The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia

By Philip Sidney

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Title: The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia

Author: Philip Sidney

Editor: Ernest A. Baker

Contributors: William Alexander
              Richard Beling

Release Date: May 24, 2023 [eBook #70854]

Language: English

Produced by: an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer






 New York: E. P. Dutton & Co.


  BOOK VI (by R. B.)



In a broad survey of the early history of English prose fiction
three periods mark themselves out with great distinctness. The later
centuries of the middle ages were the age of romance, when both poet
and proseman worked upon the same mass of legendary material,
expanding and embellishing the current stories in precisely the same
spirit, the difference between prose romance and metrical romance
being simply one of mechanical form. When in the Elizabethan age the
literature of tradition gave way to the literature of invention, a
decisive step in advance was made; but the novel still retained all
the essential features of its poetic ancestry. Then, with the
invention of a genuine prose, in the succeeding epoch, came a
revolution. Discarding the romantic spirit, as their predecessors had
abandoned the romantic legends, the first modern novelists turned
themselves to the portrayal and interpretation of actual life, and the
history of realism began. Sir Philip Sidney’s _Arcadia_ holds an
important place in these three stages of gradual evolution, as the
type and culmination of the middle period, the age of poetic
invention; how important in the long history of the genesis, the
successive transformations, and the final development of English
fiction, can be realised only by going back right to the beginnings,
when the earliest prose romances took their rise from the _chansons de

In the exordium of his _Apologie for Poetrie_, Sidney himself lays
stress on the priority of the poet in the history of literature.
Modern research has found that this rule holds good in the literatures
of many more races than Sidney was able to adduce as examples. From
free imagination to realism, from mythology to science, from sensuous
and passionate rhythms to cold, abstract prose--this is the natural
line of progression. And the same course of development is repeated in
the evolution of the various literary species. The first Hellenic
{viii} philosophers wrote in hexameters; history began with epos, and
went through the semi-poetic phase of Herodotus before it emerged in
the form of abstract prose and the generalising method of science with
Thucydides. Scientific and technical literature had its birth in
poetry and mythology; and even when it became practical and
experimental maintained for a while the fashions of poetry, and sought
the inspiration of the muse. In the same way, the novel, whose
evolution seems to have culminated in unpoetic days, must have its
origins sought in far-off times when authors wrote instinctively in

Narrative or dramatic poetry and the novel must always of course be
very nearly related together. A poem and a novel, it might be said,
are but two different sorts of fiction. But to make this statement
literally true, the word fiction would have to be interpreted in two
different senses. For the difference between poetry and prose is not
simply one of style, but lies in the circumstance that the imagination
of the poet, inspired with emotion and ideality, appeals directly to
imagination, whilst prose addresses the understanding. The poet merely
asks us to imagine; but the prose-writer has to reason and convince.
Writers of such prose fiction as the Elizabethan novels, and the Greek
and Latin novels that arose in the decadence of classical literature,
did not realise that the mind of the reader is reached in essentially
different ways by prose and poetry; that in the one case the
imagination is working on a higher plane, and responding to another
kind of stimulus. Both accordingly produced something that was really
neither prose nor poetry, and both had slight influence on the
subsequent development of the novel. It will be worth while a little
later to compare the Elizabethan novel with this curious product of an
earlier age of culture and decadence. For the novel of Sidney, Lyly,
Lodge, and Greene, though it belongs to the Elizabethan era in time,
was not a native growth of that age of great beginnings, but rather a
final and unproductive efflorescence of the romantic literature that
had its roots in times already ancient. Sidney the critic and
interpreter of letters looked back, not forward. He did not discern
the signs around him of the tremendous birth that was commencing, but
would have been proud to be compared with {ix} Heliodorus and Longus,
and with Sanazzaro and Montemayor, whom he acclaims as genuine poets,
preaching with seductive eloquence throughout his _Apologie_ the
fallacious doctrine that poetry is the name for all imaginative

The first English examples of fiction in prose were stories from the
great chivalric cycles of Arthur, of Charlemagne, and of Troy and
Alexander. Some of these were written in prose originally, but the
majority were translations, paraphrases, or recensions of metrical
narratives. Some were turned into verse again, and again in that form
were the material for further prose recensions. And throughout these
transformations the matter, the style, and the spirit of the stories
underwent hardly any change. It was only now and then that the
versifier gave a rein to imagination in his battles and pageants; or
was hurried by the swing of the metre into bursts of lyricism, or a
more dramatic curtness in the dialogue; or cut short the explication
of motive and plot, which the prose-writer was inclined to elaborate.
How well the prose sufficed to the minstrel converting it into his own
idiom may be seen by comparing such a metrical romance as the Scots
poem, _Lancelot of the Laik_, with the samples of the French prose
story from which it was translated, in the edition by the Early
English Text Society. There is very little poetical heightening except
where the minstrel tacks on a prologue of his own composing; the rest
is but the effect of the paraphraser’s occasional impulse to change
and invent.[i01] Certainly these {x} writers were not embarrassed by
any preconceptions of a strict boundary line between prose and the
language of poetry, and the uses for which either was especially
ordained. The traditional themes were handled, in both verse and
prose, in the same traditional manner, and were animated by the same
spirit of romantic adventure.

A change of style is almost invariably the result of a change of
thought and feeling; but no profound mental and moral revolution like
that which underlay the romantic movement of the nineteenth century,
was the occasion for turning the mediaeval romances into prose. When
all literary compositions were intended for singing and recitation,
they naturally took a metrical form; but when books were meant to be
read in bower and cloister, it was left to the writer to choose his
vehicle. Thus, while there were true poets like Chrestien de Troyes
and Wolfram von Eschenbach among those working upon the material of
legend, many arrayed themselves in the poetic vesture without having a
spark of divine fire; and the style of many of these metrical
narratives strikes one as too prosaic for the subject, especially if
we base our expectations on Malory, to us the chief exemplar of
mediaeval romance, whose prose, though not in the least resembling in
structure that bastard thing, prose poetry, is thoroughly epical in
its stark simplicity, its sensuous colour, and the haunting suggestion
of beauty and ideality. It was not an age of poetry in the way this
can be said of the early period of Greek literature, when
philosophers, historians, and lawgivers spoke in metre because the
muse was in them. Romance is the decadence of poetry; and while the
traditional forms survived, the poetic impulse grew weaker and weaker.


By Caxton and his successors the prose romances of the age of chivalry
were multiplied and circulated among wider audiences than even those
who listened to the mediaeval jongleur: these were the first popular
novels of the Tudor age, yet they were already getting out of date,
inasmuch as they reflected the manners and the ideals of a bygone
period. But there had arisen on the continent two forms of romance
that represent another stage in the development of fiction; the
Spanish chivalric romance typified in _Amadis of Gaul_, and the
pastoral novel of Sanazzaro and Montemayor. The three great legendary
cycles, no matter how wild and fabulous their later excursions, always
claimed to be a reading of history; each writer was careful to state
his authorities, real or fictitious; and though he added life and
circumstance to his narrative, the substance was put forward and
accepted as history. In Spain romance had begun exactly as in Britain
with poetic chronicles of heroic periods, such as the story of the
Cid, round which gathered in the process of time a vast accretion of
anonymous legend. But in the _Amadis_, printed in 1508, but current in
oral or manuscript versions for two centuries at least, Spain gave
birth to a kind of romance in which such history even as that in the
legendary chronicles had no place. Amadis himself, it is true, was
connected with the Arthuriad by his lineage; but with this exception,
the author or authors let both history and historical tradition go,
and in the various knight-errantries of Amadis gave to their
imaginative powers their full fling. In the beauty of its ladies, the
size of its giants, the valour, constancy, and self-denial of its
heroes, the _Amadis_ eclipses all its rivals; and in the _Palmerins_
and _Esplandians_ that were the sequel, these exaggerations are
carried to even more ridiculous lengths. The older romances had
usually been localised in actual places and countries, though these
were often idealised out of all likeness to reality; but Amadis and
his successors met with their adventures and performed their feats of
arms in a region created by the fancy of their authors. Spenser’s
Fairy Land, and Sidney’s Arcadia were no doubt suggested by this
romantic geography.

Pastoral romance had a classical origin, for the _Eclogues_ of
Baptista Mantuanus, pastoral dialogues satirising allegorically the
social and moral vices of the fifteenth century in Italy {xii} were
avowedly inspired by the bucolic poetry of his countryman Virgil.
Longus also, one of the Greek novelists already alluded to, had in his
_Daphnis and Chloe_ depicted the life of pastoral simplicity. But if
Petrarch, Boccaccio, and others whose works contained germs of the new
movement are left out of account as of minor importance in this
respect, it is accurate enough to say that the modern pastoral novel
began its course with the _Arcadia_ of Jacopo Sanazzaro, a Neapolitan
whose aim it was to refresh the minds of his contemporaries, weary of
a sophisticated and artificial life, with pictures of a simple
existence in fields and woods, the felicities of truth and virtue, and
the sentiment of a pure and refined love. Prose and verse are
intermingled in his book, as they are in the only example of the style
accessible to the modern reader in an English translation, the
_Galatea_ of Cervantes. Sanazzaro was surpassed in interest by his
Portuguese imitator, Jorge de Montemayor, the author of _Diana_, who
added a pathos and a touch of real life to the pastoral, making a
deeper appeal to the imagination of his readers, and securing such a
popularity in England, that his novel was translated in 1583 by
Bartholomew Young. The pastoral novel and the Amadis cycle of romances
were the two direct progenitors of Sidney’s _Arcadia_, in which the
spirit of knightly heroism and the idyllic atmosphere of a sentimental
Utopia are blended in fairly equal parts.

The pastoral, however, was only a digression in the slow advance of
the English novel towards its goal; and though it furnished perhaps
half the inspiration of Sidney’s romance, it does not bear upon the
present theme, the significance of the Elizabethan novel as
represented by the _Arcadia_ in the evolution of English fiction. The
pastoral romance, it should nevertheless be noted, is more closely
allied to poetry than to prose fiction proper, not merely because it
mingles verse with a flowery and emotional prose, but chiefly because
it is an offspring of the free imagination and not of the study of
real life. The pastoral impulse has always been something factitious
and retrograde in the history of literature and art, something exactly
contrary to the return to nature to which Wordsworth gave the
strongest impetus, and which exercised such an enormous effect on the
advance of realism.


The Elizabethan novel, the general characteristics of which are
roughly summed up in the words “poetic invention,” came next to
mediaeval romance in a natural order of succession. It did not bring
fiction any nearer the type conditioned by the laws of expression in
strict prose, of the eighteenth century pattern. In an age of poetry
the novel had become more poetic in style and in attitude to life than
it had ever been. The _Arcadia_ and _Euphues_ have less than the
_Morte d’Arthur_ of the real world of men and women. A superficial
view, accordingly, might suggest that with a hybrid and unfruitful
type of art like the poetic novel one line of development came to an
end, especially as we see that Defoe, in the next age, makes an
entirely new beginning, abjuring romance and free imagination, turning
directly to actual experience for his material, and using a homespun
style, as close as he could make it to the speech of everyday life.
Yet the semi-poetic novel represents a definite stage of transition,
and it does contain elements that were to be developed later. The
masterpieces of Italian story-tellers had made their mark upon the
Elizabethans, who acquired the art of constructing a plot, and giving
their narratives a beginning, a middle, and an ending. They showed
also a more conscious effort to portray individual character; and by
Lyly the analysis of motive and feeling was carried to a point that
seems to anticipate Richardson. More than this, they came a good step
nearer to reality, although they failed so flagrantly to reproduce the
atmosphere of the real. They chose their subjects from the sphere of
human experience; and they rejected giants, fairies, and witchcraft,
together with the

 “Forests and enchantments drear,
 Where more is meant than meets the ear,”

which were stock features of the romantic literature; although, on the
other hand, they put wild improbabilities in the place of supernatural
marvels, and revelled in coincidences and disguises almost as
incredible as the Celtic magic of the _trouvère_.

Sidney the critic expounds in his _Apologie for Poetry_ his view that
the novel of his time and of all anterior times, together {xiv} indeed
with all literature having an imaginative and idealistic tendency, was
comprehended under his definition of poetry.

 “For Xenophon,” says he, “who did imitate so excellently as to give us
 the portraiture of a just Empire under the name of Cyrus, made therein
 an absolute heroical poem. So did Heliodorus in his sugared invention
 of that picture of love in _Theagines and Cariclea_. And yet both writ
 in prose: which I speak to show, that it is not riming and versing
 that maketh a poet, no more than a long gowne maketh an Advocate.”

What his theory of poetry was may be gathered from his description of
the poet, who,

 “disdayning to be tied to any such subjection (as the natural rules of
 things), lifted up with the vigor of his owne invention, dooth growe
 in effect another nature, in making things either better than Nature
 bringeth forth, or, quite anewe, formes such as never were in Nature,
 as the _Heroes, Demigods, Cyclops, Chimeras, Furies_, and such like;
 so as hee goeth hand in hand with Nature, not inclosed within the
 narrow warrant of her gifts, but freely ranging onely within the
 Zodiack of his owne wit. Nature never set the earth in so rich
 tapestry, as divers Poets have done, neither with so pleasant rivers,
 fruitful trees, sweet smelling flowers, nor whatsoever els may make
 the too much loved earth more lovely. Her world is brasen, the Poets
 only deliver a golden.”

This corresponds to Bacon’s famous account of the nature of poetry, in
the _Advancement of Learning_:--

 “Poesy is a part of learning in measure of words for the most part
 restrained, but in all other points extremely licensed, and doth truly
 refer to the imagination; which, not being tied to the laws of matter,
 may at pleasure join that which nature hath severed, and sever that
 which nature hath joined; and so make unlawful matches and divorces of
 things; _Pictoribus atque poetis, etc._ It is taken in two senses in
 respect of words and matter. In the first sense it is but a character
 of style, and belongeth to arts of speech, and is not pertinent for
 the present. In the latter it is (as hath been said) one of the
 principal parts of learning, and is nothing else but feigned history,
 which may be styled as well in prose as in verse.

 “The use of this feigned history hath been to give some shadow of
 satisfaction to the mind of man in those points wherein the nature of
 things doth deny it, the world being in proportion inferior to the
 soul; by reason whereof there is, agreeable to the spirit of man, a
 more ample greatness, a more exact goodness, and a more absolute
 variety, than can be found in the nature of things. Therefore, {xv}
 because the acts or events of true history have not that magnitude
 which satisfieth the mind of man, poesy feigneth acts and events
 greater and more heroical. Because true history propoundeth the
 successes and issues of actions not so agreeable to the merits of
 virtue and vice, therefore poesy feigns them more just in retribution,
 and more according to revealed providence. Because true history
 representeth actions and events more ordinary and less interchanged,
 therefore poesy endueth them with more rareness, and more unexpected
 and alternative variations. So as it appeareth that poesy serveth and
 conferreth to magnanimity, morality, and to delectation. And therefore
 it was ever thought to have some participation of divineness, because
 it doth raise and erect the mind, by submitting the shows of things to
 the desires of the mind; whereas reason doth buckle and bow the mind
 unto the nature of things. And we see that by these insinuations and
 congruities with man’s nature and pleasure, joined also with the
 agreement and consort it hath with music, it hath had access and
 estimation in rude times and barbarous regions, where other learning
 stood excluded.”

These definitions are too broad for poetry, and too narrow for
imaginative literature in general, though that is what they aimed to
define. It was as difficult for Sidney and Bacon as for Aristotle to
propound a theory embracing literary forms that were not yet invented;
and furthermore it is probable that had they witnessed the birth of
naturalism in Defoe, or its ultimate developments in our own age, they
would have denied to it the name of literature or art. But there is no
place in such a definition for many works that neither Sidney nor
Bacon would have hesitated to admit, the novels of George Eliot, for
instance, or those of Fielding. Yet a modern explanation of poetry,
that of Newman, would not exclude even such prose works as these. He

 “Moreover, by confining the attention to one series of events and
 scene of action, it bounds and finishes off the confused luxuriance of
 real nature; while, by a skilful adjustment of circumstances, it
 brings into sight the connexion of cause and effect, completes the
 dependance of the parts one on another, and harmonises the proportions
 of the whole.”

A stricter analysis, however, demands of poetry not only a distinctive
mode of conceiving its subject, but a distinctive mode of utterance.
If poetry is the fine art of words, and {xvi} its aim to give all the
sensuous, emotional, and intellectual delight of which words are
capable, it is clear that Sidney and Bacon gave full weight to only
one side of the truth, and that they included far too much. The poetic
novel, to which their definition applied so aptly, is a case in point,
since it was a hybrid and transitional form, a thing that was just
ceasing to be poetry, but had not yet become the new form of art to
which it was the harbinger.

The _Arcadia_, and the same may be said of the Elizabethan novel
generally, shows its near relationship to poetry in both ways, in its
style and in the purely imaginative nature of the story, the
characters, and the life depicted. In the introduction to Defoe’s
_Roxana_ and _Moll Flanders_, published in this series, I compared the
opening of Defoe’s stories, _Robinson Crusoe_, for instance, so
definite as to time and place, so particular in the mention of names
and the exact circumstances in which the events occur, with the
beginning of the _Arcadia_, which carries us at once away in
imagination to a flowery meadow in a land of Arcady that has no
existence save in the fancy of the poets and those under their spell.
There is no effort to make the story credible, or the characters real,
by attaching them with the bands of verisimilitude to the world of
familiar things. Musidorus and Pyrocles, Pamela and Philoclea, Zelmane
and Amphialus, are in no way studies from life, but embodiments of
Sidney’s chivalrous energy and thirst for action, and of the craving
for a life of pastoral simplicity and ideal love, strengthened by his
enforced existence amidst the pomps and unrealities of a court. While
he was living in retirement at Wilton, where the _Arcadia_ was begun,
he gave vent to this feeling in the following lines:--

 “Well was I while under shade
 Oaten reeds me music made,
 Striving with my mates in song;
 Mixing mirth our songs among.
 Greater was the shepherd’s treasure
 Than this false, fine, courtly pleasure.”

How strenuous in his nature was the heroic energy that gave the
chivalric strain to his romance, was shown pre-eminently in the
closing scenes of his life, when he roused his uncle {xvii} Leicester
out of his sloth, and sacrificed himself on the field to a sense of
knightly punctilio. It has been said of him that his whole life was “a
true poem, a composition, and pattern of the best and honourablest
things”; and not only in his shepherd Philisides, but in all the
idealisms of courage, knightly faith and honour, and self-denying
affection, that illumine the pages of his _Arcadia_, and in their
splendid deeds of valour and endurance, he poured out the riches of
his own nature, as the poet puts all that is best in himself into his
verse. His purpose in writing the _Arcadia_, according to the
testimony of his old schoolfellow at Shrewsbury, Fulke Greville, Lord
Brooke, was moral and didactic; but “in all these creatures of his
making his interest and scope was to turn the barren philosophic
precepts into pregnant images of life,” that is, to energize them with

The prose naturally begotten of such a poetical conception of the
novel is well illustrated in the following passage, one of those most
charged with humanity and most free from extravagance.

 “But the headpiece was no sooner off but that there fell about the
 shoulders of the overcome knight the treasure of fair golden hair,
 which, with the face, soon known by the badge of excellency, witnessed
 that it was Parthenia, the unfortunately virtuous wife of Argalus; her
 beauty then, even in despite of the past sorrow, or coming death,
 assuring all beholders that it was nothing short of perfection. For
 her exceeding fair eyes having with continual weeping gotten a little
 redness about them; her roundly, sweetly-smelling lips a little
 trembling, as though they kissed her neighbour death; in her cheeks,
 the whiteness striving, by little and little, to get upon the rosiness
 of them; her neck--a neck indeed of alabaster--displaying the wound
 which with most dainty blood laboured to crown his own beauties; so as
 here was a river of purest red, there an island of perfectest white,
 each giving lustre to the other, with the sweet countenance, God
 knows, full of an unaffected languishing; though these things, to a
 grossly conceiving sense, might seem disgraces, yet indeed were they
 but apparelling beauty in a new fashion, which all looking upon
 through the spectacles of pity, did even increase the lines of her
 natural fairness, so as Amphialus was astonished with grief,
 compassion, and shame, detesting his fortune that made him unfortunate
 in victory.”

In the _Apologie for Poetry_, Sidney condemned Euphuism, {xviii}
Lyly’s new-fangled speech, which became fashionable in all cultivated
circles immediately upon the publication of _Euphues, or the Anatomie
of Wit_, in 1579; but his own affectations are equally alien from
purity of style. Both were striving after a prose having a richness, a
style of ornament, and an artistic structure, that would furnish some
equivalent for the charms to ear and mind of metrical language. In
this they were simply repeating the attempt of the late Greek and
Latin novelists, whose style anticipated many of the mannerisms of
Elizabethan prose, the false antitheses, the word-jingles, the
artificial cadences, and alliteration. Phrases like, “Sine pretio
pretiosae,” “Amores amare coerceas,” “Atra atria Proserpinae,” in the
_Golden Ass_ of Apuleius, are marvellously like the flowers of speech
affected by Sidney and Lyly. The scholiasts used to arrange the prose
of this author in iambic measures, and would no doubt have applied
similar tests to Sidney’s. And the fondness for involved, musical
periods, the love of sensuousness and splendour, are features common
to both schools of writers. Here are two sentences from Apuleius
showing precisely the same effort to maintain the glories of poetry,
and the same cloying rhetoric that is the result in Sidney and his

 “Mirus prorsus homo, immo semideus, vel certe Deus, qui magnae artis
 subtilitate tantum efferavit argentum … ut diem suum sibi domus
 faciat, licet sole nolente: sic cubicula, sic porticus, sic ipsae
 valvae fulgurant.”

 “Namque saxum immani magnitudine procerum, et inaccessa salebritate
 lubricum, mediis e faucibus lapidis fontes horridos evomebat: qui
 statim proni foraminis lacunis editi, perque proclive delapsi, et
 angusti canalis exerto contecti tramite, proximam convallem latenter

Apuleius might very well have written such a sentence as this:--

 “Yet the pitiless sword had such pity of so precious an object that at
 first it did but hit flatlong. But little availed that, since the lady
 falling down astonished withal, the cruel villain forced the sword
 with another blow to divorce the fair marriage of the head and body.”

And in spite of Sidney’s strictures upon the conceits of {xix}
Euphuism, there was not much to choose between Lyly and such
extravagances as this:--

 “Exceedingly sorry for Pamela, but exceedingly exceeding that
 exceedingness in fear for Philoclea.”

The fact is, there are bound to be these freaks and extravagances
whilst a style is still in such an inchoate and experimental state as
English prose was in from the time of Malory and Berners, and the
other early architects of a style unfettered by metre, with whom, as
Mr John Dover Wilson has shown in his work on John Lyly, the germs of
Euphuism found their way into English long before Guevara was known in
this country, although the tendency is nearly always attributed to his
influence. The writers of this period could not evolve even a poetic
prose without falling into these pitfalls, for the simple reason that
they wrote a century before the principles of what may be called a
normal prose style had been determined. Mr Watts-Dunton has pointed
out that in the present age there is another kind of poetic prose in
process of evolution, a prose “which above all other kinds holds in
suspense the essential qualities of poetry.” Prose to be truly
poetical, he argues, must move far away from the “tremendous
perorations of De Quincey, or the sonorous and highly-coloured
descriptions of Ruskin,” and must no doubt be something very different
from what Sidney and other writers made of Elizabethan prose, noble as
their achievement was.

 “It must, in a word, have all the qualities of what we technically
 call poetry except metre. We have, indeed, said before that while the
 poet’s object is to arouse in the listener an expectancy of caesuric
 effects, the great goal before the writer of poetic prose is in the
 very opposite direction; it is to make use of the concrete figures and
 impassioned diction that are the poet’s vehicle, but at the same time
 to avoid the expectancy of metrical bars.”

Such a prose as this must be the very latest product of literary
effort. Its difference from the poetic prose actually evolved in the
transitional age with which we are dealing, is the difference between
an art founded on long experience and many attempts and failures, and
above all on a sound philosophy of aesthetic causes and effects, and
the essays of {xx} men who were not yet clear as to the objects they
ought to aim at. So uncertain was Sidney even as to the true genius of
English poetry that he was one of the most ardent members of the
“Areopagus,” who endeavoured to reform English poetry on Italian and
classical principles, the results of which attempt may be appraised in
the verses inserted in the _Arcadia_. The indispensable basis for a
sound poetic prose, if such a thing is feasible, must be a
satisfactory norm of unpoetic prose.

Sidney’s romance did not escape ridicule in his own time; Ben Johnson
parodied Arcadianism in _Every Man out of his Humour_; Dekker poked
fun at Arcadian and Euphuised gentlewomen in the _Gul’s Horne-book_;
and the involved and careless construction of the story came in for
mild satire in one of the earliest burlesques of chivalrous and
pastoral romances, Sorel’s _Berger Extravagant_, which was translated
by John Davies of Kidwelly in a book that may be remembered by its
sub-title, the _Anti-Romance_. The criticism in the passage following
is not particularly acute, but is cited because few readers of Sidney
are likely to come across such a very rare work as this translation

 “Nor hath England wanted its _Arcadia_, whereof it is not long since
 we have had the translation. I find no more order in that than in the
 rest, and there are many things whereof I am not at all satisfied. At
 the very beginning you have the complaints of the shepherds Strephon
 and Claius upon the departure of Urania, without telling us who she
 was, nor whither she went. Now an author ought never to begin his book
 but he should mention the persons principally concerned in the history
 whose actions he is to raise up beyond any of the rest; yet this man
 makes afterward no more mention of these two shepherds than if he had
 never named them; and though he bring them in again at some sports
 before Basilius, yet that signifies nothing, since a man finds no
 period of their adventures, and that those verses wherein they speak
 of their loves are so obscure that they may be taken for the oracles
 of a Sybill. It is true that Sir Philip dying young might have left
 his work imperfect; but there’s no reason why we should suffer by that
 misfortune, and be obliged to take a thing for perfect because it
 might have been made so.”

… Thus Clarimond in his “Oration against Poetry, Fables, and
Romances”; Philiris in his “Vindication” replies:--


 “As for Sidney’s _Arcadia_, since it hath crossed the sea to come and
 see us, I am sorry Clarimond receives it with such poor compliments.
 If he hears nothing of the loves of Strephon and Claius, he must not
 quarrel with the author who hath made his book one of the most
 excellent in the world. There are discourses of love and discourses of
 state so generous and pleasant that I should never be weary to read
 them. I should say much in his commendation were I not in haste to
 speak of Astraea, which Clarimond brings in next, and I am very glad
 to find that book generally esteemed, which should oblige him to
 esteem it also.”

Sorel’s _Berger Extravagant_ appeared in 1628. Two French translations
of the _Arcadia_ had already been made, one by Baudoin in 1624, and a
second by D. Geneviefve, Chappelain, the year following. The book was
translated into German in 1629, by Valentinus Theocritus, whose
translation was revised by Martin Opitz, and appeared again in 1643
and 1646.

It would be rash to assert that the _Arcadia_, not published until
1590, though circulated widely in manuscript during the preceding
decade, had any influence on the pastorals of Greene and Lodge, who
boasted their adherence to the linguistic fashions set in 1579 by
Lyly’s _Euphues_. It is enough to observe that these and the _Arcadia_
have many close resemblances which are proofs of a common ancestry.
Robert Greene’s _Pandosto_ (1588), the original of Shakespeare’s
_Winter’s Tale_, his _Menaphon_ (1589), and _Philomela_ (1592); and
Lodge’s _Rosalynde: Euphues’ golden legacie_ (1590), whence _As you
like it_ was derived, have the Arcadian scenes and the atmosphere of
fairy-land, combined with the same strain of chivalrous adventure, and
the same complicated love-plots as Sidney’s romance. I venture to
quote from Professor Courthope’s History of English Poetry a passage
emphasising the strong feminine interest which was such a prominent
feature in Lyly, Lodge, and Greene, as well as in Sidney.

 “But after all, the element in the _Arcadia_ which produced the
 greatest effect upon contemporary taste, on account of the dramatic
 tendencies of the age, was the one which Sidney derived from his study
 of Montemayor. Perhaps the most noticeable feature in the story is the
 complete elimination of the magical and supernatural machinery which
 formed so important a part of the older romances. {xxii} In imitation
 of Montemayor, Sidney now concentrated the main interest of his
 narrative in the complications of the love-plots. The consequence of
 this device was to bring the exhibition of female character into
 greater prominence. In the old chivalric poetry and fiction no more
 than three types of women are represented, the insipid idol of male
 worship who shows ‘mercy’ and ‘pity’ to her lover, according to the
 regulation pattern of the Cours d’Amour; the fickle mistress, like
 Cressida, who is inconstant to one lover, and so violates the code of
 chivalry; and the unfaithful wife of the class of Guinevere and
 Iseult. The _Arcadia_, on the other hand, is full of feminine
 heroines, martyrs, and monsters, each of whom plays her own distinct
 part in the development of the action. There is the ideal maiden,
 Pamela or Philoclea, type of lofty virtue, forerunner of the Clarissas
 and Belindas of Richardson; the vicious Queen Cecropia recalling the
 Phaedras and Sthenobaeas of Greek legend; Gynecia, the
 passion-stricken wife of a respectable elderly husband, a favourite
 figure in the modern French novel; the clownish Mopsa, the original,
 perhaps, of Shakespeare’s Audrey; and, above all, the representative
 of adventurous, unhappy, self-sacrificing love in its various aspects,
 Helen, Queen of Corinth, Parthenia, and Zelmane, predecessors of
 Shakespeare’s Viola, Helena, and Imogen.”

The popularity of the book, rivalling that of _Euphues_, is
illustrated by the number of editions, of which a list will be given
later. Sidney found writers eager to continue the story, and many
imitators. The argument of John Day’s _Ile of Guls_ (1606) was “a
little string or rivolet drawne from the full streme of the right
worthy gentleman, Sir Phillip Sydney’s well knowne Archadea.” Shirley
dramatised many episodes in his _Pastorall called the Arcadia_ (1640);
the story of the dispossessed king of Paphlagonia and his son is
probably the germ of Shakespeare’s episode of Gloucester and his sons
in _King Lear_, and Mr C. Crawford has found traces of copying in the
_Duchess of Malfi_ and other plays of Webster. The author of the
_Emblemes_, Francis Quarles, made a long poem out of the story of
Argalus and Parthenia (1622); and other writers linked their
compositions to the popularity and prestige of the _Arcadia_ by using
Sidney’s name as their advertisement, like the author of _Sir Philip
Sydney’s Ourania_ (1606), a philosophical poem dedicated to the
Countess of Pembroke, and the Lady Mary Wroath, a niece of Sidney, who
produced a slavish imitation in _The Countess of Montgomerie’s Urania_
{xxiii} (1621), and made great play with her pedigree on the
title-page. Excerpts and adaptations were published right down to the
late seventeenth century.

The first edition of the _Arcadia_ was published in 1590, four years
after the author’s death. He did not finish the book, which had been
begun for the amusement of his sister, the Countess of Pembroke, while
he was in exile from the court and living at Wilton House, the seat of
the Pembrokes. It was Sidney’s dying request that the manuscript
should be destroyed, and the dedicatory epistle to his sister
expresses how little he valued the book as a literary performance:--

 “If you keep it to yourself, or to such friends who will weigh error
 in the balance of good-will, I hope for the father’s sake it will be
 pardoned, perchance made much of, though in itself it have
 deformities. For indeed for severer eyes it is not, being a trifle,
 and that triflingly handled.”

The _Arcadia_ was entered in the Register of the Stationer’s Company
in 1588, by William Ponsonbie, the publisher of Spenser’s _Fairie
Queene_; and the first edition saw the light in a thick quarto in
1590. A photo-lithographic reproduction of this handsome first edition
was published in 1891 by Dr Oskar Sommer, to whose scholarly
bibliographical introduction I am indebted for the following list of
the various editions. The fourth and fifth books, and a portion of the
third book (57 pages), were added in the second edition, in 1593, a
folio, by the same publisher. Beyond this, there are few variations in
the text of the two editions. The third edition (1598), also by
Ponsonbie, comprised Sidney’s _Sonnets_, _Astrophel and Stella_, and
the _Defence of Poesie_; and these works were again included in the
fourth edition (misdescribed as the third) by Robert Waldegrave, at
Edinburgh, in 1599.[i02] Mathew Lownes’ edition (1605), the fifth
(miscalled the fourth), is almost a facsimile reprint of the third;
but in the next edition, described on the title-page as the fourth
(1613), we get some new “additions,” but of small importance compared
with those in the seventh (described in the title as the fifth),
published in 1621 at Dublin, which included a “Supplement of a defect
in the third part {xxiv} of this History, by Sir W. Alexander,” which
had been printed separately at Dublin the same year. In the present
edition his supplement begins on page 428 and ends on page 451, where
Sir William’s apologie for the liberty taken is duly quoted. Sir
William Alexander of Menstrie, afterwards Earl of Stirling, was a poet
and dramatist, and a statesman of genius, who died in 1610. He was a
friend of Drummond of Hawthornden. The _Dictionary of National
Biography_ states wrongly that he published this continuation of the
third book of the _Arcadia_ in 1613, the date of the so-called fourth
edition, certain copies of which have extracts from this work
inserted. The first London edition, to which Sir William Alexander’s
supplement was added, was the eighth, published in 1623; but it is
doubtful whether the additional matter was really printed as a part of
the volume, or added from the 1621 edition, or some other of which
there is no trace, to the only copy of this issue known to Dr Sommer.
The pagination, at any rate, is in a confused state pointing to this.

The sixth book of the _Arcadia_ by Richard Beling (see _infra_ p.
631), first published at Dublin, in 1624, was added to the ninth
edition, miscalled the sixth, in 1627. It is not mentioned on the
title, but before this new supplement another title-page is inserted,
running as follows, “A Sixth Booke to the Countesse of Pembrokes
Arcadia: written by R. B. of Lincolnes Inne Esquire. (Sat, si bene; si
male, nimium.) London, printed by H. L. and R. Y. 1628,” thus dating a
year later than the title-page proper. After Beling’s continuation
come the _Sonnets_, the _Defence of Poesie_, _Astrophel_, etc. This
edition was reprinted in exact conformity, except that the new
title-page mentions the work of Beling, in 1629; and the five other
seventeenth-century editions, appearing in 1633, 1638, 1655, 1662, and
1674, corresponded exactly in all textual respects but the title-page,
except that in the twelfth, described as the ninth, edition (1638), an
alternative supplement to a defect in the third book is introduced by
Mr Ja. Johnstone, “Scoto-Brit,” and in addition to this the 1655
edition contained the forty-eight couplets entitled “A Remedie for
Loue,” and an alphabetical table, or clavis, forming an index to the
stories in the _Arcadia_.

Dr Sommer mentions only one edition in the eighteenth {xxv} century,
one in three volumes containing also the poetical works and the
_Defence of Poesy_, and described as the fourteenth edition, although
fifteen previous editions have now been enumerated. The title of the
first volume is dated 1725, but the other two volumes bear that of the
preceding year, the preliminary matter of the first not having,
apparently, been completed in 1724. This was a London edition, and Dr
Sommer was not aware of another seventeenth century edition, printed
at Dublin in 1739, which was a reproduction of this one: it bears the
imprint, “Dublin: printed by S. Powell, for T. Moore, at _Erasmus’s
Head_ in _Dame Street_, Bookseller, MDCCXXXIX”; and a copy has been
used in preparing the present edition.

The only edition of the _Arcadia_ in the nineteenth century, with the
exception of the photographic reproduction of the first edition by Dr
Sommer, was published by Sampson Low, Son, and Marston, in 1867, and
was preceded by an introductory essay by Hain Friswell, the author of
_The Gentle Life_, who says:--

 “The principle on which this edition of the _Arcadia_ has been put
 through the press perhaps needs some explanation. As the sheets of MS.
 left the hands of Sidney, after the first book, or perhaps two, had
 been completed, they were transmitted to his sister the Countess of
 Pembroke, and some of them mislaid and lost. Hence one great _hiatus_
 supplied by Sir William Alexander, others by R(ichard) B(eling) and Mr
 Johnstone. It is also known that the Countess of Pembroke added to the
 episodes, adventures, and strange turns, at least in all the later
 books. Hence there is to be met with an Arcadian undergrowth which
 needs much careful pruning; and this undertaken, with needful
 compression, will leave the reader all that he desires of Sidney’s
 own. Growing like certain fanciful parasites upon forest trees, on the
 books of the _Arcadia_ are certain eclogues of laboriously-written and
 fantastical poetry, some in Latin measures, against which Walpole was
 right to protest, and anent which Pope said:--

 ‘And Sidney’s verse halts ill on Roman feet.’

 “These have been boldly removed without any loss, it is believed, to
 the romance; lastly, long episodes of no possible use to the book,
 which we think have been supplied by other hands than Sidney’s have,
 whilst using their very words and phrases, been cut down. {xxvi}
 Tedious excrescences have thus been removed, but it is to be hoped
 with judgment, so that the reader gets all we think is Sidney’s, and
 without curb put upon his utterance.”

In the edition now offered to the student of Elizabethan literature an
opposite method has been adopted. Rather than run any risk of omitting
anything that is Sidney’s, it has been thought advisable to give the
whole _Arcadia_, excrescences and all, especially as the additions of
those who were fellow-spirits and admirers, and belonged to the same
great epoch, cannot be without their interest to readers in the
present age, who may, at any rate, skip the contributions of Alexander
and Beling if they are so minded. The example of Hain Friswell has
been followed, however, so far as the modernisation of the spelling
and punctuation is concerned. “A Continuation of Sir P. Sidney’s
Arcadia written by a young Gentlewoman” (Mrs A. W. Weames), and
published at London, in 1651, and James Johnstone’s “Supplement to a
defect in the Third Book,” which is merely an alternative to
Alexander’s, are not included.

There was a modernised edition of the _Arcadia_ published in 1725,
under the title, “Sir Philip Sidney’s Arcadia, Moderniz’d by Mrs
Stanley, London, Printed in the Year MDCCXXV”; and there were extracts
from the book, like the abstract entitled, “The Famous History of
Heroick Acts or the Honour of Chivalry,” London, 1701; and two
versions of the episode of Argalus and Parthenia, the first, “The
Unfortunate Lovers: the History of Argalus and Parthenia” (fourth
edition, 1715), and “The History of Argalus and Parthenia. Being A
Choice Flower Gathered out of Sir Philip Sidney’s Rare Garden,” c.
1770 and 1780. Dr Grosart included all the poems occurring in the
_Arcadia_ in his edition of “The Complete Poems of Sir Philip Sidney,”
in three volumes, in 1877. Students of our old texts owe an immense
debt to Dr Sommer for the pains and industry lavished on his sumptuous
facsimile editions of Caxton’s _Malory_ and Sidney’s _Arcadia_, in
both of which the comparison of all the extant readings has been
carried out with microscopic thoroughness, and done once for all.

                                                     E. A. B.

 _January_ 1907.



 [_From the Dublin edition, 1739._]

This Marcellus of the English nation, Sir Philip Sidney, the
short-lived ornament of his noble family, hath deserved, and, without
dispute or envy, enjoyed, the most exalted praises of his own, and of
succeeding ages. The poets of his time, especially Spenser,
reverenced him, not only as a patron, but a master; and he was almost
the only person in any age, I will not except Mecaenas, that could
teach the best rules of poetry, and most freely reward the
performances of poets. He was a man of a sweet nature, of excellent
behaviour, of much, and, withal, of well-digested learning, so that
rarely wit, courage, breeding, and other additional accomplishments of
conversation, have met in so high a degree in any single person.[i03]

Sir Henry Sidney, his father, was a man of excellent natural wit,
large heart, sweet conversation; and such a governor as sought not to
make an end of the state in himself, but to plant his own ends in the
prosperity of his country. Witness his sound establishments, both in
Wales and Ireland, where his memory is worthily grateful unto this

On the other side, his mother, as she was a woman, by descent, of
great nobility (the Lady Mary, eldest daughter of John Dudley,
Duke of Northumberland), so was she by nature of a large ingenious
spirit.[i04] He was born at Penshurst, in the county of Kent, on the
29th day of November, in the year 1554, and had his Christian name
given him by his {xxviii} father, from King Philip, then lately
married to Queen Mary. While he was very young, he was sent to
Christ Church College in Oxford to be improved in all sorts of
learning; where continuing till he was about seventeen years of age
under the tuition of Dr Tho. Thornton, canon of that house, he was,
in June 1572, sent to travel; for on the 24th of August following,
when the massacre fell out at Paris, he was then there, and at that
time, as I conceive, he, with other Englishmen, did fly to the house
of the ambassador from the Queen of England.[i05] Thence he went
through Lorraine, and by Strasburg and Heidelburg to Frankfort, in
September or October following, where he settles, is entertained agent
for the Duke of Saxony, and an underhand minister for his own king.
Lodged he was in Wechel’s house, the printer of Frankfort.[i06] Here
he was accompanied by the famous Hubert Languet; and in the next
spring, 1573, Languet removed to Vienna, where our author met him
again, and stayed with him till September, when he went into Hungary
and those parts. Thence he journeyed into Italy, where he continued
all the winter following, and most of the summer, 1574, and then he
returned into Germany with Languet; and the next spring he returned
by Frankfort, Heidelburg, and Antwerp, home into England, about May

In the year 1576 he was sent by the Queen to Rodolph, the Emperor,
to condole the death of Maximilian, and also to other princes of
Germany; at which time he caused this inscription to be written under
his arms, which he then hung up in all places where he lodged:--

   “Illustrissimi et generosissimi viri
     Philipi Sidnaei, Angli,
 Pro-regis Hiberniae filii, Comitum Warwici
   Et Leicestriae Nepotis, serenissimi
   Reginae Angliae ad Caesarem legati.”

The next year, 1577, in his return, he saw that gallant Prince Don
John de Austria, Viceroy of the low countries for the King of Spain,
and William, Prince of Orange; by the former of which, though at
first he was lightly esteemed {xxix} upon the account of his youth,
yet, after some discourse, he found himself so stricken with him that
the beholders wondered to see what tribute that brave and high-minded
prince paid to his worth, giving more honour and respect to him, in
his private capacity, than to the ambassadors of mighty princes.

In the year 1579 he, though neither magistrate nor counsellor, did
show himself, for several weighty reasons, opposite to the Queen’s
matching with the Duke of Anjou, which he very pithily expressed by a
due address of his humble reasons to her, as may be fully seen in a
book called “Cabala” (Part III., p. 201). The said address was written
at the desire of some great personage--his Uncle Robert, I suppose,
Earl of Leicester, upon which a great quarrel happened between him and
Edward Vere, Earl of Oxford. This, as I conceive, might occasion his
retirement from Court next summer, 1580, wherein, perhaps, he wrote
that pleasant romance called “Arcadia.”[i07]

In 1581 the treaty of marriage was renewed, and our author, Sidney,
with Fulke Greville,[i08] were two of the tilters at the
entertainment of the French Ambassador; and at the departure of the
Duke of Anjou from England, in February of the same year, he attended
him to Antwerp.[i09]

On the 8th of January 1582 he, with Perigrine Bertie, received the
honour of knighthood from the Queen, and in the beginning of 1585 he
designed an expedition with Sir Francis Drake into America, but
being hindered by the Queen (in whose opinion he was so highly prized
that she thought the Court deficient without him) he was, in October
following, made Governor of Flushing--about that time delivered to the
Queen for one of the cautionary towns--and General of the Horse. In
both which places of great trust his carriage testified to the world
his wisdom and valour, with addition of honour to his country by them;
and especially the more, when in July 1586 he surprised Axil, and
preserved the lives and honour of the English army at the enterprise
of Gravelin: so that whereas (through the fame of his high {xxx}
deserts) he was then, or rather before, in election for the Crown of
Poland, the Queen of England refused to further his advancement, not
out of emulation, but out of fear to lose the jewel of her times. What
can be said more? He was a statesman, soldier, and scholar--a complete
master of matter and language, as his immortal pen shows. His pen and
his sword have rendered him famous enough: he died by the one, and by
the other he will ever live as having been hitherto highly extolled
for it by the pens of princes. This is the happiness of art, that
although the sword doth achieve the honour, yet the arts do record it,
and no pen hath made it better known than his own in that book called
“Arcadia.” Certain it is, he was a noble and matchless gentleman, and
it may be justly said, without hyperbole or fiction, as it was of
Cato Uticensis, that “he seemed to be born to that only which he
went about.” His written works are these:--

The Countess of Pembroke’s “Arcadia,”[i10] which being the most
celebrated romance that was ever written, was consecrated to his
noble, virtuous, and learned sister Mary, the wife of Henry, Earl
of Pembroke, who, having lived to a very fair age, died in her house
in Aldersgate Street, in London, the 25th of September 1621, whereupon
her body was buried in the cathedral church of Salisbury, among the
graves of the Pembrochian family. This “Arcadia,” though then, and
since, it was, and is, taken into the hands of all ingenious men, and
said by one living at, or near, the time when first published, to be
“a book most famous for rich conceits and splendour of courtly
expressions.” This work was first printed in the year 1613 in quarto;
it hath been translated into French, Dutch, and other languages in

Besides _Astrophel and Stella_,[i11] _A Remedy for Love_, _The Defence
of Poesy_,[i12] _Sonnets_, etc., Sir Philip also turned the _Psalms
of David_ into English verse, which are in manuscript in the library
of the Earl of Pembroke at Wilton, curiously bound in a crimson velvet
cover, left thereunto by his sister Mary, Countess of Pembroke.[i13]


The following dialogue, composed by our author, was spoken between two
shepherds in a pastoral entertainment before several gentlemen and
ladies at the seat of the noble family above mentioned.

 _Will._ Dick, since we cannot dance, come, let a cheerful voice
 Show that we do not grudge at all, when others do rejoice.
 _Dick._ Ah, Will, though I grudge not, I count it feeble glee,
 With sight made dim with daily tears, another’s sport to see.
 Whoever lambkins saw (yet lambkins love to play)
 To play when that their loved dams are stoll’n or gone astray?
 If this in them be true, as true in men, think I,
 A lustless song, forsooth, thinks he, that hath more lust to cry.
 _Will._ A time there is for all, my mother often says,
 When she, with skirts tuck’d very high, with girls at stoolball plays.
 When thou hast mind to weep, seek out some smoky room:
 Now let those lightsome sights we see, thy darkness overcome.
 _Dick._ What joy the joyful sun gives unto bleared eyes,
 That comfort in these sports you like, my mind his comfort tries.
 _Will._ What! is thy bagpipe broke? or are thy lambs miswent?
 Thy wallet or thy tar-box lost? or thy new raiment rent?
 _Dick._ I would it were but thus, for thus it were too well.
 _Will._ Thou seest my ears do itch at it; good Dick, thy sorrow tell.
 _Dick._ Hear then, and learn to sigh; a mistress I do serve,
 Whose wages make me beg the more, who feeds me till I starve,
 Whose livery is such, as most I freeze apparelled most,
 And look! so near unto my cure, that I must needs be lost.
 _Will._ What? these are riddles sure; art thou then bound to her?
 _Dick._ Bound as I neither power have, nor would have power to stir.
 _Will._ Who bound thee?
 _Dick._                Love, my lord.
 _Will._                              What witnesses thereto?
 _Dick._ Faith in myself, and worth in her, which no proof can undo.
 _Will._ What seal?
 _Dick._           My heart deep graven.
 _Will._                                What made the band so fast?
 _Dick._ Wonder, that by two so black eyes the glittering stars be past.
 _Will._ What keepeth safe thy band?
 _Dick._                            Remembrance is the chest
 Lock’d fast with knowing that she is of worldly things the best.
 _Will._ Thou late of wages ’plainst: what wages mayst thou have?
 _Dick._ Her heav’nly looks, which more and more do give me cause to
 _Will._ If wages make you want, what food is that she gives?
 _Dick._ Tear’s drink, sorrow’s meat, wherewith, not I, but in me my
   death lives.
 _Will._ What living get you then?
 _Dick._                          Disdain; but just disdain:
 So have I cause myself to plain, but no cause to complain.
 _Will._ What care takes she for thee?
 _Dick._                              Her care is to prevent
 My freedom with show of her beams, with virtue my content.
 _Will._ God shield us from such dames. If so our downs be sped
 The shepherds will grow lean, I trow, their sheep will be ill fed;
 But, Dick, my counsel mark: run from the place of woe;
 The arrow being shot from far doth give the smaller blow.
 _Dick._ Good Will, I cannot lack the good advice, before
 That foxes leave to steal, because they find they die therefore.
 _Will._ Then, Dick, let us go hence, lest we great folks annoy;
 For nothing can more tedious be, than ’plaint in time of joy.
 _Dick._ Oh, hence! O cruel word! which even dogs do hate;
 But hence, even hence, I must needs go--such is my dogged fate.

To return again to Sir Philip.

In the year 1586,[i14] when that unfortunate stand was made against
the Spaniards before Zutphen, the 22nd of September, while he was
getting upon the third horse, having had two slain under him before,
he was wounded with a musket shot out of the trenches, which broke the
bone of his thigh. The horse he rode upon was rather furiously
choleric than bravely proud, and so forced him to forsake the field,
but not his back, as the noblest and fittest bier to carry a martial
commander to his grave. In which sad progress, passing along by the
rest of the army, where his uncle,[i15] the general, was, and, being
thirsty with excess of bleeding, he called for drink, which was
presently brought him; but, as he was putting the bottle to his mouth,
he saw a poor soldier carried along, who had eaten his last at the
same feast, ghastly casting up his eyes at the bottle, which Sir
Philip perceiving, took it from his head before he drank, and
delivered it to the poor man, with these words: “Thy necessity is yet
greater than mine.” And when he had pledged this poor soldier, he was
presently carried to Arnheim, where the principal surgeons of the camp
attended for him. When they began to dress his wounds, he, both by way
of charge and advice, told them that, while his strength was yet
entire, his body free from fever, and his mind able to endure, they
might freely use their art, cut, and search to the bottom; but if they
should neglect their art, and renew torments in the declination of
nature, their ignorance, or overtenderness, would prove a kind of
tyranny to their friend, and, {xxxiii} consequently, a blemish to
their reverend science. With love and care well mixed they began the
cure, and continued it some sixteen days, with such confidence of his
recovery as the joy of their hearts overflowed their discretion, and
made them spread the intelligence of it to the Queen, and all his
noble friends here in England, where it was received, not as
_private_, but _public_ good news.

At the same time Count Hollock was under the care of a most
excellent surgeon for a wound in his throat by a musket shot, yet did
he neglect his own extremity to save his friend, and to that end had
sent him to Sir Philip. This surgeon, notwithstanding, out of love
to his master, returning one day to dress his wound, the Count
cheerfully asked him how Sir Philip did? and he answered, with a
heavy countenance, that he was not well. At these words the worthy
prince, as having more sense of his friend’s wound than his own, cries
out: “Away, villain! never see my face again, till thou bring better
news of that man’s recovery, for whose redemption many such as I were
happily lost.”

Now, after the sixteenth day was passed, and the very shoulder-bones
of this delicate patient worn through his skin with constant and
obedient posturing of his body to the surgeon’s art, he, judiciously
observing the pangs his wound stang him with by fits, together with
many other symptoms of decay, few or none of recovery, began rather to
submit his body to these artists than any farther to believe in them.
He called the ministers unto him, who were all excellent men, of
divers nations, and before them made such a confession of Christian
faith as no book, but the heart, can truly and feelingly deliver.
Then, calling for his will, and settling his worldly affairs, the last
scene of this tragedy was the parting between the two brothers: the
weaker showing infinite strength in suppressing sorrow, and the
stronger, infinite weakness in expressing of it. And to stop the
natural torrent of affection in both, Sir Philip took his leave,
with these admonishing words: “Love my memory, cherish my friends;
their faith to me may assure you they are honest. But, above all,
govern your will and affections by the will and word of your Creator;
in me, beholding the end of this world, with all her vanities.” And
with this farewell, desired the company to lead him away.


After his death, which happened on the 16th of October, the states of
Zealand became suitors to her majesty and his noble friends, that they
might have the honour of burying his body at the public expense of
their government.[i16] This was not permitted; for soon after his body
was brought to Flushing, and, being embarked with great solemnity on
the 1st of November, landed at Tower Wharf on the 6th day of the same
month. Thence it was conveyed to the Minories without Aldgate, where
it lay in state for some time, till his magnificent funeral in St
Paul’s Cathedral, the 16th of February following, which, as many
princes have not exceeded in the solemnity, so few have equalled in
the sorrow for his loss. He was buried near to that place which his
father-in-law, Sir Francis Walsingham, had designed (as I have
heard) to be entombed in, without any monument or inscription. King
James honoured him with an epitaph of his composition, and the
Muses, both of Oxford and Cambridge, lamenting much for his loss,
composed verses to his memory. Besides, several private persons did
also exercise their fancies upon this occasion; for, so general was
the lamentation, that it was accounted a sin for any gentleman of
quality, for many months after, to appear at court or city in any
light or gaudy apparel.

No monument hath since been erected over him, whereof this reason is
assigned, that “He is his own monument, whose memory is eternised in
his writings, and who was born into the world to show unto our age a
sample of ancient virtues.”[i17]

He left behind him a daughter named Elizabeth, who was born in 1585.
She married Roger Mannours, Earl of Rutland, but died without

I confess it is commonly reported that Sir Philip,[i19] some hours
before his death, enjoined a near friend to consign these his works to
the flames, whereby posterity had been deprived of much pleasure and
profit accruing thereby. What promise his friend returned herein is
uncertain; but if he broke his word to be faithful to the public good,
posterity will absolve him, without doing any penance, for being
guilty of such a {xxxv} meritorious offence, wherewith he hath obliged
so many ages. Hear the excellent epigrammatist, Owen, hereon:--

 “Ipse tuam moriens, vel conjuge teste, jubebas
  Arcadiam saevis ignibus esse cibum.
 Si meruit mortem, quia flammam accendit amoris;
  Mergi, non Uri debuit iste liber.
 In librum quaecunque cadat sententia; nullâ
  Debuit ingenium morte perire tuum.”

As the ancient Egyptians presented secrets under their mystical
hieroglyphics, so that an easy figure was exhibited to the eye, and a
higher notion tendered under it to the judgment, so all the “Arcadia”
is a continual grove of morality, shadowing moral and politic results
under the plain and easy emblems of lovers, so that the reader may be
deceived, but not hurt thereby, when surprised on a sudden to more
knowledge than he expected.

I will not here endeavour to offer the reader a key to unfold what
persons were intended under the fictitious denominations: herein must
men shoot at the wild rovers of their own conjectures. And many have
forged keys of their own fancies, all pretended to be the right,
though unlike one to another. But, besides, it is an injury to impose
guesses for truths on any belief; such applications, rather made than
meant, are not without reflections on families, as may justly give
distaste. I dare confidently aver that the wards of this lock are
grown so rusty with time that a modern key will scarce unlock it,
seeing in above a hundred years many criticisms of time, place, and
person, wherein the life and lustre of this story did consist, are
utterly lost, and unknown in our age.

 Vita Philippi Sidnei.

    “Qui dignos ipsi vitâ scripsere libellos
     Illorum vitam scribere non opus est.
 Sidnei in tumulo est, corpus non vita: Philippi
    Producit vitam gloria, longa brevem.”



 Gulielmus Camdenus de Praelio inter Anglos et Hispanos
 prope Zutphaniam in Geldriâ.

 Anno Dom. 1586.

“Ex Anglis pauci desiderati; sed qui instar plurimorum, Sidneius,
equo perfosso dum alterum ascendit, glande femur trajectus,[i20]
vicesimo quinto post die, magno sui desiderio bonis relicto, in flore
aetatis exspiravit, vix quatuor menses patri superstes. Cui
Leicestrius avunculus in Angliam reversus, exequias, magno apparatu,
et militari ritu, in Templo Sti. Pauli Londini solvit, Jacobus Rex
Scotorum epitaphio parentavit: utraque Academia lacrymas consecravit,
et Novum Oxoniae Collegium elegantissimum[i21] Peplum contexuit. Haec
et ampliora viri virtus, ingenium splendidissimum, eruditio
politissima, moresque suavissimi meruerunt.”

 Mr Carew, in his “Survey of Cornwall,” p. 102.

“Being a scholar at Oxford at fourteen years of age, and three years
standing upon a wrong-conceived opinion touching my sufficiency, I was
then called to dispute extempore with the matchless Sir Philip Sidney,
in presence of the Earls of Leicester and Warwick, and divers other
great personages.”[i22]

 Dr Heylin, in his “Cosmography.”

“Arcadia in Greece is a country whose fitness for pasturage {xxxvii}
and grazing hath made it the subject of many worthy and witty
discourses, especially that of Sir Philip Sidney, of whom I cannot but
make honourable mention. A book, which, besides its excellent
language, rare contrivances, and delectable stories, hath in it all
the strains of poesy, comprehendeth the universal art of speaking,
and, to them who can discern, and will observe, affordeth notable
rules for demeanour, both private and public.”

 Mr Lloyd, in his “State Worthies.”

“His romance was but policy played with Machiavel in jest, and state
maxims sweetened to a courtier’s palate. He writ men as exactly as he
studied them; and discerned humours in the court with the same deep
insight he described them in his book. All were pleased with his
‘Arcadia’ but himself, whose years advanced him so much beyond himself
as his parts did beyond others. He condemned his ‘Arcadia,’ in his
more retired judgment, to the fire, which wise men think will continue
to the last conflagration. It was he whom Queen Elizabeth called her
Philip,[i23] the Prince of Orange his master, and whose friendship my
Lord Brooks was so proud of that he would have no other epitaph on his
grave than this:--

 ‘Here lieth Sir Philip Sidney’s friend.’”

 Sir William Temple, in his “Essay on Poetry.”

“The true spirit or vein of ancient poetry, under the name of romance,
seems to shine most in Sir Philip Sidney, whom I esteem both the
greatest poet and the noblest genius of any that have left writings
behind them, and published in ours, or any other modern language. A
person born capable, not only of forming the greatest ideas, but of
leaving the noblest examples, if the length of his life had been equal
to the excellence of his wit and his virtues.”


 Mr Lee, in his “Dedication of Caesar Borgia.”

 _To the Right Honourable Philip, Earl of Pembroke and Montgomery._

“My lord,--Your illustrious forefathers and, indeed, all your eminent
relations, have always been of the first-rate nobility, patrons of wit
and arms, magnificently brave, true old stampt Britons, and ever
foremost in the race of glory. Not to unravel half your honourable
records, I challenge all the men of fame to show an equal to the
immortal Sidney, even when so many contemporary worthies flourished.
I mean Sir Philip, true rival of your honour; one that could match
your spirit; so most extravagantly great that he refused to be a king.
He was at once a Caesar and a Virgil, the leading soldier, and the
foremost poet. All after this must fail: I have paid just veneration
to his name, and, methinks, the spirit of Shakespear pushed the

 Mr Philips, in his “Sixth Pastoral.”

 “Full fain, O blest Eliza! would I praise
 Thy maiden rule, and Albion’s golden days.
 Then gentle Sidney liv’d, the shepherd’s friend;
 Eternal blessings on his shade attend!”



 My Dear Lady and Sister,

Here now have you (most dear, and most worthy to be most dear lady!)
this idle work of mine, which, I fear, like the spider’s web, will be
thought fitter to be swept away, than worn to any other purpose. For
my part, in very truth (as the cruel fathers among the Greeks were
wont to do to the babes they would not foster), I could well find in
my heart to cast out, in some desert of forgetfulness, this child,
which I am loth to father. But you desired me to do it, and your
desire to my heart is an absolute commandment. Now, it is done only
for you, only to you: if you keep it to yourself, or commend it to
such friends who will weigh errors in the balance of goodwill, I hope,
for the father’s sake, it will be pardoned, perchance, made much of,
though in itself it have deformities. For indeed, for severer eyes it
is not, being but a trifle, and that triflingly handled. Your dear
self can best witness the manner, being done in loose sheets of paper,
most of it in your presence; the rest by sheets sent unto you, as fast
as they were done. In sum, a young head, not so well stayed as I would
it were, and shall be when God will, having many fancies begotten in
it, if it had not been in some way delivered, would have grown a
monster, and more sorry might I be that they came in, than that they
gat out. But this chief safety shall be the not walking abroad; and
his chief protection, the bearing the livery of your name, which, if
much {xl} goodwill do not deceive me, is worthy to be a sanctuary for
a greater offender. This say I, because I know thy virtue so, and this
say I, because it may be ever so, or, to say better, because it will
be ever so. Read it, then, at your idle times, and the follies your
good judgment will find in it blame not, but laugh at. And so, looking
for no better stuff than as in a haberdasher’s shop, glasses, or
feathers, you will continue to love the writer, who doth exceedingly
love you, and most heartily prays you may long live to be a principal
ornament to the family of the Sidneys. Your loving brother,

                                                        PHILIP SIDNEY.



It was in the time that the earth begins to put on her new apparel
against the approach of her lover, and that the sun, running a most
even course, becomes an indifferent arbiter between the night and the
day, when the hopeless shepherd Strephon was come to the sands, which
lie against the island of Cithera; where viewing the place with a
heavy kind of delight, and sometimes casting his eyes to the isleward,
he called his friendly rival the pastor Claius unto him; and setting
first down in his darkened countenance a doleful copy of what he would
speak, “O my Claius,” said he, “hither we are now come to pay the
rent, for which we are so called unto by over-busy remembrance,
remembrance, restless remembrance, which claims not only this duty of
us, but for it will have us forget ourselves. I pray you, when we were
amid our flock, and that of other shepherds some were running after
their sheep, strayed beyond their bounds; some delighting their eyes
with seeing them nibble upon the short and sweet grass; some
medicining their sick ewes; some setting a bell for an ensign of a
sheepish squadron; some with more leisure inventing new games of
exercising their bodies, and sporting their wits; did remembrance
grant us any holiday, either for pastime or devotion, nay either for
necessary food, or natural rest, but that still it forced our thoughts
to work upon this place, where we last (alas! that the word _last_
should so long last) did graze our eyes upon her ever-flourishing
beauty, did it not still cry within us? ‘Ah, you base-minded
wretches!--are your thoughts so deeply bemired in the trade of
ordinary worldings, as for respect of gain some paltry wool may yield
you, to let so much time pass without knowing perfectly her estate,
especially in so troublesome a season; to leave that shore unsaluted
from whence you may see to the island where she dwelleth; to leave
those steps unkissed wherein Urania printed the farewell of all


“Well, then, remembrance commanded, we obeyed, and here we find that
as our remembrance came ever clothed unto us in the form of this
place, so this place gives new heat to the fever of our languishing
remembrance. Yonder, my Claius, Urania lighted; the very horse,
methought, bewailed to be so disburdened: and as for thee, poor
Claius, when thou wentest to help her down, I saw reverence and desire
so divide thee, that thou didst at one instant both blush and quake,
and instead of bearing her wert ready to fall down thyself. There she
sat, vouchsafing my cloak (then most gorgeous) under her: at yonder
rising of the ground she turned herself, looking back towards her
wonted abode, and because of her parting, bearing much sorrow in her
eyes, the lightsomeness whereof had yet so natural a cheerfulness that
it made even sorrow seem to smile; at that turning she spake to us
all, opening the cherry of her lips, and Lord how greedily mine ears
did feed upon the sweet words she uttered! And here she laid her hand
over thine eyes, when she saw the tears springing in them, as if she
would conceal them from other, and yet herself feel some of thy
sorrow. But woe is me, yonder, yonder, did she put her foot into the
boat, at that instant, as it were, dividing her heavenly beauty
between the earth and the sea. But when she was embarked, did you not
mark how the winds whistled and the seas danced for joy, how the sails
did swell with pride, and all because they had Urania? O Urania,
blessed be thou Urania, the sweetest fairness, and fairest sweetness!”

With that word his voice brake so with sobbing, that he could say no
further; and Claius thus answered:

“Alas my Strephon,” said he, “what needs this score to reckon up only
our losses? What doubt is there, but that the sight of this place doth
call our thoughts to appear at the court of affection, held by that
racking steward remembrance? As well may sheep forget to fear when
they spy wolves, as we can miss such fancies when we see any place
made happy by her treading. Who can choose that saw her, but think
where she stayed, where she walked, where she turned, where she spoke?
But what is all this? truly no more, but as this place served us to
think of those things, so those things serve as places to call to
memory more excellent matters. No, no, let us think with
consideration, and consider with acknowledging, and acknowledge with
admiration, and admire with love, and love with joy in the midst of
all woes. Let us in such sort think, I say, that our poor eyes were so
enriched as to behold and our low hearts so exalted as to love a maid
who is such, that as the greatest thing the world can shew is her
beauty, so the least thing that may be praised in her is her beauty.
Certainly as her eye-lids are more pleasant to behold than two {3}
white kids climbing up a fair tree, and browsing on its tenderest
branches, and yet are nothing comparing to the day-shining stars
contained in them; and as her breath is more sweet than a gentle
south-west wind, which comes creeping over flowery fields and shadowed
waters in the extreme heat of summer; and yet is nothing, compared to
the honey-flowing speech that breath doth carry: no more all that our
eyes can see of her (though when they have seen her, what else they
shall ever see is but dry stubble after clover-grass) is to be matched
with the flock of unspeakable virtues laid up delightfully in that
best-builded fold. But indeed, as we can better consider the sun’s
beauty by marking how he gilds these waters and mountains than by
looking upon his own face, too glorious for our weak eyes: so it may
be our conceits (not able to bear her sun-staining excellency) will
better weigh it by her works upon some meaner subject employed. And
alas, who can better witness that than we, whose experience is
grounded upon feeling? Hath not the only love of her made us (being
silly ignorant shepherds) raise up our thoughts above the ordinary
level of the world, so that great clerks do not disdain our
conference? Hath not the desire to seem worthy in her eyes made us,
when others were sleeping, to sit viewing the course of the heavens;
when others were running at Base[b1-01], to run over learned writings;
when others mark their sheep, we to mark ourselves? Hath not she
thrown reason upon our desires, and, as it were, given eyes unto
Cupid? Hath in any but in her love-fellowship maintained friendship
between rivals, and beauty taught the beholders chastity?”

He was going on with his praises, but Strephon bade him stay and look:
and so they both perceived a thing which floated, drawing nearer and
nearer to the bank; but rather by the favourable working of the sea
than by any self-industry. They doubted a while what it should be till
it was cast up even hard before them, at which time they fully saw
that it was a man. Whereupon running for pity’s sake unto him, they
found his hands (as it should appear, constanter friends to his life
than his memory) fast gripping upon the edge of a square small coffer
which lay all under his breast: else in himself no show of life, so
that the board seemed to be but a bier to carry him to land to his
sepulchre. So drew they up a young man of goodly shape, and
well-pleasing favour, that one would think death had in him a lovely
countenance; and that, though he were naked, nakedness was to him an
apparel. That sight increased their compassion, and their compassion
called up their care; so that lifting his feet above his head, making
a great deal of salt water come out of his mouth, {4} they laid him
upon some of their garments, and fell to rub and chafe him, till they
brought him to recover both breath, the servant, and warmth, the
companion, of living. At length opening his eyes, he gave a great
groan (a doleful note, but a pleasant ditty, for by that they found
not only life but strength of life in him). They therefore continued
on their charitable office until, his spirits being well returned,
he--without so much as thanking them for their pains--gat up, and
looking round about to the uttermost limits of sight, and crying upon
the name of Pyrocles, nor seeing nor hearing cause of comfort, “What,”
said he, “and shall Musidorus live after Pyrocles’s destruction?”

Therewithal he offered wilfully to cast himself again into the sea: a
strange sight to the shepherds, to whom it seemed that before being in
appearance dead, had yet saved his life, and now coming to his life,
should be a cause to procure his death; but they ran unto him, and
pulling him back (then too feeble for them) by force stickled that
unnatural fray.

“I pray you,” said he, “honest men, what such right have you in me, as
not to suffer me to do with myself what I list, and what policy have
you to bestow a benefit where it is counted an injury?”

They hearing him speak in Greek (which was their natural language)
became the more tender-hearted towards him, and considering by his
calling and looking that the loss of some dear friend was great cause
of his sorrow, told him, they were poor men that were bound, by course
of humanity, to prevent so great a mischief; and that they wished him,
if opinion of some body’s perishing bred such desperate anguish in
him, that he should be comforted by his own proof, who had lately
escaped as apparent danger as any might be.

“No, no,” said he, “it is not for me to attend so high a blissfulness:
but since you take care of me, I pray you find means that some barque
may be provided, that will go out of the haven that if it be possible
we may find the body, far, far too precious food for fishes: and for
that hire I have within this casket of value sufficient to content

Claius presently went to a fisherman, and having agreed with him, and
provided some apparel for the naked stranger, he embarked, and the
shepherds with him: and were no sooner gone beyond the mouth of the
haven, but that some way into the sea they might discern, as it were,
a stain of the water’s colour, and by times some sparks and smoke
mounting thereout. But the young man no sooner saw it, but that
beating his breast he cried that there was the beginning of his ruin,
entreating them to bend their course as near unto it as they could;
telling, how that smoke was but a small relique of a great fire which
had driven both him and {5} his friend rather to commit themselves to
the cold mercy of the sea than to abide the hot cruelty of the fire;
and that therefore, though they both had abandoned the ship, that he
was (if any were) in that course to be met withal. They steered
therefore as near thitherward as they could: but when they came so
near that their eyes were full masters of the object, they saw a sight
full of piteous strangeness: a ship, or rather the carcase of the
ship, or rather some few bones of the carcase hulling there, part
broken, part burned, part drowned: death having used more than one
dart to that destruction. About it floated great store of very rich
things and many chests which might promise no less. And amidst the
precious things were a number of dead bodies, which likewise did not
only testify both elements’ violence, but that the chief violence was
grown of human inhumanity: for their bodies were full of grisly
wounds, and their blood had (as it were) filled the wrinkles of the
sea’s visage; which it seemed the sea would not wash away, that it
might witness that it is not always its fault when we do condemn its
cruelty. In sum, a defeat where the conquered kept both field and
spoil: a shipwreck without storm or ill-footing: and a waste of fire
in the midst of the water.

But a little way off they saw the mast, whose proud height now lay
along; like a widow having lost her mate of whom she held her honour:
but upon the mast they saw a young man (at least if he were a man)
bearing show of about eighteen years of age, who sat (as on
horse-back) having nothing upon him but his shirt, which being wrought
with blue silk and gold had a kind of resemblance to the sea: on which
the sun (then near his western home) did shoot some of his beams. His
hair (which the young men of Greece used to wear very long) was
stirred up and down with the wind, which seemed to have a sport to
play with it, as the sea had to kiss his feet; himself full of
admirable beauty, set forth by the strangeness both of his seat and
gesture. For, holding his head up full of unmoved majesty he held a
sword aloft with his fair arm, which often he waved about his crown,
as though he would threaten the world in that extremity. But the
fishermen, when they came so near him that it was time to throw out a
rope by which hold they might draw him, their simplicity bred such
amazement, and their amazement such superstition that (assuredly
thinking it was some God begotten between Neptune and Venus that had
made all this terrible slaughter), as they went under sail by him,
held up their hands and made their prayers. Which when Musidorus saw,
though he were almost as much ravished with joy as they with
astonishment, he leaped to the mariner, and took the cord out of his
hand, and (saying, “Dost thou live, and art thou well,” who answered,
“Thou canst tell best, {6} since most of my well-being stands in
thee,”) threw it out, but already the ship was passed beyond Pyrocles:
and therefore Musidorus could do no more but persuade the mariners to
cast about again, assuring them that he was but a man, although of
most divine excellencies, and promising great rewards for their pains.

And now they were already come upon the stays; when one of the sailors
descried a galley which came with sails and oars directly in the chase
of them; and straight perceived it was a well-known pirate who hunted
not only for goods but for bodies of men, which he employed either to
be his galley-slaves or to sell at the best market. Which when the
matter understood, he commanded forthwith to set on all the canvas he
could and fly homeward, leaving in that fort poor Pyrocles so near to
be rescued. But what did not Musidorus say, what did he not offer to
persuade them to venture to fight; but fear standing at the gates of
their ears, put back all persuasions: so that he had nothing whatever
to accompany Pyrocles but his eyes, nought to succour him but his
wishes. Therefore praying for him, and casting a long look that way,
he saw the galley leave the pursuit of them and turn to take up the
spoils of the other wreck: and lastly he might well see them lift up
the young man; and “alas,” said he to himself, “dear Pyrocles, shall
that body of thine be enchained, shall those victorious hands of thine
be commanded to base offices, shall virtue become a slave to those
that be slaves to viciousness, alas, better had it been thou hadst
ended nobly thy noble days: what death is so evil as unworthy

But that opinion soon ceased when he saw the galley setting upon
another ship, which held long and strong fight with her: for then he
began afresh to fear the life of his friend, and to wish well to the
pirates whom before he hated, lest in their ruin he might perish. But
the fishermen made such speed into the haven, that they absented his
eyes from beholding the issue: where being entered, he could not
procure neither them, or any other as then, to put themselves into the
sea: so that being so full of sorrow for being unable to do anything
as void of counsel how to do anything, besides that sickness grew
something upon him, the honest shepherds Strephon and Claius (who
being themselves true friends did the more perfectly judge the
justness of his sorrow) advise him that he should mitigate somewhat of
his woe, since he had gotten an amendment in fortune, being come from
assured persuasion of his death to have no cause to despair of his
life: as one that had lamented the death of his sheep should after
know they were but strayed would receive pleasure, though readily he
knew not where to find them.


“Now, Sir,” said they, “thus for ourselves it is; we are in profession
but shepherds, and in this country of Laconia little better than
strangers, and therefore neither in skill nor ability of power greatly
to stead you. But what we can present unto you is this: Arcadia, of
which country we are, is but a little way hence; and even upon the
next confines there dwelleth a gentleman, by name Kalander, who
vouchsafest much favour unto us: a man who for his hospitality is so
much haunted that no news stir but comes to his ears; for his upright
dealings so beloved of his neighbours, that he hath many ever ready to
do him their uttermost service; and by the great goodwill our prince
bears him may soon obtain the use of his name and credit, which hath
a principal sway, not only in his own Arcadia, but in all these
countries of Peloponnesus: and (which is worth all) all these things
give him not so much power, as his nature gives him will to benefit:
so that it seems no music is so sweet to his ears as deserved thanks.
To him we will bring you, and there you may recover again your health,
without which you cannot be able to make any diligent search for your
friend; and therefore you must labour for it. Besides, we are sure the
comfort of courtesy and ease of wise counsel shall not be wanting.”

Musidorus (who, besides he was merely unacquainted in the country, had
his wits astonished with sorrow) gave easy consent to that from which
he saw no reason to disagree: and therefore (defraying the mariners
with a ring bestowed upon them) they took their journey together
through Laconia; Claius and Strephon by course carrying his chest for
him, Musidorus only bearing in his countenance evident marks of a
sorrowful mind, supported with a weak body; which they perceiving, and
knowing that the violence of sorrow is not, at the first, to be
striven withal (being like a mighty beast, sooner tamed with following
than overthrown by withstanding), they gave way unto it, for that day
and the next; never troubling him, either with asking questions or
finding fault with his melancholy; but rather fitting to his dolour,
dolorous discourses of their own and other folks’ misfortunes. Which
speeches, though they had not a lively entrance to his senses shut up
in sorrow, yet like one half asleep he took hold of much of the matter
spoken unto him, for that a man may say, ere sorrow was aware, they
made his thoughts bear away something else beside his own sorrow,
which wrought so in him, that at length he grew content to mark their
speeches, then to marvel at such wit in shepherds, after to like their
company, and lastly to vouchsafe conference: so that the third day
after, in the time that the morning did strew roses and violets in the
heavenly floor against the coming of the sun, the nightingales
(striving one with the other {8} which could in most dainty variety
recount their wrong-caused sorrow) made them put off their sleep, and
rising from under a tree (which that night had been their pavilion)
they went on their journey, which by and by welcomed Musidorus’s eyes
(wearied with the wasted soil of Laconia) with delightful prospects.

There were hills which garnished their proud heights with stately
trees; humble valleys whose base estate seemed comforted with the
refreshing of silver rivers; meadows, enamelled with all sorts of
eye-pleasing flowers; thickets, which, being lined with most pleasant
shade, were witnessed so too by the cheerful disposition of many
well-tuned birds; each pasture stored with sheep feeding with sober
security, while the pretty lambs with bleating oratory craved the
dams’ comfort; here a shepherd’s boy piping, as though he should never
be old; there a young shepherdess knitting, and withal singing, and it
seemed that her voice comforted her hands to work and her hands kept
time to her voice-music. As for the houses of the country (for many
houses came under their eye) they were all scattered, no two being one
by the other, and yet not so far off as that it barred mutual succour:
a show, as it were, of an accompanable solitariness and of a civil
wildness. “I pray you,” said Musidorus, then first unsealing his long
silent lips: “what countries be these we pass through, which are so
divers in show, the one wanting no store, the other having no store
but of want?”

“The country,” answered Claius, “where you were cast ashore and now
are passed through is Laconia, not so poor by the barrenness of the
soil (though in itself not passing fertile) as by a civil war, which
being these two years within the bowels of that estate, between the
gentlemen and the peasants (by them named Helots), hath in this fort
as it were disfigured the face of nature, and made it so unhospitable
as now you have found it: the towns neither of the one side nor the
other willingly opening their gates to strangers, nor strangers
willingly entering for fear of being mistaken.

“But this country where now you set your foot is Arcadia: and even
hard by is the house of Kalander, whither we lead you. This country
being thus decked with peace and (the child of peace) good husbandry,
these houses you see so scattered are of men, as we two are, that live
upon the commodity of their sheep; and therefore in the division of
the Arcadian estate are termed shepherds: a happy people, wanting
little, because they desire not much.”

“What cause then,” said Musidorus, “made you venture to leave this
sweet life, and put yourself in yonder unpleasant and dangerous
realm?” “Guarded with poverty,” answered Strephon, “and {9} guided
with love.” “But now,” said Claius, “since it hath pleased you to ask
anything of us, whose baseness is such as the very knowledge is
darkness, give us leave to know something of you, and of the young man
you so much lament, that at least we may be the better instructed to
inform Kalander, and he the better know how to proportion his

Musidorus, according to the agreement between Pyrocles and him to
alter their names answered that he called himself Palladius and his
friend Daiphantus; “but till I have him again,” said he, “I am indeed
nothing, and therefore my story is of nothing; his entertainment
(since so good a man he is) cannot be so low as I account my estate;
and in sum, the sum of all his courtesy may be to help me by some
means to seek my friend.”

