Chapter 5

Cheerly, woman: as we have been bed-fellows in royalty, we will be fellow-mates in poverty: I will ever be thy Alinda, and thou shalt ever rest to me Rosalynde; so shall the world canonize our friendship, and speak of Rosalynde and Alinda, as they did of Pylades and Orestes. And if ever fortune smile, and we return to our former honor, then folding ourselves in the sweet of our friendship, we shall merrily say, calling to mind our forepassed miseries:

Olim haec meminisse juvabit."

[Footnote 1: necessities.]

[Footnote 2: precious; because the most valued gems came from the Orient.]

At this Rosalynde began to comfort her, and after she had wept a few kind tears in the bosom of her Alinda, she gave her hearty thanks, and then they sat them down to consult how they should travel. Alinda grieved at nothing but that they might have no man in their company, saying it would be their greatest prejudice in that two women went wandering without either guide or attendant.

"Tush," quoth Rosalynde, "art thou a woman, and hast not a sudden shift to prevent a misfortune? I, thou seest, am of a tall stature, and would very well become the person and apparel of a page; thou shalt be my mistress, and I will play the man so properly, that, trust me, in what company soever I come I will not be discovered. I will buy me a suit, and have my rapier very handsomely at my side, and if any knave offer wrong, your page will show him the point of his weapon."

At this Alinda smiled, and upon this they agreed, and presently gathered up all their jewels, which they trussed up[1] in a casket, and Rosalynde in all haste provided her of robes, and Alinda, from her royal weeds, put herself in more homelike attire. Thus fitted to the purpose, away go these two friends, having now changed their names, Alinda being called Aliena, and Rosalynde Ganymede. They travelled along the vineyards, and by many by-ways at last got to the forest side, where they travelled by the space of two or three days without seeing any creature, being often in danger of wild beasts, and pained with many passionate sorrows. Now the black ox[2] began to tread on their feet, and Alinda thought of her wonted royalty; but when she cast her eyes on her Rosalynde, she thought every danger a step to honor. Passing thus on along, about midday they came to a fountain, compassed with a grove of cypress trees, so cunningly and curiously planted, as if some goddess had entreated nature in that place to make her an arbor. By this fountain sat Aliena and her Ganymede, and forth they pulled such victuals as they had, and fed as merrily as if they had been in Paris with all the king's delicates, Aliena only grieving that they could not so much as meet with a shepherd to discourse them the way to some place where they might make their abode. At last Ganymede casting up his eye espied where on a tree was engraven certain verses; which as soon as he espied, he cried out:

"Be of good cheer, mistress, I spy the figures of men; for here in these trees be engraven certain verses of shepherds, or some other swains that inhabit hereabout."

[Footnote 1: packed.]

[Footnote 2: ill-luck.]

With that Aliena start up joyful to hear these news, and looked, where they found carved in the bark of a pine tree this passion:

_Montanus's Passion_

Hadst thou been born whereas perpetual cold Makes Tanais hard, and mountains silver old; Had I complained unto a marble stone, Or to the floods bewrayed my bitter moan, I then could bear the burthen of my grief. But even the pride of countries at thy birth, Whilst heavens did smile, did new array the earth With flowers chief. Yet thou, the flower of beauty blessèd born, Hast pretty looks, but all attired in scorn. Had I the power to weep sweet Mirrha's tears, Or by my plaints to pierce repining ears; Hadst thou the heart to smile at my complaint, To scorn the woes that doth my heart attaint, I then could bear the burthen of my grief: But not my tears, but truth with thee prevails, And seeming sour my sorrows thee assails: Yet small relief; For if thou wilt thou art of marble hard, And if thou please my suit shall soon be heard.

"No doubt," quoth Aliena, "this poesy is the passion of some perplexed shepherd, that being enamored of some fair and beautiful shepherdess, suffered some sharp repulse, and therefore complained of the cruelty of his mistress."

"You may see," quoth Ganymede, "what mad cattle you women be, whose hearts sometimes are made of adamant that will touch with no impression, and sometime of wax that is fit for every form: they delight to be courted, and then they glory to seem coy, and when they are most desired then they freeze with disdain: and this fault is so common to the sex, that you see it painted out in the shepherd's passions, who found his mistress as froward as he was enamored."

