return to Rosalynde.

[Footnote 1: dainties.]

[Footnote 2: "a toast."--_Greg._]

Rosalynde returning home from the triumph, after she waxed solitary,
love presented her with the idea of Rosader's perfection, and taking
her at discovert struck her so deep, as she felt herself grow passing
passionate. She began to call to mind the comeliness of his person,
the honor of his parents, and the virtues that, excelling both, made
him so gracious in the eyes of every one. Sucking in thus the honey of
love by imprinting in her thoughts his rare qualities, she began to
surfeit with the contemplation of his virtuous conditions; but when
she called to remembrance her present estate, and the hardness of her
fortunes, desire began to shrink, and fancy to vail bonnet, that
between a Chaos of confused thoughts she began to debate with herself
in this manner:

ROSALYNDE'S PASSION

"Infortunate Rosalynde, whose misfortunes are more than thy years, and
whose passions are greater than thy patience! The blossoms of thy
youth are mixed with the frosts of envy, and the hope of thy ensuing
fruits perish in the bud. Thy father is by Torismond banished from the
crown, and thou, the unhappy daughter of a king, detained captive,
living as disquieted in thy thoughts as thy father discontented in
his exile. Ah Rosalynde, what cares wait upon a crown! what griefs are
incident to dignity! what sorrows haunt royal palaces! The greatest
seas have the sorest storms, the highest birth subject to the most
bale, and of all trees the cedars soonest shake with the wind: small
currents are ever calm, low valleys not scorched in any lightnings,
nor base men tied to any baleful prejudice. Fortune flies, and if she
touch poverty it is with her heel, rather disdaining their want with a
frown, than envying their wealth with disparagement. O Rosalynde,
hadst thou been born low, thou hadst not fallen so high, and yet being
great of blood thine honor is more, if thou brookest misfortune with
patience. Suppose I contrary fortune with content, yet fates unwilling
to have me anyway happy, have forced love to set my thoughts on fire
with fancy. Love, Rosalynde? becometh it women in distress to think of
love? Tush, desire hath no respect of persons: Cupid is blind and
shooteth at random, as soon hitting a rag as a robe, and piercing as
soon the bosom of a captive as the breast of a libertine. Thou
speakest it, poor Rosalynde, by experience; for being every way
dis