_Rosader's second Sonetto_

Turn I my looks unto the skies, Love with his arrows wounds mine eyes; If so I gaze upon the ground, Love then in every flower is found.

Search I the shade to fly my pain, He meets me in the shade again; Wend I to walk in secret grove, Even there I meet with sacred Love.

If so I bain[1] me in the spring, Even on the brink I hear him sing: If so I meditate alone, He will be partner of my moan.

If so I mourn, he weeps with me, And where I am there will he be.

Whenas I talk of Rosalynde The G.o.d from coyness waxeth kind, And seems in selfsame flames to fry Because he loves as well as I.

Sweet Rosalynde, for pity rue; For why, than Love I am more true: He, if he speed, will quickly fly, But in thy love I live and die.

[Footnote 1: bathe.]

"How like you this sonnet?" quoth Rosader.

"Marry," quoth Ganymede, "for the pen well, for the pa.s.sion ill; for as I praise the one, I pity the other, in that thou shouldst hunt after a cloud, and love either without reward or regard."

"'Tis not her frowardness," quoth Rosader, "but my hard fortunes, whose destinies have crossed me with her absence; for did she feel my loves, she would not let me linger in these sorrows. Women, as they are fair, so they respect faith, and estimate more, if they be honorable, the will than the wealth, having loyalty the object whereat they aim their fancies. But leaving off these interparleys,[1] you shall hear my last sonetto, and then you have heard all my poetry."

And with that he sighed out this:

[Footnote 1: discussions.]

_Rosader's third Sonnet_

Of virtuous love myself may boast alone, Since no suspect my service may attaint: For perfect fair she is the only one, Whom I esteem for my beloved saint.

Thus, for my faith I only bear the bell, And for her fair she only doth excel.

Then let fond Petrarch shroud his Laura's praise, And Ta.s.so cease to publish his affect, Since mine the faith confirmed at all a.s.says, And hers the fair, which all men do respect.

My lines her fair, her fair my faith a.s.sures; Thus I by love, and love by me endures.

"Thus," quoth Rosader, "here is an end of my poems, but for all this no release of my pa.s.sions; so that I resemble him that in the depth of his distress hath none but the echo to answer him."

Ganymede, pitying her Rosader, thinking to drive him out of this amorous melancholy, said that now the sun was in his meridional heat and that it was high noon, "therefore we shepherds say, 'tis time to go to dinner; for the sun and our stomachs are shepherds' dials.

Therefore, forester, if thou wilt take such fare as comes out of our homely scrips, welcome shall answer whatsoever thou wantest in delicates."

Aliena took the entertainment by the end, and told Rosader he should be her guest. He thanked them heartily, and sate with them down to dinner, where they had such cates as country state did allow them, sauced with such content, and such sweet prattle, as it seemed far more sweet than all their courtly junkets.

As soon as they had taken their repast, Rosader, giving them thanks for his good cheer, would have been gone; but Ganymede, that was loath to let him pa.s.s out of her presence, began thus:

"Nay, forester," quoth he, "if thy business be not the greater, seeing thou sayest thou art so deeply in love, let me see how thou canst woo: I will represent Rosalynde, and thou shalt be as thou art, Rosader.

See in some amorous eclogue, how if Rosalynde were present, how thou couldst court her; and while we sing of love, Aliena shall tune her pipe and play us melody."

"Content," quoth Rosader, and Aliena, she, to show her willingness, drew forth a recorder,[1] and began to wind it. Then the loving forester began thus:

[Footnote 1: an old instrument, resembling the flageolet.]

_The wooing Eclogue betwixt Rosalynde and Rosader_

ROSADER

I pray thee, nymph, by all the working words, By all the tears and sighs that lovers know, Or what or thoughts or faltering tongue affords, I crave for mine in ripping up my woe.

Sweet Rosalynde, my love (would G.o.d, my love) My life (would G.o.d, my life) aye, pity me!

Thy lips are kind, and humble like the dove, And but with beauty, pity will not be.

Look on mine eyes, made red with rueful tears, From whence the rain of true remorse descendeth, All pale in looks am I though young in years, And nought but love or death my days befriendeth.

Oh let no stormy rigor knit thy brows, Which love appointed for his mercy seat: The tallest tree by Boreas' breath it bows; The iron yields with hammer, and to heat.

O Rosalynde, then be thou pitiful, For Rosalynde is only beautiful.

ROSALYNDE

Love's wantons arm their trait'rous suits with tears, With vows, with oaths, with looks, with showers of gold; But when the fruit of their affects appears, The simple heart by subtle sleights is sold.

Thus sucks the yielding ear the poisoned bait, Thus feeds the heart upon his endless harms, Thus glut the thoughts themselves on self-deceit, Thus blind the eyes their sight by subtle charms.

The lovely looks, the sighs that storm so sore, The dew of deep-dissembled doubleness, These may attempt, but are of power no more Where beauty leans to wit and soothfastness.

O Rosader, then be thou wittiful, For Rosalynde scorns foolish pitiful.

ROSADER

I pray thee, Rosalynde, by those sweet eyes That stain the sun in shine, the morn in clear, By those sweet cheeks where Love encamped lies To kiss the roses of the springing year.

I tempt thee, Rosalynde, by ruthful plaints, Not seasoned with deceit or fraudful guile, But firm in pain, far more than tongue depaints, Sweet nymph, be kind, and grace me with a smile.

So may the heavens preserve from hurtful food Thy harmless flocks; so may the summer yield The pride of all her riches and her good, To fat thy sheep, the citizens of field.

Oh, leave to arm thy lovely brows with scorn: The birds their beak, the lion hath his tail, And lovers nought but sighs and bitter mourn, The spotless fort of fancy to a.s.sail.

O Rosalynde, then be thou pitiful, For Rosalynde is only beautiful.

ROSALYNDE

The hardened steel by fire is brought in frame:

ROSADER

And Rosalynde, my love, than any wool more softer; And shall not sighs her tender heart inflame?

ROSALYNDE

Were lovers true, maids would believe them ofter.

ROSADER

Truth, and regard, and honor, guide my love.

ROSALYNDE

Fain would I trust, but yet I dare not try.

ROSADER

O pity me, sweet nymph, and do but prove.

ROSALYNDE

I would resist, but yet I know not why.

ROSADER