Now in this sand I would discharge my mind, And cast from me part of my burd’nous cares: But in the sand my tales foretold I find, And see therein how well the writer fares. Since, stream, air, sand, mine eyes and ears conspire: What hope to quench, where each thing blows the fire? And as soon as she had written them, a new swarm of thoughts stinging her mind, she was ready with her feet to give the new-born letters both death and burial. But Philoclea, whose delight of hearing and seeing was before a stay from interrupting her, gave herself to be seen unto her, with such a lightening beauty upon Zelmane, that neither she could look on, nor would look off. At last Philoclea, having a little mused how to cut the thread even between her own hopeless affection and her father’s unbridled hope, with eyes, cheeks, and lips, whereof each sang their part to make up the harmony of bashfulness, began to say, “My father, to whom I owe myself;” and therefore when Zelmane (making a womanish habit to be the armour of her boldness, giving up her life to the lips of Philoclea, and taking it again by the sweetness of those kisses) humbly besought her to keep her speech for a while within the paradise of her mind. For well she knew her father’s errand, who should soon receive a sufficient answer. But now she demanded leave not to lose this long sought-for commodity of time, to ease her heart thus far, that if in her agonies her destiny was to be condemned by Philoclea’s mouth; at least Philoclea might know, whom she had condemned. Philoclea easily yielded to grant her own desire, and so making the green bank the situation, and the river the prospect of the most beautiful buildings of nature, Zelmane doubting how to begin, though her thoughts already had run to the end, with a mind fearing the unworthiness of every word that should be presented to her ears, at length brought it forth in this manner.