Helas, tyran, plein de rigueur,
Modere un peu ta violence: 
Que te sert si grande depense? 
C’est trop de flammes pour un coeur. 
Epargnez en une etincelle,
Puis fais ton effort d’emouvoir,
La fiere qui ne veut point voir,
En quel feu je brule pour elle. 
Execute, Amour, ce dessein,
Et rabaisse un peu son audace: 
Son coeur ne doit etre de glace,
Bien qu’elle ait de neige le sein.

Montanus ended his sonnet with such a volley of sighs, and such a stream of tears, as might have moved any but Phoebe to have granted him favor.  But she, measuring all his passions with a coy disdain, and triumphing in the poor shepherd’s pathetical humors, smiling at his martyrdom as though love had been no malady, scornfully warbled out this sonnet: 

Phoebe’s Sonnet, a Reply to Montanus’ Passion

Down a down,
Thus Phyllis sung,
By fancy once distressed;
Whoso by foolish love are stung
Are worthily oppressed. 
And so sing I. With a down, down, &c.

When Love was first begot,
And by the mover’s will
Did fall to human lot
His solace to fulfil,
Devoid of all deceit,
A chaste and holy fire
Did quicken man’s conceit,
And women’s breast inspire. 
The gods that saw the good
That mortals did approve,
With kind and holy mood
Began to talk of Love.

Down a down,
Thus Phyllis sung
By fancy once distressed, &c.

But during this accord,
A wonder strange to hear,
Whilst Love in deed and word
Most faithful did appear,
False-semblance came in place,
By Jealousy attended,
And with a double face
Both love and fancy blended;
Which made the gods forsake,
And men from fancy fly,
And maidens scorn a make,[1]
Forsooth, and so will I.

Down a down,
Thus Phyllis sung,
By fancy once distressed;
Who so by foolish love are stung
Are worthily oppressed. 
And so sing I.
With down a down, a down down, a down a.

[Footnote 1:  mate.]

Montanus, hearing the cruel resolution of Phoebe, was so overgrown with passions, that from amorous ditties he fell flat into these terms: 

“Ah, Phoebe,” quoth he, “whereof art thou made, that thou regardest not my malady?  Am I so hateful an object that thine eyes condemn me for an abject? or so base, that thy desires cannot stoop so low as to lend me a gracious look?  My passions are many, my loves more, my thoughts loyalty, and my fancy faith:  all devoted in humble devoir[1] to the service of Phoebe; and shall I reap no reward for such fealties?  The swain’s daily labors is quit with the evening’s hire, the ploughman’s toil is eased with the hope of corn, what the ox sweats out at the plough he fatteneth at the crib; but infortunate Montanus hath no salve for his sorrows, nor any hope of recompense for the hazard of his perplexed passions.  If, Phoebe, time may plead the proof of my truth,