"And I pray you," quoth Aliena, "if your robes were off, what mettle are you made of that you are so satirical against women? Is it not a foul bird defiles the own nest? Beware, Ganymede, that Rosader hear you not, if he do, perchance you will make him leap so far from love, that he will anger every vein in your heart."

"Thus," quoth Ganymede, "I keep decorum: I speak now as I am Aliena's page, not as I am Gerismond's daughter; for put me but into a petticoat, and I will stand in defiance to the uttermost, that women are courteous, constant, virtuous, and what not."

"Stay there," quoth Aliena, "and no more words, for yonder be characters graven upon the bark of the tall beech tree."

"Let us see," quoth Ganymede; and with that they read a fancy written to this effect:

First shall the heavens want starry light, The seas be robbèd of their waves, The day want sun, and sun want bright, The night want shade, the dead men graves, The April flowers and leaf and tree, Before I false my faith to thee.

First shall the tops of highest hills By humble plains be overpried, And poets scorn the Muses' quills, And fish forsake the water glide, And Iris loose her colored weed,[1] Before I fail thee at thy need.

First direful hate shall turn to peace, And love relent in deep disdain, And death his fatal stroke shall cease, And envy pity every pain, And pleasure mourn and sorrow smile, Before I talk of any guile.

First time shall stay his stayless race, And winter bless his brows with corn, And snow bemoisten July's face, And winter spring, and summer mourn, Before my pen, by help of fame, Cease to recite thy sacred name.

MONTANUS

[Footnote 1: garment. In what modern expression is this meaning of the word retained?]

"No doubt," quoth Ganymede, "this protestation grew from one full of passions."

"I am of that mind too," quoth Aliena, "but see, I pray, when poor women seek to keep themselves chaste, how men woo them with many feigned promises; alluring with sweet words as the Sirens, and after proving as trothless as Aeneas. Thus promised Demophoon to his Phyllis, but who at last grew more false?"

"The reason was," quoth Ganymede, "that they were women's sons, and took that fault of their mother, for if man had grown from man, as Adam did from the earth, men had never been troubled with inconstancy."

"Leave off," quoth Aliena, "to taunt thus bitterly, or else I'll pull off your page's apparel, and whip you, as Venus doth her wantons, with nettles."

"So you will," quoth Ganymede, "persuade me to flattery, and that needs not: but come, seeing we have found here by this fount the tract of shepherds by their madrigals and roundelays, let us forward; for either we shall find some folds, sheepcotes, or else some cottages wherein for a day or two to rest."

"Content," quoth Aliena, and with that they rose up, and marched forward till towards the even, and then coming into a fair valley, compassed with mountains, whereon grew many pleasant shrubs, they might descry where two flocks of sheep did feed. Then, looking about, they might perceive where an old shepherd sat, and with him a young swaine, under a covert most pleasantly situated. The ground where they sat was diapered with Flora's riches, as if she meant to wrap Tellus in the glory of her vestments: round about in the form of an amphitheatre were most curiously planted pine trees, interseamed with limons and citrons, which with the thickness of their boughs so shadowed the place, that Phoebus could not pry into the secret of that arbor; so united were the tops with so thick a closure, that Venus might there in her jollity have dallied unseen with her dearest paramour. Fast by, to make the place more gorgeous, was there a fount so crystalline and clear, that it seemed Diana with her Dryades and Hamadryades had that spring, as the secret of all their bathings. In this glorious arbor sat these two shepherds, seeing their sheep feed, playing on their pipes many pleasant tunes, and from music and melody falling into much amorous chat. Drawing more nigh we might descry the countenance of the one to be full of sorrow, his face to be the very portraiture of discontent, and his eyes full of woes, that living he seemed to die: we, to hear what these were, stole privily behind the thicket, where we overheard this discourse:

_A Pleasant Eclogue between Montanus and Corydon_

CORYDON

Say, shepherd's boy, what makes thee greet[1] so sore? Why leaves thy pipe his pleasure and delight? Young are thy years, thy cheeks with roses dight: Then sing for joy, sweet swain, and sigh no more.

