“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: