th nettles, and set disdain as a charm to withstand his forces: and
therefore look you to yourself; be not too bold, for Venus can make
you bend, nor too coy, for Cupid hath a piercing dart, that will make
you cry _Peccavi_."

"And that is it," quoth Aliena, "that hath raised you so early this
morning." And with that she slipped on her petticoat, and start up;
and as soon as she had made her ready, and taken her breakfast, away
go these two with their bag and bottles to the field, in more pleasant
content of mind than ever they were in the court of Torismond.

They came no sooner nigh the folds, but they might see where their
discontented forester was walking in his melancholy. As soon as Aliena
saw him, she smiled and said to Ganymede:

"Wipe your eyes, sweeting, for yonder is your sweetheart this morning
in deep prayers, no doubt, to Venus, that she may make you as pitiful
as he is passionate. Come on, Ganymede, I pray thee, let's have a
little sport with him."

"Content," quoth Ganymede, and with that, to waken him out of his deep
_memento_,[1] he began thus:

[Footnote 1: revery.]

"Forester, good fortune to thy thoughts, and ease to thy passions.
What makes you so early abroad this morn? in contemplation, no doubt,
of your Rosalynde. Take heed, forester; step not too far, the ford may
be deep, and you slip over the shoes: I tell thee, flies have their
spleen, the ants choler, the least hairs shadows, and the smallest
loves great desires. 'Tis good, forester, to love, but not to
overlove, lest in loving her that likes not thee, thou fold thyself in
an endless labyrinth."

Rosader, seeing the fair shepherdess and her pretty swain in whose
company he felt the greatest ease of his care, he returned them a
salute on this manner:

"Gentle shepherds, all hail, and as healthful be your flocks as you
happy in content. Love is restless, and my bed is but the cell of my
bane, in that there I find busy thoughts and broken slumbers: here
(although everywhere passionate) yet I brook love with more patience,
in that every object feeds mine eye with variety of fancies. When I
look on Flora's beauteous tapestry, checked with the pride of all her
treasure, I call to mind the fair face of Rosalynde, whose heavenly
hue exceeds the rose and the lily in their highest excellence: the
brightness of Phoebus' shine puts me in mind to think of the sparkling
flames that flew from her eyes, and set my heart first on fire: the
sweet