 |
"Let us see," quoth Ganymede; and with that they read a fancy written to this effect:
First shall the heavens want starry light, The seas be robbed of their waves, The day want sun, and sun want bright, The night want shade, the dead men graves, The April flowers and leaf and tree, Before I false my faith to thee.
First shall the tops of highest hills By humble plains be overpried, And poets scorn the Muses' quills, And fish forsake the water glide, And Iris loose her colored weed,[1] Before I fail thee at thy need.
First direful hate shall turn to peace, And love relent in deep disdain, And death his fatal stroke shall cease, And envy pity every pain, And pleasure mourn and sorrow smile, Before I talk of any guile.
First time shall stay his stayless race, And winter bless his brows with corn, And snow bemoisten July's face, And winter spring, and summer mourn, Before my pen, by help of fame, Cease to recite thy sacred name.
MONTANUS
[Footnote 1: garment. In what modern expression is this meaning of the word retained?]
"No doubt," quoth Ganymede, "this protestation grew from one full of passions."
"I am of that mind too," quoth Aliena, "but see, I pray, when poor women seek to keep themselves chaste, how men woo them with many feigned promises; alluring with sweet words as the Sirens, and after proving as trothless as Aeneas. Thus promised Demophoon to his Phyllis, but who at last grew more false?"
"The reason was," quoth Ganymede, "that they were women's sons, and took that fault of their mother, for if man had grown from man, as Adam did from the earth, men had never been troubled with inconstancy."
"Leave off," quoth Aliena, "to taunt thus bitterly, or else I'll pull off your page's apparel, and whip you, as Venus doth her wantons, with nettles."
"So you will," quoth Ganymede, "persuade me to flattery, and that needs not: but come, seeing we have found here by this fount the tract of shepherds by their madrigals and roundelays, let us forward; for either we shall find some folds, sheepcotes, or else some cottages wherein for a day or two to rest."
"Content," quoth Aliena, and with that they rose up, and marched forward till towards the even, and then coming into a fair valley, compassed with mountains, whereon grew many pleasant shrubs, they might descry where two flocks of sheep did feed. Then, looking about, they might perceive where an old shepherd sat, and with him a young swaine, under a covert most pleasantly situated. The ground where they sat was diapered with Flora's riches, as if she meant to wrap Tellus in the glory of her vestments: round about in the form of an amphitheatre were most curiously planted pine trees, interseamed with limons and citrons, which with the thickness of their boughs so shadowed the place, that Phoebus could not pry into the secret of that arbor; so united were the tops with so thick a closure, that Venus might there in her jollity have dallied unseen with her dearest paramour. Fast by, to make the place more gorgeous, was there a fount so crystalline and clear, that it seemed Diana with her Dryades and Hamadryades had that spring, as the secret of all their bathings. In this glorious arbor sat these two shepherds, seeing their sheep feed, playing on their pipes many pleasant tunes, and from music and melody falling into much amorous chat. Drawing more nigh we might descry the countenance of the one to be full of sorrow, his face to be the very portraiture of discontent, and his eyes full of woes, that living he seemed to die: we, to hear what these were, stole privily behind the thicket, where we overheard this discourse:
A Pleasant Eclogue between Montanus and Corydon
CORYDON
Say, shepherd's boy, what makes thee greet[1] so sore? Why leaves thy pipe his pleasure and delight? Young are thy years, thy cheeks with roses dight: Then sing for joy, sweet swain, and sigh no more.
This milk-white poppy, and this climbing pine Both promise shade; then sit thee down and sing, And make these woods with pleasant notes to ring, Till Phoebus deign all westward to decline.
[Footnote 1: weep.]
MONTANUS
Ah, Corydon, unmeet is melody To him whom proud contempt hath overborne: Slain are my joys by Phoebe's bitter scorn; Far hence my weal, and near my jeopardy.
Love's burning brand is couched in my breast, Making a Phoenix of my faintful heart: And though his fury do enforce my smart, Ay blithe am I to honor his behest.
Prepared to woes, since so my Phoebe wills, My looks dismayed, since Phoebe will disdain; I banish bliss and welcome home my pain: So stream my tears as showers from Alpine hills.
In error's mask I blindfold judgment's eye, I fetter reason in the snares of lust, I seem secure, yet know not how to trust; I live by that which makes me living die.
Devoid of rest, companion of distress, Plague to myself, consumed by my thought, How may my voice or pipe in tune be brought, Since I am reft of solace and delight?
CORYDON
Ah, lorrel lad, what makes thee hery[1] love? A sugared harm, a poison full of pleasure, A painted shrine full filled with rotten treasure; A heaven in show, a hell to them that prove.[2]
A gain in seeming, shadowed still with want, A broken staff which folly doth uphold, A flower that fades with every frosty cold, An orient rose sprung from a withered plant.
A minute's joy to gain a world of grief, A subtle net to snare the idle mind, A seeing scorpion, yet in seeming blind, A poor rejoice, a plague without relief.
Forthy,[3] Montanus, follow mine arede,[4] (Whom age hath taught the trains[5] that fancy useth) Leave foolish love, for beauty wit abuseth, And drowns, by folly, virtue's springing seed.
[Footnote 1: praise.]
[Footnote 2: try, test.]
[Footnote 3: hence.]
[Footnote 4: advice.]
[Footnote 5: stratagems.]
MONTANUS
So blames the child the flame because it burns, And bird the snare because it doth entrap, And fools true love because of sorry hap, And sailors curse the ship that overturns.
But would the child forbear to play with flame, And birds beware to trust the fowler's gin, And fools foresee before they fall and sin, And masters guide their ships in better frame;
The child would praise the fire because it warms, And birds rejoice to see the fowler fail, And fools prevent before their plagues prevail, And sailors bless the barque that saves from harms.
Ah, Corydon, though many be thy years, And crooked elde[1] hath some experience left, Yet is thy mind of judgment quite bereft, In view of love, whose power in me appears.
The ploughman little wots to turn the pen, Or bookman skills to guide the ploughman's cart; Nor can the cobbler count the terms of art, Nor base men judge the thoughts of mighty men.
Nor withered age, unmeet for beauty's guide, Uncapable of love's impression, Discourse of that whose choice possession May never to so base a man be tied.
But I, whom nature makes of tender mould, And youth most pliant yields to fancy's fire, Do build my haven and heaven on sweet desire, On sweet desire, more dear to me than gold.
Think I of love, oh, how my lines aspire! How haste the Muses to embrace my brows, And hem my temples in with laurel boughs, And fill my brains with chaste and holy fire!
Then leave my lines their homely equipage, Mounted beyond the circle of the sun: Amazed I read the stile when I have done, And hery[2] love that sent that heavenly rage.
Of Phoebe then, of Phoebe then I sing, Drawing the purity of all the spheres, The pride of earth, or what in heaven appears, Her honored face and fame to light to bring.
In fluent numbers, and in pleasant veins, I rob both sea and earth of all their state, To praise her parts: I charm both time and fate, To bless the nymph that yields me lovesick pains.
My sheep are turned to thoughts, whom froward will Guides in the restless labyrinth of love; Fear lends them pasture wheresoe'er they move, And by their death their life reneweth still.
My sheephook is my pen, mine oaten reed My paper, where my many woes are written. Thus silly swain, with love and fancy bitten, I trace the plains[3] of pain in woeful weed.
Vet are my cares, my broken sleeps, my tears, My dreams, my doubts, for Phoebe sweet to me: Who waiteth heaven in sorrow's vale must be, And glory shines where danger most appears.
Then, Corydon, although I blithe me not, Blame me not, man, since sorrow is my sweet: So willeth love, and Phoebe thinks it meet, And kind Montanus liketh well his lot.
[Footnote 1: old age.]
[Footnote 2: praise.]
[Footnote 3: complaints.]
CORYDON
O stayless youth, by error so misguided, Where will proscribeth laws to perfect wits, Where reason mourns, and blame in triumph sits, And folly poisoneth all that time provided!
With wilful blindness bleared, prepared to shame, Prone to neglect Occasion when she smiles: Alas, that love, by fond and froward guiles, Should make thee tract[1] the path to endless blame!
Ah, my Montanus, cursed is the charm, That hath bewitched so thy youthful eyes. Leave off in time to like these vanities, Be forward to thy good, and fly thy harm.
As many bees as Hybla daily shields, As many fry as fleet on ocean's face, As many herds as on the earth do trace, As many flowers as deck the fragrant fields,
As many stars as glorious heaven contains, As many storms as wayward winter weeps, As many plagues as hell enclosed keeps, So many griefs in love, so many pains.
Suspicions, thoughts, desires, opinions, prayers, Mislikes, misdeeds, fond joys, and feigned peace, Illusions, dreams, great pains, and small increase, Vows, hopes, acceptance, scorns, and deep despairs,
Truce, war, and woe do wait at beauty's gate; Time lost, laments, reports, and privy grudge, And last, fierce love is but a partial judge, Who yields for service shame, for friendship hate.
[Footnote 1: trace, walk.]
MONTANUS
All adder-like I stop mine ears, fond swain, So charm no more, for I will never change. Call home thy flocks in time that straggling range, For lo, the sun declineth hence amain.
TERENTIUS
In amore haec omnia insunt vitia: induciae, inimicitiae, bellum, pax rursum: incerta haec si tu postules ratione certa fieri, nihilo plus agas, quam si des operam, ut cum ratione insanias.
The shepherds having thus ended their eclogue, Aliena stepped with Ganymede from behind the thicket; at whose sudden sight the shepherds arose, and Aliena saluted them thus:
"Shepherds, all hail, for such we deem you by your flocks, and lovers, good luck, for such you seem by your passions, our eyes being witness of the one, and our ears of the other. Although not by love, yet by fortune, I am a distressed gentlewoman, as sorrowful as you are passionate, and as full of woes as you of perplexed thoughts. Wandering this way in a forest unknown, only I and my page, wearied with travel, would fain have some place of rest. May you appoint us any place of quiet harbor, be it never so mean, I shall be thankful to you, contented in myself, and grateful to whosoever shall be mine host."
Corydon, hearing the gentlewoman speak so courteously, returned her mildly and reverently this answer:
"Fair mistress, we return you as hearty a welcome as you gave us a courteous salute. A shepherd I am, and this a lover, as watchful to please his wench as to feed his sheep: full of fancies, and therefore, say I, full of follies. Exhort him I may, but persuade him I cannot; for love admits neither of counsel nor reason. But leaving him to his passions, if you be distressed, I am sorrowful such a fair creature is crossed with calamity; pray for you I may, but relieve you I cannot. Marry, if you want lodging, if you vouch to shroud yourselves in a shepherd's cottage, my house for this night shall be your harbor."
Aliena thanked Corydon greatly, and presently sate her down and Ganymede by her. Corydon looking earnestly upon her, and with a curious survey viewing all her perfections, applauded (in his thought) her excellence, and pitying her distress was desirous to hear the cause of her misfortunes, began to question her thus:
"If I should not, fair damosel, occasion offence, or renew your griefs by rubbing the scar, I would fain crave so much favor as to know the cause of your misfortunes, and why, and whither you wander with your page in so dangerous a forest?"
Aliena, that was as courteous as she was fair, made this reply:
"Shepherd, a friendly demand ought never to be offensive, and questions of courtesy carry privileged pardons in their foreheads. Know, therefore, to discover my fortunes were to renew my sorrows, and I should, by discoursing my mishaps, but rake fire out of the cinders. Therefore let this suffice, gentle shepherd: my distress is as great as my travel is dangerous, and I wander in this forest to light on some cottage where I and my page may dwell: for I mean to buy some farm, and a flock of sheep, and so become a shepherdess, meaning to live low, and content me with a country life; for I have heard the swains say, that they drunk without suspicion, and slept without care."
"Marry, mistress," quoth Corydon, "if you mean so, you came in good time, for my landslord intends to sell both the farm I till, and the flock I keep, and cheap you may have them for ready money: and for a shepherd's life, O mistress, did you but live awhile in their content, you would say the court were rather a place of sorrow than of solace. Here, mistress, shall not fortune thwart you, but in mean misfortunes, as the loss of a few sheep, which, as it breeds no beggary, so it can be no extreme prejudice: the next year may mend all with a fresh increase. Envy stirs not us, we covet not to climb, our desires mount not above our degrees, nor our thoughts above our fortunes. Care cannot harbor in our cottages, nor do our homely couches know broken slumbers: as we exceed not in diet, so we have enough to satisfy: and, mistress, I have so much Latin, Satis est quod sufficit."
"By my troth, shepherd," quoth Aliena, "thou makest me in love with your country life, and therefore send for thy landslord, and I will buy thy farm and thy flocks, and thou shalt still under me be overseer of them both: only for pleasure sake I and my page will serve you, lead the flocks to the field, and fold them. Thus will I live quiet, unknown, and contented."
This news so gladded the heart of Corydon, that he should not be put out of his farm, that putting off his shepherd's bonnet, he did her all the reverence that he might. But all this while sate Montanus in a muse, thinking of the cruelty of his Phoebe, whom he wooed long, but was in no hope to win. Ganymede, who still had the remembrance of Rosader in his thoughts, took delight to see the poor shepherd passionate, laughing at Love, that in all his actions was so imperious. At last, when she had noted his tears that stole down his cheeks, and his sighs that broke from the centre of his heart, pitying his lament, she demanded of Corydon why the young shepherd looked so sorrowful.
"O sir," quoth he, "the boy is in love."
"Why," quoth Ganymede, "can shepherds love?"
"Aye," quoth Montanus, "and overlove, else shouldst not thou see me so pensive. Love, I tell thee, is as precious in a shepherd's eye, as in the looks of a king, and we country swains entertain fancy with as great delight as the proudest courtier doth affection. Opportunity, that is the sweetest friend to Venus, harboreth in our cottages, and loyalty, the chiefest fealty that Cupid requires, is found more among shepherds than higher degrees. Then, ask not if such silly swains can love."
"What is the cause then," quoth Ganymede, "that love being so sweet to thee, thou lookest so sorrowful?"
"Because," quoth Montanus, "the party beloved is froward, and having courtesy in her looks, holdeth disdain in her tongue's end."
"What hath she, then," quoth Aliena, "in her heart?"
"Desire, I hope madam," quoth he, "or else, my hope lost, despair in love were death."
As thus they chatted, the sun being ready to set, and they not having folded their sheep, Corydon requested she would sit there with her page, till Montanus and he lodged their sheep for that night.
"You shall go," quoth Aliena, "but first I will entreat Montanus to sing some amorous sonnet, that he made when he hath been deeply passionate."
"That I will," quoth Montanus, and with that he began thus:
Montanus's Sonnet
Phoebe sate, Sweet she sate, Sweet sate Phoebe when I saw her; White her brow, Coy her eye: Brow and eye how much you please me! Words I spent, Sighs I sent: Sighs and words could never draw her. O my love, Thou art lost, Since no sight could ever ease thee.
Phoebe sat By a fount; Sitting by a fount I spied her: Sweet her touch, Rare her voice: Touch and voice what may distain you? As she sung I did sigh, And by sighs whilst that I tried her, O mine eyes! You did lose Her first sight whose want did pain you.
Phoebe's flocks, White as wool: Yet were Phoebe's locks more whiter. Phoebe's eyes Dovelike mild: Dovelike eyes, both mild and cruel. Montan swears, In your lamps He will die for to delight her. Phoebe yield, Or I die: Shall true hearts be fancy's fuel?[1]
[Footnote 1: This poem was parodied by one of Lodge's contemporaries under the title "Ronsard's Description of his Mistress" in allusion to Lodge's habit of imitating foreign poets.]
Montanus had no sooner ended his sonnet, but Corydon with a low courtesy rose up and went with his fellow, and shut their sheep in the folds; and after returning to Aliena and Ganymede, conducted them home weary to his poor cottage. By the way there was much good chat with Montanus about his loves, he resolving Aliena that Phoebe was the fairest shepherdess in all France, and that in his eye her beauty was equal with the nymphs.
"But," quoth he, "as of all stones the diamond is most clearest, and yet most hard for the lapidary to cut: as of all flowers the rose is the fairest, and yet guarded with the sharpest prickles: so of all our country lasses Phoebe is the brightest, but the most coy of all to stoop unto desire. But let her take heed," quoth he, "I have heard of Narcissus, who for his high disdain against Love, perished in the folly of his own love."
With this they were at Corydon's cottage, where Montanus parted from them, and they went in to rest. Aliena and Ganymede glad of so contented a shelter, made merry with the poor swain; and though they had but country fare and coarse lodging, yet their welcome was so great, and their cares so little, that they counted their diet delicate, and slept as soundly as if they had been in the court of Torismond. The next morn they lay long in bed, as wearied with the toil of unaccustomed travel; but as soon as they got up, Aliena resolved there to set up her rest,[1] and by the help of Corydon swept[2] a bargain with his landslord, and so became mistress of the farm and the flock, herself putting on the attire of a shepherdess, and Ganymede of a young swain: every day leading forth her flocks, with such delight, that she held her exile happy, and thought no content to the bliss of a country cottage. Leaving her thus famous amongst the shepherds of Arden, again to Saladyne.
[Footnote 1: choose her dwelling.]
[Footnote 2: concluded.]
When Saladyne had a long while concealed a secret resolution of revenge, and could no longer hide fire in the flax, nor oil in the flame, for envy is like lightning, that will appear in the darkest fog, it chanced on a morning very early he called up certain of his servants, and went with them to the chamber of Rosader, which being open, he entered with his crew, and surprised his brother being asleep, and bound him in fetters, and in the midst of his hall chained him to a post. Rosader, amazed at this strange chance, began to reason with his brother about the cause of this sudden extremity, wherein he had wronged, and what fault he had committed worthy so sharp a penance. Saladyne answered him only with a look of disdain, and went his way, leaving poor Rosader in a deep perplexity; who, thus abused, fell into sundry passions, but no means of relief could be had: whereupon for anger he grew into a discontented melancholy. In which humor he continued two or three days without meat, insomuch that seeing his brother would give him no food, he fell into despair of his life. Which Adam Spencer, the old servant of Sir John of Bordeaux, seeing, touched with the duty and love he ought[1] to his old master, felt a remorse in his conscience of his son's mishap; and therefore, although Saladyne had given a general charge to his servants that none of them upon pain of death should give either meat or drink to Rosader, yet Adam Spencer in the night rose secretly, and brought him such victuals as he could provide, and unlocked him, and set him at liberty. After Rosader had well feasted himself, and felt he was loose, straight his thoughts aimed at revenge, and now, all being asleep, he would have quit Saladyne with the method of his own mischief. But Adam Spencer did persuade him to the contrary with these reasons:
[Footnote 1: owed.]
"Sir," quoth he, "be content, for this night go again into your old fetters, so shall you try the faith of friends, and save the life of an old servant. To-morrow hath your brother invited all your kindred and allies to a solemn breakfast, only to see you, telling them all that you are mad, and fain to be tied to a post. As soon as they come, complain to them of the abuse proffered you by Saladyne. If they redress you, why so: but if they pass over your plaints sicco pede,[1] and hold with the violence of your brother before your innocence, then thus: I will leave you unlocked that you may break out at your pleasure, and at the end of the hall shall you see stand a couple of good poleaxes, one for you and another for me. When I give you a wink, shake off your chains, and let us play the men, and make havoc amongst them, drive them out of the house and maintain possession by force of arms, till the king hath made a redress of your abuses."
[Footnote 1: with dry foot = carelessly.]
