Franciscus Petrarcus, the poet laureate, Saith that Nature, which is mother of all things, Without strife can give life to nothing create; And Heraclitus, the wise clerk, in his writing, Saith in all things create strife is their working; And there is nothing under the firmament With any other in all points equivalent. And, according to their diets rehearsed as thus, All things are create in manner of strife. These foolish lovers, then, that be so amorous, From pleasure to displeasure how lead they their life: Now sorry, now sad: now joyous, now pensive: Alas! I, poor maiden, then what shall I do, Cumbered by dotage of one Calisto? I know that Nature hath given me beauty, With sanguineous complexion, favour, and fairness: The more to God ought I to do fea'ty With will, life, land, and love of perfectness. I deny not but Calisto is of great worthiness, But what of that? for all his high estate, His desire I defy, and utterly shall hate. Oh, his sayings and suits so importune, That of my life he maketh me almost weary! Oh, his lamentations and exclamations on fortune, With similitude [of] manner as one that should die! But who shall pity this? In faith, not I. Shall I accomplish his carnal desire? Nay, yet at a stake rather bren in a fire. Of truth, I am sorry for his trouble; To strive with himself thus for love of me; But though his sorrows, I assure you, should double, Out of his danger[29] will I be at liberty. [_Enter_ CALISTO _unseen_.]