Fair shepherd—­and therefore is Phoebe infortunate, because thou art so fair—­although hitherto mine eyes were adamants to resist love, yet I no sooner saw thy face, but they became amorous to entertain love; more devoted to fancy than before they were repugnant to affection, addicted to the one by nature and drawn to the other by beauty:  which, being rare and made the more excellent by many virtues, hath so snared the freedom of Phoebe, as she rests at thy mercy, either to be made the most fortunate of all maidens, or the most miserable of all women.  Measure not, Ganymede, my loves by my wealth, nor my desires by my degrees; but think my thoughts as full of faith, as thy face of amiable favors.  Then, as thou knowest thyself most beautiful, suppose me most constant.  If thou deemest me hard-hearted because I hated Montanus, think I was forced to it by fate; if thou sayest I am kind-hearted because so lightly I love thee at the first look, think I was driven to it by destiny, whose influence, as it is mighty, so is it not to be resisted.  If my fortunes were anything but infortunate love, I would strive with fortune:  but he that wrests[1] against the will of Venus, seeks to quench fire with oil, and to thrust out one thorn by putting in another.  If then, Ganymede, love enters at the eye, harbors in the heart, and will neither be driven out with physic nor reason, pity me, as one whose malady hath no salve but from thy sweet self, whose grief hath no ease but through thy grant; and think I am a virgin who is deeply wronged when I am forced to woo, and conjecture love to be strong, that is more forcible than nature.  Thus distressed unless by thee eased, I expect either to live fortunate by thy favor, or die miserable by thy denial.  Living in hope.  Farewell.

She that must be thine,
    or not be at all,
        Phoebe.”

[Footnote 1:  wrestles.]

To this letter she annexed this sonnet: 

Sonetto

    My boat doth pass the straits
      of seas incensed with fire,
    Filled with forgetfulness;
      amidst the winter’s night,
    A blind and careless boy,
      brought up by fond desire,
    Doth guide me in the sea
      of sorrow and despite.

    For every oar he sets
      a rank of foolish thoughts,
    And cuts, instead of wave,
      a hope without distress;
    The winds of my deep sighs,
      that thunder still for noughts,
    Have split my sails with fear,
      with care and heaviness.

A mighty storm of tears,
a black and hideous cloud,
A thousand fierce disdains
do slack the halyards oft;
Till ignorance do pull,
and error hale the shrouds,
No star for safety shines,
no Phoebe from aloft.

Time hath subdued art,
and joy is slave to woe: 
Alas, Love’s guide, be kind!
what, shall I perish so?