring out some commodity to free him out of the Labyrinth.  
Ameryne, that had always found Lydia's so amorous of her, was not a little astonished at this coldness, yet judging, that the affrightment of the danger wherein he was, had made him thus besides himself, she had the more pity on him, and carried him to Lydia's mother's house, who was she that procured the marriage, knowing, there was no other remedy to save her son's life: besides that, she was not ignorant of the love between them, which made her press the conclusion of the marriage the most that possibly she could, thinking to please her son. But on the contrary, this was to hasten the death of him that could do no more than he had done. Ah my dear Master, when I call to mind the last words you spoke to me, I know not how it is possible for me to live?  
All things were ready for the marriage, and it must be dispatched the next day, when the night before he took me aside, and said Egide my friend, didst thou ever see such a fortune as this, that they will make me believe that I am not myself? Sir, said I, me thinks it is not evil: Ameryne is fair and rich, all that call themselves her kinsmen, are the principal of this Country; what would you desire more? Ah Egide, said he, thou speakest for thine own ease. If thou knewest the case wherein I am, thou wouldst have pity on me. But have care of what I say, and above all the Obligation that thou owest me, and the love which I have always found in thee, fail not as soon as to morrow I shall have done that I am resolved of, to bear this Letter to the fair Siluy, and relate to her all that thou hast seen; and moreover assure her, that I never loved any but her, and never shall. At this word he gave me this Letter, which I kept very carefully until the next morning; when at the hour that he was to go to the Temple, he called me, and commanded me to be about him, and made me swear again to seek you out with diligence. At the same time one came to him, to place him in the wedding Chariot, where already the fair Ameryne was set with one of her uncles, whom she loved and honoured as her father. She was in the midst between Ligdamon and Caristes, so her uncle was named, all covered with a yellow veil, and having on her head as well as Ligdamon the Garland. It is true, my Masters was of Sifymber, and Amerynes of picked and sweet Aspharagon. Before the Chariot went all the family; and after, only the kinsmen and nearest allies and friends. In this Triumph they came to the Temple, and were brought to Hymen's Altar, before which, five Torches were lighted: On the right side of Hymen they had placed jupiter and Iu●o; on the left, Venus and Diana. As for Hymen, he was crowned with flowers and sweet Marjoram, holding in his right hand a Torch, and in his left a Veil, of that colour that Amerynes was, as also the buskins which he had on his feet. When they entered into the Temple, the mother of Lydia's and Ameryne lighted their Torches; and then the great Druide coming near, directed his speech to my Master, and demanded: Lydia's, will you have Ameryne for the mother of your Family? he stayed somewhile without answer, at last he was constrained to say yes. Then the Druide turning to her: And you Ameryne, will you have Lydia's for father of your Family? and she answering yes, then taking their hands, and joining them together, he said: And I, in though behalf of the great Gods, give you each to other, and for earnest, you must eat the Condition together: and then taking the Wheaten Cake, Lydia's cut it into pieces, and she laying them together, of which, according to the custom, they both eat. There remained no more of all the Ceremonies, but to take the Wine, when turning to me, he said: Now friend. for the most pleasing service that ever thou didst me, reach me the Cup. I did so alas, with a mischief over diligent. As soon as he had it in his hand, with a voice loud enough he said: O powerful Gods, said he, that know who I am, venge not my death upon this fair Lady, who taking me for another man, more happy than I, hath brought me to my death: and at this word, drunk all that was in the Cup, which was contrary to the custom, because the husband was to drink but half, and the Wife the rest. She smiling, said unto him: And how friend Lydia's? it seems you have forgotten the custom, you should have left me my part. God forbidden, said he, wife Ameryne, for it is of poison, which I have chosen to end my life, rather than to be wanting in my promise to you, and in the affection which I own to the fair Siluy. O God, said she, is it possible? as yet thinking it was her true Lydia's, but that he had changed his good will, during his absence, and unwilling to live without him, ran with the Cup in her hand, where he was that had given the Wine mixed; for the day before he had caused it to be made at the Apothecaries, and before it was known what my Master said, notwithstanding any forbidding of his, because it was the custom they gave her the full cup, which she presently drunk of. And then returning to him, she said, O cruel and ingrateful, thou hast loved death more than me, and I also love it rather than thy refusal. But if that God which hath hitherto conducted our affections, do not venge me on a soul so perjured in another life, I shall think he hath neither care to hear false oaths, nor power to punish them.  
Then every one drew near her to hear her reproaches, and it was then that Ligdamon answered her. Discreet Amerine, I confess I have offended you if I were he whom you think I am, but believe me that am now at the end of my days, I am not Lydia's, I am Ligdamon, and whatsoever error may be of me at this hour, I assure myself that time will discover my justice. And in the mean time, I rather choose death, then to be wanting to the affection which I have promised to the fair Siluy, to whom I have consecrated my life, not being otherwise able to satisfy both.  
And then he continued, O fair Siluy, receive this will which I offer you, and let this last of all my actions be best received, because it is imprinted with the best character of my faithfulness. By little and little the poison gained on the spirits of these two newly married, so that they could hardly draw their breath, when turning his eyes on me, he said: Go my friend, finish that thou hast to do, and above all, truly recount what thou hast seen, and that death is welcome to me, that keeps me from offending the fidelity which I have vowed to the fair Siluy. Siluy was the last word he spoke, for with that word the fair soul parted from the body: and for my part, I believe that if ever lover were happy in the Elysian fields, my master is, attending until he may see you again there.  
And how said Siluy, is it true that Ligdamon is dead? without doubt answered he. O God cried out Siluy. At this word all that she could do was but to cast herself on a bed, for her heart failed her, and after she had lain somewhile with her face towards the bed's head, she prayed Leonide who was with her, to take Ligdamons' letter, and to tell Egide that he should go to her lodging, because she would have him serve her. So Egide withdrew, but so affected that he was covered with tears. Then would love show one of his puissances, for that Nymph that never loved Ligdamon while he lived, at this time when she heard of his death, shown so great a feeling, that the most passionate in love could not do more.  
It was upon this speech that Galathee talking to Celadon, said, that hereafter she would believe it is impossible, but a woman once in her life must love some thing: for this young Nymph hath used such cruelties towards all them that loved her, that some are dead for grief, others even of despair have banished themselves from her sight; and especially this whom she be wails dead, she hath heretofore brought to that extremity, that without Leonide the same had befallen him then, so that I would rather have sworn, love might rather have found place in the Ice of the coldest of the Alps, then in her heart; and yet you see now whereto she is reduced.  
Madame, answered the shepherd, believe not that it is love, it is rather pity. In truth she must be harder than ever was stone, if the report which this young man hath made, have not touched her to the quick, for I know not who would not in hearing him relate it, though one had no other knowledge of him but this only action: and for my part, I must say true, I hold Ligdamon happier than if he were alive, since he loved this Nymph with such affection, and she used him with as great rigour as I have known, for what greater happiness can befall him, then to end his miseries, and to enter into those felicities which do accompany them. What think you was his contentment to see that Siluy laments him, sorrows for him, and esteems of his affection: but I mean that Siluy that hath dealt so roughly with him. And than what is that which the lover desires more than to be able to give assurance to the party beloved of his faithfulness and affection; and to come to this point, what punishments, what deaths will he refuse? At this time, when he sees from the place where he is, the tears of his Siluy, when he hears her sight, what is his happiness, and what his glory? not only for that he hath assured her of his love, but for him to be certain that she love's him.  
O no Madam, believe me Ligdamon hath no cause to complain, but Siluy, for (and in time you shall see it) all that she will represent to herself shall be the ordinary actions of Ligdamon, the discourse of Ligdamon, his fashion, his amity, his valour: briefly, this I dole will be ordinarily hover about her, almost like an avenger of the cruelties with which she hath tormented that poor lover, and repentance which galling her thoughts, will be the executioner of the justice of Love..  
THese speeches were so loud, and so near Siluy that she heard them all, and that made her burst for anger, for she thought them probable. At last, after she had endured them some while, and finding herself too feeble to resist so strange enemies, she went out of that chamber into her own, where there were none to let her from tears. For having shut the door after her, and prayed Leonide to leave her alone, she cast herself on her bed, her arms across her stomach, and her eyes toward heaven, in her memory she passed through all their life, what affection he had always showed to her, how patiently he bore her rigours, with what discretion he had served her, how long time this affection had lasted, and in the end, said she, all this is now enclosed in a little earth. And in this sorrow remembering her own discourses, her adves, her impatiencies, and a thousand small particularities, she was constrained to say: Hold thy peace memory, let the ashes of my Ligdamon be at rest, since if thou thus torment me, I know he will disavow thee for his, and if thou be not his, I care not for thee. At last, having stayed some while silent, she said, well the die is cast, let it shorten or lengthen my life as please the gods, and my destiny, but I will not cease to love the memory of Ligdamon, to cherish his love, and to honour his virtues. Galathee in the mean time opened the letter, which yet remained in Leonides hands, she found it was thus.  
Ligdamons' Letter to Siluy.  
IF you have ●e●e offended at the presumption which hath forced me to love, my death which follows it shall revenge it for you. But if it be indifferent to you, I assure myself, that this last act of my affection shall gain me somewhat more in your soul. If it fall out so, I shall cherish there semblance of Lydia's more than my birth, since by it I came into the world to be too troublesome to you, and by the other I go out of it to your good liking.  
These are without feigning said Celadon, the great revenges of love. It is very true answered Galathee, that love leaves not an offence against himself unpunished, and thereof it comes that we see herein more strange accidents then in all other of men's actions. But if this be so Celadon, how, quak● not you for fear? and how from moment to moment expect not you the revenging arrows of this god? And why said the shepherd, should I fear, since I am the party offended? Ah Celadon, said the Nymph, if all things were justly balanced, how much heavier should you find yourself in the offences you do, then in those you receive? This is (said the shepherd) this is the heap of misfortune, when the afflicted man is thought happy, and they can see him languish, without taking pity on him.  
But answered the Nymph, tell me shepherd, among all the greatest offences, do not those of Ingratitude take the chief place? It doth without doubt, answered the shepherd. Now since it is so, continued Galathee, how can you wash yourself, since for the great love I show to you, I receive from you but coldness and disdain? I must at last tell you thus: You see shepherd, being the woman I am, and seeing who you are, I cannot think but in some thing or other I have offended Love, since he punisheth me with so many rigours. Celadon was extremely sorry that he had begun this discourse, for he laboured to avoid it as much as possibly he could; notwithstanding, since it was done, he resolved to clear it entirely, and said thus to her: Madam, I know not what to answer to your words, except by blushing, and yet Love which makes you speak, constrains me to answer you. That which you call Ingratitude in me, my affection calls duty, and when it pleases you to know the reason, I will tell you it. And what reason (interrupted Galathee) can you allege, but that you love elsewhere, and that your love ties you to it? But the Law of Nature proceeds quite otherwise: th●● commands us to seek after our own good; and can you desire a greater than my amity? Who is there in all this Country that is as I, that can do that for you that I can? These be mockeries Celadon, to rely on these follies of fidelity and constancy, words which old folk and they that are become deformed have invented, to hold in their lines the souls which their faces set at liberty. They say, that all virtues are chained together, then Constancy cannot be without Prudence: but should this be Prudence, to disdain a certain good to avoid the title of inconstant? Madame, answered Celadon, Prudence never teaches us to make our profit by unjust means, and Nature by her Laws never command● us to build, before we have laid a good foundation. But is there any thing more shameful, than not to keep promise? Is there any thing more nimble than the Spirit, that flies about like a Bee from flower to flower, drawn with every new sweet savour? Madame, if faithfulness be lost, what foundation can I lay in your amity? since if you follow the Law you speak of, how long shall I remain in this happiness, ●o long as you remain in that place where there is no other man then myself.  
The Nymph and the shepherd discoursed thus, while Leonide withdrew to her chamber●, to make a dispatch to Lindamor, who in the end was to come back with all diligence, that nothing should stay him, otherwise he was to despair of all things. And the morning that Flurial came back, after she had given him the Letter, she said to him: See Flurial, it is now that I shall by your diligence know the love which you bear to Lindamor, for delay can bring him no less than death. Be gone then, or rather fly, and bid him come with all speed, and as he returns, let him go the direct way to Adamas his house, for that I have won him entirely for him; and when he is here, he shall know the most notorious Treason of Love which was ever yet invented: but he must come unknown to any, if it be possible.  
Thus parted Flurial, so desirous to serve Lindamor, that he would not return to his Aunt's house, that he might not lose the least time, and would have no occasion to send him whom Lindamor had dispatched, defirous to do the service himself.  
So passed over three or four days; during which time, Celadon found himself so amended, that he almost felt no more of his dis●ase, and already began to think the return of the Druide to be long, for the hope he had to be go●●●rom that place. And to shorten the overlong days, he went oftentimes to walk in the Garden, and sometimes into the great Wood of the high grown Trees, but never without being accompanied by one of the Nymphs, and often by all three.  
The humour of Siluy was it that pleased him best, as more sympathising with his own: therefore he sought her out as often as he could.  
It fell out one day, all four being abroad to walk, they passed by the great Den of Damon and of Fortune: and because the entrance seemed fair, and made with great Art, the shepherd demanded what it was; to whom Galathee answered: Would you see (shepherd) one of the greatest proofs that Love hath made of his power of long time? And what is it, answered the shepherd? That is, said the Nymph, the lo●es of Mandrake and of Damon; for, for the shepherdess Fortune, it is a thing ordinary.  
And who is, replied the shepherd, this Mandrake? If by the Work, said Galathee, one may know the Workman, to make good that I say, you will judge she is one of the greatest Magicians of Gaul, for it is she that by her enchantment hath made this Den, and diverse other rarities which are hereabout.  
And entering in, the shepherd stood ravished with consideration of the workmanship. The entry was very high and spacious. On the two sides, in stead of pillars, were two Terms, which on their heads sustained the boughts of the vault of the portal. The one figured Pan, the other Syrinx, which were very curiously adorned with stones of divers colours: the hair, the eyebrows, the mouthchatoes, the beard, and the two horns of Pan were of Cockles from the sea, and so workmanly set in, that the cement appeared not.  
Syrinx, that was on the other side, had her hair of Roses, and somewhat under the navel one might see them swell by little and little: the tower of the gate on the outside was of rustic fashion, and ropes of coquils fastened in four corners hung down, finished near the heads of the Terms. Within the Vault there was a rock which seemed in many places to drop with Salt▪ peter, and over the midst it opened with an oval form, through which the light came in. This, place, both without and within, was enriched with a great number of Statues, which falling into their cisterns made divers fountains, and all represented some effect of the power of love.  
In the middle of the cave one might see the tomb raised the height of ten or twelve foot, which at the top ended like a crown, and all about garnished with tables, whereof the painting was so well done, that the sight deceived the judgement, the distance of every table was filled by half pillars of black wrought marble, the coins of the tomb, the bases and the capital of half colours, and the cornishes, which round about in fashion of a girdle, held up the tables, and though of divers pieces, yet made but one well composed frame which was of the same marble.  
The curiosity of Celadon was great: after he had considered altogether, to desire to know the particularities, and that he might give the Nymph occasion to tell him something, he commended the invention and cunning of the workman.  
These are, said the Nymph, the Spirits of Mandrake, which after some time have been left here for witness, that Love will no more pardon the grey head then the yellow hair, and always to relate to them that come hither the unfortunate and faithful loves of Damon, of herself, and of the shepherdess Fortune.  
And how, replied Celadon, is this the fountain of the truth of Love? No, answered the Nymph, but that is not fare hence, and I would I had spirit enough to make you understand these Tables, for the History is worthy to be known.  
As she drew near to expound them to him, she saw Adamas enter in: who being returned, and not finding the Nymphs at their Lodgings, judged they were gone forth to walk; where after he had ●id the Habits which he brought, he came to seek them so fitly, that it seemed Fortune conducted him thither, to make him handle the loves of this Fortune. Galathee no sooner spied him, but she cried out: O my Father, you come in good time to free me from the pain wherein I am; and then turning to Celadon: See him (shepherd) that will satisfy the desire which you have to know this History. And after he had asked him how he did, and that the salutations were made on both sides; Adamas, to obey the Nymphs commandment, and to content the curiosity of the shepherd, going with them to the Tomb, began in this fort.   