They perceived he was not willing to open himself further, and
therefore without further questioning brought him to the house; about
which they might see (with fit consideration both of the air, the
prospect, and the nature of the ground) all such necessary additions
to a great house as might well show Kalander knew that provision is
the foundation of hospitality and thrift the fuel of magnificence. The
house itself was built of fair and strong stone, not affecting so much
any extraordinary kind of fineness as an honourable representing of a
firm stateliness. The lights, doors and stairs rather directed to the
use of the guest than to the eye of the artificer; and yet as the one
chiefly heeded, so the other not neglected; each place handsome
without curiosity, and homely without loathsomeness; not so dainty as
not to be trod on, nor yet slubbered up with good fellowship; all more
lasting than beautiful, but that the consideration of the exceeding
lastingness made the eye believe it was exceeding beautiful. The
servants not so many in number as cleanly in apparel and serviceable
in behaviour, testifying even in their countenances that their master
took as well care to be served as of them that did serve. One of them
was forthwith ready to welcome the shepherds as men whom though they
were poor their master greatly favoured; and understanding by them
that the young man with them was to be much accounted of, for that
they had seen tokens of more than common greatness, howsoever now
eclipsed with fortune, he ran to his master, who came presently forth,
and pleasantly welcoming the shepherds, but especially applying him to
Musidorus, Strephon privately told him all what he knew of him, and
particularly that he found this stranger was loth to be known.

“No,” said Kalander speaking aloud, “I am no herald to inquire of
men’s pedigrees; it sufficeth me if I know their virtues; which (if
this young man’s face be not a false witness) do better apparel his
mind, than you have done his body.” While he was thus {10} speaking,
there came a boy in show like a merchant’s prentice, who, taking
Strephon by the sleeve delivered him a letter, written jointly both to
him and Claius, from Urania, which they no sooner had read but that
with short leave taking of Kalander (who quickly guessed and smiled at
the matter) and once again (though hastily) recommending the young man
unto him, they went away, leaving Musidorus even loth to part with
them, for the good conversation he had had of them and obligation he
accounted himself tied in unto them: and therefore, they delivering
his chest unto him, he opened it, and would have presented them with
two very rich jewels, but they absolutely refused them, telling him
that they were more than enough rewarded in the knowing of him, and
without hearkening unto a reply (like men whose hearts disdained all
desires but one) gat speedily away, as if the letter had brought wings
to make them fly. But by that sight Kalander soon judged that his
guest was of no mean calling; and therefore the more respectfully
entertaining him, Musidorus found his sickness (which the fight, the
sea and late travel had laid upon him) grow greatly, so that, fearing
some sudden accident, he delivered the chest to Kalander, which was
full of most precious stones gorgeously and cunningly set in divers
manners, desiring him he would keep those trifles, and if he died, he
would bestow so much of it as was needful, to find out and redeem a
young man, naming himself Daiphantus, as then in the hands of Laconian

But Kalander seeing him faint more and more, with careful speed
conveyed him to the most commodious lodging in his house, where being
possessed with an extreme burning fever he continued some while with
no great hope of life; but youth at length got the victory of
sickness, so that in six weeks the excellency of his returned beauty
was a credible ambassador of his health, to the great joy of Kalander,
who, as in his time he had by certain friends of his that dwelt near
the sea in Messenia set forth a ship and a galley to seek and succour
Daiphantus, so at home did he omit nothing which he thought might
either profit or gratify Palladius.

For, having found in him (besides his bodily gifts beyond the degree
of admiration) by daily discourses, which he delighted himself to have
with him, a mind of most excellent composition, a piercing wit, quite
void of ostentation, high erected thought seated in a heart of
courtesy, an eloquence as sweet in the uttering as slow to come to the
uttering, a behaviour so noble as gave a majesty to adversity; and all
in a man whose age could not be above one and twenty years; the good
old man was even enamoured with a fatherly love towards him, or rather
became his servant by the bonds such virtue laid upon him; once, he
acknowledged himself so to be by the badge of diligent attendance.


But Palladius having gotten his health, and only staying there to be
in place where he might hear answer of the ships set forth, Kalander
one afternoon led him abroad to a well-arrayed ground he had behind
his house, which he thought to show him before his going as the place
himself more than in any other delighted in. The backside of the house
was neither field, garden nor orchard; or rather it was both field,
garden and orchard: for as soon as the descending of the stairs had
delivered them down, they came into a place cunningly set with trees
of the most taste-pleasing fruits: but scarcely they had taken that
into their consideration but that they were suddenly stept into a
delicate green; of each side of the green a thicket, and behind the
thickets again new beds of flowers, which being under the trees the
trees were to them a pavilion, and they to the trees a mosaical floor,
so that it seemed that Art therein would needs be delightful, by
counterfeiting his enemy Error and making order in confusion.

In the midst of all the place was a fair pond whose shaking crystal
was a perfect mirror to all the other beauties, so that it bare show
of two gardens; one in deed, the other in shadows. And in one of the
thickets was a fine fountain made thus: a naked Venus of white marble,
wherein the graver had used such cunning that the natural blue veins
of the marble were framed in fit places to set forth the beautiful
veins of her body. At her breast she had her babe Aeneas, who seemed,
having begun to suck, to leave that to look upon her fair eyes, which
smiled at the babe’s folly, meanwhile the breast running.

Hard by was a house of pleasure built for a summer-retiring place;
whither Kalander leading him he found a square room full of delightful
pictures made by the most excellent workmen of Greece. There was Diana
when Actaeon saw her bathing; in whose cheeks the painter had set such
a colour as was mixed between shame and disdain, and one of her
foolish nymphs, who weeping, and withal lowering, one might see the
workman meant to set forth tears of anger. In another table was
Atalanta, the posture of whose limbs was so lively expressed, that if
the eyes were only judges, as they be the only seers, one would have
sworn the very picture had run. Besides many more, as of Helena,
Omphale, Iole: but in none of them all beauty seemed to speak so much
as in a large table, which contained a comely old man, with a lady of
middle-age, but of excellent beauty, and more excellent would have
been deemed, but that there stood between a young maid, whose
wonderfulness took away all beauty from her, but that which it might
seem she gave her back again by her very shadow. And such difference
(being known that it did indeed counterfeit a person living) was there
between her and all the other, though {12} goddesses, that it seemed
the skill of the painter bestowed nothing on the other new beauty, but
that the beauty of her bestowed new skill on the painter. Though he
thought inquisitiveness an uncomely guest he could not choose but ask
who she was, that bearing show of one being indeed could with natural
gifts go beyond the reach of invention. Kalander answered, that it was
made by Philoclea, the younger daughter of his prince, who also with
his wife were contained in that table: the painter meaning to
represent the present condition of the young lady, who stood watched
by an over-curious eye of her parents; and that he would also have
drawn her eldest sister, esteemed her match for beauty, in her
shepherdish attire, but that rude clown her guardian would not suffer
it; neither durst he ask leave of the prince, for fear of suspicion.
Palladius perceived that the matter was wrapped up in some secrecy,
and therefore would, for modesty, demand no further; but yet his
countenance could not but with dumb eloquence desire it. Which
Kalander perceiving, “Well,” said he, “my dear guest, I know your
mind, and I will satisfy it: neither will I do it like a niggardly
answerer, going no further than the bounds of the question; but I will
discover unto you as well that wherein my knowledge is common with
others as that which by extraordinary means is delivered unto me;
knowing so much in you (though not long acquainted) that I shall find
your ears faithful treasurers.” So then sitting down in two chairs,
and sometimes casting his eye to the picture, he thus spake:

“This country Arcadia among all the provinces of Greece, hath ever
been had in singular reputation; partly for the sweetness of the air
and other natural benefits, but principally for the well-tempered
minds of the people who (finding that the shining title of glory, so
much affected by other nations, doth indeed help little to the
happiness of life) are the only people which, as by their justice and
providence give neither cause nor hope to their neighbours to annoy,
so are they not stirred with false praise to trouble others’ quiet,
thinking it a small reward for the wasting of their own lives in
ravening, that their posterity should long after say they had done so.
Even the Muses seem to approve their good determination by choosing
this country for their chief repairing place, and by bestowing their
perfections so largely here that the very shepherds have their fancies
lifted to so high conceits that the learned of other nations are
content both to borrow their names and imitate their cunning.

“Here dwelleth and reigneth this prince (whose picture you see) by
name Basilius; a prince of sufficient skill to govern so quiet a
country, where the good minds of the former princes had set down good
laws, and the well-bringing up of the people doth serve as a {13} most
sure bond to hold them. But to be plain with you, he excels in nothing
so much as the zealous love of his people, wherein he doth not only
pass all his own foregoers but, as I think, all the princes living.
Whereof the cause is, that though he exceed not in the virtues which
get admiration, as depth of wisdom, height of courage, and largeness
of magnificence, yet is he notable in those which stir affection, as
truth of word, meekness, courtesy, mercifulness, and liberality.

“He, being already well stricken in years, married a young princess,
named Gynecia, daughter to the king of Cyprus, of notable beauty, as
by her picture you see: a woman of great wit, and in truth of more
princely virtues than her husband; of most unspotted chastity; but of
so working a mind and so vehement spirits that a man may say, it was
happy she took a good course for otherwise it would have been

“Of these two are brought into the world two daughters, so beyond
measure excellent in all the gifts allotted to reasonable creatures
that we may think they were born to show that nature is no stepmother
to that sex, how much soever some men (sharp-witted only in evil
speaking) have sought to disgrace them. The elder is named Pamela; by
many men not deemed inferior to her sister: for my part, when I marked
them both, methought there was (if at least such perfections may
receive the word of more) more sweetness in Philoclea but more majesty
in Pamela: methought love played in Philoclea’s eyes, and threatened
in Pamela’s; methought Philoclea’s beauty only persuaded, but so
persuaded as all hearts must yield; Pamela’s beauty used violence, and
such violence as no heart could resist. And it seems that such
proportion is between their minds: Philoclea so bashful, as though her
excellencies had stolen into her before she was aware; so humble, that
she will put all pride out of countenance; in sum, such proceeding as
will stir hope but teach hope good manners. Pamela of high thoughts
who avoids not pride with not knowing her excellencies, but by making
that one of her excellencies to be void of pride; her mother’s wisdom,
greatness, nobility, but (if I can guess aright) knit with a more
constant temper. Now then, our Basilius being so publicly happy as to
be a prince, and so happy in that happiness as to be a beloved prince;
and so in his private estate blessed as to have so excellent a wife
and so over-excellent children, hath of late taken a course which yet
makes him more spoken of than all these blessings. For having made a
journey to Delphos, and safely returned, within short space, he brake
up his court, and retired himself, his wife and children, into a
certain forest hereby which he called his desert; wherein (besides an
house appointed for stables and lodgings for certain {14} persons of
mean calling who do all household services) he hath builded two fine
lodges: in the one of them himself remains with his younger daughter
Philoclea (which was the cause they three were matched together in
this picture) without having any other creature living in that lodge
with him.

“Which though it be strange, yet not strange as the course he hath
taken with the princess Pamela whom he hath placed in the other lodge:
but how think you accompanied? Truly with none other but one Dametas,
the most arrant doltish clown that I think ever was without the
privilege of a bauble, with his wife Miso and daughter Mopsa, in whom
no wit can devise anything wherein they may pleasure her but to
exercise her patience and to serve for a foil of her perfections. This
loutish clown is such that you never saw so ill-favoured a vizor; his
behaviour such that he is beyond the degree of ridiculous; and for his
apparel, even as I would with him: Miso his wife so handsome a beldam,
that only her face and her splay-foot have made her accused for a
witch; only one good point she hath, that she observes decorum, having
a forward mind in a wretched body. Between these two personages (who
never agreed in any humour, but in disagreeing) is issued forth
mistress Mopsa, a fit woman to participate of both their perfections:
but because a pleasant fellow of my acquaintance set forth her praises
in verse, I will only repeat them, and spare mine own tongue, since
she goes for a woman. The verses are these, which I have so often
caused to be sung, that I have them without book.

 What length of verse can serve, brave Mopsa’s good to show?
 When virtues strange, and beauties such, as no man them may know:
 Thus shrewdly burden’d then, how can my Muse escape?
 The Gods must help, and precious things must serve, to shew her shape,
 Like great God Saturn fair, and like fair Venus chaste:
 As smooth as Pan, as Juno mild, like Goddess Iris fac’t,
 With Cupid she forsees, and goes God Vulcan’s pace:
 And for a taste of all these gifts, she steals God Momus’ grace.
 Her forehead Jacinth-like, her cheeks of Opal hue,
 Her twinkling eyes bedeck’d with Pearl, her lips a Sapphire blue:
 Her hair like Crapal stone; her mouth O heav’nly wide!
 Her skin like burnished gold, her hands like silver ore untry’d.
 As for her parts unknown, which hidden sure are best:
 Happy be they which will believe, and never seek the rest.

“Now truly having made these descriptions unto you, methinks you
should imagine that I rather feign some pleasant device than recount a
truth that a prince (not banished from his own wits) could possibly
make so unworthy a choice. But truly (dear guest) {15} so it is that
princes (whose doings have been often smoothed with good success)
think nothing so absurd, which they cannot make honourable. The
beginning of his credit was by the prince’s straying out of the way,
one time he hunted, where meeting this fellow, and asking him the way;
and so falling into other questions, he found some of his answers (as
a dog sure, if he could speak, had wit enough to describe his kennel)
not unsensible, and all uttered with such rudeness, which he
interpreted plainness (though there be great difference between them)
that Basilius, conceiving a sudden delight, took him to his court,
with apparent show of his good opinion: where the flattering courtier
had no sooner taken the prince’s mind, but that there were straight
reasons to confirm the prince’s doing, and shadows of virtues found
for Dametas. His silence grew wit, his bluntness integrity, his
beastly ignorance virtuous simplicity, and the prince (according to
the nature of great persons, in love with what he had done himself)
fancied that his weakness with his presence would much be mended. And
so like a creature of his own making, he liked him more and more; and
thus having first given him the office of principal herdsman; lastly,
since he took this strange determination, he hath in a manner put the
life of himself and his children into his hands. Which authority (like
too great a sail for so small a boat) doth so oversway poor Dametas,
that, if before he was a good fool in a chamber, he might be allowed
it now in a comedy, so as I doubt me (I fear me indeed) my master will
in the end (with his cost) find that his office is not to make men,
but to use men as men are, no more than a horse will be taught to
hunt, or an ass to manage. But in sooth I am afraid I have given your
ears too great a surfeit with gross discourses of that heavy piece of
flesh. But the zealous grief I conceive to see so great an error in my
lord hath made me bestow more words than I confess so base a subject

“Thus much now that I have told you is nothing more than in effect any
Arcadian knows. But what moved him to this strange solitariness hath
been imparted (as I think) but to one person living. Myself can
conjecture, and indeed more than conjecture by this accident that I
will tell you: I have an only son, by name Clitophon, who is now
absent, preparing for his own marriage, which I mean shortly shall be
here celebrated. This son of mine (while the prince kept his court)
was of his bed-chamber: now since the breaking up of thereof returned
home, and showed me (among other things he had gathered) the copy
which he had taken of a letter: which when the prince had read, he had
laid in a window, presuming nobody durst look in his writings: but my
son not only took a time to read it, but to copy it. In truth I {16}
blamed Clitophon for the curiosity which made him break his duty in
such a kind, whereby kings’ secrets are subject to be revealed, but
since it was done, I was content to take so much profit as to know it.
Now here is the letter that I ever since, for my good liking, have
carried about me: which before I read unto you, I must tell you from
whom it came. It is a nobleman of his country, named Philanax,
appointed by the prince regent, in this time of his retiring, and most
worthy so to be: for, there lives no man whose excellent wit more
simply embraceth integrity, beside his unfeigned love to his master,
wherein never yet any could make question, saving whether he loved
Basilius, or the prince better: a rare temper, while most men either
servilely yield to all appetites, or with an obstinate austerity
looking to that they fancied good, in effect neglect the prince’s
person. This then being the man, whom of all other (and most worthy)
the prince chiefly loves, it should seem (for more than the letter I
have not to guess by) that the prince upon his return from Delphos
(Philanax then lying sick) had written unto him his determination,
rising (as evidently appears) upon some oracle he had there received:
whereunto he wrote this answer:

 Philanax’s letter to Basilius.

 Most redoubted and beloved prince! if as well it had pleased you at
 your going to Delphos, as now, to have used my humble service, both I
 should in better season, and to better purpose have spoken; and you
 (if my speech had prevailed) should have been at this time, as no way
 more in danger, so much more in quietness? I would then have said that
 wisdom and virtue be the only destinies appointed to man to follow;
 whence we ought to seek all our knowledge, since they be such guides
 as cannot fail; which, besides their inward comfort, do lead so direct
 a way of proceeding, as either prosperity must ensue; or, if the
 wickedness of the world should oppress it, it can never be said that
 evil happeneth to him who falls accompanied with virtue: I would then
 have said the heavenly powers ought to be reverenced and searched
 into, and their mercies rather by prayers to be fought than their
 hidden counsels by curiosity. These kinds of sooth-sayings (since they
 have left us in ourselves sufficient guides) be nothing but fancy,
 wherein there must either be vanity, or infallibleness, and so either
 not to be respected, or not to be prevented. But since it is weakness
 too much to remember what should have been done, and that your
 commandment stretched to know what is to be done, I do (most dear
 Lord!) with humble boldness say that the manner of your determination
 doth in no sort better please me than the cause of your going. These
 thirty years you have so governed this region, that neither your
 subjects have wanted justice in you, nor you obedience in them; and
 your neighbours have found you so hurtlessly strong, that they thought
 it {17} better to rest in your friendship, than to make new trial of
 your enmity. If this then have proceeded out of the good constitution
 of your state, and out of a wise providence generally to prevent all
 those things which might encumber your happiness, why should you now
 seek new courses, since your own example comforts you to continue, and
 that it is to me most certain (though it please you not to tell me the
 very words of the oracle) that yet no destiny nor influence whatsoever
 can bring man’s wit to a higher point than wisdom and goodness: why
 should you deprive yourself of government for fear of losing your
 government, like one that should kill himself for fear of death? Nay,
 rather, if this oracle be to be accounted of, arm up your courage the
 more against it: for who will stick to him that abandons himself: let
 your subjects have you in their eyes, let them see the benefits of
 your justice daily more and more, and so much they needs rather like
 of present sureties than uncertain changes. Lastly, whether your time
 call you to live or die, do both like a prince. Now for your second
 resolution, which is to suffer no worthy prince to be a suitor to
 either of your daughters, but while you live to keep them both
 unmarried, and, as it were, to kill the joy of posterity, which in
 your time you may enjoy, moved perchance by a misunderstood oracle?
 what shall I say, if the affection of a father to his own children
 cannot plead sufficiently against such fancies? once, certain it is,
 the God which is God of nature doth never teach unnaturalness; and
 even the same mind hold I touching your banishing them from company,
 lest I know not what strange loves should follow. Certainly, Sir, in
 my ladies, your daughters, nature promiseth nothing but goodness, and
 their education by your fatherly care hath been hitherto such as hath
 been most fit to restrain all evil, giving their minds virtuous
 delights, and not grieving them for want of well-ruled liberty. Now to
 fall to a sudden straightening them, what can it do but argue
 suspicion? a thing no more unpleasant than unsure for the preserving
 of virtue. Leave women’s minds the most untamed that way of any: see
 whether a cage can please a bird; or whether a dog grow not fiercer
 with tying? what doth jealousy but stir up the mind to think what it
 is from which are restrained? for they are treasures or things of
 great delight, which men use to hide for the aptness they have to each
 man’s fancy: and the thoughts once awaked to that, harder sure it is
 to keep those thoughts from accomplishment than had been before to
 have kept the mind (which being the chief part, by this means is
 defiled) from thinking. Lastly, for the recommending of so principal a
 charge of the princess Pamela (whose mind goes beyond the governing of
 many thousand such) to such a person as Dametas is (besides that the
 thing in itself is strange) it comes of a very ill ground that
 ignorance should be the mother of faithfulness. Oh no, he cannot be
 good that knows not why he is good; but stands so far good as his
 fortune may keep him unassayed; but coming once to that, his rude
 simplicity is either easily changed, or easily {18} deceived: and so
 grows that to be the last excuse of his fault, which seemed to have
 been the foundation of his faith. Thus far hath your commandment and
 my zeal drawn me; which I, like a man in a valley that may discern
 hills, or like a poor passenger that may spy a rock, so humbly submit
 to your gracious consideration, beseeching you again to stand wholly
 upon your own virtue, as the surest way to maintain you in that you
 are, and to avoid any evil which may be imagined.

“By the contents of this letter you may perceive, that the cause of
all hath been the vanity which possesseth many who (making a perpetual
mansion of this poor baiting-place of man’s life) are desirous to know
the certainty of things to come, wherein there is nothing so certain
as our continual uncertainty. But what in particular points the oracle
was, in faith I know not, neither (as you may see by one place of
Philanax’s letter) he himself distinctly knew. But this experience
shews us that Basilius’s judgment, corrupted with a prince’s fortune,
hath rather heard than followed the wise (as I take it) counsel of
Philanax. For having left the stern of his government with much
amazement to the people, among whom many strange bruits are received
for current, with some appearance of danger in respect of the valiant
Amphialus his nephew, and much envying the ambitious number of the
nobility against Philanax, to see Philanax so advanced, though (to
speak simply) he deserve more than as many of us as there be in
Arcadia: the prince himself hath hidden his head, in such sort as I
told you, not sticking plainly to confess that he means not (while he
breathes) that his daughters shall have any husband, but keep them
thus solitary with him: where he gives no other body leave to visit
him at any time but a certain priest, who being excellent in poetry,
he makes him write out such things as he best likes, he being no less
delightful in conversation than needful for devotion, and about twenty
specified shepherds, in whom (some for eclogues) he taketh greater

“And now you know as much as myself: wherein if I have held you
over-long, lay hardly the fault upon my old age, which in the very
disposition of it is talkative, whether it be (said he smiling) that
nature loves to exercise that part most, which is least decayed, and
that is our tongue, or, that knowledge being the only thing whereof we
poor old men can brag, we cannot make it known but by utterance: or,
that mankind by all means seeking to eternize himself so much the
more, as he is near his end, doth it not only by the children that
come of him, but by speeches and writings recommended to the memory of
hearers and readers. And yet thus much I will say for myself, that I
have not laid these matters either so openly or largely to any as to
yourself: so {19} much (if I much fail not) do I see in you which
makes me both love and trust you.”

“Never may he be old,” answered Palladius, “that doth not reverence
that age, whose heaviness, if it weigh down the frail and fleshly
balance, it as much lifts up the noble and spiritual part; and well
might you have alleged another reason, that their wisdom makes them
willing to profit others. And that have I received of you, never to be
forgotten, but with ungratefulness. But among many strange conceits
you told me, which have shewed effects in your prince, truly even the
last, that he should conceive such pleasure in shepherds’ discourses
would not seem the least unto me, saving that you told me at the first
that this country is notable in those wits, and that indeed myself
having been brought not only to this place, but to my life by Strephon
and Claius in their conference found wits as might better become such
shepherds as Homer speaks of, that be governors of people, than such
senators who hold their council in a sheep-cote.”

“For them two (said Kalander), especially Claius, they are beyond the
rest by so much as learning commonly doth add to nature: for, having
neglected their wealth in respect of their knowledge, they have not so
much impaired the meaner, as they bettered the better. Which all
notwithstanding, it is a sport to hear how they impute to love which
hath indued their thoughts (say they) with such a strength. But
certainly all the people of this country, from high to low, are given
to those sports of the wit, so as you would wonder to hear how soon
even children will begin to versify. Once, ordinary it is amongst the
meanest sort, to make songs and dialogues in metre, either love
whetting their brain, or long peace having begun it, example and
emulation amending it. Not so much, but the clown Dametas will stumble
sometimes upon some songs that might become a better brain: but no
sort of people are so excellent in that kind as the pastors, for their
living standing but upon the looking to their beasts, they have ease,
the nurse of poetry. Neither are our shepherds such as (I hear) they
be in other countries, but they are the very owners of the sheep, to
which either themselves look, or their children give daily attendance.
And then truly, it would delight you under some tree, or by some
river’s side (when two or three of them meet together) to hear their
rural muse, how prettily it will deliver out, sometimes joys,
sometimes lamentations, sometimes challengings one of the other,
sometimes under hidden forms, uttering such matters as otherwise they
durst not deal with. Then have they most commonly one who judgeth the
prize to the best doer, of which they are no less glad than great
princes are of triumphs: and his part is to set down in writing all
that is said, save that it may be {20} his pen with more leisure doth
polish the rudeness of an unthought-on song. Now the choice of all (as
you may well think) either for goodness of voice, or pleasantness of
wit, the prince hath: among whom also there are two or three
strangers, who, inward melancholies having made weary of the world’s
eyes, have come to spend their lives among the country people of
Arcadia, and their conversation being well approved, the prince
vouchsafeth them his presence, and not only by looking on, but by
great courtesy and liberality animates the shepherds the more
exquisitely to labour for his good liking. So that there is no cause
to blame the prince for sometimes hearing them; the blame-worthiness
is, that to hear them, he rather goes to solitariness than makes them
come to company. Neither do I accuse my master for advancing a
country-man, Dametas is, since God forbid, but where worthiness is as
truly it is among divers of that fellowship, any outward lowness
should hinder the highest rising; but that he would needs make
election of one, the baseness of whose mind is such, that it sinks a
thousand degrees lower than the basest body could carry the most base
fortune: which although it might be answered for the prince, that it
is rather a trust he hath in his simple plainness than any great
advancement, but being chief herdman; yet all honest hearts feel that
the trust of their lord goes beyond all advancement. But I am ever too
long upon him, when he crosseth the way of my speech, and by the
shadow of yonder tower I see it is a fitter time with our supper to
pay the duties we owe to our stomachs, than to break the air with my
idle discourses: and more wit I might have learned of Homer (whom even
now you mentioned) who never entertained either guests or hosts with
long speeches, till the mouth of hunger be thoroughly stopped.” So
withal he rose, leading Palladius through the garden again to the
parlour where they used to sup; Palladius assuring him that he had
already been more fed to his liking than he could be by the
skilfullest trencher-men of Media.

But being come to the supping-place, one of Kalander’s servants
rounded in his ear, at which (his colour changing) he retired himself
into his chamber, commanding his men diligently to wait upon
Palladius, and to excuse his absence with some necessary business he
had presently to dispatch: which they accordingly did, for some few
days forcing themselves to let no change appear: but, though they
framed their countenances never so cunningly, Palladius perceived
there was some ill-pleasing accident fallen out. Whereupon, being
again set alone at supper, he called to the steward, and desired him
to tell him the matter of his sudden alteration: who, after some
trifling excuses, in the end confessed unto him that his master had
received news that his {21} son before the day of his near marriage,
chanced to be at a battle which was to be fought between the gentlemen
of Lacedaemon and the Helots: who, winning the victory, he was there
made prisoner going to deliver a friend of his taken prisoner by the
Helots; that the poor young gentlemen had offered great ransom for his
life; but that the hate those peasants conceived against all gentlemen
was such that every hour he was to look for nothing but some cruel
death, which hitherto had only been delayed by the captain’s vehement
dealing for him, who seemed to have a heart of more manly pity than
the rest. Which loss had stricken the old gentleman with such sorrow,
that, as if abundance of tears did not seem sufficiently to witness
it, he was alone retired, tearing his beard and hair, and cursing his
old age, that had not made his grave to stop his ears from such
advertisements: but that his faithful servants had written in his name
to all his friends, followers, and tenants (Philanax the governor
refusing to deal in it as a private cause, but yet giving leave to
seek their best redress, so as they wronged not the state of
Lacedaemon) of whom there were now gathered upon the frontiers good
forces, that he was sure would spend their lives by any way to redeem
or revenge Clitophon. “Now Sir,” said he, “this is my master’s nature,
though his grief be such, as to live is a grief unto him, and that
even his reason is darkened with sorrow; yet the laws of hospitality
(long and holily observed by him) gave still such a sway to his
proceeding that he will no way suffer the stranger lodged under his
roof to receive (as it were) any infection of his anguish, especially
you, towards whom I know not whether his love or admiration be
greater.” But Palladius could scarce hear out his tale with patience,
so was his heart torn in pieces with compassion of the case, liking of
Kalander’s noble behaviour, kindness for his respect to him-ward, and
desire to find some remedy, besides the image of his dearest friend
Daiphantus, whom he judged to suffer either alike or worse fortune.
Therefore rising from the board, he desired the steward to tell him
particularly the ground and event of this accident, because by
knowledge of many circumstances, there might perhaps some way of help
be opened. Whereunto the steward easily in this sort condescended.

“My Lord,” said he, “when our good king Basilius, with better success
than expectation, took to wife (even in his more than decaying years)
the fair young princess Gynecia, there came with her a young lord,
cousin-german to herself, named Argalus, led hither partly with the
love and honour of his noble kinswoman, partly with the humour of
youth, which ever thinks that good, whose goodness he sees not. And in
this court he received so good increase of knowledge, that after some
years spent, he so {22} manifested a most virtuous mind in all his
actions, that Arcadia gloried such a plant was transported unto them,
being a gentleman indeed most rarely accomplished, excellently
learned, but without all vain glory: friendly without factiousness;
valiant, so as for my part I think the earth hath no man that hath
done more heroical acts than he; howsoever now of late the fame flies
of the two princes of Thessalia and Macedon, and hath long done of our
noble prince Amphialus, who indeed in our parts is only accounted
likely to match him: but I say for my part, I think no man, for valour
of mind, and ability of body, to be preferred, if equalled to Argalus;
and yet so valiant, as he never durst do anybody injury: in behaviour,
some will say, ever sad, surely sober, and somewhat given to musing,
but never uncourteous; his word ever led by his thought, and always
followed by his deed; rather liberal than magnificent, though the one
wanted not, and the other had ever good choice of the receiver; in sum
(for I perceive I shall easily take a great draught of his praises,
whom both I and all this country love so well) such a man was (and I
hope is) Argalus, as hardly the nicest eye can find a spot in, if the
over-vehement constancy of yet spotless affection may not in
hard-wrested constructions be counted a spot: which in this manner
began that work in him, which hath made both him, and itself in him,
over all this country famous. My master’s son Clitophon (whose loss
gives the cause to this discourse, and yet gives me cause to begin
with Argalus, since his loss proceeds from Argalus) being a young
gentleman as of great birth (being our king’s sister’s son) so truly
of good nature and one that can see good and love it, haunted more the
company of this worthy Argalus, than of any other; so as if there were
not a friendship (which is so rare, as it is to be doubted whether it
be a thing indeed, or but a word) at least there was such a liking and
friendliness as hath brought forth the effects which you shall hear.
About two years since, it so fell out that he brought him to a great
lady’s house, sister to my master, who had with her her only daughter,
the fair Parthenia, fair indeed (fame, I think, itself not daring to
call any fairer, if it be not Helena, queen of Corinth, and the two
incomparable sisters of Arcadia) and that which made her fairness much
the fairer was, that it was but a fair ambassador of a most fair mind;
full of wit, and a wit which delighted more to judge itself than to
shew itself: her speech being as rare, as precious; her silence
without fullness; her modesty without affectation; her shamefacedness
without ignorance: in sum, one that to praise well, one must first set
down with himself what it is to be excellent: for so she is.

“I think you think that these perfections meeting could not choose but
find one another, and delight in what they found; for likeness {23} of
manners is likely in reason to draw liking with affection; men’s
actions do not always cross with reason: to be short, it did so
indeed. They loved, although for a while the fire thereof (hope’s
wings being cut off) were blown by the bellows of despair upon this

“There had been a good while before, and so continued, a suitor to
this same lady, a great noble man, though of Laconia, yet near
neighbour to Parthenia’s mother, named Demagoras; a man mighty in
riches and power, and proud thereof, stubbornly stout, loving nobody
but himself, and, for his own delight’s sake, Parthenia: and pursuing
vehemently his desire, his riches had so gilded over all his other
imperfections that the old lady (though contrary to my lord her
brother’s mind) had given her consent; and using a mother’s authority
upon her fair daughter had made her yield thereunto, not because she
liked her choice, but because her obedient mind had not yet taken upon
it to make choice. And the day of their assurance drew near, when my
young lord Clitophon brought this noble Argalus, perchance principally
to see so rare a sight, as Parthenia by all well-judging eyes was

“But though few days were before the time of assurance appointed, yet
love, that saw he had a great journey to make in short time, hasted so
himself that before her word could tie her to Demagoras, her heart
hath vowed her to Argalus with so grateful a receipt in mutual
affection that if she desired above all things to have Argalus,
Argalus feared nothing but to miss Parthenia. And now Parthenia had
learned both liking and misliking, loving and loathing, and out of
passion began to take the authority of judgment; insomuch that when
the time came that Demagoras (full of proud joy) thought to receive
the gift of herself; she, with words of resolute refusal (though with
tears showing she was sorry she must refuse) assured her mother she
would first be bedded in her grave than wedded to Demagoras. The
change was no more strange than unpleasant to the mother who being
determinately (lest I should say of a great lady, wilfully) bent to
marry her to Demagoras, tried all ways, which a witty and hard-hearted
mother could use upon so humble a daughter in whom the only resisting
power was love. But the more she assaulted, the more she taught
Parthenia to defend; and the more Parthenia defended, the more she
made her mother obstinate in the assault: who at length finding that
Argalus standing between them, was it that most eclipsed her affection
from shining upon Demagoras, she sought all means how to remove him,
so much the more as he manifested himself an unremovable suitor to her
daughter: first by employing him in as many dangerous enterprises as
ever the evil step-mother {24} Juno recommended to the famous
Hercules: but the more his virtue was tried, the more pure it grew,
while all the things she did to overthrow him, did set him up upon the
height of honour; enough to have moved her heart, especially to a man
every way so worthy as Argalus; but the struggling against all reason,
because she would have her will, and shew her authority in matching
her with Demagoras, the more virtuous Argalus was the more she hated
him, thinking herself conquered in his conquests, and therefore, still
employing him in more and more dangerous attempts: in the meanwhile
she used all extremities possible upon her fair daughter to make her
give over herself to her direction. But it was hard to judge whether
he in doing, or she in suffering, shewed greater constancy of
affection: for, as to Argalus the world sooner wanted occasions than
he valour to go through them: so to Parthenia malice sooner ceased
than her unchanged patience. Lastly, by treasons Demagoras and she
would have made away with Argalus, but he with providence and courage
so passed over all that the mother took such a spiteful grief at it
that her heart brake withal, and she died.

“But then Demagoras assuring himself that now Parthenia was her own
she would never be his, and receiving as much by her own determinate
answer, not more desiring his own happiness, than envying Argalus,
whom he saw with narrow eyes, even ready to enjoy the perfection of
his desires, strengthening his conceit with all the mischievous
counsels which disdained love and envious pride could give unto him,
the wicked wretch (taking a time that Argalus was gone to his country
to fetch some of his principal friends to honour the marriage, which
Parthenia had most joyfully consented unto) the wicked Demagoras, I
say, desiring to speak with her, with unmerciful force (her weak arms
in vain resisting) rubbed all over her face a most horrible poison:
the effect whereof was such, that never leper looked more ugly than
she did: which done, having his men and horses ready, departed away in
spite of her servants, as ready to revenge as could be, in such an
unexpected mischief. But the abominableness of this fact being come to
my L. Kalander, he made such means, both by our king’s intercession
and his own, that by the king and senate of Lacedaemon, Demagoras was,
upon pain of death, banished the country: who hating the punishment,
where he should have hated the fault, joined himself, with all the
power he could make, unto the Helots, lately in rebellion against that
state: and they (glad to have a man of such authority among them) made
him their general, and under him have committed divers the most
outrageous villanies that a base multitude (full of desperate revenge)
can imagine.


“But within a while after this pitiful fact committed upon Parthenia,
Argalus returned (poor Gentleman!) having her fair image in his heart,
and already promising his eyes the uttermost of his felicity when they
(nobody else daring to tell it him) were the first messengers to
themselves of their own misfortune. I mean not to move passion with
telling you the grief of both, when he knew her, for at first he did
not; nor at first knowledge could possibly have virtue’s aid so ready,
as not even weakly to lament the loss of such a jewel, so much the
more, as that skilful men in that art assured it was unrecoverable:
but within a while, truth of love (which still held the first face in
his memory) a virtuous constancy, and even a delight to be constant,
faith given, and inward worthiness shining through the foulest mists,
took so full hold of the noble Argalus, that not only in such comfort
which witty arguments may bestow upon adversity, but even with the
most abundant kindness that an eye-ravished lover can express, he
laboured both to drive the extremity of sorrow from her, and to hasten
the celebration of their marriage: whereunto he unfeignedly shewed
himself no less cheerfully earnest than if she had never been
disinherited of that goodly portion which nature had so liberally
bequeathed unto her; and for that cause deferred his intended revenge
upon Demagoras, because he might continually be in her presence,
shewing more humble serviceableness and joy to content her than ever

“But as he gave this rare example, not to be hoped for of any other,
but of another Argalus, so of the other side, she took as strange a
course in affection: for where she desired to enjoy him more than to
live yet did she overthrow both her own desire and his, and in no sort
would yield to marry him: with a strange encounter of love’s affects
and effects; that he by an affection sprung from excessive beauty
should delight in horrible foulness; and she of a vehement desire to
have him should kindly build a resolution never to have him; for truth
it is, that so in heart she loved him, as she could not find in her
heart he should be tied to what was unworthy of his presence.

“Truly, Sir, a very good orator might have a fair field to use
eloquence in, if he did but only repeat the lamentable, and truly
affectionate speeches, while he conjured her by remembrance of her
affection, and true oaths of his own affection, not to make him so
unhappy, as to think he had not only lost her face, but her heart;
that her face, when it was fairest, had been but a marshal to lodge
the love of her in his mind, which now was so well placed that it
needed no further help of any outward harbinger; beseeching her, even
with tears, to know that his love was not so superficial as to go no
further than the skin, which yet now to him was most {26} fair since
it was hers: how could he be so ungrateful as to love her the less for
that which she had only received for his sake; that he never beheld
it, but therein he saw the loveliness of her love towards him;
protesting unto her that he would never take joy of his life if he
might not enjoy her, for whom principally he was glad he had life. But
(as I heard by one that overheard them) she (wringing him by the hand)
made no other answer but this. ‘My Lord,’ said she, ‘God knows I love
you; if I were princess of the whole world, and had, withal, all the
blessings that ever the world brought forth, I should not make delay
to lay myself and them under your feet; or if I had continued but as I
was, though (I must confess) far unworthy of you, yet would I (with
too great a joy for my heart now to think of) have accepted your
vouchsafing me to be yours, and with faith and obedience would have
supplied all other defects. But first let me be much more miserable
than I am ere I match Argalus to such a Parthenia. Live happy, dear
Argalus, I give you full liberty, and I beseech you to take it; and I
assure you I shall rejoice (whatsoever become of me) to see you so
coupled, as may be fit both for your honour and satisfaction.’ With
that she burst out crying and weeping, not able longer to control
herself from blaming her fortune, and wishing her own death.

“But Argalus, with a most heavy heart still pursuing his desire, she
fixed of mind to avoid further intreaty, and to fly all company which
(even of him) grew unpleasant unto her, one night she stole away: but
whither as yet it is unknown or indeed what is become of her.

“Argalus sought her long, and in many places; at length (despairing to
find her, and the more he despaired, the more enraged) weary of his
life, but first determining to be revenged of Demagoras, he went alone
disguised into the chief town held by the Helots, where coming into
his presence, guarded about by many of his soldiers, he could delay
his fury no longer for a fitter time, but setting upon him, in despite
of a great many that helped him, gave him divers mortal wounds, and
himself (no question) had been there presently murdered, but that
Demagoras himself desired he might be kept alive: perchance with
intention to feed his own eyes with some cruel execution to be laid
upon him; but death came sooner than he looked for; yet having had
leisure to appoint his successor, a young man, not long before
delivered out of the prison of the king of Lacedaemon, where he should
have suffered death for having slain the king’s nephew, but him he
named, who at that time was absent, making inroads upon the
Lacedaemonians; but being returned, the rest of the Helots, for the
great liking they conceived of that young man, {27} especially because
they had none among themselves to whom the others would yield, were
content to follow Demagoras’s appointment. And well hath it succeeded
with them, he having since done things beyond the hope of the youngest
heads; of whom I speak the rather, because he hath hitherto preserved
Argalus alive, under pretence to have him publicly, and with exquisite
torments executed after the end of these wars, of which they hope for
a soon and prosperous issue.

“And he hath likewise hitherto kept my young lord Clitophon alive, who
(to redeem his friend) went with certain other noble men of Laconia,
and forces gathered by them, to besiege this young and new successor:
but he issuing out (to the wonder of all men) defeated the Laconians,
slew many of the noblemen, and took Clitophon prisoner, whom with much
ado he keepeth alive, the Helots being villainously cruel; but he
tempereth them so, sometimes by following their humour, sometimes by
striving with it, that hitherto he hath saved both their lives, but in
different estates; Argalus being kept in a close and hard prison,
Clitophon at some liberty. And now, Sir, though (to say the truth) we
can promise ourselves little of their safeties while they are in the
Helots’ hands, I have delivered all I understand touching the loss of
my lord’s son, and the cause thereof: which though it was not
necessary to Clitophon’s case, to be so particularly told, yet the
strangeness of it made me think it would not be unpleasant unto you.”

Palladius thanked him greatly for it, being even passionately
delighted with hearing so strange an accident of a knight so famous
over the world as Argalus, with whom he had himself a long desire to
meet: so had fame poured a noble emulation in him towards him.

But then (well bethinking himself) he called for armour, desiring them
to provide him of horse and guide, and armed all saving the head, he
went up to Kalander, whom he found lying upon the ground, having ever
since banished both sleep and food as enemies to the mourning, which
passion persuaded him was reasonable. But Palladius raised him up,
saying unto him: “No more, no more of this, my L. Kalander; let us
labour to find, before we lament the loss: you know myself miss one,
who though he be not my son, I would disdain the favour of life after
him: but while there is a hope left, let not the weakness of sorrow
make the strength of it languish: take comfort, and good success will
follow.” And with those words, comfort seemed to lighten in his eyes,
and in his face and gesture was painted victory. Once, Kalander’s
spirits were so revived withal, that (receiving some sustenance, and
taking a little rest) he armed himself and those {28} few of his
servants he had left unsent, and so himself guided Palladius to the
place upon the frontiers, where already there were assembled between
three and four thousand men, all well disposed (for Kalander’s sake)
to abide any peril: but like men disused with a long peace, more
determinate to do than skilful how to do: lusty bodies, and braver
armours; with such courage as rather grew of despising their enemies,
whom they knew not, than of any confidence for anything which in
themselves they knew: but neither cunning use of their weapons, nor
art showed in their marching or encamping. Which Palladius soon
perceiving, he desired to understand (as much as could be delivered
unto him) the estate of the Helots.

And he was answered by a man well acquainted with the affairs of
Laconia, that they were a kind of people who, having been of old
freemen and possessioners, the Lacedaemonians had conquered them, and
laid not only tribute, but bondage upon them, which they had long
borne, till of late the Lacedaemonians, through greediness growing
more heavy than they could bear, and through contempt growing less
careful how to make them bear, they had with a general consent (rather
springing by the generalness of the cause than of any artificial
practice) set themselves in arms, and whetting their courage with
revenge, and grounding their resolution upon despair, they had
proceeded with unlooked-for success, having already taken divers towns
and castles, with the slaughter of many of the gentry: for whom no sex
nor age could be accepted for an excuse. And that although at the
first they had fought rather with beastly fury than any soldiery
discipline, practice had now made them comparable to the best of the
Lacedaemonians, and more of late than ever; by reason, first of
Demagoras, a great lord, who had made himself of their party, and
since his death, of another captain they had gotten, who had brought
up their ignorance, and brought down their fury to such a mean of good
government, and withal led them so valorously that (besides the time
wherein Clitophon was taken) they had the better in some other great
conflicts: in such wise that the estate of Lacedaemon had sent unto
them, offering peace with most reasonable and honourable conditions.
Palladius having gotten this general knowledge of the party against
whom, as he had already of the party for whom he was to fight, he went
to Kalander, and told him plainly that by plain force there was small
appearance of helping Clitophon; but some device was to be taken in
hand, wherein no less discretion than valour was to be used.

Whereupon, the counsel of the chief men was called, and at last this
way Palladius (who by some experience, but especially by {29} reading
histories, was acquainted with stratagems) invented, and was by all
the rest approved, that all the men there should dress themselves like
the poorest sort of the people in Arcadia, having no banners, but
bloody shirts hanged upon long staves, with some bad bag-pipes instead
of drum and fife: their armour they should, as well as might be,
cover, or at least make them look so rustily and ill-favouredly as
might well become such wearers, and this the whole number should do,
saving two hundred of the best chosen gentlemen for courage and
strength, whereof Palladius himself would be one, who should have
their arms chained, and be put in carts like prisoners. This being
performed according to the agreement, they marched on towards the town
of Cardamila where Clitophon was captive; and being come two hours
before sunset within view of the walls, the Helots already descrying
their number, and beginning to sound the alarm, they sent a cunning
fellow (so much the cunninger as that he could mask it under rudeness)
who with such a kind of rhetoric as weeded out all flowers of
rhetoric, delivered unto the Helots assembled together, that they were
country-people of Arcadia, no less oppressed by their lords, and no
less desirous of liberty than they, and therefore had put themselves
in the field, and had already (besides a great number slain) taken
nine or ten score gentlemen prisoners, whom they had there well and
fast chained. Now because they had no strong retiring place in
Arcadia, and were not yet of number enough to keep the field against
the prince’s forces, they were come to them for succour; knowing that
daily more and more of their quality would flock unto them, but that
in the meantime, lest their prince should pursue them, or the
Lacedaemonian king and nobility (for the likeness of the cause) fall
upon them, they desired that if there were not room enough for them in
the town, that yet they might encamp under the walls, and for surety
have their prisoners (who were such men as were able to make their
peace) kept within the town.

The Helots made but a short consultation, being glad that their
contagion had spread itself into Arcadia, and making account that if
the peace did not fall out between them and their king, that it was
the best way to set fire in all the parts of Greece; besides their
greediness to have so many gentlemen in their hands, in whose ransoms
they already meant to have a share; to which haste of concluding, two
things well helped; the one, that their captain, with the wisest of
them, was at that time absent about confirming or breaking the peace
with the state of Lacedaemon: the second, that over-many good fortunes
began to breed a proud recklessness[b1-02] in them; therefore sending
to view the camp, and {30} finding that by their speech they were
Arcadians, with whom they had had no war, never suspecting a private
man’s credit could have gathered such a force, and that all other
tokens witnessed them to be of the lowest calling (besides the chains
upon the gentlemen) they granted not only leave for the prisoners, but
for some others of the company, and to all, that they might harbour
under the walls. So opened they the gates, and received in the carts,
which being done, and Palladius seeing fit time, he gave the sign, and
shaking off their chains (which were made with such art, that though
they seemed most strong and fast, he that wore them might easily loose
them) drew their swords hidden in the carts, and so setting upon the
ward, made them to fly either from the place, or from their bodies,
and so give entry to all the force of the Arcadians before the Helots
could make any head to resist them.

But the Helots, being men hardened against dangers, gathered (as well
as they could) together in the market-place, and thence would have
given a shrewd welcome to the Arcadians, but that Palladius (blaming
those that were slow, heartening them that were forward, but
especially with his own example leading them) made such an impression
into the squadron of the Helots that at first the great body of them
beginning to shake and stagger, at length every particular body
recommended the protection of his life to his feet. Then Kalander
cried to go to the prison where he thought his son was; but Palladius
wished him (first scouring the streets) to house all the Helots, and
make themselves masters of the gates.

But ere that could be accomplished, the Helots had gotten new heart,
and with divers sorts of shot from corners of streets and
house-windows, galled them; which courage was come unto them by the
return of their captain; who, though he brought not many with him
(having dispersed most of his companies to other of his holds) yet
meeting a great number running out of the gate, not yet possessed by
the Arcadians, he made them turn face, and with banners displayed, his
trumpet giveth the loudest testimony he could of his return; which
once heard, the rest of the Helots, which were otherwise scattered,
bent thitherward with a new life of resolution, as if their captain
had been a root, out of which (as into branches) their courage had
sprung. Then began the fight to grow most sharp, and the encounters of
more cruel obstinacy: the Arcadians fighting to keep what they had
won; the Helots to recover what they had lost; the Arcadians as in an
unknown place, having no succour but in their hands; the Helots as in
their own place, fighting for their lives, wives, and children. There
was victory and courage against revenge and despair: safety of both
besides being no otherwise to be gotten, but by destruction.


At length, the left wing of the Arcadians began to lose ground; which
Palladius feeling, he straight thrust himself with his choice band
against the throng that oppressed them with such an overflowing of
valour that the captain of the Helots (whose eyes soon judged of that
wherewith themselves were governed) saw that he alone was worth all
the rest of the Arcadians: which he so wondered at, that it was hard
to say whether he more liked his doings, or misliked the effects of
his doings: but determining that upon that cast the game lay, and
disdaining to fight with any other, fought only to join with him:
which mind was no less in Palladius, having easily marked that he was
the first mover of all the other hands. And so their thoughts meeting
in one point, they consented (though not agreed) to try each other’s
fortune: and so drawing themselves to be the uttermost of the one
side, they began a combat, which was so much inferior to the battle in
noise and number, as it was surpassing it in bravery of fighting, and,
as it were, delightful terribleness. Their courage was guided with
skill, and their skill was armed with courage; neither did their
hardiness darken their wit, nor their wit cool their hardiness: both
valiant, as men despising death, both confident, as unwonted to be
overcome: yet doubtful by their present feeling, and respectful by
what they had already seen. Their feet steady, their hands diligent,
their eyes watchful, and their hearts resolute. The parts either not
armed, or weakly armed, were well known, and according to the
knowledge should have been sharply visited, but that the answer was as
quick as the objections. Yet some lightning, the smart bred rage, and
the rage bred smart again: till both sides beginning to wax faint, and
rather desirous to die accompanied, than hopeful to live victorious,
the captain of the Helots with a blow, whose violence grew of fury,
not of strength, or of strength proceeding of fury, struck Palladius
upon the side of the head, that he reeled astonished: and withal the
helmet fell off, he remaining bare-headed, but other of the Arcadians
were ready to shield him from any harm might rise of that nakedness.

But little needed it, for his chief enemy, instead of pursuing that
advantage, kneeled down, offering to deliver the pommel of his sword,
in token of yielding; withal speaking aloud unto him, that he thought
it more liberty to be his prisoner, than any other’s general.
Palladius standing upon himself, and misdoubting some craft, and the
Helots that were next their captain, wavering between looking for some
stratagem, or fearing treason; “What,” said the captain, “hath
Palladius forgotten the voice of Daiphantus?”

By that watch-word Palladius knew that it was his only friend
Pyrocles, whom he had lost upon the sea, and therefore both most full
of wonder so to be met, if they had not been fuller of joy than {32}
wonder, caused the retreat to be sounded, Diaphantus by authority, and
Palladius by persuasion, to which helped well the little advantage
that was of either side: and that of the Helots’ party, their
captain’s behaviour had made as many amazed as saw or heard of it: and
of the Arcadian side the good old Kalander, striving more than his old
age could achieve, was newly taken prisoner. But indeed the chief
parter of the fray was the night, which with her black arms pulled
their malicious sights one from the other. But he that took Kalander,
meant nothing less than to save him, but only so long, as the captain
might learn the enemies’ secrets, towards whom he led the old
gentleman, when he caused the retreat to be sounded; looking for no
other delivery from that captivity, but by the painful taking away of
all pain: when whom should he see next to the captain (with good
tokens how valiantly he had fought that day against the Arcadians) but
his son Clitophon? But now the captain had caused all the principal
Helots to be assembled, as well to deliberate what they had to do, as
to receive a message from the Arcadians, among whom Palladius’s virtue
(besides the love Kalander bare him) having gotten principal
authority, he had persuaded them to seek rather by parley to recover
the father and the son, than by the sword; since the goodness of the
captain assured him that way to speed, and his value (wherewith he was
of old acquainted) made him think any other way dangerous. This
therefore was done in orderly manner, giving them to understand that
as they came but to deliver Clitophon, so offering to leave the
footing they already had in the town, to go away without any further
hurt, so that they might have the father and the son without ransom
delivered. Which conditions being heard and conceived by the Helots,
Diaphantus persuaded them without delay to accept them. “For first,”
said he, “since the strife is within our own home, if you lose, you
lose all that in this life can be dear unto you: if you win, it will
be a bloody victory with no profit, but the flattering in ourselves
that same bad humour of revenge. Besides, it is like to stir Arcadia
upon us, which now, by using these persons well, may be brought to
some amity. Lastly, but especially, lest the king and nobility of
Laconia (with whom now we have made a perfect peace) should hope by
occasion of this quarrel to join the Arcadians with them, and so break
off the profitable agreement already concluded: in sum, as in all
deliberations (weighing the profit of the good success with the harm
of the evil success) you shall find this way most safe and

The Helots, as much moved by his authority, as persuaded by his
reasons, were content therewith. Whereupon Palladius took order that
the Arcadians should presently march out of town, {33} taking with
them their prisoners, while the night with mutual diffidence might
keep them quiet, and ere day came, they might be well on their way,
and so avoid those accidents which in late enemies, a look, a word, or
a particular man’s quarrel might engender. This being on both sides
concluded on, Kalander and Clitophon, who now with infinite joy did
know each other, came to kiss the hands and feet of Daiphantus:
Clitophon telling his father how Daiphantus, not without danger to
himself, had preserved him from the furious malice of the Helots: and
even that day going to conclude the peace (lest in his absence he
might receive some hurt) he had taken him in his company, and given
him armour, upon promise he should take the part of the Helots; which
he had in this fight performed, little knowing that it was against his
own father; “But,” said Clitophon, “here is he, who as a father, hath
now begotten me, and, as a god, hath saved me from many deaths which
already laid hold on me,” which Kalander with tears of joy
acknowledged, besides his own deliverance, only his benefit. But
Daiphantus, who loved doing well for itself and not for thanks, broke
off those ceremonies, desiring to know how Palladius, for so he called
Musidorus, was come into that company, and what his present estate
was; whereof receiving a brief declaration of Kalander, he sent him
word by Clitophon that he should not as now come unto him, because he
held himself not so sure a master of the Helots’ minds that he would
adventure him in their power, who was so well known with an unfriendly
acquaintance; but that he desired him to return with Kalander, whither
also he within few days, having dispatched himself of the Helots,
would repair. Kalander would needs kiss his hand again for that
promise, protesting he would esteem his house more blessed than a
temple of the gods, if it had once received him. And then desiring
pardon for Argalus, Diaphantus assured them that he would die but he
would bring him (though till then kept in close prison, indeed for his
safety, the Helots being so animated against him as else he could not
have lived) and so taking their leave of him, Kalander, Clitophon,
Palladius, and the rest of the Arcadians swearing that they would no
further in any sort molest the Helots, they straightway marched out of
the town, carrying both their dead and wounded bodies with them; and
by morning were already within the limits of Arcadia.

The Helots of the other side shutting their gates, gave themselves to
bury their dead, to cure their wounds, and rest their wearied bodies;
till (the next day bestowing the cheerful use of the light upon them)
Daiphantus, making a general convocation spake unto them in this
manner: “We are first,” said he, “to thank the gods, that (further
than we had either cause to hope, {34} or reason to imagine) have
delivered us out of this gulf of danger, wherein we were already
swallowed. For all being lost (had they not directed my return so just
as they did), it had been too late to recover that, which being had,
we could not keep. And had I not happened to know one of the principal
men among them, by which means the truce began between us, you may
easily conceive what little reason we have to think but that either by
some supply out of Arcadia, or from the nobility of this country, (who
would have made fruits of wisdom grow out of this occasion) we should
have had our power turned to ruin, our pride to repentance and sorrow.
But now, the storm as it fell, so it ceased: and the error committed,
in retaining Clitophon more hardly than his age or quarrel deserved,
becomes a sharply learned experience, to use, in other times, more

“Now have I to deliver unto you the conclusion between the kings with
the nobility of Lacedaemon and you; which is in all points as
ourselves desired: as well for that you would have granted, as for the
assurance of what is granted. The towns and forts you presently have,
are still left unto you, to be kept either with, or without garrison,
so as you alter not the laws of the country, and pay such duties as
the rest of the Laconians do; yourselves are made, by public decree,
freemen, and so capable both to give and receive voice in election of
magistrates. The distinction of names between Helots and
Lacedaemonians to be quite taken away, and all indifferently to enjoy
both names and privileges of Laconians. Your children to be brought up
with theirs in the Spartan discipline: and so you (framing yourselves
to be good members of that estate) to be hereafter fellows and no
longer servants.

“Which conditions you see, carry in themselves no more contention than
assurance; for this is not a peace which is made with them; but this a
piece by which you are made of them. Lastly a forgetfulness decreed of
all what is past, they showing themselves glad to have so valiant men
as you are joined with them, so that you are to take minds of peace,
since the cause of war is finished; and as you hated them before like
oppressors, so now to love them as brothers; to take care of their
estate, because it is yours; and to labour by virtuous doing, that
posterity may not repent your joining. But now one article only they
stood upon, which in the end I with your commissioners have agreed
unto that I should no more tarry here, mistaking perchance my humour,
and thinking me as seditious as I am young; or else it is the king
Amiclas procuring, in respect that it was my ill hap to kill his
nephew Eurileon, but howsoever it be, I have condescended.” “But so
will not we,” cried almost the whole assembly, counselling one {35}
another rather to try the uttermost event than lose him by whom they
had been victorious. But he as well with general orations as
particular dealing with the men of most credit, made them see how
necessary it was to prefer such an opportunity before a vain
affection; but could not prevail till openly he sware that he would
(if at any time the Lacedaemonians brake this treaty) come back again,
and be their captain.

So, then, after a few days, setting them in perfect order, he took his
leave of them, whose eyes bade him farewell with tears, and mouths
with kissing the places where he stepped, and after making temples
unto him, as to a demi-god, thinking it beyond the degree of humanity
to have a wit so far over-going his age, and such dreadful terror
proceed from so excellent beauty. But he for his sake obtained free
pardon for Argalus, whom also (upon oath never to bear arms against
the Helots) he delivered; and taking only with him certain principal
jewels of his own, he would have parted alone with Argalus (whose
countenance well showed, while Parthenia was lost, he counted not
himself delivered, but that the whole multitude would needs guard him
into Arcadia, where again leaving them all to lament his departure, he
by enquiry got to the well-known house of Kalander. There was he
received with loving joy of Kalander, with joyful love of Palladius,
with humble, though doleful, demeanour of Argalus (whom specially both
he and Palladius regarded with grateful serviceableness of Clitophon)
and honourable admiration of all. For being now well viewed to have no
hair on the face, to witness him a man, who had done acts beyond the
degree of a man, and to look with a certain almost bashful kind of
modesty, as if he feared the eyes of men, who was unmoved by the sight
of the most horrible countenances of death; and as if nature had
mistaken her work to have a Mars’s heart in a Cupid’s body: all that
beheld him (and all that might behold him, did behold him) made their
eyes quick messengers to their mind, that there they had seen the
uttermost that in mankind might be seen. The like wonder Palladius had
before stirred, but that Diaphantus, as younger and newer come, had
gotten now the advantage in the moist and fickle impression of
eye-sight. But while all men, saving poor Argalus, made the joy of
their eyes speak for their hearts towards Daiphantus; fortune (that
belike was bid to that banquet, and meant to play the good-fellow)
brought a pleasant adventure among them. It was that as they had newly
dined, there came in to Kalander a messenger, that brought him word, a
young noble lady, near kinswoman to the fair Helen, queen of Corinth,
was come thither, and desired to be lodged in his house. Kalander
(most glad of such an occasion) went out, and all his other worthy
guests with {36} him, saving only Argalus, who remained in his
chamber, desirous that this company were once broken up, that he might
go in his solitary quest after Parthenia. But when they met this lady,
Kalander straight thought he saw his niece Parthenia, and was about in
such familiar sort to have spoken unto her, but she, in grave and
honourable manner, giving him to understand that he was mistaken; he,
half ashamed, excused himself with the exceeding likeness was between
them, though indeed it seemed that this lady was of the more pure and
dainty complexion, she said, it might very well be, having been many
times taken one for another. But as soon as she was brought into the
house, before she would rest her, she desired to speak with Argalus
publicly, who she heard was in the house. Argalus came hastily, and as
hastily thought as Kalander had done, with sudden change of to sorrow.
But she, when she had stayed her thoughts with telling them her name
and quality, in this sort spake unto him. “My Lord Argalus,” said she,
“being of late left in the court of queen Helen of Corinth, as chief
in her absence, she being upon some occasion gone thence, there came
unto me the lady Parthenia, so disfigured, as I think Greece hath
nothing so ugly to behold. For my part, it was many days, before, with
vehement oaths, and some good proofs, she could make me think that she
was Parthenia. Yet at last finding certainly it was she, and greatly
pitying her misfortune, so much the more as that all men had even told
me, as now you do, of the great likeness between us, I took the best
care I could of her, and of her understood the whole tragical history
of her undeserved adventure: and therewithal of that most noble
constancy in you my lord Argalus, which whosoever loves not, shows
himself to be a hater of virtue, and unworthy to live in the society
of mankind. But no outward cherishing could salve the inward sore of
her mind; but a few days since she died; before her death earnestly
desiring, and persuading me to think of no husband but of you, as of
the only man in the world worthy to be loved. Withal she gave me this
ring to deliver you, desiring you, and by the authority of love
commanding you that the affection you bare her, you should turn to me;
assuring you, that nothing can please her soul more than to see you
and me matched together. Now my lord, though this office be not,
perchance, suitable to my estate nor sex, who should rather look to be
desired; yet, an extraordinary desert requires an extraordinary
proceeding, and therefore I am come, with faithful love built upon
your worthiness, to offer myself, and to beseech you to accept the
offer: and if these noble gentlemen present will say it is great
folly, let them withal say, it is great love.” And then she stayed,
earnestly attending Argalus’s answer; who, first {37} making most
hearty sighs, doing such obsequies as he could to Parthenia, thus
answered her.

“Madame,” said he, “infinitely am I bound to you, for this no more
rare than noble courtesy; but much bound for the goodness I perceive
you showed to the lady Parthenia (with that the tears ran down his
eyes, but he followed on) and as much as so unfortunate a man, fit to
be the spectacle of misery, can do you a service; determine you have
made a purchase of a slave, while I live, never to fail you. But this
great matter you propose unto me, wherein I am not so blind as not to
see what happiness it should be unto me, excellent lady, know that if
my heart were mine to give, you before all others should have it; but
Parthenia’s it is, though dead: there I began, there I end all matter
of affection: I hope I shall not long tarry after her, with whose
beauty if I only had been in love, I should be so with you, who have
the same beauty; but it was Parthenia’s self I loved, and love, which
no likeness can make one, no commandment dissolve, no foulness defile,
nor no death finish.” “And shall I receive,” said she, “such disgrace
as to be refused?” “Noble lady,” said he, “let not that hard word be
used; who know your exceeding worthiness far beyond my desert? but it
is only happiness I refuse, since of the only happiness I could and
can desire, I am refused.”

He had scarce spoken those words, when she ran to him and embracing
him, “Why then Argalus,” said she, “take thy Parthenia:” and Parthenia
it was indeed. But because sorrow forbade him too soon to believe, she
told him the truth, with all circumstances: how being parted alone,
meaning to die in some solitary place, as she happened to make her
complaint, the queen Helen of Corinth (who likewise felt her part of
miseries) being then walking alone in that lovely place, heard her,
and never left, till she had known the whole discourse. Which the
noble queen greatly pitying, she sent to her a physician of hers, the
most excellent man in the world, in hope he could help her: which in
such sort as they saw he had performed, and the taking with her one of
the queen’s servants, thought yet to make this trial, whether he would
quickly forget his true Parthenia, or no. Her speech was confirmed by
the Corinthian gentlemen, who before had kept her counsel, and Argalus
easily persuaded to what more than ten thousand years of life he
desired: and Kalander would needs have the marriage celebrated in his
house, principally the longer to hold his dear guest, towards whom he
was now, besides his own habits of hospitality, carried with love and
duty: and therefore omitted no service that his wit could invent and
power minister.

But no way he saw he could so much pleasure them as by {38} leaving
the two friends alone, who being shrunk aside to the banqueting-house,
where the pictures were; there Palladius recounted unto him, that
after they had both abandoned the burning ship (and either of them
taking something under him, the better to support him to the shore) he
knew not how, but either with over-labouring in the fight, and sudden
cold, or the too much receiving of salt-water, he was past himself:
but yet holding fast, as the nature of dying men is to do, the chest
that was under him, he was cast on the sands, where he was taken up by
a couple of shepherds, and by them brought to life again, and kept
from drowning himself, when he despaired of his safety. How after
having failed to take him into the fisher-boat, he had by the
shepherds’ persuasion come to this gentleman’s house; where being
dangerously sick, he had yielded to seek the recovery of health, only
for that he might the sooner go seek the delivery of Pyrocles; to
which purpose Kalander by some friends of his in Messenia, had already
set a ship or two abroad, when this accident of Clitophon’s taking had
so blessedly procured their meeting. Then did he set forth unto him
the noble entertainment and careful cherishing of Kalander towards
him, and so upon occasion of the pictures present, delivered with the
frankness of a friend’s tongue, as near as could be, word by word what
Kalander had told him touching the strange story, with all the
particularities belonging, of Arcadia; which did in many sorts so
delight Pyrocles to hear, that he would needs have much of it again
repeated, and was not contented till Kalander himself had answered him
divers questions.

But first at Musidorus’s request, though in brief manner, his mind
much running upon the strange story of Arcadia, he did declare by what
course of adventures he was come to make up their mutual happiness in
meeting. “When, cousin,” said he, “we had stripped ourselves, and were
both leaped into the sea, and swam a little towards the shore, I
found, by reason of some wounds I had, that I should not be able to
get the land, and therefore returned back again to the mast of the
ship, where you found me, assuring myself, that if you came alive to
shore, you would seek me; if you were lost, as I thought it as good to
perish as to live, so that place as good to perish in as another.
There I found my sword among some of the shrouds, wishing, I must
confess, if I died, to be found with that in my hand, and withal
waving it about my head, that sailors by might have the better glimpse
of me. There you missing me, I was taken up by pirates, who putting me
under board prisoner, presently set upon another ship and maintaining
a long fight, in the end put them all to the sword. Amongst whom I
might hear them greatly praise one young man, who fought most
valiantly, who (as love is careful, and misfortune {39} subject to
doubtfulness) I thought certainly to be you. And so holding you as
dead, from that time to the time I saw you, in truth I sought nothing
more than a noble end, which perchance made me more hardy than
otherwise I would have been. Trial whereof came within two days after;
for the kings of Lacedaemon having set out some galleys under the
charge of one of their nephews, to scour the sea of the pirates, they
met with us, where our captain wanting men, was driven to arm some of
his prisoners, with promise of liberty for well fighting: among whom I
was one; and being boarded by the admiral, it was my fortune to kill
Eurileon the king’s nephew: but in the end they prevailed, and we were
all taken prisoners, I not caring much what became of me (only keeping
the name of Daiphantus, according to the resolution you know is
between us:) but being laid in the jail of Tenaria, with special hate
to me for the death of Eurileon, the popular sort of that town
conspired with the Helots, and so by night opened them the gates;
where entering and killing all of the genteel and rich faction, for
honesty-sake brake open all prisons, and so delivered me: and I, moved
with gratefulness, and encouraged with carelessness of life, so
behaved myself in some conflicts they had within few days, that they
barbarously thinking unsensible wonders of me, as they heard I was
hated of the king of Lacedaemon, their chief captain being slain, as
you know, by the noble Argalus (who helped thereunto by his
persuasion) having borne a great affection unto me, and to avoid the
dangerous emulation which grew among the chief, who should have the
place, and also affected, as rather to have a stranger than a
competitor, they elected me (God wot little proud of that dignity;)
restoring unto me such things of mine as being taken first by the
pirates, and then by the Lacedaemonians, they had gotten in the sack
of the town. Now being in it, so good was my success with many
victories, that I made a peace for them, to their own liking, the very
day that you delivered Clitophon, whom I, with much ado, had
preserved. And in my peace the king Amiclas of Lacedaemon would needs
have me banished, and deprived of the dignity, whereunto I was
exalted: which (and you may see how much you are bound to me) for your
sake I was content to suffer, a new hope rising in me, that you were
not dead: and so meaning to travel over the world to seek you; and now
here, my dear Musidorus! you have me.” And with that, embracing and
kissing each other, they called Kalander, of whom Daiphantus desired
to hear the full story, which before he had recounted to Palladius,
and to see the letter of Philanax, which he read and well marked.

But within some days after, the marriage between Argalus and the fair
Parthenia being to be celebrated, Daiphantus and Palladius, {40}
selling some of their jewels, furnished themselves of very fair
apparel, meaning to do honour to their loving host, who, as much for
their sakes as for the marriage, set forth each thing in most gorgeous
manner. But all the cost bestowed did not so much enrich, nor all the
fine decking so much beautify, nor all the dainty devices so much
delight, as the fairness of Parthenia, the pearl of all the maids of
Mantinea, who as she went to the temple to be married, her eyes
themselves seemed a temple, wherein love and beauty were married. Her
lips, though they were kept close with modest silence, yet with a
pretty kind of natural swelling, they seemed to invite the guests that
looked on them; her cheeks blushing, and withal, when she was spoken
unto, a little smiling, were like roses when their leaves are with a
little breath stirred; her hair being laid at the full length down her
back, bare she was, if the voward failed, yet that would conquer.
Daiphantus marking her, “O Jupiter! (quoth he speaking to Palladius)
how happens it, that beauty is only confined to Arcadia?” But
Palladius not greatly attending his speech, some days were continued
in the solemnizing the marriage, with all conceits that might deliver
delight to men’s fancies.

But such a change was grown in Daiphantus that (as if cheerfulness had
been tediousness, and good entertainment were turned to discourtesy)
he would ever get himself alone, though almost when he was in company,
he was alone, so little attention he gave to any that spake unto him:
even the colour and figure of his face began to receive some
alteration, which he shewed little to heed: but every morning early
going abroad, either to the garden, or to some woods towards the
desert, it seemed his only comfort was to be without a comforter. But
long it could not be hid from Palladius, whom true love made ready to
mark, and long knowledge able to mark; and therefore being now grown
weary of his abode in Arcadia, having informed himself fully of the
strength and riches of the country, of the nature of the people, and
manner of their laws; and seeing the court could not be visited,
prohibited to all men, but to certain shepherdish people, he greatly
desired a speedy return to his own country, after the many mazes of
fortune he had trodden. But perceiving this great alteration in his
friend, he thought first to break with him thereof, and then to hasten
his return; whereto he found him but smally inclined: whereupon one
day taking him alone with certain graces and countenances, as if he
were disputing with the trees, began in this manner to say unto him.

“A mind well trained and long exercised in virtue, my sweet and worthy
cousin doth not easily change any course it once undertakes, but upon
well-grounded and well-weighed causes; for {41} being witness to
itself of its own inward good, it finds nothing without it of so high
a price for which it should be altered. Even the very countenance and
behaviour of such a man doth shew forth images of the same constancy,
by maintaining a right harmony betwixt it and the inward good, in
yielding itself suitable to the virtuous resolution of the mind. This
speech I direct to you, noble friend Pyrocles, the excellency of whose
mind and well chosen course in virtue, if I do not sufficiently know,
having seen such rare demonstrations of it, it is my weakness, and not
your unworthiness: but as indeed I know it, and knowing it, most
dearly love both it and him that hath it, so must I needs say that
since our late coming into this country, I have marked in you, I will
not say an alteration, but a relenting truly, and a slacking of the
main career you had so notably begun and almost performed, and that in
such sort, as I cannot find sufficient reason in my great love toward
you how to allow it: for (to leave off other secreter arguments which
my acquaintance with you makes me easily find) this in effect to any
man may be manifest, that whereas you were wont in all places you came
to give yourself vehemently to the knowledge of those things which
might better your mind, to seek the familiarity of excellent men in
learning and soldiery, and lastly, to put all these things in
practice, both by continual wise proceeding, and worthy enterprises as
occasion fell for them; you now leave all these things undone: you let
your mind fall asleep: beside your countenance troubled, which surely
comes not of virtue; for virtue, like the clear heaven, is without
clouds: and lastly, you subject yourself to solitariness, the sly
enemy that doth most separate a man from well doing.”

Pyrocles’s mind was all this while so fixed upon another devotion,
that he no more attentively marked his friend’s discourse than the
child that hath leave to play marks the last part of his lesson; or
the diligent pilot in a dangerous tempest doth attend the unskilful
words of a passenger: yet the very sound having imprinted the general
points of his speech in his heart, pierced with any mislike of so
dearly an esteemed friend, and desirous by degrees to bring him to a
gentler consideration of him, with a shame-faced look (witnessing he
rather could not help, than did not know his fault) answered him to
this purpose: “Excellent Musidorus! in the praise you gave me in the
beginning of your speech, I easily acknowledge the force of your good
will unto me; for neither could you have thought so well of me, if
extremity of love had not made your judgment partial, nor could you
have loved me so entirely if you had not been apt to make so great,
though undeserved, judgments of me; and even so much I say to those
imperfections to which, though I have ever through weakness been {42}
subject, yet you by the daily mending of your mind have of late been
able to look into them, which before you could not discern; so that
the change you speak of falls not out by my impairing, but by your
bettering. And yet under the leave of your better judgment, I must
needs say thus much (my dear cousin!) that I find not myself wholly to
be condemned because I do not with continual vehemency follow those
knowledges, which you call the bettering of my mind; for both the mind
itself must, like other things, sometimes be unbent, or else it will
be either weakened, or broken, and these knowledges, as they are of
good use, so are they not all the mind may stretch itself unto: who
knows whether I feed not my mind with higher thoughts? Truly, as I
know not all the particularities, so yet I see the bounds of all these
knowledges: but the workings of the mind I find much more infinite
than can be led unto by the eye, or imagined by any that distract
their thoughts without themselves. And in such contemplation, or, as
I think, more excellent, I enjoy my solitariness, and my solitariness
perchance is the nurse of these contemplations. Eagles we see fly
alone, and they are but sheep which always herd together; condemn not
therefore my mind sometimes to enjoy itself; nor blame not the taking
of such times as serve most fit for it. And alas, dear Musidorus! if I
be sad who knows better than you the just causes I have of sadness?”
And here Pyrocles suddenly stopped, like a man unsatisfied in himself,
though his wit might well have served to have satisfied another. And
so looking with a countenance as though he desired he should know his
mind without hearing him speak, and yet desirous to speak, to breathe
out some part of his inward evil, sending again new blood to his face,
he continued his speech in this manner: “And lord, dear cousin,” said
he, “doth not the pleasantness of this place carry in itself
sufficient reward for any time lost in it? do you not see how all
things conspire together to make this country a heavenly dwelling? do
you not see the grass, how in colour they excel the emeralds, every
one striving to pass his fellow, and yet they are all kept of an equal
height? and see you not the rest of these beautiful flowers, each of
which would require a man’s wit to know, and his life to express? do
not these stately trees seem to maintain their flourishing old age
with the only happiness of their seat, being clothed with a continual
spring, because no beauty here should ever fade? doth not the air
breathe health, which the birds, delightful both to ear and eye, do
daily solemnize with the sweet consent of their voices? is not every
echo thereof a perfect music? And these fresh and delightful brooks
how slowly they slide away, as loth to leave the company of so many
things united in perfection? and with how sweet a murmur they lament
their forced {43} departure? certainly, certainly, cousin, it must
needs be that some goddess inhabiteth this region, who is the soul of
this soil: for neither is any less than a goddess worthy to be shrined
in such a heap of pleasures, nor any less than a goddess could have
made it so perfect a plot of the celestial dwellings.” And so ended
with a deep sigh, ruefully[b1-03] casting his eyes upon Musidorus, as
more desirous of pity than pleading. But Musidorus had all this while
held his look fixed upon Pyrocles’s countenance; and with no less
loving attention marked how his words proceeded from him: but in both
these he perceived such strange diversities, that they rather
increased new doubts than gave him ground to settle any judgment: for
besides his eyes sometimes even great with tears, the oft changing of
his colour, with a kind of shaking unsteadiness over all his body, he
might see in his countenance some great determination mixed with fear;
and might perceive in him store of thoughts, rather stirred than
digested; his words interrupted continually with sighs, which served
as a burden to each sentence, and the tenour of his speech, though of
his wanted phrase, not knit together to one constant end, but rather
dissolved in itself, as the vehemency of the inward passion prevailed:
which made Musidorus frame his answer nearest to that humour, which
should soonest put out the secret. For having in the beginning of
Pyrocles’s speech, which defended his solitariness, framed in his mind
a reply against it in the praise of honourable action, in showing that
such a kind of contemplation is but a glorious title to idleness; that
in action a man did not only better himself, but benefit others; that
the gods would not have delivered a soul into the body which had arms
and legs, only instruments of doing, but that it were intended the
mind should employ them, and that the mind should best know his own
good or evil by practice; which knowledge was the only way to increase
the one, and correct the other; besides many other arguments, which
the plentifulness of the matter yielded to the sharpness of his wit.
When he found Pyrocles leave that, and fall into such an affected
praising of the place, he left it likewise, and joined with him
therein: because he found him in that humour utter more store of
passion; and even thus kindly embracing him, he said, “Your words are
such, noble cousin, so sweetly and strongly handled in the praise of
solitariness, as they would make me likewise yield myself up into it,
but that the same words make me know it is more pleasant to enjoy the
company of him that can speak such words than by such words to be
persuaded to follow solitariness. And even so do I give you leave,
sweet Pyrocles, ever to defend solitariness, so long as to defend it,
you ever keep company. But I marvel at the excessive {44} praises you
give to this country; in truth it is not unpleasant, but yet if you
would return into Macedon you should either see many heavens, or find
this no more than earthly. And even Tempe in my Thessalia (where you
and I, to my great happiness, were brought up together) is nothing
inferior unto it. But I think you will make me see that the vigour of
your wit can show itself in any subject: or else you feed sometimes
your solitariness with the conceits of the poets, whose liberal pens
can as easily travel over mountains as molehills, and so like
well-disposed men, set up everything to the highest note; especially,
when they put such words in the mouths of one of these fantastical,
mind-infected people, that children and musicians call ‘Lovers.’” This
word “Lover,” did no less pierce poor Pyrocles, than the right tune of
music toucheth him that is sick of the Tarantula.[b1-04] There was not
one part of his body that did not feel a sudden motion, while his
heart with panting seemed to dance to the sound of that word; yet
after some pause (lifting up his eyes a little from the ground, and
yet not daring to place them in the eyes of Musidorus) armed with the
very countenance of the poor prisoner at the bar, whose answer is
nothing but guilty: with much ado he brought forth this question. “And
alas,” said he, “dear cousin, what if I be not so much the poet (the
freedom of whose pen can exercise itself in any thing) as even that
miserable subject of his cunning whereof you speak?” “Now the eternal
gods forbid,” mainly cried out Musidorus, “that ever my ear should be
poisoned with so evil news of you. O let me never know that any base
affection should get any lordship in your thoughts.” But as he was
speaking more, Kalander came and brake off their discourse with
inviting them to the hunting of a goodly stag, which being harboured
in a wood thereby, he hoped would make them good sport, and drive away
some part of Daiphantus’s melancholy. They condescended, and so going
to their lodgings, furnished themselves as liked them, Diaphantus
writing a few words which he sealed in a letter against their return.

