harmony of the birds, puts me in remembrance of the rare melody
of her voice, which like the Siren enchanteth the ears of the hearer.
Thus in contemplation I salve my sorrows, with applying the perfection
of every object to the excellence of her qualities."

"She is much beholding unto you," quoth Aliena, "and so much, that I
have oft wished with myself, that if I should ever prove as amorous
as Oenone, I might find as faithful a Paris as yourself."

"How say you by this item, forester?" quoth Ganymede, "the fair
shepherdess favors you, who is mistress of so many flocks. Leave off,
man, the supposition of Rosalynde's love, whenas watching at her you
rove beyond the moon, and cast your looks upon my mistress, who no
doubt is as fair though not so royal; one bird in the hand is worth
two in the wood: better possess the love of Aliena than catch
furiously at the shadow of Rosalynde."

"I'll tell thee boy," quoth Rosader, "so is my fancy fixed on my
Rosalynde, that were thy mistress as fair as Leda or Danae, whom Jove
courted in transformed shapes, mine eyes would not vouch to entertain
their beauties; and so hath love locked me in her perfections, that I
had rather only contemplate in her beauties, than absolutely possess
the excellence of any other."

"Venus is to blame, forester, if having so true a servant of you, she
reward you not with Rosalynde, if Rosalynde were more fairer than
herself. But leaving this prattle, now I'll put you in mind of your
promise about those sonnets, which you said were at home in your
lodge."

"I have them about me," quoth Rosader, "let us sit down, and then you
shall hear what a poetical fury love will infuse into a man." With
that they sate down upon a green bank, shadowed with fig trees, and
Rosader, fetching a deep sigh, read them this sonnet:

_Rosader's Sonnet_

In sorrow's cell I laid me down to sleep,
But waking woes were jealous of mine eyes,
They made them watch, and bend themselves to weep,
But weeping tears their want could not suffice:
Yet since for her they wept who guides my heart,
They weeping smile, and triumph in their smart.

Of these my tears a fountain fiercely springs,
Where Venus bains[1] herself incensed with love,
Where Cupid bowseth[2] his fair feathered wings;
But I behold what pains I must approve.
Care drinks it dry; but when on her I think,
Love makes me weep it full unto the bri