"
At this she held down her head and wept, and Ganymede rose as one that
would suffer no fish to hang on his fingers, made this reply:
"Water not thy plants, Phoebe, for I do pity thy plaints, nor seek not
to discover thy loves in tears, for I conjecture thy truth by thy
passions: sorrow is no salve for loves, nor sighs no remedy for
affection. Therefore frolic, Phoebe; for if Ganymede can cure thee,
doubt not of recovery. Yet this let me say without offence, that it
grieves me to thwart Montanus in his fancies, seeing his desires have
been so resolute, and his thoughts so loyal. But thou allegest that
thou art forced from him by fate: so I tell thee, Phoebe, either some
star or else some destiny fits my mind, rather with Adonis to die in
chase than be counted a wanton in Venus' knee. Although I pity thy
martyrdom, yet I can grant no marriage; for though I held thee fair,
yet mine eye is not fettered: love grows not, like the herb Spattana,
to his perfection in one night, but creeps with the snail, and yet at
last attains to the top. _Festina lente_, especially in love, for
momentary fancies are oft-times the fruits of follies.
Pages:
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210