ut distress;
The winds of my deep sighs,
that thunder still for noughts,
Have split my sails with fear,
with care and heaviness.

A mighty storm of tears,
a black and hideous cloud,
A thousand fierce disdains
do slack the halyards oft;
Till ignorance do pull,
and error hale the shrouds,
No star for safety shines,
no Phoebe from aloft.

Time hath subdued art,
and joy is slave to woe:
Alas, Love's guide, be kind!
what, shall I perish so?

This letter and the sonnet being ended, she could find no fit
messenger to send it by, and therefore she called in Montanus, and
entreated him to carry it to Ganymede. Although poor Montanus saw day
at a little hole, and did perceive what passion pinched her, yet, that
he might seem dutiful to his mistress in all service, he dissembled
the matter, and became a willing messenger of his own martyrdom. And
so, taking the letter, went the next morn very early to the plains
where Aliena fed her flocks, and there he found Ganymede, sitting
under a pomegranate tree, sorrowing for the hard fortunes of her
Rosader. Montanus saluted him, and according to his charge delivered
Ganymede the letters, which, he said, came from Phoebe. At this the
wanton blushed, as being abashed to think what news should come from
an unknown shepherdess; but taking the letters, unripped the seals,
and read over the discourse of Phoebe's fancies. When she had read and
over-read them Ganymede began to smile, and looking on Montanus, fell
into a great laughter, and with that called Aliena, to whom she showed
the writings. Who, having perused them, conceited them very
pleasantly, and smiled to see how love had yoked her, who before would
not stoop to the lure; Aliena whispering Ganymede in the ear, and
saying, "Knew Phoebe what want there were in thee to perform her will,
and how unfit thy kind is to be kind to her, she would be more wise,
and less enamored; but leaving that, I pray thee let us sport with
this swain." At that word Ganymede, turning to Montanus, began to
glance at him[1] thus:

[Footnote 1: tease.]

"I pray thee, tell me, shepherd, by those sweet thoughts and pleasing
sighs that grow from my mistress' favors, art thou in love with
Phoebe?"

"Oh, my youth," quoth Montanus, "were Phoebe so far in love with me,
my flocks would be more fat and their master more quiet; for through
the sorrows o