Montanus ended his sonnet with such a volley of sighs, and such a stream of tears, as might have moved any but Phoebe to have granted him favor. But she, measuring all his passions with a coy disdain, and triumphing in the poor shepherd's pathetical humors, smiling at his martyrdom as though love had been no malady, scornfully warbled out this sonnet: _Phoebe's Sonnet, a Reply to Montanus' Passion_ Down a down, Thus Phyllis sung, By fancy once distressed; Whoso by foolish love are stung Are worthily oppressed. And so sing I. With a down, down, &c. When Love was first begot, And by the mover's will Did fall to human lot His solace to fulfil, Devoid of all deceit, A chaste and holy fire Did quicken man's conceit, And women's breast inspire. The gods that saw the good That mortals did approve, With kind and holy mood Began to talk of Love. Down a down, Thus Phyllis sung By fancy once distressed, &c. But during this accord, A wonder strange to hear, Whilst Love in deed and word Most faithful did appear, False-semblance came in place, By Jealousy attended, And with a double face Both love and fancy blended; Which made the gods forsake, And men from fancy fly, And maidens scorn a make,[1] Forsooth, and so will I. Down a down, Thus Phyllis sung, By fancy once distressed; Who so by foolish love are stung Are worthily oppressed. And so sing I. With down a down, a down down, a down a. [Footnote 1: mate.] Montanus, hearing the cruel resolution of Phoebe, was so overgrown with passions, that from amorous ditties he fell flat into these terms: