neither greater than my loves.  But daring with Phaethon, I fall with Icarus, and seeking to pass the mean, I die for being so mean; my night-sleeps are waking slumbers, as full of sorrows as they be far from rest; and my days’ labors are fruitless amours, staring at a star and stumbling at a straw, leaving reason to follow after repentance; yet every passion is a pleasure though it pinch, because love hides his wormseed[1] in figs, his poisons in sweet potions, and shadows prejudice with the mask of pleasure.  The wisest counsellors are my deep discontents, and I hate that which should salve my harm, like the patient which stung with the Tarantula loathes music, and yet the disease incurable but by melody.  Thus, sir, restless I hold myself remediless, as loving without either reward or regard, and yet loving because there is none worthy to be loved but the mistress of my thoughts.  And that I am as full of passions as I have discoursed in my plaints, sir, if you please, see my sonnets, and by them censure of my sorrows.”

[Footnote 1:  wormwood = bitterness.]

These words of Montanus brought the king into a great wonder, amazed as much at his wit as his attire, insomuch that he took the papers off his hook, and read them to this effect: 

Montanus’ first Sonnet

    Alas! how wander I amidst these woods
      Whereas no day-bright shine doth find access;
    But where the melancholy fleeting floods,
      Dark as the night, my night of woes express. 
    Disarmed of reason, spoiled of nature’s goods,
      Without redress to salve my heaviness
          I walk, whilst thought, too cruel to my harms,
          With endless grief my heedless judgment charms.

    My silent tongue assailed by secret fear,
      My traitorous eyes imprisoned in their joy,
    My fatal peace devoured in feigned cheer,
      My heart enforced to harbor in annoy,
    My reason robbed of power by yielding ear,
      My fond opinions slave to every toy. 
          O Love! thou guide in my uncertain way,
          Woe to thy bow, thy fire, the cause of my decay.

    Et florida pungunt.

When the king had read this sonnet he highly commended the device of the shepherd, that could so wittily wrap his passions in a shadow, and so covertly conceal that which bred his chiefest discontent; affirming, that as the least shrubs have their tops, the smallest hairs their shadows, so the meanest swains had their fancies, and in their kind were as chary of love as a king.  Whetted on with this device, he took the second and read it:  the effects were these: 

Montanus’ second Sonnet

    When the Dog[1]
    Full of rage,
        With his ireful eyes
        Frowns amidst the skies,
    The shepherd, to assuage
        The fury of the heat,
        Himself doth safely seat
    By a fount