fountain, compassed with a grove of cypress trees, so cunningly and curiously planted, as if some goddess had entreated nature in that place to make her an arbor.  By this fountain sat Aliena and her Ganymede, and forth they pulled such victuals as they had, and fed as merrily as if they had been in Paris with all the king’s delicates, Aliena only grieving that they could not so much as meet with a shepherd to discourse them the way to some place where they might make their abode.  At last Ganymede casting up his eye espied where on a tree was engraven certain verses; which as soon as he espied, he cried out: 

“Be of good cheer, mistress, I spy the figures of men; for here in these trees be engraven certain verses of shepherds, or some other swains that inhabit hereabout.”

[Footnote 1:  packed.]

[Footnote 2:  ill-luck.]

With that Aliena start up joyful to hear these news, and looked, where they found carved in the bark of a pine tree this passion: 

Montanus’s Passion

Hadst thou been born whereas perpetual cold
Makes Tanais hard, and mountains silver old;
Had I complained unto a marble stone,
Or to the floods bewrayed my bitter moan,
I then could bear the burthen of my grief. 
But even the pride of countries at thy birth,
Whilst heavens did smile, did new array the earth
With flowers chief. 
Yet thou, the flower of beauty blessed born,
Hast pretty looks, but all attired in scorn. 
Had I the power to weep sweet Mirrha’s tears,
Or by my plaints to pierce repining ears;
Hadst thou the heart to smile at my complaint,
To scorn the woes that doth my heart attaint,
I then could bear the burthen of my grief: 
But not my tears, but truth with thee prevails,
And seeming sour my sorrows thee assails: 
Yet small relief;
For if thou wilt thou art of marble hard,
And if thou please my suit shall soon be heard.

“No doubt,” quoth Aliena, “this poesy is the passion of some perplexed shepherd, that being enamored of some fair and beautiful shepherdess, suffered some sharp repulse, and therefore complained of the cruelty of his mistress.”

“You may see,” quoth Ganymede, “what mad cattle you women be, whose hearts sometimes are made of adamant that will touch with no impression, and sometime of wax that is fit for every form:  they delight to be courted, and then they glory to seem coy, and when they are most desired then they freeze with disdain:  and this fault is so common to the sex, that you see it painted out in the shepherd’s passions, who found his mistress as froward as he was enamored.”

“And I pray you,” quoth Aliena, “if your robes were off, what mettle are you made of that you are so satirical against women?  Is it not a foul bird defiles the own nest?  Beware, Ganymede, that Rosader hear you not, if he do, perchance you will make him leap so far from love, that he will anger every vein in your heart.”