Doth break both pipe and hook,
For whom complains the morn,
For whom the sea-nymphs mourn,
Alas, his pain is nought;
For were my woe but thought,
Oh how would Phoebe sigh if she did look on me!
Beyond compare my pain;
Yet glad am I,
If gentle Phoebe deign
To see her Montan die.
[Footnote 1: companion.]
After this, Montanus felt his passions so extreme, that he fell into
this exclamation against the injustice of Love:
Helas, tyran, plein de rigueur,
Modere un peu ta violence:
Que te sert si grande depense?
C'est trop de flammes pour un coeur.
Epargnez en une etincelle,
Puis fais ton effort d'emouvoir,
La fiere qui ne veut point voir,
En quel feu je brule pour elle.
Execute, Amour, ce dessein,
Et rabaisse un peu son audace:
Son coeur ne doit etre de glace,
Bien qu'elle ait de neige le sein.
Montanus ended his sonnet with such a volley of sighs, and such a
stream of tears, as might have moved any but Phoebe to have granted
him favor. But she, measuring all his passions with a coy disdain, and
triumphing in the poor shepherd's pathetical humors, smiling at his
martyrdom as though love had been no malady, scornfully warbled out
this sonnet:
_Phoebe's Sonnet, a Reply to Montanus' Passion_
Down a down,
Thus Phyllis sung,
By fancy once distressed;
Whoso by foolish love are stung
Are worthily oppressed.
And so sing I. With a down, down, &c.
When Love was first begot,
And by the mover's will
Did fall to human lot
His solace to fulfil,
Devoid of all deceit,
A chaste and holy fire
Did quicken man's conceit,
And women's breast inspire.
The gods that saw the good
That mortals did approve,
With kind and holy mood
Began to talk of Love.
Down a down,
Thus Phyllis sung
By fancy once distressed, &c.
But during this accord,
A wonder strange to hear,
Whilst Love in deed and word
Most faithful did appear,
False-semblance came in place,
By Jealousy attended,
And with a double face
Both love and fancy blended;
Which made the gods forsake,
And men from fancy fly,
And maidens scorn a make,[1]
Forsooth, and so will I.
Down a down,
Thu
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