The History of Damon and Fortune.  
As the Workman plays with his work, and doth as pleases him, so the great Gods, by whose hand we were form, take pleasure to make us play upon the Theatre of the World the part that they have chosen for us. But among all, there is none that hath imaginations so various as Love, for he makes the old young, and the young old in as short a time as the light lasts of a good eye. And this History, which is truer than I would it were, will give proof, that hardly it can be withstood, as by the process of my discourse you will confess.  

The first Table.  
SEe you in the first place this Shepherd set on the ground, his back leaning to an Oak, his leg across, that plays on his pipe? This is the fair shepherd Damon, who hath name of fair for the perfection of his face. This young shepherd fed his sheep along your sweet Lignon being borne of one of the best families of mount Verdun, and no fare removed kinsman of the old Cleontine, and of Leonides mother, and by consequent in some sort my kinsman. Mark how this visage, besides that it is fair, represents very lively a person that had no care, but of his own contentment: for you may see I know not what open and clear countenance without trouble or cloud of busy imaginations. And on the contrary, turn your eyes upon the shepherdess which are about him, you may judge by the fashion of their visages, that they are not without pain, for as Damon had a free spirit, and restful; so had the shepherdess their hearts passionated for him. Yet as you see, he vouchsafeth not to look towards them, and therefore it is that they have painted on the right side in the air that little naked child with his bow and torch in his hand, his eyes b'inded, his back winged, his shoulders charged with a quiver, that threatens him on the other hand. This is Love, who begin offended at the contempt which this shepherd showed towards these shepherdess, swore that he would be revenged on him.  
But for the better setting forth of the Table, note how well the Art of the painting is observed. You may see, me thinks, the arm of the shepherd sinking a little under the swelling of the instrument, and how the cane where he blows hath lost his colour, that is, because his moist mouth had put it out. Mark on the left hand how the sheep feed, see some of them lying in the shade, some licking their feet, others that astonished look on the two Rams, that run to push at one another with all their might. Observe the turning that this makes of his neck, for he holds down his head, so that the other encounters only his horns. But the winding of the other back, is also very artificial for nature that teacheth him that virtue united is more strong, makes him so lock himself in an heap, that he seems almost round. The duty even of the dogs is not forgotten, which to oppose against the courses of the Wolf comes under the wings of the wood side. And it seemeth they are set ●ike three 〈◊〉 on the higher places, to the end they may see the farther off, or as I think, that they might see one another, and secure them in their necessity.  
But consider the careful industry of the Painter, whereas dogs that sleep without care, use to put themselves into a round, and oftentimes hide their head under their paws, to keep from them the light: these that their are painted here, are lying in another fort, to show that they sleep not, but only rest: for they are couched on the four feet, and have their nose along their forefeet, holding always their eyes open, as curiously as a man can. But let us see the other Table.   

The second Table.  
BEhold the second Table, which is clean contrary to the former, for if that were full of Neglect, this is full of Love, if that show nothing but Pride, in this appears nothing but sweetness and submission; and lo here the cause. Mark this Shepherdess set against a bush, how fair she is and neatly attired, her hair raised up before, sporting at liberty over her shoulders, & it seems the wind envies nature, by his blowing makes them frizle in a round, but being jealous of the small loves which they find hid, and which go bewraying their weariness, it will disperse them. And indeed see some of them carried by force, others which folding into knots which they have made, and others which assay to return but cannot, so much is their yet enfeebled wing contraried by the importunity of Zephyrus. This is the fair shepherdess Fortune, of whom Love would serve himself to do the vengeance promised against Damon, who is the shepherd that you see by her leaning on his shephook.  
Consider these little loves which are all busied about them, and how attentive every one is about that he doth. Behold one that takes the measure of the brows of the shepherdess, and gives it to another, that with his knife marks his bow that he may compass the like at his return. And see another that having stolen some hairs of this fair, of so fair theft would make a string for his companions bow. See how he is set on the ground, how he hath tied one end of his string to his great toe, which gives back a little as being too hard drawn. Mark how to twist it the better, another brings him a handful of a lover's tears for him to wet his fingers. Consider how he holds the raines, I know not how twisted, that under the right arm you may see the half appear before, though he show all behind the right shoulder.  
Behold another, that having put a string to one of the nockes of his bow, that he might do the like in the other bows down on that side to the earth, and with his left knee bends the bow against his stomach, and gives upward with his left hand, and with his right endeavours to make the string slide to the bottom.  
Cupid is a little higher, whose left hand holds his bow, holding the right as yet behind his ear, as if he newly had let his arrow slip: for see him with rest up, his arm drawn back, the three former fingers wide open and stretched out, and the other two drawn into his hand, and indeed his shot was not in vain, for the shepherd was so wounded, that death only could heal it.  
But behold a little on the other side, and you shall see this A●teros which with chains of roses and flowers, ties the arms and neck of this fair shepherdess Fortune, and then puts them into the hands of the shepherd: this is to make us know, that desert, love, and services of that lovely shepherd, which are figured by these flowers, binds Fortune to a reciprocal love towards him.  
But if you think it strange that Auteros is represented here greater than Cupid, know that this is to show you, that love that grows from love, is always greater then that whence it proceeds. But let us pasie to the third.   

The third Table.  
THen Adamas went on. See your fair river of Lignon, see where it takes a double head, the one coming from the mountains of Coruieres, the other from them of Chalmasel, which come to join a little above the merchant town of B●ing. How well are these passages made, and the winding shores of this river, with these little Elder trees that grow there ordinarily.  
Know you not this wood which confines on this great pasture; where most usually the lazy shepherds use to feed their flocks? Me thinks that great tust of trees on the left hand this little bias which creeps on the left side, and this half moon which makes the river on this corner, may well set it before your eyes, that if it be not at this present altogether alike, it is not for that the table is false, but for that some trees since that time are dead, others grown up, that the river in some places hath gotten, and in other is beaten back, and yet no great change.  
Now mark a little lower along Lignon, see a flock of sheep in the shadow, how some of them chaw the cud, and others hold their nose to the ground to draw out the freshness.  
This is Damon's flock that you may see if you turn your eyes hitherward in the water to the middle. Consider how these young lopped trees, do hide it from the beams of the sun, and yet seem to to rejoice that other besides themselves may see it. And yet the sun is so curious that he finds passage between some of their leaves, for some of his beams. Note how well this shadow and this brightness is represented. But certainly it must be confessed, that this shepherd cannot be surpassed in beauty. Consider the draughts and proportions of his face, his stature straight and tall, his flank round, his breast high, and see if he have any imperfection; yet some what stooping to serve himself of the water, and with his right hand he rubs his left arm: so it is, he doth doth not that action that may hinder the knowledge of his perfect beauty. Now cast your eye on the other side the river, if you be not afraid to look on the deformed in her perfection, as in his own you have seen the fair, for among these fearful briars you may see the magician Mandrake be holding the shepherd in his bath. Behold her clothed almost in despite of them, that look on her hair spread, one arm naked, her gown on one side trussed up above her knee, I think she comes to some in chantment. But judge here the effect of a beauty. This old Crone that you see so wrinkled, that every moment of her life hath set a furrow in her face, lean, little, all grey, her hair half cut, all crooked, and for age fit for the coffin then to live, is not ashamed to dote on this young shepherd. If love come by sympathy, as they say, I know not how it may be found between Damon and her. See what countenance she makes in her ecstasy. She thrusts out her head with her long neck, shrugs up her shoulders, holds down her arms at length, and her hands clasped in her lap, and the sport is, when she thought to smile she made a mouth. So it is, that such as she is, yet forbears she not to seek the love of this fair shepherd. Now raise up your eyes a little, and see within that cloud Venus and Cupid, who beholding this new lover, seem to laugh outright: without doubt this little god, happily for some wager which he hath made with his mother, hath not forborn one trick, which always ought to be used for old age, to make so fair a wound. Or if it be not for a wager, it is to make us see in this old thing, that the dry wood burns better and more easily than the green, or to show his power on this old hostess of tombs, it pleaseth him to make proof of the burning of his torch with which it seems he hath given a new soul, and to speak in a word, whom he hath made to rise again, and come out of the coffin.   

