hope of corn, what the ox sweats out at the plough he
fatteneth at the crib: but unfortunate Montanus[39] 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 further 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 discover the sorrows of my
heart, and the map of my looks the grief 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; Philomel hearing my passions, hath left
her mournful tunes to listen to the discourse of 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 are above my deserts: only at my death this favour
cannot be denied me, that all shall say Montanus died for love of
hard hearted Phoebe.' At these words she filled her face full of
frowns and made him this short and sharp reply.

"'Importunate shepherd, whose loves are lawless because restless:
are thy passions so extreme, that thou canst not conceal them
with patience? or art thou so folly-sick, that thou must needs be
fancy-sick, and in thy affection tied to such an exigent as none
serves but Phoebe? Well, sir, if your market can be made nowhere
else, home again, for your mart is at the fairest. Phoebe is no
lettuce for your lips, and her grapes hang so high, that gaze at
them you