The Messenger to spurre forth her desires, and hasten her vnto his well-lou'd friend, Tells her, how hee lyes languishing in fires of burning griefes, which neuer will haue end: Bids her to flye to him with wings of zeale, And thus _Diegoes_ paines hee doth reueale. Oh Adamantick-minded Mayde (quoth hee) why linger you in this ambiguous thought, Open thine eyes, no longer blinded bee, those wounding lookes, thy Louer, deere hath bought. Vnbolt thy harts strong gate of hardest steele, O let him nowe the warmth of pittie feele. Oh let him now the warmth of pittie feele, that long hath knockt cold-staruen at thy dore; Wanting loues foode hee here & there doth reele lyke to a storme-tost Ship that's far from shore. Feede him with loue that long hath fed on cares, Be Anchor to his soule that swims in teares. _Gyneura_, let him harbour in thy hart rig and amend his trouble-beaten face, O calme thy hate, whose winds haue rais'd his smart see him not perrish in this wofull case. And for in Sea-salt teares hee long hath liu'd, Let him by thy fresh water be relieu'd. Oh, shall I tell thee how I found him there, his house wherein hee liu'd (if lyue hee did, Or rather spend his time in dying feare) was built within the ground, all darksom hid. From _Phoebus_ light, so vgly, hell-lyke Caue, In all the world againe you cannot haue. All made of rug'd hard-fauour'd stones, whose churlish lookes afford the eye no pleasure, In whose concauity winds breath'd horce grones, to which sad musicke Sorrow daunc'd a measure. O'regrowne it was with mighty shadefull Trees, VVhere poore _Diego_ Sun nor Moone nere sees. To this black place repaired euery morne, The fayre _Oreades_ pitty-moued gerles, Bringing the poore _Diego_ so forlorne, Mosse to dry vp his teares, those liquid pearles: Full loath they were to loose such christall springs, Therfore this Spunge-like Mosse each of th[=e] brings. Here dry (say they) thou loue-forsaken man, those glassy Conduits, which do neuer cease On this soft-feeling weede; and if you can, we all intreate, your griefes you would appease, Else wilt thou make vs pine in griefe-full woe, That nere knewe care, or loue, or friend, or foe. Straight (like a shooting Commet in the ayre) away depart these sorrow-peirced maydes, Leauing _Diego_ in a deepe dispaire, who now, his fortune, now his fate vp-braides. O heauens (quoth he) how happy are these trees, That know not loue, nor feele his miseries. Melts not thy hart (_Gyneura_) at his cares? are not thy bright transparent eyes yet blinde VVith monstrous diluge of o'reflowing teares? remaines there yet disdaines within thy mind? Disgorge thy hate, O hate him not that loues thee, Maids are more milde th[=e] men, yet pitty moues me.