“Now, forester, Phoebus that all this while hath been partaker of our sports, seeing every woodman more fortunate in his loves than he in his fancies, seeing thou hast won Rosalynde when he could not woo Daphne, hides his head for shame and bids us adieu in a cloud.  Our sheep, they poor wantons, wander towards their folds, as taught by nature their due times of rest, which tells us, forester, we must depart.  Marry, though there were a marriage, yet I must carry this night the bride with me, and to-morrow morning if you meet us here, I’ll promise to deliver you her as good a maid as I find her.”

“Content,” quoth Rosader, “’tis enough for me in the night to dream on love, that in the day am so fond to doat on love:  and so till to-morrow you to your folds, and I will to my lodge.”  And thus the forester and they parted.

He was no sooner gone, but Aliena and Ganymede went and folded their flocks, and taking up their hooks, their bags, and their bottles, hied homeward.  By the way Aliena, to make the time seem short, began to prattle with Ganymede thus: 

“I have heard them say, that what the fates forepoint, that fortune pricketh down with a period; that the stars are sticklers in Venus’ court, and desire hangs at the heel of destiny:  if it be so, then by all probable conjectures, this match will be a marriage:  for if augurism be authentical, or the divines’ dooms principles, it cannot be but such a shadow portends the issue of a substance, for to that end did the gods force the conceit of this eclogue, that they might discover the ensuing consent of your affections:  so that ere it be long, I hope, in earnest, to dance at your wedding.”

“Tush,” quoth Ganymede, “all is not malt that is cast on the kiln:  there goes more words to a bargain than one:  Love feels no footing in the air, and fancy holds it slippery harbor to nestle in the tongue:  the match is not yet so surely made, but he may miss of his market; but if fortune be his friend, I will not be his foe:  and so I pray you, gentle mistress Aliena, take it.”

“I take all things well,” quoth she, “that is your content, and am glad Rosader is yours; for now I hope your thoughts will be at quiet; your eye that ever looked at love, will now lend a glance on your lambs, and then they will prove more buxom and you more blithe, for the eyes of the master feeds the cattle.”

As thus they were in chat, they spied old Corydon where he came plodding to meet them, who told them supper was ready, which news made them speed them home.  Where we will leave them to the next morrow, and return to Saladyne.