These words of Adam Spencer so persuaded Rosader, that he went to the place of his punishment, and stood there while[1] the next morning. About the time appointed, came all the guests bidden by Saladyne, whom he entreated with courteous and curious entertainment, as they all perceived their welcome to be great. The tables in the hall, where Rosader was tied, were covered, and Saladyne bringing in his guests together, showed them where his brother was bound, and was enchained as a man lunatic. Rosader made reply, and with some invectives made complaints of the wrongs proffered him by Saladyne, desiring they would in pity seek some means for his relief. But in vain, they had stopped their ears with Ulysses, that were his words never so forceable, he breathed only his passions into the wind. They, careless, sat down with Saladyne to dinner, being very frolic and pleasant, washing their heads well with wine. At last, when the fume of the grape had entered pell-mell into their brains, they began in satirical speeches to rail against Rosader: which Adam Spencer no longer brooking, gave the sign, and Rosader shaking off his chains got a poleaxe in his hand, and flew amongst them with such violence and fury, that he hurt many, slew some, and drave his brother and the rest quite out of the house. Seeing the coast clear, he shut the doors, and being sore anhungered, and seeing such good victuals, he sat him down with Adam Spencer, and such good fellows as he knew were honest men, and there feasted themselves with such provision as Saladyne had prepared for his friends. After they had taken their repast, Rosader rampired up[2] the house, lest upon a sudden his brother should raise some crew of his tenants, and surprise them unawares. But Saladyne took a contrary course, and went to the sheriff of the shire and made complaint of Rosader, who giving credit to Saladyne, in a determined resolution to revenge the gentleman's wrongs, took with him five-and-twenty tall[3] men, and made a vow, either to break into the house and take Rosader, or else to coop him in till he made him yield by famine. In this determination, gathering a crew together, he went forward to set Saladyne in his former estate. News of this was brought unto Rosader, who smiling at the cowardice of his brother, brooked all the injuries of fortune with patience, expecting the coming of the sheriff. As he walked upon the battlements of the house, he descried where Saladyne and he drew near, with a troop of lusty gallants. At this he smiled, and called Adam Spencer, and showed him the envious treachery of his brother, and the folly of the sheriff to be so credulous.
[Footnote 1: until.]
[Footnote 2: barricaded.]
[Footnote 3: brave.]
"Now, Adam," quoth he, "what shall I do? It rests for me either to yield up the house to my brother and seek a reconcilement, or else issue out, and break through the company with courage, for cooped in like a coward I will not be. If I submit (ah Adam) I dishonor myself, and that is worse than death, for by such open disgraces, the fame of men grows odious. If I issue out amongst them, fortune may favor me, and I may escape with life. But suppose the worst; if I be slain, then my death shall be honorable to me, and so inequal a revenge infamous to Saladyne."
"Why then, master, forward and fear not! Out amongst them; they be but faint-hearted losels,[1] and for Adam Spencer, if he die not at your foot, say he is a dastard."
[Footnote 1: lazy, worthless fellows.]
These words cheered up so the heart of young Rosader, that he thought himself sufficient for them all, and therefore prepared weapons for him and Adam Spencer, and were ready to entertain the sheriff; for no sooner came Saladyne and he to the gates, but Rosader, unlooked for, leaped out and assailed them, wounded many of them, and caused the rest to give back, so that Adam and he broke through the prease[1] in despite of them all, and took their way towards the forest of Arden. This repulse so set the sheriff's heart on fire to revenge, that he straight raised all the country, and made hue and cry after them. But Rosader and Adam, knowing full well the secret ways that led through the vineyards, stole away privily through the province of Bordeaux, and escaped safe to the forest of Arden. Being come thither, they were glad they had so good a harbor: but fortune, who is like the chameleon, variable with every object, and constant in nothing but inconstancy, thought to make them mirrors of her mutability, and therefore still crossed them thus contrarily. Thinking still to pass on by the by-ways to get to Lyons, they chanced on a path that led into the thick of the forest, where they wandered five or six days without meat, that they were almost famished finding neither shepherd nor cottage to relieve them; and hunger growing on so extreme, Adam Spencer, being old, began first to faint, and sitting him down on a hill, and looking about him, espied where Rosader lay as feeble and as ill perplexed: which sight made him shed tears, and to fall into these bitter terms:
[Footnote 1: crowd.]
ADAM SPENCER'S SPEECH
"Oh, how the life of man may well be compared to the state of the ocean seas, that for every calm hath a thousand storms, resembling the rose tree, that for a few fair flowers hath a multitude of sharp prickles! All our pleasures end in pain, and our highest delights are crossed with deepest discontents. The joys of man, as they are few, so are they momentary, scarce ripe before they are rotten, and withering in the blossom, either parched with the heat of envy or fortune. Fortune, O inconstant friend, that in all thy deeds art froward and fickle, delighting, in the poverty of the lowest and the overthrow of the highest, to decipher thy inconstancy. Thou standest upon a globe, and thy wings are plumed with Time's feathers, that thou mayest ever be restless: thou art double-faced like Janus, carrying frowns in the one to threaten, and smiles in the other to betray: thou profferest an eel, and performest a scorpion, and where thy greatest favors be, there is the fear of the extremest misfortunes, so variable are all thy actions. But why, Adam, dost thou exclaim against Fortune? She laughs at the plaints of the distressed, and there is nothing more pleasing unto her, than to hear fools boast in her fading allurements, or sorrowful men to discover the sour of their passions. Glut her not, Adam, then with content, but thwart her with brooking all mishaps with patience. For there is no greater check to the pride of Fortune, than with a resolute courage to pass over her crosses without care. Thou art old, Adam, and thy hairs wax white: the palm tree is already full of blooms, and in the furrows of thy face appears the calendars of death. Wert thou blessed by Fortune thy years could not be many, nor the date of thy life long: then sith nature must have her due, what is it for thee to resign her debt a little before the day. Ah, it is not this which grieveth me, nor do I care what mishaps Fortune can wage against me, but the sight of Rosader that galleth unto the quick. When I remember the worships of his house, the honor of his fathers, and the virtues of himself, then do I say, that fortune and the fates are most injurious, to censure so hard extremes, against a youth of so great hope. O Rosader, thou art in the flower of thine age, and in the pride of thy years, buxom and full of May. Nature hath prodigally enriched thee with her favors, and virtue made thee the mirror of her excellence; and now, through the decree of the unjust stars, to have all these good parts nipped in the blade, and blemished by the inconstancy of fortune! Ah, Rosader, could I help thee, my grief were the less, and happy should my death be, if it might be the beginning of thy relief: but seeing we perish both in one extreme, it is a double sorrow. What shall I do? prevent the sight of his further misfortune with a present dispatch of mine own life? Ah, despair is a merciless sin!"
As he was ready to go forward in his passion, he looked earnestly on Rosader, and seeing him change color, he rise up and went to him, and holding his temples, said:
"What cheer, master? though all fail, let not the heart faint: the courage of a man is showed in the resolution of his death."
At these words Rosader lifted up his eye, and looking on Adam Spencer, began to weep.
"Ah, Adam," quoth he, "I sorrow not to die, but I grieve at the manner of my death. Might I with my lance encounter the enemy, and so die in the field, it were honor and content: might I, Adam, combate with some wild beast and perish as his prey, I were satisfied; but to die with hunger, O Adam, it is the extremest of all extremes!"
"Master," quoth he, "you see we are both in one predicament, and long I cannot live without meat; seeing therefore we can find no food, let the death of the one preserve the life of the other. I am old, and overworn with age, you are young, and are the hope of many honors: let me then die, I will presently cut my veins, and, master, with the warm blood relieve your fainting spirits: suck on that till I end, and you be comforted."
With that Adam Spencer was ready to pull out his knife, when Rosader full of courage (though very faint) rose up, and wished Adam Spencer to sit there till his return; "for my mind gives me," quoth he, "I shall bring thee meat." With that, like a madman, he rose up, and ranged up and down the woods, seeking to encounter some wild beast with his rapier, that either he might carry his friend Adam food, or else pledge his life in pawn for his loyalty.
It chanced that day, that Gerismond, the lawful king of France banished by Torismond, who with a lusty crew of outlaws lived in that forest, that day in honor of his birth made a feast to all his bold yeomen, and frolicked it with store of wine and venison, sitting all at a long table under the shadow of limon trees. To that place by chance fortune conducted Rosader, who seeing such a crew of brave men, having store of that for want of which he and Adam perished, he stepped boldly to the board's end, and saluted the company thus:
"Whatsoever thou be that art master of these lusty squires, I salute thee as graciously as a man in extreme distress may: know that I and a fellow-friend of mine are here famished in the forest for want of food: perish we must, unless relieved by thy favors. Therefore, if thou be a gentleman, give meat to men, and to such men as are every way worthy of life. Let the proudest squire that sits at thy table rise and encounter with me in any honorable point of activity whatsoever, and if he and thou prove me not a man, send me away comfortless. If thou refuse this, as a niggard of thy cates, I will have amongst you with my sword; for rather will I die valiantly, than perish with so cowardly an extreme."
Gerismond, looking him earnestly in the face, and seeing so proper a gentleman in so bitter a passion, was moved with so great pity, that rising from the table, he took him by the hand and bad him welcome, willing him to sit down in his place, and in his room not only to eat his fill, but be lord of the feast.
"Gramercy, sir," quoth Rosader, "but I have a feeble friend that lies hereby famished almost for food, aged and therefore less able to abide the extremity of hunger than myself, and dishonor it were for me to taste one crumb, before I made him partner of my fortunes: therefore I will run and fetch him, and then I will gratefully accept of your proffer."
Away hies Rosader to Adam Spencer, and tells him the news, who was glad of so happy fortune, but so feeble he was that he could not go; whereupon Rosader got him up on his back, and brought him to the place. Which when Gerismond and his men saw, they greatly applauded their league of friendship; and Rosader, having Gerismond's place assigned him, would not sit there himself, but set down Adam Spencer. Well, to be short, those hungry squires fell to their victuals, and feasted themselves with good delicates, and great store of wine. As soon as they had taken their repast, Gerismond, desirous to hear what hard fortune drave them into those bitter extremes, requested Rosader to discourse, if it were not any way prejudicial unto him, the cause of his travel. Rosader, desirous any way to satisfy the courtesy of his favorable host, first beginning his exordium with a volley of sighs, and a few lukewarm tears, prosecuted his discourse, and told him from point to point all his fortunes: how he was the youngest son of Sir John of Bordeaux, his name Rosader, how his brother sundry times had wronged him, and lastly how, for beating the sheriff and hurting his men, he fled.