Then went they together abroad, the good Kalander entertaining them
with pleasant discoursing, how well he loved the sport of hunting when
he was a young man, how much, in the comparison thereof, he disdained
all chamber-delights, that the fun (how great a journey soever he had
to make) could never prevent him with earliness, nor the moon, with
her sober countenance, dissuade him from watching till midnight for
the deer feeding. “O,” said he, “you will never live to my age,
without you keep yourselves in breath with exercise, and in heart with
joyfulness. Too much {45} thinking doth consume the spirits, and oft
it falls out that while one thinks too much of his doing, he leaves to
do the effect of his thinking.” Then spared he not to remember how
much Arcadia was changed since his youth: activity and good fellowship
being nothing in the price it was then held in; but, according to the
nature of the old growing world, still worse and worse. Then would he
tell them stories of such gallants as he had known: and so with
pleasant company beguiled the time’s haste, and shortened the way’s
length, till they came to the side of the wood, where the hounds were
in couples staying their coming, but with a whining accent craving
liberty, many of them in colour and marks so resembling, that it
shewed they were of one kind. The huntsmen handsomely attired in their
green liveries as though they were children of summer, with staves in
their hands to beat the guiltless earth when the hounds were at a
fault, and with horns about their necks to sound an alarm upon a silly
fugitive: the hounds were straight uncoupled, and ere long the stag
thought it better to trust to the nimbleness of his feet than to the
slender fortification of his lodging: but even his feet betrayed him,
for howsoever they went, they themselves uttered themselves to the
scent of their enemies, who one taking it of another, and sometimes
believing the wind’s advertisement, sometimes the view of their
faithful counsellors, the huntsmen, with open mouths then denounced
war, when the war was already begun; their cry being composed of so
well-sorted mouths, that any man would perceive therein some kind of
proportion, but the skilful woodmen did find a music. Then delight,
and variety of opinion, drew the horsemen sundry ways, yet cheering
their hounds with voice and horn, kept still, as it were, together.
The wood seemed to conspire with them against his own citizens,
dispersing their noise through all his quarters, and even the nymph
Echo left to bewail the loss of Narcissus, and become a hunter. But
the stag was in the end so hotly pursued that, leaving his flight, he
was driven to make courage of despair, and so, turning his head, made
the hounds, with change of speech, to testify that he was at a bay, as
if from hot pursuit of their enemy, they were suddenly come to a

But Kalander, by his skill of coasting the country, was amongst the
first that came into the besieged deer; whom when some of the younger
sort would have killed with their swords, he would not suffer, but
with a cross-bow sent a death to the poor beast, who with tears showed
the unkindness he took of man’s cruelty.

But by the time that the whole company was assembled, and that the
stag had bestowed himself liberally among them that had killed him,
Daiphantus was missed, for whom Palladius carefully inquiring, no news
could be given him, but by one that said he {46} thought he was
returned home; for that he marked him in the chief of the hunting,
take a byway which might lead to Kalander’s house. That answer for the
time satisfying, and they having performed all duties, as well for the
stag’s funeral as the hounds’ triumph, they returned; some talking of
the fatness of the deer’s body; some of the fairness of his head; some
of the hounds’ cunning; some of their speed, and some of their cry;
till coming home, about the time that the candles begin to inherit the
sun’s office, they found Daiphantus was not to be found. Whereat
Palladius greatly marvelling, and a day or two passing, while neither
search nor inquiry could help him to knowledge, at last he lighted
upon the letter which Pyrocles had written before he went a-hunting,
and left in his study among other of his writings: The letter was
directed to Palladius himself, and contained these words:

 My only friend! violence of love leads me into such a course, whereof
 your knowledge may much more vex you, than help me. Therefore pardon
 my concealing it from you, since, if I wrong you, it is in the respect
 I bear you. Return into Thessalia, I pray you, as full of good fortune
 as I am of desire; and if I live, I will in a short time follow you;
 if I die, love my memory.

This was all, and this Palladius read twice or thrice over. “Ah,” said
he, “Pyrocles what means this alteration? what have I deserved of thee
to be thus banished of thy counsels? Heretofore I have accused the
sea, condemned the pirates, and hated my evil fortune that deprived me
of thee; but now thyself is the sea which drowns my comfort; thyself
is the pirate that robs thyself from me; thy own will becomes thy evil
fortune.” Then turned he his thoughts to all forms of guesses that
might light upon the purpose and course of Pyrocles, for he was not so
sure by his words that it was love, as he was doubtful where the love
was. One time he thought some beauty in Laconia had laid hold of his
eyes; another time he feared that it might be Parthenia’s excellency
which had broken the bands of all former resolution; but the more he
thought the more he knew not what to think, armies of objections
rising against any accepted opinion.

Then as careful he was what to do himself: at length determined never
to leave seeking him till his search should be either by meeting
accomplished, or by death ended. Therefore (for all the unkindness
bearing tender respect that his friend’s secret determination should
be kept from any suspicion in others) he went to Kalander, and told
him that he had received a message from his friend, by which he
understood he was gone back again into Laconia about some matters
greatly importing the poor men, whose protection he had undertaken,
and that it was in any sort {47} fit for him to follow him, but in
such private wise, as not to be known, and that therefore he would as
then bid him farewell; arming himself in a black armour, as either a
badge, or prognostication of his mind, and taking only with him a good
store of money and a few choice jewels, leaving the greatest number of
them, and most of his apparel with Kalander, which he did partly to
give the more cause to Kalander to expect their return, and so to be
the less curiously inquisitive after them--and partly to leave those
honourable thanks unto him for his charge and kindness, which he knew
he would not other way receive. The good old man having neither reason
to dissuade nor hope to persuade, received the things with mind of a
keeper, not of an owner; but, before he went, desired he might have
the happiness fully to know what they were, which, he said, he had
ever till then delayed, fearing to be importune: but now he would not
be so much an enemy to his desires as any longer to imprison them in
silence. Palladius told him that the matter was not so secret but that
so worthy a friend deserved the knowledge, and should have it as soon
as he might speak with his friend, without whose consent (because
their promise bound him otherwise) he could not reveal it; but bade
him hold for most assured that if they lived but a while he should
find that they which bore the names of Diaphantus and Palladius would
give him and his cause to think his noble courtesy well employed.
Kalander would press him no further, but desiring that he might have
leave to go, or at least to send his son and servants with him:
Palladius brake off all ceremonies by telling him his case stood so
that his greatest favour should be in making least ado of his parting.
Wherewith Kalander knowing it to be more cumber than courtesy to
strive, abstained from further urging him, but not from hearty
mourning the loss of so sweet a conversation.

Only Clitophon by vehement importunity obtained to go with him to come
again to Diaphantus, whom he named and accounted his lord. And in such
private guise departed Palladius, though having a companion to talk
withal, yet talking much more with unkindness. And first they went to
Mantinea; whereof because Parthenia was, he suspected there might be
some cause of his abode. But, finding there no news of him, he went to
Tegea, Ripa, Enispae, Stimphalus, and Phineus, famous for the
poisonous Stygian water, and through all the rest of Arcadia, making
their eyes, their ears, and their tongues serve almost for nothing but
that inquiry. But they could know nothing but that in none of those
places he was known. And so went they, making one place succeed to
another in like uncertainty to their search, many times encountering
strange adventures worthy to be registered in the rolls of fame: but
this may not be omitted. As they passed {48} in a pleasant valley (on
either side of which high hills lifted up their beetle-brows, as if
they would overlook the pleasantness of their under-prospect) they
were by the daintiness of the place, and the weariness of themselves,
invited to light from their horses, and pulled off their bits that
they might something refresh their mouths upon the grass (which
plentifully grew, brought up under the care of those well-shading
trees), they themselves laid them down hard by the murmuring music of
certain waters which spouted out of the side of the hills, and in the
bottom of the valley made of many springs a pretty brook, like a
commonwealth of many families; but when they had a while hearkened to
the persuasion of sleep, they rose and walked onward in that shady
place till Clitophon espied a piece of armour, and not far off another
piece; and so the sight of one piece teaching him to look for more, he
at length found all, with head-piece and shield, by the device whereof
he straight knew it to be the armour of his cousin, the noble
Amphialus. Whereupon (fearing some inconvenience happened unto him) he
told both his doubt and cause of doubt to Palladius, who, considering
thereof, thought best to make no longer stay, but to follow on, lest
perchance some violence were offered to so worthy a knight, whom the
fame of the world seemed to set in balance with any knight living. Yet
with a sudden conceit, having long borne great honour to the name of
Amphialus, Palladius thought best to take that armour, thinking
thereby to learn by them that should know that armour some news of
Amphialus, and yet not hinder him in the search of Diaphantus too. So
he, by the help of Clitophon, quickly put on that armour, whereof
there was no one piece wanting, though hacked in some places,
betraying some fighting not long since passed. It was something too
great, but yet served well enough. And so, getting on their horses,
they travelled but a little way when in the opening of the mouth of
the valley into a fair field they met with a coach drawn with four
milk-white horses, furnished all in black with a black-a-moor boy upon
every horse, they all apparelled in white, the coach itself very
richly furnished in black and white. But before they could come so
near as to discern what was within, there came running upon them above
a dozen horsemen, who cried to them to yield themselves prisoners or
else they should die. But Palladius, not accustomed to grant over the
possession of himself upon so unjust titles, with sword drawn gave
them so rude an answer that divers of them never had breath to reply
again: for, being well backed by Clitophon, and having an excellent
horse under him, when he was overpressed by some he avoided them, and
ere the other thought of it, punished in him his fellow’s faults, and
so either with cunning or with force, or rather with a cunning {49}
force, left none of them either living or able to make his life serve
to others’ hurt. Which being done, he approached the coach, assuring
the black boys they should have no hurt, who were else ready to have
run away; and looking in the coach, he found in the one end a lady of
great beauty, and such a beauty as showed forth the beams both of
wisdom and good nature, but all as much darkened as might be, with
sorrow. In the other, two ladies (who by their demeanour showed well
they were but her servants) holding before them a picture in which was
a goodly gentleman whom he knew not, painted, having in their faces a
certain waiting sorrow, their eyes being infected with their
mistress’s weeping. But the chief lady having not so much as once
heard the noise of this conflict (so had sorrow closed up all the
entries of her mind, and love tied her senses to that beloved
picture), now the shadow of him falling upon the picture made her cast
up her eye, and seeing the armour which too well she knew, thinking
him to be Amphialus, the lord of her desires (blood coming more freely
into her cheeks, as though it would be bold, and yet there growing new
again pale for fear) with a pitiful look, like one unjustly condemned.
“My Lord Amphialus,” said she, “you have enough punished me; it is
time for cruelty to leave you, and evil fortune me; if not, I pray you
(and to grant my prayer fitter time nor place you cannot have)
accomplish the one even now, and finish the other.” With that, sorrow
impatient to be slowly uttered in her often staying speeches, poured
itself so fast into tears, that Palladius could not hold her longer in
error, but pulling off his helmet, “Madam,” said he, “I perceive you
mistake me; I am a stranger in these parts, set upon without any cause
given by me by some of your servants, whom, because I have in my just
defence evil intreated, I came to make my excuse to you, whom seeing
such as I do, I find greater cause why I should crave pardon of you.”
When she saw his face and heard his speech she looked out of the
coach, and seeing her men, some slain, some lying under their dead
horses and striving to get from under them, without making more
account of the matter; “Truly,” said she, “they are well served that
durst lift up their arms against that armour. But, Sir Knight,” said
she, “I pray you tell me, how came you by this armour? for if it be by
the death of him that owned it, then have I more to say unto you.”
Palladius assured her it was not so, telling her the true manner how
he found it. “It is like enough,” said she, “for that agrees with the
manner he hath lately used. But I beseech you, Sir,” said she, “since
your prowess hath bereft me of my company, let it yet so far heal the
wounds itself hath given as to guard me to the next town.” “How great
soever my business be, fair lady,” said he, “it shall willingly yield
to so noble a cause: {50} but first, even by the favour you bear to
the lord of this noble armour, I conjure you to tell me the story of
your fortune herein, lest, hereafter, when the image of so excellent a
lady in so strange a plight come before mine eyes, I condemn myself of
want of consideration in not having demanded thus much. Neither ask I
it without protestation that wherein my sword and faith may avail you
they shall bind themselves to your service.” “Your conjuration, fair
knight,” said she, “is too strong for my poor spirit to disobey, and
that shall make me (without any other hope, my ruin being but by one
unrelievable) to grant your will herein, and to say the truth, a
strange niceness were it in me to refrain that from the ears of a
person representing so much worthiness, which I am glad even to rocks
and woods to utter. Know you then that my name is Helen, queen by
birth, and hitherto possessed of the fair city and territory of
Corinth. I can say no more of myself but that I am beloved of my
people, and may justly say beloved, since they are content to bear
with my absence and folly. But I being left by my father’s death, and
accepted by my people in the highest degree that country could
receive; as soon, or rather, before that my age was ripe for it, my
court quickly swarmed full of suitors: some, perchance, loving my
estate, others my person; but once, I know all of them, however my
possessions were in their heart, my beauty, such as it is, was in
their mouths, many strangers of princely and noble blood, and all of
mine own country, to whom either birth or virtue gave courage to avow
so high a desire.

“Among the rest, or rather, before the rest, was the lord Philoxenus,
son and heir to the virtuous nobleman, Timotheus, which Timotheus was
a man both in power, riches, parentage, and, which passed all these,
goodness; and, which followed all these, love of the people, beyond
any of the great men of my country. Now, this son of his, I must say
truly, not unworthy of such a father, bending himself by all means of
serviceableness to me, and setting forth of himself to win my favour,
won thus far of me that in truth I less misliked him than any of the
rest, which, in some proportion, my countenance delivered unto him.
Though, I must confess, it was a very false ambassador if it delivered
at all any affection whereof my heart was utterly void, I as then
esteeming myself born to rule, and thinking foul scorn willingly to
submit myself to be ruled.

“But while Philoxenus in good sort pursued my favour, and perchance
nourished himself with overmuch hope, because he found I did in some
sort acknowledge his virtue; one time among the rest he brought with
him a dear friend of his.” With that she looked upon the picture
before her, and straight sighed, and straight tears flowed, as if the
idol of duty ought to be honoured with such oblations; and then her
speech stayed the tale, having {51} brought her to that look, but that
look having quite put her out of her tale.

But Palladius greatly pitying so sweet a sorrow in a lady, whom by
fame he had already known and honoured, besought for her promise sake
to put silence so long unto her moaning till she had recounted the
rest of this story. “Why,” said she, “this is the picture of
Amphialus: what need I say more unto you? What ear is so barbarous but
hath heard of Amphialus? Who follows deeds of arms, but everywhere
finds monuments of Amphialus? Who is courteous, noble, liberal, but he
hath the example before his eyes of Amphialus? Where are all heroical
parts but in Amphialus? O Amphialus, I would thou wert not so
excellent, or I would I thought thee not so excellent, and yet would
I not that I would so.” With that she wept again; till he again
soliciting the conclusion of her story: “Then you must,” said she,
“know the story of Amphialus, for his will is my life, his life my
history: and indeed in what can I better employ my lips than in
speaking of Amphialus.

“This knight, then, whose figure you see, but whose mind can be
painted by nothing but by their true shape of virtue, is brother’s son
to Basilius, King of Arcadia, and in his childhood esteemed his heir,
till Basilius, in his old years, marrying a young and fair lady, had
of her those two daughters, so famous for their perfection in beauty,
which put by their young cousin from that expectation. Whereupon his
mother (a woman of an haughty heart, being daughter to the King of
Argos) either disdaining or fearing that her son should live under the
power of Basilius, sent him to that lord Timotheus (between whom and
her dead husband there had passed straight bands of mutual
hospitality) to be brought up in company with his son Philoxenus.

“A happy resolution for Amphialus, whose excellent nature was by this
means trained on with as good education as any prince’s son in the
world could have, which otherwise it is thought his mother, far
unworthy of such a son, would not have given him: the good Timotheus
no less loving him than his own son. Well, they grew in years, and
shortly occasions fell aptly to try Amphialus, and all occasions were
but steps for him to climb fame by. Nothing was so hard but his valour
overcame; which yet still he so guided with true virtue that although
no man was in our parts spoken of but he for his manhood, yet, as
though therein he excelled himself, he was commonly called the
courteous Amphialus. An endless thing it were for me to tell how many
adventures, terrible to be spoken of, he achieved, what monsters, what
giants, what conquests of countries, sometimes using policy, sometimes
force, but always virtue well followed, and but followed by {52}
Philoxenus, between whom and him so fast a friendship by education was
knit that at last Philoxenus having no greater matter to employ his
friendship in than to win me, therein desired, and had his uttermost
furtherance: to that purpose brought he him to my court, where truly I
may justly witness with him that what his wit could conceive (and his
wit can conceive as far as the limits of reason stretch) was all
directed to the setting forward the suit of his friend Philoxenus:
mine ears could hear nothing from him but touching the worthiness of
Philoxenus, and of the great happiness it would be unto me to have
such a husband; with many arguments, which God knows I cannot well
remember, because I did not much believe. For why should I use many
circumstances to come to that where already I am, and ever while I
live must continue? in few words, while he pleaded for another, he won
me for himself: if at least,” with that she sighed, “he would account
it a winning, for his fame had so framed the way to my mind that his
presence, so full of beauty, sweetness and noble conversation, had
entered there before he vouchsafed to call for the keys. O lord, how
did my soul hang at his lips while he spake! O when he in feeling
manner would describe the love of his friend, how well, thought I,
doth love between those lips! when he would with daintiest eloquence
stir pity in me toward Philoxenus, ‘Why sure,’ said I to myself,
‘Helen, be not afraid, this heart cannot want pity:’ and when he would
extol the deeds of Philoxenus, who indeed had but waited of him
therein, alas, thought I, good Philoxenus, how evil doth it become thy
name to be subscribed to his letter? what should I say? nay, what
should I not say (noble knight! who am not ashamed, nay am delighted,
thus to express my own passions?

“Days passed, his eagerness for his friend never decreased, my
affection to him ever increased. At length, in way of ordinary
courtesy, I obtained of him, who suspected no such matter, this his
picture, the only Amphialus, I fear, that I shall ever enjoy; and
grown bolder, or madder, or bold with madness, I discovered my
affection unto him. But lord, I shall never forget how anger and
courtesy at one instant appeared in his eyes when he heard that
motion; how with his blush he taught me shame. In sum, he left nothing
unassayed which might disgrace himself to grace his friend, in sweet
terms making me receive a most resolute refusal of himself. But when
he found that his presence did far more persuade for himself than his
speech could do for his friend, he left my court, hoping that
forgetfulness, which commonly waits upon absence, would make room for
his friend, to whom he would not utter thus much, I think, for a kind
fear not to grieve him, or perchance, though he cares little for me,
of a certain honourable {53} gratefulness, not yet to discover so much
of my secrets: but, as it should seem, meant to travel into far
countries, until his friend’s affection either ceased or prevailed.
But within a while, Philoxenus came to see how onward the fruits were
of his friend’s labour, when (as in truth I cared not much how he took
it) he found me sitting, beholding this picture, I know not with how
affectionate countenance, but I am sure with a most affectionate mind.
I straight found jealousy and disdain took hold of him, and yet the
froward pain of mine own heart made me so delight to punish him whom I
esteemed to be the chiefest let in my way; that when he with humble
gesture, and vehement speeches sued for my favour, I told him that I
would hear him more willingly if he would speak for Amphialus as well
as Amphialus had done for him: he never answered me, but pale and
quaking, went straight away; and straight my heart misgave me some
evil success: and yet, though I had authority enough to have stayed
him (as in these fatal things it falls out that the high-working
powers make second causes unwittingly accessory to their
determinations) I did no further, but sent a footman of mine (whose
faithfulness to me I well knew) from place to place to follow him and
bring me word of his proceedings, which (alas!) have brought forth
that which I fear I must ever rue.

“For he had travelled scarce a day’s journey out of my country, but
that, not far from this place, he overtook Amphialus, who, by
succouring a distressed lady, had been here stayed, and by and by
called him to fight with him, protesting that one of them two should
die. You may easily judge how strange it was to Amphialus, whose heart
could accuse itself of no fault but too much affection toward him,
which he, refusing to fight with him, would fain have made Philoxenus
understand, but, as my servant since told me, the more Amphialus went
back, the more he followed, calling him traitor and coward, yet never
telling the cause of this strange alteration. ‘Ah Philoxenus,’ said
Amphialus, ‘I know I am no traitor, and thou well knowest I am no
coward: but I pray thee content thyself with this much, and let this
satisfy thee that I love thee, since I bear thus much of thee.’ But
he, leaving words, drew his sword and gave Amphialus a great blow or
two, which, but for the goodness of his armour, would have slain him:
and yet so far did Amphialus contain himself, stepping aside, and
saying to him, ‘Well, Philoxenus, and thus much villainy am I content
to put up, not any longer for thy sake (whom I have no cause to love
since thou dost injure me, and wilt not tell me the cause) but for thy
virtuous father’s sake to whom I am so much bound, I pray thee go
away, and conquer thy own passions and thou shalt make me soon yield
to be thy servant.’ But he would not attend to his {54} words, but
still struck so fiercely at Amphialus that in the end (nature
prevailing above determination) he was fain to defend himself, and
withal so to offend him that by an unlucky blow the poor Philoxenus
fell dead at his feet, having had time only to speak some few words,
whereby Amphialus knew it was for my sake: which when Amphialus saw,
he forthwith gave such tokens of true-felt sorrow that, as my servant
said, no imagination could conceive greater woe. But that by and by an
unhappy occasion made Amphialus pass himself in sorrow: for Philoxenus
was but newly dead, when there comes to the same place the aged and
virtuous Timotheus; who (having heard of his son’s sudden and
passionate manner of parting from my court) had followed him as
speedily as he could, but alas not so speedily but that he found him
dead before he could overtake him. Though my heart be nothing but a
stage of tragedies, yet, I must confess, it is even unable to bear the
miserable representation thereof, knowing Amphialus and Timotheus as I
have done. Alas, what sorrow, what amazement, what shame was in
Amphialus when he saw his dear foster-father find him the killer of
his only son? In my heart, I know he wished mountains had lain upon
him to keep him from that meeting. As for Timotheus, sorrow for his
son, and, I think principally, unkindness of Amphialus so devoured his
vital spirits that, able to say no more, but ‘Amphialus, Amphialus,
have I?’ he sank to the earth, and presently died.

“But not my tongue, though daily used to complaints, no, nor if my
heart, which is nothing but sorrow, were turned to tongues, durst it
undertake to show the unspeakableness of his grief. But, because this
serves to make you know my fortune, he threw away his armour, even
this which you have now upon you, which at the first sight I vainly
hoped he had put on again; and then, as ashamed of the light, he ran
into the thickest of the woods, lamenting, and even crying out so
pitifully that my servant, though of a fortune not used to much
tenderness, could not refrain weeping when he told it me. He once
overtook him; but Amphialus drawing his sword, which was the only part
of his arms, God knows to what purpose, he carried about him,
threatened to kill him if he followed him, and withal bade him deliver
this bitter message, that he well enough found I was the cause of all
this mischief, and that if I were a man, he would go over the world to
kill me, but bade me assure myself that of all creatures in the world
he most hated me. Ah, Sir knight, whose ears I think by this time are
tired with the rugged ways of these misfortunes, now weigh my case, if
at least you know what love is. For this cause have I left my country,
putting in hazard how my people will in time deal by me, adventuring
what perils or dishonours might {55} ensue, only to follow him who
proclaimeth hate against me, and to bring my neck unto him, if that
may redeem my trespass, and assuage his fury. And now, Sir,” said she,
“you have your request, I pray you take pains to guide me to the next
town, that there I may gather such of my company again as your valour
hath left me.”

Palladius willingly condescended, but ere they began to go, there came
Clitophon who, having been something hurt by one of them, had pursued
him a good way: at length overtaking him, and ready to kill him,
understood they were servants to the fair queen Helen, and that the
cause of this enterprise was for nothing but to make Amphialus
prisoner, whom they knew their mistress sought; for she concealed her
sorrow, nor cause of her sorrow from nobody. But Clitophon, very sorry
for this accident, came back to comfort the queen, helping such as
were hurt in the best sort that he could, and framing friendly
constructions of this rashly undertaken enmity, when in comes another,
till that time unseen, all armed, with his beaver down, who first
looking round about upon the company, as soon as he espied Palladius,
he drew his sword, and making no other prologue, let fly at him. But
Palladius, sorry for so much harm as had already happened, fought
rather to retire and ward, thinking he might be someone that belonged
to the fair queen, whose case in his heart he pitied. Which Clitophon
seeing, stepped between them, asking the new-come knight the cause of
this quarrel, who answered him, that he would kill that thief who had
stolen away his master’s armour, if he did not restore it. With that
Palladius looked upon him and saw that he of the other side had
Palladius’s own armour upon him. “Truly,” said Palladius “if I have
stolen this armour, you did not buy that; but you shall not fight with
me upon such a quarrel; you shall have this armour willingly, which I
did only put on to do honour to the owner.” But Clitophon straight
knew by his words and voice that it was Ismenus, the faithful and
diligent page of Amphialus; and, therefore, telling him that he was
Clitophon, and willing him to acknowledge his error to the other, who
deserved all honour, the young gentleman pulled off his head-piece,
and, lighting, went to kiss Palladius’s hands, desiring him to pardon
his folly, caused by extreme grief, which easily might bring forth
anger. “Sweet gentleman,” said Palladius, “you shall only make me this
amends, that you shall carry this your lord’s armour from me to him,
and tell him from an unknown knight, who admires his worthiness, that
he cannot cast a greater mist over his glory than by being so unkind
to so excellent a princess as this queen is.” Ismenus promised he
would as soon as he durst find his master: and with that went to do
his duty to the queen, whom in all these encounters {56} astonishment
made hardy: but as soon as she saw Ismenus, looking to her picture,
“Ismenus,” said she, “here is my lord, where is yours? or come you to
bring me some sentence of death from him? if it be so, welcome be it.
I pray you speak, and speak quickly.” “Alas! Madam,” said Ismenus, “I
have lost my lord;” with that tears came into his eyes, “for as soon
as the unhappy combat was concluded, with the death both of father and
son, my master, casting off his armour, went his way, forbidding me
upon pain of death to follow him. Yet divers days I followed his
steps, till lastly I found him, having newly met with an excellent
spaniel belonging to his dead companion Philoxenus. The dog straight
fawned on my master, for old knowledge, but never was there thing more
pitiful than to hear my master blame the dog for loving his master’s
murderer, renewing afresh his complaints with the dumb counsellor, as
if they might comfort one another in their miseries. But my lord
having espied me, rose up in such rage that in truth I feared he would
kill me: yet as then he said only, if I would not displease him, I
should not come near him till he sent for me: too hard a commandment
for me to disobey: I yielded, leaving him only waited on by his dog,
and as I think seeking out the most solitary places that this or any
other country can grant him: and I, returning where I had left his
armour, found another instead thereof, and (disdaining I must confess
that any should bear the armour of the best knight living) armed
myself therein to play the fool, as even now I did.” “Fair Ismenus,”
said the queen, “a fitter messenger could hardly be to unfold my
tragedy, I see the end, I see my end.”

With that, sobbing, she desired to be conducted to the next town,
where Palladius left her to be waited on by Clitophon, at Palladius’s
earnest entreaty, who desired alone to take that melancholy course of
seeking his friend; and therefore changing armour again with Ismenus,
who went withal to a castle belonging to his master, he continued his
quest for his friend Daiphantus.

So directed he his course to Laconia, as well among the Helots, as
Spartans: there indeed he found his fame flourishing, his monuments
engraved in marble, and yet more durably in men’s memories; but the
universal lamenting his absented presence, assured him of his present
absence. Thence into the Elean province, to see whether at the
Olympian games there celebrated he might in such concourse bless his
eyes with so desired an encounter: but that huge and sportful assembly
grew to him a tedious loneliness, esteeming nobody found, since
Diaphantus was lost. Afterwards he passeth through Achaia and
Sicyonia, to the Corinthians, proud of their two seas, to learn
whether by the straight of that Isthmus it were possible to know of
his passage. {57} But finding every place more dumb than other to his
demands, and remembering that it was late-taken love which had wrought
this new course, he returned again, after two months travel in vain,
to make a fresh search in Arcadia; so much the more as then first he
bethought himself of the picture of Philoclea, which resembling her he
had once loved, might perhaps awake again that sleeping passion. And
having already passed over the greatest part of Arcadia, one day
coming under the side of the pleasant mountain Maenalus, his horse,
nothing guilty of his inquisitiveness, with flat tiring taught him,
that discreet stays make speedy journeys: and therefore lighting down,
and unbridling his horse, he himself went to repose himself in a
little wood he saw thereby. Where lying under the protection of a
shady tree, with intention to make forgetting sleep comfort a
sorrowful memory, he saw a sight which persuaded and obtained of his
eyes that they would abide yet a while open. It was the appearing of a
lady, who because she walked with her side toward him, he could not
perfectly see her face, but so much he might see of her, that was a
surety for the rest, that all was excellent.

Well might he perceive the hanging of her hair in fairest quantity, in
locks some curled, and some as it were forgotten, with such a careless
care, and an art so hiding art, that she seemed she would lay them for
a pattern, whether nature simply, or nature helped by cunning, be the
more excellent: the rest whereof was drawn into a coronet of gold
richly set with pearl, and so joined all over with gold wires and
covered with feathers of divers colours that it was not unlike to an
helmet, such a glittering show it bare, and so bravely it was held up
from the head. Upon her body she wore a doublet of sky-coloured satin,
covered with plates of gold, and, as it were, nailed with precious
stones, that in it she might seem armed; the nether part of her
garment was full of stuff, and cut after such a fashion that though
the length of it reached to the ankles, yet in her going one might
sometimes discern the small of her leg, which with the foot was
dressed in a short pair of crimson velvet buskins, in some places
open, as the ancient manner was, to show the fairness of the skin.
Over all this she wore a certain mantle, made in such manner, that
coming under her right arm and covering most of that side, it had no
fastening on the left side, but only upon the top of her shoulder,
where the two ends met, and were closed together with a very rich
jewel: the device whereof, as he after saw, was this: a Hercules made
in little form, but set with a distaff in his hand, as he once was by
Omphale’s commandment, with a word in Greek, but thus to be
interpreted, “Never more valiant.” On the same side on her thigh she
wore a sword, which as it witnessed her to be an Amazon, {58} or one
following that profession, so it seemed but a needless weapon, since
her other forces were without withstanding. But this lady walked
out-right till he might see her enter into a fine close arbour: it was
of trees, whose branches so lovingly interlaced one the other that it
could resist the strongest violence of eye-sight, but she went into it
by a door she opened, which moved him, as warily as he could, to
follow her; and by and by he might hear her sing this song, with a
voice no less beautiful to his ears than her goodliness was full of
harmony to his eyes:

 Transform’d in shew, but more transform’d in mind,
  I cease to strive with double conquest foil’d:
 For, woe is me, my powers all I find
  With outward force, and inward treason, spoil’d.
 For from without came to mine eyes the blow,
  Whereto my inward thoughts did faintly yield:
 Both these conspir’d poor reason’s overthrow;
  False in myself, thus have I lost the field.
 Thus are my eyes still captive to one sight,
  Thus all my thoughts are slaves to one thought still:
 Thus reason to his servants yields his right,
  Thus is my power transformed to your will:
   What marvel then, I take a woman’s hue,
   Since what I see, think, know, is all but you?

This ditty gave him some suspicion, but the voice gave him almost
assurance who the singer was. And therefore boldly thrusting open the
door and entering into the arbour, he perceived indeed that it was
Pyrocles thus disguised; wherewith not receiving so much joy to have
found him as grief so to have found him, amazedly looking upon him (as
Apollo is painted when he saw Daphne suddenly turned into a laurel) he
was not able to bring forth a word. So that Pyrocles, (who had as much
shame as Musidorus had sorrow) rising to him, would have formed a
substantial excuse, but his insinuation being of blushing, and his
division of sighs, his whole oration stood upon a short narration what
was the cause of this metamorphosis. But by that time Musidorus had
gathered his spirits together, and yet casting a ghastful countenance
upon him, as if he would conjure some strange spirit, he thus spake
unto him:

“And is it possible that this is Pyrocles, the only young prince in
the world formed by nature, and framed by education to the true
exercise of virtue? or is it indeed some Amazon that hath
counterfeited the face of my friend in this sort to vex me? for
likelier sure I would have thought it that any outward face might have
been disguised than that the face of so excellent a mind could have
been thus blemished. O sweet Pyrocles, separate yourself a little, if
it {59} be possible, from yourself, and let your own mind look upon
your own proceedings; so shall my words be needless, and you best
instructed. See with yourself how fit it will be for you in this your
tender youth, born so great a prince, and of so rare not only
expectation, but proof, desired of your old father, and wanted of your
native country, now so near your home, to divert your thoughts from
the way of goodness, to lose, nay, to abuse your time. Lastly, to
overthrow all the excellent things you have done, which have filled
the world with your fame; as if you should drown your ship in the long
desired haven; or, like an ill player, should mar the last act of his
tragedy. Remember, for I know you know it, that if we will be men the
reasonable part of our soul is to have absolute commandment, against
which, if any sensual weakness arise, we are to yield all our sound
forces to the overthrowing of so unnatural a rebellion, wherein how
can we want courage, since we are to deal against so weak an adversary
that in itself is nothing but weakness? nay, we are to resolve that if
reason direct it we must do it; and if we must do it, we will do it:
for, to say ‘I cannot,’ is childish; and ‘I will not,’ womanish. And
see how extremely every way you can endanger your mind; for, to take
this womanish habit, without you frame your behavior accordingly, is
wholly vain: your behaviour can never come kindly from you, but as the
mind is proportioned unto it. So that you must resolve if you will
play your part to any purpose, whatsoever peevish imperfections are in
that sex to soften your heart to receive them, the very first
down-step to all wickedness: for do not deceive yourself, my dear
cousin, there is no man suddenly either excellently good or extremely
evil, but grows either as he holds himself up in virtue, or lets
himself slide to viciousness. And let us see what power is the author
of all these troubles; forsooth love, love, a passion, and the basest
and fruitlessest of all passions: fear breedeth wit; anger is the
cradle of courage; joy openeth and enableth the heart; sorrow, as it
closeth, so it draweth it inward to look to the correcting of itself;
and so all of them generally have power towards some good by the
direction of reason. But this bastard Love (for indeed the name of
love is most unworthily applied to so hateful a humour) as it is
engendered betwixt lust and idleness, as the matter it works upon is
nothing but a certain base weakness which some gentle fools call a
gentle heart; as his adjoined companions be unquietness, longings,
fond comforts, faint discomforts, hopes, jealousies, ungrounded rages,
causeless yielding, so is the highest end it aspires unto, a little
pleasure with much pain before and great repentance after. But that
end, how endless it runs into infinite evils, were fit enough for the
matter we speak of, but not for your ears, in whom, indeed, there is
so much true {60} disposition to virtue; yet this much of his worthy
effects in yourself is to be seen, that (besides your breaking laws of
hospitality with Kalander, and of friendship with me) it utterly
subverts the course of nature in making reason give place to sense,
and man to woman. And truly I think hereupon it first got the name of
love: for indeed the true love hath that excellent nature in it, that
it doth transform the very essence of the lover into the thing loved,
uniting, and as it were, incorporating it with a secret and inward
working. And herein do these kinds of loves imitate the excellent:
for, as the love of heaven makes one heavenly, the love of virtue,
virtuous, so doth the love of the world make one become worldly: and
this effeminate love of a woman doth so womanize a man, that, if he
yield to it, it will not only make him an Amazon, but a launder, a
distaff, a spinner, or whatsoever other vile occupation their idle
heads can imagine and their weak hands perform. Therefore to trouble
you no longer with my tedious, but loving words, if either you
remember what you are, what you have been, or what you must be, if you
consider what it is that moved you, or by what kind of creature you
are moved, you shall find the cause so small, the effect so dangerous,
yourself so unworthy to run into the one, or to be driven by the
other, that I doubt not I shall quickly have occasion rather to praise
you for having conquered it, than to give you further counsel how to
do it.”

But in Pyrocles this speech wrought no more but that he, who before he
was espied was afraid, after being perceived, was ashamed, now being
hardly rubbed upon, left both fear and shame, and was moved to anger.
But the exceeding goodwill he bore to Musidorus striving with it, he
thus partly to satisfy him, but principally to loose the reins to his
own motions, made him answer: “Cousin! whatsoever good disposition
nature hath bestowed upon me, or however that disposition hath been by
bringing up confirmed, this I must confess, that I am not yet come to
that degree of wisdom to think light of the sex of whom I have my
life, since if I be anything, which your friendship rather finds than
I acknowledge, I was, to come to it, born of a woman, and nursed of a
woman. And certainly, for this point of your speech doth nearest touch
me, it is strange to see the unmanlike cruelty of mankind, who, not
content with their tyrannous ambition to have brought the other’s
virtuous patience under them, like childish masters, think their
masterhood nothing without doing injury to them, who, if we will argue
by reason, are framed of nature with the same parts of the mind for
the exercise of virtue as we are. And for example, even this estate of
Amazons, which I now for my greatest honour do seek to counterfeit,
doth well witness that if generally the sweetness of their disposition
did not make them see the vainness {61} of these things which we
account glorious, they neither want valour of mind, nor yet doth their
fairness take away their force. And truly we men, and praisers of men,
should remember that if we have such excellencies, it is reason to
think them excellent creatures, of whom we are: since a kite never
brought forth a good flying hawk. But to tell you true, as I think it
superfluous to use any words of such a subject which is so praised in
itself as it needs no praises; so withal, I fear, lest my conceit, not
able to reach unto them, bring forth words which for their
unworthiness may be a disgrace to them I so inwardly honour. Let this
suffice that they are capable of virtue, and virtue, you yourselves
say, is to be loved, and I too, truly: but this I willingly confess,
that it likes me much better when I find virtue in a fair lodging than
when I am bound to seek it in an ill-favoured creature, like a pearl
in a dunghill. As for my fault of being an uncivil guest to Kalander,
if you could feel what an inward guest myself am host unto, ye would
think it were excusable, in that I rather perform the duties of an
host than the ceremonies of a guest. And for my breaking the laws of
friendship with you, which I would rather die than effectually do,
truly I could find it in my heart to ask you pardon for it, but that
your now handling of me gives me reason to confirm my former dealing.”

And here Pyrocles stayed, as to breathe himself, having been
transported with a little vehemency, because it seemed him Musidorus
had over-bitterly glanced against the reputation of womankind: but
then quieting his countenance, as well as out of an unquiet mind it
might be, he thus proceeded on: “And poor love,” said he, “dear
cousin, is little beholding unto you, since you are not content to
spoil it of the honour of the highest power of the mind which notable
men have attributed unto it; but you deject it below all other
passions, in truth somewhat strangely, since, if love receive any
disgrace, it is by the company of these passions you prefer before it.
For those kinds of bitter objections as that lust, idleness, and a
weak heart should be, as it were, the matter and form of love, rather
touch me, dear Musidorus, than love; but I am good witness of my own
imperfections, and therefore will not defend myself: but herein I must
say you deal contrary to yourself: for if I be so weak, then can you
not with reason stir me up as you did by remembrance of my own virtue;
or if indeed I be virtuous, then must ye confess that love hath his
working in a virtuous heart; and so no doubt hath it, whatsoever I be:
for, if we love virtue, in whom shall we love it but in a virtuous
creature? without your meaning be, I should love this word Virtue,
where I see it written in a book. Those troublesome effects you say it
breeds be not the faults of love, but of him that {62} loves, as an
unable vessel to bear such a liquor, like evil eyes not able to look
on the sun; or like a weak brain, soonest overthrown with the best
wine. Even that heavenly love you speak of is accompanied in some
hearts with hopes, griefs, longings, and despairs. And in that
heavenly love, since there are two parts, the one the love itself, the
other the excellency of the thing loved: I, not able at the first leap
to frame both in me, do now, like a diligent workman, make ready the
chief instrument and first part of that great work, which is love
itself; which when I have a while practised in this sort, then you
shall see me turn it to greater matters. And thus gently you may, if
it please you, think of me. Neither doubt ye, because I wear a woman’s
apparel, I will be the more womanish, since I assure you, for all my
apparel, there is nothing I desire more than fully to prove myself a
man in this enterprise. Much might be said in my defence, much more
for love, and most of all for that divine creature which hath joined
me and love together. But these disputations are fitter for quiet
schools than my troubled brains, which are bent rather in deeds to
perform than in words to defend the noble desire that possesseth me.”
“O lord,” said Musidorus, “how sharp-witted you are to hurt yourself.”
“No,” answered he, “but it is the hurt you speak of which makes me so
sharp-witted.” “Even so,” said Musidorus, “as every base occupation
makes one sharp in that practice and foolish in all the rest.” “Nay
rather,” answered Pyrocles, “as each excellent thing once well-learned
serves for a measure of all other knowledges.” “And is that become,”
said Musidorus, “a measure for other things which never received
measure in itself?” “It is counted without measure,” answered
Pyrocles, “because the workings of it are without measure, but
otherwise, in nature it hath measure, since it hath an end allotted
unto it.” The beginning, being so excellent, I would gladly know the
end. “Enjoying,” answered Pyrocles, with a sigh, “I speak of the end
to which it is directed which end ends not, no sooner than the life.”
“Alas! let your own brain disenchant you,” said Musidorus. “My heart
is too far possessed,” said Pyrocles. “But the head gives you
direction, and the heart gives me life,” answered Musidorus.

But Musidorus was so grieved to see his well-beloved friend obstinate,
as he thought, to his own destruction, that it forced him with more
than accustomed vehemency to speak these words. “Well, well,” said he,
“you list to abuse yourself; it was a very white and red virtue, which
you could pick out of a painterly glose of a visage. Confess the
truth, and you shall find the utmost was but beauty, a thing, which
though it be in as great excellency in yourself as may be in any, yet
I am sure you make no further reckoning of it than of an outward
fading benefit nature {63} bestowed upon you. And yet such is your
want of a true grounded virtue, which must be like itself in all
points, that what you wisely account a trifle in yourself, you fondly
become a slave unto in another. For my part I now protest I have left
nothing unsaid which my wit could make me know, or my most entire
friendship to you requires of me. I do not beseech you, even for the
love betwixt us, if this other love hath left any in you towards me,
and for the remembrance of your old careful father (if you can
remember him that forgot yourself) lastly, for Pyrocles’ own sake, who
is now upon the point of falling or rising, to purge yourself of this
vile infection: otherwise give me leave to leave off this name of
friendship as an idle title of a thing which cannot be where virtue is
not established.”

The length of these speeches before had not so much cloyed Pyrocles,
though he were very impatient of long deliberations, as this last
farewell of him he loved as his own life did wound his soul. For
thinking himself afflicted, he was the apter to conceive unkindness
deeply, insomuch that shaking his head, and delivering some show of
tears, he thus uttered his grief: “Alas!” said he, “Prince Musidorus,
how cruelly you deal with me; if you seek the victory, take it; and,
if ye list, the triumph. Have you all the reason of the world, and
with me remain all the imperfections; yet such as I can no more lay
from me, than the crow can be persuaded by the swan to cast off all
his black feathers. But truly you deal with me like a physician who,
seeing his patient in a pestilent fever, should chide him instead of
ministering help, and bid him be sick no more; or rather like such a
friend, that visiting his friend condemned to perpetual prison, and
laden with grievous fetters, should will him to shake off his fetters,
or he would leave him. I am sick, and sick to the death; I am
prisoner, neither is there any redress but by her to whom I am a
slave. Now, if you list, leave him that loves you in the highest
degree: but remember ever to carry this with you, that you abandon
your friend in his greatest extremity.”

And herewith the deep wound of his love being rubbed afresh with this
new unkindness, began, as it were, to bleed again in such sort that he
was unable to bear it any longer, but gushing out abundance of tears,
and crossing his arms over his woeful heart, he sunk down to the
ground, which sudden trance went so to the heart of Musidorus, that
falling down by him, and kissing the weeping eyes of his friend, he
besought him not to make account of his speech, which if it had been
over-vehement, yet was it to be borne withal, because it came out of a
love much more vehement, that he had not thought fancy could have
received so deep a wound; but now finding in him the force of it, he
would {64} no further contrary it but employ all his service to
medicine it in such sort as the nature of it required. But even this
kindness made Pyrocles the more to melt in the former unkindness,
which his manlike tears well shewed, with a silent look upon
Musidorus, as who should say: “And is it possible that Musidorus
should threaten to leave me?” and this struck Musidorus’s mind and
senses so dumb, too, that for grief being not able to say anything,
they rested with their eyes placed one upon the other, in such sort as
might well paint out the true passion of unkindness to be never
aright, but betwixt them that most dearly love.

And thus remained they a time, till at length Musidorus embracing him,
said “And will you thus shake off your friend?” “It is you that shake
me off,” said Pyrocles, “being for my unperfectness unworthy of your
friendship.” “But this,” said Musidorus, “shows you more unperfect to
be cruel to him that submits himself unto you. But since you are
unperfect,” said he, smiling, “it is reason you be governed by us wise
and perfect men. And that authority will I begin to take upon me, with
three absolute commandments: the first, that you increase not your
evil with further griefs: the second, that you love her with all the
powers of your mind: and the last commandment shall be, you command me
to do what service I can towards the attaining of your desires.”
Pyrocles’s heart was not so oppressed with the two mighty passions of
love and unkindness but that it yielded to some mirth at this
commandment of Musidorus that he should love, so that something
clearing his face from his former shows of grief: “Well,” said he,
“dear cousin! I see by the well choosing of your commandments that you
are far fitter to be a prince than a counsellor, and therefore I am
resolved to employ all my endeavour to obey you, with this condition,
that the commandments ye command me to lay upon you shall only be,
that you continue to love me, and look upon my imperfections with more
affection than judgment.” “Love you,” said he, “alas! how can my heart
be separated from the true embracing of it without it burst by being
too full of it?” “But,” said he, “let us leave off these flowers of
new begun friendship: and now I pray you again tell me, but tell it me
fully, omitting no circumstance, the story of your affections, both
beginning and proceeding, assuring yourself, that there is nothing so
great which I will fear to do for you, nor nothing so small which I
will disdain to do for you. Let me, therefore, receive a clear
understanding, which many times we miss, while those things we account
small, as a speech or a look, are omitted, like as a whole sentence
may fail of his congruity by wanting one particle. Therefore between
friends all must be laid open, nothing being superfluous nor tedious.”
“You shall be obeyed,” said Pyrocles, “and here are {65} we in as fit
a place for it as may be; for this arbour nobody offers to come into
but myself, I using it as my melancholy retiring place, and therefore
that respect is borne unto it: yet if by chance any should come, say
that you are a servant sent from the queen of the Amazons to seek me,
and then let me alone for the rest.” So sat they down, and Pyrocles
thus said:

“Cousin!” said he, “then began the fatal overthrow of all my liberty
when, walking among the pictures in Kalander’s house, you yourself
delivered unto me what you had understood of Philoclea, who much
resembling (though I must say much surpassing) the lady Zelmane, whom
so well I loved: there were mine eyes, infected, and at your mouth did
I drink the poison. Yet alas! so sweet was it unto me, that I could
not be contented, till Kalander had made it more and more strong with
his declaration. Which the more I questioned, the more pity I
conceived of her unworthy fortune; and when with pity once my heart
was made tender, according to the aptness of the humour, it received
quickly a cruel impression of that wonderful passion, which to be
defined is impossible, because no words reach to the strange nature of
it: they only know it, which inwardly feel it; it is called love. Yet
did I not (poor wretch!) at first know my disease, thinking it only
such a wonted kind of desire to see rare sights, and my pity to be no
other but the fruits of a gentle nature. But even this arguing with
myself came of further thoughts, and the more I argued the more my
thoughts increased. Desirous I was to see the place where she
remained, as though the architecture of the lodges would have been
much for my learning, but more desirous to see herself, to be judge,
forsooth, of the painter’s cunning. For thus at the first did I
flatter myself, as though my wound had been no deeper: but when within
short time I came to the degree of uncertain wishes, and that those
wishes grew to unquiet longings, when I could fix my thoughts upon
nothing but that within little varying they should end with Philoclea;
when each thing I saw seemed to figure out some part of my passions;
when even Parthenia’s fair face became a lecture to me of Philoclea’s
imagined beauty; when I heard no word spoken, but that methought it
carried the sound of Philoclea’s name; then indeed, then I did yield
to the burden, finding myself prisoner, before I had leisure to arm
myself: and that I might well, like the spaniel, gnaw upon the chain
that ties him; but I should sooner mar my teeth, than procure liberty:
yet I take to witness the eternal spring of virtue, that I had never
read, heard, nor seen anything: I had never any taste of philosophy,
nor inward feeling in myself, which for a while I did not call to my
succour. But, alas! what resistance was there, when ere long my very
reason was, you will say, corrupted, I must {66} confess, conquered,
and that methought even reason did assure me that all eyes did
degenerate from their creation which did not honour such beauty?
nothing in truth could hold any plea with it but the reverend
friendship I bear unto you. For as it went against my heart to break
anyway from you, so did I fear, more than any assault, to break it to
you: finding, as it is indeed, that to a heart fully resolute, counsel
is tedious, but reprehension is loathsome: and that there is nothing
more terrible to a guilty heart, than the eye of a respected friend.
This made me determine with myself, thinking it a less fault in
friendship to do a thing without your knowledge, than against your
will, to take this secret course, which conceit was most builded up in
me the last day of my parting and speaking with you, when upon your
speech with me, and my but naming love, when else perchance I would
have gone further, I saw your voice and countenance so change, as it
assured me my revealing it should but purchase your grief with my
cumber, and therefore (dear Musidorus!) even ran away from my
well-known chiding: for having written a letter, which I know not
whether you found or no, and taking my chief jewels with me, while you
were in the midst of your sport, I got a time, as I think, unmarked by
any, to steal away I cared not whither, so I might escape you, and so
came I to Ithonia, in the province of Messenia, where, lying secret, I
put this in practice, which before I had devised. For remembering by
Philanax’s letter and Kalander’s speech, how obstinately Basilius was
determined not to marry his daughters, and therefore fearing lest any
public dealing should rather increase her captivity than further my
love; love (the refiner of invention) had put in my head thus to
disguise myself, that under that mask I might, if it were possible,
get access, and what access could bring forth commit to fortune and
industry, determining to bear the countenance of an Amazon. Therefore
in the closest manner I could, naming myself Zelmane, for that dear
lady’s sake, to whose memory I am so much bound, I caused this apparel
to be made, and bringing it near the lodges, which are hard at hand,
by night thus dressed myself, resting till occasion might make me to
be found by them whom I sought; which the next morning happened as
well as mine own plot could have laid it. For after I had run over the
whole pedigree of my thoughts, I gave myself to sing a little, which,
as you know, I ever delighted in, so now especially, whether it be the
nature of this clime to stir up poetical fancies, or rather as I
think, of love, whose scope being pleasure, will not so much as utter
his griefs, but in some form of pleasure.

“But I had sung very little, when (as I think, displeased with my bad
music) comes master Dametas with a hedging bill in his {67} hand,
chafing and swearing by the pantoffle of Pallas, and such other oaths
as his rustical bravery could imagine; and when he saw me, I assure
you, my beauty was no more beholding to him than my harmony; for
leaning his hands upon his bill, and his chin upon his hands, with the
voice of one that playeth Hercules in a play, but never had his fancy
in his head, the first word he spake unto me, was, ‘Am not I Dametas?
why am not I Dametas?’ He needed not to name himself, for Kalander’s
description had let such a note upon him as made him very notable unto
me; and therefore the height of my thoughts would not descend so much
as to make him answer, but continued on my inward discourses; which he
(perchance witness of his own unworthiness, and therefore the apter to
think himself contemned) took in so heinous a manner, that standing
upon his tiptoes, and staring as if he would have had a mote pulled
out of his eye. ‘Why,’ said he, ‘thou woman or boy, or both,
whatsoever thou be, I tell thee here is no place for thee, here is no
place for thee, get thee gone, I tell thee it is the prince’s
pleasure, it is Dametas’s pleasure.’ I could not choose but smile at
him, seeing him look so like an ape that had newly taken a purgation;
yet taking myself with the manner, spake these words to myself: ‘O
spirit,’ said I, ‘of mine, how canst thou receive any mirth in the
midst of thine agonies? and thou mirth, how darest thou enter into a
mind so grown of late thy professed enemy?’ ‘Thy spirit,’ said
Dametas, ‘dost thou think me a spirit? I tell thee I am Basilius’s
officer, and have charge of him and his daughters.’ ‘O only pearl,’
said I sobbing, ‘that so vile an oyster should keep thee?’ ‘By the
comb case of Diana,’ sware Dametas, ‘this woman is mad: oysters and
pearls? dost thou think I will buy oysters? I tell thee once again,
get thee packing,’ and with that lifted up his bill to hit me with the
blunt end of it; but indeed that put me quite out of my lesson; so
that I forgot all Zelmaneship, and drawing out my sword, the baseness
of the villain yet made me stay my hand, and he (who as Kalander told
me, from his childhood ever feared the blade of a sword) ran back,
backward, with his hands above his head at least twenty paces, gaping
and staring with the very grace, I think, of the clowns that by
Latona’s prayers were turned into frogs.

“At length staying, finding himself without the compass of blows, he
fell to a fresh scolding, in such mannerly manner, as might well show
he had passed thro’ the discipline of a tavern; but seeing me walk up
and down without marking what he said, he went his way, as I perceived
after, to Basilius: for within a while he came unto me, bearing indeed
shows in his countenance of an honest and well-minded gentleman, and
with as much courtesy as Dametas with rudeness saluting me: ‘Fair
lady,’ said he, ‘it is {68} nothing strange that such a solitary place
as this should receive solitary persons, but much do I marvel how such
a beauty as yours is should be suffered to be thus alone.’ I, that now
knew it was my part to play, looking with a grave majesty upon him, as
if I found in myself cause to be reverenced. ‘They are never alone,’
said I, ‘that are accompanied with noble thoughts.’ ‘But those
thoughts,’ replied Basilius, ‘cannot in this your loneliness neither
warrant you from suspicion in others, nor defend you from melancholy
in yourself:’ I then showing a mislike that he pressed me so far; ‘I
seek no better warrant,’ said I, ‘than my own conscience, nor no
greater pleasure than my own contentation.’ ‘Yet virtue seeks to
satisfy others,’ said Basilius. ‘Those that be good,’ said I, ‘and
they will be satisfied as long as they see no evil.’ ‘Yet will the
best in this country,’ said Basilius, ‘suspect so excellent beauty
being so weakly guarded.’ ‘Then are the best but stark naught,’
answered I, ‘for open suspecting others, comes of secret condemning
themselves: but in my country, whose manners I am in all places to
maintain and reverence, the general goodness which is nourished in our
hearts makes every one think the strength of virtue in another,
whereof they find the assured foundation in themselves.’ ‘Excellent
lady,’ said he, ‘you praise so greatly, and yet so wisely, your
country that I must needs desire to know what the nest is out of which
such birds do fly.’ ‘You must first deserve it,’ said I, ‘before you
may obtain it.’ ‘And by what means,’ said Basilius, ‘shall I deserve
to know your estate?’ ‘By letting me first know yours,’ answered I.
‘To obey you,’ said he, ‘I will do it, although it were so much more
reason yours should be known first, as you do deserve in all points to
be preferred. Know you, fair lady, that my name is Basilius,
unworthily lord of this country: the rest, either fame hath already
brought to your ears, or (if it please you to make this place happy by
your presence) at more leisure you shall understand of me.’ I that
from the beginning assured myself it was he, but would not seem I did
so, to keep my gravity the better, making a piece of reverence unto
him; ‘Mighty prince,’ said I, ‘let my not knowing you serve for the
excuse of my boldness, and the little reverence I do you impute to the
manner of my country, which is the invincible land of the Amazons:
myself niece to Senicia, queen thereof, lineally descended of the
famous Penthesilea, slain by the bloody hand of Pyrrhus: I having, in
this my youth determined to make the world see the Amazons’
excellencies, as well in private as in public virtue, have passed some
dangerous adventures in divers countries, till the unmerciful sea
deprived me of my company; so that shipwreck casting me not far hence,
uncertain wandering brought me to this place.’ But Basilius (who now
{69} began to taste of that, which since he had swallowed up, as I
will tell you) fell to more cunning intreating my abode, than any
greedy host should use to well-paying passengers. I thought nothing
could shoot righter at the mark of my desires; yet had I learned
already so much, that it was against my womanhood to be forward in my
own wishes. And therefore he (to prove whether intercessions in fitter
mouths might better prevail) commanded Dametas to bring forthwith his
wife and daughters thither; three ladies, although of diverse, yet of
excellent beauty.

“His wife in grave matron-like attire, with countenance and gesture
suitable, and of such fairness, being in the strength of her age, as,
if her daughters had not been by, might with just price have purchased
admiration: but they being there, it was enough that the most dainty
eye would think her a worthy mother of such children. The fair Pamela,
whose noble heart I find doth greatly disdain that the trust of her
virtue is reposed in such a lout’s hands as Dametas, had yet, to show
an obedience, taken on shepherdish apparel, which was but of
russet-cloth cut after their fashion, with a straight body, open
breasted, the nether part full of plaits, with long and wide sleeves:
but believe me she did apparel her apparel, and with the preciousness
of her body made it most sumptuous. Her hair at the full length, wound
about with gold lace, only by the comparison to show how far her hair
doth excel in colour: betwixt her breasts (which sweetly rose like two
fair mountainets in the pleasant vale of Tempe) there hung a very rich
diamond set but in a black horn; the word I have since read is this,
‘Yet still myself.’ And thus particularly have I described them
because you may know that mine eyes are not so partial but that I
marked them too. But when the ornament of the earth, the model of
heaven, the triumph of nature, the life of beauty, the queen of love,
young Philoclea appeared in her nymph-like apparel, so near nakedness
as one might well discern part of her perfections, and yet so
apparelled as did show she kept best store of her beauty to herself:
her hair (alas too poor a word, why should I not rather call them her
beams) drawn up into a net, able to have caught Jupiter when he was in
the form of an eagle; her body (O sweet body!) covered with a light
taffeta garment, so cut as the wrought smock came through it in many
places, enough to have made your restrained imagination have thought
what was under it: with the cast of her black eyes, black indeed,
whether nature so made them, that we might be the more able to behold
and bear their wonderful shining, or that she, goddess-like, would
work this miracle with herself in giving blackness the price above all
beauty. Then, I say, indeed methought the lilies grew pale for envy;
the roses methought blushed to see sweeter roses in her cheeks; and
{70} the apples methought fell down from the trees to do homage to the
apples of her breast; then the clouds gave place, that the heavens
might more freely smile upon her, at the least the clouds of my
thought quite vanished, and my sight, then more clear and forcible
than ever, was so fixed there, that, I imagine, I stood like a
well-wrought image with some life in show but none in practice. And so
had I been like enough to have stayed long time but that Gynecia
stepping between my sight and the only Philoclea, the change of object
made me recover my senses, so that I could with reasonable good manner
receive the salutation of her, and of the Princess Pamela, doing them
yet no further reverence than one princess useth to another. But when
I came to the never enough praised Philoclea, I could not but fall
down on my knees, and taking by force her hand, and kissing it, I must
confess with more than womanly ardency, ‘Divine lady,’ said I, ‘let
not the world, nor those great princesses, marvel to see me, contrary
to my manner, do this special honour unto you, since all both men and
women, do owe this to the perfection of your beauty.’ But, she
blushing like a fair morning in May at this my singularity, and
causing me to rise, ‘Noble lady,’ said she, ‘it is no marvel to see
your judgment much mistaken in my beauty since you begin with so great
an error as to do more honour unto me than to them, to whom I myself
owe all service.’ ‘Rather,’ answered I, with a bowed down countenance,
‘that shows the power of your beauty which forced me to do such an
error, if it were an error.’ ‘You are so well acquainted,’ said she
sweetly, most sweetly smiling, ‘with your own beauty, that it makes
you easily fall into the discourse of beauty.’ ‘Beauty in me?’ (said
I, truly sighing) ‘alas! if there be any it is in my eyes, which your
blessed presence hath imparted unto them.’

“But then, as I think Basilius willing her so to do, ‘Well,’ said she,
‘I must needs confess I have heard that it is a great happiness to be
praised of them that are most praiseworthy: and well I find that you
are an invincible Amazon since you will overcome, though in a wrong
matter. But if my beauty be anything, then let it obtain thus much of
you, that you will remain some while in this company to ease your own
travel and our solitariness.’ ‘First let me die,’ said I, ‘before any
word spoken by such a mouth should come in vain.’ And thus with some
other words of entertaining was my staying concluded, and I led among
them to the lodge; truly a place for pleasantness, not unfit to
flatter solitariness, for, it being set upon such an unsensible rising
of the ground as you are come to a pretty height before almost you
perceive that you ascend, it gives the eye lordship over a good large
circuit, which according to the nature of the country, being
diversified between {71} hills and dales, woods and plains, one place
more clear, another more darksome, it seems a pleasant picture of
nature, with lovely lightsomeness and artificial shadows. The lodge is
of a yellow stone, built in the form of a star, having round about a
garden framed into like points; and beyond the garden ridings cut out,
each answering the angles of the lodge: at the end of one of them is
the other smaller lodge, but of like fashion, where the gracious
Pamela liveth; so that the lodge seemeth not unlike a fair comet,
whose tail stretcheth itself to a star of less greatness.

“So Gynecia herself bringing me to my lodging, anon after I was
invited and brought down to sup with them in the garden, a place not
fairer in natural ornaments than artificial inventions, where, in a
banqueting-house, among certain pleasant trees, whose heads seemed
curled with the wrappings about of vine branches, the table was set
near to an excellent water-works; for, by the casting of the water in
most cunning manner, it makes, with the shining of the sun upon it, a
perfect rainbow, not more pleasant to the eye than to the mind, so
sensibly to see the proof of the heavenly Iris. There were birds also
made so finely that they did not only deceive the sight with their
figure, but the hearing with their songs, which the watery instruments
made their gorge deliver. The table at which we sat was round, which
being fast to the floor whereon we sat, and that divided from the rest
of the buildings, with turning a vice, which Basilius at first did to
make me sport, the table, and we about the table, did all turn round
by means of water which ran under and carried it about as a mill. But
alas! what pleasure did it to me to make divers times the full circle
round about, since Philoclea, being also set, was carried still in
equal distance from me, and that only my eyes did overtake her? which,
when the table was stayed, and we began to feed, drank much more
eagerly of her beauty than my mouth did of any other liquor. And so
was my common sense deceived, being chiefly bent to her, that as I
drank the wine, and withal stole a look on her, meseemed I tasted her
deliciousness. But alas! the one thirst was much more inflamed than
the other quenched. Sometimes my eyes would lay themselves open to
receive all the darts she did throw; sometimes close up with
admiration, as if with a contrary fancy, they would preserve the
riches of that sight they had gotten, or cast my lids as curtains over
the image of beauty her presence had painted in them. True it is, that
my reason, now grown a servant to passion, did yet often tell his
master that he should more moderately use his delight. But he, that of
a rebel was become a prince, disdained almost to allow him the place
of a counsellor; so that my senses’ delights being too strong for any
other resolution, I did even loose the reins unto them, hoping that,
{72} going for a woman, my looks would pass either unmarked or

“Now thus I had, as methought, well played my first act, assuring
myself that under that disguisement I should find opportunity to
reveal myself to the owner of my heart. But who would think it
possible, though I feel it true, that in almost eight weeks’ space I
have lived here, having no more company but her parents, and I being a
familiar, as being a woman, and watchful, as being a lover, yet could
never find opportunity to have one minute’s leisure of private
conference: the cause whereof is as strange as the effects are to me
miserable. And (alas!) this it is.

“At the first sight that Basilius had of me, I think Cupid having
headed his arrows with my misfortune, he was stricken, taking me to be
such as I profess, with great affection towards me, which since is
grown to such a doting love that till I was fain to get this place
sometimes to retire unto freely, I was even choked with his
tediousness. You never saw four score years dance up and down more
lively in a young lover; now, as fine in his apparel, as if he would
make me in love with a cloak, and verse for verse with the
sharpest-witted lover in Arcadia. Do you not think that is a sallet of
wormwood; while mine eyes feed upon the Ambrosia of Philoclea’s
beauty? but this is not all; no, this is not the worst: for he, good
man, were easy enough to be dealt with, but, as I think, love and
mischief having made a wager which should have most power in me, have
set Gynecia also on such a fire toward me, as will never, I fear, be
quenched but with my destruction. For, she being a woman of excellent
wit and of strong working thoughts, whether she suspected me by my
over-vehement shows of affection to Philoclea (which love forced me
unwisely to utter, while hope of my mask foolishly encouraged me) or
that she hath taken some other mark of me, that I am not a woman; or
what devil it is hath revealed it unto her, I know not: but so it is,
that all her countenances, words, and gestures are even miserable
portraitures of a desperate affection. Whereby a man may learn that
these avoidings of company do but make the passions more violent when
they meet with fit subjects. Truly it were a notable dumb show of
Cupid’s kingdom, to see my eyes, languishing with over-vehement
longing, direct themselves to Philoclea; and Basilius, as busy about
me as a bee, and indeed as cumbersome, making such vehement suits to
me, who neither could if I would, nor would if I could, help him,
while the terrible wit of Gynecia, carried with the beer of violent
love, runs through us all. And so jealous is she of my love to her
daughter that I could never yet begin to open my mouth to the
unevitable Philoclea but that her unwished presence gave my tale a
conclusion before it had a beginning. And surely, if I be not {73}
deceived, I see such shows of liking, and, if I be acquainted with
passions, of almost a passionate liking in the heavenly Philoclea
towards me, that I may hope her ears would not abhor my discourse. And
for good Basilius, he thought it best to have lodged us together, but
that the eternal hatefulness of my destiny made Gynecia’s jealousy
stop that, and all other my blessings. Yet must I confess that one way
her love doth me pleasure, for since it was my foolish fortune, or
unfortunate folly, to be known by her, that keeps her from betraying
me to Basilius. And thus, my Musidorus, you have my tragedy played
unto you by myself, which I pray the gods may not indeed prove a
tragedy.” And therewith he ended, making a full point of a hearty

Musidorus recommended to his best discourse, all which Pyrocles had
told him. But therein he found such intricateness that he could see no
way to lead him out of the maze; yet perceiving his affection so
grounded that striving against it did rather anger than heal the
wound, and rather call his friendship in question than give place to
any friendly counsel: “Well,” said he, “dear cousin! since it hath
pleased the gods to mingle your other excellencies with this humour of
love, yet happy it is, that your love is employed upon so rare a
woman: for certainly a noble cause doth ease much a grievous case. But
as it stands now, nothing vexeth me, as that I cannot see wherein I
can be serviceable unto you.” “I desire no greater service of you,”
answered Pyrocles, “than that you remain secretly in this country, and
sometimes come to this place, either late in the night or early in the
morning, where you shall have my key to enter, because as my fortune
either amends or impairs, I may declare it unto you, and have your
counsel and furtherance: and hereby I will of purpose lead her, that
is the praise, and yet the stain of all womankind, that you may have
so good a view, as to allow my judgment; and as I can get the most
convenient time, I will come unto you; for, though by reason of yonder
wood you cannot see the lodge, it is hard at hand. But now,” said she,
“it is time for me to leave you, and towards evening we will walk out
of purpose hitherward, therefore keep yourself close till that time.”
But Musidorus, bethinking himself that his horse might happen to
betray him, thought it best to return for that day to a village not
far off, and dispatching his horse in some sort, the next day early to
come afoot thither, and so to keep that course afterward which
Pyrocles very well liked of. “Now farewell, dear cousin,” said he,
“from me, no more Pyrocles nor Daiphantus now, but Zelmane: Zelmane is
my name, Zelmane is my title, Zelmane is the only hope of my
advancement.” And with that word going out, and seeing that the coast
was clear, Zelmane dismissed Musidorus, who {74} departed as full of
care to help his friend as before he was to dissuade him.

Zelmane returned to the lodge, where (inflamed by Philoclea, watched
by Gynecia, and tired by Basilius) she was like a horse desirous to
run, and miserably spurred, but so short reined as he cannot stir
forward. Zelmane sought occasion to speak with Philoclea; Basilius
with Zelmane; and Gynecia hindered them all. If Philoclea happened to
sigh, and sigh she did often, as if that sigh were to be waited on,
Zelmane sighed also, whereto Basilius and Gynecia soon made up four
parts of sorrow. Their affection increased their conversation, and
their conversation increased their affection. The respect borne bred
due ceremonies, but the affection shined so through them, that the
ceremonies seemed not ceremonies. Zelmane’s eyes were (like children
before sweetmeat) eager, but fearful of their ill-pleasing governors.
Time, in one instant, seeming both short and long unto them: short, in
the pleasingness of such presence; long, in the stay of their desires.

But Zelmane failed not to entice them all many times abroad because
she was desirous her friend Musidorus, near whom of purpose she led
them, might have full sight of them. Sometimes angling to a little
river near hand, which, for the moisture it bestowed upon the roots of
flourishing trees, was rewarded with their shadow. There would they
sit down, and pretty wagers be made between Pamela and Philoclea,
which could soonest beguile silly fishes, while Zelmane protested that
the fit prey for them was hearts of princes. She also had an angle in
her hand, but the taker was so taken that she had forgotten taking.
Basilius in the meantime would be the cook himself of what was so
caught, and Gynecia sit still, but with no still pensiveness. Now she
brought them to see a seeled dove, who, the blinder she was, the
higher she strove. Another time a kite, which having a gut cunningly
pulled out of her, and so let fly, caused all the kites in that
quarter, who, as oftentimes the world is deceived, thinking her
prosperous when indeed she was wounded, made the poor kite find that
opinion of riches may well be dangerous.

But these recreations were interrupted by a delight of more gallant
show; for one evening, as Basilius returned from having forced his
thoughts to please themselves in such small conquest, there came a
shepherd who brought him word that a gentleman desired leave to do a
message from his lord unto him. Basilius granted, whereupon the
gentleman came, and after the dutiful ceremonies observed in his
master’s name, told him that he was sent from Phalantus of Corinth to
crave licence that, as he had done in many other courts, so he might
in his presence defy all Arcadian knights in the behalf of his
mistress’s beauty who would {75} besides herself in person be present
to give evident proof what his lance should affirm. The conditions of
his challenge were that the defendant should bring his mistress’s
picture, which being set by the image of Artesia, so was the mistress
of Phalantus named, who in six courses should have the better of the
other in the judgment of Basilius, with him both the honours and the
pictures should remain. Basilius (though he had retired himself into
that solitary dwelling, with intention to avoid, rather than to accept
any matters of drawing company, yet because he would entertain Zelmane
that she might not think the time so gainful to him loss to her)
granted him to pitch his tent for three days not far from the lodge,
and to proclaim his challenge that what Arcadian knight, for none else
but upon his peril was licensed to come, would defend what he honoured
against Phalantus, should have the like freedom of access and return.

This obtained and published, Zelmane being desirous to learn what this
Phalantus was, having never known him further than by report of his
good jousting, in so much as he was commonly called, “The fair man of
arms”; Basilius told her that he had had occasion by one very inward
with him to know in part the discourse of his life, which was, that he
was a bastard brother to the fair Helen queen of Corinth, and dearly
esteemed of her for his exceeding good parts, being honourably
courteous, and wronglessly valiant, considerately pleasant in
conversation, and an excellent courtier without unfaithfulness, who,
finding his sister’s unpersuadable melancholy, through the love of
Amphialus, had for a time left her court, and gone into Laconia,
where, in the war against the Helots, he had gotten the reputation of
one that both durst and knew. But as it was rather choice than nature
that led him to matters of arms, so as soon as the spur of honour
ceased, he willingly rested in peaceable delights, being beloved in
all companies for his lovely qualities, and, as a man may term it,
winning cheerfulness; whereby to the prince and court of Laconia, none
was more agreeable than Phalantus: and he not given greatly to
struggle with his own disposition, followed the gentle current of it,
having a fortune sufficient to content, and he content with a
sufficient fortune. But in that court he saw, and was acquainted with
this Artesia, whose beauty he now defends, became her servant, said
himself, and perchance thought himself her lover. “But certainly,”
said Basilius, “many times it falls out that these young companions
make themselves believe they love at their first liking of a likely
beauty; loving, because they will love for want of other business, not
because they feel indeed that divine power which makes the heart find
a reason in passion, and so, God knows, as inconstantly leave upon the
next chance that beauty casts before them. So {76} therefore taking
love upon him like a fashion, he courted this lady Artesia, who was as
fit to pay him in his own money as might be: for she thinketh she did
wrong to her beauty if she were not proud of it, called her disdain of
him chastity, and placed her honour in little setting by his honouring
her, determining never to marry but him whom she thought worthy of
her, and that was one in whom all worthinesses were harboured. And to
this conceit not only nature had bent her, but the bringing-up she
received at by her sister-in-law Cecropia had confirmed her, who
having in her widowhood taken this young Artesia into her charge,
because her father had been a dear friend of her dear husband’s, had
taught her to think that there is no wisdom but in including both
heaven and earth in oneself; and that love, courtesy, gratefulness,
friendship, and all other virtues are rather to be taken on than taken
in oneself. And so good a disciple she found of her that, liking the
fruits of her own planting, she was content if so her son could have
liked of it, to have wished her in marriage to my nephew Amphialus.
But I think that desire hath lost some of his heat since she hath
known that such a queen as Helen is, doth offer so great a price as a
kingdom, to buy his favour; for, if I be not deceived in my good
sister Cecropia, she thinks no face so beautiful, as that which looks
under a crown. But Artesia indeed liked well of my nephew Amphialus:
For I can never deem that love, which in haughty hearts proceeds of a
desire only to please, and, as it were, peacock themselves; but yet
she hath showed vehemency of desire that way, I think because all her
desires be vehement, insomuch that she hath both placed her only
brother, a fine youth, called Ismenus, to be his ’squire, and herself
is content to wait upon my sister till she may see the uttermost what
she may work in Amphialus; who being of a melancholy (though, I must
say, truly courteous and noble) mind, seems to love nothing less than
love, and of late, having through some adventure, or inward
miscontentment, withdrawn himself from anybody’s knowledge, where he
is; Artesia the easier condescended to go to the court of Laconia,
whither she was sent for by the king’s wife, to whom she is somewhat

“And there, after the war of the Helots, this knight Phalantus, at
least for tongue-delight, made himself her servant, and she, so little
caring as not to show mislike thereof, was content only to be noted to
have a notable servant. For truly one in my court, nearly acquainted
with him, within these few days made me a pleasant description of
their love, while he with cheerful looks would speak sorrowful words,
using the phrase of his affection in so high a style, that Mercury
would not have wooed Venus with more magnificent eloquence; but else,
neither in behaviour, nor action, accusing in himself any great
trouble in mind whether he sped or no. And {77} she, on the other
side, well finding how little it was, and not caring for more, yet
taught him that often it falleth out but a foolish witness to speak
more than one thinks.

“For she made earnest benefit of his jest, forcing him in respect of
his profession to her such services as were both cumbersome and costly
unto him, while he still thought he went beyond her because his heart
did not commit the idolatry. So that lastly, she, I think, having mind
to make the fame of her beauty an orator for her to Amphialus
(persuading herself, perhaps, that it might fall out in him as it doth
in some that have delightful meat before them, and have no stomach to
it, before other folks praise it) she took the advantage one day, upon
Phalantus’s unconscionable praising of her, and certain cast-away vows
how much he would do for her sake, to arrest his word as soon as it
was out of his mouth, and by the virtue thereof to charge him to go
with her thro’ all the courts of Greece, and with the challenge now
made to give her beauty the principality over all other. Phalantus was
entrapped, and saw round about him, but could not get out. Exceedingly
perplexed he was, as he confessed to him that told me the tale, not
for doubt he had of himself (for indeed he had little cause, being
accounted, with his lance especially, whereupon the challenge is to be
tried as perfect as any that Greece knoweth) but because he feared to
offend his sister Helen, and withal, as he said, he could not so much
believe his love but that he must think in his heart, whatsoever his
mouth affirmed, that both she, my daughters, and the fair Parthenia
(wife to a most noble gentleman, my wife’s near kinsman) might far
better put in their claim for that prerogative. But his promise had
bound him prentice, and therefore it was now better with willingness
to purchase thanks than with a discontented doing to have the pain and
not the reward; and therefore went on as his faith, rather than love,
did lead him. And now hath he already passed the courts of Laconia,
Elis, Argos, and Corinth: And, as many times it happens that a good
pleader makes a bad cause to prevail, so hath his lance brought
captives to the triumph of Artesia’s beauty, such, as though Artesia
be among the fairest, yet in that company were to have the
pre-eminence: For in those courts many knights that had been in other
far countries defended such as they had seen and liked in their
travel: But their defence had been such that they had forfeited the
pictures of their ladies to give a forced false testimony to Artesia’s
excellency. And now, lastly, is he come hither, where he hath leave to
try his fortune. But I assure you, if I thought it not in due and true
consideration an injurious service and churlish courtesy to put the
danger of so noble a title in the deciding of such a dangerless
combat, I would make young master {78} Phalantus know that your eyes
can sharpen a blunt lance, and that age, which my gray hairs, only
gotten by the loving care of others, makes seem more than it is, hath
not diminished in me the power to protect an undeniable verity.” With
that he bustled up himself, as though his heart would fain have walked
abroad. Zelmane with an inward smiling gave him outward thanks,
desiring him to reserve his force for worthier causes.

So passing their time according to their wont, they waited for the
coming of Phalantus, who the next morning having already caused his
tents to be pitched near to a fair tree hard by the lodge, had upon
the tree made a shield to be hanged up, which the defendant should
strike that would call him to the maintaining his challenge. The
impresa in the shield was a heaven full of stars, with a speech
signifying that it was the beauty which gave the praise. Himself came
in next after a triumphant chariot made of carnation-velvet, enriched
with purple and pearl, wherein Artesia sat, drawn by four winged
horses with artificial flaming mouths and fiery wings, as if she had
newly borrowed them of Phoebus. Before her marched, two after two,
certain footmen pleasantly attired, who between them held one picture
after another of them, that by Phalantus’ well running had lost the
prize in the race of beauty, and at every pace they stayed, turned the
pictures to each side so leisurely that with perfect judgment they
might be discerned. The first that came in, following the order of the
time wherein they had been won, was the picture of Andromana, queen of
Iberia, whom a Laconian knight, having some time, and with special
favour, served, though some years since returned home, with more
gratefulness than good fortune defended. But therein Fortune had
borrowed wit; for indeed she was not comparable to Artesia, not
because she was a good deal older, for time had not yet been able to
impoverish her store thereof, but an exceeding red hair with small
eyes, did, like ill companions, disgrace the other assembly of most
commendable beauties.

