tressed, surcharged with cares, and overgrown with sorrows, yet
amidst the heap of all these mishaps, love hath lodged in thy heart
the perfection of young Rosader, a man every way absolute as well for
his inward life, as for his outward lineaments, able to content the
eye with beauty, and the ear with the report of his virtue. But
consider, Rosalynde, his fortunes, and thy present estate: thou art
poor and without patrimony, and yet the daughter of a prince; he a
younger brother, and void of such possessions as either might maintain
thy dignities or revenge thy father's injuries. And hast thou not
learned this of other ladies, that lovers cannot live by looks, that
women's ears are sooner content with a dram of _give me_ than a pound
of _hear me_, that gold is sweeter than eloquence, that love is a fire
and wealth is the fuel, that Venus' coffers should be ever full?
Then, Rosalynde, seeing Rosader is poor, think him less beautiful
because he is in want, and account his virtues but qualities of course
for that he is not endued with wealth. Doth not Horace tell thee what
method is to be used in love?

Quaerenda pecunia primum, post nummos virtus.

Tush, Rosalynde, be not over rash: leap not before thou look: either
love such a one as may with his lands purchase thy liberty, or else
love not at all. Choose not a fair face with an empty purse, but say
as most women use to say:

Si nihil attuleris, ibis Homere foras.

Why, Rosalynde! can such base thoughts harbor in such high beauties?
can the degree of a princess, the daughter of Gerismond harbor such
servile conceits, as to prize gold more than honor, or to measure a
gentleman by his wealth, not by his virtues? No, Rosalynde, blush at
thy base resolution, and say, if thou lovest, 'either Rosader or
none!' And why? because Rosader is both beautiful and virtuous."
Smiling to herself to think of her new-entertained passions, taking up
her lute that lay by her, she warbled out this ditty:

_Rosalynde's Madrigal_

Love in my bosom like a bee
Doth suck his sweet:
Now with his wings he plays with me,
Now with his feet.
Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amidst my tender breast;
My kisses are his daily feast,
And yet he robs me of my rest.
Ah, wanton, will ye?

And if I sleep, then percheth he
With pretty flight,
And makes his pillow of my knee
The livelong night.
Strike I my lute