“So,” said he, “parting from that place before the sun had much abased himself of his greatest height, we saw sitting upon the dry sands, which yielded, at that time, a very hot reflection, a fair {237} gentlewoman, whose gesture accused her of much sorrow, and every way showed she cared not what pain she put her body to, since the better part, her mind, was laid under so much agony: and so was she dulled, withal, that we could come so near as to hear her speeches, and yet she not perceive the hearers of her lamentation. But well we might understand her at times say, ‘Thou doest kill me with thy unkind falsehood: and it grieves me not to die, but it grieves me that thou art the murderer: neither doth mine own pain so much vex me, as thy error. For God knows, it would not trouble me to be slain for thee, but much it torments me to be slain by thee; thou art untrue, Pamphilus, thou art untrue, and woe is me therefore. How oft did’st thou swear unto me that the sun should lose his light, and the rocks run up and down like little kids, before thou would’st falsify thy faith to me? sun therefore put out thy shining, and rocks run mad for sorrow; for Pamphilus is false. But alas! the sun keeps his light, though thy faith be darkened; the rocks stand still, though thou change like a weather-cock. O fool that I am, that thought I could grasp water, and bind the wind. I might well have known thee by others, but I would not; and rather wished to learn poison by drinking it myself, while my love helped thy words to deceive me. Well, yet I would thou had’st made a better choice when though did’st forsake thy unfortunate Leucippe. But it is no matter, Baccha, thy new mistress, will revenge my wrongs. But do not Baccha, let Pamphilus live happy, though I die.’