"And this old man," quoth he, "whom I so much love and honor, is surnamed Adam Spencer, an old servant of my father's, and one, that for his love, never failed me in all my misfortunes."
When Gerismond heard this, he fell on the neck of Rosader, and next discoursing unto him how he was Gerismond their lawful king exiled by Torismond, what familiarity had ever been betwixt his father, Sir John of Bordeaux, and him, how faithful a subject he lived, and how honorable he died, promising, for his sake, to give both him and his friend such courteous entertainment as his present estate could minister, and upon this made him one of his foresters. Rosader seeing it was the king, craved pardon for his boldness, in that he did not do him due reverence, and humbly gave him thanks for his favorable courtesy. Gerismond, not satisfied yet with news, began to inquire if he had been lately in the court of Torismond, and whether he had seen his daughter Rosalynde or no? At this Rosader fetched a deep sigh, and shedding many tears, could not answer: yet at last, gathering his spirits together, he revealed unto the king, how Rosalynde was banished, and how there was such a sympathy of affections between Alinda and her, that she chose rather to be partaker of her exile, than to part fellowship; whereupon the unnatural king banished them both: "and now they are wandered none knows whither, neither could any learn since their departure, the place of their abode." This news drave the king into a great melancholy, that presently he arose from all the company, and went into his privy chamber, so secret as the harbor of the woods would allow him. The company was all dashed at these tidings, and Rosader and Adam Spencer, having such opportunity, went to take their rest. Where we leave them, and return again to Torismond.
The flight of Rosader came to the ears of Torismond, who hearing that Saladyne was sole heir of the lands of Sir John of Bordeaux, desirous to possess such fair revenues, found just occasion to quarrel with Saladyne about the wrongs he proffered to his brother: and therefore, dispatching a herehault,[1] he sent for Saladyne in all post-haste. Who marvelling what the matter should be, began to examine his own conscience, wherein he had offended his highness; but emboldened with his innocence, he boldly went with the herehault unto the court; where, as soon as he came, he was not admitted into the presence of the king, but presently sent to prison. This greatly amazed Saladyne, chiefly in that the jailer had a straight charge over him, to see that he should be close prisoner. Many passionate thoughts came in his head, till at last he began to fall into consideration of his former follies, and to meditate with himself. Leaning his head on his hand, and his elbow on his knee, full of sorrow, grief and disquieted passions, he resolved into these terms:
[Footnote 1: herald.]
SALADYNE'S COMPLAINT
"Unhappy Saladyne! whom folly hath led to these misfortunes, and wanton desires wrapped within the labyrinth of these calamities! Are not the heavens doomers of men's deeds; and holds not God a balance in his fist, to reward with favor, and revenge with justice? O Saladyne, the faults of thy youth, as they were fond, so were they foul, and not only discovering little nurture, but blemishing the excellence of nature. Whelps of one litter are ever most loving, and brothers that are sons of one father should live in friendship without jar. O Saladyne, so it should be; but thou hast with the deer fed against the wind, with the crab strove against the stream, and sought to pervert nature by unkindness. Rosader's wrongs, the wrongs of Rosader, Saladyne, cries for revenge; his youth pleads to God to inflict some penance upon thee; his virtues are pleas that enforce writs of displeasure to cross thee: thou hast highly abused thy kind and natural brother, and the heavens cannot spare to quite thee with punishment. There is no sting to the worm of conscience, no hell to a mind touched with guilt. Every wrong I offered him, called now to remembrance, wringeth a drop of blood from my heart, every bad look, every frown pincheth me at the quick, and says, 'Saladyne thou hast sinned against Rosader.' Be penitent, and assign thyself some penance to discover thy sorrow, and pacify his wrath."
In the depth of his passion, he was sent for to the king, who with a look that threatened death entertained him, and demanded of him where his brother was. Saladyne made answer, that upon some riot made against the sheriff of the shire, he was fled from Bordeaux, but he knew not whither.
"Nay, villain," quoth he, "I have heard of the wrongs thou hast proffered thy brother since the death of thy father, and by thy means have I lost a most brave and resolute chevalier. Therefore, in justice to punish thee, I spare thy life for thy father's sake, but banish thee for ever from the court and country of France; and see thy departure be within ten days, else trust me thou shalt lose thy head."
And with that the king flew away in a rage, and left poor Saladyne greatly perplexed; who grieving at his exile, yet determined to bear it with patience, and in penance of his former follies to travel abroad in every coast till he had found out his brother Rosader. With whom now I begin.
Rosader, being thus preferred to the place of a forester by Gerismond, rooted out the remembrance of his brother's unkindness by continual exercise, traversing the groves and wild forests, partly to hear the melody of the sweet birds which recorded,[1] and partly to show his diligent endeavor in his master's behalf. Yet whatsoever he did, or howsoever he walked, the lively image of Rosalynde remained in memory: on her sweet perfections he fed his thoughts, proving himself like the eagle a true-born bird, since as the one is known by beholding the sun, so was he by regarding excellent beauty. One day among the rest, finding a fit opportunity and place convenient, desirous to discover his woes to the woods, he engraved with his knife on the bark of a myrtle tree, this pretty estimate of his mistress' perfection:
[Footnote 1: sang.]
Sonetto
Of all chaste birds the Phoenix doth excell, Of all strong beasts the lion bears the bell, Of all sweet flowers the rose doth sweetest smell, Of all fair maids my Rosalynde is fairest.
Of all pure metals gold is only purest, Of all high trees the pine hath highest crest, Of all soft sweets I like my mistress' breast, Of all chaste thoughts my mistress' thoughts are rarest.
Of all proud birds the eagle pleaseth Jove, Of pretty fowls kind Venus likes the dove, Of trees Minerva doth the olive love, Of all sweet nymphs I honor Rosalynde.
Of all her gifts her wisdom pleaseth most, Of all her graces virtue she doth boast: For all these gifts my life and joy is lost, If Rosalynde prove cruel and unkind.
In these and such like passions Rosader did every day eternize the name of his Rosalynde; and this day especially when Aliena and Ganymede, enforced by the heat of the sun to seek for shelter, by good fortune arrived in that place, where this amorous forester registered his melancholy passions. They saw the sudden change of his looks, his folded arms, his passionate sighs: they heard him often abruptly call on Rosalynde, who, poor soul, was as hotly burned as himself, but that she shrouded her pains in the cinders of honorable modesty. Whereupon, guessing him to be in love, and according to the nature of their sex being pitiful in that behalf, they suddenly brake off his melancholy by their approach, and Ganymede shook him out of his dumps thus:
"What news, forester? hast thou wounded some deer, and lost him in the fall? Care not man for so small a loss: thy fees was but the skin, the shoulder, and the horns: 'tis hunter's luck to aim fair and miss; and a woodman's fortune to strike and yet go without the game."
"Thou art beyond the mark, Ganymede," quoth Aliena: "his passions are greater, and his sighs discovers more loss: perhaps in traversing these thickets, he hath seen some beautiful nymph, and is grown amorous."
"It may be so," quoth Ganymede, "for here he hath newly engraven some sonnet: come, and see the discourse of the forester's poems."
Reading the sonnet over, and hearing him name Rosalynde, Aliena looked on Ganymede and laughed, and Ganymede looking back on the forester, and seeing it was Rosader, blushed; yet thinking to shroud all under her page's apparel, she boldly returned to Rosader, and began thus:
"I pray thee tell me, forester, what is this Rosalynde for whom thou pinest away in such passions? Is she some nymph that waits upon Diana's train, whose chastity thou hast deciphered in such epithets? Or is she some shepherdess that haunts these plains whose beauty hath so bewitched thy fancy, whose name thou shadowest in covert under the figure of Rosalynde, as Ovid did Julia under the name of Corinna? Or say me forsooth, is it that Rosalynde, of whom we shepherds have heard talk, she, forester, that is the daughter of Gerismond, that once was king, and now an outlaw in the forest of Arden?"
At this Rosader fetched a deep sigh, and said:
"It is she, O gentle swain, it is she; that saint it is whom I serve, that goddess at whose shrine I do bend all my devotions; the most fairest of all fairs, the phoenix of all that sex, and the purity of all earthly perfection."
"And why, gentle forester, if she be so beautiful, and thou so amorous, is there such a disagreement in thy thoughts? Happily she resembleth the rose, that is sweet but full of prickles? or the serpent Regius that hath scales as glorious as the sun and a breath as infectious as the Aconitum is deadly? So thy Rosalynde may be most amiable and yet unkind; full of favor and yet froward, coy without wit, and disdainful without reason."
"O Shepherd," quoth Rosader, "knewest thou her personage, graced with the excellence of all perfection, being a harbor wherein the graces shroud their virtues, thou wouldest not breathe out such blasphemy against the beauteous Rosalynde. She is a diamond, bright but not hard, yet of most chaste operation; a pearl so orient,[1] that it can be stained with no blemish; a rose without prickles, and a princess absolute as well in beauty as in virtue. But I, unhappy I, have let mine eye soar with the eagle against so bright a sun that I am quite blind: I have with Apollo enamored myself of a Daphne, not, as she, disdainful, but far more chaste than Daphne: I have with Ixion laid my love on Juno, and shall, I fear, embrace nought but a cloud. Ah, Shepherd, I have reached at a star: my desires have mounted above my degree, and my thoughts above my fortunes. I being a peasant, have ventured to gaze on a princess, whose honors are too high to vouchsafe such base loves."
[Footnote 1: precious.]
"Why, forester," quoth Ganymede, "comfort thyself; be blithe and frolic man. Love souseth[1] as low as she soareth high: Cupid shoots at a rag as soon as at a robe; and Venus' eye that was so curious, sparkled favor on pole-footed[2] Vulcan. Fear not, man, women's looks are not tied to dignity's feathers, nor make they curious esteem where the stone is found, but what is the virtue. Fear not, forester; faint heart never won fair lady. But where lives Rosalynde now? at the court?"
[Footnote 1: swoops, a term used in falconry.]
[Footnote 2: club-footed.]
"Oh no," quoth Rosader, "she lives I know not where, and that is my sorrow; banished by Torismond, and that is my hell: for might I but find her sacred personage, and plead before the bar of her pity the plaint of my passions, hope tells me she would grace me with some favor, and that would suffice as a recompense of all my former miseries."
"Much have I heard of thy mistress' excellence, and I know, forester, thou canst describe her at the full, as one that hast surveyed all her parts with a curious eye; then do me that favor, to tell me what her perfections be."
"That I will," quoth Rosader, "for I glory to make all ears wonder at my mistress' excellence."
And with that he pulled a paper forth his bosom, wherein he read this:
Rosalynde's Description
Like to the clear[1] in highest sphere Where all imperial glory shines, Of selfsame color is her hair, Whether unfolded or in twines: Heigh ho, fair Rosalynde! Her eyes are sapphires set in snow, Refining heaven by every wink: The gods do fear whenas they glow, And I do tremble when I think: Heigh ho, would she were mine.
Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud That beautifies Aurora's face, Or like the silver crimson shroud That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace: Heigh ho, fair Rosalynde.
Her lips are like two budded roses, Whom ranks of lilies neighbor nigh, Within which bounds she balm encloses, Apt to entice a deity: Heigh ho, would she were mine.
Her neck, like to a stately tower Where love himself imprisoned lies, To watch for glances every hour From her divine and sacred eyes: Heigh ho, fair Rosalynde. Her paps are centres of delight, Her paps are orbs of heavenly frame, Where nature moulds the dew of light, To feed perfection with the same: Heigh ho, would she were mine.
With orient pearl, with ruby red, With marble white, with sapphire blue, Her body every way is fed, Yet soft in touch, and sweet in view: Heigh ho, fair Rosalynde. Nature herself her shape admires, The gods are wounded in her sight, And Love forsakes his heavenly fires And at her eyes his brand doth light: Heigh ho, would she were mine.
Then muse not, nymphs, though I bemoan The absence of fair Rosalynde, Since for her fair[2] there is fairer none, Nor for her virtues so divine: Heigh ho, fair Rosalynde. Heigh ho, my heart, would God that she were mine!
Periit, quia deperibat.
[Footnote 1: brightness.]
[Footnote 2: fairness.]
"Believe me," quoth Ganymede, "either the forester is an exquisite painter, or Rosalynde far above wonder; so it makes me blush to hear how women should be so excellent, and pages so unperfect."
Rosader beholding her earnestly, answered thus:
"Truly, gentle page, thou hast cause to complain thee wert thou the substance, but resembling the shadow content thyself; for it is excellence enough to be like the excellence of nature."
"He hath answered you, Ganymede," quoth Aliena, "it is enough for pages to wait on beautiful ladies, and not to be beautiful themselves."
"O mistress," quoth Ganymede, "hold you your peace, for you are partial. Who knows not, but that all women have desire to tie sovereignty to their petticoats, and ascribe beauty to themselves, where, if boys might put on their garments, perhaps they would prove as comely; if not as comely, it may be more courteous. But tell me, forester," and with that she turned to Rosader, "under whom maintainest thou thy walk?"
"Gentle swain, under the king of outlaws," said he, "the unfortunate Gerismond, who having lost his kingdom, crowneth his thoughts with content, accounting it better to govern among poor men in peace, than great men in danger."
"But hast thou not," said she, "having so melancholy opportunities as this forest affordeth thee, written more sonnets in commendations of thy mistress?"
"I have, gentle swain," quoth he, "but they be not about me. To-morrow by dawn of day, if your flocks feed in these pastures, I will bring them you, wherein you shall read my passions whilst I feel them, judge my patience when you read it: till when I bid farewell." So giving both Ganymede and Aliena a gentle good-night, he resorted to his lodge, leaving Aliena and Ganymede to their prittle-prattle.
"So Ganymede," said Aliena, the forester being gone, "you are mightily beloved; men make ditties in your praise, spend sighs for your sake, make an idol of your beauty. Believe me, it grieves me not a little to see the poor man so pensive, and you so pitiless."
"Ah, Aliena," quoth she, "be not peremptory in your judgments. I hear Rosalynde praised as I am Ganymede, but were I Rosalynde, I could answer the forester: if he mourn for love, there are medicines for love: Rosalynde cannot be fair and unkind. And so, madam, you see it is time to fold our flocks, or else Corydon will frown and say you will never prove good housewife."
With that they put their sheep into the cotes, and went home to her friend Corydon's cottage, Aliena as merry as might be that she was thus in the company of her Rosalynde; but she, poor soul, that had love her lodestar, and her thoughts set on fire with the flame of fancy, could take no rest, but being alone began to consider what passionate penance poor Rosader was enjoined to by love and fortune, that at last she fell into this humor with herself:
ROSALYNDE PASSIONATE ALONE
"Ah, Rosalynde, how the Fates have set down in their synod to make thee unhappy: for when Fortune hath done her worst, then Love comes in to begin a new tragedy: she seeks to lodge her son in thine eyes, and to kindle her fires in thy bosom. Beware, fond girl, he is an unruly guest to harbor; for cutting in by entreats, he will not be thrust out by force, and her fires are fed with such fuel, as no water is able to quench. Seest thou not how Venus seeks to wrap thee in her labyrinth, wherein is pleasure at the entrance, but within, sorrows, cares, and discontent? She is a Siren, stop thine ears to her melody; she is a basilisk, shut thy eyes and gaze not at her lest thou perish. Thou art now placed in the country content, where are heavenly thoughts and mean desires: in those lawns where thy flocks feed, Diana haunts: be as her nymphs chaste, and enemy to love, for there is no greater honor to a maid, than to account of fancy as a mortal foe to their sex. Daphne, that bonny wench, was not turned into a bay tree, as the poets feign: but for her chastity her fame was immortal, resembling the laurel that is ever green. Follow thou her steps, Rosalynde, and the rather, for that thou art an exile, and banished from the court; whose distress, and it is appeased with patience, so it would be renewed with amorous passions. Have mind on thy forepassed fortunes; fear the worst, and entangle not thyself with present fancies, lest loving in haste, thou repent thee at leisure. Ah, but yet, Rosalynde, it is Rosader that courts thee; one who as he is beautiful, so he is virtuous, and harboreth in his mind as many good qualities as his face is shadowed with gracious favors; and therefore, Rosalynde, stoop to love, lest, being either too coy or too cruel, Venus wax wroth, and plague thee with the reward of disdain."
Rosalynde, thus passionate, was wakened from her dumps[1] by Aliena, who said it was time to go to bed. Corydon swore that was true, for Charles' Wain was risen in the north. Whereupon each taking leave of other, went to their rest, all but the poor Rosalynde, who was so full of passions, that she could not possess any content. Well, leaving her to her broken slumbers, expect what was performed by them the next morning.
[Footnote 1: meditation.]
The sun was no sooner stepped from the bed of Aurora, but Aliena was wakened by Ganymede, who, restless all night, had tossed in her passions, saying it was then time to go to the field to unfold their sheep. Aliena, that spied where the hare was by the hounds, and could see day at a little hole, thought to be pleasant with her Ganymede, and therefore replied thus:
"What, wanton! the sun is but new up, and as yet Iris' riches lie folded in the bosom of Flora: Phoebus hath not dried up the pearled dew, and so long Corydon hath taught me, it is not fit to lead the sheep abroad, lest, the dew being unwholesome, they get the rot: but now see I the old proverb true, he is in haste whom the devil drives, and where love pricks forward, there is no worse death than delay. Ah, my good page, is there fancy in thine eye, and passions in thy heart? What, hast thou wrapt love in thy looks, and set all thy thoughts on fire by affection? I tell thee, it is a flame as hard to be quenched as that of Aetna. But nature must have her course: women's eyes have faculty attractive like the jet, and retentive like the diamond: they dally in the delight of fair objects, till gazing on the panther's beautiful skin, repenting experience tell them he hath a devouring paunch."
"Come on," quoth Ganymede, "this sermon of yours is but a subtlety to lie still a-bed, because either you think the morning cold, or else I being gone, you would steal a nap: this shift carries no palm, and therefore up and away. And for Love, let me alone; I'll whip him away with nettles, and set disdain as a charm to withstand his forces: and therefore look you to yourself; be not too bold, for Venus can make you bend, nor too coy, for Cupid hath a piercing dart, that will make you cry Peccavi."
"And that is it," quoth Aliena, "that hath raised you so early this morning." And with that she slipped on her petticoat, and start up; and as soon as she had made her ready, and taken her breakfast, away go these two with their bag and bottles to the field, in more pleasant content of mind than ever they were in the court of Torismond.
They came no sooner nigh the folds, but they might see where their discontented forester was walking in his melancholy. As soon as Aliena saw him, she smiled and said to Ganymede:
"Wipe your eyes, sweeting, for yonder is your sweetheart this morning in deep prayers, no doubt, to Venus, that she may make you as pitiful as he is passionate. Come on, Ganymede, I pray thee, let's have a little sport with him."
"Content," quoth Ganymede, and with that, to waken him out of his deep memento,[1] he began thus:
[Footnote 1: revery.]
"Forester, good fortune to thy thoughts, and ease to thy passions. What makes you so early abroad this morn? in contemplation, no doubt, of your Rosalynde. Take heed, forester; step not too far, the ford may be deep, and you slip over the shoes: I tell thee, flies have their spleen, the ants choler, the least hairs shadows, and the smallest loves great desires. 'Tis good, forester, to love, but not to overlove, lest in loving her that likes not thee, thou fold thyself in an endless labyrinth."
Rosader, seeing the fair shepherdess and her pretty swain in whose company he felt the greatest ease of his care, he returned them a salute on this manner:
"Gentle shepherds, all hail, and as healthful be your flocks as you happy in content. Love is restless, and my bed is but the cell of my bane, in that there I find busy thoughts and broken slumbers: here (although everywhere passionate) yet I brook love with more patience, in that every object feeds mine eye with variety of fancies. When I look on Flora's beauteous tapestry, checked with the pride of all her treasure, I call to mind the fair face of Rosalynde, whose heavenly hue exceeds the rose and the lily in their highest excellence: the brightness of Phoebus' shine puts me in mind to think of the sparkling flames that flew from her eyes, and set my heart first on fire: the sweet harmony of the birds, puts me in remembrance of the rare melody of her voice, which like the Siren enchanteth the ears of the hearer. Thus in contemplation I salve my sorrows, with applying the perfection of every object to the excellence of her qualities."
"She is much beholding unto you," quoth Aliena, "and so much, that I have oft wished with myself, that if I should ever prove as amorous as Oenone, I might find as faithful a Paris as yourself."
"How say you by this item, forester?" quoth Ganymede, "the fair shepherdess favors you, who is mistress of so many flocks. Leave off, man, the supposition of Rosalynde's love, whenas watching at her you rove beyond the moon, and cast your looks upon my mistress, who no doubt is as fair though not so royal; one bird in the hand is worth two in the wood: better possess the love of Aliena than catch furiously at the shadow of Rosalynde."
"I'll tell thee boy," quoth Rosader, "so is my fancy fixed on my Rosalynde, that were thy mistress as fair as Leda or Danae, whom Jove courted in transformed shapes, mine eyes would not vouch to entertain their beauties; and so hath love locked me in her perfections, that I had rather only contemplate in her beauties, than absolutely possess the excellence of any other."
"Venus is to blame, forester, if having so true a servant of you, she reward you not with Rosalynde, if Rosalynde were more fairer than herself. But leaving this prattle, now I'll put you in mind of your promise about those sonnets, which you said were at home in your lodge."
"I have them about me," quoth Rosader, "let us sit down, and then you shall hear what a poetical fury love will infuse into a man." With that they sate down upon a green bank, shadowed with fig trees, and Rosader, fetching a deep sigh, read them this sonnet:
Rosader's Sonnet
In sorrow's cell I laid me down to sleep, But waking woes were jealous of mine eyes, They made them watch, and bend themselves to weep, But weeping tears their want could not suffice: Yet since for her they wept who guides my heart, They weeping smile, and triumph in their smart.
Of these my tears a fountain fiercely springs, Where Venus bains[1] herself incensed with love, Where Cupid bowseth[2] his fair feathered wings; But I behold what pains I must approve. Care drinks it dry; but when on her I think, Love makes me weep it full unto the brink.
Meanwhile my sighs yield truce unto my tears, By them the winds increased and fiercely blow: Yet when I sigh the flame more plain appears, And by their force with greater power doth glow: Amid these pains, all phoenix-like I thrive Since love, that yields me death, may life revive.[3]
Rosader en esperance.
[Footnote 1: bathes.]
[Footnote 2: dips.]
[Footnote 3: This song is said to be an imitation of Desportes's sonnet beginning,
Si je me siez a l'ombre aussi soudainement.]
"Now, surely, forester," quoth Aliena, "when thou madest this sonnet, thou wert in some amorous quandary, neither too fearful as despairing of thy mistress' favors, nor too gleesome as hoping in thy fortunes."
"I can smile," quoth Ganymede, "at the sonettos, canzones, madrigals, rounds and roundelays, that these pensive patients pour out when their eyes are more full of wantonness, than their hearts of passions. Then, as the fishers put the sweetest bait to the fairest fish, so these Ovidians, holding amo in their tongues, when their thoughts come at haphazard, write that they be rapt in an endless labyrinth of sorrow, when walking in the large lease of liberty, they only have their humors in their inkpot. If they find women so fond, that they will with such painted lures come to their lust, then they triumph till they be full-gorged with pleasures; and then fly they away, like ramage[1] kites, to their own content, leaving the tame fool, their mistress, full of fancy, yet without even a feather. If they miss, as dealing with some wary wanton, that wants not such a one as themselves, but spies their subtlety, they end their amours with a few feigned sighs; and so their excuse is, their mistress is cruel, and they smother passions with patience. Such, gentle forester, we may deem you to be, that rather pass away the time here in these woods with writing amorets, than to be deeply enamored (as you say) of your Rosalynde. If you be such a one, then I pray God, when you think your fortunes at the highest, and your desires to be most excellent, then that you may with Ixion embrace Juno in a cloud, and have nothing but a marble mistress to release your martyrdom; but if you be true and trusty, eye-pained and heart-sick, then accursed be Rosalynde if she prove cruel: for, forester (I flatter not) thou art worthy of as fair as she." Aliena, spying the storm by the wind, smiled to see how Ganymede flew to the fist without any call; but Rosader, who took him flat for a shepherd's swain, made him this answer:
[Footnote 1: wild.]
"Trust me, swain," quoth Rosader, "but my canzon was written in no such humor; for mine eye and my heart are relatives, the one drawing fancy by sight, the other entertaining her by sorrow. If thou sawest my Rosalynde, with what beauties nature hath favored her, with what perfection the heavens hath graced her, with what qualities the gods have endued her, then wouldst thou say, there is none so fickle that could be fleeting unto her. If she had been Aeneas' Dido, had Venus and Juno both scolded him from Carthage, yet her excellence, despite of them, would have detained him at Tyre. If Phyllis had been as beauteous, or Ariadne as virtuous, or both as honorable and excellent as she, neither had the filbert tree sorrowed in the death of despairing Phyllis, nor the stars been graced with Ariadne, but Demophoon and Theseus had been trusty to their paragons. I will tell thee, swain, if with a deep insight thou couldst pierce into the secret of my loves, and see what deep impressions of her idea affection hath made in my heart, then wouldst thou confess I were passing passionate, and no less endued with admirable patience."
"Why," quoth Aliena, "needs there patience in love?"
"Or else in nothing," quoth Rosader; "for it is a restless sore that hath no ease, a canker that still frets, a disease that taketh away all hope of sleep. If then so many sorrows, sudden joys, momentary pleasures, continual fears, daily griefs, and nightly woes be found in love, then is not he to be accounted patient that smothers all these passions with silence?"
"Thou speakest by experience," quoth Ganymede, "and therefore we hold all thy words for axioms. But is love such a lingering malady?"
"It is," quoth he, "either extreme or mean, according to the mind of the party that entertains it; for, as the weeds grow longer untouched than the pretty flowers, and the flint lies safe in the quarry when the emerald is suffering the lapidary's tool, so mean men are freed from Venus' injuries, when kings are environed with a labyrinth of her cares. The whiter the lawn is, the deeper is the mole[1]; the more purer the chrysolite, the sooner stained; and such as have their hearts full of honor, have their loves full of the greatest sorrows. But in whomsoever," quoth Rosader, "he fixeth his dart, he never leaveth to assault him, till either he hath won him to folly or fancy; for as the moon never goes without the star Lunisequa, so a lover never goeth without the unrest of his thoughts. For proof you shall hear another fancy of my making."
[Footnote 1: stain.]
"Now do, gentle forester," quoth Ganymede; and with that he read over this sonetto:
Rosader's second Sonetto
Turn I my looks unto the skies, Love with his arrows wounds mine eyes; If so I gaze upon the ground, Love then in every flower is found. Search I the shade to fly my pain, He meets me in the shade again; Wend I to walk in secret grove, Even there I meet with sacred Love. If so I bain[1] me in the spring, Even on the brink I hear him sing: If so I meditate alone, He will be partner of my moan. If so I mourn, he weeps with me, And where I am there will he be. Whenas I talk of Rosalynde The god from coyness waxeth kind, And seems in selfsame flames to fry Because he loves as well as I. Sweet Rosalynde, for pity rue; For why, than Love I am more true: He, if he speed, will quickly fly, But in thy love I live and die.
[Footnote 1: bathe.]
"How like you this sonnet?" quoth Rosader.
"Marry," quoth Ganymede, "for the pen well, for the passion ill; for as I praise the one, I pity the other, in that thou shouldst hunt after a cloud, and love either without reward or regard."
"'Tis not her frowardness," quoth Rosader, "but my hard fortunes, whose destinies have crossed me with her absence; for did she feel my loves, she would not let me linger in these sorrows. Women, as they are fair, so they respect faith, and estimate more, if they be honorable, the will than the wealth, having loyalty the object whereat they aim their fancies. But leaving off these interparleys,[1] you shall hear my last sonetto, and then you have heard all my poetry." And with that he sighed out this:
[Footnote 1: discussions.]
Rosader's third Sonnet
Of virtuous love myself may boast alone, Since no suspect my service may attaint: For perfect fair she is the only one, Whom I esteem for my beloved saint. Thus, for my faith I only bear the bell, And for her fair she only doth excel.
Then let fond Petrarch shroud his Laura's praise, And Tasso cease to publish his affect, Since mine the faith confirmed at all assays, And hers the fair, which all men do respect. My lines her fair, her fair my faith assures; Thus I by love, and love by me endures.
"Thus," quoth Rosader, "here is an end of my poems, but for all this no release of my passions; so that I resemble him that in the depth of his distress hath none but the echo to answer him."
Ganymede, pitying her Rosader, thinking to drive him out of this amorous melancholy, said that now the sun was in his meridional heat and that it was high noon, "therefore we shepherds say, 'tis time to go to dinner; for the sun and our stomachs are shepherds' dials. Therefore, forester, if thou wilt take such fare as comes out of our homely scrips, welcome shall answer whatsoever thou wantest in delicates."
Aliena took the entertainment by the end, and told Rosader he should be her guest. He thanked them heartily, and sate with them down to dinner, where they had such cates as country state did allow them, sauced with such content, and such sweet prattle, as it seemed far more sweet than all their courtly junkets.
As soon as they had taken their repast, Rosader, giving them thanks for his good cheer, would have been gone; but Ganymede, that was loath to let him pass out of her presence, began thus:
"Nay, forester," quoth he, "if thy business be not the greater, seeing thou sayest thou art so deeply in love, let me see how thou canst woo: I will represent Rosalynde, and thou shalt be as thou art, Rosader. See in some amorous eclogue, how if Rosalynde were present, how thou couldst court her; and while we sing of love, Aliena shall tune her pipe and play us melody."
