Aliena took the entertainment by the end, and told Rosader he should be her guest.  He thanked them heartily, and sate with them down to dinner, where they had such cates as country state did allow them, sauced with such content, and such sweet prattle, as it seemed far more sweet than all their courtly junkets.

As soon as they had taken their repast, Rosader, giving them thanks for his good cheer, would have been gone; but Ganymede, that was loath to let him pass out of her presence, began thus: 

“Nay, forester,” quoth he, “if thy business be not the greater, seeing thou sayest thou art so deeply in love, let me see how thou canst woo:  I will represent Rosalynde, and thou shalt be as thou art, Rosader.  See in some amorous eclogue, how if Rosalynde were present, how thou couldst court her; and while we sing of love, Aliena shall tune her pipe and play us melody.”

“Content,” quoth Rosader, and Aliena, she, to show her willingness, drew forth a recorder,[1] and began to wind it.  Then the loving forester began thus: 

[Footnote 1:  an old instrument, resembling the flageolet.]

The wooing Eclogue betwixt Rosalynde and Rosader

    ROSADER

    I pray thee, nymph, by all the working words,
    By all the tears and sighs that lovers know,
    Or what or thoughts or faltering tongue affords,
    I crave for mine in ripping up my woe. 
    Sweet Rosalynde, my love (would God, my love)
    My life (would God, my life) aye, pity me! 
    Thy lips are kind, and humble like the dove,
    And but with beauty, pity will not be. 
    Look on mine eyes, made red with rueful tears,
    From whence the rain of true remorse descendeth,
    All pale in looks am I though young in years,
    And nought but love or death my days befriendeth. 
    Oh let no stormy rigor knit thy brows,
    Which love appointed for his mercy seat: 
    The tallest tree by Boreas’ breath it bows;
    The iron yields with hammer, and to heat. 
      O Rosalynde, then be thou pitiful,
      For Rosalynde is only beautiful.

    ROSALYNDE

    Love’s wantons arm their trait’rous suits with tears,
    With vows, with oaths, with looks, with showers of gold;
    But when the fruit of their affects appears,
    The simple heart by subtle sleights is sold. 
    Thus sucks the yielding ear the poisoned bait,
    Thus feeds the heart upon his endless harms,
    Thus glut the thoughts themselves on self-deceit,
    Thus blind the eyes their sight by subtle charms. 
    The lovely looks, the sighs that storm so sore,
    The dew of deep-dissembled doubleness,
    These may attempt, but are of power no more
    Where beauty leans to wit and soothfastness. 
      O Rosader, then be thou wittiful,
      For Rosalynde scorns foolish pitiful.

    ROSADER