Next after her was borne the counterfeit of the Princess of Elis, a
lady that taught the beholders no other point of beauty, but this:
That as liking is not always the child of beauty, so whatsoever liketh
is beautiful; for in that visage there was neither majesty, grace,
favour, nor fairness; yet she wanted not a servant that would have
made her fairer than the fair Artesia. But he wrote her praises with
his helmet in the dust, and left her picture to be a true witness of
his overthrow, as his running was of her beauty.

After her was the goodly Artaxia, great queen of Armenia, a lady upon
whom nature bestowed and well placed her most delightful colours, and,
withal, had proportioned her without any fault, quickly to be
discovered by the senses, yet altogether seemed not to make {79} up
that harmony that Cupid delights in, the reason whereof might seem a
mannish countenance, which overthrew that lovely sweetness, the
noblest power of womankind, far fitter to prevail by parley than by

Of a far contrary consideration was the representation of her that
next followed, which was Erona queen of Lycia, who though of so brown
a hair as no man should have injured it to have called it black, and
that in the mixture of her cheeks the white did so much overcome the
red, tho’ what was, was very pure, that it came near to paleness, and
that her face was a thought longer than the exact Symetrians perhaps
would allow; yet love played his part so well in every part that it
caught hold of the judgment before it could judge, making it first
love, and after acknowledge it fair; for there was a certain delicacy,
which in yielding conquered, and with a pitiful look made one find
cause to crave help himself.

After her came two ladies, of noble, but not of royal birth: The
former was named Baccha, who though very fair, and of a fatness rather
to allure, than to mislike, yet her breasts overfamiliarly laid open,
with a made countenance about her mouth, between simpering and
smiling, her head bowed somewhat down, seemed to languish with
over-much idleness, and with an inviting look cast upward, dissuaded
with too much persuading, while hope might seem to over-run desire.

The other, whose name was written Leucippe, was of a fine daintiness
of beauty, her face carrying in it a sober simplicity, like one that
could do much good and meant no hurt, her eyes having in them such a
cheerfulness as nature seemed to smile in them, though her mouth and
cheeks obeyed to that pretty demureness which the more one marked the
more one would judge the poor soul apt to believe, and therefore the
more pity to deceive her.

Next came the queen of Laconia, one that seemed born in the confines
of beauty’s kingdom: For all her lineaments were neither perfect
possessioners thereof, nor absolute strangers thereto: But she was a
queen, and therefore beautiful.

But she that followed, conquered indeed with being conquered, and
might well have made all the beholders wait upon her triumph, while
herself were led captive. It was the excellently fair queen Helen,
whose jacinth-hair curled by nature, but intercurled by art, like a
fine brook through golden sands, had a rope of fair pearl, which now
hiding, now hidden by the hair, did as it were play at fast and loose
each with other, mutually giving and receiving richness. In her face
so much beauty and favour expressed as, if Helen had not been known,
some would rather have judged it the painter’s exercise to show what
he could do than the counterfeiting of any living pattern; for no
fault the most fault-finding wit could {80} have found, if it were not
that to the rest of the body the face was somewhat too little, but
that little was such a spark of beauty as was able to inflame a world
of love; for everything was full of a choice fineness, that if we
wanted anything in majesty it supplied it with increase in pleasure;
and if at the first it struck not with admiration, it ravished with
delight. And no indifferent soul there was, which if it could resist
from subjecting itself to make it his princess, that would not long to
have such a playfellow. As for her attire, it was costly and curious,
though the look, fixed with more sadness than it seemed nature had
bestowed to any that knew her fortune, betrayed that as she used those
ornaments not for herself, but to prevail with another, so she feared
that all would not serve. Of a far differing, though esteemed equal,
beauty, was the fair Parthenia, who next waited on Artesia’s triumph,
tho’ far better she might have sat on the throne. For in her
everything was goodly and stately, yet so that it might seem that
great-mindedness was but the ensign-bearer to the humbleness. For her
great grey eye, which might seem full of her own beauty; a large and
exceedingly fair forehead, with all the rest of her face and body cast
in the mould of nobleness, was yet so attired as might show the
mistress thought it either not to deserve, or not to need any
exquisite decking, having no adorning but cleanliness; and so far from
all art, that it was full of carelessness, unless that carelessness
itself, in spite of itself, grew artificial. But Basilius could not
abstain from praising Parthenia as the perfect picture of a womanly
virtue and wifely faithfulness, telling withal Zelmane how he had
understood that when in the court of Laconia her pictures maintained
by a certain Sicyonian knight, was lost through want rather of valour
than justice, her husband, the famous Argalus, would in a chafe have
gone and redeemed it with a new trial. But she, more sporting than
sorrowing for her undeserved champion, told her husband she desired to
be beautiful in nobody’s eye but his, and that she would rather mar
her face as evil as ever it was than that it should be a cause to make
Argalus put on armour. Then would Basilius have told Zelmane that
which he already knew, of the rare trial of that coupled affection:
but the next picture made their mouths give place to their eyes.

It was of a young maid which sat pulling out a thorn out of a lamb’s
foot, with her look so attentive upon it, as if that little foot could
have been the circle of her thoughts; her apparel so poor, as it had
nothing but the inside to adorn it; a sheep-hook lying by her with a
bottle upon it. But with all that poverty, beauty played the prince
and commanded as many hearts as the greatest queen there did. Her
beauty and her estate made her quickly to be known to be the fair
shepherdess Urania, whom a rich {81} knight called Lacemon, far in
love with her, had unluckily defended.

The last of all in place, because last in the time of her being
captive, was Zelmane, daughter to the King Plexirtus, who at the first
sight seemed to have some resembling of Philoclea, but with more
marking, comparing it to the present Philoclea, who indeed had no
paragon but her sister, they might see it was but such a likeness as
an unperfect glass doth give, answerable enough in some features and
colours, but erring in others. But Zelmane sighing, turning to
Basilius, “Alas! Sir,” said she, “here be some pictures which might
better become the tombs of their mistresses than the triumph of
Artesia.” “It is true sweetest lady,” said Basilius, “some of them be
dead, and some other captive; but that hath happened so late, as it
may be the knights that defended their beauty knew not so much:
without we will say, as in some other hearts I know it would fall out,
that death itself could not blot out the image which love hath
engraven in them. But divers besides those,” said Basilius, “hath
Phalantus, won, but he leaves the rest, carrying only such who either
for greatness of estate, or of beauty, may justly glorify the glory of
Artesia’s triumph.”

Thus talked Basilius with Zelmane, glad to make any matter subject to
speak of with his mistress, while Phalantus, in this pompous manner,
brought Artesia with her gentlewoman into one tent, by which he had
another, where they both waited who would first strike upon the
shield, while Basilius the judge appointed sticklers and trumpets, to
whom the other should obey. But none that day appeared, nor the next,
till already it had consumed half his allowance of light; but then
there came in a knight, protesting himself as contrary to him in mind,
as he was in apparel. For Phalantus was all in white, having in his
bases and caparison embroidered a waving water, at each side whereof
he had nettings cast over, in which were divers fishes naturally made,
and so prettily that as the horse stirred, the fishes seemed to strive
and leap in the net.

But the other knight, by name Nestor, by birth an Arcadian, and in
affection vowed to the fair shepherdess, was all in black, with fire
burning both upon his armour and horse. His impresa in his shield was
a fire made of juniper, with this word, “More easy and more sweet.”
But this hot knight was cooled with a fall, which at the third course
he received of Phalantus, leaving his picture to keep company with the
other of the same stamp; he going away remedilessly chafing at his
rebuke. The next was Polycetes, greatly esteemed in Arcadia for deeds
he had done in arms, and much spoken of for the honourable love he had
long borne to Gynecia, which Basilius himself was content not only to
{82} suffer, but to be delighted with, he carried it in so honourable
and open plainness, setting to his love no other mark than to do her
faithful service. But neither her fair picture, nor his fair running,
could warrant him from overthrow, and her from becoming as then the
last of Artesia’s victories, a thing Gynecia’s virtues would little
have reckoned at another time, nor then, if Zelmane had not seen it.
But her champion went away as much discomforted, as discomfited. Then
Telamon for Polixena, and Eurileon for Elpine, and Leon for Zoana, all
brave knights, all fair ladies, with their going down, lifted up the
balance of his praise for activity, and hers for fairness.

Upon whose loss, as the beholders were talking, there comes into the
place where they ran, a shepherd stripling (for his height made him
more than a boy, and his face would not allow him a man) brown of
complexion, whether by nature or by the sun’s familiarity, but very
lovely withal, for the rest so perfect proportioned that nature showed
she doth not like men who slubber up matters of mean account. And well
might his proportion be judged, for he had nothing upon him but a pair
of slops, and upon his body a goat skin which he cast over his
shoulder, doing all things with so pretty a grace that it seemed
ignorance could not make him do amiss, because he had a heart to do
well; holding in his right hand a long staff, and so coming with a
look full of amiable fierceness, as in whom choler could not take away
the sweetness, he came towards the king, and making a reverence (which
in him was comely, because it was kindly). “My liege lord,” said he,
“I pray you hear a few words, for my heart will break if I say not my
mind to you: I see here the picture of Urania, which I cannot tell how
nor why these men when they fall down, they say is not so fair as
yonder gay woman. But pray God I may never see my old mother alive, if
I think she be any more matched to Urania, than a goat is to a fine
lamb; or than the dog that keeps our flock at home, is like your white
greyhound that pulled down the stag last day.

“And therefore I pray you let me be dressed as they be, and my heart
gives me I shall tumble him on the earth: for indeed he might as well
say that a cowslip is as white as a lily: or else I care not, let him
come with his great staff, and I with this in my hand, and you shall
see what I can do to him.” Basilius saw it was the fine shepherd
Lalus, whom once he had afore him in pastoral sports, and had greatly
delighted in his wit full of pretty simplicity, and therefore laughing
at his earnestness, he bade him be content, since he saw the pictures
of so great queens were fain to follow their champions’ fortune. But
Lalus, even weeping ripe, went among the rest, longing to see somebody
that would revenge Urania’s {83} wrong; and praying heartily for
everybody that ran against Phalantus, then beginning to feel poverty
that he could not set himself to that trial. But by and by, even when
the sun, like a noble heart, began to show his greatest countenance in
his lowest estate, there came in a knight, called Phebilus, a
gentleman of that country, for whom hateful fortune had borrowed the
dart of love, to make him miserable by the sight of Philoclea. For he
had even from her infancy loved her, and was stricken by her before
she was able to know what quiver of arrows her eyes carried; but he
loved and despaired, and the more he despaired, the more he loved. He
saw his own worthiness, and thereby made her excellency have more
terrible aspect upon him: he was so secret therein, as not daring to
be open, that to no creature he ever spoke of it, but his heart made
such silent complaints within itself that, while all his senses were
attentive thereto, cunning judges might perceive his mind, so that he
was known to love, though he denied, or rather was the better known,
because he denied it. His armour and his attire was for a sea colour;
his impresa, the fish called Sepia, which being in the net, casts a
black ink about itself, that in the darkness thereof it may escape:
his word was, “Not so.” Philoclea’s picture with almost an idolatrous
magnificence was borne in by him. But straight jealousy was a
harbinger for disdain in Zelmane’s heart, when she saw any but herself
should be avowed a champion for Philoclea, insomuch that she wished
his shame, till she saw him shamed. For at the second course he was
stricken quite from out of the saddle, so full of grief and rage
withal that he would fain with the sword have revenged it, but that
being contrary to the order set down, Basilius would not suffer: so
that wishing himself in the bottom of the earth, he went his way,
leaving Zelmane no less angry with his loss than she would have been
with his victory. For if she though before a rival’s praise would have
angered her, her lady’s disgrace did make her much more forget what
she then thought, while that passion reigned so much the more as she
saw a pretty blush in Philoclea’s cheeks betray a modest
discontentment. But the night commanded truce for those sports, and
Phalantus, though entreated, would not leave Artesia, who in no case
would come into the house, having, as it were, sucked of Cecropia’s
breath a mortal mislike against Basilius.

But the night, measured by the short ell of sleep, was soon passed
over, and the next morning had given the watchful stars leave to take
their rest, when a trumpet summoned Basilius to play his judge’s part,
which he did, taking his wife and daughters with him; Zelmane having
locked her door, so as they could not trouble her for that time: for
already there was a knight in the field, ready to prove Helen of
Corinth had received great injury, both by the {84} erring judgment of
the challenger, and the unlucky weakness of her former defender. The
new knight was quickly known to be Clitophon, Kalander’s son of
Basilius’s sister, by his armour which, all gilt, was so well handled
that it showed like a glittering sand and gravel interlaced with
silver rivers. His device he had put in the picture of Helen which he
defended; it was the Ermion with a speech that signified, “Rather dead
than spotted.” But in that armour since he had parted from Helen, who
would no longer his company, finding him to enter into terms of
affection, he had performed so honourable actions, still seeking for
his two friends by the names of Palladius and Daiphantus, that though
his face were covered, his being was discovered, which yet Basilius,
who had brought him up in his court, would not seem to do, but glad to
see the trial of him, of whom he had heard very well, he commanded the
trumpets to sound, to which the two brave knights obeying, they
performed their courses, breaking their six staves, with so good, both
skill in the hitting and grace in the manner, that it bred some
difficulty in the judgment. But Basilius in the end gave sentence
against Clitophon, because Phalantus had broken more staves, upon the
head, and that once Clitophon had received such a blow that he had
lost the reins of his horse with his head well-nigh touching the
crupper of the horse. But Clitophon was so angry with the judgment,
wherein he thought he had received wrong, that he omitted his duty to
his prince, and uncle, and suddenly went his way still in the quest of
them, whom as then he had left seeking, and so yielded the field to
the next comer.

Who, coming in about two hours after, was no less marked than all the
rest before, because he had nothing worth the marking. For he had
neither picture nor device, his armour of as old a fashion, besides
the rusty poorness, that it might better seem a monument of his
grandfather’s courage: about his middle he had, instead of bases, a
long cloak of silk, which as unhandsomely, as it needs must, became
the wearer, so that all that looked on, measured his length on the
earth already, since he had to meet one who had been victorious of so
many gallants. But he went on towards the shield, and with a sober
grace struck it, but as he let his sword fall upon it, another knight,
all in black, came rustling in, who struck the shield almost as soon
as he, and so strongly that he broke the shield in two: the
ill-apparelled knight, for so the beholders called him, angry with
that, as he accounted, insolent injury to himself, hit him such a
sound blow that they that looked on said it well became a rude arm.
The other answered him again in the same case, so that lances were put
to silence, the swords were so busy.


But Phalantus, angry of this defacing shield, came upon the black
knight, and with the pommel of his sword set fire to his eyes, which
presently was revenged, not only by the black, but the ill-apparelled
knight, who disdained another should enter into his quarrel, so as,
who ever saw a matachin dance to imitate fighting, this was a fight
that did imitate the matachin: for they being but three that fought,
everyone had two adversaries, striking him, who struck the third, and
revenging perhaps that of him which he had received of the other. But
Basilius rising himself came to part them, the stickler’s authority
scarcely able to persuade choleric hearers; and part them he did.

But before he could determine, comes in a fourth, halting on foot, who
complained to Basilius, demanding justice on the black knight, for
having by force taken away the picture of Pamela from him, which in
little form he wore in a tablet, and covered with silk had fastened it
to his helmet, purposing, for want of a bigger, to paragon the little
one with Artesia’s length, not doubting but even in that little
quantity, the excellency of that would shine through the weakness of
the other, as the smallest star doth through the whole element of
fire. And by the way he had met with this black knight, who had, as he
said, robbed him of it. The injury seemed grievous, but when it came
fully to be examined, it was found that the halting knight meeting the
other, asking the cause of his going thitherward, and finding it was
to defend Pamela’s divine beauty against Artesia’s, with a proud
jollity commanded him to leave that quarrel only for him, who was only
worthy to enter into it. But the black knight obeying no such
commandments, they fell to such a bickering that he got a halting, and
lost his picture. This understood by Basilius, he told him he was now
fitter to look to his own body than another’s picture, and so,
uncomforted therein, sent him away to learn of Aesculapius that he was
not fit for Venus. But then the question arising, who should be the
former against Phalantus, of the black or the ill-apparelled knight,
who now had gotten the reputation of some sturdy lout, he had so well
defended himself; of the one side, was alleged the having a picture
which the other wanted; of the other side, the first striking the
shield, but the conclusion was, that the ill-apparelled knight should
have the precedence, if he delivered the figure of his mistress to
Phalantus, who asking him for it, “Certainly,” said he, “her liveliest
picture, if you could see it, is in my heart, and the best comparison
I could make of her is of the sun and all the other heavenly beauties.
But because perhaps all eyes cannot taste the divinity of her beauty,
and would rather be dazzled than taught by the light, if it be not
clouded by some meaner thing, know ye then, that I defend that same
lady, whose image Phebilus so feebly lost {86} yesternight, and,
instead of another, if you overcome me, you shall have me your slave
to carry that image in your mistress’ triumph.” Phalantus easily
agreed to the bargain, which readily he made his own.

But when it came to the trial, the ill-apparelled knight, choosing out
the greatest staves in all the store, at the first course gave his
head such a remembrance that he lost almost his remembrance, he
himself receiving the encounter of Phalantus, without any
extraordinary motion; and at the second, gave him such a counterbuff,
that because Phalantus was so perfect a horseman, as not to be driven
from the saddle, the saddle with broken girths was driven from the
horse; Phalantus remaining angry and amazed, because now being come
almost to the last of his promised enterprise, that disgrace befell
him, which he had never before known.

But the victory being by the judges given, and the trumpets witnessed
to the ill-apparelled knight; Phalantus’ disgrace was ingrieved in
lieu of comfort of Artesia, who telling him she never looked for
other, bade him seek some other mistress. He excusing himself, and
turning over the fault to fortune, “Then let that be your ill fortune
too,” said she, “that you have lost me.”

“Nay, truly madam,” said Phalantus, “it shall not be so, for I think
the loss of such a mistress will prove a great gain,” and so
concluded, to the sport of Basilius, to see young folks’ love, that
came in masked with so great pomp, go out with so little constancy.
But Phalantus first professing great service to Basilius for his
courteous intermitting his solitary course for his sake, would yet
conduct Artesia to the castle of Cecropia, whither she desired to go,
vowing in himself that neither heart nor mouth love should ever any
more entangle him, and with that resolution he left the company.
Whence all being dismissed (among whom the black knight went away
repining at his luck that had kept him from winning the honour, as he
knew he should have done to the picture of Pamela) the ill-apparelled
knight (who was only desired to stay, because Basilius meant to show
him to Zelmane) pull’d off his helmet, and then was known himself to
be Zelmane, who that morning, as she told, while the others were busy,
had stolen out of the prince’s stable, which was a mile off from the
lodge, had gotten a horse, they knowing it was Basilius’s pleasure she
should be obeyed, and borrowing that homely armour for want of a
better, had come upon the spur to redeem Philoclea’s picture, which,
she said, she could not bear, being one of that little
wilderness-company, should be in captivity, if the cunning she had
learned in her country of the noble Amazons, could withstand it; and
under that pretext fain she would have given a secret passport to her
affection. But this act painted at one instant redness in Philoclea’s
face, and paleness {87} in Gynecia’s, but brought forth no other
countenances but of admiration, no speeches but of commendations: all
those few, besides love, thinking they honoured themselves in
honouring so accomplished a person as Zelmane, whom daily they fought
with some or other sports to delight; for which purpose Basilius had,
in a house not far off, servants, who though they came not uncalled,
yet at call were ready.

And so many days were spent, and many ways used, while Zelmane was
like one that stood in a tree waiting a good occasion to shoot, and
Gynecia a blancher, which kept the dearest deer from her. But the day
being come, on which according to an appointed course, the shepherds
were to assemble and make their pastoral sports before Basilius,
Zelmane, fearing lest many eyes, and coming divers ways, might hap to
espy Musidorus, went out to warn him thereof.

But before she could come to the arbour, she saw walking from
her-ward, a man in shepherdish apparel, who being in the sight of the
lodge, it might seem he was allowed there. A long cloak he had on, but
that cast under his right arm, wherein he held a sheep hook so finely
wrought, that it gave a bravery to poverty, and his raiments though
they were mean, yet received they handsomeness by the grace of the
wearer, though he himself went but a kind of languishing pace, with
his eyes sometimes cast up to heaven as though his fancies strove to
mount higher; sometimes thrown down to the ground, as if the earth
could not bear the burden of his sorrows; at length, with a lamentable
tune, he sung those few verses.

 Come shepherd’s weeds, become your master’s mind:
  Yield outward show, what inward change he tries:
 Nor be abash’d, since such a guest you find,
  Whose strongest hope in your weak comfort lies.

 Come shepherd’s weeds, attend my woeful cries:
  Disuse yourselves from sweet Menalcas’ voice:
 For other be those tunes which sorrow ties,
  From those clear notes which freely may rejoice.
   Then pour out plaint, and in one word say this:
   Helpless is plaint, who spoils himself of bliss.

And having ended, he struck himself on the breast, saying, “O
miserable wretch, whither do thy destinies guide thee?” The voice made
Zelmane hasten her pace to overtake him, which having done, she
plainly perceived that it was her dear friend Musidorus; whereat
marvelling not a little, she demanded of him whether the goddess of
those woods had such a power to transform {88} every body, or whether,
as in all enterprises else he had done, he meant thus to match her in
this new alteration. “Alas,” said Musidorus, “what shall I say, who am
loth to say, and yet fain would have said? I find indeed, that all is
but lip-wisdom, which wants experience. I now, woe is me, do try what
love can do. O Zelmane, who will resist it must either have no wit, or
put out his eyes: can any man resist his creation? certainly by love
we are made, and to love we are made. Beasts only cannot discern
beauty, and let them be in the roll of beasts that do not honour it.”
The perfect friendship Zelmane bare him, and the great pity she, by
good trial, had of such cases, could not keep her from smiling at him,
remembering how vehemently he had cried out against the folly of
lovers; and therefore a little to punish him, “Why how now dear
cousin,” said she, “you that were last day so high in the pulpit
against lovers, are you now become so mean an auditor? remember that
love is a passion, and that a worthy man’s reason must ever have the
masterhood.” “I recant, I recant,” cried Musidorus, and withal falling
down prostrate, “O thou celestial or infernal spirit of love, or what
other heavenly or hellish title thou list to have, for effects of both
I find in myself, have compassion of me and let thy glory be as great
in pardoning them that be submitted to thee as in conquering those
that were rebellious.” “No, no,” said Zelmane, “I see you well enough;
you make but an interlude of my mishaps, and do but counterfeit thus
to make me see the deformity of my passions; but take heed, that this
jest do not one day turn to earnest.” “Now I beseech thee,” said
Musidorus, taking her fast by the hand, “even for the truth of our
friendship, of which, if I be not altogether an unhappy man, thou has
some remembrance, and by those secret flames which I know have
likewise nearly touched thee, make no jest of that which hath so
earnestly pierced me through, nor let that be light unto thee, which
is to me so burdenous, that I am not able to bear it.” Musidorus, both
in words and behaviour, did so lively deliver out his inward grief
that Zelmane found indeed he was throughly wounded: but there rose a
new jealousy in her mind, lest it might be with Philoclea, by whom, as
Zelmane thought, in right, all hearts and eyes should be inherited.
And therefore desirous to be cleared of that doubt, Musidorus shortly,
as in haste and full of passionate perplexedness, thus recounted his
case unto her.

“The day,” said he, “I parted from you, I being in mind to return to a
town from whence I came hither, my horse being before tired, would
scarce bear me a mile hence, where being benighted, the sight of a
candle, I saw a good way off, guided me to a young shepherd’s house,
by name Menalcas, who seeing me to be a {89} straying stranger, with
the right honest hospitality which seems to be harboured in the
Arcadian breasts, and, though not with curious costliness, yet cleanly
sufficiency entertained me; and having by talk with him found the
manner of the country something more in particular than I had by
Kalander’s report, I agreed to sojourn with him in secret, which he
faithfully promised to observe. And so hither to your arbour divers
times repaired, and here by your means had the fight, O that it had
never been so, nay, O that it might ever be so, of the goddess, who in
a definite compass can set forth infinite beauty.” All this while
Zelmane was racked with jealousy. But he went on, “For,” said he, “I
lying close, and in truth thinking of you, and saying thus to myself,
‘O sweet Pyrocles, how art thou bewitched? where is thy virtue? where
is the use of thy reason? how much am I inferior to thee in that state
of mind? and yet know I that all the heavens cannot bring me such a
thraldom.’ Scarcely, think I, had I spoken this word, when the ladies
came forth; at which sight, I think the very words returned back again
to strike my soul; at least, an unmeasurable sting I felt in myself
that I had spoken such words.” “At which sight,” said Zelmane, not
able to bear him any longer. “O,” said Musidorus, “I know your
suspicion; No, no, banish all such fear, it was, it is, and must be
Pamela.” “Then all is safe,” said Zelmane, “proceed dear Musidorus.”
“I will not,” said he, “impute it to my late solitary life, which yet
is prone to affections, nor to the much thinking of you (though that
called the consideration of love into my mind, which before I ever
neglected) not to the exaltation of Venus, nor revenge of Cupid, but
even to her, who is the planet, nay, the goddess, against which the
only shield must be my sepulchre. When I first saw her I was presently
stricken, and I (like a foolish child, that when anything hits him,
will strike himself again upon it) would needs look again, as though
I would persuade mine eyes, that they were deceived. But alas, well
have I found, that love to a yielding heart is a king; but to a
resisting, is a tyrant. The more with arguments I shaked the stake,
which he had planted in the ground of my heart, the deeper still it
sank into it. But what mean I to speak of the causes of my love, which
is as impossible to describe, as to measure the back-side of heaven?
let this word suffice, I love.

“And that you may know I do so, it was I that came in black armour to
defend her picture, where I was both prevented and beaten by you. And
so, I that waited here to do you service, have now myself most need of
succour.” “But whereupon got you yourself this apparel?” said Zelmane.
“I had forgotten to tell you,” said Musidorus, “though that were one
principal matter of my speech; so much am I now master of my own {90}
mind. But thus it happened: being returned to Menalcas’ house, full of
tormenting desire, after a while fainting under the weight, my courage
stirred up my wit to seek for some relief before I yielded to perish.
At last this came into my head, that every evening, that I had to no
purpose last used my horse and armour. I told Menalcas, that I was a
Thessalian gentleman, who by mischance having killed a great favourite
of the prince of that country, was pursued so cruelly, that in no
place but either by favour or corruption, they would obtain my
destruction, and that therefore I was determined, till the fury of my
persecutors might be assuaged, to disguise myself among the shepherds
of Arcadia, and, if it were possible, to be one of them that were
allowed the prince’s presence, because if the worst should fall that I
were discovered, yet having gotten the acquaintance of the prince, it
might happen to move his heart to protect me. Menalcas, being of an
honest disposition, pitied my case, which my face, thro’ my inward
torment, made credible; and so, I giving him largely for it, let me
have this raiment, instructing me in all particularities, touching
himself, or myself, which I desired to know; yet not trusting so much
to his constancy as that I would lay my life, and life of my life upon
it, I hired him to go into Thessalia to a friend of mine, and to
deliver him a letter from me; conjuring him to bring me as speedy an
answer as he could, because it imported me greatly to know whether
certain of my friends did yet possess any favour, whose intercessions
I might use for my restitution. He willingly took my letter, which
being well sealed, indeed contained other matter. For I wrote to my
trusty servant Calodoulus, whom you know as soon as he had delivered
the letter, he should keep him prisoner in his house, not suffering
him to have conference with any body, till he knew my further
pleasure, in all other respects that he should use him as my brother.
And is Menalcas gone, and I here a poor shepherd; more proud of this
estate than of any kingdom, so manifest it is, that the highest point
outward things can bring one unto, is the contentment of the mind,
with which no estate; without which, all estates be miserable. Now
have I chosen this day, because, as Menalcas told me, the other
shepherds are called to make their sports, and hope that you will with
your credit find means to get me allowed among them.” “You need not
doubt,” answered Zelmane, “but that I will be your good mistress:
marry, the best way of dealing must be by Dametas, who since his blunt
brain hath perceived some favour the prince doth bear unto me (as
without doubt the most servile flattery is lodged most easily in the
grossest capacity, for their ordinary conceit draweth a yielding to
their greater, and then have they not wit to discern the right degrees
of duty) is much more {91} serviceable unto me, than I can find any
cause to wish him. And therefore despair not to win him, for every
present occasion will catch his senses, and his senses are masters of
his silly mind; only reverence him, and reward him, and with that
bridle and saddle you shall well ride him.” “O heaven and earth,” said
Musidorus, “to what a pass are our minds brought that from the right
line of virtue are wried to these crooked shifts? but O love, it is
thou that doest it; thou changest name upon name; thou disguisest our
bodies, and disfigurest our minds. But indeed thou hast reason; for
though the ways be foul, the journey’s end is most fair and

“No more sweet Musidorus,” said Zelmane, “of these philosophies; for
here comes the very person of Dametas.” And so he did indeed, with a
sword by his side, a forest-bill on his neck, and a chopping-knife
under his girdle: in which well provided sort, he had ever gone since
the fear Zelmane had put him in. But he no sooner saw her, but with
head and arms he laid his reverence afore her, enough to have made any
man forswear all courtesy. And then in Basilius’s name he did invite
her to walk down to the place where that day they were to have the

But when he espied Musidorus to be none of the shepherds allowed in
that place he would fain have persuaded himself to utter some anger,
but that he durst not; yet muttering and champing, as though his cud
troubled him, he gave occasion to Musidorus to come near him, and
feign his tale of his own life: that he was a younger brother of the
shepherd Menalcas, by name Dorus, sent by his father in his tender age
to Athens, there to learn some cunning more than ordinary, that he
might be the better liked of the prince; and that after his father’s
death, his brother Menalcas lately gone thither to fetch him home, was
also deceased, where, upon his death, he had charged him to seek the
service of Dametas, and to be wholly and ever guided by him, as one in
whose judgment and integrity the prince had singular confidence. For
token whereof, he gave to Dametas a good sum of gold in ready coin:
which Menalcas had bequeathed unto him, upon condition he should
receive this poor Dorus into his service, that his mind and manners
might grow the better by his daily example. Dametas, that of all
manners of style could best conceive of golden eloquence, being withal
tickled by Musidorus’s praises, had his brain so turned, that he
became slave to that which he that sued to be his servant offered to
give him, yet, for countenance sake, he seemed very squeamish, in
respect of the charge he had of the princess Pamela. But such was the
secret operation of the gold, helped with the persuasion of the
Amazon, Zelmane (who said it was pity so handsome a young man should
be anywhere else than {92} with so good a master) that in the end he
agreed (if that day he behaved himself so to the liking of Basilius,
as he might be contented) that then he would receive him into his

And thus went they to the lodge, where they found Gynecia and her
daughters ready to go to the field, to delight themselves there a
while until the shepherds coming: whither also taking Zelmane with
them, as they went, Dametas told them of Dorus, and desired he might
be accepted there that day instead of his brother Menalcas. As for
Basilius, he stayed behind to bring the shepherds, with whom he meant
to confer, to breed the better Zelmane’s liking, which he only
regarded, while the other beautiful band came to the fair field
appointed for the shepherdish pastimes. It was indeed a place of
delight; for through the midst of it there ran a sweet brook which did
both hold the eye open with her azure streams, and yet seek to close
the eye with the purling noise it made upon the pebble stones it ran
over: the field itself being set in some places with roses, and in all
the rest constantly preserving a flourishing green: the roses, added
such a ruddy show unto it, as though the field were bashful at his own
beauty: about it, as if it had been to enclose a theatre, grew such
sort of trees as either excellency of fruit, stateliness of growth,
continual greenness, or poetical fancies, have made at any time
famous. In most part of which there had been framed by art such
pleasant arbours, that, one answering another, they became a gallery
aloft from tree to tree almost round about, which below gave a perfect
shadow; a pleasant refuge then from the choleric look of Phoebus.

In this place while Gynecia walked hard by them, carrying many unquiet
contentions about her, the ladies sat them down, enquiring divers
questions of the shepherd Dorus; who keeping his eye still upon
Pamela, answered with such a trembling voice, and abashed countenance,
and oftentimes so far from the matter, that it was some sport to the
young ladies, thinking it want of education which made him so
discountenanced with unwonted presence. But Zelmane that saw in him
the glass of her own misery, taking the hand of Philoclea, and with
burning kisses setting it close to her lips (as if it should stand
there like a hand in the margin of a book, to note some saying worthy
to be marked) began to speak those words: “O love, since thou art so
changeable in men’s estates, how art thou so constant in their
torments?” when suddenly there came out of a wood a monstrous lion,
with a she-bear not far from him, of a little less fierceness, which,
as they guessed, having been hunted in forests far off, were by chance
come thither, where before such beast had never been seen. Then care,
not fear, or fear, not for themselves, altered something the
countenances of the two lovers; but so, as any man might perceive, was
rather an {93} assembling of powers, than dismayedness of courage.
Philoclea no sooner espied the lion, but, that obeying the commandment
of fear, she leaped up, and ran to the lodge-ward, as fast as her
delicate legs could carry her, while Dorus drew Pamela behind a tree,
where she stood quaking like a partridge on which the hawk is even
ready to seize. But the lion, seeing Philoclea run away, bent his race
to her-ward, and was ready to seize himself on the prey when Zelmane
(to whom danger then was a cause of dreadlessness, all the composition
of her elements being nothing but fiery) with swiftness of desire
crossed him, and with force of affection struck him such a blow upon
his chine, that she opened all his body: wherewith the valiant beast
turning her with open jaws, she gave him such a thrust through his
breast, that all the lion could do, was with his paw to tear off the
mantle and sleeve of Zelmane with a little scratch, rather than a
wound, his death-blow having taken away the effect of his force: but
therewithal he fell down, and gave Zelmane leisure to take off his
head, to carry it for a present to her lady Philoclea, who all this
while, not knowing what was done behind her, kept on her course like
Arethusa when she ran from Alpheus; her light apparel being carried up
with the wind, that much of those beauties she would at another time
have willingly hidden, was presented to the sight of the twice wounded
Zelmane. Which made Zelmane not follow her over-hastily, lest she
should too soon deprive herself of that pleasure, but carrying the
lion’s head in her hand, did not fully overtake her till they came to
the presence of Basilius. Neither were they long there, but that
Gynecia came thither also, who had been in such a trance of musing
that Zelmane was fighting with the lion, before she knew of any lion’s
coming: but then affection resisting, and the soon ending of the fight
preventing all extremity of fear she marked Zelmane’s fighting: and
when the lion’s head was off, as Zelmane ran after Philoclea, so she
could not find in her heart but run after Zelmane: so that it was a
new sight Fortune had prepared to those woods, to see those great
personages thus run one after the other, each carried forward with an
inward violence; Philoclea with such fear that she thought she was
still in the lion’s mouth; Zelmane with an eager and impatient
delight; Gynecia with wings of love, flying she neither knew nor cared
to know whither. But now being all come before Basilius, amazed with
this sight, and fear having such possession in the fair Philoclea that
her blood durst not yet come to her face to take away the name of
paleness from her most pure whiteness, Zelmane kneeled down and
presented the lion’s head unto her: “Only lady,” said she, “here see
you the punishment of that unnatural beast, which contrary to his own
kind would have wronged prince’s blood, guided with such traitorous
{94} eyes, as durst rebel against your beauty.” “Happy am I, and my
beauty both (answered the sweet Philoclea then blushing, for fear had
bequeathed his room to his kinsman bashfulness) that you, excellent
Amazon, were there to teach him good manners.” “And even thanks to
that beauty,” answered Zelmane, “which can give an edge to the
bluntest swords.”

There Philoclea told her father how it had happened; but as she had
turned her eyes in her tale to Zelmane she perceived some blood upon
Zelmane’s shoulder, so that starting with the lovely grace and pity
she showed it to her father and mother, who, as the nurse sometimes
with over-much kissing may forget to give the babe suck, so had they
with too much delighting, in beholding and praising Zelmane, left off
to mark whether she needed succour. But then they ran both unto her,
like a father and mother to an only child, and, though Zelmane assured
them it was nothing, would needs see it, Gynecia having skill in
chirurgery, an art in those days much esteemed because it served to
virtuous courage, which even ladies would, ever with the contempt of
cowards, seem to cherish. But looking upon it (which gave more inward
bleeding wounds to Zelmane, for she might sometimes feel Philoclea’s
touch while she helped her mother) she found it was indeed of no
importance; yet applied she a precious balm unto it of power to heal a
greater grief.

But even then, and not before, they remembered Pamela, and therefore
Zelmane, thinking of her friend Dorus, was running back to be
satisfied, when they might all see Pamela coming between Dorus and
Dametas, having in her hand the paw of a bear, which the shepherd
Dorus had newly presented unto her, desiring her to accept it, as of
such a beast, which though she deserved death for her presumption, yet
was her wit to be esteemed, since she could make so sweet a choice.
Dametas for his part came piping and dancing, the merriest man in a
parish: but when he came so near as he might be heard of Basilius, he
would needs break through his ears with this joyful song of their good

 Now thanked be the great god Pan,
  Which thus preserves my loved life:
 Thanked be I that keep a man,
  Who ended hath this bloody strife:
 For if my Man must praises have,
  What then must I, that keep the knave?

 For as the Moon the eye doth please,
  With gentle beams not hurting sight:
 Yet hath sir Sun the greatest praise,
  Because from him doth come her light:
 So if my man must praises have,
  What then must I, that keep the knave?


Being all now come together, and all desirous to know each other’s
adventures, Pamela’s noble heart would needs gratefully make known the
valiant means of her safety, which, directing her speech to her
mother, she did in this manner: “As soon,” said she, “as ye were all
run away, and that I hoped to be in safety, there came out of the same
woods a horrible foul bear, which (fearing belike to deal while the
lion was present as soon as he was gone) came furiously towards the
place where I was, and this young shepherd left alone by me, I truly
(not guilty of any wisdom, which since they lay to my charge, because
they say it is the best refuge against that beast, but even pure fear
bringing forth that effect of wisdom) fell down flat on my face,
needing not counterfeit being dead, for indeed I was little better.
But this young shepherd with a wonderful courage, having no other
weapon but that knife you see, standing before the place where I lay,
so behaved himself that the first sight I had, when I thought myself
already near Charon’s ferry, was the shepherd showing me his bloody
knife in token of victory.” “I pray you (said Zelmane speaking to
Dorus, whose valour she was careful to have manifested) in what sort,
so ill weaponed, could you achieve this enterprise?” “Noble lady,”
said Dorus, “the manner of those beasts fighting with any man, is to
stand up upon their hinder feet, and so this did, and being ready to
give me a shrewd embracement, I think the god Pan, ever careful of the
chief blessing of Arcadia, guided my hand so just to the heart of the
beast that neither she could once touch me nor (which is the only
matter in this worthy remembrance) breed any danger to the princess.
For my part, I am rather, with all subjected humbleness, to thank her
excellencies, since the duty thereunto gave me heart to save myself
than to receive thanks for a deed which was her only aspiring.” And
this Dorus spoke, keeping affection as much as he could back from
coming into his eyes and gestures. But Zelmane, that had the same
character in her heart, could easily decipher it, and therefore to
keep him the longer in speech, desired to understand the conclusion of
the matter, and how the honest Dametas was escaped. “Nay,” said
Pamela, “none shall take that office from myself, being so much bound
to him as I am for my education.” And with that word, scorn borrowing
the countenance of mirth, somewhat she smiled, and thus spoke on:
“When,” said she, “Dorus made me assuredly perceive that all cause of
fear was passed, the truth is, I was ashamed to find myself alone with
this shepherd, and therefore looking about me, if I could see anybody,
at length we both perceived the gentle Dametas, lying with his head
and breast as far as he could thrust himself into a bush, drawing up
his legs as close unto him as he could: for, like a man of a very kind
nature, {96} soon to take pity on himself, he was fully resolved not
to see his own death. And when this shepherd pushed him, bidding him
to be of good cheer, it was a great while ere we could persuade him
that Dorus was not the bear, so that he was fain to pull him out by
the heels, and show him the beast as dead as he could wish it: which,
you may believe me, was a very joyful sight unto him. But then he
forgot all courtesy, for he fell upon the beast, giving it many a
manful wound, swearing by much, it was not well such beasts should be
suffered in a commonwealth. And then my governor, as full of joy, as
before of fear, came dancing and singing before, as even now you saw
him.” “Well, well,” said Basilius, “I have not chosen Dametas for his
fighting, nor for his discoursing but for his plainness and honesty,
and therein I know he will not deceive me.” But then he told Pamela
(not so much because she should know it, as because he would tell it)
the wonderful act Zelmane had performed, which Gynecia likewise spoke
of, both in such extremity of praising, as was easy to be seen, the
construction of their speech might best be made by the grammar rules
of affection. Basilius told with what a gallant grace she ran with the
lion’s head in her hand, like another Pallas with the spoils of
Gorgon. Gynecia swore she saw the very face of the young Hercules
killing the Nemean lion; and all with a grateful assent confirmed the
same praises; only poor Dorus (though of equal desert, yet not
proceeding of equal estate) should have been less forgotten, had not
Zelmane again with great admiration begun to speak of him; asking
whether it were the fashion or no in Arcadia that shepherds should
perform such valorous enterprises.

This Basilius, having the quick sense of a lover, took, as though his
mistress had given him a secret reprehension, that he had not showed
more gratefulness to Dorus; and therefore as nimbly as he could,
enquired of his estate, adding promise of great rewards, among the
rest, offering to him, if he would exercise his courage in soldiery,
he would commit some charge unto him under his lieutenant Philanax.
But Dorus, whose ambition climbed by another stair, having first
answered touching his estate that he was brother to the shepherd
Menalcas, who among other was wont to resort to the prince’s presence,
and excused his going to soldiery by the unaptness he found in himself
that way, he told Basilius that his brother in his last testament had
willed him to serve Dametas, and therefore, for due obedience
thereunto, he would think his service greatly rewarded if he might
obtain by that means to live in the sight of the prince and yet
practice his own chosen vocation. Basilius, liking well his goodly
shape and handsome manner, charged Dametas to receive him like a son
into his house, saying, that his valour, and Dametas’s truth would be
{97} good bulwarks against such mischiefs, as, he sticked not to say,
were threatened to his daughter Pamela.

Dametas, no whit out of countenance with all that had been said,
because he had no worse to fall into than his own, accepted Dorus; and
withal telling Basilius that some of the shepherds were come, demanded
in what place he would see their sports, who first was curious to know
whether it were not more requisite for Zelmane’s hurt to rest than sit
up at those pastimes: and she, that felt no wound but one, earnestly
desired to have the pastorals. Basilius commanded it should be at the
gate of the lodge, where the throne of the prince being, according to
the ancient manner, he made Zelmane sit between him and his wife
therein, who thought herself between drowning and burning, and the two
young ladies of either side the throne, and so prepared their eyes and
ears to be delighted by the shepherds.

But, before all of them were assembled to begin their sports, there
came a fellow who being out of breath, or seeming so to be for haste,
with humble hastiness told Basilius, that his mistress, the lady
Cecropia, had sent him to excuse the mischance of her beast ranging in
that dangerous sort, being happened by the folly of the keeper, who
thinking himself able to rule them, had carried them abroad, and so
was deceived: whom yet, if Basilius would punish for it, she was ready
to deliver. Basilius made no other answer, but that his mistress, if
she had any more such beasts, should cause them to be killed: and then
he told his wife and Zelmane of it, because they should not fear those
woods, as though they harboured such beasts where the like had never
been seen. But Gynecia took a further conceit of it, mistrusting
greatly Cecropia, because she had heard much of the devilish
wickedness of her heart, and that particularly she did her best to
bring up her son Amphialus, being brother’s son to Basilius, to aspire
to the crown as next heir male after Basilius, and therefore saw no
reason but that she might conjecture, it proceeded rather of some
mischievous practice, than of misfortune. Yet did she only utter her
doubt to her daughters, thinking, since the worst was past, she would
attend a further occasion, lest overmuch haste might seem to proceed
of the ordinary mislike between sisters-in-law only they marvelled
that Basilius looked no further into it, who, good man, thought so
much of his late conceived commonwealth, that all other matters were
but digressions unto him. But the shepherds were ready, and with well
handling themselves, called their senses to attend their pastimes.

Basilius, because Zelmane so would have it, used the artificial day of
torches, to lighten the sports their invention could minister: and
because many of the shepherds were but newly come, he did {98} in a
gentle manner chastise their negligence, with making them, for that
night the torch bearers; and the others he willed with all freedom of
speech and behaviour to keep their accustomed method, which while they
prepared to do, Dametas, who much disdained, since his late authority,
all his old companions, brought his servant Dorus in good acquaintance
and allowance of them, and himself stood like a director over them,
with nodding, gaping, winking, or stamping, showing how he did like or
mislike those things he did not understand. The first sports the
shepherds showed were full of such leaps and gambols as being
according to the pipe which they bore in their mouths, even as they
danced, made a right picture of their chief god Pan, and his
companions the Satyrs. Then would they cast away their pipes, and
holding hand in hand dance as it were in a brawl, by the only cadence
of their voices, which they would use in singing some short couplets,
whereto the one half beginning, the other half should answer as the
one half, saying:

 We love, and have our loves rewarded.

The other would answer,

 We love, and are no whit regarded.

The first again,

 We find most sweet affection’s snare.

With like tune it should be as in a choir sent back again,

 That sweet, but sour, despairful care.

A third time likewise thus:

 Who can despair, whom hope doth bear?

The answer,

 And who can hope that feels despair?

Then joining all their voices, and dancing a faster measure, they
would conclude with some such words:

 As without breath no pipe doth move,
 No music kindly without love.

Having thus varied both their song and dances into divers sorts of
inventions, their last sport was, one of them to provoke another to a
more large expressing of his passions: which Thyrsis (accounted one of
the best singers amongst them) having marked in Dorus’s dancing, no
less good grace and handsome behaviour than extreme tokens of a
troubled mind, began first with his pipe, and then with his voice,
thus to challenge Dorus, and was by him answered in the under-written




  Come Dorus, come, let songs thy sorrows signify,
   And if for want of use thy mind ashamed is,
  That very shame with love’s high title dignify.
   No style is held for base where love well named is:
  Each ear sucks up the words a true-love scattereth,
  And plain speech oft, than quaint phrase better framed is.

  Nightingales seldom sing, the pie still chattereth,
   The wood cries most, before it thoroughly kindled be,
  Deadly wounds inward bleed, each slight sore mattereth.
   Hardly they heard, which by good hunters singled be:
  Shallow brooks murmur most, deep, silent slide away,
  Nor true-love, his love with others mingled be.

  If thou wilt not be seen, thy face go hide away,
   Be none of us, or else maintain our fashion:
  Who frowns at others’ feasts, doth better bide away.
   But if thou hast a love, in that love’s passion,
  I challenge thee by show of her perfection,
  Which of us two deserveth most compassion.

  Thy challenge great, but greater my protection:
   Sing then, and see (for now thou hast inflamed me)
  Thy health too mean a match for my infection.
   No, though the heaven’s for high attempts have blamed me,
  Yet high is my attempt. O Muse historify
  Her praise, whose praise to learn your skill hath framed me.

  Muse hold your peace, but thou my god Pan glorify
   My Kala’s gifts, who with all good gifts filled is.
  Thy pipe, O Pan, shall help, though I sing sorrily.
   A heap of sweets she is, where nothing spilled is;
  Who though she be no Bee, yet full of honey is:
  A Lily-field, with plough of Rose which tilled is:
   Mild as a lamb, more dainty than a coney is:
  Her eyes my eye-sight is, her conversation
   More glad to me than to a miser money is.
  What coy account she makes of estimation?
   How nice to touch? how all her speeches poised be?
   A nymph thus turned, but mended in translation.

  Such Kala is: but ah my fancies raised be
   In one, whose name to name were high presumption,
  Since virtue’s all, to make her title pleased be.
   O happy gods, which by inward assumption
  Enjoy her soul, in body’s fair possession,
  And keep it join’d, fearing your seat’s consumption.
   How oft with rain of tears skies make confession,
  Their dwellers wrapt with sight of her perfection,
  From heav’nly throne to her heav’n use digression?
  Of best things then what world shall yield confection
  To liken her? deck yours with your comparison:
  She is herself of best things the collection.

  How oft my doleful sire cry’d to me, “Tarry son,”
   When first he spied my love! how oft he said to me,
  “Thou art no soldier fit for Cupid’s garrison?
   My son keep this, that my long toil hath laid to me:
  Love well thine own, methinks wool’s whiteness passeth all:
   I never found long love such wealth hath paid to me.”
  This wind he spent: but when my Kala glasseth all
  My sight in her fair limbs, I then assure myself,
  Not rotten sheep, but high crowns she surpasseth all.
   Can I be poor, that her gold hair procure myself?
  Want I white wool, whose eyes her white skin garnished?
  ’Till I get her, shall I to keep inure myself?

  How oft, when reason saw, love of her harnessed
   With armour of my heart, he cried, “O vanity!
  To set a pearl in steel so meanly varnished?
   Look to thyself, reach not beyond humanity.
  Her mind, beams, state, far from the weak wings banished;
  And love which lover hurts is inhumanity.”
   Thus reason said: but she came, reason vanished;
  Her eyes so mastering me, that such objection
   Seem’d but to spoil the food of thoughts long famished.
  Her peerless height my mind to high erection
   Draws up; and if hope-failing end life’s pleasure,
   Of fairer death how can I make election?

  Once my well-waiting eyes espy’d my treasure,
   With sleeves turn’d up, loose hair, and breasts enlarged,
  Her father’s corn, moving her fair limbs, measure.
   “O,” cried I, “if so mean work be discharged:
  Measure my case how by thy beauty’s filling,
  With seed of woes my heart brim-full is charg’d.
   Thy father bids thee save, and chides for spilling;
  Save then my soul, spill not my thoughts well heap’d,
   No lovely praise was ever got by killing.”
  Those bold words she did bear, this fruit I reaped,
   That she whose look alone might make me blessed,
   Did smile on me, and then away she leaped.

  Once, O sweet once, I saw with dread oppressed
  Her whom I dread, so that with prostrate lying
   Her length, the earth in love’s chief clothing dressed,
   I saw that riches fall, and fell a crying:
  “Let not dead earth enjoy so dear a cover,
  But deck therewith my soul for your sake dying:
   Lay all your fear upon your fearful lover:
  Shine eyes on me that both our lives be guarded;
   So I your sight, you shall yourselves recover.”
  I cry’d, and was with open eyes rewarded:
   But straight they fled summon’d by cruel honour,
   Honour, the cause desert is not regarded.

  This maid, thus made for joys, O Pan! bemoan her,
   That without love she spends her years of love:
  So fair a field would well become an owner.
   And if enchantment can a hard heart move,
  Teach me what circle may acquaint her sprite,
  Affection’s charms in my behalf to prove.
   The circle is my, round about her, sight,
  The power I will invoke dwells in her eyes:
  My charm should be, she haunt me day and night.

  Far other case, O Muse, my sorrow tries,
   Bent to such one in whom myself must say,
  Nothing can mend one point that in her lies.
   What circle then in so rare force bears sway?
  Whose sprite all sprites can foil, raise, damn, or save:
  No charm holds her, but well possess she may,
   Possess she doth, and makes my soul her slave,
  My eyes the bands, my thoughts the fatal knot.
  No thrall like them that inward bondage have.

  Kala, at length conclude my ling’ring lot:
   Disdain me not, although I be not fair,
  Who is an heir of many hundred sheep,
  Doth beauties keep which never sun can burn,
  Nor storms do turn: fairness serves oft to wealth,
  Yet all my health I place in your good will:
  Which if you will, O do, bestow on me
  Such as you see; such still you shall me find,
  Constant and kind, my sheep your food shall breed,
  Their wool your weed, I will you music yield
  In flow’ry field; and as the day begins
  With twenty gins we will the small birds take,
  And pastimes make, as nature things hath made.
  But when in shade we meet of myrtle boughs,
  Then love allows our pleasures to enrich,
  The thought of which doth pass all worldly pelf.

  Lady yourself whom neither name I dare,
  And titles are but spots to such a worth,
  Here plaints come forth from dungeon of my mind,
  The noblest kind rejects not others’ woes.
  I have no shows of wealth: my wealth is you,
  My beauties hue your beams, my health your deeds;
  My mind for weeds your virtue’s livery wears.
  My food is tears, my tunes lamenting yield,
  Despair my field, the flowers spirit’s wars:
  My day new cares, my gins my daily sight,
  In which do light small birds of thoughts o’erthrown:
  My pastimes none: time passeth on my fall:
  Nature made all, but me of dolours made,
  I find no shade, but where my sun doth burn:
  No place to turn; without, within it fries:
  Nor help by life or death, who living dies.

  But if my Kala thus my suit denies,
   Which so much reason bears:
  Let crows pick out mine eyes, which too much saw.
   If she still hate love’s law,
  My earthly mould doth melt in wat’ry tears.

  My earthly mould doth melt in wat’ry tears,
   And they again resolve
  To air of sighs, sighs to the heart fire turn,
   Which doth to ashes burn.
  Thus doth my life within itself dissolve.

  Thus doth my life within itself dissolve
   That I grow like the beast,
  Which bears the bit a weaker force doth guide,
   Yet patient must abide.
  Such weight it hath, which once is full possess’d.

  Such weight it hath, which once is full possess’d,
   That I become a vision,
  Which hath in others held his only being,
   And lives in fancy’s seeing,
  O wretched state of man in self-division!

  O wretched state of man in self-division!
   O well thou say’st! a feeling declaration!
  Thy tongue hath made, of Cupid’s deep incision.
   But now hoarse voice, doth fail this occupation,
  And others long to tell their loves’ condition:
  Of singing thou hast got the reputation.

  Of singing thou hast got the reputation,
   Good Thyrsis mine, I yield to thy ability;
  My heart doth seek another estimation.
   But ah, my Muse, I would thou had’st facility
  To work my Goddess so by thy invention,
   On me to cast those eyes where shine nobility:
  Seen and unknown; heard, but without attention.

Dorus did so well in answering Thyrsis that everyone desired to hear
him sing something alone. Seeing therefore a lute lying under the
Princess Pamela’s feet, glad to have such an errand to {103} approach
her, he came, but came with a dismayed grace, all his blood stirred
betwixt fear and desire, and playing upon it with such sweetness, as
everybody wondered to see such skill in a shepherd, he sung unto it
with a sorrowing voice, these elegiac verses:

  Fortune, Nature, Love, long have contended about me,
  Which should most miseries cast on a worm that I am,
   Fortune thus gan say, “Misery and misfortune is all one,
  And of misfortune, Fortune hath only the gift
   With strong foes on land, on sea with contrary tempests,
  Still do I cross this wretch, what so he taketh in hand.”
   “Tush, tush,” said Nature, “this is all but a trifle, a man’s self
  Gives haps or mishaps, even as he ordereth his heart.
   But so his humour I frame, in a mould of choler adusted,
  That the delights of life shall be to him dolorous.”
   Love smiled, and thus said: “Want join’d to desire is unhappy:
  But if he nought do desire, what can Heraclitus ail?
   None but I work by desire: by desire have I kindled in his soul
  Infernal agonies into a beauty divine:
   Where thou poor nature left’st all thy due glory, to Fortune
  Her virtue’s sovereign, Fortune a vassal of hers.”
   Nature abash’d went back: Fortune blush’d: yet she replied thus:
  “And even in that love shall I reserve him a spite.”
   Thus, thus, alas! woeful by Nature, unhappy by Fortune,
  But most wretched I am, now Love awakes my desire.

Dorus when he had sung this, having had all the while a free beholding
of the fair Pamela (who could well have spared such honour; and
defended the assault he gave unto her face with bringing a fair stain
of shamefacedness unto it) let fall his arms, and remained so fastened
in his thoughts as if Pamela had grafted him there to grow in
continual imagination. But Zelmane espying it, and fearing he should
too much forget himself, she came to him, and took out of his hand the
lute, and laying fast hold of Philoclea’s face with her eyes, she sung
these sapphics, speaking as it were to her own hope:

 If mine eyes can speak to do hearty errand,
 Or mine eyes’ language she do hap to judge of,
 So that eyes’ message be of her received,
                Hope we do live yet.
 But if eyes fail then, when I most do need them,
 Or if eyes’ language be not unto her known,
 So that eyes’ message do return rejected,
                Hope we do both die.
 Yet dying, and dead, do we sing her honour;
 So becomes our tombs monuments of our praise;
 So becomes our loss the triumph of her gain;
                Hers be the glory.
 If the spheres senseless do yet hold a music,
 If the swan’s sweet voice be not heard, but as death,
 If the mute timber when it hath the life lost
                Yieldeth a lute’s tune.
 Are then human lives privileg’d so meanly,
 As that hateful death can abridge them of power
 With the vow of truth to record to all worlds
                That we be her spoils?
 Thus not ending, ends the due praise of her praise:
 Fleshly veil consumes; but a soul hath his life,
 Which is held in love; love it is, that hath join’d
                Life to this our soul.
 But if eyes can speak to hearty errand,
 Or mine eyes’ language she doth hap to judge of,
 So that eyes’ message be of her received
                Hope we do live yet.

Great was the pleasure of Basilius, and greater would have been
Gynecia’s but that she found too well it was intended to her daughter.
As for Philoclea, she was sweetly ravished withal. When Dorus,
desiring in a secret manner to speak of their cases, as perchance the
parties intended might take some light of it, making low reverence to
Zelmane, began this provoking song in Hexameter verse unto her.
Whereunto she soon finding whether his words were directed, in like
tune and verse, answered as followeth:


  Lady reserved by the heavens to do pastor’s company honour,
  Joining your sweet voice to the rural muse of a desert,
  Here you fully do find the strange operation of love,
  How to the woods love runs as well as rides to the palace,
  Neither he bears reverence to a prince, nor pity to a beggar,
  But, like a point in midst of a circle, is still of a nearness,
  All to a lesson he draws; neither hills nor caves can avoid him.

  Worthy shepherd by my song to myself all favour is happ’ned,
  That to the sacred Muse my annoys somewhat be revealed,
  Sacred Muse, who in one contains what nine do in all them.
  But O happy be you, which safe from fiery reflection
  Of Phoebus’ violence in shade of sweet Cyparissus,
  Or pleasant myrtle, may teach the unfortunate Echo
  In these woods to resound the renowned name of goddess.
  Happy be you that may to the saint, your only Idea,
  (Although simply attir’d) your manly affection utter.
  Happy be those mishaps which justly proportion holding,
  Give right sound to the ears, and enter aright to the judgment:
  But wretched be the souls, which veil’d in a contrary subject,
  How much more we do love, so the less our loves be believed.
  What skill salveth a sore of wrong infirmity judged?
  What can justice avail to a man that tells not his own case?
  You though fears do abash, in you still possible hopes be:
  Nature against we do seem to rebel, seem fools in a vain suit.
  But so unheard, condemn’d, kept thence we do seek to abide in,
  Self-lost in wand’ring, banished that place we do come from,
  What mean is there alas, we can hope our loss to recover?
  What place is there left, we may hope our woes to recomfort?
  Unto the heav’ns? our wings be too short: earth thinks us a burden,
  Air? we do still with sighs increase: to the fire? we do want none,
  And yet his outward heat our tears would quench, but an inward
  Fire no liquor can cool: Neptune’s realm would not avail us.
  Happy shepherd, with thanks to the Gods, still think to be thankful,
  That to thy advancement their wisdoms have thee abased.

  Unto the gods with a thankful heart all thanks I do render,
  That to my advancement their wisdoms have me abased.
  But yet, alas! O but yet alas! our haps be but hard haps,
  Which must frame contempt to the fittest purchase of honour.
  Well may a pastor plain, but alas his plaints be not esteem’d:
  Silly shepherd’s poor pipe, when his harsh sound testifies anguish,
  Into the fair looking on, pastime, not passion, enters.
  And to the woods or brooks, who do make such dreary recital?
  What be the pangs they bear, and whence those pangs be derived,
  Pleas’d to receive that name by rebounding answer of Echo,
  May hope thereby to ease their inward horrible anguish,
  When trees dance to the pipe, and swift streams stay by the music,
  Or when an Echo begins unmov’d to sing them a love-song;
  Say then, what vantage do we get by the trade of a pastor?
  (Since no estates be so base, but love vouchsafeth his arrow,
  Since no refuge doth serve from wounds we do carry about us,
  Since outward pleasures be but halted helps to decayed Souls)
  Save that daily we may discern what fire we do burn in.
  Far more happy be you, whose greatness gets a free access;
  Whose fair bodily gifts are fram’d most lovely to each eye,
  Virtue you have, of virtue you have left proof to the whole world.
  And virtue is grateful, with beauty and richness adorn’d.
  Neither doubt you a whit; time will your passion utter.
  Hardly remains fire hid where skill is bent to the hiding,
  But in a mind that would his flames should not be repressed,
  Nature worketh enough with a small help for the revealing:
  Give therefore to the Muse great praise, in whose very likeness
  You do approach to the fruit your only desires be to gather.

  First shall fertile grounds not yield increase of a good seed,
  First the rivers shall cease to repay their floods to the ocean:
  First may a trusty greyhound transform himself to a tiger.
  First shall virtue be vice, and beauty be counted a blemish,
  Ere that I leave with song of praise her praise to solemnize,
  Her praise, whence to the world all praise hath his only beginning:
  But yet well I do find each man most wise in his own case.
  None can speak of a wound with skill, if he have not a wound felt.
  Great to thee my state seems, thy state is bless’d by my judgment:
  And yet neither of us great or blest deemeth his own self.
  For yet (weigh this alas!) great is not great to the greater.
  What judge you doth a hillock show, by the lofty Olympus?
  Such my minute greatness, doth seem compar’d to the greatest.
  When cedars to the ground fall down by the weight of an emmot,
  Or when a rich ruby’s price be the worth of a walnut,
  Or to the sun for wonders seem small sparks of a candle:
  Then by my high cedar, rich ruby, and only shining sun,
  Virtue, riches, beauties of mine shall great be reputed.
  Oh, no, no, worthy shepherd, worth can never enter a title,
  Where proofs justly do teach, thus match’d, such worth to be nought
  Let not a puppet abuse thy sprite, kings’ crowns do not help them
  From the cruel headache, nor shoes of gold do the gout heal:
  And precious couches full oft are shak’d with a fever.
  If then a bodily ill in a bodily gloze be not hidden,
  Shall such morning dews be an ease to the heat of a love’s fire?

  O glittering miseries of man, if this be the fortune
  Of those fortunes’ lulls? so small rests, rest in a kingdom?
  What marvel tho’ a prince transform himself to a pastor?
  Come from marble bowers many times the gay harbour of anguish,
  Unto a silly caban, thought weak, yet stronger against woes.
  Now by the words I begin, most famous lady, to gather
  Comfort into my soul, I do find what a blessing
  Is chanced to my life, that from such muddy abundance
  Of carking agonies, to states which still be adherent,
  Destiny keeps me aloof, for if all this state to thy virtue
  Join’d by thy beauty adorn’d be no means those griefs to abolish:
  If neither by that help, thou canst climb up thy fancy,
  Nor yet fancy so dress’d do receive more plausible hearing:
  Then do I think indeed, that better it is to be private
  In sorrow’s torments, than, tied to the pomps of a palace,
  Nurse inward maladies, which have not scope to be breath’d out:
  But perforce digest all bitter joys of horror
  In silence, from a man’s own self with company robbed.
  Better yet do I live, that though by my thoughts I be plunged
  Into my life’s bondage, yet may I disburden a passion
  (Oppress’d with ruinous conceits) by the help of an out-cry:
  Not limited to a whispering note, the lament of a courtier.
  But sometimes to the woods, sometimes to the heav’n do decipher
  With bold clamour unheard, unmark’d, what I seek, what I suffer:
  And when I meet those trees, in the earth’s fair livery clothed,
  Ease I do feel, such ease as falls to one wholly diseased,
  For that I find in them part of my state represented.
  Laurel shows what I seek, by the myrrh is shown how I seek it,
  Olive paints me the peace that I must aspire to by conquest:
  Myrtle makes my request; my request is crown’d with a willow.
  Cypress promiseth help, but a help where comes no recomfort:
  Sweet juniper saith this, “Though I burn, yet I burn in a sweet fire.”
  Yew doth make me think what kind of bow the boy holdeth,
  Which shoots strongly without any noise, and deadly without smart,
  Fir-trees great and green, fix’d on a high hill but a barren,
  Like to my noble thoughts, still new, well plac’d to me fruitless.
  Fig that yields most pleasant fruits, his shadow is hurtful:
  Thus be her gifts most sweet, thus more danger to be near her.
  Now in a palm when I mark, how he doth rise under a burden,
  And may I not, say then, get up though grief be so weighty?
  Pine is a mast to a ship, to my ship shall hope for a mast serve.
  Pine is high, hope is as high, sharp leav’d, sharp, yet be my hopes
  Elm embrac’d by a vine, embracing fancy reviveth:
  Poplar changeth his hue from a rising sun to a setting:
  Thus to my sun do I yield, such looks her beams do afford me.
  Old aged oak cut down, of new work serves to the building:
  So my desires by my fear cut down, be the frames of her honour.
  As he makes spears which shields do resist, her force no repulse
  Palms do rejoice to be join’d by the match of a male to a female,
  And shall sensitive things be so senseless as to resist sense?
  Thus be my thoughts dispers’d, thus thinking nurseth a thinking.
  Thus both trees and each thing else, be the books of a fancy.
  But to the cedar, queen of woods, when I left my betear’d eyes,
  Then do I shape to myself that form which reigns so within me,
  And think there she doth dwell and hear what plaints I do utter:
  When that noble top doth nod, I believe she salutes me,
  When by the wind it maketh a noise, I do think she doth answer.
  Then kneeling to the ground, oft thus do I speak to that image:
  Only jewel, O only jewel, which only deservest,
  That men’s hearts be thy seat, and endless fame be thy servant,
  O descend for a while, from this great height to behold me,
  But nought else to behold, else is nought worth the beholding,
  Save what a work by thyself is wrought: and since I am alter’d
  Thus by thy work, disdain not that which is by thyself done,
  In mean caves oft treasure abides, to an hostry a king comes.
  And so behind foul clouds full oft fair stars do lie hidden.

  Hardy shepherd, such as thy merits, such may be her insight
  Justly to grant thee reward, such envy I hear to thy fortune.
  But to myself what wish can I make for a salve to my sorrows,
  Whom both nature seems to debar from means to be helped,
  And if a mean were found, fortune th’ whole course of it hinders?
  Thus plagu’d how can I frame to my sore any hope of amendment?
  Whence may I show to my mind any light of possible escape?
  Bound, and bound by so noble bands, as loth to be unbound,
  Jailer I am to myself, prison and pris’ner to mine own self.
  Yet by my hopes thus plac’d, here fix’d lives all my comfort,
  That that dear diamond, where wisdom holdeth a sure seat,
  Whose force had such force so to transform, nay to reform me,
  Will at length perceive those flames by her beams to be kindled,
  And will pity the wound festered so strangely within me.
  O be it so, grant such an event, O gods, that event give,
  And for a sure sacrifice I do daily oblation offer
  Of mine own heart, where thoughts be the temple, sight is an altar.
  But cease worthy shepherd, now cease we to weary the hearers
  With mournful melodies; for enough our griefs be revealed,
  If the parties meant our meanings rightly be marked,
  And sorrows do require some respite unto the senses.

What exclaiming praises Basilius gave to this Eclogue any man may
guess that knows love is better than a pair of spectacles to make
everything seem greater which is seen through it: and then is never
tongue-tied where fit commendation, whereof womankind is so liquorish,
is offered unto it. But before any other came in to supply the place,
Zelmane having heard some of the shepherds by chance name Strephon and
Claius, supposing thereby they had been present, was desirous both to
hear them for the fame of their friendly love, and to know them for
their kindness towards her best loved friend. Much grieved was
Basilius, that any desire of his mistress should be unsatisfied, and
therefore to represent them unto her, as well as in their absence it
might be, he commanded one Lamon, who had at large set down their
country pastimes and first love to Urania, to sing the whole discourse
which he did in this manner.


