ook pen and paper, and wrote a
letter to this effect:

[Footnote 1: a stand or case for pen and ink.]

"Phoebe to Ganymede wisheth what she wants herself.

Fair shepherd--and therefore is Phoebe infortunate, because thou art
so fair--although hitherto mine eyes were adamants to resist love, yet
I no sooner saw thy face, but they became amorous to entertain love;
more devoted to fancy than before they were repugnant to affection,
addicted to the one by nature and drawn to the other by beauty: which,
being rare and made the more excellent by many virtues, hath so
snared the freedom of Phoebe, as she rests at thy mercy, either to be
made the most fortunate of all maidens, or the most miserable of all
women. Measure not, Ganymede, my loves by my wealth, nor my desires by
my degrees; but think my thoughts as full of faith, as thy face of
amiable favors. Then, as thou knowest thyself most beautiful, suppose
me most constant. If thou deemest me hard-hearted because I hated
Montanus, think I was forced to it by fate; if thou sayest I am
kind-hearted because so lightly I love thee at the first look, think I
was driven to it by destiny, whose influence, as it is mighty, so is
it not to be resisted. If my fortunes were anything but infortunate
love, I would strive with fortune: but he that wrests[1] against the
will of Venus, seeks to quench fire with oil, and to thrust out one
thorn by putting in another. If then, Ganymede, love enters at the
eye, harbors in the heart, and will neither be driven out with physic
nor reason, pity me, as one whose malady hath no salve but from thy
sweet self, whose grief hath no ease but through thy grant; and think
I am a virgin who is deeply wronged when I am forced to woo, and
conjecture love to be strong, that is more forcible than nature. Thus
distressed unless by thee eased, I expect either to live fortunate by
thy favor, or die miserable by thy denial. Living in hope. Farewell.

She that must be thine,
or not be at all,
Phoebe."

[Footnote 1: wrestles.]

To this letter she annexed this sonnet:

_Sonetto_

My boat doth pass the straits
of seas incensed with fire,
Filled with forgetfulness;
amidst the winter's night,
A blind and careless boy,
brought up by fond desire,
Doth guide me in the sea
of sorrow and despite.

For every oar he sets
a rank of foolish thoughts,
And cuts, instead of wave,
a hope witho