Ah,
Shepherd, I have reached at a star: my desires have mounted above my
degree, and my thoughts above my fortunes. I being a peasant, have
ventured to gaze on a princess, whose honors are too high to vouchsafe
such base loves."
[Footnote 1: precious.]
"Why, forester," quoth Ganymede, "comfort thyself; be blithe and
frolic man. Love souseth[1] as low as she soareth high: Cupid shoots
at a rag as soon as at a robe; and Venus' eye that was so curious,
sparkled favor on pole-footed[2] Vulcan. Fear not, man, women's looks
are not tied to dignity's feathers, nor make they curious esteem where
the stone is found, but what is the virtue. Fear not, forester; faint
heart never won fair lady. But where lives Rosalynde now? at the
court?"
[Footnote 1: swoops, a term used in falconry.]
[Footnote 2: club-footed.]
"Oh no," quoth Rosader, "she lives I know not where, and that is my
sorrow; banished by Torismond, and that is my hell: for might I but
find her sacred personage, and plead before the bar of her pity the
plaint of my passions, hope tells me she would grace me with some
favor, and that would suffice as a recompense of all my former
miseries.
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