twice seven winters have I loved fair Phoebe:  if constancy be a cause to farther my suit, Montanus’ thoughts have been sealed in the sweet of Phoebe’s excellence, as far from change as she from love:  if outward passions may discover inward affections, the furrows in my face may decipher the sorrows of my heart, and the map of my looks the griefs of my mind.  Thou seest, Phoebe, the tears of despair have made my cheeks full of wrinkles, and my scalding sighs have made the air echo her pity conceived in my plaints:  Philomele hearing my passions, hath left her mournful tunes to listen to the discourse of my miseries.  I have portrayed in every tree the beauty of my mistress, and the despair of my loves.  What is it in the woods cannot witness my woes? and who is it would not pity my plaints?  Only Phoebe.  And why?  Because I am Montanus, and she Phoebe:  I a worthless swain, and she the most excellent of all fairies.  Beautiful Phoebe! oh, might I say pitiful, then happy were I, though I tasted but one minute of that good hap.  Measure Montanus not by his fortunes but by his loves, and balance not his wealth but his desires, and lend but one gracious look to cure a heap of disquieted cares:  if not, ah! if Phoebe cannot love, let a storm of frowns end the discontent of my thoughts, and so let me perish in my desires, because they are above my deserts:  only at my death this favor cannot be denied me, that all shall say Montanus died for love of hard-hearted Phoebe.”

[Footnote 1:  duty.]

At these words she filled her face full of frowns, and made him this short and sharp reply: 

“Importunate shepherd, whose loves are lawless, because restless, are thy passions so extreme that thou canst not conceal them with patience? or art thou so folly-sick, that thou must needs be fancy-sick, and in thy affection tied to such an exigent,[1] as none serves but Phoebe?  Well, sir, if your market may be made no where else, home again, for your mart is at the fairest.  Phoebe is no lettuce for your lips, and her grapes hangs so high, that gaze at them you may, but touch them you cannot.  Yet, Montanus, I speak not this in pride, but in disdain; not that I scorn thee, but that I hate love; for I count it as great honor to triumph over fancy as over fortune.  Rest thee content therefore, Montanus:  cease from thy loves, and bridle thy looks, quench the sparkles before they grow to a further flame; for in loving me thou shall live by loss, and what thou utterest in words are all written in the wind.  Wert thou, Montanus, as fair as Paris, as hardy as Hector, as constant as Troilus, as loving as Leander, Phoebe could not love, because she cannot love at all:  and therefore if thou pursue me with Phoebus, I must fly with Daphne.”

[Footnote 1:  necessity.]

Ganymede, overhearing all these passions of Montanus, could not brook the cruelty of Phoebe, but starting from behind the bush said: 

“And if, damsel, you fled from me, I would transform you as Daphne to a bay, and then in contempt trample your branches under my feet.”