h within it, forever, a song so sweet that the chanting of
the sirens matters not; there is that precious stone which, as the
magnet draweth the iron, so ever constraineth Honor, bidding him mount
every breach, climb higher, higher, higher yet! there is that fragrant
leaf which oft is fed with tears, and often sighing worn, yet, so worn,
inspireth valor more heroical than that of Achilles! Such a charm I
seek, sweet lady."

Mistress Damaris Sedley, a favorite of the Countess of Pembroke, and a
court lady of some months' standing, could parley euphuism with the
best, and yet to-day it seemed to her that plain English might better
serve the turn. However:

"Good gentleman," she answered, sedately, "I think that few are the bees
that gather so dainty a wax, but if they be flown to Hymettus, then to
Hymettus might one follow them; also that precious stone may be found,
though, alack! often enough a man is so poor a lapidary that, seeing
only the covering of circumstances, he misses the true sapphire! and for
that fragrant leaf, I have heard of it in my day--"

"It is called truelove," he said.

Damaris kept to the card: "My marvel, sir, is to hear you speak as
though you had not the charm you seem to seek. One blossom of the tree
Alpina is worth all store of roses; one ruby outvalueth many pearls; he
who hath already the word of magic needeth to buy no Venus's image; and
Sir Mortimer Ferne, secure in Dione's love, saileth, methinks, in
crystal seas, with slight danger from storm and wreck."

"Secure in Dione's love!" repeated Ferne. "Ah, lady, your shaft has
gone wide. I have sailed, and sailed, and sailed--ay, and in crystal
seas--and have seen blooms fairer than the tree Alpina, and have been in
the land of emeralds and where pearls do grow, and yet have never
gathered the fragrant leaf, that leaf of true and mutual love. It should
grow with the laurel and blend with the bay--ay, and be not missing from
the cypress wreath! But as yet I have it not--as yet I have it not."

Damaris gazed upon him with brown, incredulous eyes, and when she spoke
her words came somewhat breathlessly, having quite outgone the courtly
affectation of similes run mad.

"What mean you, sir? Not the love of Astrophel for Stella is better
known than that of Cleon for Dione! And, lo! now your own lines--Master
Dyer showed them to me but the other day copied into his book of songs:

'Nor in my watery wanderings am I crossed;
Where h