nts: round about in the form of an
amphitheatre were most curiously planted pine trees, interseamed with
limons and citrons, which with the thickness of their boughs so
shadowed the place, that Phoebus could not pry into the secret of that
arbor; so united were the tops with so thick a closure, that Venus
might there in her jollity have dallied unseen with her dearest
paramour. Fast by, to make the place more gorgeous, was there a fount
so crystalline and clear, that it seemed Diana with her Dryades and
Hamadryades had that spring, as the secret of all their bathings. In
this glorious arbor sat these two shepherds, seeing their sheep feed,
playing on their pipes many pleasant tunes, and from music and melody
falling into much amorous chat. Drawing more nigh we might descry the
countenance of the one to be full of sorrow, his face to be the very
portraiture of discontent, and his eyes full of woes, that living he
seemed to die: we, to hear what these were, stole privily behind the
thicket, where we overheard this discourse:

_A Pleasant Eclogue between Montanus and Corydon_

CORYDON

Say, shepherd's boy, what makes thee greet[1] so sore?
Why leaves thy pipe his pleasure and delight?
Young are thy years, thy cheeks with roses dight:
Then sing for joy, sweet swain, and sigh no more.

This milk-white poppy, and this climbing pine
Both promise shade; then sit thee down and sing,
And make these woods with pleasant notes to ring,
Till Phoebus deign all westward to decline.

[Footnote 1: weep.]

MONTANUS

Ah, Corydon, unmeet is melody
To him whom proud contempt hath overborne:
Slain are my joys by Phoebe's bitter scorn;
Far hence my weal, and near my jeopardy.

Love's burning brand is couched in my breast,
Making a Phoenix of my faintful heart:
And though his fury do enforce my smart,
Ay blithe am I to honor his behest.

Prepared to woes, since so my Phoebe wills,
My looks dismayed, since Phoebe will disdain;
I banish bliss and welcome home my pain:
So stream my tears as showers from Alpine hills.

In error's mask I blindfold judgment's eye,
I fetter reason in the snares of lust,
I seem secure, yet know not how to trust;
I live by that which makes me living die.

Devoid of rest, companion of distress,
Plague to myself, consumed by my thought,
How may my voice or pipe in tune be brought,
Si