[Footnote 1:  falcon.]

[Footnote 2:  range.]

With that Montanus took them and perused them, but with such sorrow in his looks, as they betrayed a source of confused passions in his heart; at every line his color changed, and every sentence was ended with a period of sighs.

At last, noting Phoebe’s extreme desire toward Ganymede and her disdain towards him, giving Ganymede the letter, the shepherd stood as though he had neither won nor lost.  Which Ganymede perceiving wakened him out of his dream thus: 

“Now, Montanus, dost thou see thou vowest great service and obtainest but little reward; but in lieu of thy loyalty, she maketh thee, as Bellerophon, carry thine own bane.  Then drink not willingly of that potion wherein thou knowest is poison; creep not to her that cares not for thee.  What, Montanus, there are many as fair as Phoebe, but most of all more courteous than Phoebe.  I tell thee, shepherd, favor is love’s fuel; then since thou canst not get that, let the flame vanish into smoke, and rather sorrow for a while than repent thee for ever.”

“I tell thee, Ganymede,” quoth Montanus, “as they which are stung with the scorpion, cannot be recovered but by the scorpion, nor he that was wounded with Achilles’ lance be cured but with the same truncheon,[1] so Apollo was fain to cry out that love was only eased with love, and fancy healed by no medicine but favor.  Phoebus had herbs to heal all hurts but this passion; Circes had charms for all chances but for affection, and Mercury subtle reasons to refel all griefs but love.  Persuasions are bootless, reason lends no remedy, counsel no comfort, to such whom fancy hath made resolute; and therefore though Phoebe loves Ganymede, yet Montanus must honor none but Phoebe.”

[Footnote 1:  spear.]

“Then,” quoth Ganymede, “may I rightly term thee a despairing lover, that livest without joy, and lovest without hope:  but what shall I do, Montanus, to pleasure thee?  Shall I despise Phoebe, as she disdains thee?”

“Oh,” quoth Montanus, “that were to renew my griefs, and double my sorrows; for the sight of her discontent were the censure[1] of my death.  Alas, Ganymede! though I perish in my thoughts, let not her die in her desires.  Of all passions, love is most impatient:  then let not so fair a creature as Phoebe sink under the burden of so deep a distress.  Being lovesick, she is proved heartsick, and all for the beauty of Ganymede.  Thy proportion hath entangled her affection, and she is snared in the beauty of thy excellence.  Then, sith she loves thee so dear, mislike not her deadly.  Be thou paramour to such a paragon:  she hath beauty to content thine eye, and flocks to enrich thy store.  Thou canst not wish for more than thou shalt win by her; for she is beautiful, virtuous and wealthy, three deep persuasions to make love frolic.”

[Footnote 1:  sentence.]

Aliena seeing Montanus cut it against the hair, and plead that Ganymede ought to love Phoebe, when his only life was the love of Phoebe, answered him thus: