tell me, forester, what is this Rosalynde for whom thou
pinest away in such passions? Is she some nymph that waits upon
Diana's train, whose chastity thou hast deciphered in such epithets?
Or is she some shepherdess that haunts these plains whose beauty hath
so bewitched thy fancy, whose name thou shadowest in covert under the
figure of Rosalynde, as Ovid did Julia under the name of Corinna? Or
say me forsooth, is it that Rosalynde, of whom we shepherds have heard
talk, she, forester, that is the daughter of Gerismond, that once was
king, and now an outlaw in the forest of Arden?"

At this Rosader fetched a deep sigh, and said:

"It is she, O gentle swain, it is she; that saint it is whom I serve,
that goddess at whose shrine I do bend all my devotions; the most
fairest of all fairs, the phoenix of all that sex, and the purity of
all earthly perfection."

"And why, gentle forester, if she be so beautiful, and thou so
amorous, is there such a disagreement in thy thoughts? Happily she
resembleth the rose, that is sweet but full of prickles? or the
serpent Regius that hath scales as glorious as the sun and a breath as
infectious as the Aconitum is deadly? So thy Rosalynde may be most
amiable and yet unkind; full of favor and yet froward, coy without
wit, and disdainful without reason."

"O Shepherd," quoth Rosader, "knewest thou her personage, graced with
the excellence of all perfection, being a harbor wherein the graces
shroud their virtues, thou wouldest not breathe out such blasphemy
against the beauteous Rosalynde. She is a diamond, bright but not
hard, yet of most chaste operation; a pearl so orient,[1] that it can
be stained with no blemish; a rose without prickles, and a princess
absolute as well in beauty as in virtue. But I, unhappy I, have let
mine eye soar with the eagle against so bright a sun that I am quite
blind: I have with Apollo enamored myself of a Daphne, not, as she,
disdainful, but far more chaste than Daphne: I have with Ixion laid my
love on Juno, and shall, I fear, embrace nought but a cloud. Ah,
Shepherd, I have reached at a star: my desires have mounted above my
degree, and my thoughts above my fortunes. I being a peasant, have
ventured to gaze on a princess, whose honors are too high to vouchsafe
such base loves."

[Footnote 1: precious.]

"Why, forester," quoth Ganymede, "comfort thyself; be blithe and
frolic man. Love souseth[1] as low as she soareth high: Cupid shoots
at a rag as soo