This milk-white poppy, and this climbing pine Both promise shade; then sit thee down and sing, And make these woods with pleasant notes to ring, Till Phoebus deign all westward to decline.

[Footnote 1: weep.]

MONTANUS

Ah, Corydon, unmeet is melody To him whom proud contempt hath overborne: Slain are my joys by Phoebe's bitter scorn; Far hence my weal, and near my jeopardy.

Love's burning brand is couchèd in my breast, Making a Phoenix of my faintful heart: And though his fury do enforce my smart, Ay blithe am I to honor his behest.

Prepared to woes, since so my Phoebe wills, My looks dismayed, since Phoebe will disdain; I banish bliss and welcome home my pain: So stream my tears as showers from Alpine hills.

In error's mask I blindfold judgment's eye, I fetter reason in the snares of lust, I seem secure, yet know not how to trust; I live by that which makes me living die.

Devoid of rest, companion of distress, Plague to myself, consumèd by my thought, How may my voice or pipe in tune be brought, Since I am reft of solace and delight?

CORYDON

Ah, lorrel lad, what makes thee hery[1] love? A sugared harm, a poison full of pleasure, A painted shrine full filled with rotten treasure; A heaven in show, a hell to them that prove.[2]

A gain in seeming, shadowed still with want, A broken staff which folly doth uphold, A flower that fades with every frosty cold, An orient rose sprung from a withered plant.

A minute's joy to gain a world of grief, A subtle net to snare the idle mind, A seeing scorpion, yet in seeming blind, A poor rejoice, a plague without relief.

Forthy,[3] Montanus, follow mine arede,[4] (Whom age hath taught the trains[5] that fancy useth) Leave foolish love, for beauty wit abuseth, And drowns, by folly, virtue's springing seed.

[Footnote 1: praise.]

[Footnote 2: try, test.]

[Footnote 3: hence.]

[Footnote 4: advice.]

[Footnote 5: stratagems.]

MONTANUS

So blames the child the flame because it burns, And bird the snare because it doth entrap, And fools true love because of sorry hap, And sailors curse the ship that overturns.

But would the child forbear to play with flame, And birds beware to trust the fowler's gin, And fools foresee before they fall and sin, And masters guide their ships in better frame;

The child would praise the fire because it warms, And birds rejoice to see the fowler fail, And fools prevent before their plagues prevail, And sailors bless the barque that saves from harms.

Ah, Corydon, though many be thy years, And crooked elde[1] hath some experience left, Yet is thy mind of judgment quite bereft, In view of love, whose power in me appears.

The ploughman little wots to turn the pen, Or bookman skills to guide the ploughman's cart; Nor can the cobbler count the terms of art, Nor base men judge the thoughts of mighty men.

Nor withered age, unmeet for beauty's guide, Uncapable of love's impression, Discourse of that whose choice possession May never to so base a man be tied.

But I, whom nature makes of tender mould, And youth most pliant yields to fancy's fire, Do build my haven and heaven on sweet desire, On sweet desire, more dear to me than gold.

Think I of love, oh, how my lines aspire! How haste the Muses to embrace my brows, And hem my temples in with laurel boughs, And fill my brains with chaste and holy fire!

Then leave my lines their homely equipage, Mounted beyond the circle of the sun: Amazed I read the stile when I have done, And hery[2] love that sent that heavenly rage.

Of Phoebe then, of Phoebe then I sing, Drawing the purity of all the spheres, The pride of earth, or what in heaven appears, Her honored face and fame to light to bring.

In fluent numbers, and in pleasant veins, I rob both sea and earth of all their state, To praise her parts: I charm both time and fate, To bless the nymph that yields me lovesick pains.

My sheep are turned to thoughts, whom froward will Guides in the restless labyrinth of love; Fear lends them pasture wheresoe'er they move, And by their death their life reneweth still.

My sheephook is my pen, mine oaten reed My paper, where my many woes are written. Thus silly swain, with love and fancy bitten, I trace the plains[3] of pain in woeful weed.

Vet are my cares, my broken sleeps, my tears, My dreams, my doubts, for Phoebe sweet to me: Who waiteth heaven in sorrow's vale must be, And glory shines where danger most appears.

