O Rosalynde, be kind, for times will change,
Thy looks ay nill be fair as now they be;
Thine age from beauty may thy looks estrange:
Ah, yield in time, sweet nymph, and pity me.

ROSALYNDE

O Rosalynde, thou must be pitiful,
For Rosader is young and beautiful.

ROSADER

Oh, gain more great than kingdoms or a crown!

ROSALYNDE

Oh, trust betrayed if Rosader abuse me.

ROSADER

First let the heavens conspire to pull me down
And heaven and earth as abject quite refuse me.
Let sorrows stream about my hateful bower,
And restless horror hatch within my breast:
Let beauty's eye afflict me with a lour,
Let deep despair pursue me without rest,
Ere Rosalynde my loyalty disprove,
Ere Rosalynde accuse me for unkind.

ROSALYNDE

Then Rosalynde will grace thee with her love
Then Rosalynde will have thee still in mind.

ROSADER

Then let me triumph more than Tithon's dear,
Since Rosalynde will Rosader respect:
Then let my face exile his sorry cheer,
And frolic in the comfort of affect;
And say that Rosalynde is only pitiful,
Since Rosalynde is only beautiful.

When thus they had finished their courting eclogue in such a familiar
clause, Ganymede, as augur of some good fortunes to light upon their
affections, began to be thus pleasant:

"How now, forester, have I not fitted your turn? have I not played the
woman handsomely, and showed myself as coy in grants as courteous in
desires, and been as full of suspicion as men of flattery? and yet to
salve all, jumped[1] I not all up with the sweet union of love? Did
not Rosalynde content her Rosader?"

[Footnote 1: ended.]

The forester at this smiling, shook his head, and folding his arms
made this merry reply:

"Truth, gentle swain, Rosader hath his Rosalynde; but as Ixion had
Juno, who, thinking to possess a goddess, only embraced a cloud: in
these imaginary fruitions of fancy I resemble the birds that fed
themselves with Zeuxis' painted grapes; but they grew so lean with
pecking at shadows, that they were glad, with Aesop's cock, to scrape
for a barley cornel.[1] So fareth it with me, who to feed myself with
the hope of my mistress's favors, sooth myself in thy suits, and only
in conceit reap a wished-for content; but if my food be no better than
such amorous dreams, Venus at the year's end shall find me but a lean
lover. Yet do I take