A mighty storm of tears,
a black and hideous cloud,
A thousand fierce disdains
do slack the halyards oft;
Till ignorance do pull,
and error hale the shrouds,
No star for safety shines,
no Phoebe from aloft.
Time hath subdued art,
and joy is slave to woe:
Alas, Love's guide, be kind!
what, shall I perish so?
This letter and the sonnet being ended, she could find no fit
messenger to send it by, and therefore she called in Montanus, and
entreated him to carry it to Ganymede. Although poor Montanus saw day
at a little hole, and did perceive what passion pinched her, yet, that
he might seem dutiful to his mistress in all service, he dissembled
the matter, and became a willing messenger of his own martyrdom. And
so, taking the letter, went the next morn very early to the plains
where Aliena fed her flocks, and there he found Ganymede, sitting
under a pomegranate tree, sorrowing for the hard fortunes of her
Rosader. Montanus saluted him, and according to his charge delivered
Ganymede the letters, which, he said, came from Phoebe.
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