hers the fair, which all men do respect.
My lines her fair, her fair my faith assures;
Thus I by love, and love by me endures.

"Thus," quoth Rosader, "here is an end of my poems, but for all this
no release of my passions; so that I resemble him that in the depth of
his distress hath none but the echo to answer him."

Ganymede, pitying her Rosader, thinking to drive him out of this
amorous melancholy, said that now the sun was in his meridional heat
and that it was high noon, "therefore we shepherds say, 'tis time to
go to dinner; for the sun and our stomachs are shepherds' dials.
Therefore, forester, if thou wilt take such fare as comes out of our
homely scrips, welcome shall answer whatsoever thou wantest in
delicates."

Aliena took the entertainment by the end, and told Rosader he should
be her guest. He thanked them heartily, and sate with them down to
dinner, where they had such cates as country state did allow them,
sauced with such content, and such sweet prattle, as it seemed far
more sweet than all their courtly junkets.

As soon as they had taken their repast, Rosader, giving them thanks
for his good cheer, would have been gone; but Ganymede, that was loath
to let him pass out of her presence, began thus:

"Nay, forester," quoth he, "if thy business be not the greater, seeing
thou sayest thou art so deeply in love, let me see how thou canst woo:
I will represent Rosalynde, and thou shalt be as thou art, Rosader.
See in some amorous eclogue, how if Rosalynde were present, how thou
couldst court her; and while we sing of love, Aliena shall tune her
pipe and play us melody."

"Content," quoth Rosader, and Aliena, she, to show her willingness,
drew forth a recorder,[1] and began to wind it. Then the loving
forester began thus:

[Footnote 1: an old instrument, resembling the flageolet.]

_The wooing Eclogue betwixt Rosalynde and Rosader_

ROSADER

I pray thee, nymph, by all the working words,
By all the tears and sighs that lovers know,
Or what or thoughts or faltering tongue affords,
I crave for mine in ripping up my woe.
Sweet Rosalynde, my love (would God, my love)
My life (would God, my life) aye, pity me!
Thy lips are kind, and humble like the dove,
And but with beauty, pity will not be.
Look on mine eyes, made red with rueful tears,
From whence the rain of true remorse descendeth,
All pale in looks am I though young in years,