“Gentle shepherds, all hail, and as healthful be your flocks as you happy in content.  Love is restless, and my bed is but the cell of my bane, in that there I find busy thoughts and broken slumbers:  here (although everywhere passionate) yet I brook love with more patience, in that every object feeds mine eye with variety of fancies.  When I look on Flora’s beauteous tapestry, checked with the pride of all her treasure, I call to mind the fair face of Rosalynde, whose heavenly hue exceeds the rose and the lily in their highest excellence:  the brightness of Phoebus’ shine puts me in mind to think of the sparkling flames that flew from her eyes, and set my heart first on fire:  the sweet harmony of the birds, puts me in remembrance of the rare melody of her voice, which like the Siren enchanteth the ears of the hearer.  Thus in contemplation I salve my sorrows, with applying the perfection of every object to the excellence of her qualities.”

“She is much beholding unto you,” quoth Aliena, “and so much, that I have oft wished with myself, that if I should ever prove as amorous as Oenone, I might find as faithful a Paris as yourself.”

“How say you by this item, forester?” quoth Ganymede, “the fair shepherdess favors you, who is mistress of so many flocks.  Leave off, man, the supposition of Rosalynde’s love, whenas watching at her you rove beyond the moon, and cast your looks upon my mistress, who no doubt is as fair though not so royal; one bird in the hand is worth two in the wood:  better possess the love of Aliena than catch furiously at the shadow of Rosalynde.”

“I’ll tell thee boy,” quoth Rosader, “so is my fancy fixed on my Rosalynde, that were thy mistress as fair as Leda or Danae, whom Jove courted in transformed shapes, mine eyes would not vouch to entertain their beauties; and so hath love locked me in her perfections, that I had rather only contemplate in her beauties, than absolutely possess the excellence of any other.”

“Venus is to blame, forester, if having so true a servant of you, she reward you not with Rosalynde, if Rosalynde were more fairer than herself.  But leaving this prattle, now I’ll put you in mind of your promise about those sonnets, which you said were at home in your lodge.”

“I have them about me,” quoth Rosader, “let us sit down, and then you shall hear what a poetical fury love will infuse into a man.”  With that they sate down upon a green bank, shadowed with fig trees, and Rosader, fetching a deep sigh, read them this sonnet: 

Rosader’s Sonnet

    In sorrow’s cell I laid me down to sleep,
      But waking woes were jealous of mine eyes,
    They made them watch, and bend themselves to weep,
      But weeping tears their want could not suffice: 
        Yet since for her they wept who guides my heart,
        They weeping smile, and triumph in their smart.