"Content," quoth Rosader, and Aliena, she, to show her willingness, drew forth a recorder,[1] and began to wind it. Then the loving forester began thus:
[Footnote 1: an old instrument, resembling the flageolet.]
The wooing Eclogue betwixt Rosalynde and Rosader
ROSADER
I pray thee, nymph, by all the working words, By all the tears and sighs that lovers know, Or what or thoughts or faltering tongue affords, I crave for mine in ripping up my woe. Sweet Rosalynde, my love (would God, my love) My life (would God, my life) aye, pity me! Thy lips are kind, and humble like the dove, And but with beauty, pity will not be. Look on mine eyes, made red with rueful tears, From whence the rain of true remorse descendeth, All pale in looks am I though young in years, And nought but love or death my days befriendeth. Oh let no stormy rigor knit thy brows, Which love appointed for his mercy seat: The tallest tree by Boreas' breath it bows; The iron yields with hammer, and to heat. O Rosalynde, then be thou pitiful, For Rosalynde is only beautiful.
ROSALYNDE
Love's wantons arm their trait'rous suits with tears, With vows, with oaths, with looks, with showers of gold; But when the fruit of their affects appears, The simple heart by subtle sleights is sold. Thus sucks the yielding ear the poisoned bait, Thus feeds the heart upon his endless harms, Thus glut the thoughts themselves on self-deceit, Thus blind the eyes their sight by subtle charms. The lovely looks, the sighs that storm so sore, The dew of deep-dissembled doubleness, These may attempt, but are of power no more Where beauty leans to wit and soothfastness. O Rosader, then be thou wittiful, For Rosalynde scorns foolish pitiful.
ROSADER
I pray thee, Rosalynde, by those sweet eyes That stain the sun in shine, the morn in clear, By those sweet cheeks where Love encamped lies To kiss the roses of the springing year. I tempt thee, Rosalynde, by ruthful plaints, Not seasoned with deceit or fraudful guile, But firm in pain, far more than tongue depaints, Sweet nymph, be kind, and grace me with a smile. So may the heavens preserve from hurtful food Thy harmless flocks; so may the summer yield The pride of all her riches and her good, To fat thy sheep, the citizens of field. Oh, leave to arm thy lovely brows with scorn: The birds their beak, the lion hath his tail, And lovers nought but sighs and bitter mourn, The spotless fort of fancy to assail. O Rosalynde, then be thou pitiful, For Rosalynde is only beautiful.
ROSALYNDE
The hardened steel by fire is brought in frame:
ROSADER
And Rosalynde, my love, than any wool more softer; And shall not sighs her tender heart inflame?
ROSALYNDE
Were lovers true, maids would believe them ofter.
ROSADER
Truth, and regard, and honor, guide my love.
ROSALYNDE
Fain would I trust, but yet I dare not try.
ROSADER
O pity me, sweet nymph, and do but prove.
ROSALYNDE
I would resist, but yet I know not why.
ROSADER
O Rosalynde, be kind, for times will change, Thy looks ay nill be fair as now they be; Thine age from beauty may thy looks estrange: Ah, yield in time, sweet nymph, and pity me.
ROSALYNDE
O Rosalynde, thou must be pitiful, For Rosader is young and beautiful.
ROSADER
Oh, gain more great than kingdoms or a crown!
ROSALYNDE
Oh, trust betrayed if Rosader abuse me.
ROSADER
First let the heavens conspire to pull me down And heaven and earth as abject quite refuse me. Let sorrows stream about my hateful bower, And restless horror hatch within my breast: Let beauty's eye afflict me with a lour, Let deep despair pursue me without rest, Ere Rosalynde my loyalty disprove, Ere Rosalynde accuse me for unkind.
ROSALYNDE
Then Rosalynde will grace thee with her love Then Rosalynde will have thee still in mind.
ROSADER
Then let me triumph more than Tithon's dear, Since Rosalynde will Rosader respect: Then let my face exile his sorry cheer, And frolic in the comfort of affect; And say that Rosalynde is only pitiful, Since Rosalynde is only beautiful.
When thus they had finished their courting eclogue in such a familiar clause, Ganymede, as augur of some good fortunes to light upon their affections, began to be thus pleasant:
"How now, forester, have I not fitted your turn? have I not played the woman handsomely, and showed myself as coy in grants as courteous in desires, and been as full of suspicion as men of flattery? and yet to salve all, jumped[1] I not all up with the sweet union of love? Did not Rosalynde content her Rosader?"
[Footnote 1: ended.]
The forester at this smiling, shook his head, and folding his arms made this merry reply:
"Truth, gentle swain, Rosader hath his Rosalynde; but as Ixion had Juno, who, thinking to possess a goddess, only embraced a cloud: in these imaginary fruitions of fancy I resemble the birds that fed themselves with Zeuxis' painted grapes; but they grew so lean with pecking at shadows, that they were glad, with Aesop's cock, to scrape for a barley cornel.[1] So fareth it with me, who to feed myself with the hope of my mistress's favors, sooth myself in thy suits, and only in conceit reap a wished-for content; but if my food be no better than such amorous dreams, Venus at the year's end shall find me but a lean lover. Yet do I take these follies for high fortunes, and hope these feigned affections do divine some unfeigned end of ensuing fancies."
[Footnote 1: kernel.]
"And thereupon," quoth Aliena, "I'll play the priest: from this day forth Ganymede shall call thee husband, and thou shall call Ganymede wife, and so we'll have a marriage."
"Content," quoth Rosader, and laughed.
"Content," quoth Ganymede, and changed as red as a rose: and so with a smile and a blush, they made up this jesting match, that after proved to a marriage in earnest, Rosader full little thinking he had wooed and won his Rosalynde.
But all was well; hope is a sweet string to harp on, and therefore let the forester awhile shape himself to his shadow, and tarry fortune's leisure, till she may make a metamorphosis fit for his purpose. I digress; and therefore to Aliena, who said, the wedding was not worth a pin, unless there were some cheer, nor that bargain well made that was not stricken up with a cup of wine: and therefore she willed Ganymede to set out such cates as they had, and to draw out her bottle, charging the forester, as he had imagined his loves, so to conceit these cates to be a most sumptuous banquet, and to take a mazer[1] of wine and to drink to his Rosalynde; which Rosader did, and so they passed away the day in many pleasant devices. Till at last Aliena perceived time would tarry no man, and that the sun waxed very low, ready to set, which made her shorten their amorous prattle, and end the banquet with a fresh carouse: which done, they all three arose, and Aliena broke off thus:
[Footnote 1: mug.]
"Now, forester, Phoebus that all this while hath been partaker of our sports, seeing every woodman more fortunate in his loves than he in his fancies, seeing thou hast won Rosalynde when he could not woo Daphne, hides his head for shame and bids us adieu in a cloud. Our sheep, they poor wantons, wander towards their folds, as taught by nature their due times of rest, which tells us, forester, we must depart. Marry, though there were a marriage, yet I must carry this night the bride with me, and to-morrow morning if you meet us here, I'll promise to deliver you her as good a maid as I find her."
"Content," quoth Rosader, "'tis enough for me in the night to dream on love, that in the day am so fond to doat on love: and so till to-morrow you to your folds, and I will to my lodge." And thus the forester and they parted.
He was no sooner gone, but Aliena and Ganymede went and folded their flocks, and taking up their hooks, their bags, and their bottles, hied homeward. By the way Aliena, to make the time seem short, began to prattle with Ganymede thus:
"I have heard them say, that what the fates forepoint, that fortune pricketh down with a period; that the stars are sticklers in Venus' court, and desire hangs at the heel of destiny: if it be so, then by all probable conjectures, this match will be a marriage: for if augurism be authentical, or the divines' dooms principles, it cannot be but such a shadow portends the issue of a substance, for to that end did the gods force the conceit of this eclogue, that they might discover the ensuing consent of your affections: so that ere it be long, I hope, in earnest, to dance at your wedding."
"Tush," quoth Ganymede, "all is not malt that is cast on the kiln: there goes more words to a bargain than one: Love feels no footing in the air, and fancy holds it slippery harbor to nestle in the tongue: the match is not yet so surely made, but he may miss of his market; but if fortune be his friend, I will not be his foe: and so I pray you, gentle mistress Aliena, take it."
"I take all things well," quoth she, "that is your content, and am glad Rosader is yours; for now I hope your thoughts will be at quiet; your eye that ever looked at love, will now lend a glance on your lambs, and then they will prove more buxom and you more blithe, for the eyes of the master feeds the cattle."
As thus they were in chat, they spied old Corydon where he came plodding to meet them, who told them supper was ready, which news made them speed them home. Where we will leave them to the next morrow, and return to Saladyne.
All this while did poor Saladyne, banished from Bordeaux and the court of France by Torismond, wander up and down in the forest of Arden, thinking to get to Lyons, and so travel through Germany into Italy: but the forest being full of by-paths, and he unskilful of the country coast, slipped out of the way, and chanced up into the desert, not far from the place where Gerismond was, and his brother Rosader. Saladyne, weary with wandering up and down and hungry with long fasting, finding a little cave by the side of a thicket, eating such fruit as the forest did afford and contenting himself with such drink as nature had provided and thirst made delicate, after his repast he fell in a dead sleep. As thus he lay, a hungry lion came hunting down the edge of the grove for prey, and espying Saladyne began to seize upon him: but seeing he lay still without any motion, he left to touch him, for that lions hate to prey on dead carcases; and yet desirous to have some food, the lion lay down and watched to see if he would stir. While thus Saladyne slept secure, fortune that was careful of her champion began to smile, and brought it so to pass, that Rosader, having stricken a deer that but lightly hurt fled through the thicket, came pacing down by the grove with a boar-spear in his hand in great haste. He spied where a man lay asleep, and a lion fast by him: amazed at this sight, as he stood gazing, his nose on the sudden bled, which made him conjecture it was some friend of his. Whereupon drawing more nigh, he might easily discern his visage, perceived by his physnomy that it was his brother Saladyne, which drave Rosader into a deep passion, as a man perplexed at the sight of so unexpected a chance, marvelling what should drive his brother to traverse those secret deserts, without any company, in such distress and forlorn sort. But the present time craved no such doubting ambages,[1] for either he must resolve to hazard his life for his relief, or else steal away, and leave him to the cruelty of the lion. In which doubt he thus briefly debated with himself:
[Footnote 1: windings.]
