But daring with Phaethon,
I fall with Icarus, and seeking to pass the mean, I die for being so
mean; my night-sleeps are waking slumbers, as full of sorrows as they
be far from rest; and my days' labors are fruitless amours, staring at
a star and stumbling at a straw, leaving reason to follow after
repentance; yet every passion is a pleasure though it pinch, because
love hides his wormseed[1] in figs, his poisons in sweet potions, and
shadows prejudice with the mask of pleasure. The wisest counsellors
are my deep discontents, and I hate that which should salve my harm,
like the patient which stung with the Tarantula loathes music, and yet
the disease incurable but by melody. Thus, sir, restless I hold myself
remediless, as loving without either reward or regard, and yet loving
because there is none worthy to be loved but the mistress of my
thoughts. And that I am as full of passions as I have discoursed in my
plaints, sir, if you please, see my sonnets, and by them censure of my
sorrows."
[Footnote 1: wormwood = bitterness.]
These words of Montanus brought the king into a great wonder, amazed
as much at his wit as his attire, insomuch that he took the papers off
his hook, and read them to this effect:
_Montanus' first Sonnet_
Alas! how wander I amidst these woods
Whereas no day-bright shine doth find access;
But where the melancholy fleeting floods,
Dark as the night, my night of woes express.
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