te 1: struts.]

"Ah, Alinda, this day in avoiding a prejudice thou art fallen into a
deeper mischief; being rescued from the robbers, thou art become
captive to Saladyne: and what then? Women must love, or they must
cease to live; and therefore did nature frame them fair, that they
might be subjects to fancy. But perhaps Saladyne's eye is levelled
upon a more seemlier saint. If it be so, bear thy passions with
patience; say Love hath wronged thee, that hath not wrung him; and if
he be proud in contempt, be thou rich in content, and rather die than
discover any desire: for there is nothing more precious in a woman
than to conceal love and to die modest. He is the son and heir of Sir
John of Bordeaux, a youth comely enough: O Alinda, too comely, else
hadst not thou been thus discontent; valiant, and that fettered thine
eye; wise, else hadst thou not been now won; but for all these virtues
banished by thy father, and therefore if he know thy parentage, he
will hate the fruit for the tree, and condemn the young scion for the
old stock. Well, howsoever, I must love, and whomsoever, I will; and,
whatsoever betide, Aliena will think well of Saladyne, suppose he of
me as he please."

And with that fetching a deep sigh, she rise up, and went to Ganymede,
who all this while sate in a great dump,[1] fearing the imminent
danger of her friend Rosader; but now Aliena began to comfort her,
herself being overgrown with sorrows, and to recall her from her
melancholy with many pleasant persuasions. Ganymede took all in the
best part, and so they went home together after they had folded their
flocks, supping with old Corydon, who had provided their cates. He,
after supper, to pass away the night while[2] bedtime, began a long
discourse, how Montanus, the young shepherd that was in love with
Phoebe, could by no means obtain any favor at her hands, but, still
pained in restless passions, remained a hopeless and perplexed lover.

[Footnote 1: mood of sadness.]

[Footnote 2: until.]

"I would I might," quoth Aliena, "once see that Phoebe. Is she so fair
that she thinks no shepherd worthy of her beauty? or so froward that
no love nor loyalty will content her? or so coy that she requires a
long time to be wooed? or so foolish that she forgets that like a fop
she must have a large harvest for a little corn?"

"I cannot distinguish," quoth Corydon, "of these nice qualities; but
one of these days I'll bring Montanus and her down, that you m