Then, Corydon, although I blithe me not, Blame me not, man, since sorrow is my sweet: So willeth love, and Phoebe thinks it meet, And kind Montanus liketh well his lot.

[Footnote 1: old age.]

[Footnote 2: praise.]

[Footnote 3: complaints.]

CORYDON

O stayless youth, by error so misguided, Where will proscribeth laws to perfect wits, Where reason mourns, and blame in triumph sits, And folly poisoneth all that time provided!

With wilful blindness bleared, prepared to shame, Prone to neglect Occasion when she smiles: Alas, that love, by fond and froward guiles, Should make thee tract[1] the path to endless blame!

Ah, my Montanus, cursèd is the charm, That hath bewitchèd so thy youthful eyes. Leave off in time to like these vanities, Be forward to thy good, and fly thy harm.

As many bees as Hybla daily shields, As many fry as fleet on ocean's face, As many herds as on the earth do trace, As many flowers as deck the fragrant fields,

As many stars as glorious heaven contains, As many storms as wayward winter weeps, As many plagues as hell enclosèd keeps, So many griefs in love, so many pains.

Suspicions, thoughts, desires, opinions, prayers, Mislikes, misdeeds, fond joys, and feignèd peace, Illusions, dreams, great pains, and small increase, Vows, hopes, acceptance, scorns, and deep despairs,

Truce, war, and woe do wait at beauty's gate; Time lost, laments, reports, and privy grudge, And last, fierce love is but a partial judge, Who yields for service shame, for friendship hate.

[Footnote 1: trace, walk.]

MONTANUS

All adder-like I stop mine ears, fond swain, So charm no more, for I will never change. Call home thy flocks in time that straggling range, For lo, the sun declineth hence amain.

TERENTIUS

In amore haec omnia insunt vitia: induciae, inimicitiae, bellum, pax rursum: incerta haec si tu postules ratione certa fieri, nihilo plus agas, quam si des operam, ut cum ratione insanias.

The shepherds having thus ended their eclogue, Aliena stepped with Ganymede from behind the thicket; at whose sudden sight the shepherds arose, and Aliena saluted them thus:

"Shepherds, all hail, for such we deem you by your flocks, and lovers, good luck, for such you seem by your passions, our eyes being witness of the one, and our ears of the other. Although not by love, yet by fortune, I am a distressed gentlewoman, as sorrowful as you are passionate, and as full of woes as you of perplexed thoughts. Wandering this way in a forest unknown, only I and my page, wearied with travel, would fain have some place of rest. May you appoint us any place of quiet harbor, be it never so mean, I shall be thankful to you, contented in myself, and grateful to whosoever shall be mine host."

Corydon, hearing the gentlewoman speak so courteously, returned her mildly and reverently this answer:

"Fair mistress, we return you as hearty a welcome as you gave us a courteous salute. A shepherd I am, and this a lover, as watchful to please his wench as to feed his sheep: full of fancies, and therefore, say I, full of follies. Exhort him I may, but persuade him I cannot; for love admits neither of counsel nor reason. But leaving him to his passions, if you be distressed, I am sorrowful such a fair creature is crossed with calamity; pray for you I may, but relieve you I cannot. Marry, if you want lodging, if you vouch to shroud yourselves in a shepherd's cottage, my house for this night shall be your harbor."

Aliena thanked Corydon greatly, and presently sate her down and Ganymede by her. Corydon looking earnestly upon her, and with a curious survey viewing all her perfections, applauded (in his thought) her excellence, and pitying her distress was desirous to hear the cause of her misfortunes, began to question her thus:

"If I should not, fair damosel, occasion offence, or renew your griefs by rubbing the scar, I would fain crave so much favor as to know the cause of your misfortunes, and why, and whither you wander with your page in so dangerous a forest?"

Aliena, that was as courteous as she was fair, made this reply:

"Shepherd, a friendly demand ought never to be offensive, and questions of courtesy carry privileged pardons in their foreheads. Know, therefore, to discover my fortunes were to renew my sorrows, and I should, by discoursing my mishaps, but rake fire out of the cinders. Therefore let this suffice, gentle shepherd: my distress is as great as my travel is dangerous, and I wander in this forest to light on some cottage where I and my page may dwell: for I mean to buy some farm, and a flock of sheep, and so become a shepherdess, meaning to live low, and content me with a country life; for I have heard the swains say, that they drunk without suspicion, and slept without care."