The fourth Table.  
But let us pass to the other. See a night well represented, see how under the darkness, of these shadows these mountains appear, so as they show but a little and so that in effect, one cannot judge what it is. Mark how the stars seems to twinkle; see the others so well disposed that one may know them. See the great Bear, look how the judicious workman, though she have twenty seven stars, yet he representeth clearly but twelve; and of these twelve, yet he makes but seven clearly shining.  
See the little Bear, and consider that, for that these seven stars are never hidden, though it hath none of the third magnitude, and louvre of the fourth; yet he makes us see them all, observing their proportion. See the Dragon, in which he hath well set the thirty one stars, but he hath not showed them so well as the thirteen, five whereof as you see are of the fourth magnitude, and the eight of the third.  
Behold the crown of Ariadne who hath her eight stars, but there are but six of them that are well seeney, yet see on of them shining brighter than them all. You may see on the other side the Milky way by the which the Romans' hold, that the gods come down into earth, and mount back into heaven.  
But these clouds are well represented, which in some places run through the Sky with great largeness, and in others only, like a light smoke, and some allover, and as they be more or less raised, are more or less bright.  
Now let us consider the history of this Table: see Mandrak in the midst of a circle, a white rod in her right hand, a book all greasy in the other, with candle of virgin's wax, and thick spectacles on her nose. Look how she seems to mumble, and how she holds her eyes turned after a strange fashion, her mouth half open, and making a countenance so strange, with brows that show she travels with affection. But have regard how the foot, arm, and left shoulder are naked: that is, for that it is the side of the heart: these fancies that you see about, are devils, which by the force of her charms she hath constrained to come to her, to know how she may be beloved of Damon. They tell her of the affection which he bears to Fortune, that there is no better mean then to persuade him that this shepherdess love's elsewhere; and to do it more easily, she must for this time change the virtue of the fountain of the truth of Love.. Before you pass farther, consider alittle the workmanship of the picture, see the effects of the Candle of Mandrake among the darkness of the night. She hath all the left side of her face bright, and the rest so dark, that it seems to be of a different visage; the mouth half open, seems within to be bright, so fare as the opening will suffer the light to enter. And the arm which holds the Candle, you may see near the hand very dark, because the book which she holds shadows it, and the rest is so bright above that it makes the blackness show the more beneath. And with the like consideration may be observed the effects which the Candle gives among the devils; for they all according as they are turned to it, are brighter or darker. And see another great piece of art in this picture, which is distance, for the perspective is so well observed, that you would think that this other accident which he would represent on the other side, is out of this table and fare distant from it; and yet this is Mandrake that is in the fountain of the truth of Love.. But to make you understand all; know that sometimes before a fair shepherdess daughter, to a learned Magician, fell secretly in love with a shepherd, which her father perceived not: were it for that the charms of Magic can do nothing over the charms of love: or were it that altogether attentive to his study, he cast not his eye on h●●. So it was that after an hot burning amity, for that in love there is nothing more insupportable than disdain, and this shepherd neglecting her for that he had long time been vowed elsewhere, she was brought to that pass, that by little and little the fire increasing, and her strength diminishing, she came to die, her father's knowledge not being able to secure her. Whereat the Magician being very sorry when he knew the occasion, for a mark of her memory ever after changed her tomb into a fountain which he named the truth of love, because that he that love's, if he look into it shall see his Lady, and if he be beloved he shall see himself by her, or him whom she love's: or if she love none, she appears alone. And this is that truth which Mandrake would change, that Damon coming to see, and finding his mistress loved another, he should lose like wise the affection he bore her, and so she might have the place free. And see how she enchants it, what caractars' she makes round about, what triangles, what squares interlaid with rounds, believe she forgets nothing which was necessary, for this affairs toucheth her too near. Beforetime she had by her charms assembled all her devils to find remedy to her evil, but for that love is more strong than all this, they durst not undertake it against him, but only counselled her to work this treason to these two faithful lovers. And for as much as the virtue of the fountain came by the enchantment of a Magician Mandrake, which surmounted in this science all her predecessors may put it out for a while. But let us pass to the Table that followeth.   

The fifth Table.  
THe fifth Table (continued Adamas) hath two actions. The first when Damon came to this fountain to free him from the pain which a trouble some dream had brought him, the other when deceived by the craft of Mandrake, having seen in the fountain that the shepherdess Fortune loved another, in despair he killed himself.  
Now let us see how well they are represented. See Damon with his spear, for he is in the same sort set out as he was wont to go on hunting. Behold the way he follows, mark with what care his faithful beast attends his master, for while he looks into the fountain, it seems the eyes are so bend towards him, to be desirous to know what maketh him so abashed; that if you consider the astonishment which is painted in his face, you would judge he had some great cause.  
Mandrake had made him see in a dream, Maradon a young shepherd that taking an arrow from Cupid, opened the bosom of Fortune, and took out her heart.  
He that following the ordinary course of lovers was yet in doubt, and as soon as it was day ran to this fountain to see if his mistress loved him. I beseech you consider his abashment, for if you compare the visages of the other Tables to this, you shall see the same draughts, though the trouble wherein he is, paint the change much.  
Of those two Figures which you do see in the Fountain, the one as you may plainly know, is of the Shepherdess Fortune, and the other you may see is of the Shepherd Moradon, whom the Magician made to be represented rather than another, because he knew he had a long time been a servant of the shepherdess, and though she vouchsafed not to regard him, yet love which easily believes the thing it fears, presently persuaded the contrary to Damon: belief that made him resolve to die. Mark I pray you how this water seems to tremble, this is for that the Painter would represent the effect of the tears of the shepherd which fell into it. But let us pass to the second action. See how the continuation of this Cave is made, and how truly this seems to be more declining.  
This dead man that you see on the ground, is the poor Damon, who in despair thrust his spear through his body. The action which he doth is very natural. You may see one leg stretched out, the other drawn up as with pain: one arm laid under the body, as having been surprised by the suddenness of the fall, and not having force to come again to himself, and the other languishing along the body, yet he holds gently the spear in his hand, his head hanging towards his right shoulder, his eyes half shut, and half turned up and he that sees him in such a case, may well judge him to be a man in the trances of death; his mouth somewhat opened, the teeth in some places discovered a little, and the passages of his nose shrunk up, all signs of a late dead man.  
Also he hath not figured him as wholly dead, but between death and life, if there be any separation between them. See here the spear well represented, you may see the breadth of the Iron half hidden in the wound, the staff on the one side bloody, on the other, of the colour it was before. But how great hath the Painter's diligence been, he hath not forgot the nails which go as weeping towards the end, for the nearer the shaft as well the as wood, the more they were stained with blood. It is true, that through the blood you might know them.  
Now let us consider the spurting out of the blood, issuing out of the wound. Me thinks it is like a fountain, which being led by long channels from some higher place, when it hath been restrained, as they open it skips in fury this way and that way: for see these streams of blood, how well they are represented, consider the boiling which seems to raise itself to bubbles. I think nature cannot represent any thing more truly.   

The sixth Table.  
NOw for the sixth and last Table, which contains four actions of the Shepherdess Fortune. The first, is a Dream which Mandrake made her have: The other, how she went to the Fountain, to clear her doubt: The third, how she complains of the inconstancy of her Shepherd: and the last, how she dies; which is the conclusion of this Tragedy. Now let us see all things particularly.  
See the rising of the Sun, note the length of the shadows, and how on the one side the Heaven is yet less clear. See these clouds, which are half air as it seemeth, which by little and little fly, lifting up these little birds, which seem to sing as they mount, and are of those kind of Larks that rise from the dew in the new Sun. These ill-formed birds, which with uncertain flight go to hide themselves, are of those Owls that avoid the Sun: whereof the Mountain covers a good part, and the other shines to clear, that one cannot judge that it was other thing then a great and confused brightness.  
Let us go forward. Behold the shepherdess Fortune asleep, she is in bed, where the Sun that enters by the window open by negligence, discovers half her breast. She hath one arm carelessly stretched along the side of the bedstead, her hand a little hanging from the bolster, the other hand stretched along her thigh, without the bed, and for that her smock sleeves is by chance thrust up, you may see it above the Elbow, there being nothing that hides any of the arms beauty.  
See about her the devils of Morpheus, wherewith Mandrake serves herself, to give her a will to go to the fountains of the truth of Love.. See on this side what she casteth up: for having dreamt that her shepherd was dead, and taking his death for the loss of his amity, she came to know the truth. Behold how the sorrowful visage by the sweetness of it moves pity, and makes us take part in her displeasure; because she no sooner casts her view into the water but she perceives Damon. But alas, hard by him the shepherdess Melide, a fair shepherdess indeed, and which was not without suspicion of loving Damen, yet unbeloved of him.  
Deceived with this falsehood, see how she is retired into the inwarrd parts of the Den, and cometh unawares to lament her displeasure, in the same place where Damon was almost dead.  
Behold her set against the rock, her arms across her breast, which choler and grief made her discover, in tearing that which was upon it. It seemeth that she sighs, and her breast pants, her face and eyes lifting up, and ask vengeance from heaven for the perfidiousness which she thought was in Damon. And because the transport of her evil, made her lift up her voice in her complaint. Damon whom you see by her, though he were even at the last of all his life, hearing the laments of his fair Shepherdess, and knowing the voice, he then enforced himself to call her. She which heard these dying words, suddenly turning her head went to him.  
But O God what a sight was this? She quite forgot, seeing him in this case, and the occasion she had to complain of him, she demanded who had dealt so foully with him? It is said he, the change of my fortune, it is the inconstancy of your soul which hath deceived me with such demonstrations of goodwill. Briefly, it is the happiness of Macadon, whom the Fountain from whence you came showed me to be by you. And do you think it reasonable that he should live having lost your love; that lived not but to be beloved of you? Fortune hearing these words. Ah Damon, how lying is this Spring to our undoing, since it made me see Melide near unto you, whom I now see die for so dear loving me.  
So these faithful lovers knew well the falsehood of this Fountain, and more assured then ever of their affection, they died embracing: Damon of the wound, and she for grief of his death.  
Behold the shepherdess set against the rock covered with moss, and see Damon leaning his head in her lap, and who to give her the last farewell, reached forth his arm and neck to her, seeming to strain and raise himself a little to kiss her: in the mean time, she all covered with blood held his head, and bowing herself to come near his face, laid her hand under him for to heave him up a little.  
This old grey headed which is by them, is Mandrake the magician, who finding them dead, curses her Art, detesteth her devils, tears her hair, and batters her breast with blows. The gestures of lifting her hands above her head, holding her hands joined; and contrarily casting down her head, almost hiding her chin in her bosom, folding and tossing the body in her lap, are signs of her violent displeasure, and of the sorrow which she had for the loss of two so faithful and pe●●●●t lovers, besides the loss of all her contentment.  
The face of this old woman is hidden, but consider the manner of her hair, how it hangs down low, and to the nape of the neck, and those that are more short, seem to stick up. Behold a little farther off Cupid weeping, see his bow and arrows broken, his torch put out, and his scarf all wet with tears, for the less of two so faithful lovers.  
Celadon was all the while very attentive to the discourse of the wise Adamas, and often repent himself for his want of courage, that could not find a like remedy to that of Damon, and because the consideration of this held him some while mute, Galathee as she went out of the cave, and taking Celadon by the hand: what think you said she of these loves, and of these effects?  
That these are (answered the shepherd) the effects of imprudence and not of love, and it is a popular error to cover our own ignorance, or to excuse our faults, to attribute always to some divinity the effects, whereof the causes are hidden from us.  
And how, said she, think you there is no love? If there be, said the shepherd, it should be nothing but sweetness. But howsoever it be, you speak Madam, to one so ignorant as any that lives, for besides that; my condition will not permit ●mee to know much, my grosser spirit hath made me much more incapable. Then the sad Siluy replied. It is some while since I saw you in a place where one might hardly believe this of you; for there were so many beauties for you to take, and you are too honest a man to suffer yourself to be taken.  
Fair Nymph, answered the shepherd, in what place soever this was since you were there, it is without question, there was much beauty there: but as too much fire burns rather than warms▪ so your beauties are too great for our rustic hearts, and make themselves rather admired then beloved, and rather adored then served. With such talk this fair company went to their lodging, whither the hour of repast called them.    
The end of the eleventh book.   