ROSADER'S MEDITATION
"Now, Rosader, fortune that long hath whipped thee with nettles, means to salve thee with roses, and having crossed thee with many frowns, now she presents thee with the brightness of her favors. Thou that didst count thyself the most distressed of all men, mayest account thyself the most fortunate amongst men, if Fortune can make men happy, or sweet revenge be wrapped in a pleasing content. Thou seest Saladyne thine enemy, the worker of thy misfortunes, and the efficient cause of thine exile, subject to the cruelty of a merciless lion, brought into this misery by the gods, that they might seem just in revenging his rigor, and thy injuries. Seest thou not how the stars are in a favorable aspect, the planets in some pleasing conjunction, the fates agreeable to thy thoughts, and the destinies performers of thy desires, in that Saladyne shall die, and thou be free of his blood: he receive meed for his amiss, and thou erect his tomb with innocent hands. Now, Rosader, shalt thou return unto Bordeaux and enjoy thy possessions by birth, and his revenues by inheritance: now mayest thou triumph in love, and hang fortune's altars with garlands. For when Rosalynde hears of thy wealth, it will make her love thee the more willingly: for women's eyes are made of Chrysocoll, that is ever unperfect unless tempered with gold, and Jupiter soonest enjoyed Danae, because he came to her in so rich a shower. Thus shall this lion, Rosader, end the life of a miserable man, and from distress raise thee to be most fortunate." And with that, casting his boar-spear on his neck, away he began to trudge.
But he had not stepped back two or three paces, but a new motion stroke him to the very heart, that resting his boar-spear against his breast, he fell into this passionate humor:
"Ah, Rosader, wert thou the son of Sir John of Bordeaux, whose virtues exceeded his valor, and yet the most hardiest knight in all Europe? Should the honor of the father shine in the actions of the son, and wilt thou dishonor thy parentage, in forgetting the nature of a gentleman? Did not thy father at his last gasp breathe out this golden principle, 'Brothers' amity is like the drops of balsamum, that salveth the most dangerous sores?' Did he make a large exhort unto concord, and wilt thou show thyself careless? O Rosader, what though Saladyne hath wronged thee, and made thee live an exile in the forest, shall thy nature be so cruel, or thy nurture so crooked, or thy thoughts so savage, as to suffer so dismal a revenge? What, to let him be devoured by wild beasts! Non sapit qui non sibi sapit is fondly[1] spoken in such bitter extremes. Lose not his life, Rosader, to win a world of treasure; for in having him thou hast a brother, and by hazarding for his life, thou gettest a friend, and reconcilest an enemy: and more honor shalt thou purchase by pleasuring a foe, than revenging a thousand injuries."
[Footnote 1: foolishly.]
With that his brother began to stir, and the lion to rouse himself, whereupon Rosader suddenly charged him with the boar-spear, and wounded the lion very sore at the first stroke. The beast feeling himself to have a mortal hurt, leapt at Rosader, and with his paws gave him a sore pinch on the breast, that he had almost fallen; yet as a man most valiant, in whom the sparks of Sir John of Bordeaux remained, he recovered himself, and in short combat slew the lion, who at his death roared so loud that Saladyne awaked, and starting up, was amazed at the sudden sight of so monstrous a beast lying slain by him, and so sweet a gentleman wounded. He presently, as he was of a ripe conceit, began to conjecture that the gentleman had slain him in his defence. Whereupon, as a man in a trance, he stood staring on them both a good while, not knowing his brother, being in that disguise: at last he burst into these terms:
"Sir, whatsoever thou be, as full of honor thou must needs be by the view of thy present valor, I perceive thou hast redressed my fortunes by thy courage, and saved my life with thine own loss, which ties me to be thine in all humble service. Thanks thou shalt have as thy due, and more thou canst not have, for my ability denies me to perform a deeper debt. But if anyways it please thee to command me, use me as far as the power of a poor gentleman may stretch."
Rosader, seeing he was unknown to his brother, wondered to hear such courteous words come from his crabbed nature; but glad of such reformed nurture, he made this answer:
"I am, sir, whatsoever thou art, a forester and ranger of these walks, who, following my deer to the fall, was conducted hither by some assenting fate, that I might save thee, and disparage myself. For coming into this place, I saw thee asleep, and the lion watching thy awake, that at thy rising he might prey upon thy carcase. At the first sight I conjectured thee a gentleman, for all men's thoughts ought to be favorable in imagination, and I counted it the part of a resolute man to purchase a stranger's relief, though with the loss of his own blood; which I have performed, thou seest, to mine own prejudice. If, therefore, thou be a man of such worth as I value thee by thy exterior lineaments, make discourse unto me what is the cause of thy present fortunes. For by the furrows in thy face thou seemest to be crossed with her frowns: but whatsoever, or howsoever, let me crave that favor, to hear the tragic cause of thy estate."
Saladyne sitting down, and fetching a deep sigh, began thus:
SALADYNE'S DISCOURSE TO ROSADER UNKNOWN
"Although the discourse of my fortunes be the renewing of my sorrows, and the rubbing of the scar will open a fresh wound, yet that I may not prove ingrateful to so courteous a gentleman, I will rather sit down and sigh out my estate, than give any offence by smothering my grief with silence. Know therefore, sir, that I am of Bordeaux, and the son and heir of Sir John of Bordeaux, a man for his virtues and valor so famous, that I cannot think but the fame of his honors hath reached farther than the knowledge of his personage. The infortunate son of so fortunate a knight am I; my name, Saladyne; who succeeding my father in possessions, but not in qualities, having two brethren committed by my father at his death to my charge, with such golden principles of brotherly concord, as might have pierced like the Sirens' melody into any human ear. But I, with Ulysses, became deaf against his philosophical harmony, and made more value of profit than of virtue, esteeming gold sufficient honor, and wealth the fittest title for a gentleman's dignity. I set my middle brother to the university to be a scholar, counting it enough if he might pore on a book while I fed upon his revenues; and for the youngest, which was my father's joy, young Rosader"—And with that, naming of Rosader, Saladyne sate him down and wept.
"Nay, forward man," quoth the forester, "tears are the unfittest salve that any man can apply for to cure sorrows, and therefore cease from such feminine follies, as should drop out of a woman's eye to deceive, not out of a gentleman's look to discover his thoughts, and forward with thy discourse."
"O sir," quoth Saladyne, "this Rosader that wrings tears from mine eyes, and blood from my heart, was like my father in exterior personage and in inward qualities; for in the prime of his years he aimed all his acts at honor, and coveted rather to die than to brook any injury unworthy a gentleman's credit. I, whom envy had made blind, and covetousness masked with the veil of self-love, seeing the palm tree grow straight, thought to suppress it being a twig; but nature will have her course, the cedar will be tall, the diamond bright, the carbuncle glistering, and virtue will shine though it be never so much obscured. For I kept Rosader as a slave, and used him as one of my servile hinds, until age grew on, and a secret insight of my abuse entered into his mind; insomuch, that he could not brook it, but coveted to have what his father left him, and to live of himself. To be short, sir, I repined at his fortunes, and he counterchecked me, not with ability but valor, until at last, by my friends and aid of such as followed gold more than right or virtue, I banished him from Bordeaux, and he, poor gentleman, lives no man knows where, in some distressed discontent. The gods, not able to suffer such impiety unrevenged, so wrought, that the king picked a causeless quarrel against me in hope to have my lands, and so hath exiled me out of France for ever. Thus, thus, sir, am I the most miserable of all men, as having a blemish in my thoughts for the wrongs I proffered Rosader, and a touch in my state to be thrown from my proper possessions by injustice. Passionate thus with many griefs, in penance of my former follies I go thus pilgrim-like to seek out my brother, that I may reconcile myself to him in all submission, and afterward wend to the Holy Land, to end my years in as many virtues as I have spent my youth in wicked vanities."
Rosader, hearing the resolution of his brother Saladyne, began to compassionate his sorrows, and not able to smother the sparks of nature with feigned secrecy, he burst into these loving speeches:
"Then know, Saladyne," quoth he, "that thou hast met with Rosader, who grieves as much to see thy distress, as thyself to feel the burden of thy misery." Saladyne, casting up his eye and noting well the physnomy of the forester, knew, that it was his brother Rosader, which made him so bash and blush at the first meeting, that Rosader was fain to recomfort him, which he did in such sort, that he showed how highly he held revenge in scorn. Much ado there was between these two brethren, Saladyne in craving pardon, and Rosader in forgiving and forgetting all former injuries; the one submiss, the other courteous; Saladyne penitent and passionate, Rosader kind and loving, that at length nature working an union of their thoughts, they earnestly embraced, and fell from matters of unkindness, to talk of the country life, which Rosader so highly commended, that his brother began to have a desire to taste of that homely content. In this humor Rosader conducted him to Gerismond's lodge, and presented his brother to the king, discoursing the whole matter how all had happened betwixt them. The king looking upon Saladyne, found him a man of a most beautiful personage, and saw in his face sufficient sparks of ensuing honors, gave him great entertainment, and glad of their friendly reconcilement, promised such favor as the poverty of his estate might afford, which Saladyne gratefully accepted. And so Gerismond fell to question of Torismond's life. Saladyne briefly discoursed unto him his injustice and tyrannies, with such modesty, although he had wronged him, that Gerismond greatly praised the sparing speech of the young gentleman.
Many questions passed, but at last Gerismond began with a deep sigh to inquire if there were any news of the welfare of Alinda, or his daughter Rosalynde? |
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