ing slumbers, as full of sorrows as they
be far from rest; and my days' labors are fruitless amours, staring at
a star and stumbling at a straw, leaving reason to follow after
repentance; yet every passion is a pleasure though it pinch, because
love hides his wormseed[1] in figs, his poisons in sweet potions, and
shadows prejudice with the mask of pleasure. The wisest counsellors
are my deep discontents, and I hate that which should salve my harm,
like the patient which stung with the Tarantula loathes music, and yet
the disease incurable but by melody. Thus, sir, restless I hold myself
remediless, as loving without either reward or regard, and yet loving
because there is none worthy to be loved but the mistress of my
thoughts. And that I am as full of passions as I have discoursed in my
plaints, sir, if you please, see my sonnets, and by them censure of my
sorrows."

[Footnote 1: wormwood = bitterness.]

These words of Montanus brought the king into a great wonder, amazed
as much at his wit as his attire, insomuch that he took the papers off
his hook, and read them to this effect:

_Montanus' first Sonnet_

Alas! how wander I amidst these woods
Whereas no day-bright shine doth find access;
But where the melancholy fleeting floods,
Dark as the night, my night of woes express.
Disarmed of reason, spoiled of nature's goods,
Without redress to salve my heaviness
I walk, whilst thought, too cruel to my harms,
With endless grief my heedless judgment charms.

My silent tongue assailed by secret fear,
My traitorous eyes imprisoned in their joy,
My fatal peace devoured in feigned cheer,
My heart enforced to harbor in annoy,
My reason robbed of power by yielding ear,
My fond opinions slave to every toy.
O Love! thou guide in my uncertain way,
Woe to thy bow, thy fire, the cause of my decay.

_Et florida pungunt._

When the king had read this sonnet he highly commended the device of
the shepherd, that could so wittily wrap his passions in a shadow, and
so covertly conceal that which bred his chiefest discontent;
affirming, that as the least shrubs have their tops, the smallest
hairs their shadows, so the meanest swains had their fancies, and in
their kind were as chary of love as a king. Whetted on with this
device, he took the second and read it: the effects were these:

_Montanus' second Sonnet_

When the