“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.”