THE twelve BOOK OF ASTREA AND CELADON.  
BY that time the day began to appear, Leo●ide following the resolution which in the evening Adamas her companion, and Celadon had taken together, came into the shepherd's chamber, to put on him the habit which her uncle had brought. But the little Merill that by the commandment of Galathee, ordinarily tarried with Celadon to spy Leo●ides actions, as well as to wait on the shepherd, hindered them long time from doing it. At last, some noise they made in the court, caused Merill to go forth, that he might bring them some news. Then presently Celadon rose, and the Nymph (behold to what Love abases her) helped him to  himself, for he could not do it without her. Within a while after, see the little Merill that came running back so fast, that he must needs take them in the manner, but Celadon that had an eye to him, got into a wardrobe, expecting when he should return. He was no sooner entered, but he asked where Celadon was. He is within the wardrobe said the Nymph, he will come presently: but what would you with him? I would tell him answered the boy, that Amasis is coming hither. Leonide was a little surprised, fearing she should not be able to finish what she had begun, yet to take some counsel with Celadon, she said to Merill, little Merill I pray thee run to inform my Lady of it, for it may be she will be overtaken. The child ran out, and Celadon comes laughing forth at these news. And why, said the Nymph, do you laugh Celadon at her coming, you may well be taken? No such thing (said he) only hold you on in dressing me for I may easily steal away in the confusion of so many Nymphs. But while they wereabout their business, see Galathee cometh in so suddenly, that Celadon could not get into the Cabinet: you may well judge that the Nymph and Celadon were surprised, but the subtlety of Leonide was greater and quicker than it was credible: for seeing Galathee enter, she took hold on Celadon, who would have run to hide himself, and turning toward the Nymph, did what she could to stay him. Madame, said she, if it please you not to do somewhat, that my Lady your mother come not hither, we are all undone: for my part, I have done what I could to disguise Celadon, but I fear I cannot bring it about. Galathee, who at the first knew not what to judge of this Metamorphosis, commended the spirit of Leonide for inventing this shift, and coming nearer to consider Celadon so well disguised under this habit, that she could not hold from laughter: answered the Nymph, Friend, we had been undone but for you, for there was no mean to hide the shepherd from so many persons as come with Amasis, where being clad in this habit, we are not only more assured, but withal I would have you let your other companions see her, that they may take her for a maid. And then she went on the other side, and was ravished in beholding him; for his beauty by these ornaments made the greater show. In the mean time, Leonide the better to play her part, told her that she might be gone, for fear lest Amasis came suddenly on her. So the Nymph, after she had resolved that Celadon should call himself the kinswoman of Adamas, named Lucinde, went out to entertain her mother, after she had commanded Leonide to bring her where they were as soon as she could be dressed. I must confess the truth, said Celadon, after she was gone, in my life was I never more astonished then at these three accidents; at the coming of Amasis, at the surprisal of Galathee, and at your quick invention.  
Shepheard said she, that which I do proceeds of the good will I have to rid you of your pain, and would to God all the rest of your contentment would sort as luckily as this doth, than you should know how much good I wish you. For requital of so great an obligation, answered the shepherd, I can but offer you the life which you have preserved: with such discourses they entertained themselves, till Merill came into the chamber, and seeing Celadon almost ready, he was ravished, and said: There is no body that can know him, and I that am all day with him, would not believe it is he, unless I saw him dressing. Celadon answered him, who told you I was disguised. Thus it was, answered he: My Lady who commanded me to call you Lucinde, and that I should say you are the kinswoman of Adamas, and sent me presently to the Druide to let him know it, who could not forbear laughter when he heard it, and he promised me to do as my Lady had appointed. See that all things go well, said the shepherd, and take heed you forget not yourself. In the mean time, Amasis being come out of her chariot, met Galathee at the stairs foot, with Siluy and Adamas. Daughter, said she, you have been over long in your solitariness, I must recreate you a little, specially, for that news which I have seen from Clidaman and Lindamor, do rejoice me, that I can enjoy it no longer alone: therefore came I unto you to give you a part, and desire to have you go with me to Marseilles, where I will have bonfires made for so good news. I thank God, answered Galathee, for so great happiness, and I beseech God to keep you yet an age longer: but indeed Madam, the place is so pleasing to me, that it makes me sorry to leave it. It shall not be long, replied Amasis, but because I will not go back till toward night, let us go walk, and I will tell you all that I have learned. Then Adamas kissed her robe and said; your news madame must be good, since to tell them to my Lady your daughter, you came abroad so early. It is two or three days, said Amasis, since I received them, and suddenly resolved to come hither, for me thinks I cannot joy at such contentment alone, and indeed the thing deserves to be known. With such discourse she descended into the garden, where beginning to walk, having Galathee on the one side, and Adamas on the other, she went on in this sort.  

The history of Lydia's and Melander.  
COnsidering the strange accidents which happen by Love, me ●hinks we are almost constrained to confess, that if Fortune have many wheels to advance and cast down, to turn and change humane things, the wheel of love is that with which she often serves her turn, for there is nothing that yields so many changes as this passion of Love.. The examples are always so common before our eyes, that it should be superfluous to tell them. Yet must you confess when you have heard what I will I say, that this accident is one of the most remarkable that yet you have ever heard told. You know how Clidaman by lot became servant to Siluy, and how Guima●●es by the letter which he brought from his brother became likewise amorous.  
I assure myself, since that time, you cannot be ignorant of the design that made them both depart so secretly, to seek out Meroue, nor that I might not leave Clidaman alone in a place so fare off, I sent after him under the charge of Lindamor, a company of young knights of this country, but you can hardly know what befell them since their departure, and that is it which I will now tell you, for there is nothing more worthy to be known.  
As soon as Clidaman came to thearmy, Guimantes who was well known there, brought him to kiss the hands of Meroue and Childericke, and without showing who he was only gave them to understand that he was a young knight, of a good house, that desired to serve them. They were received with open arms, and especially for coming in a time when their enemies had renewed their forces, and taking good courage had threatened to give battle. But when Lindamor was come, and that they knew what Clidaman was, the honour and welcome which they did him cannot be told, for within two or three fights he was so famous, that both his friends and enemies knew him and esteemed of him.  
Among other prisoners which he and Guimantes took, for commonly they went together in all enterprises, they found a youth of great Britain, so fair, but so sad, that it wrought pity in Clidaman, and because the longer he remained in captivity, the more appeared his sorrow: one day he caused him to be called before him, and after he had enquired of his estate and condition, he asked the occasion of his sadness, saving, that if it proceeded of his imprisonment, he must like a man of courage bear such accidents, and he was to thank the heavens that had provided he should fall into their hands, since he was in a place where he should receive nothing but courtesy, and the delay of his liberty proceeded but from the command of Merour, who had forbidden that the prisoners should as yet be ransomed, and when he would give them leave, he should see what their courtesy was.  
This young man thanked him, yet was not able to forbear sighing, whereat Clidaman somewhat more moved, demanded the cause, to whom he answered: Sir knight, this sadness which you see painted in my face, and these sighs which steal so often from my breast proceed not of this prison you speak of, but of another which binds me more straight: for time and ransom may free me from this, but from the other, there is nothing but death that can ●●deeme me. And I am resolved to bear it with patience, if I did not foresee an overspeedie end, not by my death only, but the loss of that parti● that keeps me in so straight hold.  
Clidaman knew well by his words, that it was Love whereof he laboured, and by the experience which he had found in himself, considering the disease of his prisoner, he took such pity on him, that he assured him his liberty the soon he could possibly, knowing well by proof, that they be the passions and disquietnesses that accompany the person that truly love's. Since, said he, you know that it is Love, and that your courtesy binds me to believe, that the knowledge you may have of me, shall not make you change your good will, to the end you may judge of the cause which I have to complain of, or rather to despair of, seeing the evil so near, and the remedy so fare, so you will promise me not to discover it, I will tell you things which without doubt will astonish you: and when he had promised him, he began in this sort.  
Sir Knight, this habit wherein you see me, is not mine own, but Love, who sometimes hath clothed men like women plays with me in this fort, and making me forget in part what I am, hath put me into an habit contrary to mine own, for I am not a man, but a daughter of one of the best Houses of Brutayne, and called Mellandra, fallen into your hands by the greatest fortune that ever was conducted by Love.. It is some while since a young man named Lydia's, came to London, flying out of his own Country (as I have heard since) for having killed his enemy in field. They were both of that part of Gaul, which they call Normandy: but because the dead man was of kindred to the greatest among them, he was enforced to fly hi● Country, to avoid the rigour of justice.  
Thus being then come to London, is the custom of our Nation, he found such courtesy that there was no good House wherein he was not right soon familiar: among others, he lived with that privacy at my fathers, as if he had been of his household. And because he had a purpose to stay there as long as his return into his Country should be forbidden him, he determined to make show of loving some, that he might the better frame himself to the humour of them of great Britain, that have every one some particular Lady. On this resolution he turned (I know not whether I may say for good or evil ●ortune) his eyes on me, were it that he found me more for his delight or more for his commodity, he began to profess himself to be my servant. What dissimulations, what woo, what oaths were those which he used to me? I will not trouble you with an overlong discourse. So it was, that after sufficient long wooing (for he continued two years) I loved him without dissimulation, for that his beauty, his courtesy, his discretion, and valour, were overgreat allurements to overcome with long suit any soul, how barbarous soever. I blush not then to confess it to one that hath had trial of Love, nor to say, that this beginning than was the end of my quiet.  
Now these things resting in this state, and living with all the contentment that the party that love's and is assured of the person beloved, may have; it fell out, that the Franks, after they had won so many battles against the Roman Emperors against the Goths and Gauls, turned their Arms against the Normans, and reduced them to those terms, that because they are their ancient Allies, they were constrained to send to London, to demand succours; which, according to the alliance made between them and those of great Britain, was granted them both by the King and by the Estates. This news was suddenly divulged throughout the Realm; and we that were of the principal Town, understood it with the first: And from that time, Lydia's began to think of his return; assuring himself, that they of his side having need of his like, would easily absolve him of the death of Aronte. Notwithstanding, because he had always promised me, not to go, but he would carry me with him, which the malicious man did to deceive me, and for fear lest I might impeach his departure, he concealed his purpose from me. But as there is no fire so closely covered, from which there comes not some smoke, so there is nothing so secret, but some thing or other will discover it; and so many, before I was ware, told me of it.  
As soon as I knew it, the first time I saw him, I drew him aside: Well (said I) Lydia's, have you resolved that I shall not know that you will leave me? Think you my amity so weak, that it cannot bear out the strokes of your fortune? If your affairs will have you return into your Country, why will not your love permit me to go with you? Demand me of my father, I am assured he will be pleased with our alliance, for I know he love's you: but to leave me here alone with your faith forsworn, no Lydia's, believe me, do not commit so great a fault, for the Gods will punish you. He answered me coldly, that he had no thought of return, and that all his affairs were nothing worth to the good of my presence, that I committed an offence in doubting, and that his actions should constrained me to confess as much. And yet this perjured person within two days after went away with the first Troops that came from great Britain, and took his time so fitly, that he came to the Sea shore the same day that they were to go, and so took ship with them. We were presently advertised of his departure: Yet had I so strong a fancy that he loved me, that I was the last that believed it; so that there were more than eight days after his departure, before I could persuade myself, that one so well borne could be so deceitful and unthankful. At last, one day following after another without any news, I found I was deceived, and Lydia's was gone.  
If then my sorrow were great, judge you Sir Knight, since falling sick, I was brought to those terms, that my Physicians not knowing my disease, despaired of me, and forsaking me, held me for dead. But Love, who would show his power, and is a better Physician than Esculapius, healed me with a strange Antidote. And see how he delights in effects which are contrary to our resolution. When I first knew of the flight of Lydia's, for in truth it may be so called, I found myself in such sort displeased, that after I had a thousand times called Heaven to witness of his perfidiousness, I swore I would never love him, as often as he had sworn to me, that he would ever love me, and I may tell you we were both forsworn. For while my hatred was in his greatest fury, behold a Vessel that came from calay, to report, that the Succours were happily arrived, that told us, that Lydia's went over with an intent to war among them of great Britain: but as soon as the Governor of the place, who was a kinsman to Aronte, understood of it, he caused him to be put in prison, as having been already condemned; that they accounted him for lost, because the Governor was of great credit among the Normans, that indeed there was one mean to save him, but so hard, that there was no man that would hazard it, being such an one.  
As soon as Lydia's saw himself arrested, he demanded, how a Knight of such reputation as he was, would revenge his quarrels by justice, and not by Arms? for it is a custom among the Gauls, never to run to justice in what offends their Honour, but to the Combat, and they that do otherwise, are held dishonourable.  
Lipandas, which was the name of the Governor, answered, That he slew not Aronte like a man, and if he were not condemned by justice, he would maintain it by Arms: but being ashamed to fight with one attainted, if he had any of his friends that would offer himself for him, he proffered to fight in that quarrel, that if he were overcome, he would set him at liberty, that otherwise justice should be done. And to give time to his kinsfolks and friends, he would keep him a month in his custody, that if none come within that time, he would give him over into the rigorous hands of the Ancients of Roa●, to be handled as he deserves: and that there might be no advantage to any, he would this Combat should be fought with Sword and Dagger, in their shirts. But Lipandas being accounted one of the valintest men in all Normandy, there was not one that had the hardiness to undertake this combat, besides that the friends of Lydia's not understanding of it could not perform that good office. Sir knight, when I remember the contraries, which shake me when I heard this news, I must confess I was never more confounded in my life, no not when this perfidious man forlooke me. Then would Love have me know, that the propositions made against him are more weak when he will, than the waves that beat in vain against the rock to make it shake: for to pay the tribute of Love, you must run to the ordinary moneys with which his imposts are paid, which are tears. But after long and vain bewailing the  Lydia's, I must in the end resolve of his safety, though it cost me both my restan●d honour. And transported with this new fury, or rather with this renewing of Love I resolved to go to Callais, with an intent to find the means there to advertise the kinsmen and friends of Lydia's, and giving order with as great secrecy as I could for my voyage. one night I stole away in the habit you see me; but my fortune was so hard, that I stayed above fifteen days before I could find a ship that went that way. I know not what became of my parents when they saw I was gone, for I heard no news of them since, only I know the old age of my poor father can hardly bear out this grief, for he loved me more tenderly than I did myself, and hath ever so carefully bred me, that I am oftentimes astonished how I could endure the discommodities which since my departure I have borne, and I must say, it is Love, and not myself.  
But to hold on our course, after I had stayed fifteen or sixteen days at the Sea side, at last there came a ship in which I went to Callais, when I had no more than five or six days of the Term that Lipandas had given. The tossing of the ship had so distempered me, that I was constrained to keep my bed two days, so that I had no time to advertise kinsmen of Lydia's, especially not knowing who they were, nor where they dwelled. If this troubled me you may judge, especially because me thought I was come at the time to see him die, and to be present at his funerals. O Gods how do you dispose us! I was so overlaid with this disaster, that day and night the tears were in mine eyes. At last, the day before the Term, transported with a desire to dye before Lydia's, I resolved to enter into the combat against Lipandas: What resolution, or rather what despair was this? for all my life long I never took sword in my hand, & knew not well with which hand to hold the dagger or the sword, and yet behold me resolved to enter into combat with a knight, who all his life had been used to that mystery, and who had always won the title of brave and valiant. But all these considerations were nothing against me, that chose to die before he whom I loved, lost his life. And though I knew well I could not save him, yet was it no little satisfaction to me, that he should have that proof of my love.  
One thing tormented me infinitely, which I endeavoured to remedy, which was the fear lest Lydia's might know me, and left that might hinder my design, because we were to fight unarmed. To remedy which, I sent a scroll to Lipandas, whereby after I had defyed him, I desired, that being both knights, we might serve ourselves of the armour which knights use, and not like desperate persons. He answered, that the next morning he would be in the field, and that I might come armed, and so would he, though he would have it at his own choice: after he had begun the combat in that sort, for my satisfaction, to finish it for his own, as he had propounded at the beginning. I that doubted not, but in what sortsoever I was to die, accepted what he would. And with this purpose in the morning, I presented myself in the field armed at all points; but I must confess the truth, I was so cumbered with my armour, that I knew not how to stir. They that saw me go staggering, thought it was for fear of the combat, and it was out of weakness. Soon after, behold Lipandas came armed, and mounted to his advantage, who at his first setting out made them afraid, whom the danger no way touched: and believe you not that I was amazed. But when the poor Lydia's was brought on a scaffold, to be present at the combat; for the pity which I had to see him in such case, touched me so that I stayed long without being able to stir. At last the judges led me to him, to know if he accepted me for his champion. He asked me who I was, then counterfeiting my voice: content yourself Lydia's, said I, I that am the only man that will undertake this fight for you. Since it is so, replied he, you must be a person of valour, and therefore said he, turning to the judges, I accept him, and as I was going, he said, Valiant knight fear not but our quarrel is just. Lydia's, answered I, I would you had no other injustice, and then I withdrew myself so resolved to dye, that I hardly tarried for the trumpets giving signal of battle. Indeed at the first sound I set forward, but my horse shaken me so sore, that in stead of bearing my lance as I should, I let it go as Fortune would, so that in place of striking him, I thrust it into the neck of the horse, leaving the spear in his body, whereupon the horse ran at the first about the field in despite of his master, at last fell down dead. lipanda's was coming against me with such an eagerness to do well, that his over great desire made him miss his blow: for my part, my horse went whither he would, for all that I could do was to keep myself from falling, and stopping of himself, and hearing lipanda's crying to me to turn him, with many revile, for that I had killed his horse, I came back, when I had laid my hand on my sword the best I could, and not without pain; but my horse which happily I had spurred more than his courage would bear, as soon as I had turned him, of himself took his course, and to so good purpose, that he smote Lipandas with such fury, that he cast him down with his heels upward, but as he passed by, he gave him with his sword such a thrust into the body, that within a while after I perceived him to sink under me, and it was no smali thing that I could remember to take my feet out of the stirrups, for to get out of the saddle, and alight from my horse.  
Then came I toward him, who was at hand with his sword aloft to strike me, and I must tell you, that if Love had not sustained the burden of arms, I had not had the force to do it.  
At last, behold Lipandas, who with all his force came to charge me with a blow on the head: nature taught me to thrust forward my left arm, for otherwise I had forgotten the shield that hung on that arm, the blow lighted so full on it, that wanting strength to bear it, my shield gave me back such a blow upon my helmet, that the sparks flew out of mine eyes. He that saw how I staggered, meant to charge me afresh, with another more weighty, but my fortune was such, that lifting up my sword, I met his to so good a purpose that it broke into two pieces; and mine half broken, did like his at the first blow which I would have givenhim: For he shrunk back, and I not having strength to stay it, let it fall to the ground, where towards to point it lighted on a stone that broke it.  
lipanda's then seeing us both have the like advantage, said to me▪ Knight, thesearmes have been alike favourable to us: I mean to try whether the other will be so to, and therefore disarm yourself, for it is with that that I will end the fight. Knight, answered I, by that which is passed you may well know that you have done wrong, and delivering Lydia's you ought to leave this combat.  
No no, said Lipandas in choler, Lydia's and you shall die. I shall assay, replied I, to turn that sentence upon your own head, and then removing in the field the farthest I could from Lydia's, for fear of being known: By the help of those that attended, I disarmed myself; and for that we had made provision before of a Sword and Dagger, after we had put off our doublets, we came each against other. I must tell you, it was not without pain that I covered my breast, because the shirt, for all that I could do, shown the swelling of my paps; but ery one rather thought of any thing else then of that, and as for Lydia's he could not know it, as well for that he saw me in an habit disguised, as for that I was inflamed with the heat of the armour, and this high colour much changed my visage. At last, behold us, Lipandas and me, about ten or twelve paces a sunder they parted the sun betwixt us, and the judges were gone back. It was then that I thought verily to die, assuring myself, that at the first blow he would run his Sword into my body.  
But fortune was so good for Lydia's, (for it was only of his life that I stood in fear) that this, arrogant Lipandas coming with all his fury to me, stumbled so, to purpose for me, that he laid his head almost at my feet so violently, that he gave himself two wounds, the one with his Dagger, with which he pierced his left shoulder, and the other with his Sword, cutting his brow.  
For my part, I was so afraid of his fall, that I thought him already dead, and without doing him more hurt, I gave back two or three paces. It is true, that imagining I might better overcome him with courtesy than valour, I said unto him: Rise up Lipandas, it is not on the earth that I will offend you. He that had stood some time amazed with the blow, all in rage riseth to cast himself on me, but the two wounds which he had made himself, the one blinded him, and the other took all strength from his arm, so that he saw nothing, and was scarce able to hold up his sword; which I perceiving, took courage, and came towards him with my sword aloft: Yield thyself Lipandas, other wise thou art dead. Why, said he, should I yield myself, since the conditions of our combat was not so? Content thyself that I set Lydia's at I bertie.  
And then the ludges being come, and Lipandas having ratified his promise, they accompanied me out of the camp like a conqueror. But fearing they might do me some wrong in that place, where Lipandas had such power, after I had armed myself, I went with my vizard down to Lydia's, and said: Sir Lydia's thank God for my victory, and if you desire to confer longer with me, I go to the town of Regiaque, where I will expect some news from you in fifteen days, for after that time, I am constrained to go about some other occasions, which carry me fare from hence; and you may ask for the fadde knight, for that is the name I bear, for the reason which you shall know hereafter.  
Shall I not otherwise know him (said he) to whom I am so much obliged? Neither for your good (said I) nor for mine may it be; and at that word I left him: and after I had provided another horse, I came to Regiaque, where I stayed.  
Now this traitor Lipandas, as soon as I was gone, made Lydia's bee put again into prison more straight than before, and when he complained and reproached him for breach of promise which he had made me; he answered, he promised to set him at liberty, but he told him not when, and that it should be within 20. years, unless it were with a condition which he propounded; which was to work so, that I would commit myself prisoner in his place, and so I should pay the ransom of his liberty with loss of mineowne. Lydia's answered him, so he should be as ingrateful to me, as lipanda's perfidious to him. Whereat he was so offended, that he swore that within 15. days if I were not in his hands, he would give him up into the hands of justice.  
And when Lydia's set before his eyes his faith forsworn: I have done penance, said he, by the Wounds which I brought from the Combat, but having long time promised the Lords of Normandy to maintain justice, am I not more bound to the former, then to the latter promise?  
The former days passed over without any heed taking: but seeing I heard no news of him, I sent a man to inquire for him. By him I knew the malice of Lipandas, and the term that he had given: and though I well foresaw all the cruelties and all the indignities which one might receive, yet did I resolve to free Lydia's out of such hands, having nothing so dear to me as his conservation; and by fortune, the day that you took me, I was going thither. And at this time, the heaviness which you see in me, and the sighs which give me no rest, proceed not from the prison wherein I am (for this is pleasant, in respect of that which was propounded) but to think, how this perfidious and cruel lipanda's will without doubt commit him into the hands of his enemies, who expect no other thing, but to see a deplorable and shameful end: for of the fifteen days which he gave, ten are passed; so that I almost despair to be able to do this last office to Lydia's.  
At this word the tears hindered her voice, that she was constrained to hold her peace, but with such demonstration of displeasure, that Clidaman was moved, and to comfort her, said: You are not (said he) courageous: Melandre so to lose your courage, that you may not maintain that generousness in this accident, which you have showed in all the rest; that God which hath preserved you in so great perils, will not forsake you in the lesser: You are to believe, that what may depend on me, shall be always disposed of to your contentment. But for that I am under a Prince whom I may not displease, your liberty must come from him, yet do I promise you for my part whatsoever you may hope from a good friend.  
And so leaving her with these good words, he went to seek out Childericke, and besought him to procure of King Meroue the liberty of this young prisoner. The young Prince who loved my son, and who knew well how willing the King his father would be to oblige Clidaman, without longer stay went to demand it of Meroue, who granted what his son asked. And because the time was so short, that the least part of it lost, would hurt Melandre, he went to seek her at her Lodging; where having led her aside, he said:  
Sad Knight (quoth he) you must change that name, for if your misfortunes have heretofore given you cause to bear it, it seems you shall shortly lose it. The Heavens begin to look on you with a more pleasing eye then of wont. And as one evil comes not alone, so good fortunes march always in companies: and for proof of that I say, know Knight (for so your will is I should call you, since your generousness hath of good right won you that Title) that henceforth you are at liberty, and may dispose of your actions as you please. The Prince of the Franks hath given me leave to dispose of you, and the duty of a Knight binds me not only to set you at liberty, but to offer you all the assistance that you think I may afford you.  
Melandre hearing a word so unhoped for, leapt with joy, and casting herself at his feet, kissed his hand by way of thankes for so great a grace: for the good which she imagined to receive from him, was to be put to a ransom; and the inconveniences of paying it, made her despair of being able to do it so soon as the term of fifteen days were run out. But when she heard so great courtesy: Truly said she to him, Sir Knight, you make it appear, that you know what it is to love, since you have pity on them that are tainted with it. I pray God, until myself be able to requite it, that he would make you as happy as he hath made you courteous and worthy of all good fortune: and at that very hour she would have been gone; which Clidaman would not suffer, because it was night.  
The next morning than very early she set on her way, and stayed not till she came to Callais, where by chance she arrived the day before the term. That evening she would have made her coming known to Lipandas, had she not been of the mind, considering the perfidiousness of him with whom she had to do, to attend for the day, that the more persons might see the wrong he did her, if haply he should be failing of his word.  
The day being come, and the hour of Midday having struck, that the chief men of the place, to honour the Governor, were then in his house; behold the sad Knight presenting himself, at the first he was not known, for they had not seen him but in Combat, where it may be fear had altered his countenance: and then every man drew near to hear what he would say.  
Lipandas, said he, I come hither in the behalf of the kinsmen and friends of Lydia's, to hear some news of him, and to charge you with your word, or to refer him to some other new condition: otherwise they send you word by me, that they will proclaim you for an unhonest man.  
Stranger, answered Lipandas, you may tell them that Lydia's fares better than he shall do within few days, because that this day being past, I will deliver him into the hands of them that will avenge me: that for my word I think I am quit, in giving him over into the hands of justice; for this justice, what other thing is it, but true Liberty? As for the new conditions, I will have no other but that which I have already propounded, which is, that they put into my hands him that fought against me, that I may do my will of him, and I will deliver Lydia's. And what is that, said he, that you will do? When I am to give account of my actions to you, answered he, you shall know. And how, said he, are you yet of the same mind? Altogether of the same mind, replied Lipandas. If it be so, added the sad Knight, send for Lydia's, and I will deliver you him whom you demand. Lipandas, that above all things desired to be revenged of his enemy, for he had turned all his hatred on Melandre, sent for him immediately. Lydia's, that knew well, that that day was the last of the term which he had set, believed it was to lead him to the Lords of justice: notwithstanding he foresaw his assured death, yet did he choose it, rather than to see him that had fought for him, in that danger for his sake. When he was come before Lipandas, he said; Lydia's, see the last day that I have given thee to present thy Champion into my hands; this young Knight is come hither for that cause, if he do it, thou art at liberty. Melandre, while those few words were speaking, found the means to turn her face aside, that she might not be known; and when she would answer, she turned wholly towards Lipandas, and said: Yes Lipandas, I have promised, and I will do it. Do you keep your word as well, for I am he whom you demand; behold me that fear neither rigour nor cruelty whatsoever, provided that my friend be freed from pain. Then every one cast his eyes on her, and calling to memory the fashion of him that combated, knew she said true. Her beauty, her youth, and her affection moved all them that were present, except Lipandas, who thought himself infinitely offended with h●r, commanded she should presently be put in prison, and suffered Lydia's to go at liberty.  
He that desired rather his own destruction, then to see himself so much obliged, made some difficulty. But Melandre came toward him, and told him in his care: Lydia's be gone, trouble not yourself for me, I have a mean to get out of prison very easily when I will: and if you will do any thing for me, I pray you go serve Meroue, and particularly Clidaman, who is the cause that you are at liberty, and tell him, that it is for my sake that you came to him.  
And is it possible, said Lydia's, that I should go, before I know who you are? I am, answered she, the sad Knight: and this shall suffice, till you have better opportunity to know more. So went Lydia's away, with a resolution to serve the King of the Franks, since he to whom he twice ought his life, would have it so.  
But in the mean time Lipandas expressly commanded, that Melandre should be well guarded, and put her into a Den, with irons on her hands and feet, resolving to let her lie there, till she died through misery. judge in what case this young maid was, and what complaints she might make against Love: Her food was vile, and her lodging fearful, and all other discommodities great, that if her affection had not supported these things, it is impossible but she must have died.  
But in the mean time the rumour spread throughout all Normandy, that Lydia's by the means of his friend was delivered from the prison at Callais, and that he was gone to serve the King Meroue, this was the cause that his banishment was renewed, and he declared Traitor to his Country. Yet he forbore not to come to the Camp of the Franks: where searching for the Tent of Clidaman, it was showed him. As soon as he saw it, and that Lindamor and Guymantes spied him, they ran to embrace him, but with such affection and such courtesy, that he was astonished; for they all took him for Ligdamon, that a little before was lost in the battle which they had against the Normans, whom he so much resembled, that all they that knew Ligdamon, were deceived.  
In the end being known to be Lydia's, the friend of Melandre, he led him to Meroue: where, in the presence of them all, Lydia's discoursed to the King the story of his prison as you have heard, and the courtesy which he had twice received of that unknown Knight, and at last, the commandment which he gave him to come and serve him, and particularly Clidaman. Then Clidaman, after the King had entertained him, and thanked him for his love, said: Is it possible Lydia's, you know not him that fought, and is in prison for you? No truly said he. Behold said he, the strangest mistaking that I ever heard spoken of, have you ever seen one resemble him? Not as I remember▪ said Lydia's, all astonished. Then will I tell the king (said Clidaman) an history the most worthy of compassion that ever love wrought: And thereupon he began the discourse which Lydia's had told, that he went into great Britain, of the contents he found there, whereto he adjoined very discreetly the love of Melandre, of the promises he made, of the carrying her into Normandy with him if he were constrained to go; of his flight: and lastly, of his imprisonment at Callais.  
The poor Lydia's was so astonished, to hear such particularities of his life, that he knew not what to think. But when Clidaman repeated to him the resolution of Melandre to set on her voyage, and her attiring herself like a man, to give his friend's knowledge of it, and after to arm and enter in close field against Lipandas, and the fortunes of the two combats; there was not one of the hearers that was not ravished, and much more when he ended all that which I have told you. O Gods, cried out Lydia's, is it possible that mine eyes have been so blinded? what is there for me to do, to free myself of this obligation? There is nothing more, said Clydaman, then to hazard for her that which she hath preserved in you. That added Lydia's with a deep sigh, me thinks it is but a small thing, if the entire affection which she bears me, be accompanied with mine own. In the mean time that they had this discourse, they which heard Clidaman, said, that this maid alone deserved to have this great Army to assail Callais. In truth, said Meroue, I will neglect all other things rather than not get the liberty to a Lady so virtuous, and we know not how our arms may be better employed then in such service.  
The evening being come, Lydia's goeth to Clidaman, and discovers to him that he had an infallible enterprise on Callais, which he had noted during the time he was prisoner, that if they would give him soldiers, without doubt he would put them into the town. This advice being reported to Meroue, it was found so good, that he resolved to send him So there were given him five hundred archers conducted by two hundred men at arms, to execute this enterprise. The conclusion was (for I cannot tell you all the business) Callais was taken, lipanda's prisoner, and Melandre freed out of captivity. But I know not how nor why; hardly was the tumult of the taken town ceased, but it was noted, that Lydia's and Melandre were gone, so that since is unknown what is become of them.  
Now during all these things, the poor Ligdamon hath been more tormented for Lydia's, then may well be told: for being prisoner in the hands of the Normans, he was taken for Lydia's, and as soon condemned to death. Clidaman so wrought, that Meroue sent them two Heralds at Arms, to let them know how they deceived themselves: but the assurance which Lipandas had newly given them, made them pass it over, without giving credit to Meroue. So behold Ligdamon put into the Cage of the Lions, where it is said he did more than a man might do: but without doubt he had died, had it not been that a very fair Lady had demanded him for Husband. The custom which permits it to be so, saved him for that time, but shortly after he died: for loving Siluy with such an affection, that it would not suffer him to marry any other than her, he rather made choice of a Tomb, than that fair Dame: so that when they would marry him, he poisoned himself; and she that believed it was indeed Lydia's, who heretofore had loved her so dear, poisoned herself also with the same potion. So is the poor Ligdamon dead, with such lamentation of every one, that there is none among his enemies, but bewails him. But that is a gracious revenge wherewith Love hath punished the cruel Lipandas: for calling to his remembrance the virtue, the beauty, and the affection of Melandre, he is become so fare in love with her, that poor as he is, he takes no consolation but in speaking of her. My son sends me word, that he doth what he can to get him out of prison, and that he hopes to obtain it.  
So (continued Amasis) now they live with such honour and commendations, that every man esteems more of them then any other in the Army. I pray God, said Adamas, to continue them still in such good fortune.  
And while they discoursed thus, they saw coming along Leonide and Lucinde, with the little Merill: I say Lucinde, because Celadon, as I told you, bore that name, following the resolution which Galathee had made. Amasis that knew her not, asked who she was. It is, answered Galathee, a kinswoman of Adamas, so fair, and so furnished with virtue, that I have desired him to leave her with me a while; she is called Lucinda. It seems (said Amasis) she is as demure as fair. I assure myself, added Galathee, that her humour will please you, and if you think it good, she shall come (Madam) with v●to M●rcelles. At this word, Leonide came so near, that Lucinde to kiss the hand of Amasis, advanced forward, and setting one knee on the ground, kissed her hand with a fashion so well counterfeited, that there was none but took her for a maid. Amasis' raised her up, and after she had embraced her, she kissed her, telling her, that she loved Adamas so well, that whatsoever touched him, was dear to her as her own children. Then Adamas took the word by the end, for fear, that if the feigned Lucinde should answer, they might find out somewhat by her voice. But he needed not have feared: for she knew so well to counterfeit, that her voice as well as the rest would have helped the better to make up the deceit. Yet for this blow, she contented herself to allow of the answer of Adamas only with a low courtesy; and after drew back among the other Nymphs, attending for nothing but some opportunity to steal away.  
At last, the hour of dinner being come, Amasis returned to her Lodging: where finding the Tables ready spread, every one full of contentment for the good news they had, dined cheerfully, except Siluy, who had always before her eyes the image of her dear Ligdamon, and in her soul the remembrance that he died for her. This was the subject wherewith they spent one part of the dinner: for the Nymph was willing enough they should know that she loved the memory of a man both virtuous and so dedicated to her; but withal, that being dead, she should be no more importuned by him, nor he benefit himself with this good will.  
After dinner, all the Nymphs disposed themselves, some to play, other to see the House, some the Garden, others to entertain the time with divers discourses in the chamber of Amasis. Leonide, without the heeding of any, making show to prepare herself for the journey, got out of the chamber, and shortly after Lucinde, and meeting at the Rendezvous that was given them, feigning to go walk, went out of the Castle, having hid under their sleeves either of them a part of the shepherd's garments: and when they were at the Woods end, the shepherd unclothed himself, and taking his accustomed habit, thanked the Nymph for the great help she had given him▪ and offered in exchange his life, and all that depended on it Then the Nymph with a great sigh s●●d: Well (quoth she) Celadon, have I not kept the promise I made you? Do you not think you are bound to perform that which you promised me? I should think myself, answered he, the most unworthy that ever lived, if I should fail. Now Celadon (said she) then remember what you have sworn to me: for I am resolved now to bring it into proof. Fair Nymph, answered Celadon, dispose of all that I may, as of that which yourself may, for you shall be no better obeyed of yourself then of me. Have you not promised, replied the Nymph, that I should inquire into your life passed; and that which I could find you might do for me, you would do it? and he answering it was true. Well Celadon, continued she, I have done that which you willed me; and though they paint Love blind, yet hath it left me light enough to know, that truly you are to continue the love which you have so often promised to be eternal to your Astrea; for the preciseness of Love will not permit a man to be either for sworn or unfaithful. And so though one have used you hardly, yet must not you fail in your duty; for another man's error will never wash away our fault. Then love the fair and happy Astrea with as much affection and sincerity as you ever loved her, serve her, adore her, and more, if more may be, for Love will have extremity in his sacrifice: but withal I well know, that the good offices which I have done you, deserve some remembrance of you: and without doubt, because Love cannot pay itself but by Love, you shall be obliged to satisfy me in the same money, if the impossibility contradicted it not. But since it is true, that one heart is capable but of one true love, I must pay myself of that which remains. Then having no more Loves to give me as to a Mistress, I demand your amity as your sister, and from henceforth you love me, you cherish me, and hold me for such. The contentment of Celadon, hearing these words, cannot be expressed; for he protested, that that was one of the things which in his misery he found some kind of contentment in. Therefore, after he had thanked the Nymph for the amity she bore him, he swore unto her to take her for his sister, and never to use her but as that name commanded him. Then lest they should be found out, they separated themselves, both well contented and satisfied each with other.  
Leonide returned to the palace, and the shepherd held on his voyage, shunning the places where he thought he might meet with shepherds whom he knew; and leaving Mountverdun on the left hand, he passed through the midst of a great Plain, that in the end led him to a Coast somewhat raised, and from whence he might know and mark with his eye the most part of the places where he had used to drive his flock to feed on the other side of Lignon, where Astrea came to seek him, where sometimes they avoided the overscorching heat of the Sun. Briefly, this view set before his eyes the most part of the contentments which he paid so dear for at that hour: and in that consideration being set at the foot of a Tree, he sighed out these Verses.  

