f my discontent grows the leanness of my sheep."

"Alas, poor swain," quoth Ganymede, "are thy passions so extreme or
thy fancy so resolute, that no reason will blemish the pride of thy
affection, and rase out that which thou strivest for without hope?"

"Nothing can make me forget Phoebe, while Montanus forget himself; for
those characters which true love hath stamped, neither the envy of
time nor fortune can wipe away."

"Why but, Montanus," quoth Ganymede, "enter with a deep insight into
the despair of thy fancies, and thou shalt see the depth of thine own
follies; for, poor man, thy progress in love is a regress to loss,
swimming against the stream with the crab, and flying with Apis Indica
against wind and weather. Thou seekest with Phoebus to win Daphne, and
she flies faster than thou canst follow: thy desires soar with the
hobby,[1] but her disdain reacheth higher than thou canst make wing. I
tell thee, Montanus, in courting Phoebe, thou barkest with the wolves
of Syria against the moon, and rovest at such a mark, with thy
thoughts, as is beyond the pitch[2] of thy bow, praying to Love, when
Love is pitiless, and thy malady remediless. For proof, Montanus, read
these letters, wherein thou shalt see thy great follies and little
hope."

[Footnote 1: falcon.]

[Footnote 2: range.]

With that Montanus took them and perused them, but with such sorrow in
his looks, as they betrayed a source of confused passions in his
heart; at every line his color changed, and every sentence was ended
with a period of sighs.

At last, noting Phoebe's extreme desire toward Ganymede and her
disdain towards him, giving Ganymede the letter, the shepherd stood as
though he had neither won nor lost. Which Ganymede perceiving wakened
him out of his dream thus:

"Now, Montanus, dost thou see thou vowest great service and obtainest
but little reward; but in lieu of thy loyalty, she maketh thee, as
Bellerophon, carry thine own bane. Then drink not willingly of that
potion wherein thou knowest is poison; creep not to her that cares not
for thee. What, Montanus, there are many as fair as Phoebe, but most
of all more courteous than Phoebe. I tell thee, shepherd, favor is
love's fuel; then since thou canst not get that, let the flame vanish
into smoke, and rather sorrow for a while than repent thee for ever."

"I tell thee, Ganymede," quoth Montanus, "as they which are stung with
the scorpion, cannot be recovered but by the scorpion, nor