s Phyllis sung,
By fancy once distressed;
Who so by foolish love are stung
Are worthily oppressed.
And so sing I.
With down a down, a down down, a down a.

[Footnote 1: mate.]

Montanus, hearing the cruel resolution of Phoebe, was so overgrown
with passions, that from amorous ditties he fell flat into these
terms:

"Ah, Phoebe," quoth he, "whereof art thou made, that thou regardest
not my malady? Am I so hateful an object that thine eyes condemn me
for an abject? or so base, that thy desires cannot stoop so low as to
lend me a gracious look? My passions are many, my loves more, my
thoughts loyalty, and my fancy faith: all devoted in humble devoir[1]
to the service of Phoebe; and shall I reap no reward for such
fealties? The swain's daily labors is quit with the evening's hire,
the ploughman's toil is eased with the hope of corn, what the ox
sweats out at the plough he fatteneth at the crib; but infortunate
Montanus hath no salve for his sorrows, nor any hope of recompense for
the hazard of his perplexed passions. If, Phoebe, time may plead the
proof of my truth, twice seven winters have I loved fair Phoebe: if
constancy be a cause to farther my suit, Montanus' thoughts have been
sealed in the sweet of Phoebe's excellence, as far from change as she
from love: if outward passions may discover inward affections, the
furrows in my face may decipher the sorrows of my heart, and the map
of my looks the griefs of my mind. Thou seest, Phoebe, the tears of
despair have made my cheeks full of wrinkles, and my scalding sighs
have made the air echo her pity conceived in my plaints: Philomele
hearing my passions, hath left her mournful tunes to listen to the
discourse of my miseries. I have portrayed in every tree the beauty of
my mistress, and the despair of my loves. What is it in the woods
cannot witness my woes? and who is it would not pity my plaints? Only
Phoebe. And why? Because I am Montanus, and she Phoebe: I a worthless
swain, and she the most excellent of all fairies. Beautiful Phoebe!
oh, might I say pitiful, then happy were I, though I tasted but one
minute of that good hap. Measure Montanus not by his fortunes but by
his loves, and balance not his wealth but his desires, and lend but
one gracious look to cure a heap of disquieted cares: if not, ah! if
Phoebe cannot love, let a storm of frowns end the discontent of my
thoughts, and so let me perish in my desires, because they