At this she held down her head and wept, and Ganymede rose as one that would suffer no fish to hang on his fingers, made this reply: 

“Water not thy plants, Phoebe, for I do pity thy plaints, nor seek not to discover thy loves in tears, for I conjecture thy truth by thy passions:  sorrow is no salve for loves, nor sighs no remedy for affection.  Therefore frolic, Phoebe; for if Ganymede can cure thee, doubt not of recovery.  Yet this let me say without offence, that it grieves me to thwart Montanus in his fancies, seeing his desires have been so resolute, and his thoughts so loyal.  But thou allegest that thou art forced from him by fate:  so I tell thee, Phoebe, either some star or else some destiny fits my mind, rather with Adonis to die in chase than be counted a wanton in Venus’ knee.  Although I pity thy martyrdom, yet I can grant no marriage; for though I held thee fair, yet mine eye is not fettered:  love grows not, like the herb Spattana, to his perfection in one night, but creeps with the snail, and yet at last attains to the top. Festina lente, especially in love, for momentary fancies are oft-times the fruits of follies.  If, Phoebe, I should like thee as the Hyperborei do their dates, which banquet with them in the morning and throw them away at night, my folly should be great, and thy repentance more.  Therefore I will have time to turn my thoughts, and my loves shall grow up as the watercresses, slowly, but with a deep root.  Thus, Phoebe, thou mayest see I disdain not, though I desire not; remaining indifferent till time and love makes me resolute.  Therefore, Phoebe, seek not to suppress affection, and with the love of Montanus quench the remembrance of Ganymede; strive thou to hate me as I seek to like of thee, and ever have the duties of Montanus in thy mind, for I promise thee thou mayest have one more wealthy, but not more loyal.”  These words were corrosives to the perplexed Phoebe, but sobbing out sighs, and straining out tears, she blubbered out these words: 

“And shall I then have no salve of Ganymede but suspense, no hope but a doubtful hazard, no comfort, but be posted off to the will of time?  Justly have the gods balanced my fortunes, who, being cruel to Montanus, found Ganymede as unkind to myself; so in forcing him perish for love, I shall die myself with overmuch love.”

“I am glad,” quoth Ganymede, “you look into your own faults, and see where your shoe wrings you, measuring now the pains of Montanus by your own passions.”

“Truth,” quoth Phoebe, “and so deeply I repent me of my frowardness toward the shepherd, that could I cease to love Ganymede, I would resolve to like Montanus.”

“What, if I can with reason persuade Phoebe to mislike of Ganymede, will she then favor Montanus?”

“When reason,” quoth she, “doth quench that love I owe to thee, then will I fancy him; conditionally, that if my love can be suppressed with no reason, as being without reason Ganymede will only wed himself to Phoebe.”