]
Montanus, hearing the cruel resolution of Phoebe, was so overgrown
with passions, that from amorous ditties he fell flat into these
terms:
"Ah, Phoebe," quoth he, "whereof art thou made, that thou regardest
not my malady? Am I so hateful an object that thine eyes condemn me
for an abject? or so base, that thy desires cannot stoop so low as to
lend me a gracious look? My passions are many, my loves more, my
thoughts loyalty, and my fancy faith: all devoted in humble devoir[1]
to the service of Phoebe; and shall I reap no reward for such
fealties? The swain's daily labors is quit with the evening's hire,
the ploughman's toil is eased with the hope of corn, what the ox
sweats out at the plough he fatteneth at the crib; but infortunate
Montanus hath no salve for his sorrows, nor any hope of recompense for
the hazard of his perplexed passions. If, Phoebe, time may plead the
proof of my truth, twice seven winters have I loved fair Phoebe: if
constancy be a cause to farther my suit, Montanus' thoughts have been
sealed in the sweet of Phoebe's excellence, as far from change as she
from love: if outward passions may discover inward affections, the
furrows in my face may decipher the sorrows of my heart, and the map
of my looks the griefs of my mind.
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