Remembrances.  

THen did my fair Sun take her rest,  
While the other lazy sleeping lay:  
But when he comes at break of day  
With Gilly flowers and ●oses dressed,  
To chase away th'affrights of night;  
Then chiefly shines with beams most bright  
The Sun that my soul doth adore,  
Carrying the day light as she moves,  
Unto the Plains she honours more,  
And whom she going, fills with loves.   

Upon that running Rivers' side  
He shows himself in sundry wise:  
Sometimes with scorching heat he fries,  
Another while his light he hides,  
And seems as touched with jealousy,  
He meant to steal quite from our eye:  
So though as in a cloud it were,  
The Sun his face hide from us all,  
Yet cannot such a shadow small  
Cover a light that is so clear.   

But who will say but that it burns,  
When he beholds the other Sun  
Makes with his looks herbs dry and done?  
While burning Dogstar keeps his turn,  
Why may not likewise then (say I)  
My Sun she herbe● about her dry?  
I mean it is my Lady's part,  
(O Love) to cast no conquering rays  
On bodies that no soul betrays,  
And will burn nothing but the heart.   

Thou fountain that borrows the name  
Of Sycamores growing by thee,  
Thou late didst me contented see:  
Why meet I now not with the same?  
What fault have I committed late,  
That of the gods I win the hate?  
Are they subjected as are we,  
To be envious now and then?  
Or can the change proper to men  
Reach up unto the Deity?   

Late on thy banks my shepherdess  
Said, while her hand held my hand close?  
Well may uncertain chance dispose  
Of our lives full of brittleness:  
But Celadon, never in troth  
There shall be failing of the oath,  
Which in this hand I swear to thee.  
Alive and dead I love thee still,  
Or if I die, my grave stone will  
Lock up for aye our amity.   

You thick leaves that this arbour dight,  
And cover it with shade each way:  
Remember you not well that day,  
When mixing red with lily white,  
She fell a blushing all for shame,  
For that a shepherd by her came,  
Talking with me, and called her fair,  
A bliss and honour where she stays,  
To no eyes but to mine (she says)  
To seem so lovely doth she care.   

Thou rock, where oft for privacy  
We met together in thy room:  
Tell if thou canst what is become  
Of all these loves for which I cry?  
The gods that oft have been invokt,  
Will they brook that they be so mocked?  
Will they those prayers, which ●o did bind  
Both her and me, receive in vain,  
Since she by this her change of mind,  
Pays all those lo●es with one disdain?   

The heaven's graun●, Astrea said,  
That I may die before I see  
My father's power more strongly made,  
Out of a mere obstinacy,  
In such a long continued hate,  
Us and our loves to separate.  
Then can our love's holy and sure,  
join us together linked fast:  
So I, that all the loss endure,  
Shall die to see it not to last.   

Thou aged willow tree, whose bark  
Defends thee from the weather's force:  
Tell me, have I not reasons mark,  
To make complaint of this divorce,  
And raise on thee my cries most fit?  
How oft have we to other writ,  
Relying on thy surest guard,  
In hollow of thy trunk halfe-eate?  
But oh, as I thee now regard,  
Willow how comes thy change so great?    
These thoughts had held Celadon longer in that place, had he not been overtaken by the desolate shepherd, who continually bewailing his loss, came sighing out these verses.  

On too hasty a death.  
YOu that behold my mournful tear,  
If you knew what the mischiefs were,  
With which my soul is taint:  
In stead of blaming of mine eye,  
You would join with me in your cry  
To make up my complaint.  
Under the horror of black stone,  
That which the earth held fair alone,  
Doth into cinders tend.  
O fates that play this rigorous part,  
Why not my body as my heart  
May to the deep descend?  
She was not yet become so low,  
As that the gods at one quick blow,  
Should ravish her from me.  
So that alone for this intent  
To enter to her monument:  
Her life seems given to be.  
Why should so great a world of love,  
Resemblance of a flower prove,  
That but for one day springs.  
The heavens have showed her but for show,  
And that our tears might overflow,  
For los●e which her fate brings.  
As Yuy clasping fast the tree,  
From trunk well cannot served be  
Though it be dead and dry,  
At least I would it might be tied,  
That I alive hard by her side,  
Under her stone might lie.  
With her I should contented live,  
And if they would me licence give,  
To speak and tell my mind▪  
For such a lodging I would bless  
The death, of love that left no less  
Than such a pawn behind.   
Celadon that would not be seen of any that might know him, when he saw this shepherd began by little, and little to withdraw himself under the covert of some thick trees, but seeing that without staying at him, he went to sit down in the same place from whence he came, he followed after pace by pace, and so fitly, that he could hear a part of his complaint. The humour of this unknown shepherd, simpathising with his own, made him curious to know of him some news of his mistress, thinking he could not learn it more easily by another, without being known. Then approaching to him, he said. Shepherd God give thee the contentment which thou wisheth for, as I desire with a good heart, and not being able to do more, thou art to take it in good part: and if it may bind thee to any touch of courtesy, tell me I beseech thee if thou knowest Astrea, Phillis and Licides, and if so, declare to me what thou knowest, Gentle shepherd, answered he, thy courteous words bind me to pray heaven, in exchange of that thou wisheth me, that it never give thee occasion to bewail that I mourn for: and moreover, to tell all I know of the persons whom thou speakest of, though the sadness wherein I live, forbidden me to meddle in other affairs than mine own. It may be about'ts month and an half since, I came into the country of Forests, not as did many, to try the fountain of the verity of Love.. For I am but too well assured of my evil, but following the commandment of a God, which from the flowery banks of that glorious Seyne, hath sent me hither with assurance that I shall find remedy for my displeasure. And since, my abode in these villages seemed so pleasing and agreeing to my humour, that I resolved to tarry as long as the heavens would permit me. That purpose made me desirous to know the being, and the quality of the most part of the shepherds and shepherdess of that country; and because they, of whom you demanded news, are the principallest of that hamlet, which is beyond the water where I made choice to abide, I can tell you as much as you desire. I would know, said Celadon, nothing but how they doc? All, said he, are in good health. It is true, that as virtue always is that which is most ●ossed, they have had a blow of blind and changing Fortune, which they feel even at their soul, which is the loss of Celadon, a shepherd whom I know not, the brother of Li●idas, so bel●ued an● esteemed of all that river, that his loss hath been felt generally of them all but much more by those three persons whom you named: for they hold, that is to say, (they that know somewhat of the world's secrets) t●●s shepherd was servant to Astrea, and that which hindered them from marriage, was the hatred of their parents. And how, said they, replied Celadon, was this shepherd lost. They tell it (said he) in diverse sorts some in speaking after their opinion, others according to appearances, and others after the report of some, and so it is told diversely: for my part, I came into that coast the same day that he was lost, and I remembered I saw every one so disquieted with that accident, that there was no man that could give me a good account. At last and that is the more common opinion, because Phillis, Astrea, and Licidas themselves told it so, being laid to sleep on the river's bank, he must needs fall in, and indeed the fair Astrea did the like, but her  saved her. Celadon then judged that they three had wisely found this invention, lest they might give occasion to many to speak some evil of it, and was well pleased: for he had always fear that they would suspect somewhat to the disgrace of Astrea, and therefore holding on his demands: But said he, what think they is become of him? That he is dead, answered the desolate shepherd, and assure yourself that Astrea carries, howsoever she dissemble, such a load of grief, that it is incredible how much they say she is changed. Yet as it is, if Diana be not a let, she is the fairest of all those that ever I saw, my dear Cleon excepted, but those three may go jointly. Every other man (added Celadon) will say as much of his mistress, for Love hath this property, not to shut up the eyes as some believe, but to change the eyes of them that love, into the love itself, and for that there were never soul love's, never shall a lover find his mistress foul.  
That, answered the shepherd, would have served well, if I had loved Astrea and Diana, but being not capable of it, I am a judge without exception. And you that doubt of the beauty of these two shepherdess, are you a stranger, or doth hatred make you commit an error so contrary to that which you say proceeds from love?  
I am neither of them, said Celadon, but indeed the most miserable and most afflicted shepherd in the world. That will I never yield to, unless you put me out of the number: for if your evil come from any other thing than love, your stripes are not so grievous as mine, for that the heart being the most sensible part we have, we feel more to the quick the offences of it. But if your evil proceed of love, yet must it give place to mine, since of all the evils of love, there is none like to that which hath no hope, having heard say long ago, where hope may only lick the sore, it is not over grievous. Now this hope may mingle itself in all those accidents of love, be it disdain, be it anger, be it jealousy, be it absence; except where death takes place (For that pale gods with her fatal hand cuts off hope at one blow, when the thread of life is broken.) But I more miserable than all others, most miserable I go bewailing an evil without remedy and without hope. Celadon then answered him with a great sigh, Shepherd how are you deceived in your opinion? I will confess that the greatest evils are those of love, thereof I am too faithful a witness: but to say, that they that are without hope are the most grievous, so fare is it that they meri●e not to be felt at all: for it is an act of folly to be wail a thing that cannot be remedied. And love, what is it (answered he) but a purefolly. I will not, replied Celadon, enter now into that discourse, because I would finish the former. But tell me, bewail you this death for love or no? It is (answered he) for love. Now what is this love, said Celadon, but as I have heard it said of Siluander, and the most understanding of our shepherds, but a desire of the beauty, which we find to be such. It is true, said the stranger. But replied Celadon, is this a thing in a man reasonable, to desire a thing he cannot have? No certainly (said he.) Now you may see, said Celadon, how the death of Cleon ought to be the remedy of your evils, for since you confess, that desire ought not to be where hope cannot reach, and that love is nothing but desire, death which by that which you say, deprives you of all hope, should by consequent put from you all desire; and desire dying, it should draw away love into same coffin, and having no more of love, since the evil you complained of is fallen, I know not how you can feel it.  
The desolate shepherd answered; Be it love or hatred, so it is, that it is truer than I can tell you, that my evil is most extreme. And for that Celadon would have replied, he that could not abide to be contradicted in that opinion, thinking that if he endured to hear the contrary reasons, he should offend the ashes of Cleon, said shepherd; that which is under ●ence is more certain than that which is in opinion, therefore all the reasons which you allege, are to give place to that I feel. And thereupon commends him to Pan and takes another way, and Celadon likewise passeth over the river: and because solitude hath this property, to represent most lively either joy or sadness: being alone, he began to be so handled for the time by his fortune and love, that he had no cause of torment in him, which was not before his eyes. He was exempted only of jealousy, yet with such sorrows, that if that monster had taken hold on him, I know not what armie● had been able to have saued him. In these sad thoughts holding on his pace, he found the bridge, over which being passed, he went against the river, not knowing which way to take, for in any case he would obey the commandment of Astrea, who had forbid him to come in her sight until she bade him. At last being come near Boulieu inhabited by the vestals, he was as surprised with shame for coming so near unwares, from whence his resolution commanded him to go, and minding to turn, he thrust into a wood so large, and in some pa●t so fennie, that h● could hardly get out: this constrained him to draw nearer the river, for the gravel was less trouble some to him then the mud. By fortune, being weary of the long way, he went about seeking a place wherein he might rest, attending till the night might give him leave to withdraw himself without meeting of any body, purposing to go so far where they might never hear news of him: he cast his eye on a cave, which on the side of the entry was washed by the river, and on the other side was half covered with some trees and bushes, which by their thickness took the sight of him from them that passed along that way, and he himself had not heeded it, had it not been that being constrained to pass along the River, he found himself before the entry; whither by fortune being got up, and thinking he might there be well hidden till night, the place pleased him so well, that he resolved to pass the rest of his sorrowful and disastrous days there, having a purpose all the day long not to go from the hollow of that Cave. In this de liberation he began to trim it the best he could, sweeping out all the rubbish which the river, being great, had brought in. It was nothing but a little rock, which the water being strong had made hollow by little and little, and that with great ●ase, because that having at the beginning found it gravelly and tender, it was easily undermined, so that the divers hollows which the enforced water had made, rounded it as if it had purposely been done. Afterward being to lie down, it served for a bed, which was not above three or four paces off. The room might be some six or seven paces long, and because it was round, it had the greater breadth. It was a little higher than a man; yet in some places there hung down some points of the Rock, which the shepherd, by throwing gravel stones at it, by little and little broke off: and because by chance it was found hardest at the bottom, the water had not made it ●●llow in many corners; which gave Celadon cause, breaking with little pain the coins that were highest, to make a place for a Bed, made out in the hardest of the Rock, which afterwards he covered with moss, which was a great commodity to him, for that when it rained fondly upon his Cave, which was of a tender Rock, it was pierced through by the water, so that he had no other place dry but that delicious Bed.  
Being in short time fitted in this manner, he put off his Coat and his Wallet, and other Weeds which troubled him most, and tying them together, laid them on the bed with his Pipe, which always he bore in fashion of a Scarf: but stripping himself, by chance there fell a paper on the ground, which he knew full well to come from the fair Astrea. This remembrance being hindered by nothing which might draw him other where (for nothing was presented to his eyes but the course of the River) had such power over him, that there was no trouble befallen him since his banishment, that came not into his memory. At last raising himself from these thoughts as from a sound sleep, he came to the door of the Cave, where unfolding the dear Paper which he had in his hand, after a thousand ardent and amorous kisses, he said: Ah dear Paper, heretofore the cause of my contentment, and now the occasion of renewing my sorrows, how is it possible, that you should keep in you the conceit of her that writ you, without changing it, since the good will, which then was there, is so changed, that she and I are no more that we were wont to be? Oh what fault is this? A thing without spirit is constant, and the most fair of spirits is not so. At this word having opened it, the first thing that presented itself, was the cipher of Astrea joined with his own. This put him in mind of his happiness passed so lively in his spirit, that the grief to see himself so fallen, almost brought him to the term of despair. Ah cyphers, said he, witnesses too certain of the misfortune, wherein for having been over-happy, I now find myself; how are not you separated, to follow the mind of my fair shepherdess? for if heretofore she hath united you, it was in a time when our spirits were much more; but now, when our disaster hath so cruelly separated us, how cyphers most happy, remain you so together? It is (as I think) to show, that the Heavens may rain down on me all their disastrous influences, but never can make my will differing from Astrea's. Hold on then, O faithful cyphers, that symbol of my intentions, to the end, that after my last hour, which I wish may be as ready as the first moment that I shall breathe, you may manifest to all those that shall see you, of what quality was the love of the most unfortunate shepherd that ever loved. And it may be it will happen, if at the least the Gods have not lost all remembrance of me, that after my death, for my satisfaction, that fair may find you, and beholding you, she shall acknowledge, that she did as great wrong to thrust me from her, as she had reason to tie you together. At this word he sat down on a great stone which he had drawn from the River to the entry of his Den, and after he had wiped away his tears, he read the Letter, which was thus.  
The Letter of Astrea to Celadon.  
GOd permit Celadon, that the assurance which you give me of your love, may continue as long with me, as I yield supply of affection to you, and to believe, that I hold you more dear than if you were my brother, and that even to my Tomb I shall be yours.  
These few words of Astrea were cause of much evil to Celadon; for after he had often read them, he was so fare from finding any assuagement, that on the contrary it did but more enuenome his sore: so that it called to his memory by one and by one all the favours this shepherdess had done him; which made him lament so dolefully, that had not the night come upon him, he could hardly ha●e given truce to his eyes, which rained down that which the tongue bewailed and the heart suffered. But the darkness causing him to go into his Cave, interrupted for some while his sad thoughts, and permitted his body, wearied with his sorrows, and with the length of the way, to take some rest at least by sleep.  
Now twice had the day given place to the night, before this shepherd remembered to eat, for his sad thoughts busied him so, and the melancholy so filled his stomach, that he had no appetite to other victuals then that which the remembrance of his sorrows could prepare, softened with so many tears, that his eyes seemed two heads of Fountains: and had it not been for fear of offending the Gods in suffering his own death, and much rather, that of losing by his death that fair Idea which he had of Astrea in his heart, without doubt he would have been glad so to end the sad course of his life. But seeing himself so restrained, he goes to the Wallet, which Leonide had well furnished, the provision whereof lasted him many days, for he did eat as little as he could. At last, he was forced to run to herbs, and to the roots that were most tender. He found not fare off a Fountain, which abounded with Water-Cresses, which was his most certain and delicious food: for knowing where to find that with which he might live, he employed his time but on his sad thoughts, and they gave him so faithful company, that as they could not be without him, so no more could he be without them.  
So long as the day lasted, if he saw no body about his little Lodging, he would walk along on the gravel, and there he often engraved on the tender barks of young Trees the subject of his sorrows, sometimes his cipher and Astrea's, and when he alighted on them interlaced together, suddenly he would deface them, and say, Thou deceivest thyself Celadon, this is no more the season that these cyphers were allowed thee: The more constant thou art, the more to thy disadvantage are all things changed. Deface, deface miserable man, that over-happie testimony of thy good time passed: and if thou wilt set down with thy cipher that which pleases her most, set down thy mark of tears, of pains, and of death.  
With such speeches Celadon reprehended himself, if at any time he forgets himself in his thoughts. But when the night comes, it is then that all his displeasures touch him to the quick in his memory: for darkness hath this property, that it makes the imagination more strong. Moreover, he never returned home but when it was fare night: if the Moon shone, he passed the night under some Trees; where often overcome with sleep before he was ware, he found himself the next morning.  
So went this sad Shepherd drawing on his life, which in few days made him so pale and lean, that one might hardly know him: and himself sometimes going to drink at the next Fountain, was astonished, when he saw his Figure in the Water, as being brought to that pass, that he could not long live. His beard could not make him look grim, for he had none as yet: but his hair, which was much grown; the leanness, which had changed the roundness of his face, and made his nose long; and sadness, which had driven out of his eyes that lively brightness, which at other times had made him so gracious; now made him become quite other than he was wont to be. Ah, if Astrea had seen him in that case, what joy and contentment would the pain of that faithful Shepherd have given her, knowing by so assured a testimony, how truly she was beloved of the most faithful and most perfect Shepherd of Lignon▪    
FINIS.