me with more strength and spirit Than this thy breath.  But spend not hasty time In seeking how I came thus:  ’tis the gods, The gods, that make me so; and sure, our love Will be the nobler and the better blest, In that the secret justice of the gods Is mingled with it.  Let us leave, and kiss:  Lest some unwelcome guest should fall betwixt us, And we should part without it.

     Philaster—­’Twill be ill
     I should abide here long.

Arethusa—­’Tis true:  and worse You should come often.  How shall we devise To hold intelligence, that our true loves, On any new occasion, may agree What path is best to tread?

Philaster—­I have a boy, Sent by the gods, I hope, to this intent, Yet not seen in the court.  Hunting the buck, I found him sitting by a fountain’s side, Of which he borrowed some to quench his thirst, And paid the nymph again as much in tears.  A garland lay him by, made by himself Of many several flowers bred in the vale, Stuck in that mystic order that the rareness Delighted me; but ever when he turned His tender eyes upon ’em, he would weep, As if he meant to make ’em grow again.  Seeing such pretty helpless innocence Dwell in his face, I asked him all his story.  He told me that his parents gentle died, Leaving him to the mercy of the fields, Which gave him roots; and of the crystal springs, Which did not stop their courses; and the sun, Which still, he thanked him, yielded him his light.  Then took he up his garland, and did show What every flower, as country-people hold, Did signify, and how all, ordered thus, Expressed his grief; and, to my thoughts, did read The prettiest lecture of his country-art That could be wished:  so that methought I could Have studied it.  I gladly entertained Him, who was glad to follow:  and have got The trustiest, loving’st, and the gentlest boy That ever master kept.  Him will I send To wait on you, and bear our hidden love.

     THE STORY OF BELLARIO

     PHILASTER—­But, Bellario
     (For I must call thee still so), tell me why
     Thou didst conceal thy sex.  It was a fault,
     A fault, Bellario, though thy other deeds
     Of truth outweighed it:  all these jealousies
     Had flown to nothing, if thou hadst discovered
     What now we know.

Bellario—­My father oft would speak Your worth and virtue; and as I did grow More and more apprehensive, I did thirst To see the man so praised.  But yet all this Was but a maiden-longing, to be lost As soon as found; till, sitting in my window, Printing my thoughts in lawn, I saw a god, I thought (but it was you), enter our gates:  My blood flew out and back again, as fast As I had puffed it forth and sucked it in Like breath; then was I called away in haste To entertain you.  Never was a man Heaved from a sheep-cote to a sceptre, raised So high in thoughts as I. You left a kiss Upon these lips then, which I