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: