This letter and the sonnet being ended, she could find no fit messenger to send it by, and therefore she called in Montanus, and entreated him to carry it to Ganymede.  Although poor Montanus saw day at a little hole, and did perceive what passion pinched her, yet, that he might seem dutiful to his mistress in all service, he dissembled the matter, and became a willing messenger of his own martyrdom.  And so, taking the letter, went the next morn very early to the plains where Aliena fed her flocks, and there he found Ganymede, sitting under a pomegranate tree, sorrowing for the hard fortunes of her Rosader.  Montanus saluted him, and according to his charge delivered Ganymede the letters, which, he said, came from Phoebe.  At this the wanton blushed, as being abashed to think what news should come from an unknown shepherdess; but taking the letters, unripped the seals, and read over the discourse of Phoebe’s fancies.  When she had read and over-read them Ganymede began to smile, and looking on Montanus, fell into a great laughter, and with that called Aliena, to whom she showed the writings.  Who, having perused them, conceited them very pleasantly, and smiled to see how love had yoked her, who before would not stoop to the lure; Aliena whispering Ganymede in the ear, and saying, “Knew Phoebe what want there were in thee to perform her will, and how unfit thy kind is to be kind to her, she would be more wise, and less enamored; but leaving that, I pray thee let us sport with this swain.”  At that word Ganymede, turning to Montanus, began to glance at him[1] thus: 

[Footnote 1:  tease.]

“I pray thee, tell me, shepherd, by those sweet thoughts and pleasing sighs that grow from my mistress’ favors, art thou in love with Phoebe?”

“Oh, my youth,” quoth Montanus, “were Phoebe so far in love with me, my flocks would be more fat and their master more quiet; for through the sorrows of my discontent grows the leanness of my sheep.”

“Alas, poor swain,” quoth Ganymede, “are thy passions so extreme or thy fancy so resolute, that no reason will blemish the pride of thy affection, and rase out that which thou strivest for without hope?”

“Nothing can make me forget Phoebe, while Montanus forget himself; for those characters which true love hath stamped, neither the envy of time nor fortune can wipe away.”

“Why but, Montanus,” quoth Ganymede, “enter with a deep insight into the despair of thy fancies, and thou shalt see the depth of thine own follies; for, poor man, thy progress in love is a regress to loss, swimming against the stream with the crab, and flying with Apis Indica against wind and weather.  Thou seekest with Phoebus to win Daphne, and she flies faster than thou canst follow:  thy desires soar with the hobby,[1] but her disdain reacheth higher than thou canst make wing.  I tell thee, Montanus, in courting Phoebe, thou barkest with the wolves of Syria against the moon, and rovest at such a mark, with thy thoughts, as is beyond the pitch[2] of thy bow, praying to Love, when Love is pitiless, and thy malady remediless.  For proof, Montanus, read these letters, wherein thou shalt see thy great follies and little hope.”