"Marry, mistress," quoth Corydon, "if you mean so, you came in good time, for my landslord intends to sell both the farm I till, and the flock I keep, and cheap you may have them for ready money: and for a shepherd's life, O mistress, did you but live awhile in their content, you would say the court were rather a place of sorrow than of solace. Here, mistress, shall not fortune thwart you, but in mean misfortunes, as the loss of a few sheep, which, as it breeds no beggary, so it can be no extreme prejudice: the next year may mend all with a fresh increase. Envy stirs not us, we covet not to climb, our desires mount not above our degrees, nor our thoughts above our fortunes. Care cannot harbor in our cottages, nor do our homely couches know broken slumbers: as we exceed not in diet, so we have enough to satisfy: and, mistress, I have so much Latin, _Satis est quod sufficit_."

"By my troth, shepherd," quoth Aliena, "thou makest me in love with your country life, and therefore send for thy landslord, and I will buy thy farm and thy flocks, and thou shalt still under me be overseer of them both: only for pleasure sake I and my page will serve you, lead the flocks to the field, and fold them. Thus will I live quiet, unknown, and contented."

This news so gladded the heart of Corydon, that he should not be put out of his farm, that putting off his shepherd's bonnet, he did her all the reverence that he might. But all this while sate Montanus in a muse, thinking of the cruelty of his Phoebe, whom he wooed long, but was in no hope to win. Ganymede, who still had the remembrance of Rosader in his thoughts, took delight to see the poor shepherd passionate, laughing at Love, that in all his actions was so imperious. At last, when she had noted his tears that stole down his cheeks, and his sighs that broke from the centre of his heart, pitying his lament, she demanded of Corydon why the young shepherd looked so sorrowful.

"O sir," quoth he, "the boy is in love."

"Why," quoth Ganymede, "can shepherds love?"

"Aye," quoth Montanus, "and overlove, else shouldst not thou see me so pensive. Love, I tell thee, is as precious in a shepherd's eye, as in the looks of a king, and we country swains entertain fancy with as great delight as the proudest courtier doth affection. Opportunity, that is the sweetest friend to Venus, harboreth in our cottages, and loyalty, the chiefest fealty that Cupid requires, is found more among shepherds than higher degrees. Then, ask not if such silly swains can love."

"What is the cause then," quoth Ganymede, "that love being so sweet to thee, thou lookest so sorrowful?"

"Because," quoth Montanus, "the party beloved is froward, and having courtesy in her looks, holdeth disdain in her tongue's end."

"What hath she, then," quoth Aliena, "in her heart?"

"Desire, I hope madam," quoth he, "or else, my hope lost, despair in love were death."

As thus they chatted, the sun being ready to set, and they not having folded their sheep, Corydon requested she would sit there with her page, till Montanus and he lodged their sheep for that night.

"You shall go," quoth Aliena, "but first I will entreat Montanus to sing some amorous sonnet, that he made when he hath been deeply passionate."

"That I will," quoth Montanus, and with that he began thus:

_Montanus's Sonnet_

Phoebe sate, Sweet she sate, Sweet sate Phoebe when I saw her; White her brow, Coy her eye: Brow and eye how much you please me! Words I spent, Sighs I sent: Sighs and words could never draw her. O my love, Thou art lost, Since no sight could ever ease thee.

Phoebe sat By a fount; Sitting by a fount I spied her: Sweet her touch, Rare her voice: Touch and voice what may distain you? As she sung I did sigh, And by sighs whilst that I tried her, O mine eyes! You did lose Her first sight whose want did pain you.

Phoebe's flocks, White as wool: Yet were Phoebe's locks more whiter. Phoebe's eyes Dovelike mild: Dovelike eyes, both mild and cruel. Montan swears, In your lamps He will die for to delight her. Phoebe yield, Or I die: Shall true hearts be fancy's fuel?[1]

[Footnote 1: This poem was parodied by one of Lodge's contemporaries under the title "Ronsard's Description of his Mistress" in allusion to Lodge's habit of imitating foreign poets.]