 A shepherd’s tale no height of style desires,
  To raise in words what in effect is low:
 A plaining song plain singing voice requires,
  For warbling notes from cheering spirit flow.
 I then whose burd’ned breast but thus aspires
  Of shepherds two the silly cause to show.
   Need not the stately Muse’s help invoke,
   For creeping rhymes, which often sighings choke.
 But you, O you, that think not tears too dear,
  To spend for harms, although they touch you not:
 And deign to deem your neighbours’ mischief near,
  Although they be of meaner parents got:
 You I invite with easy ear’s to hear
  The poor-clad truth of love’s wrong-order’d lot.
   Who may be glad, be glad you be not such:
   Who share in woe, weigh others have as much.
 There was (O seldom blessed word of was!)
  A pair of friends, or rather one call’d two,
 Train’d in the life which no short-bitten grass
  In shine or storm must set the clouted shoe:
 He, that the other in some years did pass,
  And in those gifts that years distribute do,
   Was Claius call’d (ah Claius, woeful weight!)
   The latter born, yet too soon Strephon height.
 Epirus high was honest Claius’s nest,
  To Strephon Aeoles’s land first breathing lent:
 But east and west were join’d by friendship’s hest.
  As Strephon’s ear and heart to Claius bent,
 So Claius’s soul did in his Strephon rest.
  Still both their flocks flocking together went,
   As if they would of owners’ humour be,
   As eke their pipes did well, as friends agree.
 Claius for skill of herbs and shepherd’s art,
  Among the wisest was accounted wise,
 Yet not so wise, as of unstained heart:
  Strephon was young, yet marked with humble eyes
 How elder rul’d their flocks and cur’d their smart,
  So that the grave did not his words despise.
   Both free of mind, both did clear dealing love,
   And both had skill in verse their voice to move.
 Their cheerful minds, ’till poison’d was their cheer,
  The honest sports of earthly lodging prove;
 Now for a clod-like hare in form they peer,
  Now bolt and cudgel squirrels’ leap do move:
 Now the ambitious lark with mirror clear
  They catch, while he (fool!) to himself makes love:
   And now at keels they try a harmless chance,
   And now their cur they teach to fetch and dance.
 When merry May first early calls the morn,
  With merry maids a maying they do go:
 Then do they pull from sharp and niggard thorn
  The plenteous sweets (can sweets so sharply grow?)
 Then some green gowns are by the lasses worn
  In chastest plays, ’till home they walk arow,
   Whilst dance about the may-pole is begun,
   When, if need were, they could at Quintain[b1-05] run:
 While thus they ran a low, but levell’d race,
  While thus they liv’d, this was indeed a life,
 With nature pleas’d, content with present case,
  Free of proud fears, brave begg’ry, smiling strife,
 Of climb-fall court, the envy hatching place:
  While those restless desires in great men rise,
   To visit so low of folks did much disdain,
   This while, though poor, they in themselves did reign.
 One day (O day, that shin’d to make them dark!)
  While they did ward sun-beams with shady bay,
 And Claius taking for his youngling cark,
  (Lest greedy eyes to them might challenge lay)
 Busy with ochre did their shoulders mark,
  (His mark a pillar was devoid of stay,
   As bragging that free of all passions’ moan,
   Well might he others bear, but lean to none:)
 Strephon with leafy twigs of laurel tree,
  A garland made on temples for to wear,
 For he then chosen was, the dignity
  Of village lord, that Whitsuntide to bear:
 And full, poor fool, of boyish bravery,
  With triumph’s shows would show he nought did fear.
   But fore-accounting oft makes builders miss:
   They found, they felt, they had no lease of bliss.
 For ere that either had his purpose done,
  Behold, beholding well it doth deserve,
 They saw a maid who thitherward did run,
  To catch her Sparrow which from her did swerve,
 As she a black-silk cap on him begun
  To set for foil of his milk-white to serve,
   She chirping ran, he peeping flew away,
   ’Till hard by them both he and she did stay.
 Well for to see, they kept themselves unseen,
  And saw this fairest maid of fairer mind:
 By fortune mean; in nature born a queen,
  How well apaid she was her bird to find:
 How tenderly her tender hands between
  In ivory cage she did the micher bind:
   How rosy moist’ned lips about his beak
   Moving, she seem’d at once to kiss, and speak.
 Chast’ned but thus, and thus his lesson taught,
  The happy wretch she put into her breast,
 Which to their eyes the bowels of Venus brought,
  For they seem’d made even of sky metal best,
 And that the bias of her blood was wrought.
  Betwixt them two the peeper took his nest,
   Where snugging well he well appear’d content,
   So to have done amiss, so to be shent.
 This done, but done with captive-killing grace,
  Each motion seeming shot from beauty’s bow,
 With length laid down, she deck’d the lovely place.
  Proud grew the grass that under her did grow,
 The trees spread out their arms to shade her face,
  But she on elbow lean’d, with sighs did show
   No grass, no trees, nor yet her sparrow might
   The long-perplexed mind breed long delight.
 She troubled was (alas that it might be!)
  With tedious brawlings of her parents dear,
 Who would have her in will and word agree
  To wed Antaxius their neighbour near.
 A herdman rich, of much account was he,
  In whom no evil did reign, nor good appear.
   In some such one she lik’d not his desire,
   Fain would be free, but dreadeth parents’ ire.
 Kindly (sweet soul!) she did unkindness take
  That bagged baggage of a miser’s mud,
 Should price of her, as in a market, make;
  But gold can gild a rotten piece of wood;
 To yield she found her noble heart to ache,
  To strive she fear’d how it with virtue stood,
   Thus doubtings clouds o’ercasting heav’nly brain,
   At length in rows of kiss-cheeks tears they rain.
 Cupid the wag, that lately conquer’d had
  Wise counsellors, stout captains, puissant kings,
 And tied them fast to lead his triumph had,
  Glutted with them, now plays with meanest things:
 So oft in feasts with costly changes clad
  To crammed maws a sprat new stomach brings.
   So lords with sport of stag and heron full,
   Sometimes we see small birds from nests do pull.
 So now for prey those shepherds two he took,
  Whose metal stiff he knew he could not bend
 With hear-say pictures, or a window-look;
  With one good dance, or letter finely penn’d
 That were in court a well proportion’d hook,
  Where piercing wits do quickly apprehend,
   Their senses rude plain objects only move,
   And so must see great cause before they love.
 Therefore love arm’d in her now takes the field,
  Making her beams his bravery and might:
 Her hands which pierc’d the soul’s sev’n double shield,
  Were now his darts leaving his wonted fight.
 Brave crest to him her scorn gold hair did yield,
  His complete harness was her purest white.
   But fearing lest all white might seem too good,
   In cheeks and lips the tyrant threatens blood.
 Besides this force, within her eyes he kept
  A fire, to burn the prisoners he gains,
 Whose boiling heart increased as she wept:
  For ev’n in forge, cold water fire maintains.
 Thus proud and fierce unto the hearts he stepp’d
  Of them poor souls: and cutting reason’s reins,
   Made them his own before they had it wist.
   But if they had, could sheep-hooks thus resist?
 Claius straight felt, and groaned at the blow,
  And call’d, now wounded, purpose to his aid:
 Strephon, fond boy, delighted did not know
  That it was love that shin’d in shining maid:
 But lick’rous, poison’d, fain to her would go,
  If him new learned manners had not stay’d.
   For then Urania homeward did arise,
   Leaving in pain their well-fed hungry eyes.
 She went, they stay’d, or rightly for to say,
  She stay’d with them, they went in thought with her:
 Claius indeed would fain have pull’d away
  This mote from out his eye, this inward bur,
 And now proud rebel ’gan for to gainsay
  The lesson which but late he learn’d too far:
   Meaning with absence to refresh the thought
   To which her presence such a fever brought.
 Strephon did leap with joy and jollity,
  Thinking it just more therein to delight,
 Than in good dog, fair field, or shading tree.
  So have I seen trim-books in velvet dight,
 With golden leaves, and painted babery
  Of silly boys, please unacquainted sight:
   But when the rod began to play his part,
   Fain would, but could not, fly from golden smart.
 He quickly learn’d Urania was her name,
  And straight, for failing, grav’d it in his heart:
 He knew her haunt, and haunted in the same,
  And taught his sheep her sheep in food to thwart,
 Which soon as it did hateful question frame,
  He might on knees confess his faulty part,
   And yield himself unto her punishment,
   While nought but game, the self-hurt wanton meant.
 Nay, even unto her home he oft would go,
  Where bold and hurtless many play he tries,
 Her parents liking well it should be so,
  For simple goodness shined in his eyes.
 There did he make her laugh in spite of woe,
  So as good thoughts of him in all arise,
   While into none doubt of his love did sink,
   For not himself to be in love did think.
 But glad desire, his late embosom’d guest
  Yet but a babe, with milk of sight he nurst
 Desire the more he suck’d, more sought the breast,
  Like dropsy-folk still drink to be a thirst,
 ’Till one fair ev’n an hour ere sun did rest,
  Who then in lion’s cave did enter first,
   By neighbours pray’d she went abroad thereby,
   At Barley-break[b1-06] her sweet swift foot to try.
 Never the earth on his round shoulders bare
  A maid train’d up from high or low degree,
 That in her doings better could compare
  Mirth with respect, from words with courtesy,
 A careless comliness with comely care.
  Self-guard with mildness, sport with majesty:
   Which made her yield to deck this shepherd’s band,
   And still, believe me, Strephon was at hand.
 Afield they go, where many lookers be,
  And thou seek-sorrow Claius them among:
 Indeed thou said’st it was thy friend to see
  Strephon, whose absence seem’d unto thee long,
 While most with her he less did keep with thee.
  No, no, it was in spite of wisdom’s song
   Which absence wish’d: love play’d a victor’s part:
   The heav’n-love load-stone drew thy iron heart.
 Then couples there, be straight allotted there,
  They of both ends the middle two do fly,
 They two that in mid-place, hell called were,
  Must strive with waiting foot, and watching eye
 To catch of them, and them to hell to bear,
  That they, as well as they, hell may supply:
   Like some which seek to salve their blotted name
   With others’ blot, ’till all do taste of shame.
 There may you see, soon as the middle two
  Do coupled towards either couple make,
 They false and fearful do their hands undo,
  Brother his brother, friend doth friend forsake,
 Heeding himself, cares not how fellow do,
  But of a stranger mutual help doth take:
   As perjur’d cowards in adversity
   With sight of fear, from friends, to friend, do fly.
 These sports shepherds devis’d such faults to show.
  Geron, though old, yet gamesome, kept one end
 With Cosma, for whose love Pas passed in woe.
  Fair Nous with Pas the lot to hell did send:
 Pas thought it hell, while he was Cosma fro.
  At other end Uran did Strephon lend
   Her happy making hand, of whom one look
   From Nous and Cosma all their beauty took.
 The play began: Pas durst not Cosma chase,
  But did intend next bout with her to meet,
 So he with Nous to Geron turn’d their race,
  With whom to join, fast ran Urania sweet:
 But light legg’d Pas had got the middle space.
  Geron strove hard, but aged were his feet,
   And therefore finding force now faint to be,
   He thought gray hairs afforded subtlety.
 And so when Pas’s hand reached him to take,
  The fox on knees and elbows tumbled down;
 Pas could not stay, but over him did rake,
  And crown’d the earth with his first touching crown:
 His heels grown proud did seem at heav’n to shake,
  But Nous that slipp’d from Pas, did catch the clown.
   So laughing all, yet Pas to ease some dell
   Geron with Uran were condemn’d to hell.
 Cosma this while to Strephon safely came,
  And all to second Barley-break are bent:
 The two in hell did toward Cosma frame;
  Who should to Pas, but they would her prevent.
 Pas mad with fall, and madder with the shame,
  Most mad with beams which we thought Cosma sent,
   With such mad haste he did to Cosma go,
   That to her breast he gave a noisome blow.
 She quick, and proud, and who did Pas despise,
  Up with her fist, and took him on the face,
 “Another time,” quoth she, “become more wise.”
  Thus Pas did kiss her hand with little grace,
 And each way luckless, yet in humble guise
  Did hold her fast for fear of more disgrace,
   While Strephon might with pretty Nous have met,
   But all this while another course be set.
 For as Urania after Cosma ran;
  He ravished with sight how gracefully
 She mov’d her limbs, and drew the aged man,
  Left Nous to coast the loved beauty nigh:
 Nous cry’d and chaf’d, but he no other can.
  ’Till Uran seeing Pas to Cosma fly,
   And Strephon single, turn’d after him:
   Strephon so chas’d did seem in milk to swim.
 He ran, but ran with eye o’er shoulder cast,
  More marking her, than how himself did go,
 Like Numid lions by the hunters chas’d,
  Though they do fly, yet backwardly do glow
 With proud aspect, disdaining greatest haste:
  What rage in them, that love in him did show.
   But God gives them instinct the man to shun,
   And he by law of Barley-break must run.
 But as his heat with running did augment,
  Much more his sight increas’d his hot desire:
 So is in her the best of nature spent,
  The air her sweet race mov’d doth blow the fire,
 Her feet be pursuivants from Cupid sent,
  With whose fine steps all loves and joys conspire.
   The hidden beauties, seem’d in wait to lie,
   To down proud hearts that would not willing die.
 That, fast he fled from her he follow’d sore,
  Still shunning Nous to lengthen pleasing race,
 ’Till that he spied old Geron could no more,
  Than did he stack his love-instructed pace.
 So that Uran, whose arm old Geron bore,
  Laid hold on him with most lay-holding grace.
   So caught, him seem’d he caught of joys the bell,
   And thought it heav’n so to be drawn to hell:
 To hell he goes, and Nous with him must dwell,
  Nous sware it was no right; for his default
 Who would be caught, that she should go to hell:
  But so she must. And now the third assault
 Of Barley-break among the six befell,
  Pas Colma match’d, yet angry with his fault,
   The other end Geron with guard:
   I think you think Strephon bent thitherward.
 Nous counsell’d Strephon Geron to pursue,
  For he was old, and easy would be caught:
 But he drew her as love his fancy drew,
  And so to take the gem Urania sought,
 While Geron old came safe to Cosma true,
  Though him to meet at all she stirred nought.
   For Pas, whether it were for fear or love,
   Mov’d not himself, nor suffer’d her to move.
 So they three did together idly stay,
  While dear Uran, whose course was Pas to meet,
 (He staying thus) was fain abroad to stray
  With larger round, to shun the following feet.
 Strephon, whose eyes on her back parts did play,
  With love drawn on so fast with pace unmeet,
   Drew dainty Nous, that she not able so
   To run, brake forth his hands, and let him go,
 He single thus hop’d soon with her to be,
  Who nothing earthly, but of fire and air,
 Though with soft legs did run as fast as he.
  He thrice reach’d, thrice deceiv’d, when her to bear
 He hopes, with dainty turns she doth him flee.
  So on the Downs we see, near Wilton fair,
   A hasten’d hare from greedy greyhound go,
   And past all hope his chaps to frustrate so.
 But this strange race more strange conceits did yield;
  Who victor seem’d, was to his ruin brought:
 Who seem’d o’erthrown was mistress of the field:
  She fled, and took; he followed and was caught.
 She have I heard to pierce pursuing shield,
  By parents train’d the Tartars wild are taught,
   With shafts shot out from their back-turned bow.
   But ah! her darts did far more deeply go.
 As Venus’s bird, the white, swift, lovely Dove,
  (O happy Doves that are compar’d to her!)
 Doth on her wings her utmost swiftness prove,
  Finding the gripe of Falcon fierce not furr:
 So did Uran: the nar, the swifter move,
  (Yet beauty still as fast as she did stir)
   ’Till with long race dear she was breathless brought,
   And then the Phoenix feared to be caught.
 Among the rest that there did take delight
  To see the sports of double shining day:
 And did the tribute of their wond’ring sight
  To nature’s heir, the fair Urania pay,
 I told you Claius was the hapless wight,
  Who earnest found what they accounted play.
   He did not there do homage of his eyes,
   But on his eyes his heart did sacrifice.
 With gazing looks, short sighs, unsettled feet,
  He stood, but turn’d, as Gyrosol, to sun:
 His fancies still did her in half-way meet,
  His soul did fly as she was seen to run.
 In sum, proud Boreas never ruled fleet
  (Who Neptune’s web on danger’s distaff spun)
   With greater power, than she did make them wend
   Each way, as she that ages praise, did bend.
 ’Till ’spying well, she well nigh weary was,
  And surely taught by his love-open eye,
 His eye, that ev’n did mark her trodden grass,
  That she would fain the catch of Strephon fly,
 Giving his reason passport for to pass
  Whither it would, so it would let him die;
   He that before shunn’d her, to shun such harms:
   Now runs, and takes her in his clipping arms.
 For with pretence from Strephon her to guard,
  He met her full, but full of warefulness,
 Within bow’d-bosom well for her prepar’d,
  When Strephon cursing his own backwardness,
 Came to her back, and so with double ward
  Imprison’d her who both them did possess
   As heart-bound slaves: and happy then embrace
   Virtue’s proof, fortune’s victor, beauty’s place.
 Her race did not her beauty’s beams augment,
  For, they were ever in the best degree,
 But yet a setting forth it someway lent,
  As rubies lustre when they rubbed be.
 The dainty dew on face and body went
  As on sweet flowers, when morning’s drops we see.
   Her breath then short, seem’d loth from home to pass,
   Which more it mov’d, the more it sweeter was.
 Happy, O happy! if they so might bide
  To see their eyes, with how true humbleness,
 They looked down to triumph over pride:
  With how sweet sauce she blam’d their sauciness,
 To feel the panting heart, which through her side,
  Did beat their hands, which durst so near to press,
   To see, to feel, to hear, to taste, to know
   More, than besides her, all the earth could show.
 But never did Medea’s golden weed
  On Creon’s child his poison sooner throw,
 Than those delights through all their sinews breed,
  A creeping serpent like of mortal woe,
 ’Till she broke from their arms (although indeed
  Going from them, from them she could not go)
   And fare-welling the flock, did homeward wend,
   And so that even the Barley-break did end.
 It ended, but the other woe began,
  Began at least to be conceiv’d as woe,
 For then wise Claius found no absence can
  Help him who can no more her sight forego.
 He found man’s virtue is but part of man,
  And part must follow where whole man doth go.
   He found that reason’s self now reasons found
   To fasten knots, which fancy first had bound.
 So doth he yield, so takes he on his yoke,
  Not knowing who did draw with him therein;
 Strephon, poor youth, because he saw no smoke,
  Did not conceive what fire he had within:
 But after this to greater rage it broke,
  ’Till of his life it did full conquest win,
   First killing mirth, then banishing all rest,
   Filling his eyes with tears, with sighs his breast,
 Then sports grow pains, all talking tedious:
  On thoughts he feeds, his looks their figure change,
 The day seems long, but night is odious,
  No sleeps, but dreams; no dreams, but visions strange,
 ’Till finding still his evil increasing thus,
  One day he with his flock abroad did range:
   And coming where he hop’d to be alone,
   Thus on a hillock set, he made his moan:
 “Alas! what weights are these that load my heart!
  I am as dull as winter-starved sheep,
 Tir’d as a jade in over-laden cart,
  Yet thoughts do fly, though I can scarcely creep.
 All visions seem, at every bush I start:
  Drowsy am I, and yet can rarely sleep.
   Sure I bewitched am, it is even that,
   Late near a cross, I met an ugly cat.
 For, but by charms, how fall these things on me,
  That from those eyes, where heav’nly apples been,
 Those eyes, which nothing like themselves can see,
  Of fair Urania, fairer than a green,
 Proudly bedeck’d in April’s livery,
  A shot unheard gave me a wound unseen;
   He was invincible that hurt me so,
   And none invisible, but spirits can go.
 When I see her, my sinews shake for fear,
  And yet, dear soul, I know she hurteth none:
 Amid my flock with woe my voice I tear,
  And, but bewitch’d, who to his flock would moan?
 Her cherry lips, milk hands, and golden hair
  I still do see, though I be still alone.
   Now make me think that there is not a fiend,
   Who hid in angel’s shape my life would end.
 The sports wherein I wonted to do well,
  Come she, and sweet the air with open breast,
 Then so I fail, when most I would do well,
  That at my so amaz’d my fellows jest:
 Sometimes to her news of myself to tell
  I go about, but then is all my best
   Wry words, and stammering, or else doltish dumb;
   Say then, can this but of enchantment come?
 Nay each thing is bewitched to know my case:
  The Nightingales for woe their songs refrain:
 In river as I look’d my pining face,
  As pin’d a face as mine I saw again,
 The courteous mountains griev’d at my disgrace
  Their snowy hair tear off in melting pain.
   And now the dropping trees do weep for me,
   And now fair evenings blush my shame to see.
 But you my pipe whilom my chief delight,
  ’Till strange delight, delight to nothing wear,
 And you my flock, care of my careful sight,
  While I was I, and so had cause to care:
 And thou my dog, whose truth and valiant might
  Made wolves, not inward wolves, my ewes to spare.
   Go you not from your master in his woe,
   Let it suffice that he himself forego.
 For though like wax this magic makes me waste,
  Or like a lamb, whose Dam away is set,
 (Stolen from her young by Thieves’ unchosing haste)
  He treble baa’s for help, but none can get,
 Though thus, and worse, though now I am at last,
  Of all the games that here ere now I met,
   Do you remember still you once were mine,
   ’Till mine eyes had their curse from blessed eye.
 Be you with me while I unheard do cry,
  While I do score my losses on the wind,
 While I in heart my will write ere I die.
  In which, by will, my will and wits I bind,
 Still to be hers, about her aye to fly.
  As this same sprite about my fancies blind
   Doth daily haunt, but so, that mine become
   As much more loving, as less cumbersome.
 Alas! a cloud hath overcast mine eyes:
  And yet I see her shine amid the cloud.
 Alas! of ghosts I hear the ghastly cries:
  Yet there, meseems, I hear her singing loud.
 This song she sings in most commanding wise:
  ‘Come shepherd’s boy, let now thy heart be bow’d
   To make itself to my least look a slave:
   Leave sleep, leave all, I will no piecing have.’
 I will, I will, alas, alas, I will:
  Wilt thou have more? more have, if more I be.
 Away ragg’d rams, care I what murrain kill?
  Our shrieking pipe, made of some witched tree:
 Go bawling cur, thy hungry maw go fill
  On your foul flock, belonging not to me.”
   With that his dog he henc’d, his flock he curs’d,
   With that, yet kissed first, his pipe he burst.
 This said, this done, he rose, even tir’d with rest,
  With heart as careful, as with careless grace,
 With shrinking legs, but with a swelling breast,
  With eyes which threat’ned they would drown his face.
 Fearing the worst, not knowing what were best,
  And giving to his sight a wand’ring race,
   He saw behind a bush where Claius sat:
   His well-known friend, but yet his unknown mate.
 Claius the wretch, who lately yielden was
  To bear the bonds which time nor wit could break,
 (With blushing soul at sight of judgment’s glass,
  While guilty thoughts accus’d his reason weak)
 This morn alone to lovely walk did pass,
  Within himself of her dear self to speak,
   ’Till Strephon’s plaining voice him nearer drew,
   Where by his words his self-like case he knew.
 For hearing him so oft with words of woe
  Urania name, whose force he knew so well,
 He quickly knew what witchcraft gave the blow,
  Which made his Strephon think himself in hell.
 Which when he did in perfect image show
  To his own wit, thought upon thought, did swell,
   Breeding huge storms within his inward part,
   Which thus breath’d out, with earth-quake of his heart.

As Lamon would have proceeded, Basilius knowing, by the wasting of the
torches that the night also was far wasted, and withal remembering
Zelmane’s hurt, asked her whether she thought it not better to reserve
the complaint of Claius till another day. Which she, perceiving the
song had already worn out much time, and not knowing when Lamon would
end, being even now stepping over to a new matter, though much
delighted with what was spoken, willingly agreed unto. And so of all
sides they went to recommend themselves to the elder brother of death.

 [End of Book I]



In these pastoral times a great number of days were sent to follow
their flying predecessors, while the cup of poison (which was deeply
tasted of the noble company) had left no sinew of theirs without
mortally searching into it; yet never manifesting his venomous work,
till once, that the night (parting away angry that she could distil no
more sleep into the eyes of lovers) had no sooner given place to the
breaking out of the morning light, and the sun bestowed his beams upon
the tops of the mountains, but that the woeful Gynecia, to whom rest
was no ease, had left her loathed lodging, and gotten herself into the
solitary places, those deserts were full of going up and down with
such unquiet motions, as a grieved and hopeless mind is wont to bring
forth. There appeared unto the eyes of her judgment the evils she was
like to run into, with ugly infamy waiting upon them: she felt the
terrors of her own conscience; she was guilty of a long exercised
virtue, which made his vice the fuller of deformity. The uttermost of
the good she could aspire unto was a mortal wound to her vexed
spirits: and lastly, no small part of her evils was that she was wise
to see her evils. Insomuch, that having a great while thrown her
countenance ghastly about her (as if she had called all the powers of
the world to be witnesses of her wretched estate) at length casting up
her watery eyes to heaven: “O sun,” said she, “whose unspotted light
directs the steps of mortal mankind, art thou not ashamed to impart
the clearness of thy presence to such a dust-creeping worm as I am? O
ye heavens, which continually keep the course allotted unto you, can
none of your influences prevail so much upon the miserable Gynecia, as
to make her preserve a course so long embraced by her? O deserts,
deserts, how fit a guest am I for you, since my heart can people you
with wild ravenous beasts, which in you are {122} wanting? O virtue,
where dost thou hide thyself? what hideous thing is this which doth
eclipse thee? Or is it true that thou wert never but a vain name, and
no essential thing, which hast thus left thy professed servant, when
she had most need of thy lovely presence? O imperfect proportion of
reason which can too much foresee and too little prevent?” “Alas!
alas!” said she, “if there were but one hope for all my pains, or but
one excuse for all my faultiness! But wretch that I am, my torment is
beyond all succour, and my evil deserving doth exceed my evil fortune.
For nothing else did my husband take this strange resolution to live
so solitary: for nothing else have the winds delivered this strange
guest to my country: for nothing else have the destinies reserved my
life to this time, but that only I, most wretched I, should become a
plague to myself and a shame to womankind. Yet if my desire, how
unjust soever it be, might take effect, though a thousand deaths
followed it, and every death were followed with a thousand shames, yet
should not my sepulchre receive me without some contentment. But alas!
though sure I am that Zelmane is such as can answer my love, yet as
sure I am that this disguising must needs come for some foretaken
conceit: and then wretched Gynecia where canst thou find any small
ground-plot for hope to dwell upon? no, no, it is Philoclea his heart
is set upon; it is my daughter I have borne to supplant me. But if it
be so, the life I have given thee, ungrateful Philoclea, I will sooner
with these hands bereave thee of than my birth shall glory she hath
bereaved me of my desires: in shame there is no comfort, but to be
beyond all bounds of shame.”

Having spoken thus, she began to make a piteous war in her fair hair;
when she might hear, not far from her, an extremely doleful voice, but
so suppressed with a kind of whispering note that she could not
conceive the words distinctly. But, as a lamentable tune is the
sweetest music to a woeful mind, she drew thither near-way in hope to
find some companion of her misery; and as she paced on, she was
stopped with a number of trees, so thickly placed together that she
was afraid she should, with rushing through, stop the speech of the
lamentable party which she was so desirous to understand: and
therefore sitting her down as softly as she could, for she was now in
distance to hear, she might first perceive a lute excellently well
played upon, and then the same doleful voice accompanying it with
these verses:

 In vain mine eyes you labour to amend
  With flowing tears your fault of hasty sight:
 Since to my heart her shape you did so send,
  That her I see, though you did lose your light.
 In vain my heart, now you with sight are burn’d,
  With sighs you seek to cool your hot desire:
 Since sighs, into mine inward furnace turn’d,
  For bellows serve to kindle more the fire.
 Reason in vain, now you have lost my heart,
  My head you seek, as to your strongest fort:
 Since there mine eyes have play’d so false a part,
  That to your strength your foes have sure resort.
   Then since in vain I find were all my strife,
   To this strange death I vainly yield my life.

The ending of the song served but for a beginning of new plaints, as
if the mind, oppressed with too heavy a burden of cares, was fain to
discharge itself of all sides, and, as it were, paint out the
hideousness of the pain in all sorts of colours. For the woeful
person, as if the lute had evil joined with the voice, threw it to the
ground with such like words: “Alas, poor lute! how much art thou
deceived to think that in my miseries thou could’st ease my woes, as
in my careless times thou wast wont to please my fancies? The time is
changed, my lute, the time is changed; and no more did my joyful mind
then receive everything to a joyful consideration, than my careful
mind now makes each thing taste the bitter juice of care. The evil is
inward, my lute, the evil is inward; which all thou dost, doth serve
but to make me think more freely of. And alas! what is then thy
harmony, but the sweet meats of sorrow? the discord of my thoughts, my
lute, doth ill agree to the concord of thy strings, therefore be not
ashamed to leave thy master, since he is not afraid to forsake

And thus much spoke, instead of a conclusion, was closed up with so
hearty a groaning that Gynecia could not refrain to show herself,
thinking such griefs could serve fitly for nothing but her own
fortune. But as she came into the little arbour of this sorrowful
music, her eyes met with the eyes of Zelmane, which was the party that
thus had indited herself of misery, so that either of them remained
confused with a sudden astonishment, Zelmane fearing lest she had
heard some part of those complaints, which she had risen up that
morning early of purpose to breathe out in secret to herself. But
Gynecia a great while stood still with a kind of dull amazement,
looking steadfastly upon her; at length returning to some use of
herself, she began to ask Zelmane what cause carried her so early
abroad? But, as if the opening of her mouth to Zelmane had opened some
great flood-gate of sorrow, whereof her heart could not abide the
violent issue, she sunk to the ground, with her hands over her face,
crying vehemently, “Zelmane help me, O Zelmane have pity on me.”
Zelmane ran to her, marvelling {124} what sudden sickness had thus
possessed her, and beginning to ask her the cause of her pain, and
offering her service to be employed by her; Gynecia opening her eyes
wildly upon her, pricked with the flames of love and the torments of
her own conscience; “O Zelmane, Zelmane,” said she, “dost thou offer
my physic, which art my only poison? or wilt thou do me service, which
hast already brought me into eternal slavery?” Zelmane then knowing
well at what mark she shot, yet loth to enter into it: “Most excellent
lady,” said she, “you were best retire yourself into your lodging that
you the better may pass this sudden fit.” “Retire myself?” said
Gynecia, “If I had retired myself into myself, when thou to me,
unfortunate guest, camest to draw me from myself, blessed had I been,
and no need had I had of this counsel. But now alas! I am forced to
fly to thee for succour, whom I accuse of all my hurt, and make thee
judge of my cause, who art the only author of my mischief.” Zelmane
the more astonished, the more she understood her; “Madam,” said she,
“whereof do you accuse me that I will not clear myself? or wherein may
I stead you that you may not command me?” “Alas!” answered Gynecia,
“what shall I say more? take pity on me, O Zelmane, but not as
Zelmane, and disguise not with me in words, as I know thou dost in
apparel.” Zelmane was much troubled with that word, finding herself
brought to this strait. But as she was thinking what to answer her,
they might see old Basilius pass hard by them without ever seeing
them, complaining likewise of love very freshly, and ending his
complaint with this song, love having renewed both his invention and

 Let not old age disgrace my high desire;
  O heavenly soul in human shape contain’d:
 Old wood inflam’d doth yield the bravest fire,
  When younger doth in smoke his virtue spend,
 Nay let white hairs which on my face do grow
  Seem to your eyes of a disgraceful hue,
 Since whiteness doth present the sweetest show,
  Which makes all eyes do homage unto you.
 Old age is wise, and full of constant truth;
  Old age well stayed, from ranging humour lives:
 Old age hath known whatever was in youth:
  Old age o’ercome, the greater honour gives.
   And to old age since you yourself aspire,
   Let not old age disgrace my high desire.

Which being done he looked very curiously upon himself, sometimes
fetching a little skip as if he had said his strength had not yet
forsaken him: but Zelmane having in this time {125} gotten some
leisure to think for an answer, looking upon Gynecia as if she thought
she did her some wrong: “Madam,” said she, “I am not acquainted with
those words of disguising, neither is it the profession of an Amazon,
neither are you a party with whom it is to be used: if my service may
please you, employ it, so long as you do me no wrong in misjudging of
me.” “Alas! Zelmane,” said Gynecia, “I perceive you know full little
how piercing the eyes are of a true lover: there is no one beam of
those thoughts you have planted in me but is able to discern a greater
cloud than you do go in. Seek not to conceal yourself further from me,
nor force not the passion of love into violent extremities.” Now was
Zelmane brought to an exigent, when the king turning his eyes that way
through the trees, perceived his wife and mistress together, so that
framing the most lovely countenance he could, he came straightway
towards them, and at the first word, thanking his wife for having
entertained Zelmane, desired her she would now return into the lodge,
because he had certain matters of estate to impart to the Lady
Zelmane. The queen, being nothing troubled with jealousy in that
point, obeyed the king’s commandment, full of raging agonies, and
determinately bent that as she would seek all loving means to win
Zelmane, so she would stir up terrible tragedies rather than fail of
her intent. And so went she from them to the lodge-ward with such a
battle in her thoughts, and so deadly an overthrow given to her best
resolutions that even her body, where the field was fought, was
oppressed withal, making a languishing sickness wait upon the triumph
of passion, which the more it prevailed in her, the more it made her
jealousy watchful, both over her daughter and Zelmane, having ever one
of them intrusted to her own eyes.

But as soon as Basilius was rid of his wife’s presence, falling down
on his knees, “O lady,” said he, “which hast only had the power to
stir up again those flames which had so long lain dead in me, see in
me the power of your beauty, which can make old age come to ask
counsel of youth, and a prince unconquered to become a slave to a
stranger: and when you see that power of yours, love that at least in
me, since it is yours, although of me you see nothing to be loved.”
“Worthy prince” (answered Zelmane, taking him up from his kneeling)
“both your manner and your speech are so strange unto me that I know
not how to answer it better than with silence.” “If silence please
you,” said the king, “it shall never displease me, since my heart is
wholly pledged to obey you, otherwise, if you would vouchsafe mine
ears such happiness as to hear you, they shall convey your words to
such a mind as will with the humblest degree of reverence receive
them.” “I disdain not to speak to you, mighty prince,” {126} said
Zelmane, “but I disdain to speak of any matter which may bring my
honour into question”: and therewith, with a brave counterfeited scorn
she departed from the king, leaving him not so sorry for his short
answer as proud in himself that he had broken the matter. And thus did
the king, feeding his mind with those thoughts, pass great time in
writing verses, and making more of himself than he was wont to do,
that, with a little help, he would have grown into a pretty kind of

But Zelmane being rid of this loving, but little loved company,
“Alas!” said she, “poor Pyrocles, was there ever one, but I, that had
received wrong, and could blame nobody? that having more than I
desire, am still in want of what I would? truly, love, I must needs
say thus much on my behalf; thou hast employed my love there, where
all love is deserved; and for recompense hast sent me more love than
ever I desired. But what wilt thou do Pyrocles? which way canst thou
find to rid thee of thy intricate troubles? to her whom I would be
known to, I live in darkness; and to her am revealed from whom I would
be most secret. What shift shall I find against the diligent love of
Basilius? what shield against the violent passions of Gynecia? and if
that be done, yet how am I the nearer to quench the fire that consumes
me? Well, well, sweet Philoclea, my whole confidence must be builded
in thy divine spirit which cannot be ignorant of the cruel wound I
have received by you.”

But as sick folks when they are alone think company would relieve
them, and yet having company do find it noisome, changing willingly
outward objects, when indeed the evil is inward, so poor Zelmane was
no more weary of Basilius, than she was of herself when Basilius was
gone: and ever the more, the more she turned her eyes to become her
own judges. Tired therewith, she longed to meet her friend Dorus that
upon the shoulders of friendship she might lay the burden of sorrow,
and therefore went toward the other lodge, where among certain beeches
she found Dorus, apparelled in flannel, with a goat’s-skin cast upon
him and a garland of laurel mix’d with cypress leaves on his head,
waiting on his master Dametas, who at that time was teaching him how
with his sheep-hook to catch a wanton lamb, and how with the same to
cast a little clod at any one that strayed out of company. And while
Dorus was practising, one might see Dametas holding his hand under his
girdle behind him, nodding from the waist upwards, and swearing he
never knew man go more awkwardly to work, and that they might talk of
book-learning what they would, but for his part he never saw more
unfeaty fellows than great clerks were.

But Zelmane’s coming saved Dorus from further chiding. {127} And so
she beginning to speak with him of the number of his master’s sheep,
and which province of Arcadia bare the finest wool, drew him on to
follow her in such country-discourses; till, being out of Dametas’s
hearing, with such vehemency of passion, as though her heart would
climb into her mouth to take her tongue’s office, she declared unto
him upon what briars the roses of her affections grew; how time still
seemed to forget her, bestowing no one hour of comfort upon her; she
remaining still in one plight of ill fortune, saving so much worse as
continuance of evil doth in itself increase evil. “Alas, my Dorus,”
said she, “thou seest how long and languishingly the weeks are passed
over since our last talking. And yet I am the same, miserable I, that
I was, only stronger in longing, and weaker in hoping.” Then fell she
to so pitiful a declaration of the insupportableness of her desires
that Dorus’s ears, not able to show what wounds that discourse gave
unto them, procured his eyes with tears to give testimony how much
they suffered for her suffering; till passion, a most cumbersome guest
to itself, made Zelmane, the sooner to shake it off, earnestly entreat
Dorus that he also, with like freedom of discourse, would bestow a map
of his little world upon her that she might see whether it were
troubled with such unhabitable climes of cold despairs and hot rages
as hers was.

And so walking under a few palm-trees (which being loving in her own
nature seemed to give their shadow the willinglier because they held
discourse of love) Dorus thus entered to the description of his

“Alas,” said he, “dear cousin, that it hath pleased the high power to
throw us to such an estate as the only intercourse of our true
friendship must be a bartering of miseries: for my part, I must
confess, indeed, that from a huge darkness of sorrows I am crept, I
cannot say to a lightsomeness, but, to a certain dawning, or rather
peeping out of some possibility of comfort: but woe is me; so far from
the mark of my desires, that I rather think it such a light as comes
through a small hole to a dungeon that the miserable caitiff may the
better remember the light of which he is deprived, or, like a scholar
who is only come to that degree of knowledge to find himself utterly
ignorant: but thus stands it with me. After that by your means I was
exalted to serve in yonder blessed lodge, for a while I had, in the
furnace of my agonies, this refreshing that, because of the service I
had done in killing of the bear, it pleased the princess, in whom
indeed stateliness shines through courtesy, to let fall some gracious
look upon me: sometimes to see my exercise, sometime to hear my songs.
For my part, my heart would not suffer me to omit any occasion whereby
I might make the incomparable Pamela see how much extraordinary {128}
devotion I bare to her service: and withal strove to appear more
worthy in her sight, that small desert, joined to so great affection,
might prevail something in the wisest lady. But too well, alas! I
found that a shepherd’s service was but considered of as from a
shepherd, and the acceptation limited to no further proportion than of
a good servant. And when my countenance had once given notice that
there lay affection under it, I saw straight, majesty, sitting in the
throne of beauty, draw forth such a sword of just disdain that I
remained as a man thunderstruck, not daring, no not able to behold
that power. Now to make my estate known, seemed again impossible, by
reason of the suspiciousness of Dametas, Miso and my young mistress
Mopsa: for Dametas, according to the constitution of a dull head,
thinks no better way to show himself wise than by suspecting
everything in his way, which suspicion Miso, for the hoggish
shrewdness of her brain, and Mopsa (for a very unlikely envy she hath
stumbled upon against the princess’s unspeakable beauty) were very
glad to execute: so that I (finding my service by this means lightly
regarded, my affection despised, and myself unknown) remained no
fuller of desire than void of counsel how to come to my desire; which,
alas! if these trees could speak, they might well witness, for many
times have I stood here, bewailing myself unto them, many times have
I, leaning to yonder palm, admired the blessedness of it, that it
could bear love without sense of pain; many times, when my master’s
cattle came hither to chew their cud in this fresh place, I might see
the young bull testify his love? but how? with proud looks and
joyfulness. ‘O wretched mankind,’ said I then to myself, ‘in whom wit,
which should be the governor of his welfare, becomes the traitor to
his blessedness: these beasts, like children to nature, inherit her
blessings quietly; we like bastards are laid abroad, even as
fondlings, to be trained up by grief and sorrow. Their minds grudge
not at their bodies’ comfort, nor their senses are letted from
enjoying their objects; we have the impediments of honour, and the
torments of conscience.’ Truly in such cogitations I have sometimes so
long stood that methought my feet began to grow into the ground, with
such a darkness and heaviness of mind, that I might easily have been
persuaded to have resigned over my very essence. But love (which one
time lay burdens, another time giveth wings) when I was at the lowest
of my downward thoughts, pulled up my heart to remember, that nothing
is achieved before it be throughly attempted, and that lying still,
doth never go forward; and that therefore it was time, now or never,
to sharpen my invention, to pierce through the hardness of this
enterprise, never ceasing to assemble all my conceits, one after
another, how to manifest both my mind and {129} estate, till at last I
lighted and resolved on this way, which yet perchance you will think
was a way rather to hide it. I began to counterfeit the extremest love
towards Mopsa that might be; and as for the love, so lively it was
indeed within me, although to another subject, that little I needed to
counterfeit any notable demonstrations of it; and so making a
contrariety the place of my memory, in her foulness I beheld Pamela’s
fairness, still looking on Mopsa, but thinking on Pamela, as if I saw
my sun shine in a puddled water: I cried out of nothing but Mopsa, to
Mopsa my attendance was directed; to Mopsa the best fruits I could
gather were brought; to Mopsa it seemed still that mine eyes conveyed
my tongue: so that Mopsa was my saying; Mopsa was my singing; Mopsa
(that is only suitable in laying a foul complexion upon a filthy
favour, setting forth both in sluttishness) she was the load-star of
my life; she the blessing of mine eyes; she the overthrow of my
desires, and yet the recompense of my overthrow; she the sweetness of
my heart, even sweetening the death which her sweetness drew upon me.
In sum, whatsoever I thought of Pamela, that I said of Mopsa; whereby
as I got my master’s goodwill, who before spited me, fearing lest I
should win the princess’s favour from him, so did the same make the
princess the better content to allow me her presence: whether indeed
it were that a certain spark of noble indignation did rise in her not
to suffer such a baggage to win away anything of hers, how meanly
soever she reputed of it, or rather, as I think, my words being so
passionate, and shooting so quite contrary from the marks of Mopsa’s
worthiness, she perceived well enough whither they were directed; and
therefore being so masked, she was contented as a sport of wit to
attend them: whereupon one day determining to find some means to tell,
as of a third person, the tale of mine own love and estate, finding
Mopsa, like a cuckoo by a nightingale, alone with Pamela, I came in
unto them, and with a face, I am sure, full of cloudy fancies, took a
harp and sung this song:

 Since so mine eyes are subject to your sight,
  That in your sight they fixed have my brain:
 Since so my heart is filled with that light,
  That only light doth all my life maintain.

 Since in sweet you, all goods so richly reign,
  That where you are, no wished good can want
 Since so your living image lives in me,
  That in myself yourself true love doth plant:
   How can you him unworthy then decree,
   In whose chief part your worths implanted be?


“The song being ended, which I had often broken off in the midst with
grievous sighs which overtook every verse I sung, I let fall my harp
from me, and casting mine eye sometimes upon Mopsa, but settling my
sight principally upon Pamela. ‘And is it the only fortune, most
beautiful Mopsa,’ said I, ‘of wretched Dorus that fortune must be the
measure of his mind? am I only he, that because I am in misery more
misery must be laid upon me? must that which should be cause of
compassion become an argument of cruelty against me? alas! excellent
Mopsa, consider that a virtuous prince requires the life of his
meanest subject, and the heavenly sun disdains not to give light to
the smallest worm. O Mopsa, Mopsa, if my heart could be as manifest to
you, as it is uncomfortable to me, I doubt not the height of my
thoughts should well countervail the lowness of my quality. Who hath
not heard of the greatness of your estate? who seeth not that your
estate is much excelled with that sweet uniting of all beauties which
remaineth and dwelleth with you? who knows not that all these are but
ornaments of that divine spark within you which, being descended from
heaven, could not elsewhere pick out so sweet a mansion? but if you
will know what is the band that ought to knit all these excellencies
together, it is a kind mercifulness to such a one as is in his soul
devoted to those perfections.’ Mopsa, who already had had a certain
smackring towards me, stood all this while with her hands sometimes
before her face, but most commonly with a certain special grace of her
own, wagging her lips, and grinning instead of smiling: but all the
words I could get of her was, wrying her waist, and thrusting out her
chin, ‘in faith you jest with me: you are a merry man indeed.’

“But the ever pleasing Pamela (that well found the comedy would be
marred if she did not help Mopsa to her part), was content to urge a
little further of me. ‘Master Dorus,’ said the fair Pamela, ‘methinks
you blame your fortune very wrongfully, since the fault is not in
fortune but in you that cannot frame yourself to your fortune, and as
wrongfully do require Mopsa to so great a disparagement as to her
father’s servant, since she is not worthy to be loved that hath not
some feeling of her own worthiness.’ I stayed a good while after her
words, in hopes she would have continued her speech, so great a
delight I received in hearing her, but seeing her say no further, with
a quaking all over my body, I thus answered her: ‘Lady, most worthy of
all duty how falls it out that you, in whom all virtues shine, will
take the patronage of fortune, the only rebellious handmaid against
virtue; especially, since before your eyes you have a pitiful
spectacle of her wickedness, a forlorn creature, which must remain not
such as I am, but such as she makes me, since she must be {131} the
balance of worthiness or disparagement. Yet alas! if the condemned
man, even at his death, have leave to speak, let my mortal wound
purchase thus much consideration; since the perfections are such in
the party I love, as the feeling of them cannot come into any unnoble
heart, shall that heart, which doth not only feel them, but hath all
the working of his life placed in them, shall that heart, I say,
lifted up to such a height, be counted base? O let not an excellent
spirit do itself such wrong as to think where it is placed, embraced
and loved, there can be any unworthiness, since the weakest mist is
not easier driven away by the sun than that is chased away with so
high thoughts.’ ‘I will not deny,’ answered the gracious Pamela, ‘but
that the love you bear to Mopsa, hath brought you to the consideration
of her virtues, and that consideration may have made you the more
virtuous, and so the more worthy: but even that then, you must
confess, you have received of her, and so are rather gratefully to
thank her, than to press any further, till you bring something of your
own, whereby to claim it. And truly Dorus, I must in Mopsa’s behalf
say thus much to you, that if her beauties have so overtaken you, it
becomes a true lover to have your heart more set upon her good than
your own, and to bear a tenderer respect to her honour than your
satisfaction.’ ‘Now by my hallidame, madam,’ said Mopsa, throwing a
great number of sheep’s eyes upon me, ‘you have even touched mine own
mind to the quick, forsooth.’

“I finding that the policy that I had used had at leastwise produced
thus much happiness unto me, as that I might, even in my lady’s
presence, discover the sore which had deeply festered within me, and
that she could better conceive my reasons applied to Mopsa, than she
would have vouchsafed them, whilst herself was a party, thought good
to pursue on my good beginning, using this fit occasion of Pamela’s
wit, and Mopsa’s ignorance. Therefore with an humble piercing eye,
looking upon Pamela as if I had rather been condemned by her mouth
than highly exalted by the other, turning myself to Mopsa, but keeping
mine eye where it was: ‘Fair Mopsa,’ said I, ‘well do I find by the
wise knitting together of your answer that any disputation I can use
is as much too weak, as I unworthy. I find my love shall be proved no
love, without I leave to love, being too unfit a vessel in whom so
high thoughts should be engraven. Yet since the love I bear you hath
so joined itself to the best part of my life, as the one cannot depart
but that the other will follow, before I seek to obey you in making my
last passage, let me know which is my unworthiness, either of mind,
estate, or both?’ Mopsa was about to say, in neither; for her heart I
think tumbled with overmuch kindness, when {132} Pamela with a more
favourable countenance than before, finding how apt I was to fall into
despair, told me I might therein have answered myself, for besides
that it was granted me that the inward feeling of Mopsa’s perfections
had greatly beautified my mind, there was none could deny but that my
mind and body deserved great allowance. ‘But Dorus,’ said she, ‘you
must be so far master of your love, as to consider that since the
judgment of the world stands upon matter of fortune, and that the sex
of womankind of all other is most bound to have regardful eye to men’s
judgments, it is not for us to play the philosophers in seeking out
your hidden virtues, since that which in a wise prince would be
counted wisdom, in us will be taken for a light grounded affection: so
is not one thing, one done by divers persons.’

“There is no man in a burning fever feels so great contentment in cold
water greedily received (which as soon as the drink ceaseth, the rage
reneweth) as poor I found my soul refreshed with her sweetly
pronounced words; and newly and more violently again inflamed as soon
as she had enclosed up her delightful speech with no less well graced
silence. But remembering in myself that as well the soldier dieth
which standeth still as he that gives the bravest onset, and seeing
that to the making up of my fortune there wanted nothing so much as
the making known of mine estate, with a face well witnessing how
deeply my soul was possessed, and with the most submissive behaviour
that a thralled heart could express, even as my words had been too
thick for my mouth, at length spoke to this purpose: ‘Alas, most
worthy Princess,’ said I, ‘and do not then your own sweet words
sufficiently testify that there was never man could have a juster
action against filthy fortune than I, since all things being granted
me, her blindness is my only let? O heavenly God, I would either she
had such eyes as were able to discern my desires, or were blind not to
see the daily cause of my misfortune. But yet,’ said I, ‘most honoured
lady, if my miserable speeches have not already cloyed you, and that
the very presence of such a wretch become not hateful in your eyes,
let me reply thus much further against my mortal sentence, by telling
you a story which happened in this same country long since, for woes
make the shortest time seem long, whereby you shall see that my estate
is not so contemptible, but that a prince hath been content to take
the like upon him, and by that only hath aspired to enjoy a mighty
princess.’ Pamela graciously harkened, and I told my tale in this

“‘In the country of Thessalia (alas! why name I that accursed country
which brings forth nothing but matters of tragedy? but name it I must)
in Thessalia, I say, there was (well may I say {133} there was) a
prince, no, no prince, whom bondage wholly possessed, but yet
accounted a prince, and named Musidorus. O Musidorus, Musidorus! But
to what serve exclamations, where there are no ears to receive the
sound? This Musidorus being yet in the tenderest age, his worthy
father payed to nature, with a violent death, her last duties, leaving
his child to the faith of his friends, and the proof of time: death
gave him not such pangs as the foresightful care he had of his silly
successor. And yet if in his foresight he could have seen so much,
happy was that good prince in his timely departure which barred him
from the knowledge of his son’s miseries, which his knowledge could
neither have prevented nor relieved. The young Musidorus (being thus,
as for the first pledge of the destinies goodwill, deprived of his
principal stay) was yet for some years after, as if the stars would
breathe themselves for a greater mischief, lulled up in as much good
luck as the heedful love of his doleful mother, and the flourishing
estate of his country could breed unto him.

“‘But when the time now came that misery seemed to be ripe for him,
because he had age to know misery, I think there was a conspiracy in
all heavenly and earthly things to frame fit occasions to lead him
unto it. His people, to whom all foreign matters in foretime were
odious, began to wish in their beloved prince, experience by travel:
his dear mother, whose eyes were held open only with the joy of
looking upon him, did now dispense with the comfort of her widowed
life, desiring the same her subjects did, for the increase of her
son’s worthiness.

“‘And hereto did Musidorus’s own virtue, see how virtue can be a
minister to mischief, sufficiently provoke him; for indeed thus much
must I say for him, although the likeness of our mishaps makes me
presume to pattern myself unto him, that well-doing was at that time
his scope, from which no faint pleasure could withhold him. But the
present occasion which did knit all this together, was his uncle the
king of Macedon who, having lately before gotten such victories as
were beyond expectation, did at this time send both for the prince his
son (brought up together, to avoid the wars, with Musidorus); and for
Musidorus himself, that his joy might be the more full, having such
partakers of it. But alas! to what a sea of miseries my plaintful
tongue doth lead me?’ and thus out of breath, rather with that I
thought than that I said, I stayed my speech, till Pamela showing by
countenance that such was her pleasure, I thus continued it: ‘These
two young princes, to satisfy the king, took their way by sea, towards
Thrace, whether they would needs go with a navy to succour him, he
being at that time before Byzantium with a mighty army besieging it,
where at that time his court was. But when the conspired heavens had
{134} gotten this subject of their wrath upon so fit place as the sea
was, they straight began to breathe out in boisterous winds some part
of their malice against him, so that with the loss of all his navy, he
only with the prince his cousin, were cast aland far off from the
place whither their desires would have guided them. O cruel winds, in
your unconsiderate rages, why either began you this fury, or why did
you not end it in his end? but your cruelty was such, as you would
spare his life for many deathful torments. To tell you what pitiful
mishaps fell to the young prince of Macedon his cousin, I should too
much fill your ears with strange horrors; neither will I stay upon
those laboursome adventures, nor loathsome misadventures to which, and
through which his fortune and courage conducted him; my speech
hasteneth itself to come to the full point of Musidorus’s misfortunes.
For, as we find the most pestilent diseases do gather in themselves
all the infirmities with which the body before was annoyed, so did his
last misery embrace in extremity of itself all his former mischiefs.
Arcadia; Arcadia was the place prepared to be the stage of his endless
overthrow; Arcadia was, alas! well might I say it is, the charmed
circle where all his spirits for ever should be enchanted. For here,
and nowhere else, did his infected eyes make his mind know what power
heavenly beauty had to throw it down to hellish agonies. Here, here
did he see the Arcadian king’s eldest daughter, in whom he forthwith
placed so all his hopes of joy, and joyful parts of his heart that he
left in himself nothing but a maze of longing, and a dungeon of
sorrow. But alas! what can saying make them believe, whom seeing
cannot persuade? those pains must be felt before they can be
understood; no outward utterance can command a conceit. Such was as
then the state of the king, as it was no time by direct means to seek
her. And such was the state of his captivated will as he could delay
no time of seeking her.

“‘In this entangled cause, he clothed himself in a shepherd’s weed,
that under the baseness of that form, he might at last have free
access to feed his eyes with that which should at length eat up his
heart. In which doing, thus much without doubt he hath manifested that
this estate is not always to be rejected, since under that veil there
may be hidden things to be esteemed. And if he might with taking on a
shepherd’s look cast up his eyes to the fairest princess nature in
that time created, the like, nay the same desire of mine need no more
to be disdained, or held for disgraceful. But now alas! mine eyes wax
dim, my tongue begins to falter, and my heart to want force to help
either, with the feeling remembrance I have, in what heap of miseries
the caitiff prince lay at this time buried. Pardon therefore most
excellent princess, if I cut off the course of my dolorous tale,
since, if I be understood, {135} I have said enough for the defence of
my baseness, and for that which after might befall to that pattern of
ill fortune, the matters are too monstrous for my capacity, his
hateful destinies must best declare their own workmanship.’

“Thus having delivered my tale in this perplexed manner, to the end
the princess might judge that he meant himself, who spoke so
feelingly; her answer was both strange, and in some respect
comfortable. For would you think it? she hath heard heretofore of us
both by means of the valiant prince Plangus, and particularly of our
casting away, which she (following mine own style) thus delicately
brought forth: ‘You have told,’ said she, ‘Dorus, a pretty tale, but
you are much deceived in the latter end of it. For the Prince
Musidorus with his cousin Pyrocles did both perish upon the coast of
Laconia, as a noble gentleman called Plangus, who was well acquainted
with the history, did assure my father.’ O how that speech of hers did
pour joys in my heart! O blessed name, thought I, of mine, since thou
hast been in that tongue, and passed through those lips, though I can
never hope to approach them. ‘As for Pyrocles,’ said I, ‘I will not
deny it, but that he is perished:’ (which I said lest sooner suspicion
might arise of your being here than yourself would have it) and yet
affirmed no lie unto her, since I only said, I would not deny it. ‘But
for Musidorus,’ said I, ‘I perceive indeed you have either heard or
read the story of that unhappy prince; for this was the very objection
which that peerless princess did make unto him, when he sought to
appear such as he was before her wisdom: and thus I have read it fair
written in the certainty of my knowledge, he might answer her, that
indeed the ship wherein he came, by a treason was perished: and
therefore that Plangus might easily be deceived, but that he himself
was cast upon the coast of Laconia, where he was taken up by a couple
of shepherds, who lived in those days famous; for that both loving one
fair maid, they yet remained constant friends; one of whose songs not
long since was sung before you by the shepherd Lamon, and brought by
them to a nobleman’s house near Mantinea, whose son had, a little
before his marriage, been taken prisoner, and by the help of this
prince Musidorus, though naming himself by another name, was
delivered.’ Now these circumlocutions I did use, because of the one
side I knew the princess would know well the parties I meant; and of
the other, if I should have named Strephon, Claius, Kalander and
Clitophon, perhaps it would have rubb’d some conjecture into the heavy
head of mistress Mopsa.

“‘And therefore,’ said I, ‘most divine lady, he justly was thus to
argue against such suspicions, that the prince might easily by those
parties be satisfied, that upon that wreck such a one was {136} taken
up, and therefore that Plangus might well err, who knew not of any
one’s taking up: again that he that was so preserved brought good
tokens to be one of the two, chief of that wrecked company: which two,
since Plangus knew to be Musidorus and Pyrocles, he must needs be one
of them, although, as I said, upon a fore-taken vow, he was otherwise
at that time called. Besides, the princess must needs judge that no
less than a prince durst undertake such an enterprise, which, though
he might get the favour of the princess, he could never defend with
less than a prince’s power, against the force of Arcadia. Lastly, said
he, for a certain demonstration, he presumed to show unto the princess
a mark he had on his face, as I might,’ said I, ‘show this of my neck
to the rare Mopsa:’ and, withal, showed my neck to them both, where,
as you know, there is a red spot bearing figure, as they tell me, of a
lion’s paw, that she may ascertain herself, that I am Menalcas’
brother. ‘And so did he, beseeching her to send someone she might
trust into Thessalia, secretly to be advertised, whether the age, the
complexion, and particularly that notable sign, did not fully agree
with their prince Musidorus.’ ‘Do you not know further,’ said she,
with a settled countenance not accusing any kind of inward motion, ‘of
that story?’ ‘Alas, no,’ said I, ‘for even here the historiographer
stopped, saying, the rest belonged to astrology.’ And therewith,
thinking her silent imaginations began to work upon somewhat to
mollify them, as the nature of music is to do, and, withal, to show
what kind of shepherd I was, I took up my harp, and sang these few

 My sheep are thoughts, which I both guide and serve,
  Their pasture is fair hills of fruitless love:
 On barren sweets they feed, and feeding starve:
  I wail their lot, but will not other prove.
 My sheep-hook is wan hope, which all upholds:
  My weeds, desire, cut out in endless folds.
   What wool my sheep shall bear, whiles thus they live,
   In you it is, you must the judgment give.

“And then, partly to bring Mopsa again to the matter, lest she should
too much take heed to our discourses, but principally, if it were
possible to gather some comfort out of her answers, I kneeled down to
the princess, and humbly besought her to move Mopsa in my behalf, that
she would unarm her noble heart of that steely resistance against the
sweet blows of love: that since all her parts were decked with some
particular ornament; her face with beauty, her head with wisdom, her
eyes with majesty, her countenance with gracefulness, her lips with
loveliness, her tongue with victory, that she would make her heart the
throne of pity, being the most {137} excellent raiment of the most
excellent part. Pamela without show either of favour or disdain,
either of heeding or neglecting what I had said, turned her speech to
Mopsa, and with such a voice and action, as might show she spoke of a
matter which little did concern her; ‘Take heed to yourself,’ said
she, Mopsa, ‘for your shepherd can speak well: but truly, if he do
fully prove himself such as he saith, I mean, the honest shepherd
Menalcas’s brother and heir, I know no reason why you should think
scorn of him.’ Mopsa though, in my conscience, she were even then far
spent towards me, yet she answered her, that for all my quaint
speeches, she would keep her honesty close enough, and that, as for
the way of matrimony, she would step never a foot further till my
master, her father, had spoken the whole word himself, no she would
not. But ever and anon turning her muzzle towards me, she threw such
a prospect upon me as might well have given a surfeit to any weak
lover’s stomach. But, lord, what a fool am I, to mingle that drivel’s
speeches among my noble thoughts! but because she was an actor in this
tragedy, to give you a full knowledge, and to leave nothing that I can
remember, unrepeated.

“Now the princess being about to withdraw herself from us, I took a
jewel made in the figure of a crab-fish, which, because it looks one
way and goes another, I thought it did fitly pattern out my looking to
Mopsa, but bending to Pamela: the word about it was, ‘By force, not
choice;’ and still kneeling, besought the princess that she would
vouchsafe to give it Mopsa, and with the blessedness of her hand to
make acceptable unto her that toy which I had found following of late
an acquaintance of mine at the plough. ‘For,’ said I, ‘as the earth
was turned up, the ploughshare lighted upon a great stone; we pull’d
that up, and so found both that and some other pretty things which we
had divided betwixt us.’

“Mopsa was benumbed with joy when the princess gave it her: but in the
princess I could find no apprehension of what I either said or did,
but with a calm carelessness letting each thing slide (just as we do
by their speeches who neither in matter nor person do anyway belong
unto us) which kind of cold temper, mix’d with that lightening of her
natural majesty, is of all others most terrible unto me: for yet if I
found she contemned me, I would desperately labour both in fortune and
virtue to overcome it; if she only misdoubted me I were in heaven; for
quickly I would bring sufficient assurance; lastly, if she hated me,
yet I should know what passion to deal with; and either with
infiniteness of desert I would take away the fuel from that fire; or
if nothing would serve, then I would give her my heart’s blood to
quench it. But this cruel quietness, neither retiring to mislike, nor
proceeding {138} to favour; gracious, but gracious still after one
manner; all her courtesies, having this engraven in them that what is
done, is for virtue’s sake, not for the parties, ever keeping her
course like the sun, who neither for our praises nor curses will spur
or stop his horses. This, I say, heavenliness of hers, for howsoever
my misery is, I cannot but so entitle it, is so impossible to reach
unto that I almost begin to submit myself to the tyranny of despair,
not knowing any way of persuasion, where wisdom seems to be
unsensible. I have appeared to her eyes like myself, by a device I
used with my master, persuading him that we two might put on certain
rich apparel I had provided, and so practice something on horseback
before Pamela, telling him, it was apparel I had gotten for playing
well the part of a king in a tragedy at Athens: my horse indeed was it
I had left at Menalcas’s house, and Dametas got one by friendship out
of the prince’s stable. But howsoever I show, I am no base body, all I
do is but to beat a rock and get foam.”

But as Dorus was about to tell further, Dametas (who came whistling,
and counting upon his fingers how many load of hay seventeen fat oxen
eat up in a year) desired Zelmane from the king that she would come
into the lodge where they stayed for her. “Alas!” said Dorus, taking
his leave, “the sum is this, that you may well find you have beaten
your sorrow against such a wall, which, with the force of a rebound,
may well make your sorrow stronger.” But Zelmane turning her speech to
Dametas, “I shall grow,” said she, “skilful in country matters if I
have often conference with your servant.” “In sooth,” answered Dametas
with a graceless scorn, “the lad may prove well enough, if he over
soon think not too well of himself, and will bear away that he heareth
of his elders.” And therewith as they walked to the other lodge, to
make Zelmane find she might have spent her time better with him, he
began with a wild method to run over all the art of husbandry,
especially employing his tongue about well dunging of a field, while
poor Zelmane yielded her ears to those tedious strokes, not warding
them so much as with any one answer, till they came to Basilius and
Gynecia, who attended for her in a coach to carry her abroad to see
some sports prepared for her. Basilius and Gynecia, sitting in the one
end, placed her at the other, with her left side to Philoclea. Zelmane
was moved in her mind to have kissed their feet for the favour of so
blessed a seat, for the narrowness of the coach made them join from
the foot to the shoulders very close together, the truer touch whereof
though it were barred by their envious apparel, yet as a perfect
magnet, though but in an ivory box, will through the box send forth
his embracing virtue to a beloved needle, so this imparadised
neighbourhood made Zelmane’s soul cleave unto her, both through {139}
the ivory case of her body and the apparel which did overcloud it. All
the blood of Zelmane’s body stirring in her, as wine will do when
sugar is hastily put into it, seeking to suck the sweetness of the
beloved guest: her heart like a lion new imprisoned, seeing him that
restrains his liberty before the grate, not panting, but striving
violently, if it had been possible, to have leaped into the lap of
Philoclea. But Dametas, even then proceeding from being master of a
cart, to be doctor of a coach, not a little proud in himself that his
whip at that time guided the rule of Arcadia, drove the coach, the
cover whereof was made with such joints that as they might, to avoid
the weather, pull it up close when they listed, so when they would
they might put each end down and remain as discovered and open sighted
as on horseback, till upon the side of the forest they had both
greyhounds, spaniels, and hounds, whereof the first might seem the
lords, the second the gentlemen, and the last the yeoman of dogs; a
cast of merlins there was besides, which, flying of a gallant height
over certain bushes, would beat the birds that rose down into the
bushes, as falcons will do wild-fowl over a river. But the sport which
for that day Basilius would principally show to Zelmane, was the
mounty at a heron, which getting up on his waggling wings with pain,
till he was come to some height (as though the air next to the earth
were not fit for his great body to fly through) was now grown to
diminish the sight of himself, and to give example to great persons
that the higher they be the less they should show; when a gyrfalcon
was cast off after her, who straight spying where the prey was, fixing
her eye with desire, and guiding her wing by her eye, used no more
strength than industry. For as a good builder to a high tower will not
make his stair upright, but winding almost the full compass about,
that the steepness be the more unsensible, so she, seeing the towering
of her pursued chase, went circling and compassing about, rising so
with the less sense of rising, and yet finding that way scantly serve
the greediness of her haste, as an ambitious body will go far out of
the direct way to win to a point of height which he desires; so would
she, as it were, turn tail to the heron, and fly out quite another
way, but all was to return in a higher pitch, which once gotten, she
would either beat with cruel assaults the heron, who now was driven to
the best defence of force, since flight would not serve, or else
clasping with him, come down together, to be parted by the
over-partial beholders.

Divers of which flights Basilius showing to Zelmane, thus was the
riches of the time spent, and the day deceased before it was thought
of, till night like a degenerating successor made his departure the
better remembered. And therefore, so constrained, they willed Dametas
to drive homeward, who, half sleeping, half {140} musing about the
mending of a wine-press, guided the horses so ill that the wheel
coming over a great stub of a tree, it overturned the coach. Which
though it fell violently upon the side where Zelmane and Gynecia sat,
yet for Zelmane’s part, she would have been glad of the fall which
made her bear the sweet burden of Philoclea, but that she feared she
might receive some hurt. But indeed neither she did, nor any of the
rest, by reason they kept their arms and legs within the coach, saving
Gynecia, who with the only bruise of the fall, had her shoulder put
out of joint, which, though by one of the falconers cunning it was set
well again, yet with much pain was she brought to the lodge; and pain,
fetching his ordinary companion, a fever, with him, drove her to
entertain them both in her bed.

But neither was the fever of such impatient heat, as the inward
plague-sore of her affection, nor the pain half so noisome, as the
jealousy she conceived of her daughter Philoclea, lest this time of
her sickness might give apt occasion to Zelmane, whom she misdoubted.
Therefore she called Philoclea to her, and though it were late in the
night, commanded her in her ear to go to the other lodge, and send
Miso to her, with whom she would speak, and she to lie with her sister
Pamela. The meanwhile Gynecia kept Zelmane with her, because she would
be sure she should be out of the lodge before she licensed Zelmane.
Philoclea, not skill’d in any thing better than obedience, went
quietly down, and the moon then full, not thinking scorn to be a
torch-bearer to such beauty, guided her steps, whose motions bear a
mind which bare in itself far more stirring motions. And alas! sweet
Philoclea, how hath my pen till now forgot thy passions, since to thy
memory principally all this long matter is intended? pardon the
slackness to come to those woes, which, having caused in others, thou
didst feel in thyself.

The sweet minded Philoclea was in their degree of well-doing, to whom
the not knowing of evil serveth for a ground of virtue, and hold their
inward powers in better form with an unspotted simplicity, than many
who rather cunningly seek to know what goodness is than willingly take
into themselves the following of it. But as that sweet and simple
breath of heavenly goodness is the easier to be altered because it
hath not passed through the worldly wickedness, nor feelingly found
the evil that evil carries with it, so now the lady Philoclea (whose
eyes and senses had received nothing, but according as the natural
course of each thing required; whose tender youth had obediently lived
under her parents behests, without framing out of her own will the
fore-choosing of any thing) when now she came to a point wherein her
judgment was to be practised in knowing faultiness by his first {141}
tokens, she was like a young fawn who, coming in the wind of the
hunters, doth not know whether it be a thing or not to be eschewed;
whereof at this time she began to get a costly experience. For after
that Zelmane had a while lived in the lodge with her, and that her
only being a noble stranger had bred a kind of heedful attention; her
coming to that lonely place, where she had nobody but her parents, a
willingness of conversation; her wit and behaviour a liking and silent
admiration; at length the excellency of her natural gifts, joined with
the extreme shows she made of most devout honouring Philoclea
(carrying thus, in one person, the only two bands of goodwill,
loveliness and lovingness) brought forth in her heart a yielding to a
most friendly affection; which when it had gotten so full possession
of the keys of her mind that it would receive no message from her
senses without that affection were the interpreter, then straight grew
an exceeding delight still to be with her, with an unmeasurable liking
of all that Zelmane did: matters being so turned in her, that where at
first liking her manners did breed goodwill, now goodwill became the
chief cause of liking her manners: so that within a while Zelmane was
not prized for her demeanour, but the demeanour was prized because it
was Zelmane’s. Then followed that most natural effect of conforming
herself to that which she did like, and not only wishing to be herself
such another in all things but to ground an imitation upon so much an
esteemed authority, so that the next degree was to mark all Zelmane’s
doings, speeches, and fashions, and to take them into herself as a
pattern of worthy proceeding. Which when once it was enacted, not only
by the commonality of passions, but agreed unto by her most noble
thoughts, and that reason itself, not yet experienced in the issues of
such matters, had granted his royal assent, then friendship, a
diligent officer, took care to see the statute thoroughly observed.
Then grew on that not only she did imitate the soberness of her
countenance, the gracefulness of her speech, but even their particular
gestures, so that as Zelmane did often eye her, she would often eye
Zelmane; and as Zelmane’s eyes would deliver a submissive, but
vehement desire in their look, she, though as yet she had not the
desire in her, yet should her eyes answer in like piercing kindness of
a look. Zelmane, as much as Gynecia’s jealousy would suffer, desired
to be near Philoclea; Philoclea, as much as Gynecia’s jealousy would
suffer, desired to be near Zelmane. If Zelmane took her hand, and
softly strained it, she also, thinking the knots of friendship ought
to be mutual, would, with a sweet fastness, show she was loth to part
from it. And if Zelmane sighed, she should sigh also; when Zelmane was
sad, she deemed it wisdom, and therefore she would be sad too. {142}
Zelmane’s languishing countenance with crossed arms, and sometimes
cast up eyes, she thought to have an excellent grace, and therefore
she also willingly put on the same countenance, till at the last, poor
soul, ere she were aware, she accepted not only the badge, but the
service; not only the sign, but the passion signified. For whether it
were that her wit in continuance did find that Zelmane’s friendship
was full of impatient desire, having more than ordinary limits, and
therefore she was content to second Zelmane, though herself knew not
the limits, or that in truth, true love, well considered, hath an
infective power, at last she fell in acquaintance with love’s
harbinger, wishing; first she would wish that they two might live all
their lives together, like two of Diana’s nymphs. But that wish she
thought not sufficient, because she knew there would be more nymphs
besides them, who also would have their part in Zelmane. Then would
she wish that she were her sister, that such a natural band might make
her more special to her, but against that, she considered, that,
though being her sister, if she happened to be married she should be
robbed of her. Then grown bolder she would wish either herself, or
Zelmane, a man, that there might succeed a blessed marriage between
them. But when that wish had once displayed his ensign in her mind,
then followed whole squadrons of longings, that so it might be with a
main battle of mislikings and repinings against their creation, that
so it was not. Then dreams by night began to bring more unto her than
she durst wish by day, whereout waking did make her know herself the
better by the image of those fancies. But as some diseases when they
are easy to be cured, they are hard to be known, but when they grow
easy to be known, they are almost impossible to be cured, so the sweet
Philoclea, while she might prevent it, she did not feel it, now she
felt it, when it was past preventing; like a river, no rampires being
built against it, till already it have overflowed. For now indeed love
pulled off his mask, and showed his face unto her, and told her
plainly that she was his prisoner. Then needed she no more paint her
face with passions, for passions shone through her face; then her rosy
colour was often increased with extraordinary blushing, and so another
time, perfect whiteness descended to a degree of paleness; now hot,
then cold, desiring she knew not what, nor how, if she knew what. Then
her mind, though too late, by the smart was brought to think of the
disease, and her own proof taught her to know her mother’s mind,
which, as no error gives so strong assault as that which comes armed
in the authority of a parent, so greatly fortified her desires to see
that her mother had the like desires. And the more jealous her mother
was, the more she thought the jewel precious which was with so many
locks guarded. {143} But that prevailing so far, as to keep the two
lovers from private conference, then began she to feel the sweetness
of a lover’s solitariness, when freely with words and gestures, as if
Zelmane were present, she might give passage to her thoughts, and so,
as it were, utter out some smoke of those flames, wherewith else she
was not only burned but smothered. As this night, that going from the
one lodge to the other, by her mother’s commandment, with doleful
gestures and uncertain paces, she did willingly accept the time’s
offer to be a while alone: so that going a little aside into the wood,
where many times before she had delighted to walk, her eyes were
saluted with a tuft of trees, so close set together, that, with the
shade the moon gave through it, it might breed a fearful kind of
devotion to look upon it: but true thoughts of love banished all vain
fancy of superstition. Full well she did both remember and like the
place, for there had she often with their shade beguiled Phoebus of
looking upon her: there had she enjoyed herself often, while she was
mistress of herself and had no other thoughts, but such as might arise
out of quiet senses.

But the principal cause that invited her remembrance was a goodly
white marble stone that should seem had been dedicated in ancient time
to the Sylvan gods, which she finding there a few days before
Zelmane’s coming, had written these words upon it as a testimony of
her mind against the suspicion her captivity made her think she lived
in. The writing was this.

 You living powers enclos’d in stately shrine
  Of growing trees: you rural Gods that wield
 Your scepters here, if to your ears divine
  A voice may come, which troubled soul doth yield;
   This vow receive, this vow, O Gods, maintain;
   My virgin life no spotted thought shall stain.

 Thou purest stone; whose pureness doth present
  My purest mind; whose temper hard doth show
 My temper’d heart; by thee my promise sent
  Unto myself let after-livers know,
   No fancy mine, nor others’ wrong suspect
   Make me, O virtuous shame, thy laws neglect.

 O chastity, the chief of heavenly lights,
  Which mak’st us most immortal shape to wear,
 Hold thou my heart, establish thou my sprites:
  To only thee my constant course I bear;
   ’Till spotless soul unto thy bosom fly.
   Such life to lead, such death I vow to die.


But now that her memory served as an accuser of her change, and that
her own handwriting was there to bear testimony against her fall; she
went in among those few trees, so closed in the tops together, that
they might seem a little chapel: and there might she, by the help of
the moon-light, perceive the goodly stone which served as an altar in
that woody devotion. But neither the light was enough to read the
words, and the ink was already foreworn, and in many places blotted,
which as she perceived, “Alas!” said she, “fair marble, which never
received’st spot but by my writing: well do these blots become a
blotted writer. But pardon her which did not dissemble then, although
she have changed since. Enjoy, enjoy the glory of thy nature, which
can so constantly bear the marks of my inconstancy.” And herewith,
hiding her eyes with her soft hand, there came into her head certain
verses, which if she had had present commodity, she would have
adjoined as a retraction to the other. They were to this effect.

 My words, in hope to blaze a stedfast mind,
  This marble chose, as of like tempter known:
 But lo, my words defac’d my fancies blind,
  Blots to the stone, shames to myself I find:
   And witness am, how ill agree in one,
   A woman’s hand with constant marble stone.

 My words full weak, the marble full of might;
  My words in store, the marble all alone;
 My words black ink, the marble kindly white;
  My words unseen, the marble still in sight,
   May witness bear, how ill agree in one,
   A woman’s hand with constant marble stone.

But seeing she could not see means to join as then this recantation to
the former vow, laying all her fair length under one of the trees, for
a while she did nothing but turn up and down, as if she had hoped to
turn away the fancy that had mastered her, and hid her face, as if she
could have hidden herself from her own fancies. At length with a
whispering note to herself: “O me unfortunate wretch,” said she, “what
poisonous heats be these which thus torment me? how hath the sight of
this strange guest invaded my soul? alas what entrance found this
desire, or what strength had it thus to conquer me?” Then a cloud
passing between her sight and the moon, “O Diana,” said she, “I would
either the cloud that now hides the light of my virtue would as easily
pass away as you will quickly overcome this let, or else that you were
for ever thus darkened to serve for an excuse of my outrageous folly.”
Then looking to the stars, which had perfectly as then beautified the
{145} clear sky: “My parents,” said she, “have told me that in those
fair heavenly bodies there are great hidden deities, which have their
working in the ebbing and flowing of our estates. If it be so, then, O
you stars! judge rightly of me, and if I have with wicked intent made
myself a prey to fancy, or if by any idle lusts I framed my heart fit
for such an impression, then let this plague daily increase in me,
till my name be made odious to womankind. But if extreme and
unresistable violence have oppressed me, who will ever do any of you
sacrifice, O you stars, if you do not succour me? No, no, you will not
help me. No, no, you cannot help me: sin must be the mother, and shame
the daughter of my affection. And yet are these but childish
objections, simple Philoclea, it is the impossibility that doth
torment me: for, unlawful desires are punished after the effect of
enjoying; but impossible desires are punished in the desire itself. O
then, O ten times unhappy that I am, since wherein all other hope
kindleth love, in me despair should be the bellows of my affection:
and of all despairs the most miserable, which is drawn from
impossibility. The most covetous man longs not to get riches out of a
ground which never can bear anything; why? because it is impossible.
The most ambitious wight vexeth not his wits to climb into heaven;
why? because it is impossible. Alas! then, O love, why dost thou in
thy beautiful sampler set such a work for my desire to take out, which
is as much impossible? and yet alas! why do I thus condemn my fortune
before I hear what she can say for herself? what do I, silly wench,
know what love hath prepared for me? do I not think my mother, as
well, at least as furiously as myself, love Zelmane? and should I be
wiser than my mother? either she sees a possibility in that which I
see impossible, or else impossible loves need not misbecome me. And do
I not see Zelmane, who doth not think a thought which is not first
weighed by wisdom and virtue, doth not she vouchsafe to love me with
like order? I see it, her eyes depose it to be true; what then? and if
she can love poor me, shall I think scorn to love such a woman as
Zelmane? away then all vain examinations of why and how. Thou lovest
me, most excellent Zelmane, and I love thee:” and with that, embracing
the very ground whereon she lay, she said to herself, for even to
herself she was ashamed to speak it out in words, “O my Zelmane,
govern and direct me, for I am wholly given over unto thee.”

In this depth of muses and divers sorts of discourses, would she
ravingly have remained, but that Dametas and Miso, who were round
about to seek her, understanding she was come to their lodge that
night, came hard by her; Dametas saying that he would not deal in
other body’s matters, but for his part he did not like that maids
should once stir out of their father’s houses, but if it {146} were to
milk a cow, or save a chicken from a kite’s foot, or some such other
matter of importance. And Miso swearing that if it were her daughter
Mopsa, she would give her a lesson for walking so late that should
make her keep within doors for one fortnight. But their jangling made
Philoclea rise, and pretending as though she had done it but to sport
with them, went with them, after she had willed Miso to wait upon her
mother to the lodge; where, being now accustomed by her parent’s
discipline as well as her sister to serve herself, she went alone up
to Pamela’s chamber, where, meaning to delight her eyes, and joy her
thoughts with the sweet conversation of her beloved sister, she found
her, though it were in the time that the wings of night doth blow
sleep most willingly into mortal creatures, sitting in a chair, lying
backward, with her head almost over the back of it, and looking upon a
wax-candle which burnt before her; in one hand holding a letter, in
the other her handkerchief, which had lately drunk up the tears of her
eyes, leaving instead of them crimson circles, like red flakes in the
element when the weather is hottest; which Philoclea finding, for her
eyes had learned to know the badges of sorrow, she earnestly entreated
to know the cause thereof that either she might comfort, or accompany
her doleful humour. But Pamela, rather seeming sorry that she had
perceived so much, than willing to open any further; “O my Pamela,”
said Philoclea, “who are to me a sister in nature, a mother in
counsel, a princess by the law of our country, and, which name
methinks of all other is the dearest, a friend by my choice and your
favour, what means this banishing me from your counsels? do you love
your sorrow so well as to grudge me part of it? or do you think I
shall not love a sad Pamela so well as a joyful? or be my ears
unworthy, or my tongue suspected? What is it, my sister, that you
should conceal from your sister, yea and servant Philoclea?” Those
words won no further of Pamela, but that telling her they might talk
better as they lay together, they impoverished their clothes to enrich
their bed, which for that night might well scorn the shrine of Venus:
and their cherishing one another with dear, though chaste
embracements, with sweet though cold kisses, it might seem that love
was come to play him there without dart, or that weary of his own
fires, he was there to refresh himself between their sweet breathing

But Philoclea earnestly again entreated Pamela to open her grief: who,
drawing the curtain that the candle might not complain of her
blushing, was ready to speak: but the breath, almost formed into
words, was again stopped by her and turned into sighs. But at last, “I
pray you,” said she, sweet Philoclea, “let us talk of some other
thing: and tell me whether you did ever see anything so amended as our
pastoral sports be since that Dorus came {147} hither?” O love, how
far thou seest with blind eyes? Philoclea had straight found her, and
therefore to draw out more: “Indeed,” said she, “I have often wondered
to myself how such excellencies could be in so mean a person, but
belike fortune was afraid to lay her treasures where they should be
stained with so many perfections, only I marvel how he can frame
himself to hide so rare gifts under such a block as Dametas.” “Ah,”
said Pamela, “if you knew the cause, but no more do I neither; and to
say the truth: but lord, how are we fallen to talk of this fellow? and
yet indeed if you were sometimes with me to mark him while Dametas
reads his rustic lecture unto him how to feed his beasts before noon,
where to shade them in the extreme heat, how to make the manger
handsome for his oxen, when to use the goad, and when the voice;
giving him rules of a herdman, though he pretend to make him a
shepherd, to see all the while with what a grace, which seems to set a
crown upon his base estate, he can descend to those poor matters,
certainly you would: but to what serves this? no doubt we were better
sleep than talk of those idle matters.” “Ah my Pamela,” said
Philoclea, “I have caught you; the constancy of your wit was not wont
to bring forth such disjointed speeches: you love, dissemble no
further.” “It is true,” said Pamela, “now you have it; and with less
ado should, if my heart could have thought those words suitable for my
mouth. But indeed, my Philoclea, take heed: for I think virtue itself
is no armour of proof against affection. Therefore learn by my
example.” Alas! thought Philoclea to herself, your shears come too
late to clip the bird’s wings that already is flown away. But then
Pamela, being once set in the stream of her love, went away amain,
withal telling her how his noble qualities had drawn her liking
towards him; but yet ever weighing his meanness, and so held
continually in due limits; till seeking many means to speak with her,
and ever kept from it, as well because she shunn’d it, seeing and
disdaining his mind, as because of her jealous jailors, he had at
length used the finest policy that might be in counterfeiting love to
Mopsa, and saying to Mopsa whatsoever he would have her know; and in
how passionate manner he had told his own tale in a third person,
making poor Mopsa believe, that it was a matter fallen out many ages
before. “And in the end, because you shall know my tears come not
neither of repentance nor misery, who, think you, is my Dorus fallen
out to be? even the Prince Musidorus, famous over all Asia for his
heroical enterprises, of whom you remember how much good the stranger
Plangus told my father; he not being drowned, as Plangus thought,
though his cousin Pyrocles indeed perished. Ah my sister, if you had
heard his words, or seen his gestures when he made me know what, and
{148} to whom his love was, you would have matched in yourself those
two rarely matched together, pity and delight. Tell me dear sister,
for the gods are my witnesses I desire to do virtuously, can I without
the detestable stain of ungratefulness abstain from loving him, who
(far exceeding the beautifulness of his shape with the beautifulness
of his mind, and the greatness of his estate with the greatness of his
acts) is content so to abase himself, as to become Dametas’s servant
for my sake? you will say, how know I him to be Musidorus, since the
handmaid of wisdom is slow of belief? that consideration did not want
in me; for the nature of desire itself is no easier to receive belief,
than it is hard to ground belief. For as desire is glad to embrace the
first show of comfort, so is desire desirous of perfect assurance, and
that have I had of him, not only by necessary arguments to any of
common sense, but by sufficient demonstrations. Lastly, he would have
me send to Thessalia, but truly I am not as now in mind to do my
honourable love so much wrong as so far to suspect him: yet poor soul,
knows he no other, but that I do both suspect, neglect, yea, and
detest him. For every day he finds one way or other to set forth
himself unto me, but all are rewarded with like coldness of

“A few days since, he and Dametas had furnished themselves very richly
to run at the ring before me. O how mad a sight it was to see Dametas,
like rich tissue furred with lamb-skins? but O how well it did with
Dorus, to see with what a grace he presented himself before me on
horseback, making majesty wait upon humbleness? how at the first,
standing still with his eyes bent upon me, as though his motions were
chained to my look, he so stayed till I caused Mopsa bid him do
something upon his horse: which no sooner said, but, with a kind
rather of quick gesture than show of violence, you might see him come
towards me, beating the ground in so due time that no dancer can
observe better measure. If you remember the ship we saw once when the
sea went high upon the coast of Argos, so went the beast. But he, as
if centaur-like he had been one piece with the horse, was no more
moved than one with the going of his own legs, and in effect so did he
command him as his own limbs; for tho’ he had both spurs and wand,
they seemed rather marks of sovereignty than instruments of
punishment, his hand and leg, with most pleasing grace, commanding
without threatening, and rather remembering than chastising; at least
if sometimes he did it was so stolen as neither our eyes could discern
it nor the horse with any change did complain of it: he ever going so
just with the horse, either forth-right or turning that it seemed he
borrowed the horse’s body, so he lent the horse his mind. In the
turning one might perceive the bridle-hand something gently stir: but
indeed {149} so gently that it did rather distil virtue than use
violence. Himself, which methinks is strange, showing at one instant
both steadiness and nimbleness; sometimes making him turn close to the
ground, like a cat, when scratchingly she wheels about after a mouse;
sometimes with a little more rising before, now like a raven leaping
from ridge to ridge, then like one of Dametas’s kids bound over the
hillocks, and all so done, as neither the lusty kind showed any
roughness, nor the easier any idleness; but still like a well-obeyed
master, whose beck is enough for a discipline, ever concluding each
thing he did with his face to me-wards, as if thence came not only the
beginning but ending of his motions. The sport was to see Dametas, how
he was tossed from the saddle to the mane of the horse, and thence to
the ground, giving his gay apparel almost as foul an outside as it had
an inside. But as before he had ever said, he wanted but horse and
apparel to be as brave a courtier as the best, so now bruised with
proof, he proclaimed it a folly for a man of wisdom to put himself
under the tuition of a beast, so as Dorus was fain alone to take the
ring. Wherein truly at least my womanish eyes could not discern, but
that taking his staff from his thigh, the descending it a little down,
the getting of it up into the rest, the letting of the point fall, and
taking the ring, was but all one motion, at least, if they were divers
motions, they did so stealingly slip one into another that the latter
part was ever in hand before the eye could discern the former was
ended. Indeed Dametas found fault that he showed no more strength in
shaking of his staff, but to my conceit the fine cleanness of bearing
it was exceeding delightful.

“But how delightful soever it was, my delight might well be in my
soul, but it never went to look out of the window to do him any
comfort. But how much more I found reason to like him, the more I set
all the strength of mine to suppress it, or at least to conceal it.
Indeed I must confess, that as some physicians have told me, that when
one is cold outwardly, he is not inwardly, so truly the cold ashes
laid upon my fire did not take the nature of fire from it. Full often
hath my breast swollen with keeping my sighs imprisoned; full often
have the tears I drove back from mine eyes, turned back to drown my
heart. But alas! what did that help poor Dorus? whose eyes, being his
diligent intelligencers, could carry unto him no other news, but
discomfortable. I think no day passed but by some one invention he
would appear unto me to testify his love. One time he danced the
matachin dance in armour, O with what a graceful dexterity! I think to
make me see that he had been brought up in such exercises: another
time he persuaded his master, to make my time seem shorter, in manner
of a dialogue, to play Priamus, while he played Paris. Think, {150}
sweet Philoclea, what a Priamus we had: but truly, my Paris was a
Paris, and more than a Paris: who, while in a savage apparel, with
naked neck, arms, and legs, he made love to Oenone, you might well see
by his changed countenance and true tears, that he felt the part he
played. Tell me, sweet Philoclea, did you ever see such a shepherd?
tell me, did you ever hear of such a prince? and then tell me if a
small or unworthy assault have conquered me. Truly I would hate my
life, if I thought vanity led me. But since my parents deal so cruelly
with me, it is time for me to trust something to my own judgment. Yet
hitherto have my looks been as I told you, which continuing after many
of those his fruitless trials, have wrought such change in him as I
tell you true,” with that word she laid her hand upon her quaking
side, “I do not a little fear him. See what a letter this is,” then
drew she the curtain, and took the letter from under her pillow,
“which to-day, with an afflicted humbleness, he delivered me,
pretending before Mopsa that I should read it unto her to mollify,
forsooth, her iron stomach.” With that she read the letter, containing
thus much:

 Most blessed paper, which shalt kiss that hand, whereto all
 blessedness is in nature a servant, do not yet disdain to carry with
 thee the woeful words of a miser now despairing: neither be afraid to
 appear before her, bearing the base title of the sender. For no sooner
 shall that divine hand touch thee, but that thy baseness shall be
 turned to most high preferment. Therefore mourn boldly my ink; for
 while she looks upon you, your blackness will shine: cry out boldly my
 lamentation; for while she reads you, your cries will be music. Say
 then, O happy messenger of a most unhappy message, that the too soon
 born, and too late dying creature, which dares not speak, no not look,
 no not scarcely think, as from his miserable self, unto her heavenly
 highness, only presumes to desire thee, in the time that her eyes and
 voice do exalt thee, to say, and in this manner to say; not from him,
 O no, that were not fit, but of him, thus much unto her sacred
 judgment: O you, the only honour to women, to men the only admiration,
 you that being armed by love, defy him that armed you, in this high
 estate wherein you have placed me, yet let me remember him to whom I
 am bound for bringing me to your presence; and let me remember him,
 who, since he is yours, how mean soever he be, it is reason you have
 an account of him. The wretch, yet your wretch, though with
 languishing steps, runs fast to his grave; and will you suffer a
 temple, how poorly built soever, but yet a temple of your deity, to be
 razed? but he dieth: it is most true, he dieth: and he in whom you
 live, to obey you, dieth. Whereof though he plain, he doth not
 complain: for it is a harm, but no wrong, which he hath received. He
 dies, because in woeful language all his senses tell him, that such is
 your pleasure: since you will not that he live, alas, alas, what
 followeth of the most ruined {151} Dorus, but his end? end then, evil
 destined Dorus, end; and end thou woeful letter, end; for it sufficeth
 her wisdom to know, that her heavenly will shall be accomplished.

“O my Philoclea, is he a person to write those words? and are those
words lightly to be regarded? but if you had seen when with trembling
hand he had delivered it how he went away, as if he had been but the
coffin that carried himself to his sepulchre. Two times, I must
confess, I was about to take courtesy into mine eyes, but both times
the former resolution stopped the entry of it, so that he departed
without obtaining any further kindness. But he was no sooner out of
the door; but that I looked to the door kindly, and truly the fear of
him ever since hath put me into such perplexity, as now you found me.”
“Ah my Pamela,” said Philoclea, “leave sorrow. The river of your tears
will soon lose his fountain; it is in your hand as well to stitch up
his life again, as it was before to rent it.” And so, though with
self-grieved mind, she comforted her sister, till sleep came to bathe
himself in Pamela’s fair weeping eyes.

Which when Philoclea found, wringing her hands, “O me,” said she,
“indeed the only subject of the destinies’ displeasure, whose greatest
fortunateness is more unfortunate than my sister’s greatest
unfortunateness. Alas! she weeps because she would be no sooner happy;
I weep, because I can never be happy; her tears flow from pity, mine
from being too far lower than the reach of pity: Yet do I not envy
thee, dear Pamela, I do not envy thee, only I could wish that being
thy sister in nature I were not so far off akin in fortune.”

But the darkness of sorrow overshadowing her mind, as the night did
her eyes, they were both content to hide themselves under the wings of
sleep, till the next morning had almost lost his name, before the two
sweet sleeping sisters awaked from dreams, which flattered them with
more comfort than their waking could, or would consent unto. For then
they were called up by Miso, who, having been with Gynecia, had
received commandment to be continually with her daughters, and
particularly not to let Zelmane and Philoclea have any private
conference but that she should be present to hear what passed: Miso
having now her authority increased, but came with scowling eyes to
deliver a slavering good morrow to the two ladies, telling them it was
a shame for them to mar their complexions, yea and conditions too,
with long lying abed; and that when she was of their age, she trowed,
she would have made a handkerchief by that time a-day. The two sweet
princesses with a smiling silence answered her entertainment, and,
obeying her direction, covered their dainty beauties with the glad
{152} clothes. But as soon as Pamela was ready, and sooner she was
than her sister, of the agony of Dorus’s giving a fit to herself,
which the words of his letter, lively imprinted in her mind, still
remembered her of, she called to Mopsa, and willed her to fetch Dorus
to speak with her; because, she said, she would take further judgment
of him before she would move Dametas to grant her in marriage unto
him: Mopsa, as glad as of sweetmeat to go of such an errand, quickly
returned with Dorus to Pamela, who intended both by speaking with him
to give some comfort to his passionate heart, and withal to hear some
part of his life past, which although fame had already delivered unto
her, yet she desired in more particular certainties to have it from so
beloved an historian. Yet the sweetness of virtue’s disposition,
jealous, even over itself, suffered her not to enter abruptly into
questions of Musidorus, whom she was half ashamed she did love so
well, and more than half sorry she could love no better, but thought
best first to make her talk arise of Pyrocles, and his virtuous
father: which thus she did.

“Dorus,” said she, “you told me the last day that Plangus was deceived
in that he affirmed the prince Musidorus was drowned, but, withal, you
confessed his cousin Pyrocles perished, of whom certainly in that age
there was a great loss, since, as I have heard, he was a young prince,
of whom all men expected as much as man’s power could bring forth, and
yet virtue promised for him their expectation should not be deceived.”
“Most excellent lady,” said Dorus, “no expectation in others, nor hope
in himself could aspire to a higher mark than to be thought worthy to
be praised by your judgment, and made worthy to be praised by your
mouth. But most sure it is, that as his fame could by no means get so
sweet and noble an air to fly in, as in your breath, so could not you,
leaving yourself aside, find in the world a fitter subject of
commendation; as noble as a long succession of royal ancestors, famous
and famous for victories, could make him; of shape most lovely, and
yet of mind more lovely, valiant, courteous, wise, what should I say
more? sweet Pyrocles, excellent Pyrocles, what can my words but wrong
thy perfections, which I would to God in some small measure thou
had’st bequeathed to him that ever must have thy virtues in
admiration, that, masked at least in them, I might have found some
more gracious acceptation?” With that he imprisoned his look for a
while upon Mopsa, who thereupon fell into a very wide smiling.
“Truly,” said Pamela, “Dorus I like well your mind that can raise
itself out of so base a fortune as yours is, to think of the imitating
so excellent a prince as Pyrocles was. Who shoots at the mid-day sun,
though he be sure he shall never hit the mark, yet as sure he is, he
shall shoot higher {153} than who aims but at a bush. But I pray you,
Dorus,” said she, “tell me, since I perceive you are well acquainted
with that story, what prince was that Euarchus father to Pyrocles, of
whom so much fame goes, for his rightly royal virtues, or by what ways
he got that opinion. And then so descend to the causes of his sending
first away from him, and then to him for that excellent son of his,
with the discourse of his life and loss: and therein you may, if you
list, say something of that same Musidorus his cousin, because they
going together, the story of Pyrocles, which I only desire, may be the
better understood.”

“Incomparable lady,” said he, “your commandment doth not only give me
the will, but the power to obey you; such influence hath your
excellency. And first, for that famous king Euarchus, he was, at this
time you speak of, king of Macedon, a kingdom, which in older time had
such a sovereignty over all the provinces of Greece that even the
particular kings therein did acknowledge, with more or less degrees of
homage, some kind of fealty thereunto: as among the rest, even this
now most noble, and by you ennobled, kingdom of Arcadia. But he, when
he came to his crown finding by his latter ancestors either
negligence, or misfortune that in some ages many of those duties had
been intermitted would never stir up old titles, how apparent soever,
whereby the public peace, with the loss of many not guilty souls,
should be broken; but contenting himself to guide that ship, wherein
the heavens had placed him, showed no less magnanimity in dangerless
despising than others in dangerous affecting the multiplying of
kingdoms: for the earth hath since borne enough bleeding witnesses
that it was no want of true courage. Who as he was most wise to see
what was best, and most just in the performing what he saw, and
temperate in abstaining from anything anyway contrary, so think I, no
thought can imagine a greater heart to see and contemn danger, where
danger would offer to make any wrongful threatening upon him. A
prince, that indeed especially measured his greatness by his goodness:
and if for anything he loved greatness it was because therein he might
exercise his goodness. A prince of a goodly aspect, and the more
goodly by a grave majesty, wherewith his mind did deck his outward
graces; strong of body, and so much the stronger, that he by a
well-disciplined exercise taught it both to do, and suffer. Of age so
as he was above fifty years, when his nephew Musidorus took on such
shepherdish apparel for the love of the world’s paragon, as I now

“This king left orphan both of father and mother, whose father and
grandfather likewise had died young, he found his estate, when he came
to the age which allowed his authority, so disjointed even in the
noblest and strongest limbs of government that the {154} name of a
king was grown even odious to the people, his authority having been
abused by those great lords and little kings, who in those
between-times of reigning, by unjust favouring those that were
partially theirs, and oppressing them that would defend their liberty
against them, had brought in, by a more felt than seen manner of
proceeding, the worst kind of Oligarchy; that is, when men are
governed indeed by a few, and yet are not taught to know what those
few be to whom they should obey.

“For they having the power of kings, but not the nature of kings, used
the authority as men do their farms, of which they see within a year
they shall go out; making the king’s sword strike whom they hated, the
king’s purse reward whom they loved; and, which is worst of all,
making the royal countenance serve to undermine the royal sovereignty.
For the subjects could taste no sweeter fruits of having a king than
grievous taxation to serve vain purposes; laws made rather to find
faults than to prevent faults: the court of a prince rather deemed as
a privileged place of the unbridled licentiousness than as the abiding
of him, who as a father should give a fatherly example unto his
people. Hence grew a very dissolution of all estates, while the great
men, by the nature of ambition never satisfied, grew factious among
themselves: and the underlings glad indeed to be underlings to them
they hated least, to preserve them from such they hated most. Men of
virtue suppressed, lest the shining should discover the others’
filthiness; and at length virtue itself almost forgotten, when it had
no hopeful end whereunto to be directed; old men long nusled in
corruption, scorning them that would seek reformation, young men were
fault-finding, but very faulty, and so given to new-fangleness both of
manners, apparel, and each thing else, by the custom of self-guilty
evil, glad to change, though oft for worse; merchandise abused, and so
towns decayed for want of just and natural liberty; offices even of
judging souls, sold; public defences neglected; and in sum, left too
long I trouble you, all awry, and, which wried it to the most wry
course of all, wit abused, rather to feign reason why it should be
amiss, than how it should be amended.

“In this, and a much worse plight than it is fit to trouble your
excellent ears withal, did the king Euarchus find his estate when he
took upon him the regiment, which, by reason of the long stream of
abuse, he was forced to establish by some even extreme severity, not
so much for the very faults themselves, which he rather sought to
prevent than to punish, as for the faulty ones, who, strong even in
their faults, scorned his youth, and could not learn to digest that
the man which they so long had used to mask their own appetites,
should now be the reducer of them into order. But so soon as some few,
but indeed notable examples, had thundered a duty into {155} the
subjects’ hearts, he soon showed, no baseness of suspicion, nor the
basest baseness of envy, could any whit rule such a ruler. But then
shined forth indeed all love among them, when an awful fear engendered
by justice, did make that love most lovely: his first and principal
care being to appear unto his people such as he would have them be,
and to be such as he appeared; making his life the example of his
laws, and his laws as it were his axioms arising out of his deeds. So
that within small time he won a singular love in his people, and
ingraffed singular confidence. For how could they choose but love him,
whom they found so truly to love them? he even in reason disdaining,
that they that have charge of beasts, should love their charge and
care for them; and that he that was to govern the most excellent
creature, should not love so noble a charge. And, therefore, where
most princes, seduced by flattery to build upon false grounds of
government, make themselves, as it were, another thing from the
people, and so count it gain what they get from them and, as it were
two counter-balances, that their estate goes highest when the people
goes lowest, by a fallacy of argument thinking themselves most kings
when the subject is most basely subjected, he contrariwise, virtuously
and wisely acknowledging that he with his people made all but one
politic body, whereof himself was the head, even so cared for them as
he would for his own limbs, never restraining their liberty, without
it stretched to licentiousness, nor pulling from them their goods,
which they found were not employed to the purchase of a greater good;
but in all his actions showing a delight in their welfare, brought
that to pass, that, while by force he took nothing, by their love he
had all. In sum, peerless princess, I might as easily set down the
whole art of government as to lay before your eyes the picture of his
proceedings. But in such sort he flourished in the sweet comfort of
doing much good, when, by an occasion of leaving his country, he was
forced to bring forth his virtue of magnanimity, as before he had done
of justice.

“He had only one sister, a lady, least I should too easily all to
partial praises of her, of whom it may be justly said, that she was no
unfit branch to the noble stock whereof she was come. Her he had given
in marriage to Dorilaus prince of Thessalia, not so much to make a
friendship, as to confirm the friendship between their posterity,
which between them, by the likeness of virtue, had been long before
made: for certainly, Dorilaus could need no amplifier’s mouth for the
highest point of praise.” “Who hath not heard,” said Pamela, “of the
valiant, wise, and just Dorilaus, whose unripe death doth yet, so many
years since, draw tears from virtuous eyes; and indeed, my father is
wont to speak of nothing with greater admiration, than of the notable
friendship, a rare thing {156} in princes, more rare between princes,
that so holily was observed to the last of those two excellent men.
But,” said she, “go on I pray you.”

“Dorilaus,” said he, “having married his sister, had his marriage in
short time blest, for so are folk wont to say, how unhappy soever the
children after grow, with a son, whom they named Musidorus, of whom I
must needs first speak before I come to Pyrocles, because as he was
born first, so upon his occasion grew, as I may say accidentally, the
other’s birth. For scarcely was Musidorus made partaker of this
oft-blinding light, when there were found numbers of soothsayers who
affirmed strange and incredible things should be performed by that
child; whether the heavens at that time listed to play with ignorant
mankind, or that flattery be so presumptuous as even at times to
borrow the face of divinity. But certainly, so did the boldness of
their affirmation accompany the greatness of what they did affirm,
even descending to particularities, what kingdoms he should overcome,
that the king of Phrygia, who over-superstitiously thought himself
touched in the matter, sought by force to destroy the infant, to
prevent his after expectations: because a skilful man, having compared
his nativity with the child, so told him. Foolish man, either vainly
fearing what was not to be feared, or not considering that if it were
a work of the superior powers, the heavens at length are never
children. But so he did, and by the aid of the kings of Lydia and
Crete, joining together their armies, invaded Thessalia, and brought
Dorilaus to some behind-hand of fortune, when his faithful friend and
brother Euarchus came so mightily to his succour, that with some
interchanging changes of fortune, they begat of a just war, the best
child, Peace. In which time Euarchus made a cross marriage also with
Dorilaus’s sister, and shortly left her with child of the famous
Pyrocles, driven to return to the defence of his own country, which in
his absence, helped with some of the ill-contented nobility, the
mighty king of Thrace, and his brother king of Pannonia, had invaded.
The success of those wars was too notable to be unknown to your ears,
to which it seems all worthy fame hath glory to come unto. But there
was Dorilaus, valiantly requiring his friend’s help, in a great battle
deprived of life, his obsequies being no more solemnized by the tears
of his partakers than the blood of his enemies; with so piercing a
sorrow to the constant heart of Euarchus that the news of his son’s
birth could lighten his countenance with no show of comfort, although
all the comfort that might be in a child, truth itself in him
forthwith delivered. For what fortune only soothsayers foretold of
Musidorus, that all men might see prognosticated in Pyrocles, both
heavens and earth giving tokens of the coming forth of an heroical
virtue. The {157} senate house of the planets was at no time so set
for the decreeing of perfection in a man, as at that time all folks
skilful therein did acknowledge: only love was threatened, and
promised to him, and so to his cousin, as both the tempest and haven
of his best years. But as death may have prevented Pyrocles, so
unworthiness must be the death of Musidorus.

“But the mother of Pyrocles, shortly after her childbirth dying, was
cause that Euarchus recommended the care of his only son to his
sister, doing it the rather because the war continued in cruel heat,
betwixt him and those ill neighbours of his. In which meantime those
young princes, the only comforters of that virtuous widow, grew on so
that Pyrocles taught admiration to the hardest conceits: Musidorus,
perchance because among his subjects, exceedingly beloved; and by the
good order of Euarchus, well performed by his sister, they were so
brought up that all the sparks of virtue which nature had kindled in
them were so blown to give forth their uttermost heat, that, justly it
may be affirmed, they inflamed the affections of all that knew them.
For almost before they could perfectly speak, they began to receive
conceits not unworthy of the best speakers; excellent devices being
used, to make even their sports profitable; images of battles and
fortifications being then delivered to their memory, which after,
their stronger judgments might dispense, the delight of tales being
converted to the knowledge of all the stories of worthy princes, both
to move them to do nobly, and teach them how to do nobly; the beauty
of virtue still being set before their eyes, and that taught them with
far more diligent care than grammatical rules, their bodies exercised
in all abilities, both of doing and suffering, and their minds
acquainted by degrees with dangers; and in sum, all bent to the making
up of princely minds: no servile fear used towards them, nor any other
violent restraint, but still as to princes: so that a habit of
commanding was naturalized in them, and therefore the further from
tyranny: nature having done so much for them in nothing, as that it
made them lords of truth, whereon all the other goods were builded.

“Among which nothing I so much delight to recount, as the memorable
friendship that grew betwixt the two princes, such as made them more
like than the likeness of all other virtues, and made them more near
one to the other than the nearness of their blood could aspire unto;
which I think grew the faster, and the faster was tied between them by
reason that Musidorus being older by three or four years, it was
neither so great a difference in age as did take away the delight in
society, and yet by the difference there was taken away the occasion
of childish contentions, till they had both passed over the humour of
such contentions. For {158} Pyrocles bare reverence full of love to
Musidorus, and Musidorus had a delight full of love in Pyrocles.
Musidorus, what he had learned either for body or mind, would teach it
to Pyrocles; and Pyrocles was so glad to learn of none as of
Musidorus: till Pyrocles, being come to sixteen years of age, he
seemed so to over-run his age in growth, strength, and all things
following it, that not Musidorus, no nor any man living, I think,
could perform any action, either on horse, or foot, more strongly, or
deliver that strength more nimbly, or become the delivery more
gracefully, or employ all more virtuously. Which may well seem
wonderful: but wonders are no wonders in a wonderful subject.

“At which time, understanding that the king Euarchus, after so many
years of war, and the conquest of all Pannonia, and almost Thrace, had
now brought the conclusion of all to the siege of Byzantium, to the
raising of which siege, great forces were made, they would needs fall
to the practice of those virtues which they before learned. And
therefore the mother of Musidorus nobly yielding over her own affects
to her children’s good, for a mother she was in affect to them both,
the rather that they might help her beloved brother, they break off
all delays, which Musidorus for his part thought already had devoured
too much of his good time, but that he had once granted a boon, before
he knew what it was, to his dear friend Pyrocles, that he would never
seek the adventures of arms until he might go with him, which having
fast bound his heart, a true slave to faith, he had bid a tedious
delay of following his own humour for his friend’s sake, till now
being both sent for by Euarchus, and finding Pyrocles able every way
to go through with that kind of life, he was as desirous for his sake
as for his own, to enter into it. So therefore preparing a navy, that
they might go like themselves, and not only bring the comfort of their
presence, but of their power, to their dear parent Euarchus, they
recommended themselves to the sea, leaving the shore of Thessalia full
of tears and vows, and were received thereon with so smooth and
smiling a face, as if Neptune had as then learned falsely to fawn on
princes. The wind was like a servant, waiting behind them so just,
that they might fill the sails as they listed; and the best sailors
showing themselves less covetous of his liberality, so tempered it
that they all kept together like a beautiful flock, which so well
could obey their master’s pipe: without sometimes, to delight the
princes’ eyes, some two or three of them would strive, who could,
either by the cunning of well spending the wind’s breath, or by the
advantageous building of their moving houses, leave their fellows
behind them in the honour of speed: while the two princes had leisure
to see the practice of that, which before they had learned by books:
to consider the art of catching the {159} wind prisoner, to no other
end, but to run away with it; to see how beauty and use can so well
agree together, that of all the trinkets, wherewith they are attired,
there is not one but serves to some necessary purpose. And, O lord! to
see the admirable power and noble effects of love, whereby the seeming
insensible loadstone, with a secret beauty, holding the spirit of iron
in it, can draw that hard-hearted thing unto it, and like a virtuous
mistress, not only make it bow itself, but with it make it aspire to
so high a love as of the heavenly poles, and thereby to bring forth
the noblest deeds that the children of the earth can boast of. And so
the princes delighting their conceits with confirming their knowledge,
seeing wherein the sea-discipline differed from land-service, they had
for a day, and almost a whole night, as pleasing entertainment as the
falsest heart could give to him he means worst to.

“But by that the next morning began a little to make a gilded show of
a good meaning, there arose even with the sun, a veil of dark clouds
before his face, which, shortly, like ink poured into water, had
blacked over all the face of heaven, preparing as it were a mournful
stage for a tragedy to be played on. For forthwith the winds began to
speak louder, and, as in a tumultuous kingdom, to think themselves
fittest instruments of commandment; and blowing whole storms of hail
and rain upon them, they were sooner in danger, than they could almost
bethink themselves of change. For then the traitorous sea began to
swell in pride against the afflicted navy, under which, while the
heaven favoured them, it had lain so calmly, making mountains of
itself, over which the tossed and tottering ship should climb, to be
straight carried down again to a pit of hellish darkness; with such
cruel blows against the sides of the ship that, which way soever it
went, was still in his malice, that there was left neither power to
stay nor way to escape. And shortly had it so dissevered the loving
company, which the day before had tarried together, that most of them
never met again, but were swallowed up in his never satisfied mouth.
Some indeed, as since was known, after long wandering, returned into
Thessalia, others recovered Byzantium, and served Euarchus in his war.
But in the ship wherein the princes were, now left as much alone as
proud lords be when fortune fails them, though they employed all
industry to save themselves, yet what they did was rather for duty to
nature than hope to escape so ugly a darkness as if it would prevent
the night’s coming, usurped the day’s right: which accompanied
sometimes with thunders, always with horrible noises of the chafing
winds, made the masters and pilots so astonished that they knew not
how to direct, and if they knew, they could scarcely, when they
directed, hear their own whistle. For the sea strove with the winds
which should be louder, {160} and the shrouds of the ship, with a
ghastful noise to them that were in it, witnessed that their ruin was
the wager of the others’ contention, and the heaven roaring out
thunders the more amazed them, as having those powers for enemies.
Certainly there is no danger carries with it more horror than that
which grows in those floating kingdoms. For that dwelling place is
unnatural to mankind, and then the terribleness of the continual
motion, the desolation of the far-being from comfort, the eye and the
ear having ugly images ever before it, doth still vex the mind, even
when it is best armed against it. But thus the day passed, if that
might be called day, while the cunningest mariners were so conquered
by the storm that they thought it best with stricken sails to yield to
be governed by it: the valiantest feeling inward dismayedness, and yet
the fearfullest ashamed fully to show it, seeing that the princes, who
were to part from the greatest fortunes, did in their countenances
accuse no point of fear, but encouraging them to do what might be
done, putting their hands to every most painful office, taught them at
one instant to promise themselves the best, and yet to despise the
worst. But so were they carried by the tyranny of the wind, and the
treason of the sea all that night, which the older it was, the more
wayward it showed itself towards them: till the next morning, known to
be a morning better by the hour-glass than by the day’s clearness,
having run fortune so blindly, as itself ever was painted, lest the
conclusion should not answer to the rest of the play, they were driven
upon a rock, which, hidden with those outrageous waves, did, as it
were, closely dissemble his cruel mind, till with an unbelieved
violence, but to them that have tried it, the ship ran upon it, and
seeming willinger to perish than to have her course stayed, redoubled
her blows, till she had broken herself in pieces, and as it were,
tearing out her own bowels to feed the sea’s greediness, lest nothing
within it but despair of safety and expectation of a loathsome end.
There was to be seen the divers manner of minds in distress: some sat
upon the top of the poop weeping and wailing, till the sea swallowed
them; some one more able to abide death than fear of death, cut his
own throat to prevent drowning; some prayed: and there wanted not of
them which cursed, as if the heavens could not be more angry than they
were. But a monstrous cry begotten of many roaring voices, was able to
infect with fear a mind that had not prevented it with the power of

“But the princes, using the passions of fearing evil, and desiring to
escape only to serve the rule of virtue, not to abandon one’s self,
leaped to a rib of the ship, which broken from his fellows, floated
with more likelihood to do service than any other limb of that ruinous
body; upon which they had gotten already two brethren {161} well known
servants of theirs; and straight they four were carried out of sight,
in that huge rising of the sea, from the rest of the ship. But the
piece they were on sinking by little and little under them, not able
to support the weight of so many, the brethren, the elder whereof was
Leucippus, the younger Nelsus, showed themselves right faithful and
grateful servants unto them: grateful, I say, for this cause: those
two gentlemen had been taken prisoners in the great war the king of
Phrygia made upon Thessalia, in the time of Musidorus’s infancy, and
having been sold into another country, though peace fell after between
those realms, could not be delivered because of their valour known,
but for a far greater sum than either all their friends were able, or
the dowager willing to make, in respect of the great expenses herself
and people had been put to in those wars, and so had they remained in
prison about thirteen years, when the two young princes, hearing
speeches of their good deserts, found means both by selling all the
jewels they had of a great price, and by giving under their hands
great estates when they should come to be kings, which promises their
virtue promised for them should be kept, to get so much treasure as
redeemed them from captivity. This remembered, and kindly remembered
by those two brothers, perchance helped by a natural duty to their
princes’ blood, they willingly left hold of the board, committing
themselves to the sea’s rage, and even when they meant to die,
themselves praying for the princes’ lives. It is true, that neither
the pain nor danger, so moved the princes’ hearts as the tenderness of
that loving part, far from glory, having so few lookers on; far from
hope of reward, since themselves were sure to perish.

“But now of all the royal navy they lately had, they had left but one
little piece of one ship, whereon they kept themselves, in all truth
having interchanged their cares, while either cared for other, each
comforting and counselling how to labour for the better, and to abide
the worse. But so fell it out, that as they were carried by the tide
which there, seconded by the storm, ran exceeding swiftly, Musidorus
seeing, as he thought, Pyrocles not well upon the board, as he would
with his right hand have helped him on better, he had no sooner
unfastened his hold but that a wave forcibly spoiled his weaker hand
of hold, and so for a time parted those friends, each crying to the
other; but the noise of the sea drowned their farewell. But Pyrocles,
then careless of death, if it had come by any means but his own, was
shortly brought out of the sea’s fury to the land’s comfort, when in
my conscience I know that comfort was but bitter unto him: and bitter
indeed it fell out even in itself to be unto him.

“For being cast on land much bruised and beaten both with the {162}
sea’s hard farewell, and the shore’s rude welcome; and even almost
deadly tired with the length of his uncomfortable labour, as he was
walking up to discover somebody, to whom he might go for relief, there
came straight running unto him certain, who, as it was after known, by
appointment watched, with many others, in divers places along the
coast, who laid hands on him, and without either questioning with him,
or showing will to hear him, like men fearful to appear curious, or
which was worse, having no regard to the hard plight he was in, being
so wet and weak, they carried him some miles thence to a house of a
principal officer of that country. Who with no more civility (though
with much more business than those under fellows had showed) began in
captious manner to put interrogatories unto him. To which, he unused
to such entertainment, did shortly and plainly answer, what he was and
how he came thither. But that no sooner known, with numbers of armed
men to guard him (for mischief, not from mischief) he was sent to the
king’s court, which as then was not above a day’s journey off, with
letters from that officer, containing his own serviceable diligence in
discovering so great a personage, adding withal more than was true of
his conjectures, because he would endear his own service.

“This country whereon he fell was Phrygia, and it was to the king
thereof to whom he was sent, a prince of a melancholy constitution
both of body and mind; wickedly sad, ever musing of horrible matters,
suspecting, or rather condemning all men of evil, because his mind had
no eye to spy goodness: and therefore accusing Sycophants, of all men,
did best sort to his nature; but therefore not seeming Sycophants,
because of no evil they said, they could bring any new or doubtful
thing unto him, but such as already he had been apt to determine, so
as they came but as proofs of his wisdom: fearful, and never secure,
while the fear he had figured in his own mind had any possibility of
event. A toad-like retiredness, and closeness of mind; nature teaching
the odiousness of poison, and the danger of odiousness. Yet while
youth lasted in him, the exercises of that age, and his humour, not
yet fully discovered, made him something the more frequentable, and
less dangerous. But after that years began to come on with some,
though more seldom, shows of a bloody nature, and that the prophecy of
Musidorus’s destiny came to his ears (delivered unto him, and received
of him with the hardest interpretation, as though his subjects did
delight in the hearing thereof). Then gave he himself indeed to the
full current of his disposition, especially after the war of
Thessalia, wherein, though in truth wrongly, he deemed his unsuccess
proceeded of their unwillingness to have him prosper: and then
thinking himself contemned {163} (knowing no countermine against
contempt, but terror) began to let nothing pass which might bear the
colour of a fault without sharp punishment: and when he wanted faults,
excellency grew a fault! and it was sufficient to make one guilty,
that he had power to be guilty. And as there is no humour, to which
impudent poverty cannot make itself serviceable, so were there enough
of those of desperate ambition, who would build their houses upon
others’ ruins, which after should fall by like practices. So as a
servitude came mainly upon that poor people, whose deeds were not only
punished, but words corrected, and even thoughts by some mean or other
pulled out of them; while suspicion bred the mind of cruelty, and the
effects of cruelty stirred up a new cause of suspicion. And in this
plight, full of watchful fearfulness, did the storm deliver sweet
Pyrocles to the stormy mind of that tyrant; all men that did such
wrong to so rare a stranger, whose countenance deserved both pity and
admiration, condemning themselves as much in their hearts, as they did
brag in their faces.

“But when this bloody king knew what he was, and in what order he and
his cousin Musidorus (so much of him feared) were come out of
Thessalia, assuredly thinking, because ever thinking the worst, that
those forces were provided against him; glad of the perishing, as he
thought, of Musidorus, determined in public sort to put Pyrocles to
death. For having quite lost the way of nobleness, he strove to climb
to the height of terribleness; and thinking to make all men adread, to
make such one an enemy who would not spare, not fear to kill so great
a prince; and lastly, having nothing in him why to make him his
friend, he thought he would take him away from being his enemy. The
day was appointed, and all things prepared for that cruel blow, in so
solemn an order, as if they would set forth tyranny in most gorgeous
decking. The princely youth, of invincible valour, yet so unjustly
subjected to such outrageous wrong, carrying himself in all his
demeanour, so constantly abiding extremity, that one might see it was
the cutting away of the greatest hope of the world, and destroying
virtue in his sweetest growth.

“But so it fell out, that his death was prevented by a rare example of
friendship in Musidorus, who, being almost drowned, had been taken up
by a fisherman belonging to the kingdom of Bithynia: and being there,
and understanding the full discourse (as fame was very prodigal of so
notable an accident) in what case Pyrocles was: learning withal that
his hate was far more to him than to Pyrocles, he found means to
acquaint himself with a nobleman of that country, to whom largely
discovering what he was, he found him a most fit instrument to
effectuate his desire. For this nobleman had been one, who in many
wars had served Euarchus, {164} and had been so mind-stricken by the
beauty of virtue in that noble king that, though not born his subject,
he ever professed himself his servant. His desire therefore to him was
to keep Musidorus in a strong castle of his, and then to make the king
of Phrygia understand, that if he would deliver Pyrocles, Musidorus
would willingly put himself into his hands, knowing well, that how
thirsty soever he was of Pyrocles’s blood, he would rather drink that
of Musidorus.

“The nobleman was loth to preserve one by the loss of another, but
time urging resolution, the importunity of Musidorus, which showed a
mind not to over-live Pyrocles, with the affection he bare to
Euarchus, so prevailed, that he carried this strange offer of
Musidorus, which by the tyrant was greedily accepted.

“And so upon security of both sides, they were interchanged: where I
may not omit the work of friendship in Pyrocles, who both in speech
and countenance to Musidorus, well showed that he thought himself
injured and not relieved by him; asking him what he had ever seen in
him, why he could not bear the extremities of mortal accidents as well
as any man? and why he should envy him the glory of suffering death
for his friend’s cause, and, as it were, rob him of his own
possession? but in that notable contention (where the conquest must be
the conqueror’s destruction, and safety the punishment of the
conquered) Musidorus prevailed because he was a more welcome prey to
the unjust king; and a cheerfully going towards, as Pyrocles went
frowardly fromward his death, he was delivered to the king, who could
not be enough sure of him, without he fed his own eyes upon one whom
he had begun to fear, as soon as the other began to be.

“Yet because he would in one act both make ostentation of his own
felicity, into whose hands his most feared enemy was fallen, and
withal cut off such hopes from his suspected subjects, when they
should know certainly he was dead, with much more skilful cruelty, and
horrible solemnity he caused each thing to be prepared for his triumph
of tyranny. And so the day being come, he was led forth by many armed
men who often had been the fortifiers of wickedness, to the place of
execution, where coming with a mind comforted in that he had done such
service to Pyrocles, this strange encounter he had.

“The excelling Pyrocles was no sooner delivered by the king’s servants
to a place of liberty than he bent his wit and courage, and what would
they not bring to pass? how either to deliver Musidorus, or to perish
with him. And finding he could get in that country no forces
sufficient by force to rescue him to bring himself to die with him,
little hoping of better event, he put himself in poor raiment, and by
the help of some few crowns he took of {165} that nobleman, who full
of sorrow, though not knowing the secret of his intent, suffered him
to go in such order from him, he, even he, born to the greatest
expectation, and of the greatest blood that any prince might be,
submitted himself to be servant to the executioner that should put to
death Musidorus: a far notabler proof of his friendship, considering
the height of his mind, than any death could be. That bad officer not
suspecting him, being arrayed fit for such an estate, and having his
beauty hidden by many foul spots he artificially put upon his face,
gave him leave not only to wear a sword himself, but to bear his sword
prepared for the justified murder. And so Pyrocles taking his time,
when Musidorus was upon the scaffold, separated somewhat from the
rest, as allowed to say something, he stepped unto him, and putting
the sword into his hand, not bound, a point of civility the officers
used towards him because they doubted no such enterprise, ‘Musidorus,’
said he, ‘die nobly.’ In truth never man between joy before knowledge
what to be glad of, and fear after considering his case, had such a
confusion of thoughts, as I had, when I saw Pyrocles so near me.” But
with that Dorus blushed, and Pamela smiled, and Dorus the more blushed
at her smiling, and she the more smiled at his blushing, because he
had, with the remembrance of that plight he was in, forgotten in
speaking of himself to use the third person.

But Musidorus turned again her thoughts from his cheeks to his tongue
in this sort: “But,” said he, “when they were with swords in hands,
not turning backs one to the other, for there they knew was no place
of defence, but making it a preservation in not hoping to be
preserved, and now acknowledging themselves subject to death, meaning
only to do honour to their princely birth, they flew amongst them all,
for all were enemies, and had quickly either with flight or death,
left none upon the scaffold to annoy them, wherein Pyrocles, the
excellent Pyrocles, did such wonders beyond belief, as was able to
lead Musidorus to courage, though he had been born a coward. But
indeed just rage and desperate virtue did such effects, that the
popular sort of the beholders began to be almost superstitiously
amazed, as at effects beyond mortal power. But the king with angry
threatenings from out a window, where he was not ashamed the world
should behold him a beholder, commanded his guard and the rest of his
soldiers to hasten their death. But many of them lost their bodies to
lose their souls, when the princes grew almost so weary, as they were
ready to be conquered with conquering.

“But as they were still fighting with weak arms and strong hearts, it
happened that one of the soldiers, commanded to go up after his
fellows against the princes, having received a light hurt, {166} more
wounded in his heart, went back with as much diligence as he came up
with modesty: which another of his fellows seeing, to pick a thank of
the king, struck him upon the face, reviling him that so accompanied,
he would run away from so few. But he, as many times it falls out,
only valiant, when he was angry, in revenge thrust him through: which
with his death was straight revenged by a brother of his, and that
again requited by a fellow of the others. There began to be a great
tumult amongst the soldiers: which seen, and not understood by the
people, used to fears, but not used to be bold in them, some began to
cry treason; and that voice straight multiplying itself, the king, O
the cowardice of a guilty conscience, before any man set upon him,
fled away. Where with a bruit, either by art or some well-meaning men,
or by some chance, as such things often fall out by, ran from one to
the other that the king was slain: wherewith certain young men of the
bravest minds, cried with a loud voice, ‘Liberty,’ and encouraging the
other citizens to follow them, set upon the guard and soldiers as
chief instruments of tyranny: and quickly aided by the princes, they
had left none of them alive, nor any other in the city, who they
thought had in any sort set his hand to the work of their servitude,
and, god knows, by the blindness of rage, killing many guiltless
persons, either for affinity to the tyrant, or enmity to the
tyrant-killers. But some of the wiser, seeing that a popular license
is indeed the many-headed tyranny, prevailed with the rest to make
Musidorus their chief: choosing one of them, because princes, to
defend them; and him, because elder and most hated of the tyrant, and
by him to be ruled: whom forthwith they lifted up, Fortune, I think
smiling at her work therein, that a scaffold of execution should grow
to a scaffold of coronation.

“But by and by there came news of more certain truth, that the king
was not dead, but fled to a strong castle of his near hand, where he
was gathering forces in all speed possible to suppress this mutiny.
But now they had run themselves too far out of breath, to go back
again to the same career; and too well they knew the sharpness of his
memory to forget such an injury; therefore learning virtue of
necessity, they continued resolute to obey Musidorus, who seeing what
forces were in the city, with them issued against the tyrant, while
they were in this heat, before practices might be used to deliver
them, and with them met the king, who likewise hoping little to
prevail by time, knowing and finding his people’s hate, met him with
little delay in the field where himself was slain by Musidorus, after
he had seen his only son, a prince of great courage and beauty, but
fostered up in blood by his naughty father, slain by the hand of
Pyrocles. This victory obtained with great and truly not undeserved
honour to the two {167} princes, the whole estates of the country with
one consent, gave the crown and all other marks of sovereignty to
Musidorus, desiring nothing more than to live under such a government
as they promised themselves of him.

“But he, thinking it a greater greatness to give a kingdom, than get a
kingdom, understanding that there was left of the blood royal, and
next to the succession, an aged gentleman of approved goodness, who
had gotten nothing by his cousin’s power but danger from him, and
odiousness for him, having passed his time in modest secrecy, and as
much from intermeddling in matters of government, as the greatness of
his blood would suffer him, did, after having received the full power
to his own hand, resign all to the nobleman; but with such conditions,
and cautions of the conditions, as might assure the people, with as
much assurance as worldly matters bear, that not only that governor,
of whom indeed they looked for of good, but the nature of the
government, should be no way apt to decline to tyranny.

“This doing set forth no less the magnificence than the other act did
his magnanimity; so that greatly praised of all, and justly beloved of
the new king, who in all both words and behaviour protested himself
their tenant and liegeman, they were drawn thence to revenge those two
servants of theirs, of whose memorable faith, I told you, most
excellent princess, in willingly giving themselves to be drowned for
their sakes: but drowned indeed they were not, but got with painful
swimming upon a rock, from whence, after being come as near famishing
as before drowning, the weather breaking up, they were brought to the
mainland of Bithynia, the same country upon which Musidorus also was
fallen, but not in so lucky a place.

“For they were brought to the king of the country, a tyrant also not
through suspicion, greediness or revengefulness, as he of Phrygia,
but, as I may term it, of a wanton cruelty: inconstant in his choice
of friends, or rather never having a friend but a play-fellow; of whom
when he was weary, he could not otherwise rid himself than by killing
them; giving sometimes prodigally, not because he loved them to whom
he gave, but because he lusted to give; punishing, not so much for
hate or anger, as because he felt not the smart of punishment;
delighted to be flattered, at first for those virtues which were not
in him, at length making his vices virtues worthy the flattering; with
like judgment glorying, when he had happened to do a thing well, as
when he had performed some notable mischief.

“He chanced at that time, for indeed long time none lasted with him,
to have next in use about him a man of the most envious disposition
that, I think, ever infected the air with his breath; {168} whose eyes
could not look right upon any happy man, nor ears bear the burden of
anybody’s praise; contrary to the natures of all other plagues,
plagued with others’ well being; making happiness the ground of his
unhappiness, and good news the argument of his sorrow: in sum, a man
whose favour no man could win, but by being miserable. And so because
those two faithful servants of theirs came in miserable sort to that
court, he was apt enough at first to favour them; and the king
understanding of their adventure, wherein they had showed so constant
a faith unto their lords, suddenly falls to take a pride in making
much of them, extolling them with infinite praises, and praising
himself in his heart, in that he praised them. And by and by where
they made great courtiers, and in the way of minions, when
advancement, the most mortal offence to envy, stirred up their former
friend to overthrow his own work in them; taking occasion upon the
knowledge, newly come to the court, of the late death of the king of
Phrygia destroyed by their two lords, who having been a near kinsman
to this prince of Pontus, by this envious counsellor, partly with
suspicion of practice, partly with glory of, in part, revenging his
cousin’s death, the king was suddenly turned, and every turn with him
was a down-fall, to lock them up in prison, as servants to his
enemies, whom before he had never known, nor, till that time one of
his own subjects had entertained and dealt for them, did ever take
heed of. But now earnest in every present humour, and making himself
brave in his liking, he was content to give them just cause of
offence, when they had power to make just revenge. Yet did the princes
send unto him before they entered into war, desiring their servants’
liberty. But he, swelling in their humbleness like a bubble blown up
with a small breath broken with a great, forgetting, or never knowing
humanity, caused their heads to be stricken off, by the advice of his
envious counsellor, who now hated them so much the more, as he foresaw
their happiness in having such, and so fortunate masters, and sent
them with unroyal reproaches to Musidorus and Pyrocles, as if they had
done traitorously, and not heroically in killing his tyrannical

“But that injury went beyond all degree of reconcilement, so that they
making forces in Phrygia, a kingdom wholly at their commandment, by
the love of the people, and gratefulness of the king, they entered his
country; and wholly conquering it, with such deeds as at least fame
said were excellent, took the king, and by Musidorus’s commandment,
Pyrocles’s heart more inclining to pity, he was slain upon the tomb of
their two true servants; which they caused to be made for them with
royal expenses, and notable workmanship to preserve their dead lives.
For his wicked servant he should have felt the like, or worse, but
that his heart broke {169} even to death with the beholding the honour
done to their dead carcasses. There might Pyrocles quietly have
enjoyed that crown, by all the desire of that people, most of whom had
revolted unto him, but he finding a sister of the late king’s, a fair
and well esteemed lady, looking for nothing more, than to be oppressed
with her brother’s ruins, gave her in marriage to the nobleman his
father’s old friend, and endowed with them the crown of that kingdom.
And not content with those public actions of princely, and as it were,
governing virtue, they did, in that kingdom and some other near about,
divers acts of particular trials, more famous because more perilous.
For in that time those regions were full both of cruel monsters, and
monstrous men, all which in short time by private combats they
delivered the countries of.

“Among the rest, two brothers of huge both greatness and force,
therefore commonly called giants, who kept themselves in a castle
seated upon the top of a rock, impregnable, because there was no
coming unto it but by one narrow path where one man’s force was able
to keep down an army. Those brothers had a while served the king of
Pontus, and in all his affairs, especially of war, whereunto they were
only apt, they had showed, as unconquered courage, so a rude
faithfulness: being men indeed by nature apter to the faults of rage
than of deceit; not greatly ambitious, more than to be well and
uprightly dealt with; rather impatient of injury, than delighted with
more than ordinary courtesies; and in injuries more sensible of smart
or loss than of reproach or disgrace. Those men being of this nature,
and certainly jewels to a wise man, considering what indeed wonders
they were able to perform, yet were discarded by that worthy prince,
after many notable deserts, as not worthy the holding, which was the
more evident to them because it suddenly fell from an excess of
favour, which, many examples having taught them, never stopped his
race till it came to an headlong overthrow: they full of rage, retired
themselves unto this castle: where thinking nothing juster than
revenge, nor more notable than the effects of anger, that, according
to the nature, full of inward bravery and fierceness, scarcely in the
glass of reason, thinking itself fair but when it is terrible, they
immediately gave themselves to make all the country about them subject
to that king, to smart for their lord’s folly, not caring how innocent
they were, but rather thinking the more innocent they were, the more
it testified their spite, which they desired to manifest. And with use
of evil, growing more and more evil, they took delight in slaughter,
and pleased themselves in making others’ wrack the effect of their
power: so that where in the time that they obeyed a master, their
anger was a serviceable power of the mind to do public good, so now
unbridled, and blind judge of itself, it made wickedness {170}
violent, and praised itself in excellency of mischief, almost to the
ruin of the country, not greatly regarded by their careless and
loveless king. Till now those princes finding them so fleshed in
cruelty as not to be reclaimed, secretly undertook the matter alone:
for accompanied they would not have suffered them to have mounted; and
so those great fellows scornfully receiving them, as foolish birds
fallen into their net, it pleased the eternal justice to make them
suffer death by their hands: and so they were manifoldly acknowledged
the savers of that country.

“It were the part of a very idle orator to set forth the numbers of
well-devised honours done unto them, but as high honour is not only
gotten and born by pain and danger, but must be nursed by the like, or
else vanisheth as soon as it appears to the world, so the natural
hunger thereof, which was in Pyrocles suffered him not to account a
resting seat of that, which either riseth or falleth, but still to
make one occasion beget another, whereby his doings might send his
praise to others’ mouths to rebound again true contentment to his
spirit. And therefore having well established those kingdoms under
good governors, and rid them by their valour of such giants and
monsters, as before-time armies were not able to subdue, they
determined in unknown order to see more of the world, and to employ
those gifts, esteemed rare in them, to the good of mankind; and
therefore would themselves, understanding that the king Euarchus was
passed all the cumber of his war, go privately to seek exercises of
their virtue, thinking it not so worthy to be brought to heroical
effects by fortune or necessity, like Ulysses and Aeneas, as by one’s
own choice and working. And so went they away from very unwilling
people to leave them, making time haste itself to be a circumstance of
their honour, and one place witness to another of the truth of their
doings. For scarcely were they out of the confines of Pontus, but that
as they rode alone armed, for alone they went, one serving the other,
they met an adventure, which though not so notable for any great
effect they performed, yet worthy to be remembered for the unused
examples therein, as well of true natural goodness as of wretched

“It was in the kingdom of Galatia, the season being, as in the depth
of winter, very cold and as then suddenly grown to so extreme and foul
a storm, that never any winter, I think, brought forth a fouler child:
so that the princes were even compelled by the hail, that the pride of
the wind blew into their faces, to seek some shrouding place, which a
certain hollow rock offering unto them, they made it their shield
against the tempest’s fury. And so staying there, till the violence
thereof was passed, they heard the speech of a couple, who not
perceiving them, being hid within {171} that rude canopy, held a
strange and pitiful disputation, which made them step out, yet in such
sort as they might see unseen. There they perceived an aged man, and a
young, scarcely come to the age of a man, both poorly arrayed,
extremely weather-beaten; the old man blind, and the young man leading
him; and yet through all those miseries, in both there seemed to
appear a kind of nobleness, not suitable to that affliction. But the
first words they heard, were those of the old man. ‘Well Leonatus,’
said he, ‘since I cannot persuade thee to lead me to that which should
end my grief and my trouble, let me now entreat thee to leave me: fear
not, my misery cannot be greater than it is, and nothing doth become
me but misery: fear not the danger of my blind steps, I cannot fall
worse than I am: and do not I pray thee, do not obstinately continue
to infect thee with my wretchedness: but fly, fly from this region
only worthy of me.’ ‘Dear father,’ answered he, ‘do not take away from
me the only remnant of my happiness: while I have power to do you
service, I am not wholly miserable.’ ‘Ah my son,’ said he, and with
that he groaned, as if sorrow strove to break his heart, ‘how evil
fits it me to have such a son? and how much doth thy kindness upbraid
my wickedness?’ Those doleful speeches, and some others to like
purpose, well showing they had not been born to the fortune they were
in, moved the princes to go out unto them, and ask the younger what
they were? ‘Sirs,’ answered he with a good grace, and made the more
agreeable by a certain noble kind of piteousness, ‘I see well you are
strangers that know not our misery, so well here known that no man
dare know but that we must be miserable. Indeed our state is such, as
though nothing is so needful unto us as pity, yet nothing is more
dangerous unto us than to make ourselves so known as may stir pity:
but your presence promiseth that cruelly shall not over-run hate, and
if it did, in truth our state is sunk below the degree of fear.

“‘This old man, whom I lead, was lately rightful prince of this
country of Paphlagonia, by the hard-hearted ungratefulness of a son of
his, deprived not only of his kingdom, whereof no foreign forces were
ever able to spoil him, but of his sight, the riches which nature
grants to the poorest creatures: whereby and by other his unnatural
dealings, he hath been driven to such griefs, as even now he would
have had me to have led him to the top of this rock, thence to cast
himself headlong to death, and so would have had me, who received my
life of him, to be the worker of his destruction. But noble
gentlemen,’ said he, ‘if either of you have a father, and feel what
dutiful affection is ingrafted in a son’s heart, let me entreat you to
convey this afflicted prince to some place of rest and security:
amongst your worthy acts it shall be {172} none of the least, that a
king of such might and fame, and so unjustly oppressed, is in any sort
by you relieved.’

“But before they could make him answer, his father began to speak. ‘Ah
my son,’ said he, ‘how evil an historian are you that leave out the
chief knot of all the discourse? my wickedness, my wickedness! and if
thou dost it to spare my ears, the only sense now left me proper for
knowledge, assure thyself thou dost mistake me: and I take witness of
that sun which you see,’ with that he cast up his blind eyes as if he
would hunt for light, ‘and wish myself in worse case than I do wish
myself, which is as evil as may be, if I speak untruly, that nothing
is so welcome to my thoughts as the publishing of my shame. Therefore
know, you gentlemen (to whom from my heart I wish that it may not
prove some ominous foretoken of misfortune to have met with such a
miser as I am) that whatsoever my son, O God, that truth binds me to
reproach him with the name of my son, hath said is true. But besides
those truths, this also is true, that having had, in lawful marriage,
of a mother fit to bear royal children, this son, such a one as partly
you see, and better shall know by my short declaration, and so enjoyed
the expectations in the world of him, till he was grown to justify
their expectations, so as I needed envy no father for the chief
comfort of mortality, to leave another one’s-self after me, I was
carried by a bastard son of mine, if at least I be bound to believe
the words of that base woman my concubine, his mother, first to
mislike, then to hate, lastly to destroy, or to do my best to destroy
this son, I think you think, undeserving destruction. What ways she
used to bring me to it, if I should tell you, I should tediously
trouble you with as much poisonous hypocrisy, desperate fraud, smooth
malice, hidden ambition, and smiling envy, as in any living person
could be harboured: but I list it not; no remembrance of naughtiness
delights me but mine own; and methinks, the accusing his traps might
in some manner excuse my fault, which certainly I loath to do. But the
conclusion is, that I gave order to some servants of mine, whom I
thought as apt for such charities as myself, to lead him out into a
forest, and there to kill him.

“‘But those thieves, better natured to my son than myself, spared his
life, letting him go to learn to live poorly which he did, giving
himself to be a private soldier in a country hereby: but as he was
ready to be greatly advanced for some noble pieces of service which he
did, he heard news of me, who drunk in my affection to that unlawful
and unnatural son of mine, suffered myself to be governed by him, that
all favours and punishments passed by him, all offices and places of
importance distributed to his favourites; so that, ere I was aware, I
had left myself nothing but the name {173} of a king, which he shortly
weary of too, with many indignities if anything may be called an
indignity which was laid upon me, threw me out of my seat, and put out
my eyes, and then, proud in his tyranny, let me go, neither
imprisoning, nor killing me, but rather delighting to make me feel my
misery; misery indeed, if ever there were any; full of wretchedness,
fuller of disgrace, and fullest of guiltiness. And as he came to the
crown by so unjust means, as unjustly he kept it, by force of stronger
soldiers in citadels, the nests of tyranny and murderers of liberty;
disarming all his own countrymen, that no man durst show himself a
well-willer of mine: to say the truth, I think, few of them being so,
considering my cruel folly to my good son, and foolish kindness to my
unkind bastard: but if there were any who felt a pity of so great a
fall, and had yet any sparks of unslain duty left in them towards me,
yet durst they not show it, scarcely with giving me alms at their
doors, which yet was the only sustenance of my distressed life, nobody
daring to show so much charity as to lend me a hand to guide my dark
steps, till this son of mine, God knows, worthy of a more virtuous,
and more fortunate father, forgetting my abominable wrongs, not
reckoning danger, and neglecting the present good way he was in of
doing himself good, came hither to do this kind office you see him
perform towards me, to my unspeakable grief; not only because his
kindness is a glass even to my blind eyes of my naughtiness, but that
above all griefs, it grieves me he should desperately adventure the
loss of his well-deserving life for mine that yet owe more to fortune
for my deserts, as if he would carry mud in a chest of crystal. For
well I know, he that now reigneth, how much soever, and with good
reason, he despiseth me, of all men despised; yet he will not let slip
any advantage to make away with him, whose just title, ennobled by
courage and goodness, may one day shake the seat of a never secure
tyranny. And for this cause I craved of him to lead me to the top of
this rock, indeed I must confess, with meaning to free him from so
serpentine a companion, as I am. But he finding what I purposed, only
therein since he was born, showed himself disobedient unto me. And now
gentlemen, you have the true story, which I pray you publish to the
world, that my mischievous proceedings may be the glory of his filial
piety, the only reward now left for so great a merit. And if it may
be, let me obtain that of you, which my son denies me: for never was
there more pity in saving any than in ending me, both because therein
my agony shall end, and so you shall perceive this excellent young
man, who else wilfully follows his own ruin.’

“The matter in itself lamentable, lamentably expressed by the old
prince, which needed not take to himself the gestures of pity, {174}
since his face could not put off the marks thereof, greatly moved the
two princes to compassion, which could not stay in such hearts as
theirs without seeking remedy. But by and by the occasion was
presented: for Plexirtus, so was the bastard called, came thither with
forty horse, only of purpose to murder his brother, of whose coming he
had soon advertisement, and thought no eyes of sufficient credit in
such a matter but his own, and therefore came himself to be actor and
spectator. And as soon as he came, not regarding the weak, as he
thought, guard but of two men, commanded some of his followers to set
their hands to his, in the killing of Leonatus. But the young prince,
though not otherwise armed but with a sword, how falsely soever he was
dealt with by others, would not betray himself, but bravely drawing it
out, made the death of the first that assailed him, warn his fellows
to come more warily after him. But then Pyrocles and Musidorus were
quickly become parties (so just a defence deserving as much as old
friendship) and so did behave them among that company, more injurious
than valiant, that many of them lost their lives for their wicked

“Yet perhaps had the number of them at last prevailed, if the king of
Pontus, lately by them made so, had not come unlooked for to their
succour. Who (having had a dream which had fixed his imagination
vehemently upon some great danger, presently to follow those two
princes, whom he most dearly loved) was come in all haste, following
as well as he could their track, with a hundred horses in that
country, which he thought, considering who then reigned, a fit place
enough to make the stage of any tragedy.

“But then the match had been so ill made for Plexirtus that his
ill-led life and worse-gotten honour should have tumbled together to
destruction had there not come in Tydeus and Telenor, with forty or
fifty in their suite, to the defence of Plexirtus. These two were
brothers, of the noblest house of that country, brought up from their
infancy with Plexirtus, men of such prowess as not to know fear in
themselves, and yet to teach it in others that should deal with them,
for they had often made their lives triumph over most terrible
dangers, never dismayed, and ever fortunate; and truly no more settled
in valour, than disposed to goodness and justice, if either they had
lighted on a better friend, or could have learned to make friendship a
child, and not the father of virtue. But bringing up, rather than
choice, having first knit their minds unto him (indeed crafty enough,
either to hide his faults, or never to show them, but when they might
pay home) they willingly held out the course, rather to satisfy him
than all the world; and rather to be good friends, than good men: so
as though they did not like the evil he did, yet they liked him that
did the evil: and though {175} not counsellors of the offence, yet
protectors of the offender. Now they having heard of this sudden going
out with so small a company, in a country full of evil-wishing minds
towards him, though they knew not the cause, followed him; till they
found him in such case that they were to venture their lives, or else
he to lose his, which they did with such force of mind and body, that
truly I may justly say, Pyrocles and Musidorus had never till then
found any that could make them so well repeat their hardest lesson in
the feats of arms. And briefly so they did; that if they overcame not,
yet were they not overcome, but carried away that ungrateful master of
theirs to a place of security, howsoever the princes laboured to the
contrary. But this matter being thus far begun, it became not the
constancy of the princes so to leave it; but in all haste making
forces both in Pontus, and Phrygia, they had in few days left him but
only that one strong place where he was. For, fear having been the
only knot that had fastened his people unto him, that once united by a
greater force, they all scattered from him, like so many birds whose
cage had been broken.

“In which season the blind king, having in the chief city of his realm
set the crown upon his son Leonatus’s head, with many tears both of
joy and sorrow, setting forth to the whole people his own faults, and
his son’s virtue; after he had kissed him, and forced his son to
accept honour of him, as of his new-become subject, even in a moment
died, as it should seem, his heart broken with unkindness and
affliction, stretched so far beyond his limits with this access of
comfort that it was able no longer to keep safe his vital spirits. But
the new king, having no less lovingly performed all duties to him
dead, than alive, pursued on the siege of his unnatural brother, as
much for the revenge of his father as the establishing of his own
quiet. In which siege truly I cannot but acknowledge the prowess of
those two brothers, than whom the princes never found in all their
travel, two of greater ability to perform, nor of abler skill for

“But Plexirtus finding that if nothing else, famine would at last
bring him to destruction, thought better by humbleness to creep, where
by pride he could not march. For certainly so had Nature formed him,
and the exercise of craft conformed him to all turningness of flights,
that, though no man had less goodness in his soul than he, no man
could better find the places whence arguments might grow of goodness
to another; though no man felt less pity, no man could tell better how
to stir pity; no man more impudent to deny, where proofs were not
manifest; no man more ready to confess with a repenting manner of
aggravating his own evil, where denial would but make the fault
fouler. Now he took this way, that having gotten a passport for one,
that pretended he {176} would put Plexirtus alive into his hands, to
speak with the king his brother, he himself (though much against the
minds of the valiant brothers, who rather wished to die in brave
defence) with a rope about his neck, bare-footed, came to offer
himself to the discretion of Leonatus. Where what submission he used,
how cunningly in making greater the fault, he made the faultiness the
less, how artificially he could set out the torments of his own
conscience, with the burdensome cumber he had found of his ambitious
desires, how finely seeming to desire nothing but death, as ashamed to
live, he begged life in the refusing it, I am not cunning enough to be
able to express; but so fell out of it, that though at first sight
Leonatus saw him with no other eye than as the murderer of his father,
and anger already began to paint revenge in many colours, ere long he
had not only gotten pity but pardon; and if not an excuse of the fault
past, yet an opinion of a future amendment: while the poor villains
(chief ministers of his wickedness, now betrayed by the author
thereof) were delivered to many cruel sorts of death; he so handling
it, that it rather seemed he had more come into the defence of an
unremediable mischief already committed than that they had done it at
first by his consent.

“In such sort the princes left these reconciled brothers (Plexirtus in
all his behaviour carrying him in far lower degree of service than the
ever-noble nature of Leonatus would suffer him) and taking likewise
their leaves of their good friend the king of Pontus, who returned to
enjoy some benefit, both of his wife and kingdom, they privately went
thence, having only with them the two valiant brothers, who would
needs accompany them through divers places, they four doing acts more
dangerous, though less famous, because they were but private
chivalries; till hearing of the fair and virtuous queen Erona of
Lycia, besieged by the puissant king of Armenia, they bent themselves
to her succour, both because the weaker, and weaker as being a lady,
and partly because they heard the king of Armenia had in his company
three of the most famous men living, for matters of arms, that were
known to be in the world. Whereof one was the prince Plangus whose
name was sweetened by your breath, peerless lady, when the last day it
pleased you to mention him unto me, the other two were two great
princes, though holding of him, Barzanes and Euardes, men of
giant-like both hugeness and force; in which two especially, the trust
the king had of victory was reposed. And of them, those brothers
Tydeus and Telenor, sufficient judges in warlike matters, spoke so
high commendations, that the two princes had even a youthful longing
to have some trial of their virtue. And therefore as soon as they were
entered into Lycia, they joined themselves with them that faithfully
served the poor queen, at that time besieged; and ere {177} long
animated in such sort their almost overthrown hearts, that they went
by force to relieve the town, though they were deprived of a great
part of their strength by the parting of the two brothers, who were
sent for in all haste to return to their old friend and master
Plexirtus, who, willingly hoodwinking themselves from seeing his
faults, and binding themselves to believe what he said, often abused
the virtue of courage to defend his foul vice of injustice. But now
they were sent for to advance a conquest he was about; while Pyrocles
and Musidorus pursued the delivery of the queen Erona.”

“I have heard,” said Pamela, “that part of the story of Plangus, when
he passed through this country, therefore you may, if you list, pass
over that war of Erona’s quarrel, lest if you speak too much of war
matters, you should wake Mopsa, which might happily breed a great
broil.” He looked, and saw that Mopsa indeed sat swallowing the sleep
with open mouth, making such a noise withal, as nobody could lay the
stealing of a nap to her charge. Whereupon, willing to use that
occasion, he kneeled down, and with humble heartedness, and hearty
earnestness printed in his graces; “Alas!” said he, “divine lady, who
have wrought such miracles in me, as to make a prince, none of the
basest, to think all principalities base in respect of the sheephook
which may hold him up in your sight; vouchsafe now at last to hear in
direct words my humble suit, while this dragon sleeps that keeps the
golden fruit. If in my desire I wish, or in my hopes aspire, or in my
imagination fain to myself anything which may be the least spot to
that heavenly virtue which shines in all your doings, I pray the
eternal powers, that the words I speak may be deadly poisons, while
they are in my mouth, and that all my hopes, all my desires, all my
imaginations may only work their own confusion. But if love, love of
you, love of your virtues, seek only that favour of you, which
becometh that gratefulness which cannot misbecome your excellency, O
do not--” He would have said further, but Pamela calling aloud Mopsa,
she suddenly started up, staggering, and rubbing her eyes, ran first
out of the door, and then back to them, before she knew how she went
out, or why she came in again: till at length, being fully come to her
little self, she asked Pamela why she had called her. For nothing said
Pamela, but that ye might hear some tales of your servant’s telling:
“and therefore now,” said she, “Dorus go on.”

But as he, who found no so good sacrifice as obedience, was returning
to the story of himself, Philoclea came in, and by and by after her,
Miso, so as for that time they were fain to let Dorus depart. But
Pamela delighted even to preserve in her memory the words of so well a
beloved speaker, repeated the whole {178} substance to her sister,
till their sober dinner being come and gone, to recreate themselves
something, even tired with the noisomeness of Miso’s conversation,
they determined to go, while the heat of the day lasted, to bathe
themselves, such being the manner of the Arcadian nymphs often to do,
in the river of Ladon, and take with them a lute, meaning to delight
them under some shadow. But they could not stir, but that Miso, with
her daughter Mopsa was after them: and as it lay in their way to pass
by the other lodge, Zelmane out of her window espied them, and so
stole down after them, which she might the better do, because that
Gynecia was sick, and Basilius, that day being his birth-day,
according to his manner, was busy about his devotions; and therefore
she went after, hoping to find some time to speak with Philoclea: but
not a word could she begin, but that Miso would be one of the
audience, so that she was driven to recommend thinking, speaking, and
all, to her eyes, who diligently performed her trust, till they came
to the river’s side, which of all the rivers of Greece had the praise
for excellent pureness and sweetness, insomuch as the very bathing in
it was accounted exceeding healthful. It ran upon so fine and delicate
a ground, as one could not easily judge whether the river did more
wash the gravel, or the gravel did purify the river; the river not
running forthright, but almost continually winding, as if the lower
streams would return to their spring, or that the river had a delight
to play with itself. The banks of either side seeming arms of the
loving earth that fain would embrace it, and the river a wanton nymph
which still would slip from it; either side of the bank being fringed
with most beautiful trees, which resisted the sun’s darts from
overmuch piercing the natural coldness of the river. There was among
the rest a goodly cypress, who bowing her fair head over the water, it
seemed she looked into it, and dressed her green locks by that running

There the princesses determining to bathe themselves, though it was so
privileged a place, upon pain of death, as nobody durst presume to
come hither; yet for the more surety, they looked round about, and
could see nothing but a water-spaniel, who came down the river,
showing that he hunted for a duck, and with a snuffling grace,
disdaining that his smelling force could not as well prevail through
the water as through the air; and therefore waiting with his eye to
see whether he could espy the ducks getting up again, but then a
little below them failing of his purpose, he got out of the river, and
shaking off the water (as great men do their friends) now he had no
further cause to use it, inweeded himself so that the ladies lost the
further marking his sportfulness: and inviting Zelmane also to wash
herself with them, and she excusing {179} herself with having taken a
late cold, they began by piecemeal to take away the eclipsing of their

Zelmane would have put to her helping hand, but she was taken with
such a quivering, that she thought it more wisdom to lean herself to a
tree, and look on, while Miso and Mopsa, like a couple of foreswat
melters, were getting the pure silver of their bodies out of the ure
of their garments. But as the raiments went off to receive kisses of
the ground, Zelmane envied the happiness of all, but of the smock was
even jealous, and when that was taken away too, and that Philoclea
remained, for her Zelmane only marked, like a diamond taken from out
of the rock, or rather like the sun getting from under a cloud, and
showing his naked beams to the full view, then was the beauty too much
for a patient sight, the delight too strong for a stayed conceit, so
that Zelmane could not choose but run, to touch, embrace and kiss her.
But conscience made her come to herself, and leave Philoclea, who
blushing, and withal smiling, making shamefacedness pleasant, and
pleasure shamefaced, tenderly moved her feet, unwonted to feel the
naked ground, till the touch of the cold water made a pretty kind of
shrugging come over her body, like the twinkling of the fairest among
the fixed stars. But the river itself gave way unto her, so that she
was straight breast high, which was the deepest that thereabout she
could be: and when cold Ladon had once fully embraced them, himself
was no more so cold to those ladies, but as if his cold complexion had
been heated with love, so seemed he to play about every part he could

“Ah sweet, now sweetest Ladon,” said Zelmane, “why dost thou not stay
thy course to have more full taste of thy happiness? but the reason is
manifest, the upper streams make such haste to have their part of
embracing, that the nether, though lothly, must needs give place unto
them. O happy Ladon, within whom she is, upon whom her beauty falls,
through whom her eye pierceth. O happy Ladon, which art now an
unperfect mirror of all perfection, can’st thou ever forget the
blessedness of this impression? if thou do, then let thy bed be turned
from fine gravel to weeds and mud; if thou do, let some unjust
niggards make wares to spoil thy beauty; if thou do, let some greater
river fall into thee, to take away the name of Ladon, O! Ladon, happy
Ladon, rather slide than run by her, lest thou should’st make her legs
slip from her, and then, O happy Ladon, who would then call thee, but
the most cursed Ladon?” But as the ladies played then in the water,
sometimes striking it with their hands, the water, making lines in his
face, seemed to smile at such beating, and with twenty bubbles not to
be content to have the picture of their face in large {180} upon him,
but he would in each of these bubbles set forth the miniature of them.

But Zelmane, whose sight was gain-said by nothing but the transparent
veil of Ladon (like a chamber where a great fire is kept, though the
fire be at one stay, yet with the continuance continually hath his
heat increased) had the coals of her affection so kindled with wonder,
and blown with delight, that now all her parts grudged, that her eyes
should do more homage, than they, to the princes of them. Insomuch
that taking up the lute, her wit began to be with a divine fury
inspired; her voice would in so beloved an occasion second her wit;
her hands accorded the lute’s music to the voice; her panting heart
danced to the music; while I think her feet did beat the time; while
her body was the room where it should be celebrated; her soul the
queen which should be delighted. And so together went the utterance
and invention, that one might judge, it was Philoclea’s beauty which
did speedily write it in her eyes; or the sense thereof, which did
word by word indite it in her mind, whereto she, but as an organ, did
only lend utterance. The song was to this purpose:

 What tongue can her perfection tell,
 In whose each part all tongues may dwell?
 Her hair fine threads of finest gold,
 In curled knots man’s thought to hold:
 But that her forehead says, “in me
 A whiter beauty you may see”;
 Whiter indeed, more white than snow,
 Which on cold winter’s face doth grow:
 That doth present those even brows,
 Whose equal line their angles bows;
 Like to the moon when after change
 Her horned head abroad doth range:
 And arches be two heavenly lids,
 Whose wink each bold attempt forbids.
 For the black stars those spheres contain,
 The matchless pair, even praise doth stain.
 No lamp whose light by art is got,
 No sun which shines, and seeth not,
 Can liken them without all peer,
 Save one as much as other clear:
 Which only thus unhappy be,
 Because themselves they cannot see.
 Her cheeks with kindly claret spread,
 Aurora-like new out of bed;
 Or like the fresh queen-apple’s side,
 Blushing at sight of Phoebus’ pride.
 Her nose, her chin pure ivory wears:
 No purer than the pretty ears.
 So that therein appears some blood
 Like wine and milk that mingled stood:
 In whose incirclets if ye gaze,
 Your eyes may tread a lover’s maze.
 But with such turns the voice to stray,
 No talk untaught can find the way.
 The tip no jewel needs to wear;
 The tip is jewel of the ear.
  But who those ruddy lips can miss,
 Which blessed still themselves to kiss?
 Rubies, cherries, and roses new,
 In worth, in taste, in perfect hue:
 Which never part, but that they show
 Of precious pearl the double row;
 The second-sweetly fenced ward,
 Her heavenly-dewed tongue to guard,
 Whence never word in vain did flow.
  Fair under those doth stately grow,
 The handle of this precious work,
 The neck in which strange graces lurk.
 Such be I think the sumptuous towers,
 Which skill doth make in princes’ bowers.
 So good assay invites the eye,
 A little downward to espy,
 The lively clusters of her breasts,
 Of Venus’ babe the wanton nests:
 Like pommels round of marble clear;
 Where azur’d veins well mix’d appear,
 With dearest tops of porphyry.
  Betwixt these two a way doth lie,
 A way more worthy beauty’s fame,
 Than that which bears the Milky name.
 This leads into the joyous field,
 Which only still doth lilies yield:
 But lilies such whose native smell,
 The Indians’ odors doth excel.
 Waist it is called, for it doth waste
 Men’s lives, until it be embrac’d.
  There may one see, and yet not see
 Her ribs in white all armed be,
 More white than Neptune’s foamy face,
 When struggling rocks he would embrace.
  In those delights the wand’ring thought
 Might of each side astray be brought,
 But that her navel doth unite,
 In curious circle busy sight;
 A dainty seal of virgin-wax,
 Where nothing but impression lacks.
  Her belly their glad sight doth fill,
 Justly entitled Cupid’s hill.
 A hill most fit for such a master,
 A spotless mine of alabaster.
 Like alabaster fair and sleek,
 But soft and supple, satin-like,
 In that sweet seat the boy doth sport:
 Loth, I must leave his chief resort.
 For such a use the world hath gotten,
 The best things still must be forgotten.
  Yet never shall my song omit
 Her thighs for Ovid’s song more fit;
 Which flanked with two sugared flanks,
 Lift up her stately swelling banks;
 That Albion cliffs in whiteness pass;
 With haunches smooth as looking-glass.
 But bow all knees, now of her knees
 My tongue doth tell what fancy sees.
 The knots of joy, the gems of love,
 Whose motion makes all graces move.
 Whose bough incav’d doth yield such sight,
 Like cunning painter shadowed white.
 The gartring place with child-like sign,
 Shows easy print in metal fine.
 But then again the flesh doth rise
 In her brave calves like crystal skies.
 Whose Atlas is a smallest small,
 More white than whitest bone of all.
  Thereout steals out that round clean foot
 This noble cedar’s precious root:
 In show and scent pale violets,
 Whose step on earth all beauty sets.
  But back unto her back, my Muse,
 Where Leda’s swan his feathers mews,
 Along whose ridge such bones are met,
 Like comfits round in marchpane set.
  Her shoulders be like to white doves,
 Perching within square royal rooves,
 Which leaded are with silver skin,
 Passing the hate-spot, emerlin.
  And thence those arms derived are;
 The Phoenix wings are not so rare
 For faultless length, and stainless hue.
  Ah woe is me, my woes renew.
 Now course doth lead me to her hand
 Of my first love the fatal band.
 Where whiteness doth for ever sit:
 Nature herself enamell’d it.
 For therewith strange compact doth lie
 Warm snow, moist pearl, soft ivory.
 There fall those sapphire-coloured brooks,
 Which conduit-like with curious crooks,
 Sweet islands make in that sweet land,
 As for the fingers of the hand,
 The bloody shafts of Cupid’s war,
 With amethysts they beaded are.
  Thus hath each part his beauty’s part:
 But how the graces do impart,
 To all her limbs a special grace,
 Becoming every time and place,
 Which doth even beauty beautify,
 And most bewitch the wretched eye.
 How all this is but a fair inn
 Of fairer guests, which dwell therein.
 Of whose high praise, and praiseful bliss,
 Goodness the pen, and Heaven paper is:
 The ink immortal fame doth lend:
 As I began, so must I end.
  No tongue can her perfection tell,
  In whose each part all tongues may dwell.

But as Zelmane was coming to the latter end of her song, she might see
the same water-spaniel which before had hunted, come and fetch away
one of Philoclea’s gloves, whose fine proportion, showed well what a
dainty guest was wont there to be lodged. It was a delight to Zelmane,
to see that the dog was therewith delighted, and so let him go a
little way withal, who quickly carried it out of sight among certain
trees and bushes, which were very close together. But by and by he
came again, and amongst the raiment. Miso and Mopsa being preparing
sheets against their coming out, the dog lighted of a little book of
four or five leaves of paper, and was bearing that away too. But when
Zelmane, not knowing what importance it might be of, ran after the
dog, who going straight to those bushes, she might see the dog deliver
it to a gentleman, who secretly lay there. But she hastily coming in,
the gentleman rose up, and with a courteous, though sad, countenance
presented himself unto her. Zelmane’s eyes straight willed her mind to
mark him, for she thought in herself, she had never seen a man of a
more goodly presence, in whom strong making took not away delicacy,
nor beauty fierceness: being indeed such a right man-like man, as
nature often erring, yet shows she would fain make. But when she had a
while, not without admiration, viewed him, she desired him to deliver
back the glove and paper, {184} because they were the lady
Philoclea’s, telling him withal, that she would not willingly let them
know of his close lying in that prohibited place, while they were
bathing themselves, because she knew they would be mortally offended
withal. “Fair lady,” answered he, “the worst of the complaint is
already passed, since I feel of my fault in myself the punishment. But
for these things, I assure you, it was my dog’s wanton boldness, not
my presumption. With that he gave her back the paper: but for the
glove,” said he, “since it is my lady Philoclea’s, give me leave to
keep it, since my heart cannot persuade itself to part from it. And I
pray you tell the lady, lady indeed of all my desires, that owns it,
that I will direct my life to honour this glove with serving her.” “O
villain,” cried out Zelmane, maddened with finding an unlooked-for
rival, and that he would make her a messenger, “dispatch,” said she,
“and deliver it, or by the life of her that owns it, I will make thy
soul, though too base a price, pay for it”: and with that drew out her
sword, which, Amazon-like, she ever wore about her. The gentleman
retired himself into an open place from among the bushes, and then
drawing out his too, he offered to deliver it unto her, saying,
withal, “God forbid I should use my sword against you, sith, if I be
not deceived, you are the same famous Amazon, that both defended my
lady’s just title of beauty against the valiant Phalantus, and saved
her life in killing the lion, therefore I am rather to kiss your
hands, with acknowledging myself bound to obey you.”

But this courtesy was worse than a bastinado to Zelmane: so that again
with rageful eyes she bade him defend himself, for no less than his
life should answer it. “A hard case,” said he, “to teach my sword that
lesson, which hath ever used to turn itself to a shield in a lady’s
presence.” But Zelmane hearkening to no more words, began with such
witty fury to pursue him with blows and thrusts, that nature and
virtue commanded the gentleman to look to his safety. Yet still
courtesy, that seemed incorporate in his heart, would not be persuaded
by danger to offer any offence, but only to stand upon the best
defensive guard he could; sometimes going back, being content in that
respect to take on the figure of cowardice; sometimes with strong and
well-met wards, sometimes cunning avoidings of his body; and sometimes
feigning some blows, which himself pull’d back before they needed to
be withstood. And so with play did he a good while fight against the
fight of Zelmane, who, more spited with that courtesy, that one that
did nothing should be able to resist her, burned away with choler any
motions which might grow out of her own sweet disposition, determined
to kill him if he fought no better and so redoubling her blows, drove
the stranger to no other shift than to {185} ward and go back; at that
time seeming the image of innocency against violence. But at length he
found, that both in public and private respects, who stands only upon
defence, stands upon no defence: for Zelmane seeming to strike at his
head, and he going toward it, withal stepped back as he was
accustomed: she stopped her blow in the air, and suddenly turning the
point, ran full at his breast, so as he was driven with the pommel of
his sword, having no other weapon of defence, to beat it down: but the
thrust was so strong that he could not so wholly beat it away, but
that it met with his thigh, through which it ran. But Zelmane retiring
her sword, and seeing his blood, victorious anger was conquered by the
before conquering pity; and heartily sorry, and even ashamed with
herself she was, considering how little he had done, who well she
found could have done more. Insomuch that she said, “Truly I am sorry
for your hurt, but yourself gave the cause, both in refusing to
deliver the glove, and yet not fighting as I know you could have done.
But,” said she, “because I perceive you disdain to fight with a woman,
it may be before a year come about, you shall meet with a near kinsman
of mine, Pyrocles prince of Macedon, and I give you my word, he for me
shall maintain this quarrel against you.” “I would” answered
Amphialus, “I had many more such hurts to meet and know that worthy
prince, whose virtue I love and admire, though my good destiny hath
not been to see his person.”

But as they were so speaking, the young ladies came, to whom, Mopsa,
curious in anything but her own good behaviour, having followed and
seen Zelmane fighting, had cried, what she had seen, while they were
drying themselves: and the water, with some drops, seemed to weep,
that it should pass from such bodies. But they careful of Zelmane,
assuring themselves that any Arcadian would bear reverence to them,
Pamela with a noble mind, and Philoclea with a loving, hastily, hiding
the beauties, whereof nature was proud, and they ashamed, they made
quick work to come to save Zelmane. But already they found them in
talk, and Zelmane careful of his wound. But when they saw him, they
knew it was their cousin-german, the famous Amphialus, whom yet with a
sweet graced bitterness they blamed for breaking their father’s
commandment, especially while themselves were in such sort retired.
But he craved pardon, protesting unto them that he had only been to
seek solitary places, by an extreme melancholy that had a good while
possessed him, and guided to that place by his spaniel, where while
the dog hunted in the river, he had withdrawn himself to pacify with
sleep his over watched eyes, till a dream waked him, and made him see
that whereof he had dreamed, and withal not obscurely signified, that
he felt the smart of his {186} own doings. But Philoclea, that was
even jealous of herself for Zelmane, would needs have her glove, and
not without so mighty a lower as that face could yield. As for Zelmane
when she knew it was Amphialus; “Lord Amphialus,” said she, “I have
long desired to know you heretofore, I must confess, with more
goodwill, but still with honouring your virtue, though I love not your
person: and at this time I pray you let us take care of your wound,
upon condition you shall hereafter promise that a more knightly combat
shall be performed between us.” Amphialus answered in honourable sort,
but with such excusing himself, that more and more accused his love to
Philoclea, and provoked more hate in Zelmane. But Mopsa had already
called certain shepherds not far off, who knew and well observed their
limits, to come and help to carry away Amphialus, whose wound suffered
him not without danger to strain it: and so he leaving himself with
them, departed from them, faster bleeding in his heart than at his
wound, which bound up by the sheets, wherewith Philoclea had been
wrapped, made him thank the wound, and bless the sword for that

He being gone, the ladies, with merry anger talking, in what naked
simplicity their cousin had seen them, returned to the lodge-ward; yet
thinking it too early, as long as they had any day, to break off so
pleasing a company with going to perform a cumbersome obedience,
Zelmane invited them to the little arbour, only reserved for her,
which they willingly did: and there sitting, Pamela having a while
made the lute in his language show how glad it was to be touched by
her fingers, Zelmane delivered up the paper which Amphialus had at
first yielded unto her, and seeing written upon the backside of it the
complaint of Plangus, remembering what Dorus had told her, and
desiring to know how much Philoclea knew of her estate, she took
occasion in presenting of it, to ask whether it were any secret or no.
“No truly,” answered Philoclea, “it is but even an exercise of my
father’s writing, upon this occasion: he was one day, somewhile before
your coming hither, walking abroad, having us two with him, almost a
mile hence, and crossing a highway, which comes from the city of
Megalopolis, he saw this gentleman, whose name is there written, one
of the properest and best graced men that ever I saw, being of middle
age and of a mean stature. He lay as then under a tree, while his
servants were getting fresh post-horses for him. It might seem he was
tired with the extreme travel he had taken, and yet not so tired that
he forced to take any rest, so hasty he was upon his journey: and
withal so sorrowful that the very face thereof was painted in his
face, which with pitiful motions, even groans, tears, and passionate
talking to himself, moved my {187} father to fall in talk with him,
who at first not knowing him, answered him in such a desperate phrase
of grief that my father afterward took a delight to set it down in
such a form as you see: which if you read, what you doubt of, my
sister and I are able to declare unto you, Zelmane willingly opened
the leaves, and read it being written dialogue-wise in this manner.”


   Alas, how long this pilgrimage doth last?
  What greater ills have now the heavens in store,
   To couple coming harms with sorrows past?
  Long since my voice is hoarse, and throat is sore,
   With cries to skies, and courses to the ground,
   But more I plain, I feel my woes the more.
  Ah, where was first that cruel cunning found,
   To frame of earth, a vessel of the mind,
  Where it should be to self-destruction bound?
   What needed so high spirits, such mansions blind?
   Or wrapped in flesh what do they here obtain.
   But glorious name of wretched human kind?
  Balls to the stars, and thralls to Fortune’s reign;
   Turn’d from themselves, infected with their rage,
  Where death is fear’d, and life is held with pain,
   Like players plac’d to fill a filthy stage,
   Where change of thoughts one fool to other shows,
   And all but jests, save only sorrow’s rage.
  The child feels that, the man that feeling knows,
   Which cries first born, the presage of his life,
  Where wit but serves, to have true taste of woes.
   A shop of shame, a book where blots be rife,
   This body is, this body so compos’d,
   As in itself to nourish mortal strife:
  So divers be the elements dispos’d.
   In this weak work, that it can never be
  Made uniform to any state repos’d.
   Grief only makes his wretched state to see
   (Even like a top which nought but whipping moves)
   This man, this talking beast, this walking tree,
  Grief is the stone which finest judgments proves:
   For who grieves not, hath but a blockish brain,
   Since cause of grief no cause from life removes.

  How long wilt thou with mournful music stain
   The cheerful notes those pleasant places yield,
   Where all good haps a perfect state maintain?


  Cursed be good haps, and cursed be they that build
   Their hopes on haps, and do not make despair
  For all those certain blows the surest shield.
   Shall I that saw Erona’s shining hair,
   Torn with her hands, and those same hands of snow
   With loss of purest blood themselves to tear?
  Shall I that saw those breasts, where beauties flow,
   Swelling with sighs, made pale with mind’s disease,
  And saw those eyes, those suns, such showers to show?
  Shall I whose ears her mournful words did seize,
   Her words in syrup laid of sweetest breath,
   Relent those thoughts which then did so displease?
  No, no: despair my daily lesson faith,
  And faith, although I seek my life to fly,
   Plangus must live to see Erona’s death.
  Plangus must live some help for her to try
   (Though in despair) for love so forceth me,
   Plangus doth live, and shall Erona die?
  Erona die? O heaven, if heaven there be,
   Hath all thy whirling course so small effect?
   Serve all thy starry eyes this shame to see?
  Let dolts in haste some altars fair erect
   To those high powers, which idly sit above,
   And virtue do in greatest need neglect.

  O man, take heed, how thou the gods do move
   To causeful wrath, which thou can’st not resist.
  Blasphemous words the speaker vain do prove.
   Alas while we are wrapped in foggy mist
   Of our self-love, so passions do deceive,
   We think they hurt, when most they do assist.
  To harm us worms should that high justice leave
  His nature? nay himself? for so it is.
   What glory from our loss can he receive?
  But still our dazzled eyes their way do miss,
   While that we do at his sweet scourge repine,
   The kindly way do beat us on to bliss.
  If she must die then hath she passed the line
   Of loathsome days, whose loss how can’st thou moan,
  That dost so well their miseries define?
   But such we are with inward tempest blown
   Of winds quite contrary in waves of will:
   We moan that lost, which had we did bemoan.


  And shall she die? shall cruel fire spill
   Those beams that set so many hearts on fire?
  Hath she not force even death with love to kill:
   Nay, even cold death inflam’d with hot desire
   Her to enjoy where joy itself is thrall,
   Will spoil the earth of his most rich attire:
  Thus death becomes a rival to us all,
  And hopes with foul embracements her to get,
  In whose decay virtue’s fair shrine must fall.
  O virtue weak, shall death his triumph set
   Upon thy spoils, which never should lie waste?
   Let death first die; be thou his worthy let.
  By what eclipse shall that sun be defac’d?
  What mine hath erst thrown down so fair a tower?
   What sacrilege hath such a saint disgrac’d?
  The world the garden is, she is the flower
   That sweetens all the place; she is the guest
   Of rarest price, both heaven and earth her bower.
  And shall, O me! all this in ashes rest?
  Alas if you a Phoenix new will have
   Burnt by the sun, she first must build her nest.
  But well you know, the gentle sun would save
   Such beams so like his own, which might have might
  In him the thoughts of Phaeton’s dam to grave,
  Therefore, alas, you use vile Vulcan’s spite,
   Which nothing spares, to melt that virgin wax,
   Which while it is, it is all Asia’s light.
  O Mars, for what doth serve thy armed ax?
  To let that wit-old beast consume in flames
   Thy Venus child, whose beauty Venus lacks?
  O Venus, if her praise no envy frames
   In thy high mind, get her thy husband’s grace
   Sweet speaking oft a currish heart reclaims.
  O eyes of mine, where once she saw her face,
   Her face which was more lively in my heart:
  O brain, where thought of her hath only place;
   O hand, which touch’d her hand when we did part;
  O lips that kiss’d that hand with my tears spent;
   O tongue, then dumb, not daring tell my smart;
   O soul, whose love in her is only spent,
   What ere you see, think, touch, kiss, speak, or love,
   Let all for her, and unto her be bent.

  Thy wailing words do much my spirits move,
   They uttered are in such a feeling fashion,
  That sorrow’s work against my will I prove.
   Methinks I am partaker of thy passion,
   And in thy case do glass mine own debility:
   Self-guilty folk most prone to feel compassion.
  Yet reason faith, “Reason should have ability
   To hold those worldly things in such proportion,
  As let them come or go with even facility.”
   But our desire’s tyrannical extortion
   Doth force us there to set our chief delightfulness
   Where but a baiting place is all our portion.
   But still although we fail of perfect rightfulness,
  Seek we to tame those childish superfluities:
   Let us not wink though void of purest sightfulness
  For what can breed more peevish incongruities,
   Than man to yield to female lamentations:
   Let us some grammar learn of more congruities.

   If through mine ears pierce any consolations,
  By wise discourse, sweet tunes, or poets’ fiction;
   If aught I cease those hideous exclamations;
  While that my soul, she, lives in affliction;
   Then let my life long time on earth maintained be,
  To wretched me, the last worst malediction.
   Can I that knew her sacred parts, restrained be
  From any joy? know fortunes vile displacing her,
   In mortal rules let raging woes contained be?
  Can I forget, when they in prison placing her,
   With swelling heart in spite and due disdainfulness
   She lay for dead, till I help’d with unlacing her?
  Can I forget from how much mourning painfulness
   With diamond in window-glass she grav’d
   “Erona die, and end this ugly painfulness”?
   Can I forget in how strange phrase she crav’d
  That quickly they would her burn, drown or smother,
   As if by death she only might be sav’d?
  Then let me eke forget one hand from other:
   Let me forget that Plangus I am called:
   Let me forget I am son to my mother:
   But if my memory must thus be thralled
  To that strange stroke which conquered all my senses.
   Can thoughts still thinking, so rest unappalled?

  Who still doth seek against himself offences,
   What pardon can avail? or who employs him
  To hurt himself, what shields can be defences?
   Woe to poor man; each outward thing annoys him
   In divers kinds; yet as he were not filled,
   He heaps in outward grief, that most destroys him.
   Thus is our thought with pain for thistles tilled:
  Thus be our noblest parts dried up with sorrow:
   Thus is our mind with too much minding spilled.
  One day lays up store of grief for the morrow:
   And whose good haps do leave him unprovided,
  Condoling cause of friendship he will borrow:
   Betwixt the good and shade of good divided,
  We pity deem that which but weakness is:
   So are we from our high creation slided.
  But Plangus, lest I may your sickness miss,
   Or rubbing, hurt the sore, I here do end.
   The ass did hurt when he did think to kiss.

When Zelmane had read it over, marvelling very much of the speech of
Erona’s death, and therefore desirous to know further of it, but more
desirous to hear Philoclea speak, “Most excellent lady,” said she,
“one may be little the wiser for reading this dialogue, since it
neither sets forth what this Plangus is, nor what Erona is, nor what
the cause should be which threatens her with death, and him with
sorrow; therefore I would humbly crave to understand the particular
discourse thereof, because, I must confess, something in my travel I
have heard of this strange matter, which I would be glad to find by so
sweet an authority confirmed.” “The truth is,” answered Philoclea,
“that after he knew my father to be prince of this country, while he
hoped to prevail something with him in a great request he made unto
him, he was content to open fully the estate both of himself, and of
that lady; which with my sister’s help,” said she, “who remembers it
better than I, I will declare unto you. And first of Erona, being the
chief subject of this discourse, this story, with more tears and
exclamations than I list to spend about it, he recounted.”

“Of late there reigned a king in Lydia, who had, for the blessing of
his marriage, this only daughter of his, Erona, a princess worthy for
her beauty, as much praise, as beauty may be praise-worthy. This
princess Erona, being nineteen years of age, seeing the country of
Lydia so much devoted to Cupid, as that in every place his naked
pictures and images were superstitiously adored (either moved
thereunto by the esteeming that it could be no god-head, which could
breed wickedness, or the shamefaced consideration of such nakedness)
procured so much of her father, as utterly to pull down, and deface
all those statutes and pictures: which how terribly he punished, for
to that the Lydians impute it, quickly after appeared.


“For she had not lived a year longer, when she was stricken with most
obstinate love to a young man but of mean parentage, in her father’s
court, named Antiphilus: so mean, as that he was but the son of her
nurse, and by that means, without other desert, became known of her.
Now so evil could she conceal her fire, and so wilfully persevered she
in it that her father offering her the marriage of the great
Tiridates, king of Armenia, who desired her more than the joys of
heaven, she for Antiphilus’s sake refused it. Many ways her father
sought to withdraw her from it, sometimes by persuasions, sometimes by
threatenings; once, hiding Antiphilus, and giving her to understand
that he was fled the country, lastly, making a solemn execution to be
done of another under the name of Antiphilus, whom he kept in prison.
But neither she liked persuasions, nor feared threatenings, nor
changed for absence: and when she thought him dead, she sought all
means, as well by poison as knife, to send her soul, at least to be
married in the eternal church with him. This so broke the tender
father’s heart, that, leaving things as he found them, he shortly
after died. Then forthwith Erona, being seized of the crown, and
arming her will with authority, sought to advance her affection to the
holy title of matrimony.

“But before she could accomplish all the solemnities, she was
overtaken with a war the King Tiridates made upon her, only for her
person, towards whom, for her ruin, love had kindled his cruel heart,
indeed cruel and tyrannous; for being far too strong in the field, he
spared no man, woman, nor child; but, as though there could be found
no foil to set forth the extremity of his love, but extremity of
hatred, wrote, as it were, the sonnets of his love in the blood, and
turned them in the cries of her subjects; although his fair sister
Artaxia, who would accompany him in the army, sought all means to
appease his fury: till lastly, he besieged Erona in her best city,
vowing to win her, or lose his life. And now had he brought her to the
point either of a woeful consent, or a ruinous denial, when there came
thither, following the course which virtue and fortune led them, two
excellent young princes, Pyrocles and Musidorus, the one prince of
Macedon, the other of Thessalia: two princes as Plangus said, and he
witnessed his saying with sighs and tears, the most accomplished both
in body and mind that the sun ever looked upon.” While Philoclea spoke
those words; O sweet words, thought Zelmane to herself, which are not
only a praise to me, but a praise to praise herself, which out of that
mouth issueth.

“Those two princes,” said Philoclea, “as well to help the weaker,
especially being a lady as to save a Greek people from being ruined by
such whom we call and count barbarous, gathering {193} together such
of the honestest Lycians as would venture their lives to succour their
princess; giving order by a secret message, they sent into the city
that they should issue with all force at an appointed time: they set
upon Tiridates’s camp with so well guided a fierceness that being on
both sides assaulted, he was like to be overthrown, but that this
Plangus, being general of Tiridates’s horsemen, especially aided by
the two mighty men Euardes and Barzanes, rescued the footmen, even
almost defeated: but yet could not bar the princes, with their
succours both of men and victual, to enter the city.

“Which when Tiridates found would make the war long, which length
seemed to him worse than a languishing consumption, he made a
challenge of three princes in his retinue, against those two princes
and Antiphilus: and that thereupon the quarrel should be decided, with
compact that neither side should help his fellow, but of whose side
the more overcame, with him the victory should remain. Antiphilus
(though Erona chose rather to bide the brunt of war, than venture him,
yet) could not for shame refuse the offer, especially since the two
strangers that had no interest in it, did willingly accept it: besides
that, he saw it like enough, that the people, weary of the miseries of
war, would rather give him up, if they saw him shrink, than for his
sake venture their ruin, considering that the challengers were of far
greater worthiness than himself. So it was agreed upon; and against
Pyrocles was Euardes king of Bithynia; Barzanes of Hyrcania against
Musidorus, two men, that thought the world scarce able to resist them;
and against Antiphilus he placed this same Plangus, being his own
cousin-german, and son to the king of Iberia. Now so it fell out, that
Musidorus slew Barzanes, and Pyrocles Euardes, which victory those
princes esteemed above all that ever they had: but of the other side
Plangus took Antiphilus prisoner: under which colour, as if the matter
had been equal, though indeed it was not, the greater part being
overcome of his side, Tiridates continued his war: and to bring Erona
to a compelled yielding, sent her word that he would the third morrow
after, before the walls of the town, strike off Antiphilus’s head,
without his suit in that space were granted, adding, withal, because
he had heard of her desperate affection, that, if in the meantime she
did herself any hurt, what tortures could be devised should be lain
upon Antiphilus.

“Then lo, if Cupid be a god, or that the tyranny of our own thoughts
seem as a god unto us: but whatsoever it was then it did set forth the
miserableness of his effects; she being drawn to two contraries by one
cause (for the love of him commanded her to yield to no other; the
love of him commanded her to {194} preserve his life); which knot
might well be cut, but untied it could not be. So that love in her
passions, like a right make-bate, whispered to both sides arguments of
quarrel. ‘What,’ said he, ‘of the one side, dost thou love Antiphilus,
O Erona! and shall Tiridates enjoy thy body? With what eyes wilt thou
look upon Antiphilus, when he shall know that another possesseth thee?
but if thou wilt do it, canst thou do it? canst thou force thy heart?
think with thyself, if this man have thee, thou shalt never have more
part of Antiphilus than if he were dead. But thus much more, that the
affectation shall be still gnawing, and the remorse still present.
Death perhaps will cool the rage of thy affection: where thus, thou
shalt ever love, and ever lack. Think this beside, if thou marry
Tiridates, Antiphilus is so excellent a man that long he cannot be
from being in some high place married; can’st thou suffer that too? if
another kill him, he doth him the wrong; if thou abuse thy body, thou
dost him the wrong. His death is a work of nature, and either now, or
at another time he shall die. But it shall be thy work, thy shameful
work, which is in thy power to shun, to make him live to see thy faith
falsified, and his bed defiled.’ But when love had well kindled that
party of her thoughts, then went he to the other side. ‘What,’ said
he, ‘O Erona, and is thy love of Antiphilus come to that point, as
thou dost now make it a question whether he shall die, or no? O
excellent affection, which for too much love will see his head off.
Mark well the reasons of the other side, and thou shalt see it is but
love of thyself which so disputeth. Thou can’st not abide Tiridates:
this is but love of thyself; thou shalt be ashamed to look upon him
afterwards; this is but fear of shame, and love of thyself; thou shalt
want him as much then; this is but love of thyself: he shall be
married; if he be well, why should that grieve thee, but for love of
thyself? no, no, pronounce these words if thou can’st, “let Antiphilus
die.”’ Then the images of each side stood before her understanding;
one time she thought she saw Antiphilus dying, another time she
thought Antiphilus saw her by Tiridates enjoyed; twenty times calling
for a servant to carry message of yielding, but before he came the
mind was altered. She blushed when she considered the effect of
granting; she was pale, when she remembered the fruits of denying. For
weeping, sighing, wringing her hands, and tearing her hair, were
indifferent of both sides. Easily she would have agreed to have broken
all disputations with her own death, but that the fear of Antiphilus’s
further torments, stayed her. At length, even the evening before the
day appointed for his death, the determination of yielding prevailed,
especially, growing upon a message of Antiphilus, who with all the
conjuring terms he could devise, besought her to save {195} his life,
upon any conditions. But she had no sooner sent her messenger to
Tiridates, but her mind changed, and she went to the two young
princes, Pyrocles and Musidorus, and falling down at their feet,
desired them to try some way for her deliverance, showing herself
resolved not to over-live Antiphilus, nor yet to yield to Tiridates.

“They that knew not what she had done in private, prepared that night
accordingly: and as sometimes it falls out that what is inconstancy
seems cunning, so did this change indeed stand in as good stead as a
witty dissimulation. For it made the king as reckless as them
diligent, so that in the dead time of the night, the princes issued
out of the town; with whom she would needs go, either to die herself,
or rescue Antiphilus, having no armour, or weapon, but affection. And
I cannot tell you how, or by what device, though Plangus at large
described it, the conclusion was, the wonderful valour of the two
princes so prevailed, that Antiphilus was succoured, and the king
slain. Plangus was then the chief man left in the camp; and therefore
seeing no other remedy, conveyed in safety into her country Artaxia,
now Queen of Armenia, who with true lamentations, made known to the
world that her new greatness did no way comfort her in respect of her
brother’s loss, whom she studied by all means possible to revenge upon
every one of the occasioners, having, as she thought, overthrown her
brother by a most abominable treason. Insomuch, that being at home she
proclaimed great rewards to any private man, and herself in marriage
to any prince that would destroy Pyrocles and Musidorus. But thus was
Antiphilus redeemed, and, though against the consent of all her
nobility, married to Erona; in which case the two Greek princes, being
called away by another adventure, left them.

“But now methinks, as I have read some poets, who when they intend to
tell some horrible matter, they bid men shun the hearing of it, so if
I do not desire you to stop your ears from me, yet may I well desire a
breathing time, before I am to tell the execrable treason of
Antiphilus that brought her to this misery, and withal wish you all,
that from all mankind indeed you stop your ears. O most happy were we,
if we did set our loves one upon another.” And as she spake that word,
her cheeks in red letters writ more than her tongue did speak. “And
therefore since I have named Plangus, I pray you, sister,” said she,
“help me with the rest, for I have held the stage long enough; and if
it please you to make his fortune known, as I have done Erona’s, I
will after take heart again to go on with his falsehood; and so
between us both, my Lady Zelmane shall understand both the cause and
parties of this lamentation.” “Nay, I beshrew me then,” said Miso,
{196} “I will none of that, I promise you, as long as I have the
government, I will first have my tale, and then my Lady Pamela, my
Lady Zelmane, and my daughter Mopsa (for Mopsa was then returned from
Amphialus) may draw cuts, and the shortest cut speak first. For I tell
you, and this may be suffered, when you are married, you will have
first and last word of your husbands.”

The ladies laughed to see with what an eager earnestness she looked,
having threatened not only in her ferret eyes, but while she spoke her
nose seeming to threaten her chin, and her shaking limbs one to
threaten another. But there was no remedy, they must obey, and Miso,
sitting on the ground with her knees up, and her hands upon her knees,
tuning her voice with many a quavering cough, thus discoursed unto
them. “I tell you true,” said she, “whatsoever you think of me, you
will one day be as I am; and I, simple though I sit here, thought once
my penny as good silver, as some of you do: and if my father had not
played the hasty fool, it is no lie I tell you, I might have had
another-gains husband than Dametas. But let that pass, God amend him;
and yet I speak it not without good cause. You are full in your
tittle-tattlings of Cupid, here is Cupid and there is Cupid. I will
tell you now what a good old woman told me, what an old wise man told
her, what a great learned clerk told him, and gave it him in writing:
and here I have it in my prayer-book.” “I pray you,” said Philoclea,
“let us see it and read it.” “No haste, but good,” said Miso, “you
shall first know how I came by it. I was a young girl of seven and
twenty years old, and I could not go through the street of our
village, but I might hear the young men talk: O the pretty little eyes
of Miso: O the fine thin lips of Miso: O the goodly fat hands of Miso:
besides, how well a certain wrying in my neck became me. Then the one
would wink with one eye, and the other cast daisies at me. I must
confess, seeing so many amorous, it made me set up my peacock’s tail
with the highest. Which when this good old woman perceived, O the good
old woman, well may the bones rest of the good old woman, she called
me to her into her house. I remember full well it stood in the lane as
you go to the barber’s shop; all the town knew her, there was a great
loss of her: she called me to her, and taking first a sop of wine to
comfort her heart, it was of the same wine that comes out of Candia,
which we pay so dear for now-a-days, and in that good world was very
good cheap, she called me to her: ‘Minion,’ said she, indeed I was a
pretty one in those days, though I say it, ‘I see a number of lads
that love you, well,’ said she, ‘I say no more; do you know what love
is?’ With that she brought me into a corner, where there was painted a
foul fiend I trow, for he had a pair of horns like a bull, his feet
cloven, as many {197} eyes upon his body as my grey mare hath dapples,
and for all the world so placed. This monster sat like a hangman upon
a pair of gallows; in his right hand he was painted holding a crown of
laurel; in his left hand a purse of money; and out of his mouth hung a
lace of two fair pictures of a man and a woman, and such a countenance
he showed as if he would persuade folks by those allurements to come
thither and be hanged. I, like a tender-hearted wench, shrieked out
for fear of the devil: ‘Well,’ said she, ‘this same is even love;
therefore do what thou list with all those fellows one after another,
and it recks not much what they do to thee, so it be in secret; but
upon my charge, never love none of them.’ ‘Why mother,’ said I, ‘could
such a thing come from the belly of fair Venus? for a few days before,
our priest, between him and me, had told me the whole story of Venus.’
‘Tush,’ said she, ‘they are all deceived;’ and therewith gave me this
book which she said a great maker of ballads had given to an old
painter, who, for a little pleasure, had bestowed both book and
picture of her. ‘Read there,’ said she, ‘and thou shalt see that his
mother was a cow, and the false Argus his father.’ And so she gave me
this book, and there now you may read it.” With that the remembrance
of the good old woman, made her make such a face to weep, as if it
were not sorrow, it was the carcass of sorrow that appeared there. But
while her tears came out, like rain falling upon dirty furrows, the
latter end of her prayer-book was read among these ladies, which
contained this:

  Poor Painters oft with silly Poets join,
  To fill the world with strange but vain conceits:
  One brings the stuff, the other stamps the coin,
  Which breeds nought else but glosses of deceits.
  Thus painters Cupid paint, thus poets do
  A naked god, blind, young, with arrows two.
 Is he a god that ever flies the light:
  Or naked he, disguis’d in all untruth?
 If he be blind, how hitteth he so right?
  How is he young that tam’d old Phoebus’ youth?
  But arrows two, and tipped with gold or lead?
  Some hurt, accuse a third with horny head.
  No, nothing so; an old false knave he is,
  By Argus got on Io, then a cow:
  What time for her Juno her Jove did miss,
  And charge of her to Argus did allow.
  Mercury kill’d his false sire for this act,
  His dam a beast was pardon’d beastly fact.
 With father’s death and mother’s guilty shame,
  With Jove’s disdain of such a rival’s seed:
 The wretch compell’d a runagate became,
  And learn’d what ill a miser-state doth breed:
  To lie, to steal, to pry, and to accuse,
  Nought in himself each other to abuse.
  Yet bears he still his parents’ stately gifts,
 A horned head, cloven feet, and thousand eyes,
  Some gazing still, some winking wily shifts,
 Whose long large ears, where never rumour dies.
  His horned head doth seem the heaven to spite,
  His cloven foot doth never tread aright.
 Thus half a man, with man he daily haunts,
  Cloth’d in the shape which soonest may deceive:
 Thus half a beast, each beastly vice he plants,
  In those weak hearts that his advice receive.
  He prowls each place still in new colours decked,
  Sucking one’s ill, another to infect.
  To narrow breasts, he comes all wrapped in gain:
  To swelling hearts he shines in honour’s fire:
 To open eyes all beauties he doth rain;
  Creeping to each with flattering of desire.
  But for that love is worst which rules the eyes,
  Thereon his name, there his chief triumph lies.
 Millions of years this old drivel Cupid lives,
  While still more wretch, more wicked he doth prove.
 Till now at length that Jove him office gives
 (At Juno’s suit, who much did Argus love)
  In this our world a hangman for to be
  Of all those fools, that will have all they see.

The ladies made sport at the description and story of Cupid. But
Zelmane could scarce suffer those blasphemies, as she took them, to be
read, but humbly besought Pamela she should perform her sister’s
request of the other part of the story. “Noble lady,” answered she,
beautifying her face with a sweet smiling, and the sweetness of her
smiling with the beauty of her face, “since I am born a prince’s
daughter, let me not give example of disobedience. My governess will
have us draw cuts, and therefore I pray you let us do so: and so
perhaps it will light upon you to entertain this company with some
story of your own; and it is reason our ears should be willinger to
hear, as your tongue is abler to deliver.” “I will think,” answered
Zelmane, “excellent princess, my tongue of some value if it can
procure your tongue thus much to favour me.” But Pamela pleasantly
persisting to have fortune their judge, they set hands, and Mopsa
(though at the first for squeamishness going up and down with her head
like a boat in a storm,) put to her golden gols[b2-01] among them, and
blind fortune, that saw not the colour of them, gave her the
pre-eminence: and so being her time {199} to speak, wiping her mouth,
as there was good cause, she thus tumbled into her matter.

“In time past,” said she, “there was a king, the mightiest man in all
his country, that had by his wife the fairest daughter that ever ate
pap. Now this king did keep a great house, that everybody might come
and take their meat freely. So one day as his daughter was sitting in
her window, playing upon a harp as sweet as any rose, and combing her
head with a comb all of precious stones, there came in a knight into
the court, upon a goodly horse, one hair of gold, and the other of
silver; and so the knight casting up his eyes to the window, did fall
into such love with her, that he grew not worth the bread he ate; till
many a sorry day going over his head, with daily diligence and griefly
groans, he won her affection, so that they agreed to run away
together. And so in May, when all true hearts rejoice, they stole out
of the castle without staying so much as for their breakfast. Now
forsooth, as they went together, often fall to kissing one another,
the knight told her, he was brought up among the water-nymphs, who had
so bewitched him that if he were ever ask’d his name, he must
presently vanish away, and therefore charged her upon his blessing,
never to ask him what he was, not whether he would. And so a great
while she kept his commandment; till once, passing through a cruel
wilderness, as dark as pitch, her mouth so watered, that she could not
choose but ask him the question. And then, he making the grievousest
complaints that would have melted a tree to have heard them, vanish’d
quite away: and she lay down, casting forth as pitiful cries as any
shriek-owl. But having lain so, wet by the rain, and burnt by the sun,
five days and five nights, she got up and went over many a high hill,
and many a deep river, till she came to an aunt’s house of hers, and
came and cried to her for help: and she for pity gave her a nut, and
bid her never open her nut till she was come to the extremest misery
that ever tongue could speak of; and so she went, and she went, and
never rested the evening, where she went in the morning, till she came
to a second aunt, and she gave her another nut.”

“Now good Mopsa,” said the sweet Philoclea, “I pray thee at my request
keep this tale till my marriage-day, and I promise thee that the best
gown I wear that day shall be thine.” Mopsa was very glad of that
bargain, especially that it should grow a festival tale: so that
Zelmane, who desired to find the uttermost what these ladies
understood touching herself, and having understood the danger of
Erona, of which before she had never heard, purposing with herself, as
soon as this pursuit she now was in was brought to any effect, to
succour her, entreated again, that she might know as well the story of
Plangus, as of Erona. Philoclea referred it to {200} her sister’s
perfecter remembrance, who with so sweet a voice, and so winning a
grace, as in themselves were of most forcible eloquence to procure
attention, in this manner to their earnest request soon condescended.

“The father of this prince Plangus as yet lives, and is king of
Iberia: a man, if the judgment of Plangus may be accepted, of no
wicked nature, nor willingly doing evil, without himself mistake the
evil, seeing it disguised under some form of goodness. This prince
being married at the first to a princess, who both from her ancestors,
and in herself was worthy of him, by her had this son Plangus. Not
long after whose birth, the queen, as though she had performed the
message for which she was sent into the world, returned again unto her
maker. The king, sealing up all thoughts of love under the image of
her memory, remained a widower many years after; recompensing the
grief of that disjoining from her, in conjoining in himself both a
fatherly and motherly care toward her only child Plangus, who being
grown to man’s age, as our own eyes may judge, could not but fertilely
requite his father’s fatherly education.

“This prince, while yet the errors in his nature were excused by the
greenness of his youth which took all the fault upon itself, loved a
private man’s wife of the principal city of that kingdom, if that may
be called love, which he rather did take into himself willingly than
by which he was taken forcibly. It sufficeth that the young man
persuaded himself he loved her: she being a woman beautiful enough, if
it be possible, that the only outside can justly entitle a beauty. But
finding such a chase as only fled to be caught, the young prince
brought his affection with her to that point, which ought to engrave
remorse in her heart, and to paint shame upon her face. And so
possessed he his desire without any interruption; he constantly
favouring her, and she thinking that the enamelling of a prince’s
name, might hide the spots of a broken wedlock. But as I have seen one
that was sick of a sleeping disease could not be made wake, but with
pinching of him, so out of his sinful sleep his mind, unworthy so to
be lost, was not to be called to itself, but by a sharp accident. It
fell out, that his many times leaving of the court, in undue times,
began to be noted; and, as prince’s ears be manifold, from one to
another came unto the king, who, careful of his only son, sought and
found by his spies, the necessary evil servants to a king, what it
was, whereby he was from his better delights so diverted. Whereupon,
the king, to give his fault the greater blow, used such means by
disguising himself, that he found them, her husband being absent, in
her house together, which he did to make them the more feelingly
ashamed of it. And that way he took, laying threatenings upon her, and
upon him {201} reproaches. But the poor young prince, deceived with
that young opinion, that if it be ever lawful to lie, it is for one’s
lover, employed all his wit to bring his father into a better opinion.
And because he might bend him from that, as he counted it, crooked
conceit of her, he wrested him, as much as he could possibly, to the
other side, not sticking with prodigal protestations to set forth her
chastity; not denying his own attempt, but thereby the more extolling
her virtue. His sophistry prevailed, his father believed, and so
believed, that ere long, though he were already stepped into the
winter of his age, he found himself warm in those desires which were
in his son far more excusable. To be short, he gave himself over unto
it, and, because he would avoid the odious comparison of a young
rival, sent away his son with an army, to the subduing of a province
lately rebelled against him, which he knew could not be less work than
of three or four years. Wherein he behaved himself so worthily, as
even to this country the fame thereof came, long before his own
coming: while yet his father had a speedier success, but in a far more
unnobler conquest. For while Plangus was away, the old man, growing
only in age and affection, followed his suit with all means of
unhonest servants, large promises, and each thing else that might help
to countervail his own unloveliness.

“And she, whose husband about that time died, forgetting the absent
Plangus, or at least not hoping of him to obtain so aspiring a
purpose, left no art unused, which might keep the line from breaking,
whereat the fish was already taken, not drawing him violently, but
letting him play himself upon the hook which he had so greedily
swallowed. For, accompanying her mourning garments with a doleful
countenance, yet neither forgetting handsomeness in her mourning
garments, nor sweetness in her doleful countenance, her words were
ever seasoned with sighs, and any favour she showed, bathed in tears,
that affection might see cause of pity, and pity might persuade cause
of affection. And being grown skilful in his humours, she was no less
skilful in applying his humours; never suffering his fear to fall to
despair, nor his hope to hasten to an assurance: she was content he
should think that she loved him; and a certain stolen look should
sometimes, as though it were against her will, betray it: but if
thereupon he grew bold, he straight was encountered with a mask of
virtue. And that which seemeth most impossible unto me, for as near as
I can repeat it, as Plangus told it, she could not only sigh when she
would, as all can do, and weep when she would, as, they say, some can
do; but, being most impudent in her heart, she could when she would,
teach her cheeks blushing, and make shamefacedness the cloak of
shamelessness. In sum, to leave out many particularities, which he
recited, she did not only use so the spur {202} that his desire ran
on, but so the bit, that it ran on even in such a career as she would
have it; that within a while the king, seeing with no other eyes but
such as she gave him, and thinking on no other thoughts but such as
she taught him; having at first liberal measures of favours, then
shortened of them, when most his desire was inflamed, he saw no other
way but marriage to satisfy his longing, and her mind, as he thought,
loving, but chastely loving: so that by the time Plangus returned from
being notably victorious over the rebels, he found his father not only
married, but already a father of a son and a daughter by this woman.
Which though Plangus, as he had every way just cause, was grieved at;
yet did his grief never bring forth either contemning of her or
repining at his father. But she, who besides that was grown a mother,
and a step-mother, did read in his eyes her own fault, and made his
conscience her guiltiness, thought still that his presence carried her
condemnation; so much the more, as that she, unchastely attempting his
wonted fancies, found, for the reverence of his father’s bed, a bitter
refusal, which breeding rather spite than shame in her, or if it were
a shame, a shame not of the fault, but of the repulse, she did not
only, as hating him, thirst for a revenge, but, as fearing harm from
him, endeavoured to do harm unto him. Therefore did she try the
uttermost of her wicked wit, how to overthrow him in the foundation of
his strength, which was in the favour of his father: which because she
saw strong both in nature and desert, it required the more cunning how
to undermine it. And therefore, shunning the ordinary trade of
hireling Sycophants, she made her praises of him to be accusations;
and her advancing him to be his ruin. For first, with words, nearer
admiration than liking, she would extol his excellencies, the
goodliness of his shape, the power of his wit, the valiantness of his
courage, the fortunateness of his successes, so as the father might
find in her a singular love towards him: nay she shunned not to kindle
some few sparks of jealousy in him: thus having gotten an opinion in
his father that she was far from meaning mischief to the son, then
fell she to praise him with no less vehemency of affection, but with
much more cunning of malice. For then she sets forth the liberty of
his mind, the high flying of his thoughts, the fitness in him to bear
rule, the singular love the subjects bear him, that it was doubtful
whether his wit were greater in winning their favours, or his courage
in employing their favours; that he was not born to live a subject
life, each action of his bearing in it majesty; such a kingly
entertainment, such a kingly magnificence, such a kingly heart for
enterprises; especially remembering those virtues, which in a
successor are no more honoured by the subjects than suspected of the
princes. Then would she, by putting off objections, bring {203} in
objections to her husband’s head, already infected with suspicion.
‘Nay,’ would she say, ‘I dare take it upon my death, that he is no
such son, as many like might have been, who loved greatness so well as
to build their greatness upon their father’s ruin. Indeed ambition,
like love, can abide no lingering, and ever urgeth on his own
successes; hating nothing, but what may stop them. But the gods
forbid, we should ever once dream of any such thing in him, who
perhaps might be content that you and the world should know what he
can do: but the more power he hath to hurt, the more admirable is his
praise, that he will not hurt.’ Then ever remembering to strengthen
the suspicion of his estate with private jealousy of her love, doing
him excessive honour when he was in presence, and repeating his pretty
speeches and graces in his absence, besides, causing him to be
employed in all such dangerous matters, as either he should perish in
them, or, if he prevailed, they should increase his glory, which she
made a weapon to wound him; until she found that suspicion began
already to speak for itself, and that her husband’s ears were grown
hungry of rumours, and his eyes prying into every accident.

“Then took she help to her of a servant near about her husband, whom
she knew to be of a hasty ambition, and such a one, who, wanting true
sufficiency to raise him, would make a ladder of any mischief. Him she
useth to deal more plainly in alleging causes of jealousy, making him
know the fittest times when her husband already was stirred that way.
And so they two, with divers ways, nourished one humour, like
musicians, that singing divers parts, make one music. He sometimes
with fearful countenance would desire the king to look to himself, for
that all the court and city were full of whisperings and expectation
of some sudden change, upon what ground himself knew not. Another time
he would counsel the king to make much of his son, and hold his
favour, for that it was too late now to keep him under. Now seeming to
fear himself, because, he said, Plangus loved none of them that were
great about his father. Lastly, breaking with him directly, making a
sorrowful countenance, and an humble gesture bear false witness for
his true meaning, that he found not only soldiery, but people weary of
his government, and all their affection bent upon Plangus; both he and
the queen concurring in strange dreams, and each thing else, that in a
mind already perplexed might breed astonishment: so that within a
while, all Plangus’s actions began to be translated into the language
of suspicion. Which though Plangus found, yet could he not avoid, even
contraries being driven to draw one yoke of argument. If he were
magnificent, he spent much with an aspiring intent, if he spared, he
heaped much with an aspiring intent; if he spoke courteously, he
angled the people’s {204} hearts; if he were silent, he mused upon
some dangerous plot. In sum, if he could have turned himself to as
many forms as Proteus, every form should have been made hideous.

“But so it fell out, that a mere trifle gave them occasion of further
proceeding. The king one morning, going to a vineyard that lay along
the hill whereupon his castle stood: he saw a vine-labourer, that
finding a bough broken, took a branch of the same bough for want of
another thing and tied it about the place broken. The king asking the
fellow what he did, ‘Marry,’ said he, ‘I make the son bind the
father.’ This word, finding the king already superstitious through
suspicion, amazed him straight, as a presage of his own fortune, so
that, returning and breaking with his wife how much he misdoubted his
estate; she made such gainsaying answers as while they strove, strove
to be overcome. But even while the doubts most boiled, she thus
nourished them.

“She under-hand dealt with the principal men of that country, that at
the great parliament, which was then to be held, they should in the
name of all the estates persuade the king, being now stepped deeply
into old age, to make Plangus his associate in government with him,
assuring them that not only she would join with them, but that the
father himself would take it kindly, charging them not to acquaint
Plangus withal, for that perhaps it might be harmful unto him, if the
king should find that he were a party. They (who thought they might do
it, not only willingly, because they loved him; and truly, because
such indeed was the mind of the people; but safely, because she who
ruled the king, was agreed thereto) accomplished her counsel; she
indeed keeping promise of vehement persuading the same: which the more
she and they did, the more she knew her husband would fear, and hate
the cause of his fear. Plangus found this, and humbly protested
against such desire or will to accept. But the more he protested, the
more his father thought he dissembled, accounting his integrity to be
but a cunning face of falsehood: and therefore delaying the desire of
his subjects, attended some fit occasion to lay hands upon his son,
which his wife brought thus to pass.

“She caused the same minister of hers to go unto Plangus, and,
enabling his words with great show of faith, and endearing them with
desire of secrecy, to tell him, that he found his ruin conspired by
his stepmother, with certain of the noblemen of that country, the king
himself giving his consent, and that few days should pass before the
putting it in practice; withal discovering the very truth indeed, with
what cunning his step-mother had proceeded. This agreeing with Plangus
his own opinion, made him give the better credit; yet not so far, as
to fly out of his country, according to the naughty fellow’s
persuasion, but to attend, and to see further. {205} Whereupon the
fellow, by the direction of his mistress, told him one day, that the
same night, about one of the clock, the king had appointed to have his
wife, and those noblemen together to deliberate of their manner of
proceeding against Plangus, and therefore offered him, that if himself
would agree, he would bring him into a place where he should hear all
that passed and so have the more reason both to himself and to the
world, to seek his safety. The poor Plangus, being subject to that
only disadvantage of honest hearts, credulity, was persuaded by him;
and arming himself, because of his late going, was closely conveyed
into the place appointed. In the meantime, his step-mother, making all
her gestures cunningly counterfeit a miserable affliction, she lay
almost grovelling on the floor of her chamber, not suffering anybody
to comfort her, until they calling for her husband, and he held off
with long enquiry, at length she told him, even almost crying out of
every word, that she was weary of her life, since she was brought to
that plunge, either to conceal her husband’s murder, or accuse her
son, who had ever been more dear than a son unto her. Then with many
interruptions and exclamations she told him, that her son Plangus,
soliciting her in the old affection between them, had besought her to
put to her helping hand to the death of the king, assuring her that,
though all the laws in the world were against it, he would marry her
when he were king.

“She had not fully said thus much, with many pitiful digressions, when
in comes the same fellow that brought Plangus: and running himself out
of breath, fell at the king’s feet, beseeching him to save himself,
for that there was a man with a sword drawn in the next room. The king
affrighted, went out, and called his guard, who entering the place,
found indeed Plangus with his sword in his hand, but not naked, yet
standing suspiciously enough to one already suspicious. The king,
thinking he had put up his sword because of the noise, never took
leisure to hear his answer, but made him prisoner, meaning the next
morning to put him to death in the market-place.

“But the day had no sooner opened the eyes and ears of his friends and
followers, but that there was a little army of them who came, and by
force delivered him; although numbers on the other side, abused with
the fine framing of their report, took arms for the king. But Plangus,
though he might have used the force of his friends to revenge his
wrong, and get the crown, yet the natural love of his father, and hate
to make their suspicion seem just, caused him rather to choose a
voluntary exile than to make his father’s death the purchase of his
life: and therefore went he to Tiridates, whose mother was his
father’s sister, living in his court eleven or twelve years, ever
hoping by his intercession, and his {206} own desert, to recover his
father’s grace. At the end of which time, the war of Erona happened,
which my sister, with the cause thereof, discoursed unto you.

“But his father had so deeply engraven the suspicion in his heart that
he thought his flight rather to proceed of a fearful guiltiness than
of an humble faithfulness, and therefore continued his hate with such
vehemency that he did even hate his nephew Tiridates, and afterwards
his niece Artaxia, because in his court he received countenance,
leaving no means unattempted of destroying his son; among other,
employing that wicked servant of his, who undertook to empoison him.
But his cunning disguised him not so well but that the watchful
servants of Plangus did discover him, whereupon the wretch was taken,
and, before his well-deserved execution, by tortures forced to confess
the particularities of this, which in general I have told you.

“Which confession authentically set down, though Tiridates with solemn
embassage sent to the king, wrought no effect. For the king having put
the reins of the government into his wife’s hand, never did so much as
read it, but sent it straight by her to be considered. So as they
rather heaped more hatred on Plangus, for the death of their servant.
And now finding, that his absence, and their reports, had much
diminished the wavering people’s affection towards Plangus, with
advancing fit persons for faction, and granting great immunities to
the commons, they prevailed so far as to cause the son of the second
wife, called Palladius, to be proclaimed successor, and Plangus quite
excluded: so that Plangus was driven to continue his serving
Tiridates, as he did in the war against Erona, and brought home
Artaxia, as my sister told you; when Erona by the treason of

But at that word she stopped. For Basilius, not able longer to abide
their absence, came suddenly among them, and with smiling countenance,
telling Zelmane he was afraid she had stolen away his daughters,
invited them to follow the sun’s counsel in going then to their
lodging, for indeed the sun was ready to set. They yielded, Zelmane
meaning some other time to understand the story of Antiphilus’s
treason, and Erona’s danger, whose cause she greatly tendered. But
Miso had no sooner espied Basilius, but as spitefully as her rotten
voice could utter, she set forth the sauciness of Amphialus. But
Basilius only attended what Zelmane’s opinion was, who though she
hated Amphialus, yet the nobility of her courage prevailed over it,
and she desired he might be pardoned that youthful error, considering
the reputation he had to be one of the best knights in the world; so
as hereafter he governed himself, as one remembering his fault.
Basilius giving the infinite terms of praises to Zelmane’s both valour
in conquering, and pitifulness in {207} pardoning, commanded no more
words to be made of it, since such he thought was her pleasure.

So brought he them up to visit his wife, where, between her and him,
the poor Zelmane received a tedious entertainment; oppressed with
being loved, almost as much, as with loving. Basilius not so wise in
covering his passion, could make his tongue go almost no other pace,
but to run into those immoderate praises which the foolish lover
thinks short of his mistress, though they reach far beyond the
heavens. But Gynecia, whom womanly modesty did more outwardly bridle,
yet did sometimes use the advantage of her sex in kissing Zelmane, as
she sat upon her bed-side by her, which was but still more and more
sweet incense to cast upon the fire wherein her heart was sacrificed.
Once Zelmane could not stir, but that, as if they had been poppets,
whose motion stood only upon her pleasure, Basilius with serviceable
steps, Gynecia with greedy eyes, would follow her. Basilius’s mind
Gynecia well knew, and could have found in her heart to laugh at, if
mirth could have born any proportion with her fortune. But all
Gynecia’s actions were interpreted by Basilius, as proceeding from
jealously of his amorousness. Zelmane betwixt both, like the poor
child, whose father, while he beats him, will make him believe it is
for love; or like the sick man, to whom the physician swears the
ill-tasting wallowish medicine he proffers is of a good taste: their
love was hateful, their courtesy troublesome, their presence cause of
her absence thence, where not only her light, but her life consisted.
Alas! thought she to herself, dear Dorus, what odds is there between
thy destiny and mine? For thou hast to do, in thy pursuit but with
shepherdish folks, who trouble thee with a little envious care, and
affected diligence; but I, besides that I have now Miso, the worst of
thy devils, let loose upon me, am waited on by princes, and watched by
the two wakeful eyes of love and jealousy. Alas! incomparable
Philoclea, thou ever seest me, but dost never see me as I am: thou
hearest willingly all that I dare say, and I dare not say that which
were most fit for thee to hear. Alas! who ever but I was imprisoned in
liberty, and banished being still present? to whom but me have lovers
been jailors, and honour a captivity?

But the night coming on with her silent steps upon them, they parted
each from other, if at least they could be parted, of whom every one
did live in another, and went about to flatter sleep in their beds,
that disdained to bestow itself liberally upon such eyes, which by
their will would ever be looking, and in least measure upon Gynecia.
Who, when Basilius after long tossing was gotten asleep, and the
cheerful comfort of the lights removed from her, kneeling up in her
bed, began with a soft voice, and swollen heart, to renew the curses
of her birth; and then in a manner embracing {208} her bed: “Ah
chastest bed of mine,” said she, “which never heretofore could’st
accuse me of one defiled thought, how can’st thou now receive this
disastered changeling? happy, happy, be they only which be not; and
thy blessedness only in this respect thou mayest feel that thou hast
no feeling.” With that she furiously tore off great part of her fair
hair: “Take care, O forgotten virtue,” said she, “this miserable
sacrifice; while my soul was clothed with modesty, that was a comely
ornament: now why should nature crown that head, which is so wicked,
as her only desire is she cannot be enough wicked?” more she would
have said, but that Basilius, awaked with the noise, took her in his
arms, and began to comfort her, the good man thinking it was all for a
jealous love of him, which humour if she would a little have
maintained, perchance it might have weakened his new-conceived
fancies. But he, finding her answers wandering from the purpose, left
her to herself (glad the next morning to take the advantage of a
sleep, which a little before day overwatched with sorrow, her tears
had as it were sealed up in her eyes) to have the more conference with
Zelmane, who baited on this fashion by those two lovers, and ever kept
from any mean to declare herself, found in herself a daily increase of
her violent desires; like a river, the more swelling, the more his
current is stopped.

The chief recreation she could find in her anguish, was sometime to
visit that place, where first she was so happy as to see the cause of
her unhap. There would she kiss the ground, and thank the trees, bless
the air, and do dutiful reverence to everything that she thought did
accompany her at their first meeting: then return again to her inward
thoughts; sometimes despair darkening all her imaginations, sometimes
the active passion of love cheering and clearing her invention, how to
unbar that cumbersome hindrance of her two ill-matched lovers. But
this morning Basilius himself gave her good occasion to go beyond
them. For having combed and tricked himself more curiously than any
time forty winters before, coming where Zelmane was, he found her
given over to her musical muses, to the great pleasure of good old
Basilius, who retired himself behind a tree, while she with a most
sweet voice did utter those passionate verses.

 Loved I am, and yet complain of love:
  As loving not, accus’d in love I die.
 When pity most I crave, I cruel prove:
  Still seeking love, love found, as much I fly.
   Burnt in myself, I muse at other’s fire;
  What I call wrong, I do the same and more:
 Barr’d of my will, I have beyond desire;
  I wail for want, and yet am chok’d with store.


   This is thy work, thou god for ever blind:
  Though thousands old, a boy entitled still.
 Thus children do the silly birds they find,
  With stroking hurt, and too much cramming kill.
   Yet thus much love, O love, I crave of thee:
   Let me be lov’d, or else not loved be.

Basilius made no great haste from beyond the trees, till he perceived
she had fully ended her music. But then loth to lose the precious
fruit of time, he presented himself unto her, falling down upon both
his knees, and holding up his hands, as the old governess of Danae is
painted, when she suddenly saw the golden shower, “O heavenly woman,
or earthly goddess,” said he, “let not my presence be odious unto you,
nor my humble suit seem of small weight in your ears. Vouchsafe your
eyes to descend upon this miserable old man, whose life hath hitherto
been maintained but to serve as an increase of your beautiful
triumphs. You only have overthrown me, and in my bondage consists my
glory. Suffer not your own work to be despised of you, but look upon
him with pity, whose life serves for your praise.” Zelmane, keeping a
countenance askance she understood him not, told him it became her
evil to suffer such excessive reverence of him, but that it worse
became her to correct him, to whom she owed duty; that the opinion she
had of his wisdom was such as made her esteem greatly of his words;
but that the words themselves sounded so, that she could not imagine
what they might intend. “Intend,” said Basilius, proud that that was
brought in question, “what may they intend but a refreshing of my
soul, and assuaging of my heart, and enjoying those your excellencies,
wherein my life is upheld, and my death threatened?” Zelmane lifting
up her face as if she had received a mortal injury of him, “and is
this the devotion your ceremonies have been bent to?” said she: “is it
the disdain of my estate, or the opinion of my lightness that have
emboldened such base fancies towards me? enjoying quoth you? now
little joy come to them that yield to such enjoying.”

Poor Basilius was so appalled that his legs bowed under him; his eyes
looked as though he would gladly hide himself, and his old blood going
to his heart, a general shaking all over his body possessed him. At
length, with a wan mouth, he was about to give a stammering answer,
when it came into Zelmane’s head by this device, to make her profit of
his folly; and therefore with a relented countenance, thus said unto
him, “Your words, mighty Prince, were unfit either for me to hear, or
you to speak, but yet the large testimony I see of your affection
makes me willing to suppress a great number of errors. Only thus much
I think good {210} to say, that the same words in my lady Philoclea’s
mouth, as from one woman to another, so as there were no other body
by, might have had a better grace, and perchance have found a gentler

Basilius, whose senses by desire were held open, and conceit was by
love quickened, heard scarcely half her answer out, but that, as if
speedy flight might save his life, he turned away, and ran with all
the speed his body would suffer him towards his daughter Philoclea,
whom he found at that time dutifully watching by her mother, and Miso
curiously watching her, having left Mopsa to do the like service to
Pamela. Basilius forthwith calling Philoclea aside, with all the
conjuring words which desire could indite and authority utter,
besought her she would preserve his life, in whom her life was begun,
she would save his grey hairs from rebuke, and his aged mind from
despair; that if she were not cloyed with his company, and that she
thought not the earth over-burdened with him, she would cool his fiery
grief, which was to be done but by her breath: that in fine,
whatsoever he was, he was nothing but what it pleased Zelmane; all the
powers of his spirit depending of her, that if she continued cruel he
could no more sustain his life than the earth remain fruitful in the
sun’s continual absence. He concluded, she should in one payment
requite all his deserts; and that she needed not to disdain any
service, though never so mean, which was warranted by the sacred name
of father. Philoclea more glad than ever she had known herself that
she might, by this occasion, enjoy the private conference of Zelmane,
yet had so sweet a feeling of virtue in her mind, that she would not
suffer a vile colour to be cast over fair thoughts, but with humble
grace answered her father: that there needed neither promise nor
persuasion to her, to make her do her uttermost for her father’s
service; that for Zelmane’s favour, she would in all virtuous sort
seek it towards him: and that as she would not pierce further into his
meaning, than himself should declare, so would she interpret all his
doings to be accomplished in goodness: and therefore desired, if
otherwise it were, that he would not impart it to her, who then should
be forced to begin, by true obedience, a show of disobedience: rather
performing his general commandment, which had ever been to embrace
virtue than any new particular sprung out of passion, and contrary to
the former. Basilius content to take that, since he could have no
more, thinking it a great point, if, by her means, he could get but a
more free access unto Zelmane, allowed her reasons, and took her
proffer thankfully, desiring only a speedy return of comfort.
Philoclea was parting, and Miso straight behind her, like Alecto
following Proserpina. But Basilius forced her to stay, though with
much ado, she being {211} sharp set upon the fulfilling of a shrewd
office in over-looking Philoclea; and said to Basilius that she did as
she was commanded, and could not answer it to Gynecia, if she were any
whit from Philoclea, telling him true, that he did evil to take her
charge from her. But Basilius, swearing he would put out her eyes, if
she stirred a foot to trouble his daughter, gave her a stop for that

So away departed Philoclea, with a new field of fancies for her
travailing mind: for well she saw her father was grown her adverse
party, and yet her fortune such, as she must favour her rival; and the
fortune of that fortune such, as neither that did hurt her, nor any
contrary mean help her.

But she walked but a little on, before she saw Zelmane lying upon a
bank, with her face so bent over Ladon, that, her tears falling into
the water, one might have thought that she began meltingly to be
metamorphosed to the under-running river. But by and by with speech
she made known, as well that she lived, as that she sorrowed. “Fair
streams,” said she, “that do vouchsafe in your clearness to represent
unto me, my blubbered face, let the tribute offer of my tears unto
you, procure your stay a while with me, that I may begin yet at last
to find something that pities me; and that all things of comfort and
pleasure do not fly away from me. But if the violence of your spring
command you to haste away, to pay your duties to your great prince,
the sea, yet carry with you those few words, and let the uttermost
ends of the world know them. A love more clear than yourselves,
dedicated to a love, I fear, more cold than yourselves, with the
clearness lays a night of sorrow upon me, and with the coldness
inflames a world of fire within me.” With that she took a willow
stick, and wrote in a sandy bank those few verses.

 Over those brooks trusting to ease mine eyes,
  (Mine eyes even great in labour with their tears)
 I laid my face; my face ev’n wherein lies
  Clusters of clouds, which no sun ever clears,
   In watery glass my watery eyes I see;
   Sorrows ill eas’d, where sorrows painted be.

 My thoughts imprison’d in my secret woes,
  With flamy breath do issue oft in sound,
 The sound of this strange air no sooner goes,
  But that it does with Echoes’ force rebound;
   And make me hear the plaints I would refrain:
   Thus outwards helps my inward grief maintain.


 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.

“Most beloved lady, the incomparable excellencies of yourself, waited
on by the greatness of your estate, and the importance of the thing
whereon my life consisted, doth require both many ceremonies before
the beginning, and many circumstances in the uttering my speech, both
bold and fearful. But the small opportunity of envious occasion, by
the malicious eye hateful love doth cast upon me, and the extreme bent
of my affection, which will either break out in words, or break my
heart, compel me not only to embrace the smallest time, but to pass by
the respects due unto you, in respect of your poor caitiff’s life, who
is now, or never to be preserved. I do therefore vow unto you,
hereafter never more to omit all dutiful form, do you only now
vouchsafe to hear the matter {213} of a mind most perplexed, if ever
the sound of love have come to your ears, or if ever you have
understood what force it hath had to conquer the strongest hearts and
change the most settled estates, receive here an example of those
strange tragedies; one, that in himself containeth the particularities
of all those misfortunes, and from henceforth believe that such a
thing may be, since you shall see it is. You shall see, I say, a
living image, and a present story of what love can do when he is bent
to ruin.

“But alas! whither goest thou my tongue? or how doth my heart consent
to adventure the revealing his nearest touching secret? but peace
fear, thou comest too late, when already the harm is taken. Therefore
I say again, O only princess attend here a miserable miracle of
affection. Behold here before your eyes Pyrocles, prince of Macedon,
whom you only have brought to this game of fortune, and unused
Metamorphosis, whom you only have made neglect his country, forget his
father, and lastly forsake to be Pyrocles: the same Pyrocles who, you
heard, was betrayed by being put in a ship, which being burned,
Pyrocles was drowned. O most true presage! for these traitors, my
eyes, putting me into a ship of desire, which daily burneth, those
eyes, I say, which betrayed me, will never leave till they have
drowned me. But be not, be not, most excellent lady, you that nature
hath made to be the load-star of comfort, be not the rock of
shipwreck: you whom virtue hath made the princess of felicity, be not
the minister of ruin: you whom my choice hath made the goddess of my
safety. O let not, let not, from you be poured upon me destruction;
your fair face hath many tokens in it of amazement at my words: think
then what his amazement is, from whence they come, since no words can
carry with them the life of the inward feeling, I desire that my
desire may be weighed in the balances of honour, and let virtue hold
them. For if the highest love in no base person may aspire to grace,
then may I hope your beauty will not be without pity, if otherwise you
be, alas! but let it not be so resolved, yet shall not my death be
comfortless, receiving it by your sentence.”

The joy which wrought into Pygmalion’s mind, while he found his
beloved image was softer and warmer in his folded arms, till at length
it accomplished his gladness with a perfect woman’s shape, still
beautified with the former perfections, was even such, as by each
degree of Zelmane’s words creepingly entered into Philoclea, till her
pleasure was fully made up with the manifesting of his being, which
was such as in hope did overcome hope. Yet doubt would fain have
played his part in her mind and called in question, how she should be
assured that Zelmane was Pyrocles. But love straight stood up and
deposed that a lie could not come from the mouth of Zelmane. Besides,
a certain spark of honour, which rose {214} in her well-disposed mind,
made her fear to be alone with him, with whom alone she desired to be,
withal the other contradictions growing in those minds, which neither
absolutely climb the rock of virtue, nor freely sink into the sea of
vanity, but that spark soon gave place, or at least gave no more light
in her mind than a candle doth in the sun’s presence. But even sick
with a surfeit of joy, and fearful of she knew not what, as he that
newly finds huge treasures, doubts whether he sleep or no; or like a
fearful deer, which then looks most about when he comes to the best
feed, with a shrugging kind of tremor through all her principal parts,
she gave those affectionate words for answer.

“Alas! how painful a thing it is to a divided mind to make a
well-joined answer? how hard it is to bring inward shame to outward
confession? and what handsomeness, trow you, can be observed in that
speech which is made one knows not to whom? Shall I say, ‘O Zelmane’?
alas! your words be against it. Shall I say ‘Prince Pyrocles’? wretch
that I am, your show is manifest against it. But this, this I may well
say; if I had continued as I ought, Philoclea, you had either never
been, or ever been Zelmane: you had either never attempted this
change, set on with hope, or never discovered it, stopped with
despair. But I fear me, my behaviour ill governed, gave you the first
comfort: I fear me, my affection ill hid, hath given you this last
assurance: I fear indeed, the weakness of my government before, made
you think such a mask would be grateful unto me; and my weaker
government since makes you pull off the visor. What should I do then?
shall I seek far-fetched inventions? shall I labour to lay marble
colours over my ruinous thoughts? or rather, though the pureness of my
virgin mind be stained, let me keep the true simplicity of my word.
True it is, alas! too true it is, O Zelmane, for so I love to call
thee, since in that name my love first began, and in the shade of that
name my love shall best lie hidden, that even while so thou wert, what
eye bewitched me I know not, my passions were fitter to desire than to
be desired. Shall I say then, I am sorry, or that my love must be
turned to hate, since thou art turned to Pyrocles? How may that well
be? since when thou wert Zelmane, the despair thou mightest not be
thus did most torment me. Thou hast then the victory, use it with
virtue. Thy virtue won me; with virtue preserve me. Dost thou love me?
keep me then still worthy to be loved.”

Then held she her tongue, and cast down a self-accusing look, finding
that in herself she had, as it were, shot out of the bow of her
affection, a more quick opening of her mind than she minded to have
done. But Pyrocles so carried up with joy that he did not envy the
god’s felicity, presented her with some jewels of right princely
value, as some little tokens of his love and quality: and {215} withal
showed her letters from his father King Euarchus, unto him, which even
in the sea had amongst his jewels been preserved. But little needed
those proofs to one, who would have fallen out with herself rather
than make any contrary conjectures to Zelmane’s speeches; so that with
such embracements, as it seemed their souls desired to meet, and their
hearts to kiss as their mouths did, they passed the promise of
marriage, which fain Pyrocles would have sealed with the chief arms of
his desire, but Philoclea commanded the contrary.

And then at Philoclea’s entreaty, who was willing to purloin all
occasions of remaining with Zelmane, she told her the story of her
life, from the time of their departing from Erona; for the rest she
had already understood of her sister. “For,” said she, “I have
understood how you first, in the company of your noble cousin
Musidorus, parted from Thessalia, and of divers adventures, which with
no more danger than glory you passed through, till your coming to the
succour of the queen Erona; and the end of that war, you might
perceive by myself, I had understood of prince Plangus. But what since
was the course of your doings, until you came, after so many
victories, to make a conquest of poor me, that I know not; the fame
thereof having rather showed it by pieces, than delivered any full
form of it. Therefore, dear Pyrocles, for what can my ears be so
sweetly fed with, as to hear you of you, be liberal unto me of those
things which have made you indeed precious to the world; and now doubt
not to tell of your perils, for since I have you here out of them,
even the remembrance of them is pleasant.”

Pyrocles easily perceived she was content with kindness to put off
occasion of further kindness, wherein love showed himself a cowardly
boy that durst not attend for fear of offending. But rather love
proved himself valiant, that durst with the sword of reverent duty
gain-stand the force of so many enraged desires. But so it was, that
though he knew this discourse was to entertain him from a more
straight parley, yet he durst not but kiss his rod, and gladly make
much of that entertainment which she allotted unto him: and therefore
with a desirous sigh chastening his breast for too much desiring,
“Sweet princess of my life,” said he, “what trophies, what triumph,
what monuments, what histories might ever make my fame yield so sweet
a music to my ears, as that it pleaseth you to lend your mind to the
knowledge of any thing touching Pyrocles, only therefore of value,
because he is your Pyrocles? and therefore grow I now so proud as to
think it worth the hearing, since you vouchsafe to give it the
hearing. Therefore only height of my hope, vouchsafe to know, that
after the death of Tiridates, and settling Erona in her government,
for {216} settled we left her; howsoever since, as I perceived by your
speech the last day, the ungrateful treason of her ill-chosen husband
overthrew her, a thing, in truth, never till this time by me either
heard, or suspected: for who could think, without having such a mind
as Antiphilus, that so great a beauty as Erona’s, indeed excellent,
could not have held his affection? so great goodness could not have
bound gratefulness? and so high advancement could not have satisfied
his ambition? but therefore true it is, that wickedness may well be
compared to a bottomless pit, into which it is far easier to keep
one’s self from falling than being fallen, to give one’s self any stay
from falling infinitely. But for my cousin and me, upon this cause we
parted from Erona.

“Euardes, the brave and mighty prince, whom it was my fortune to kill
in the combat for Erona, had three nephews, sons to a sister of his;
all three set among the foremost ranks of fame for great minds to
attempt, and great force to perform what they did attempt, especially
the eldest, by name Anaxius, to whom all men would willingly have
yielded the height of praise, but that his nature was such as to
bestow it upon himself before any could give it. For of so
unsupportable a pride he was, that where his deeds might well stir
envy, his demeanour did rather breed disdain. And if it be true that
the giants ever made war against heaven, he had been a fit
ensign-bearer for that company. For nothing seemed hard to him, though
impossible; and nothing unjust, while his liking was his justice. Now
he in these wars had flatly refused his aid, because he could not
brook that the worthy prince Plangus was by his cousin Tiridates
preferred before him. For allowing no other weights but the sword and
spear in judging of desert, how much he esteemed himself before
Plangus in that, so much would he have had his allowance in his

“But now that he understood that his uncle was slain by me, I think
rather scorn that any should kill his uncle, than any kindness, an
unused guest to an arrogant soul, made him seek his revenge, I must
confess in manner gallant enough. For he sent a challenge unto me to
meet him at a place appointed, in the confines of the kingdom of
Lycia, where he would prove upon me, that I had by some treachery
overcome his uncle, whom else many hundreds such as I, could not have
withstood. Youth and success made me willing enough to accept any such
bargain, especially because I had heard that your cousin Amphialus,
who for some years hath borne universally the name of the best knight
in the world, had divers times fought with him, and never been able to
master him, but so had left him, that every man thought Anaxius in
that one virtue of courtesy far short of him, in all other his match;
Anaxius still deeming himself for his superior. Therefore {217} to him
I would go, and I would needs go alone, because so I understood for
certain, he was; and, I must confess, desirous to do something without
the company of the incomparable prince Musidorus, because in my heart
I acknowledge that I owed more to his presence than to anything in
myself, whatever before I had done. For of him indeed, as of any
worldly cause, I must grant, as received, whatever there is or may be
good in me. He taught me by word, and best by example, giving me in
him so lively an image of virtue, that ignorance could not cast such a
mist over mine eyes, as not to see, and to love it; and all with such
dear friendship and care, as, O heaven, how can my life ever requite
to him? which made me indeed find in myself such a kind of depending
upon him, as without him I found a weakness, and a mistrustfulness of
myself, as one stayed from his best strength, when at any time I
missed him. Which humour perceiving to over-rule me, I strove against
it: not that I was unwilling to depend upon him in judgment, but by
weakness I would not; which though it held me to him, made me unworthy
of him. Therefore I desired his leave and obtained it, such confidence
he had in me, preferring my reputation before his own tenderness, and
so privately went from him, he determining, as after I knew, in secret
manner, not to be far from the place where we appointed to meet, to
prevent any foul play that might be offered unto me. Full loth was
Erona to let us depart from her, as it were, fore-feeling the harms
which after fell to her. But I, rid fully from those cumbers of
kindness, and half a day’s journey in my way towards Anaxius, met an
adventure, which, though in itself of small importance, I will tell
you at large, because by the occasion thereof I was brought to as
great cumber and danger, as lightly any might escape.

“As I passed through a land, each side whereof was so bordered both
with high timber trees, and copses of far more humble growth, that it
might easily bring a solitary mind to look for no other companions
than the wild burgesses of the forest, I heard certain cries, which,
coming by pauses to mine ears from within the wood of the right hand,
made me well assured by the greatness of the cry, it was the voice of
a man, though it were a very unmanlike voice, so to cry. But making
mine ears my guide, I left not many trees behind me before I saw at
the bottom of one of them a gentleman, bound with many garters hand
and foot, so as well he might tumble and toss, but neither run nor
resist he could. Upon him, like so many eagles upon an ox, were nine
gentlewomen, truly such as one might well enough say, they were
handsome. Each of them held bodkins in their hands, wherewith
continually they pricked him, having been before hand unarmed of any
defence {218} from the waist upward, but only of his shirt: so as the
poor man wept and bled, cried and prayed while they sported themselves
in his pain, and delighted in his prayers as the arguments of their

“I was moved to compassion, and so much the more that he straight
called to me for succour, desiring me at least to kill him, to deliver
him from those tormentors. But before myself could resolve, much less
any other tell what I would resolve, there came in choleric haste
towards me about seven or eight knights, the foremost of which, willed
me to get away, and not to trouble the ladies while they were taking
their due revenge; but with so over-mastering a manner of pride, as
truly my heart could not brook it; and therefore, answering them, that
how I would have defended him from the ladies I knew not, but from
them I would, I began to combat first with him particularly, and after
his death with the others that had less good manners, jointly. But
such was the end of it, that I kept the field with the death of some,
and flight of others. Insomuch as the women, afraid, what angry
victory would bring forth, ran all away, saving only one, who was so
fleshed in malice that neither during, nor after the fight, she gave
any truce to her cruelty, but still used the little instrument of her
great spite, to the well-witnessed pain of the impatient patient: and
was now about to put out his eyes, which all this while were spared,
because they should do him the discomfort of seeing who prevailed over
him. When I came in, and after much ado brought her to some
conference, for some time it was before she would hearken, more before
she would speak, and most before she would in her speech leave off the
sharp remembrance of her bodkin, but at length when I pulled off my
head-piece, and humbly entreated her pardon, or knowledge why she was
cruel, out of breath more with choler, which increased in his own
exercise, than with the pain she took, much to this purpose, she gave
her grief unto my knowledge.

“‘Gentlemen,’ said she, ‘much it is against my will to forbear any
time the executing of my just revenge upon this naughty creature, a
man in nothing but in deceiving women. But because I see you are
young, and like enough to have the power, if you would have the mind,
to do much more mischief than he, I am content upon this bad subject
to read a lecture to your virtue. This man called Pamphilus, in birth
I must confess is noble, but what is that to him, if it shall be a
stain to his dead ancestors to have left such an offspring, in shape
as you see, not uncomely, indeed the fit mask of his disguised
falsehood, in conversation wittily pleasant, and pleasantly gamesome;
his eyes full of merry simplicity, his words, of hearty
companionableness: and such an {219} one, whose head one would not
think so stayed as to think mischievously; delighted in all such
things, which by imparting the delight to others, makes the user
thereof welcome, as, music, dancing, hunting, feasting, riding, and
such like. And to conclude, such an one, as who can keep him at
arm’s-end, need never wish a better companion. But under these
qualities lies such a poisonous adder, as I will tell you. For by
those gifts of nature and fortune, being in all places acceptable, he
creeps, nay, to say, truly, he flies so into the favour of poor silly
women, that I would be too much ashamed to confess, if I had not
revenge in my hand as well as shame in my cheeks. For his heart being
wholly delighted in deceiving us, we could never be warned, but rather
one bird caught, served for a stale to bring in more. For the more he
got, the more still he showed that he, as it were, gave way to his new
mistress when he betrayed his promises to the former. The cunning of
his flattery, the readiness of his tears, the infiniteness of his
vows, were but among the weakest threads of his net. But the stirring
our own passions, and by the entrance of them, to make himself lord of
our forces, there lay his master’s part of cunning, making us now
jealous, now envious, now proud of what he had, desirous of more; now
giving one the triumph, to see him that was prince of many, subject to
her; now with an estranged look, making her fear the loss of that
mind, which indeed could never be had: never ceasing humbleness and
diligence, till he had embarked us in some such disadvantage that we
could not return dry-shod; and then suddenly a tyrant, but a crafty
tyrant. For so would he use his imperiousness, that we had a
delightful fear, and an awe, which made us loth to lose our hope. And,
which is strangest, when sometimes with late repentance I think of it,
I must confess, even in the greatest tempest of my judgment was I
never driven to think him excellent; and yet so could set my mind,
both to get and keep him, as though therein had laid my felicity: like
them I have seen play at the ball, grow extremely earnest, who should
have the ball, and yet every one knew it was but a ball. But in the
end the bitter farce of the sport was, that we had either our hearts
broken with sorrow, or our estates spoiled with being at his
direction, or our honours for ever lost, partly by our own faults, but
principally by his faulty using of our faults. For never was there man
that could with more scornful eyes behold her at whose feet he had
lately lain, nor with a more unmanlike bravery use his tongue to her
disgrace, which lately had sung sonnets of her praises, being so
naturally inconstant, as I marvel his soul finds not some way to kill
his body, whereto it had been so long united. For so hath he dealt
with us, unhappy fools, as we could never tell whether he made greater
haste after he once liked, to enjoy, or after he once {220} enjoyed,
to forsake. But making a glory of his own shame, it delighted him to
be challenged of unkindness, it was a triumph to him to have his mercy
called for: and he thought the fresh colours of his beauty were
painted in nothing so well as in the ruins of his lovers: yet so far
had we engaged ourselves, unfortunate souls, that we listed not
complain, since our complaints could not but carry the greatest
occasion to ourselves. But every of us, each for herself, laboured all
means how to recover him, while he rather daily sent us companions of
our deceit, than ever returned in any sound and faithful manner. Till
at length he concluded all his wrongs with betrothing himself to one,
I must confess, worthy to be liked if any worthiness might excuse so
unworthy a changeableness, leaving us nothing but remorse for what was
past, and despair of what might follow. Then indeed the common injury
made us all join in fellowship, who till that time had employed our
endeavours one against the other, for we thought nothing was a more
condemning of us, than the justifying of his love to her by marriage:
then despair made fear valiant, and revenge gave shame countenance:
whereupon, we, that you saw here, devised how to get him among us
alone: which he, suspecting no such matter of them whom he had by
often abuses, he thought made tame to be still abused, easily gave us
opportunity to do.

“‘And a man may see, even in this, how soon rulers grow proud, and in
their pride foolish: he came with such an authority among us, as if
the planets had done enough for us, that by us once he had been
delighted. And when we began in courteous manner, one after the other,
to lay his unkindness unto him, he, seeing himself confronted by so
many, like a resolute orator, went not to denial, but to justify his
cruel falsehood, and all with such jests and disdainful passages, that
if the injury could not be made greater, yet were our conceits made
the apter to apprehend it.

“‘Among other of his answers, forsooth, I shall never forget, how he
would prove it was no inconstancy to change from one love to another,
but a great constancy, and contrary, that which we call constancy, to
be most changeable. “For,” said he, “I ever loved my delight, and
delighted always in what was lovely: and wheresoever, I found occasion
to obtain that, I constantly followed it. But these constant fools you
speak of, though their mistress grow by sickness foul, or by fortune
miserable, yet still will love her, and so commit the absurdest
inconstancy that may be, in changing their love from fairness to
foulness, and from loveliness to his contrary; like one not content to
leave a friend, but will straight give over himself, to his mortal
enemy: where I, whom you call inconstant, am ever constant to beauty,
in others, and delight myself.” And so in this jolly scoffing bravery
he went over us all, saying he {221} left one, because she was
over-wayward; another, because she was too soon won; a third, because
she was not merry enough; a fourth, because she was over gamesome; the
fifth, because she was grown with grief subject to sickness; the
sixth, because she was so foolish as to be jealous of him; the
seventh, because she had refused to carry a letter from him to another
that he loved; the eighth, because she was not secret; the ninth,
because she was not liberal: but to me, who am named Dido, and indeed
have met with a false Aeneas: to me I say, O the ungrateful villain,
he could find no other fault to object, but that, perdy, he met with
many fairer.

“‘But when he had thus played the careless prince, we, having those
servants of ours in readiness, whom you lately so manfully overcame,
laid hold of him, beginning at first but that trifling revenge, in
which you found us busy; but meaning afterwards to have mangled him so
as should have lost his credit for ever abusing more. But as you have
made my fellows fly away, so for my part the greatness of his wrong
overshadows, in my judgment, the greatness of any danger. For was it
not enough for him to have deceived me, and through the deceit abused
me, and after the abuse forsaken me, but that he must now, of all the
company, and before all the company, lay want of beauty to my charge?
many fairer, I trow even in your judgment, sir, if your eyes do not
beguile me, not many fairer; and I know, whosoever says the contrary,
there are not many fairer. And of whom should I receive this reproach,
but of him who hath best cause to know there are not many fairer? and
therefore howsoever my fellows pardon his injuries, for my part I will
ever remember, and remember to revenge his scorn of all scorns.’ With
that she to him afresh; and surely would have put out his eyes, who
lay mute for shame, it he did not sometimes cry for fear, if I had not
leapt from my horse and mingling force with entreaty, stayed her fury.

“But while I was persuading her to meekness, comes a number of his
friends, to whom he forthwith cried, that they should kill that woman,
that had thus betrayed and disgraced him. But then I was fain to
forsake the ensign under which I had before served, and to spend my
uttermost force in the protecting of the lady: which so well prevailed
for her, that in the end there was a faithful peace promised of all
sides. And so I leaving her in a place of security, as she thought,
went on my journey towards Anaxius, for whom I was forced to stay two
days in the appointed place, he disdaining to wait for me, till he
were sure I was there.

“I did patiently abide his angry pleasure, till about that space of
time he came, indeed, according to promise, alone: and that I may not
say too little, because he is wont to say too much, like a {222} man
whose courage is apt to climb over any danger. And as soon as ever he
came near me, in fit distance for his purpose, he with much fury, but
with fury skilfully guided, ran upon me, which I, in the best sort I
could, resisted, having kept myself ready for him, because I had
understood that he observed few compliments in matter of arms, but
such as a proud anger did indite unto him. And so, putting our horses
into a full career, we hit each other upon the head with our lances: I
think he felt my blow; for my part, I must confess, I never received
the like: but I think, though my senses were astonished, my mind
forced them to quicken themselves, because I had learned of him how
little favour he is wont to show in any matter of advantage. And
indeed he was turned and coming upon me with his sword drawn, both our
staves having been broken, at that encounter, but I was so ready to
answer him, that truly I know not who gave the first blow. But
whosoever gave the first, was quickly seconded by the second. And
indeed, excellentest lady, I must say true, for a time it was well
fought between us; he undoubtedly being of singular valour, I would
God, it were not abased by his too much loftiness: but as, by the
occasion of the combat, winning and losing ground, we changed places,
his horse, happened to come upon the point of the broken spear, which,
fallen to the ground, chanced to stand upward, so as it lightning upon
his heart the horse died. He driven to dismount, threatened, if I did
not the like, to do as much for my horse as fortune had done for his.
But whether for that, or because I would not be beholden to fortune
for any part of the victory, I descended. So began our foot-fight in
such sort, that we were well entered to blood on both sides, when
there comes by that inconstant Pamphilus, whom I had delivered, easy
to be known, for he was bare-faced, with a dozen armed men after him;
but before him he had Dido, that lady, who had most sharply punished
him, riding upon a palfrey, he following her with most unmanlike
cruelty, beating her with wands he had in his hand, she crying for
sense of pain, or hope of succour: which was so pitiful a sight unto
me, that it moved me to require Anaxius to defer our combat till
another day, and now to perform the duties of knighthood in helping
this distressed lady. But he that disdains to obey anything but his
passion, which he calls his mind, bid me leave off that thought; but
when he had killed me, he would then perhaps, go to her succour. But I
well finding the fight would be long between us, longing in my heart
to deliver the poor Dido, giving him so great a blow as somewhat
stayed him, to term it aright, I flatly ran away from him toward my
horse, who trotting after the company in mine armour I was put to some
pain, but that use made me nimble unto it. But as I followed my horse,
Anaxius followed me; but this proud heart did {223} so disdain that
exercise, that I quickly over-ran him, and overtaken my horse, being,
I must confess, ashamed to see a number of country folks, who happened
to pass thereby, who halloed and hooted after me, as at the arrantest
coward that ever showed his shoulders to his enemy. But when I had
leapt on my horse, with such speedy agility that they all cried, ‘O
see how fear gives him wings,’ I turned to Anaxius, and aloud promised
him to return thither again as soon as I had relieved the injured
lady. But he railing at me, with all the base words angry contempt
could indite; I said no more but ‘Anaxius assure thyself, I neither
fear thy force, nor thy opinion;’ and so using no weapon of a knight
at that time but my spurs, I ran in my knowledge after Pamphilus, but
in all their conceits from Anaxius, which as far as I could hear, I
might well hear testified with such laughters and games, that I was
some few times moved to turn back again.

“But the lady’s misery over-balanced my reputation, so that after her
I went, and with six hours’ hard riding, through so wild places, as it
was rather the cunning of my horse sometimes than of myself, so
rightly to hit the way, I overgat them a little before night, near to
an old ill-favoured castle, the place where I perceived they meant to
perform their unknightly errand. For there they began to strip her of
her clothes, when I came in among them, and running through the first
with a lance, the justness of the cause so enabled me against the
rest, false-hearted in their own wrong doing, that I had in as short
time almost as I had been fighting with only Anaxius, delivered her
from those injurious wretches, most of whom carried news to the other
world, that amongst men secret wrongs are not always left unpunished.
As for Pamphilus, he having once seen, and as it should seem,
remembered me, even from the beginning began to be in the rearward,
and before they had left fighting, he was too far off to give them
thanks for their pains. But when I had delivered to the lady a full
liberty, both in effect and in opinion, for some time it was before
she could assure herself she was out of their hands, who had laid so
vehement apprehensions of death upon her, she then told me, how as she
was returning towards her father’s, weakly accompanied, as too soon
trusting to the falsehood of reconcilement, Pamphilus had set upon her
and, killing those that were with her, carried herself by such force,
and with such manner as I had seen, to this place, where he meant in
cruel and shameful manner to kill her, in the sight of her own father,
to whom he had already sent word of it, that out of his castle window,
for this castle, she said, was his, he might have the prospect of his
only child’s destruction in my coming, whom, she said, he feared as
soon as he knew me by the armour, had not warranted her from that near
approaching cruelty. I was glad I had done so good a deed for a {224}
gentlewoman not unhandsome, whom before I had in like sort helped. But
the night beginning to persuade some retiring place, the gentlewoman,
even out of countenance before she began her speech, much after this
manner invited me to lodge that night with her father.

“‘Sir,’ said she, ‘how much I owe you, can be but abased by words,
since the life I have, I hold it now the second time, of you: and
therefore need not offer service unto you, but only to remember you,
that I am your servant: and I would my being so, might any way yield
any small contentment unto you. Now only I can but desire you to
harbour yourself this night in this castle, because the time requires
it, and in truth this country is very dangerous for murdering thieves,
to trust a sleeping life among them. And yet I must confess that as
the love I bear you makes me thus invite you, so the same love makes
me ashamed to bring you to a place where you shall be so, not spoken
by ceremony, but by truth, miserably entertained.’

“With that she told me, that though she spoke of her father, whom she
named Chremes, she would hide no truth from me; which was in sum, that
he was of all that region the man of greatest possessions and riches,
so was he either by nature, or an evil received opinion, given to
sparing in so unmeasurable sort, that he did not only bar himself from
the delightful, but almost from the necessary use thereof, scarcely
allowing himself fit sustenance of life, rather than he would spend of
those goods for whose sake only he seemed to joy in life. Which
extreme dealing, descending from himself upon her, had driven her to
put herself with a great lady of that country, by which occasion she
had stumbled upon such mischances as were little for the honour either
of her, or her family. But so wise had he showed himself therein, as
while he found his daughter maintained without his cost, he was
content to be deaf to any noise of infamy, which though it had wronged
her much more than she deserved, yet she could not deny but she was
driven thereby to receive more than decent favours. She concluded,
that there at least I should be free from injuries, and should be
assured to her-ward to abound as much in the true causes of welcomes,
as I should find wants of the effects thereof.

“I, who had acquainted myself to measure the delicacy of food and rest
by hunger and weariness, at that time well stored of both, did not
abide long entreaty, but went with her to the castle, which I found of
good strength, having a great moat round about it, the work of a noble
gentleman, of whose unthrifty son he had bought it; the bridge drawn
up, where we were fain to cry a good while before we could have
answer, and to dispute a good while before {225} answer would be
brought to acceptance. At length a willingness, rather than a joy to
receive his daughter whom he had lately seen so near death, and an
opinion brought into his head by course, because he heard himself
called father, rather than any kindness that he found in his own
heart, made him take us in; for my part by that time grown so weary of
such entertainment that no regard of myself, but only the importunity
of his daughter, made me enter. Where I was met with this Chremes, a
driveling old fellow, lean, shaking both of head and hands, already
half earth, and yet then most greedy of earth: who scarcely would give
me thanks for what I had done, for fear, I suppose, that thankfulness
might have an introduction of reward; but with a hollow voice, giving
me a false welcome, I might perceive in his eye to his daughter, that
it was hard to say whether the displeasure of her company did not
overweigh the pleasure of her own coming. But on he brought me into so
bare a house, that it was the picture of miserable happiness, and rich
beggary (served only by a company of rustical villains, full of sweat
and dust, not one of them other than a labourer) in sum, as he counted
it, profitable drudgery; and all preparations both for food and
lodging such as would make one detest niggardness, it is so sluttish a
vice. His talk of nothing but of his poverty, for fear, belike, lest I
should have proved a young borrower. In sum, such a man, as any enemy
would not wish him worse than to be himself. But there that night bid
I the burden of being a tedious guest to a loathsome host;
over-hearing him sometimes bitterly warn his daughter of bringing such
costly mates under his roof, which she grieved at, desired much to
know my name, I think partly of kindness, to remember who had done
something for her, and partly, because she assured herself I was such
a one as would make even his miser-mind contented with that he had
done. And accordingly, she demanded my name and estate, with such
earnestness, that I, whom love had not as then so robbed me of myself,
as to be other than I am, told her directly my name and condition:
whereof she was no more glad than her father, as I might well perceive
by some ill-favoured cheerfulness, which then first began to wrinkle
itself in his face.

“But the causes of their joys were far different; for as the shepherd
and the butcher both may look upon one sheep with pleasing conceits,
but the shepherd with mind to profit himself by preserving, the
butcher with killing him, so she rejoiced to find that mine own
benefits had made me to be her friend, who was a prince of such
greatness, and lovingly rejoiced. But his joy grew, as I to my danger
after perceived, by the occasion of the queen Artaxia’s setting my
head to sale for having slain her brother Tiridates, which being the
sum of an hundred thousand crowns, to {226} whosoever brought me alive
into her hands, that old wretch, who had over-lived all good nature,
though he had lying idly by him much more than that, yet above all
things loving money, for money’s own sake, determined to betray me, so
well deserving of him, for to have that which he was determined never
to use. And so knowing that the next morning I was resolved to go to
the place where I had left Anaxius, he sent in all speed to a captain
of a garrison near by, which though it belonged to the king of Iberia,
yet knowing the captain’s humour to delight so in riotous spending,
that he cared not how he came by the means to maintain it, doubted not
that to be half with him in the gain, he would play his quarter part
in the treason. And therefore that night agreeing of the fittest
places where they might surprise me in the morning, the old caitiff
was grown so ceremonious, that he would needs accompany me some miles
in my way, a sufficient token to me, if nature had made me apt to
suspect; since a churl’s courtesy rarely comes, but either for gain or
falsehood. But I suffered him to stumble into that point of good
manners: to which purpose he came out with all his clowns, horsed upon
such cart-jades, and so furnished, as in good faith I thought with
myself, if that were thrift, I wish none of my friends or subjects
ever to thrive. As for his daughter, the gentle Dido, she would also,
but in my conscience with a far better mind, prolong the time of
farewell, as long as he.

“And so we went on together: he so old in wickedness, that he could
look me in the face, and freely talk with me, whose life he had
already contracted for: till coming into the falling of a way which
led us into a place, of each side whereof men might easily keep
themselves undiscovered, I was encompassed suddenly by a great troop
of enemies, both of horse and foot, who willed me to yield myself to
the queen Artaxia. But they could not have used worse eloquence to
have persuaded my yielding than that; I knowing the little goodwill
Artaxia bare me. And therefore making necessity and justice my best
sword and shield, I used the other weapons I had as well as I could; I
am sure to the little ease of a good number, who trusting to their
number more than to their valour, and valuing money higher than
equity, felt that guiltiness is not always with ease oppressed. As for
Chremes, he withdrew himself, so gilding his wicked conceits with his
hope of gain, that he was content to be a beholder how I should be
taken to make his prey.

“But I was grown so weary that I supported myself more with anger than
strength, when the most excellent Musidorus came to my succour, who
having followed my trace as well as he could, after he found I had
left the fight with Anaxius, came to the niggard’s castle, where he
found all burned and spoiled by the {227} country people, who bare
mortal hatred to that covetous man, and now took the time when the
cattle was left almost without guard, to come in and leave monuments
of their malice therein: which Musidorus not staying either to
further, or impeach, came upon the spur after me, because with one
voice many told him, that if I were in his company, it was for no good
meant unto me, and in this extremity found me. But when I saw that
cousin of mine, methought my life was doubled, and where I before
thought of a noble death, I now thought of a noble victory. For who
can fear that hath Musidorus by him? who, what he did there for me,
how many he killed, not stranger for the number than for the strange
blows wherewith he sent them to a well-deserved death, might well
delight me to speak of, but I should so hold you too long in every
particular. But in truth, there if ever, and ever, if ever any man,
did Musidorus show himself second to none in able valour.

“Yet what the unmeasurable excess of their number would have done in
the end, I know not, but the trial thereof was cut off by the
chanceable coming thither of the king of Iberia, that same father of
the worthy Plangus, whom it hath pleased you sometimes to mention,
who, not yielding over to old age his country delights, especially of
hawking, was at that time following a merlin, brought to see this
injury offered unto us, and having great numbers of courtiers waiting
upon him, was straight known by the soldiers that assaulted us, to be
their king, and so most of them withdrew themselves.

“He, by his authority, knowing of the captain’s own constrained
confession, what was the motive of this mischievous practice;
misliking much such violence should be offered in his country to men
of our rank, but chiefly disdaining it should be done in respect of
his niece, whom, I must confess wrongfully, he hated, because he
interpreted that her brother and she had maintained his son Plangus
against him, caused the captain’s head presently to be stricken off,
and the old bad Chremes to be hanged, though truly for my part, I
earnestly laboured for his life, because I had eaten of his bread. But
one thing was notable for a conclusion of his miserable life, that
neither the death of his daughter, who, alas! poor gentlewoman, was by
chance slain among his clowns, while she over-boldly for her weak sex
sought to hold them from me, nor yet his own shameful end was so much
in his mouth as he was led to execution, as the loss of his goods, and
burning of his house which often, with more laughter than tears of the
hearers, he made pitiful exclamations upon.

“This justice thus done, and we delivered, the king indeed, in royal
sort invited us to his court, not far thence: in all point
entertaining us so, as truly I must ever acknowledge a beholdingness
{228} unto him; although the stream of it fell out not to be so sweet
as the spring. For after some days being there, curing ourselves of
such wounds as we had received, while I, causing diligent search to be
made for Anaxius, could learn nothing, but that he was gone out of the
country, boasting in every place how he had made me run away, we were
brought to receive the favour of acquaintance with the Queen
Andromana, whom the princess Pamela did in so lively colours describe
the last day, as still methinks the figure thereof possesseth mine
eyes, confirmed by the knowledge myself had.

“And therefore I shall need the less to make you know what kind of
woman she was; but this only, that first with the reins of affection,
and after with the very use of directing, she had made herself so
absolute a master of her husband’s mind, that a while he would not,
and after, he could not tell how to govern without being governed by
her: but finding an ease in not understanding, let loose his thoughts
wholly to pleasure, entrusting to her the entire conduct of all his
royal affairs. A thing that may luckily fall out to him that hath the
blessing to match with some heroical-minded lady. But in him it was
neither guided by wisdom, nor followed by fortune, but thereby was
slipped insensibly into such an estate that he lived at her indiscreet
discretion: all his subjects having by some years learned so to hope
for good, and fear of harm, only from her, that it should have needed
a stronger virtue than his to have unwound so deeply an entered vice.
So that either not striving, because he was contented, or contented
because he would not strive, he scarcely knew what was done in his own
chamber, but as it pleased her instruments to frame the relation.

“Now we being brought known unto her, the time that we spent in curing
some very dangerous wounds, after once we were acquainted, and
acquainted we were sooner than ourselves expected, she continually
almost haunted us, till, and it was not long a doing, we discovered a
most violent bent of affection, and that so strangely that we might
well see an evil mind in authority doth not only follow the sway of
the desires already within it, but frames to itself new desires, not
before thought of. For, with equal ardour she affected us both; and so
did her greatness disdain shamefacedness that she was content to
acknowledge it to both. For, having many times torn the veil of
modesty, it seemed, for a last delight, that she delighted in infamy,
which often she had used to her husband’s shame, filling all men’s
ears, but his, with his reproach; while he, hoodwinked with kindness,
least of all men knew who struck him. But her first decree was, by
setting forth her beauties, truly in nature not to be misliked, but as
much advanced to the eye as abased to the judgment by art, thereby to
{229} bring us, as willingly caught fishes, to bite at her bait. And
thereto had she that scutcheon of her desires supported by certain
badly diligent ministers, who often cloyed our ears with her praises,
and would needs teach us a way of felicity by seeking her favour. But
when she found that we were as deaf to them as dumb to her, then she
listed no longer stay in the suburbs of her foolish desires, but
directly entered upon them, making herself an impudent suitor,
authorizing herself very much with making us see that all favour and
power in that realm so depended upon her, as now, being in her hands,
we were either to keep or lose our liberty at her discretion; which
yet awhile she so tempered, as that we might rather suspect than she
threaten. But when our wounds grew so as that they gave us leave to
travel, and that she found we were purposed to use all means we could
to depart thence, she, with more and more importunateness, craved,
which in all good manners was either of us to be desired, or not
granted. Truly, most fair and every way excellent lady, you would have
wondered to have seen how before us she would confess the contention
in her own mind between that lovely, indeed most lovely brownness of
Musidorus’s face, and this colour of mine, which she, in the
deceivable style of affection would entitle beautiful: but her eyes
wandered like a glutton at a feast, from the one to the other; and how
her words would begin half of the sentence to Musidorus, and end the
other half to Pyrocles, not ashamed, seeing the friendship between us,
to desire either of us to be a mediator to the other, as if we should
have played one request at tennis between us: and often wishing that
she might be the angle where the lines of our friendship might meet,
and be the knot which might tie our hearts together. Which proceeding
of hers I do the more largely set before you, most dear lady, because
by the foil thereof, you may see the nobleness of my desire to you and
the warrantableness of your favour to me.”

At that Philoclea smiled with a little nod. “But,” said Pyrocles,
“when she perceived no hope by suit to prevail, then, persuaded by the
rage of affection, and encouraged by daring to do anything, she found
means to have us accused to the King, as though we went about some
practice to overthrow him in his own state, which, because of the
strange successes we had had in the kingdoms of Phrygia, Pontus and
Galatia, seemed not unlikely to him, who, but skimming anything that
came before him, was disciplined to leave the thorough-handling of all
to his gentle wife, who forthwith caused us to be put in prison,
having, while we slept, deprived us of our arms: a prison, indeed
injurious, because a prison, but else well testifying affection,
because in all respects as commodious as a prison might be: and indeed
so placed, as she might at all hours, {230} not seen by many, though
she cared not much how many had seen her, come unto us. Then fell she
to sauce her desires with threatenings, so that we were in a great
perplexity, restrained to so unworthy a bondage, and yet restrained by
love, which I cannot tell how, in noble minds, by a certain duty,
claims an answering. And how much that love might move us, so much,
and more that faultiness of her mind removed us; her beauty being
balanced by her shamelessness. But that which did, as it were, tie us
in a captivity, was, that to grant had been wickedly injurious to him
that had saved our lives; and to accuse a lady that loved us, of her
love unto us, we esteemed almost as dishonourable: and but by one of
those ways we saw no likelihood of going out of that place, where the
words would be injurious to your ears, which would express the manner
of her suit: while yet many times earnestness dyed her cheeks with the
colour of shamefacedness, and wanton languishing borrowed of her eyes
the down-cast look of modesty. But we in the meantime far from loving
her, and often assuring her that we would not so recompense her
husband’s saving of our lives; to such a ridiculous degree of trusting
her, she had brought him, that she caused him to send us word, that
upon our lives we should do whatsoever she commanded us: good man not
knowing any other but that all her pleasures were directed to the
preservation of his estate. But when that made us rather pity than
obey his folly, then fell she to servile entreating us, as though
force could have been the school of love, or that an honest courage
would not rather strive against, than yield to injury. All which yet
could not make us accuse her, though it made us almost pine away for
spite to lose any of our time in so troublesome an idleness.

“But while we were thus full of weariness of what was past, and doubt
of what was to follow, love, that I think in the course of my life
hath a sport sometimes to poison me with roses, sometimes to heal me
with wormwood, brought forth a remedy unto us: which though it helped
me out of that distress, alas, the conclusion was such that I must
ever while I live think it worse than a wreck so to have been
preserved. This king by his queen had a son of tender age, but of
great expectation, brought up in the hope of themselves, and already
acceptation of the inconstant people, as successor of his father’s
crown, whereof he was as worthy, considering his parts, as unworthy in
respect of the wrong was thereby done against the most noble Plangus,
whose great deserts now either forgotten, or ungratefully remembered;
all men set their sails with the favourable wind, which blew on the
fortune of this young prince, perchance not in their hearts, but
surely in their mouths, now giving Plangus, {231} who some years
before was their only champion, the poor comfort of calamity, pity.
This youth therefore accounted prince of that region, by name
Palladius, did with vehement affection love a young lady brought up in
his father’s court, called Zelmane, daughter to that mischievously
unhappy prince Plexirtus, of whom already I have, and sometimes must
make, but never honourable mention, left there by her father, because
of the intricate changeableness of his estate, he, by the mother’s
side, being half brother to this queen Andromana, and therefore the
willinger committing her to her care. But as love, alas! doth not
always reflect itself, so fell it out that this Zelmane, though truly
reason there was enough to love Palladius, yet could not ever persuade
her heart to yield thereunto: with that pain to Palladius, as they
feel that feel an unloved love. Yet loving indeed, and therefore
constant, he used still the intercession of diligence and faith, ever
hoping, because he would not put himself into that hell to be
hopeless: until the time of our being come, and captived there,
brought forth this end, which truly deserves of me a further degree of
sorrow than tears.

“Such was therein my ill destiny, that this young lady Zelmane, like
some unwisely liberal, that more delight to give presents than pay
debts, she chose, alas more the pity, rather to bestow her love, so
much undeserved as not desired, upon me, than to recompense him, whose
love, besides many other things, might seem, even in the court of
honour, justly to claim it of her. But so it was; alas that so it was!
whereby it came to pass, that as nothing doth more naturally follow
this cause than care to preserve, and benefit doth follow unfeigned
affection, she felt with me what I felt of my captivity, and straight
laboured to redress my pain, which was her pain; which she could do by
no better means than by using the help therein of Palladius, who, true
lover considering what, and not why, in all her commandments; and
indeed she concealing from him her affection, which she entitled,
compassion, immediately obeyed to employ his uttermost credit to
relieve us; which though as great as a beloved son with a mother,
faulty otherwise, but not hard-hearted toward him, yet it could not
prevail to procure us liberty. Wherefore he sought to have that by
practice which he could not by prayer. And so being allowed often to
visit us, for indeed our restraints were more or less, according as
the ague of her passion was either in the fit or intermission, he used
the opportunity of a fit time thus to deliver us.

“The time of the marrying that queen was, every year, by the extreme
love of her husband, and the serviceable love of the courtiers, made
notable by some public honours, which did, as it were, proclaim to the
world, how dear she was to that people. {232} Among other, none was
either more grateful to the beholders, or more noble in itself, than
jousts, both with sword and lance, maintained for seven nights
together; wherein that nation doth so excel, both for comeliness and
ableness, that from neighbour-countries they ordinarily come, some to
strive, some to learn, some to behold.

“This day it happened that divers famous knights came thither from the
court of Helen Queen of Corinth; a lady whom fame at that time was so
desirous to honour that she borrowed all men’s mouths to join with the
sound of her trumpet. For as her beauty hath won the prize from all
women that stand in degree of comparison, for as for the two sisters
of Arcadia, they are far beyond all conceit of comparison, so hath her
government been such as hath been no less beautiful to men’s judgments
than her beauty to the eyesight. For being brought by right of birth,
a woman, a young woman, a fair woman, to govern a people in nature
mutinously proud, and always before so used to hard governors, that
they knew not how to obey without the sword were drawn, could she for
some years so carry herself among them, that they found cause in the
delicacy of her sex, of admiration, not of contempt: and which was not
able, even in the time that many countries about her were full of
wars, which for old grudges to Corinth were thought still would
conclude there, yet so handled she the matter, that the threatened
ever smarted in the threateners; she using so strange, and yet so well
succeeding a temper that she made her people by peace warlike; her
courtiers by sports, learned; her ladies by love, chaste. For by
continual martial exercises without blood, she made them perfect in
that bloody art. Her sports were such as carried riches of knowledge
upon the stream of delight: and such the behaviour both of herself and
her ladies, as builded their chastity not upon waywardness, but choice
of worthiness: so as it seemed that court to have been the
marriage-place of love and virtue, and that herself was a Diana
apparelled in the garments of Venus. And this which fame only
delivered unto me, for yet I have never seen her, I am the willinger
to speak of to you, who, I know, know her better, being your near
neighbour, because you may see by her example, in herself wise, and of
others beloved, that neither folly is the cause of vehement love, nor
reproach the effect. For never, I think, was there any woman that with
more unremovable determination gave herself to the counsel of love,
after she had once set before her mind the worthiness of your cousin
Amphialus, and yet is neither her wisdom doubted of, nor honour
blemished. For, O God, what doth better become wisdom, than to discern
what is worthy the loving? what more agreeable to goodness, than to
love it so {233} discerned? and what to greatness of heart, than to be
constant in it once loved? but at that time that love of hers was not
so publicly known as the death of Philoxenus, and her search of
Amphialus hath made it: but then seemed to have such leisure to send
thither divers choice knights of her court, because they might bring
her, at least the knowledge, perchance the honour of that triumph.
Wherein so they behaved themselves, that for three days they carried
the prize; which being come from so far a place to disgrace her
servants, Palladius, who himself had never used arms, persuaded the
queen Andromana to be content for the honour sake of her court, to
suffer us two to have our horse and armour, that he with us might
undertake the recovery of their lost honour; which she granted, taking
our oath to go no further than her son, nor ever to abandon him. Which
she did not more for saving him, than keeping us: and yet not
satisfied with our oath, appointed a band of horsemen to have an eye
that we should not go beyond appointed limits. We were willing to
gratify the young prince, who, we saw, loved us. And so the fourth day
of that exercise we came into the field: where, I remember, the manner
was, that the forenoon they should run a tilt, one after the other;
the afternoon in a broad field in manner of a battle, till either the
strangers, or that country knights won the field.

“The first that ran was a brave knight, whose device was to come in
all chained, with a nymph leading him. Against him came forth an
Iberian, whose manner of entering was with bagpipes instead of
trumpets; a shepherd’s boy before him for a page, and by him a dozen
apparelled like shepherds for the fashion, though rich in stuff, who
carried his lances, which though strong to give a lancely blow indeed,
yet so were they coloured with hooks near the mourn, that they
prettily represented sheephooks. His own furniture was dressed over
with wool, so enriched with jewels artificially placed, that one would
have thought it a marriage between the lowest and the highest. His
impresa was a sheep marked with pitch, with those words, ‘Spotted to
be known.’ And because I may tell you out his conceit, though that
were not done, till the running of that time was ended, before the
ladies’ departure from the windows, among whom there was one, they
say, that was the Star whereby his course was only directed, the
shepherds attending upon Philisides went among them, and sang an
eclogue; one of them answering another, while the other shepherds
pulling out recorders, which possessed the place of pipes, accorded
their music to the others’ voice. The eclogue had great praise: I only
remember six verses, while having questioned one with the other of
their fellow-shepherd’s sudden growing a man of arms, and the cause of
his doing, they thus said:


 Me thought some staves he miss’d: if so, not much amiss;
 For where he most would hit, he ever yet did miss.
 One said he broke a cross; full well it so might be:
 For never was there man more crossly crossed than he.
 But most cried, ‘O well broke’; O fool full gaily blest:
 Where failing is a shame, and breaking is his best.

“Thus I have digressed, because his manner liked me well, but when he
began to run against Lelius, it had near grown, though great love had
ever been betwixt them, to a quarrel. For Philisides breaking his
staves with great commendation, Lelius, who was known to be second to
none in the perfection of that art, ran ever over his head, but so
finely to the skilful eyes, that one might well see he showed more
knowledge in missing, than others did in hitting. For if so gallant a
grace his staff came swimming close over the crest of the helmet, as
if he would represent the kiss, and not the stroke of Mars. But
Philisides was much moved with it, while he thought Lelius would show
a contempt of his youth: till Lelius, who therefore would satisfy him,
because he was his friend, made him know that to such bondage he was
for so many courses tied by her, whose disgraces to him were graced by
her excellency, and whose injuries he could never otherwise return,
than honours.

“But so by Lelius’s willing missing was the odds of the Iberian side,
and continued so in the next by the excellent running of a knight,
though fostered so by the Muses, as many times the very rustic people
left both their delights and profits to hearken to his songs, yet
could he so well perform all armed sports, as if he had never had any
other pen than a lance in his hand. He came in like a wild man, but
such a wildness as showed his eyesight had tamed him, full of withered
leaves, which though they fell not, still threatened falling. His
impresa was a mill-horse still bound to go in one circle; with those
words, ‘Data fata secutus.’ But after him the Corinthian knights
absolutely prevailed, especially a great nobleman of Corinth, whose
device was to come without any device, all in white like a new knight,
as indeed he was, but so new, as his newness shamed most of the
others’ long exercise. Then another, from whose tent I remember a bird
was made fly, with such art to carry a written embassage among the
ladies, that one might say, if a live bird, how so taught? if a dead
bird, how so made? then he, who hidden, man and horse in a great
figure lively representing the Phoenix, the fire took so artificially
as it consumed the bird, and left him to rise as it were, out of the
ashes thereof. Against whom was the fine frozen knight, frozen in
despair; but his armour so naturally representing ice, and all his
{235} furniture so lively answering thereto, as yet did I never see
anything that pleased me better.

“But the delight at those pleasing sights have carried me too far into
an unnecessary discourse. Let it then suffice, most excellent lady!
that you know, the Corinthians that morning in the exercise, as they
had done the days before, had the better; Palladius neither suffering
us nor himself, to take in hand the party till the afternoon, when we
were to fight in troops, not differing otherwise from earnest, but
that the sharpness of the weapons was taken away. But in the trial,
Palladius, especially led by Musidorus, and somewhat aided by me,
himself truly behaving himself nothing like a beginner, brought the
honour to rest itself that night on the Iberian side, and the next
day, both morning and afternoon being kept by our party. He, that saw
the time fit for the delivery he intended, called unto us to follow
him, which we both bound by oath, and willing by goodwill, obeyed, and
so the guard not daring to interrupt us, he commanding passage, we
went after him upon the spur, to a little house in a forest near by;
which he thought would be the fittest resting place, till we might go
further from his mother’s fury, whereat he was no less angry and
ashamed, than desirous to obey Zelmane.

“But his mother, as I learned since, understanding by the guard her
son’s conveying us away, forgetting her greatness, and resigning
modesty to more quiet thoughts, flew out from her place, and cried to
be accompanied, for she herself would follow us. But what she did,
being rather with vehemency of passion that conduct of reason, made
her stumble while she ran, and by her own confusion hinder her own
desires. For so impatiently she commanded, as a good while nobody knew
what she commanded, so as we had gotten so far the start, as to be
already past the confines of her kingdom before she overtook us: and
overtake us she did in the kingdom of Bithynia, not regarding shame,
or danger of having entered into another’s dominions, but, having with
her about threescore horsemen, straight commanded to take us alive,
and not to regard her son’s threatening therein, which they attempted
to do, first by speech, and then by force. But neither liking their
eloquence, nor fearing their might, we esteemed few words in a just
defence, able to resist many unjust assaulters. And so Musidorus’s
incredible valour, beating down all lets, made both me, and Palladius,
so good way, that we had little to do to overcome weak wrong.

“And now had we the victory in effect without blood, when Palladius,
heated with the fight, and angry with his mother’s fault, so pursued
our assailers, that one of them, who as I heard since, had before our
coming been a special minion of Andromana’s, and {236} hated us for
having dispossessed him of her heart, taking him to be one of us, with
a traitorous blow slew his young prince, who falling down before our
eyes, whom he especially had delivered; judge, sweetest lady, whether
anger might not be called justice in such a case: once, so it wrought
in us, that many of his subjects’ bodies we left there dead, to wait
on him more faithfully to the other world.

“All this while disdain, strengthened by the fury of a furious love,
made Andromana stay to the last of the combat; and when she saw us
light down to see what help we might do to the helpless Palladius, she
came running madly unto us, then no less threatening, when she had no
more power to hurt. But when she perceived it was her only son that
lay hurt, and that his hurt was so deadly, as that already his life
had lost the use of reasonable, and almost sensible part, then only
did misfortune lay his own ugliness upon her fault, and make her see
what she had done, and to what she was come; especially finding in us
rather detestation than pity, considering the loss of that young
prince, and resolution presently to depart, which still she laboured
to stay. But deprived of all comfort, with eyes full of death, she ran
to her son’s dagger, and before we were aware of it, who else would
have stayed it, struck herself a mortal wound. But then her love,
though not her person, awaked pity in us, and I went to her, while
Musidorus laboured about Palladius. But the wound was past the cure of
a better surgeon than myself, so as I could but receive some few of
her dying words, which were cursings of her ill-set affection, and
wishing unto me many crosses and mischances in my love, whensoever I
should love, wherein I fear, and only fear that her prayer is from
above granted. But the noise of this fight, and issue thereof being
blazed by the country people to some noblemen thereabouts; they came
thither, and finding the wrong offered us, let us go on our journey,
we having recommended those royal bodies unto them to be conveyed to
the king of Iberia.”

With that Philoclea seeing the tears stand in his eyes with
remembrance of Palladius, but much more of that which thereupon grew,
she would needs drink a kiss from those eyes, and he suck another from
her lips; whereat she blushed, and yet kissed him again to hide her
blushing, which had almost brought Pyrocles into another discourse,
but that she with so sweet a rigour forbade him, that he durst not
rebel, though he found it a great war to keep that peace, but was fain
to go on in his story; but so she absolutely bade him, and he durst
not know how to disobey.

“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.’

“And much more to such like phrase she spoke, but that I, who had
occasion to know something of that Pamphilus, stepped to comfort her:
and though I could not do that, yet I got thus much knowledge of her,
that this being the same Leucippe, to whom the unconstant Pamphilus
had betrothed himself, which had moved the other ladies to such
indignation as I told you: neither her worthiness, which in truth was
great, nor his own suffering for her, which is wont to endear
affection, could fetter his fickleness, but that before his marriage
day appointed, he had taken to wife that Baccha, of whom she
complained, one that in divers places I had heard before placed, as
the most impudently unchaste woman of all Asia, and withal of such an
imperiousness therein, that she would not stick to employ them whom
she made unhappy with her favour, to draw more companions of their
folly: in the multitude of whom she did no less glory, than a captain
would do of being followed by brave soldiers: waywardly proud; and
therefore bold, because extremely faulty: and yet having no good thing
to redeem both these, and other unlovely parts, but a little beauty,
disgraced with wandering eyes, and unweighed speeches, yet had
Pamphilus, for her, left Leucippe, and withal, {238} left his faith;
Leucippe, of whom one look, in a clear judgment, would have been more
acceptable than all her kindnesses so prodigally bestowed. For myself,
the remembrance of his cruel handling Dido, joined to this, stirred me
to seek some revenge upon him, but that I thought it should be again
for him to lose his life, being so matched: and therefore, leaving him
to be punished by his own election, we conveyed Leucippe to a house
thereby, dedicated to Vestal nuns, where she resolved to spend all her
years, which her youth promised should be many, in bewailing the
wrong, and yet praying for the wrong-doer.

“But the next morning, we, having striven with the sun’s earliness,
were scarcely beyond the prospect of the high turrets of that
building, when there overtook us a young gentleman, for so he seemed
to us: but indeed, sweet lady, it was the fair Zelmane, Plexirtus’s
daughter, whom unconsulting affection, unfortunately born to me-wards,
had made borrow so much of her natural modesty, as to leave her more
decent raiments, and taking occasion of Andromana’s tumultuous
pursuing us, had apparelled herself like a page, with a pitiful
cruelty cutting off her golden hair, leaving nothing, but the short
curls, to cover that noble head, but that she wore upon it a fair
headpiece, a shield at her back, and a lance in her hand, else
disarmed. Her apparel of white, wrought upon with broken knots, her
horse, fair and lusty; which she rid so, as might show a fearful
boldness, daring to do that which she knew that she knew not how to
do: and the sweetness of her countenance did give such a grace to what
she did that it did make handsome the unhandsomeness, and make the eye
force the mind to believe that there was a praise in that
unskilfulness. But she straight approached me, and with few words,
which borrowed the help of her countenance to make themselves
understood, she desired me to accept her into my service, telling me
she was a nobleman’s son of Iberia, her name Diaphantus, who having
seen what I had done in that court, had stolen from her father, to
follow me. I enquired the particularities of the manner of Andromana’s
following me, which by her I understood, she hiding nothing but her
sex from me. And still methought I had seen that face, but the great
alteration of her fortune, made her far distant from my memory: but
liking very well the young gentleman, such I took her to be, admitted
this Diaphantus about me, who well showed there is no service like
his, that serves because he loves. For though born of princes’ blood,
brought up with tenderest education, unapt to service, because a
woman, and full of thoughts, because in a strange estate, yet love
enjoined such diligence, that no apprentice, no, no bondslave could
ever be by fear more ready at all commandments than that young {239}
princess was. How often, alas! did her eyes say unto me that they
loved? and yet, I not looking for such a matter, had not my conceit
open to understand them: how often would she come creeping to me,
between gladness to be near me, and fear to offend me? truly I
remember, that then I marvelled to see her receive my commandments
with sighs, and yet do them with cheerfulness: sometimes answering me
in such riddles, as then I thought a childish inexperience, but since
returning to my remembrance they have come more clear unto my
knowledge: and pardon me, only dear lady, that I use many words, for
her affection to me, deserves of me an affectionate speech.

“But in such sort did she serve me in that kingdom of Bithynia, for
two months space: in which time we brought to good end a cruel war
long maintained between the king of Bithynia and his brother. For my
excellent cousin, and I, dividing ourselves to either side, found
means, after some trial we had made of ourselves, to get such credit
with them, as we brought them to as great peace between themselves as
love toward us for having made the peace. Which done, we intended to
return through the kingdom of Galatia, called Thrace, to ease the care
of our father and mother, who, we were sure, first with the shipwreck,
and then with the other dangers we daily passed, should have little
rest in their thoughts till they saw us. But we were not entered into
that kingdom, when by the noise of a great fight we were guided to a
pleasant valley, which like one of those circuses, which in great
cities somewhere doth give a pleasant spectacle of running horses, so
of either side, stretching itself in a narrow length, was it hemmed in
by woody hills, as if indeed nature had meant therein to make a place
for beholders. And there we beheld one of the cruellest fights between
two knights that ever hath adorned the most martial story. So as I
must confess, a while we stood bewondered, another while delighted
with the rare beauty thereof; till seeing such streams of blood, as
threatened a drowning of life, we galloped toward them to part them.
But we were prevented by a dozen armed knights, or rather villains,
who using this time of their extreme feebleness, altogether set upon
them. But common danger broke off particular discord, so that, though
with a dying weakness, with a lively courage they resisted, and by our
help drove away, or slew those murdering attemptors: among whom we
happened to take alive the principal. But going to disarm those two
excellent knights, we found, with no less wonder to us than
astonishment to themselves, that they were the two valiant, and indeed
famous brothers, Tydeus and Telenor, whose adventure, as afterward we
made that ungracious wretch confess, had thus fallen out.


“After the noble prince Leonatus had by his father’s death, succeeded
in the kingdom of Galatia, he forgetting all former injuries, had
received that naughty Plexirtus into a strange degree of favour, his
goodness being as apt to be deceived, as the other’s craft was to
deceive; till by plain proof, finding that the ungrateful man went
about to poison him, yet would he not suffer his kindness to be
overcome, not by justice itself; but calling him to him, used words to
this purpose; ‘Plexirtus,’ said he, ‘this wickedness is found by thee;
no good deeds of mine have been able to keep it down in thee: all men
counsel me to take away thy life, likely to bring forth nothing but as
dangerous as wicked effects; but I cannot find it in my heart,
remembering what father’s son thou art: but since it is the violence
of ambition which perchance pulls thee from thine own judgment, I will
see whether the satisfying that, may quiet the ill-working of thy
spirits. Not far hence is the great city of Trebizond; which, with the
territory about it, anciently pertained unto this crown; now unjustly
possessed, and as unjustly abused by those who have neither title to
hold it, nor virtue to rule it. To the conquest of that for thyself I
will lend thee force, and give thee my right: go therefore, and, with
less unnaturalness glut thy ambition there; and that done, if it be
possible, learn virtue.’

“Plexirtus, mingling foresworn excuses with false-meant promises,
gladly embraced the offer: and hastily sending back for those two
brothers, who at that time were with us succouring the gracious queen
Erona, by their virtue chiefly, if not only, obtained the conquest of
that goodly dominion. Which indeed, done by them, gave them such an
authority, that though he reigned, they in effect ruled, most men
honouring them because they only deserved honour, and many thinking
therein to please Plexirtus, considering how much he was bound unto
them: while they likewise, with a certain sincere boldness of
self-warranting friendship, accepted all openly and plainly, thinking
nothing should ever by Plexirtus be thought too much in them, since
all they were was his.

“But he, who by the rules of his own mind, could construe no other end
of men’s doings but self-seeking, suddenly feared what they could do,
and as suddenly suspected what they would do, and as suddenly hated
them, as having both might and mind to do. But dreading their power,
standing so strongly in their own valour, and others’ affection, he
durst not take open way against them, and as hard it was to take a
secret, they being so continually followed by the best, and every way
ablest of that region: and therefore used this devilish slight which I
will tell you, not doubting, most wicked man, to turn their own
friendship toward him to {241} their own destruction. He, knowing that
they well knew there was no friendship between him and the new king of
Pontus, never since he succoured Leonatus, and us, to his overthrow,
gave them to understand, that of late there had passed secret defiance
between them, to meet privately at a place appointed. Which though not
so fit a thing for men of their greatness, yet was his honour so
engaged, as he could not go back. Yet feigning to find himself weak,
by some counterfeit infirmity, the day drawing near, he requested each
of them to go in his stead, making either of them swear to keep the
matter secret, even each from other, delivering the self-same
particularities to both; but that he told Tydeus, the king would meet
him in a blue armour; and Telenor that it was a black armour: and with
wicked subtlety, as if it had been so appointed, caused Tydeus to take
a black armour, and Telenor a blue; appointing them ways how to go, so
that he knew they should not meet till they came to the place
appointed, where each promised to keep silence, lest the king should
discover it was not Plexirtus; and there in a wait had he laid those
murderers, that who overlived the other should by them be dispatched:
he not daring trust no more than those with that enterprise, and yet
thinking them too few till themselves, by themselves, were weakened.

“This we learned chiefly by the chief of those way-beaters, after the
death of those two worthy brothers, whose love was no less than their
valour: but well we might find much thereof by their pitiful
lamentation, when they knew their mismeeting, and saw each other, in
despite of the surgery we could do unto them, striving who should run
fastest to the goal of death: each bewailing the other, and more dying
in the other, than in himself; cursing their own hands for doing, and
their breasts for not sooner suffering; detesting their
unfortunately-spent time in having served so ungrateful a tyrant, and
accusing their folly in having believed he could faithfully love, who
did not love faithfulness; wishing us to take heed how we placed our
goodwill upon any other ground than proof of virtue: since length of
acquaintance, mutual secrecies, nor heat of benefits could bind a
savage heart; no man being good to other, that is not good in himself.
Then, while any hope was, beseeching us to leave the care of him that
besought, and only look to the other. But when they found by
themselves, and us, no possibility, they desired to be joined; and so
embracing and craving that pardon each of other which they denied to
themselves, they gave us a most sorrowful spectacle of their death;
leaving few in the world behind them, their matches in anything, if
they had soon enough known the ground and limits of friendship. But
with woeful hearts we caused those bodies to {242} be conveyed to the
next town of Bithynia, where we learning thus much, as I have told
you, caused the wicked historian to conclude his story with his own
well-deserved death.

“But then, I must tell you, I found such woeful countenances in
Daiphantus, that I could not much marvel, finding them continue beyond
the first assault of pity, how the case of strangers, for further I
did not conceive, could so deeply pierce. But the truth indeed is,
that partly with the shame and sorrow she took of her father’s
faultiness, partly with the fear that the hate I conceived against
him, would utterly disgrace her in my opinion, whensoever I should
know her, so vehemently perplexed her, that her fair colour decayed,
and daily and hastily grew into the very extreme working of
sorrowfulness, which oft I sought to learn, and help. But she as
fearful as loving, still concealed it: and so decaying still more and
more in the excellency of her fairness, but that whatsoever weakness
took away, pity seemed to add: yet still she forced herself to wait on
me with such care and diligence, as might well show had been taught in
no other school but love.

“While we, returning again to embark ourselves for Greece, understood
that the mighty Otanes, brother to Barzanes, slain by Musidorus in the
battle of the six princes, had entered upon the kingdom of Pontus,
partly upon the pretences he had to the crown, but principally,
because he would revenge upon him whom he knew we loved, the loss of
his brother, thinking, as indeed he had cause, that wheresoever we
were, hearing of his extremity, we would come to relieve him; in spite
whereof he doubted not to prevail, not only upon the confidence of his
own virtue and power, but especially because he had in his company two
mighty giants, sons to a couple whom we slew in the same realm; they
having been absent at their father’s death, and now returned,
willingly entered into his service, hating more than he, both us and
that king of Pontus. We therefore with all speed went thitherward, but
by the way this fell out, which whensoever I remember without sorrow,
I must forget withal, all humanity.

“Poor Diaphantus fell extreme sick, yet would needs conquer the
delicacy of her constitution, and force herself to wait on me: till
one day going toward Pontus, we met one who in great haste went
seeking for Tydeus and Telenor, whose death as yet was not known unto
the messenger; who, being their servant, and knowing how dearly they
loved Plexirtus, brought them word, how since their departing,
Plexirtus was in present danger of a cruel death, if by the
valiantness of one of the best knights of the world, he were not
rescued: we enquired no further of the matter, being glad he should
now to his loss find what an unprofitable treason it had been unto
him, to dismember himself of two such friends, {243} and so let the
messenger part, not sticking to make him know his master’s destruction
by the falsehood of Plexirtus.

“But the grief of that, finding a body already brought to the last
degree of weakness, so overwhelmed the little remnant of the spirits
left in Daiphantus, that she fell suddenly into deadly swoonings;
never coming to herself, but that withal she returned to make most
pitiful lamentations; most strange unto us, because we were far from
guessing the ground thereof. But finding her sickness such as began to
print death in her eyes, we made all haste possible to convey her to
the next town: but before we could lay her on a bed, both we, and she
might find in herself, that the harbingers of over-hasty death had
prepared his lodging in that dainty body, which she undoubtedly
feeling, with a weak cheerfulness showed comfort therein, and then
desiring us both to come near her, and that nobody else might be
present; with pale, and yet, even in paleness, lovely lips: ‘Now or
never, and never indeed but now it is time for me,’ said she, ‘to
speak: and I thank death which gives me leave to discover that, the
suppressing whereof perchance hath been the sharpest spur that hath
hasted my race to this end. Know then my lords, and especially you my
lord and master Pyrocles, that your page Daiphantus is the unfortunate
Zelmane, who for your sake caused my, as unfortunate, lover and cousin
Palladius, to leave his father’s court, and consequently, both him and
my aunt, his mother, to lose their lives. For your sake myself have
become, of a princess, a page, and for your sake have put off the
apparel of a woman, and, if you judge not more mercifully, the
modesty.’ We were amazed at her speech, and then had, as it were, new
eyes given us to perceive that which before had been a present
stranger to our minds: for indeed forthwith we knew it to be the face
of Zelmane, whom before we had known in the court of Iberia. And
sorrow and pity laying her pain upon me, I comforted her the best I
could by the tenderness of goodwill, pretending indeed better hope
than I had of her recovery.

“But she that had inward ambassadors from the tyrant that shortly
would oppress her: ‘No, my dear master,’ said she, ‘I neither hope nor
desire to live. I know you would never have loved me,’ and with that
word she wept, ‘nor, alas! had it been reason you should, considering
many ways my unworthiness. It sufficeth me that the strange course I
have taken, shall to your remembrance witness my love; and yet this
breaking of my heart, before I would discover my pain will make you, I
hope, think that I was not altogether unmodest. Think of me so, dear
master, and that thought shall be my life;’ and with that
languishingly looking upon me; ‘and I pray you,’ said she, ‘even by
those dying eyes of {244} mine, which are only sorry to die because
they shall lose your sight, and by those polled locks of mine which,
while they were long, were the ornament of my sex, now in their short
curls, the testimony of my servitude, and by the service I have done
you, which God knows hath been full of love, think of me after my
death with kindness, though you cannot with love. And whensoever ye
shall make any other lady happy with your well-placed affection, if
you tell her my folly, I pray you speak of it, not with scorn, but
with pity.’ I assure you, dear princess, of my life (for how could it
be otherwise) her words and her manner, with the lively consideration
of her love, so pierced me, that though I had divers griefs before,
yet methought I never felt till then how much sorrow infeebleth all
resolution: for I could not choose but yield to the weakness of
abundant weeping; in truth with such grief, that I could willingly at
that time have changed lives with her.

“But when she saw my tears, ‘O God,’ said she, ‘how largely am I
recompensed for my losses? why then,’ said she, ‘I may take boldness
to make some requests unto you.’ I besought her to do, vowing the
performance, though my life were the price thereof. She showed great
joy. ‘The first,’ said she, ‘is this, that you will pardon my father
the displeasure you have justly received against him, and for this
once succour him out of the danger wherein he is: I hope he will
amend: and I pray you, whensoever you remember him to be the faulty
Plexirtus, remember withal that he is Zelmane’s father. The second is,
that when you come once into Greece, you will take unto yourself this
name, though unlucky, of Daiphantus, and vouchsafe to be called by it:
for so shall I be sure you shall have cause to remember me, and let it
please your noble cousin to be called Palladius, that I may do that
right to that poor prince, that his name yet may live upon the earth
in so excellent a person: and so between you, I trust sometimes your
unlucky page shall be, perhaps with a sigh, mentioned; lastly, let me
be buried here obscurely, not suffering my friends to know my fortune
(till, when you are safely returned to your own country) you cause my
bones to be conveyed thither, and, laid I beseech you, in some place
where yourself vouchsafe sometimes to resort.’ Alas! small petitions
for such a suitor; which yet she so earnestly craved that I was fain
to swear the accomplishment. And then kissing me, and often desiring
me not to condemn her of lightness, in mine arms, she delivered her
pure soul to the purest place, leaving me as full of agony as
kindness, pity, and sorrow could make an honest heart. For I must
confess for true, that if my stars had not only reserved me for you,
there else perhaps I might have loved, and, which had been most
strange, begun my love after death: whereof let it be the less marvel,
because somewhat {245} she did resemble you, though as far short of
your perfection as herself dying, was of herself flourishing: yet
something there was, which, when I saw a picture of yours, brought
again her figure into my remembrance, and made my heart as apt to
receive the wound, as the power of your beauty with unresistable force
to pierce.

“But we in woeful, and yet private, manner burying her, performed her
commandment: and then enquiring of her father’s estate, certainly
learned that he was presently to be succoured, or by death to pass the
need of succour. Therefore we determined to divide ourselves; I,
according to my vow, to help him, and Musidorus toward the king of
Pontus, who stood in no less need than immediate succour: and even
ready to depart one from the other, there came a messenger from him,
who after some enquiry found us, giving us to understand that he,
trusting upon us two, had appointed the combat between him and us,
against Otanes and the two giants. Now the day was so accorded, as it
was impossible for me both to succour Plexirtus, and be there, where
my honour was not only so far engaged, but, by the strange working of
unjust fortune, I was to leave the standing by Musidorus, whom better
than myself I loved, to go save him, whom for just causes, I hated.
But my promise given, and given to Zelmane, and to Zelmane dying,
prevailed more with me than my friendship to Musidorus, though
certainly I may affirm, nothing had so great rule in my thoughts as
that. But my promise carried me the easier, because Musidorus himself
would not suffer me to break it. And so with heavy minds, more careful
each of other’s success than of our own, we parted; I toward the
place, where I understood Plexirtus was prisoner to an ancient lord,
absolutely governing a goodly castle, with a large territory about it,
whereof he acknowledged no other sovereign but himself, whose hate to
Plexirtus grew for a kinsman of his whom he maliciously had murdered,
because in the time that he reigned in Galatia, he found him apt to
practice for the restoring of his virtuous brother Leonatus. This old
knight still thirsting for revenge, used as the way to it a policy,
which this occasion, I will tell you prepared for him. Plexirtus in
his youth had married Zelmane’s mother, who dying of that only
childbirth, he a widower and not yet a king, haunted the court of
Armenia, where, as he was cunning to win favour, he obtained great
good liking of Artaxia; which he pursued: till, being called home by
his father, he falsely got his father’s kingdom: and then neglected
his former love: till, thrown out of that by our means, before he was
deeply rooted in it, and by and by again placed in Trebizond,
understanding that Artaxia by her brother’s death was become queen of
Armenia, he was hotter {246} than ever in that pursuit, which being
understood by this old knight, he forged such a letter, as might be
written from Artaxia, entreating his present, but very private, repair
thither, giving him faithful promise of present marriage: a thing far
from her thought, having faithfully and publicly protested that she
would never marry any, but some such prince who would give sure proof
that by his means we were destroyed. But he no more witty to frame,
than blind to judge hopes, bit hastily at the bait, and in private
manner posted toward her, but by the way he was met by this knight,
far better accompanied, who quickly laid hold of him, and condemned
him to a death, cruel enough, if anything may be both cruel and just.
For he caused him to be kept in a miserable prison, till a day
appointed, at which time he would deliver him to be devoured by a
monstrous beast of most ugly shape, armed like a rhinoceros, as strong
as an elephant, as fierce as a lion, as nimble as a leopard, and as
cruel as a tiger; whom he having kept in a strong place, from the
first youth of it, now thought no fitter match than such a beastly
monster with a monstrous tyrant; proclaiming yet withal, that if any
so well loved him as to venture their lives against his beast for him,
if they overcame, he should be saved: not caring how many they were,
such confidence he had in that monstrous strength, but especially
hoping to entrap thereby the great courages of Tydeus and Telenor,
whom he no less hated, because they had been principal instruments of
the other’s power.

“I dare say, if Zelmane had known what danger I should have passed,
she would rather have let her father to perish, than me to have bidden
that adventure. But my word was past; and truly the hardness of the
enterprise was not so much a bit as a spur unto me, knowing well that
the journey of high honour lies not in plain ways. Therefore going
thither, and taking sufficient security that Plexirtus should be
delivered if I were victorious, I undertook the combat: and to make
short, excellent lady, and not to trouble your ears with recounting a
terrible matter, so was my weakness blessed from above that, without
dangerous wounds, I slew that monster, which hundreds durst not
attempt; to so great admiration of many, who from a safe place might
look on that there was order given, to have the fight both by
sculpture and picture, celebrated in most parts of Asia. And the old
nobleman so well liked me that he loved me; only bewailing my virtue
had been employed to save a worse monster than I killed: whom yet,
according to faith given, he delivered, and accompanied me to the
kingdom of Pontus, whither I would needs in all speed go, to see
whether it were possible for me, if perchance the day had been
delayed, to come to the combat: but that, before I came, had been thus


“The virtuous Leonatus understanding two so good friends of his were
to be in that danger, would perforce be one himself; where he did
valiantly, and so did the king of Pontus. But the truth is, that both
they being sore hurt, the incomparable Musidorus finished the combat
by the death of both the giants, and the taking of Otanes prisoner. To
whom as he gave his life, so he got a noble friend, for so he gave his
word to be, and he is well known to think himself greater in being
subject to that, than in the greatness of his principality.

“But thither, understanding of our being there, flocked great
multitudes of many great persons, and even of princes, especially
those whom we had made beholding unto us: as, the kings of Phrygia,
Bithynia, with those two hurt of Pontus and Galatia, and Otanes the
prisoner, by Musidorus set free; and thither came Plexirtus of
Trebizond, and Antiphilus then king of Lycia; with as many more great
princes, drawn either by our reputation, or by willingness to
acknowledge themselves obliged unto us for what we had done for the
others. So as in those parts of the world, I think, in many hundreds
of years there was not seen so royal an assembly, where nothing was
let pass to do us the highest honours; which such persons, who might
command both purses and inventions, could perform: all from all sides
bringing unto us right royal presents, which we, to avoid both
unkindness and importunity, liberally received; and not content
therewith, would needs accept as from us their crowns, and acknowledge
to hold them of us: with many other excessive honours, which would not
suffer the measure of this short leisure to describe unto you.

“But we quickly aweary thereof, hasted to Greece-ward, led thither
partly with the desire of our parents, but hastened principally
because I understood that Anaxius with open mouth of defamation had
gone thither to seek me, and was now come to Peloponnesus, where from
court to court he made enquiry of me, doing yet himself so noble deeds
as might hap to authorize an ill opinion of me. We therefore suffered
but short delays, desiring to take this country in our way, so
renowned over the world that no prince could pretend height, nor
beggar lowness, to bar him from the sound thereof: renowned indeed,
not so much for the ancient praises attributed thereunto, as for the
having in it Argalus and Amphialus, two knights of such rare prowess,
as we desired especially to know, and yet by far, not so much for
that, as without suffering of comparison for the beauty of you and
your sister, which makes all indifferent judges that speak thereof,
account this country as a temple of deities. But those causes indeed
moving us to come by this land, we embarked ourselves in the next
port, whither all those princes (saving Antiphilus, who {248}
returned, as he pretended, not able to tarry longer from Erona)
conveyed us. And there found we a ship most royally furnished by
Plexirtus, who had made all things so proper, as well for our defence,
as ease, that all the other princes greatly commended him for it, who
seeming a quite altered man, had nothing but repentance in his eyes,
friendship in his gesture, and virtue in his mouth: so that we, who
had promised the sweet Zelmane to pardon him, now not only forgave,
but began to favour, persuading ourselves with a youthful credulity
that perchance things were not so evil as we took them, and as it
were, desiring our own memory that it might be so. But so were we
licensed from those princes, truly not without tears, especially of
the virtuous Leonatus, who with the king of Pontus would have come
with us, but that we, in respect of the one’s young wife, and both
their new settled kingdoms, would not suffer it. Then would they have
sent whole fleets to guard us; but we that desired to pass secretly
into Greece, made them leave that motion when they found that more
ships than one would be displeasing unto us. But so committing
ourselves unto the uncertain discretion of the wind, we (then
determining as soon as we came to Greece to take the names of
Daiphantus and Palladius, as well for our own promises to Zelmane, as
because we desired to come unknown into Greece) left the Asian shore
full of princely persons, who even upon their knees recommended our
safeties to the devotion of their chief desires, among whom none had
been so officious, though I dare affirm, all quite contrary to his
unfaithfulness, as Plexirtus.

“And so having failed almost two days, looking for nothing, but when
we might look upon the land, a grave man, whom we had seen of great
trust with Plexirtus, and was sent as our principal guide, came unto
us, and with a certain kind manner mixed with shame, and repentance,
began to tell us that he had taken such a love unto us, considering
our youth and fame, that though he were a servant, and a servant of
such trust about Plexirtus, as that he had committed unto him even
those secrets of his heart, which abhorred all other knowledge, yet he
rather chose to reveal at this time a most pernicious counsel, than by
concealing it bring to ruin those whom he could not choose but honour.
So went he on, and told us, that Plexirtus (in hope thereby to have
Artaxia, endowed with the great kingdom of Armenia, to his wife) had
given him order, when we were near Greece, to find some opportunity to
murder us, bidding him to take us asleep, because he had seen what we
could do waking. ‘Now, Sirs,’ said he, ‘I would rather a thousand
times lose my life than have my remembrance, while I live, poisoned
with such a mischief: and therefore if it were only I, that knew
herein the king’s order, then should my disobedience {249} be a
warrant of your safety. But to one more,’ said he, ‘namely the captain
of the ship, Plexirtus hath opened so much touching the effect of
murdering you, though I think laying the cause rather upon an old
grudge, than his hope of Artaxia. And myself, before the consideration
of your excellencies had drawn love and pity into my mind, imparted it
to such, as I thought fittest for such a mischief: therefore I wish
you to stand upon your guard, assuring you that what I can do for your
safety, you shall see, if it come to the push, by me performed.’ We
thanked him, as the matter indeed deserved, and from that time would
no more disarm ourselves, nor the one sleep without his friend’s eyes
waked for him; so that it delayed the going forward of their bad
enterprise, while they thought it rather chance, than providence,
which made us so behave ourselves.

“But when we came within half a day’s sailing of the shore, so that
they saw it was speedily, or not at all to be done; then, and I
remember it was about the first watch in the night, came the captain
and whispered the counsellor in the ear: but he, as it would seem,
dissuaded him from it: the captain, who had been a pirate from his
youth, and often blooded in it, with a loud voice swore that if
Plexirtus bade him, he would not stick to kill God himself. And
therewith called his mates, and in the King’s name willed them to take
us alive or dead, encouraging them with the spoil of us, which he
said, and indeed was true, would yield many exceeding rich jewels. But
the counsellor, according to his promise, commanded them they should
not commit such a villainy, protesting that he would stand between
them and the king’s anger therein. Wherewith the captain enraged:
‘Nay,’ said he, ‘then we must begin with this traitor himself,’ and
therewith gave him a sore blow upon the head, who honestly did the
best he could to revenge himself.

“But then we knew it time rather to encounter, than wait for mischief.
And so against the captain we went, who straight was environed with
most part of the soldiers and mariners. And yet the truth is, there
were some, whom either the authority of the counsellor, doubt of the
king’s mind, or liking of us, made draw their swords of our side, so
that quickly it grew a most confused fight. For the narrowness of the
place, the darkness of time, and the uncertainty in such a tumult how
to know friends from foes, made the rage of the swords rather guide
than be guided by their masters. For my cousin and me, truly I think
we never performed less in any place, doing no other hurt than the
defence of ourselves, and succouring them who came, for it, drove us
to: for not discerning perfectly, who were for, or against us, we
thought it less evil to spare a foe, than spoil a friend. But from the
highest {250} to the lowest part of the ship there was no place left,
without cries of murdering, and murdered persons. The captain I
happened a while to fight withal, but was driven to part with him by
hearing the cry of the counsellor, who received a mortal wound,
mistaken of one of his own side.

“Some of the wiser would call to parley, and wish peace: but while the
words of peace were in their mouths, some of their evil auditors gave
them death for their hire. So that no man almost could conceive hope
of living, but by being last alive: and therefore every one was
willing to make himself room, by dispatching almost any other: so that
the great number in the ship was reduced to exceeding few, when of
those few the most part weary of those troubles, leapt into the boat,
which was fast to the ship; but while they that were first were
cutting off the rope that tied it, others came leaping in so
disorderly that they drowned both the boat and themselves.

“But while even in that little remnant, like the children of Cadmus,
we continued still to slay one another, a fire, which, whether by the
desperate malice of some, or intention to separate, or accidentally,
while all things were cast up and down, it should seem had taken a
good while before, but never heeded of us; who only thought to
preserve or revenge, now violently burst out in many places and began
to master the principal parts of the ship. Then necessity made us see,
that a common enemy sets one at a civil war: for that little all we
are, as if we had been waged by some man to quench a fire, straight
went to resist that furious enemy by all art and labour: but it was
too late, for already it did embrace and devour from the stern to the
waist of the ship: so as labouring in vain, we were driven to get up
to the prow of the ship, by the work of nature seeking to preserve
life as long as we could; while truly it was a strange and ugly sight
to see so huge a fire, as it quickly grew to be in the sea; and in the
night, as if it had come to light as to death. And by and by it had
burned off the mast, which all this while had proudly borne the sail,
the wind, as might seem, delighted to carry fire and blood in his
mouth, but now it fell overboard, and the fire growing nearer us, it
was not only terrible in respect of what we were to attend, but
insupportable through the heat of it.

“So that we were constrained to bide it no longer, but disarming and
stripping ourselves, and laying ourselves upon such things as we
thought might help our swimming to the land, too far for our strength
to bear us, my cousin and I threw ourselves into the sea. But I had
swam a very little way when I felt, by reason of a wound I had, that I
should not be able to abide the travel: and therefore seeing the mast,
whose tackling had been burnt off, float {251} clear from the ship, I
swam unto it, and getting on it, I found mine own sword, which by
chance, when I threw it away, caught by a piece of canvas, had hung to
the mast. I was glad because I loved it well, but gladder, when I saw
at the other end the captain of the ship, and of all this mischief,
who having a long pike, belike had borne himself up with that till he
had set himself upon the mast. But when I perceived him, ‘Villain,’
said I, ‘dost thou think to over-live so many honest men whom thy
falsehood hath brought to destruction?’ with that bestriding the mast,
I got by little and little towards him after such a manner as boys are
wont, if ever you saw that sport, when they ride the wild mare. And he
perceiving my intention, like a fellow that had much more courage than
honesty, set himself to resist: but I had in short space gotten within
him, and, giving him a sound blow, sent him to feed fishes. But there
myself remained, until by pirates I was taken up, and among them again
taken prisoner, and brought into Laconia.”

“But what,” said Philoclea, “became of your cousin Musidorus?” “Lost,”
said Pyrocles. “Ah, my Pyrocles,” said Philoclea, “I am glad I have
taken you. I perceive you lovers do not always say truly: as though I
knew not your cousin Dorus the shepherd?” “Life of my desires,” said
Pyrocles, “what is mine, even to my soul, is yours, but the secret of
my friend is not mine. But if you know so much, then I may truly say,
he is lost since he is no more his own. But I perceive your noble
sister and you are great friends, and well doth it become you so to
be.” “But go forward, dear Pyrocles, I long to hear out till your
meeting me: for there to me-ward is the best part of your story.” “Ah
sweet Philoclea,” said Pyrocles, “do you think I can think so precious
leisure as this well spent in talking? are your eyes a fit book, think
you, to read a tale upon? is my love quiet enough to be an historian?
dear princess, be gracious unto me.” And then he fain would have
remembered to have forgot himself. But she with a sweetly disobeying
grace, desired him that her desire once for ever might serve, that no
spot might disgrace that love which shortly she hoped should be to the
world warrantable. Fain he would not have heard, till she threatened
anger; and then the poor lover durst not, because he durst not. “Nay,
I pray thee, dear Pyrocles,” said she, “let me have my story.” “Sweet
princess,” said he, “give my thoughts a little respite: and if it
please you, since this time must be so spoiled, yet it shall suffer
the less harm if you vouchsafe to bestow your voice, and let me know
how the good queen Erona was betrayed into such danger, and why
Plangus sought me. For indeed I should pity greatly any mischance
fallen to that princess.” “I will,” said Philoclea, smiling, “so you
{252} give me your word your hands shall be quiet auditors.” “They
shall,” said he, “because subject.”

Then began she to speak, but with so pretty and delightful a majesty,
when she set her countenance to tell the matter, that Pyrocles could
not choose but rebel so far as to kiss her. She would have pulled her
head away, and spoke, but while she spoke, he kissed, and it seemed he
fed upon her words; but she got away. “How will you have your
discourse,” said she, “without you let my lips alone?” He yielded, and
took her hand. “On this,” said he, “will I revenge my wrong;” and so
began to make much of that hand, when her tale, and his delight were
interrupted by Miso, who taking her time, while Basilius’s back was
turned, came unto them, and told Philoclea, she deserved she knew what
for leaving her mother, being evil at ease, to keep company with
strangers. But Philoclea telling her that she was there by her
father’s commandment, she went away muttering that though her back and
her shoulders and her neck were broken, yet as long as her tongue
would wag, it should do her errand to her mother; and so went up to
Gynecia, who was at that time miserably vexed with this manner of
dream. It seemed unto her to be in a place full of thorns, which so
molested her that she could neither abide standing still, nor tread
safely going forward. In this case she thought Zelmane being upon a
fair hill, delightful to the eye, and easy in appearance, called her
thither, whither with such anguish being come, Zelmane was vanished
and she found nothing but a dead body like unto her husband, which
seeming at the first with a strange smell to infect her, as she was
ready likewise within a while to die; the dead body, she thought, took
her in his arms, and said, “Gynecia, leave all, for here is thy only

With that she awaked, crying very loud, “Zelmane, Zelmane.”

But remembering herself, and seeing Basilius by (her guilty conscience
more suspecting than being suspected) she turned her call, and called
for Philoclea. Miso forthwith like a valiant shrew, looking at
Basilius, as though she would speak though she died for it, told
Gynecia that her daughter had been a whole hour together in secret
talk with Zelmane. “And,” said she, “for my part I could not be heard,
your daughters are brought up in such awe, though I told her of your
pleasure sufficiently.” Gynecia as if she had heard her last doom
pronounced against her, with a side look and changed countenance, “O
my lord,” said she, “what mean you to suffer those young folks
together?” Basilius, that aimed nothing at the mark of her suspicion,
smiling, took her in his arms: “Sweet wife,” said he, “I thank you for
your care of your child; but they must be youths of other metal than
Zelmane that can endanger her.” “O but----,” cried Gynecia, and
therewith {253} she stayed, for then indeed she did suffer a right
conflict betwixt the force of love, and rage of jealousy. Many times
was she about to satisfy the spite of her mind, and tell Basilius how
she knew Zelmane to be far otherwise than the outward appearance. But
those many times were all put back by the manifold objections of her
vehement love. Fain she would have barred her daughter’s hap, but loth
she was to cut off her own hope. But now, as if her life had been set
upon a wager of quick rising, as weak as she was, she got up; though
Basilius (with a kindness flowing only from the fountain of
unkindness, being indeed desirous to win his daughter as much time as
might be) was loth to suffer it, swearing he saw sickness in her face,
and therefore was loth she should adventure the air.

But the great and wretched lady Gynecia, possessed with those devils
of love and jealousy, did rid herself from her tedious husband: and
taking nobody with her, going toward them; “O jealousy,” said she,
“the frenzy of wise folks, the well-wishing spite, and unkind
carefulness, the self-punishment for other’s faults, and self-misery
in other’s happiness, the cousin of envy, daughter of love, and mother
of hate, how could’st thou so quietly get thee a seat in the unquiet
heart of Gynecia! Gynecia,” said she sighing, “thought wise and once
virtuous! alas! it is thy breeder’s power which plants thee there: it
is the flaming agony of affection, that works the chilling access of
thy fever, in such sort, that nature gives place; the growing of my
daughter seems the decay of myself; the blessings of a mother turn to
the curses of a competitor; and the fair face of Philoclea appears
more horrible in my sight than the image of death.” Then remembered
she this song, which she thought took a right measure of her present

 With two strange fires of equal heat possessed,
  The one of love, the other of jealousy,
 Both still do work, in neither I find rest:
  For both, alas, their strength together tie:
 The one aloft doth hold, the other high.
   Love wakes the jealous eye, lest thence it moves:
   The jealous eye, the more it looks it loves.

 Those fires increase; in those I daily burn,
  They feed on me, and with my wings do fly:
 My lovely joys to doleful ashes turn:
  Their flames mount up, my prayers prostrate lie;
 They live in force; I quite consumed die.
   One wonder yet far passes my conceit,
   The fuel small; how be the fires so great?


But her unleisured thoughts ran not over the ten first words; but
going with a pace not so much too fast for her body, as slow for her
mind, she found them together, who after Miso’s departure had left
their tale, and determined what to say to Basilius. But full abashed
was poor Philoclea, whose conscience now began to know cause of
blushing, for first salutation, receiving an eye from her mother, full
of the same disdainful scorn which Pallas showed to poor Arachne that
durst contend with her for the price of well weaving: yet did the
force of love so much rule her that, though for Zelmane’s sake she did
detest her, yet for Zelmane’s sake she used no harder words to her
than to bid her go home, and accompany her solitary father.

Then began she to display to Zelmane the store-house of her deadly
desires, when suddenly the confused rumour of a mutinous multitude
gave just occasion to Zelmane to break off any such conference, for
well she found they were not friendly voices they heard, and to retire
with as much diligence as conveniently they could towards the lodge.
Yet before they could win the lodge by twenty paces, they were
overtaken by an unruly sort of clowns, and other rebels, which like a
violent flood, were carried, they themselves knew not whither. But as
soon as they came within perfect discerning those ladies, like enraged
beasts, without respect of their estates, or pity of their sex, they
began to run against them, as right villains thinking ability to do
hurt to be a great advancement; yet so many as they were, so many
almost were their minds, all knit together only in madness. Some
cried, “take;” some, “kill;” some, “save.” But even they that cried
“save,” ran for company with them that meant to kill. Everyone
commanded, none obeyed, he only seemed chief captain, that was most

Zelmane, whose virtuous courage was ever awake, drew out her sword,
which upon those ill-armed churls giving as many wounds as blows, and
as many deaths almost as wounds, lightning courage, and thundering
smart upon them, kept them at a bay, while the two ladies got
themselves into the lodge, out of the which Basilius, having put on an
armour long untried, came to prove his authority among his subjects,
or at least, to adventure his life with his dear mistress, to whom he
brought a shield, while the ladies trembling attended by the issue of
this dangerous adventure. But Zelmane made them perceive the odds
between an eagle and a kite, with such nimble steadiness, and assured
nimbleness, that while one was running back for fear, his fellow had
her sword in his guts.

And by and by was her heart and her help well increased by the coming
in of Dorus, who having been making of hurdles for {255} his master’s
sheep, heard the horrible cries of this mad multitude, and having
straight represented before the eyes of his careful love, the peril
wherein the soul of his soul might be, he went to Pamela’s lodge, but
found her in a cave hard by, with Mopsa and Dametas, who at that time
would not have opened the entry to his father. And therefore leaving
them there, as in a place safe, both for being strong and unknown, he
ran as the noise guided him. But when he saw his friend in such danger
among them, anger and contempt, asking no counsel but of courage, made
him run among them, with no other weapon but his sheep-hook, and with
that overthrowing one of the villains, took away a two-hand sword from
him, and withal helped him from ever being ashamed of losing it. Then
lifting up his brave head, and flashing terror into their faces, he
made arms and legs go complain to the earth, how evil their masters
had kept them. Yet the multitude still growing, and the very killing
wearying them, fearing lest in long fight they should be conquered
with conquering, they drew back towards the lodge; but drew back in
such sort, that still their terror went forward like a valiant
mastiff, whom, when his master pulls back by the tail from the bear,
with whom he had already interchanged a hateful embracement, though
his pace be backward, his gesture is forward, his teeth and his eyes
threatening more in the retiring than they did in the advancing: so
guided they themselves homeward, never stepping step backward, but
that they proved themselves masters of the ground where they stepped.

Yet among the rebels there was a dapper fellow, a tailor by
occupation, who fetching his courage only from their going back, began
to bow his knees, and very fencer-like to draw near to Zelmane. But as
he came within her distance, turning his sword very nicely about his
crown, Basilius, with a side blow, struck off his nose, he (being
suitor to a seamster’s daughter, and therefore not a little grieved
for such a disgrace) stooped down, because he had heard that if it
were fresh put to, it would cleave on again. But as his hand was on
the ground to bring his nose to his head, Zelmane with a blow sent his
head to his nose. That saw a butcher, a butcherly chuff indeed, who
that day was sworn brother to him in a cup of wine, and lifted up a
great leaver, calling Zelmane all the vile names of a butcherly
eloquence. But she letting slip the blow of the leaver, hit him so
surely upon the side of the face that she left nothing but the nether
jaw, where the tongue still wagged, as willing to say more if his
master’s remembrance had served. “O!” said a miller that was half
drunk, “see the luck of a good-fellow,” and with that word ran with a
pitchfork at Dorus; but the nimbleness of the wine carried his head so
fast that it made it {256} over-run his feet, so that he fell withal
just between the legs of Dorus, who setting his foot on his neck,
though he offered two milch kine and four fat hogs for his life,
thrust his sword quite through, from one ear to the other; which took
it very unkindly, to feel such news before they heard of them, instead
of hearing, to be put to such feeling. But Dorus, leaving the miller
to vomit his soul out in wine and blood, with his two-hand sword
struck off another quite by the waist, who the night before had
dreamed he was grown a couple, and, interpreting it that he should be
married, had bragged of his dream that morning among his neighbours.
But that blow astonished quite a poor painter, who stood by with a
pike in his hands. This painter was to counterfeit the skirmish
between the Centaurs and Lapithes, and had been very desirous to see
some notable wounds, to be able the more lively to express them; and
this morning, being carried by the stream of this company, the foolish
fellow was even delighted to see the effect of blows. But this last,
happening near him, so amazed him that he stood stock still, while
Dorus, with a turn of his sword, struck off both his hands. And so the
painter returned, well skilled in wounds, but with never a hand to
perform his skill.

In this manner they recovered the lodge, and gave the rebels a face of
wood of the outside. But they then, though no more furious, yet more
outrageous when they saw no resister, went about with pickaxe to the
wall, and fire to the gate, to get themselves entrance. Then did the
two ladies mix fear with love, especially Philoclea, who ever caught
hold of Zelmane, so, by the folly of love, hindering the succour which
she desired. But Zelmane seeing no way of defence, nor time to
deliberate (the number of those villains still increasing, and their
madness still increasing with their number) thought it the only means,
to go beyond their expectation with an unused boldness, and with
danger to avoid danger, and therefore opened again the gates; and
Dorus and Basilius standing ready for her defence, she issued again
among them. The blows she had dealt before, though all in general were
hasty, made each of them in particular take breath, before they
brought them suddenly over-near her, so that she had time to get up to
the judgment-seat of the prince, which, according to the guess of that
country, was before the court gate. There she paused a while, making
sign with her hand unto them, and withal, speaking aloud that she had
something to say unto them that would please them. But she was
answered a while with nothing but shouts and cries; and some beginning
to throw stones at her, not daring to approach her. But at length a
young farmer, who might do most among the country sort, and was caught
in a little affection towards Zelmane, hoping by his kindness to have
some {257} good of her, desired them if they were honest men, to hear
the woman speak. “Fie fellows, fie,” said he, “what will all the maids
in our town say if so many tall men shall be afraid to hear a fair
wench? I swear unto you, by no little ones, I had rather give my team
of oxen than we should show ourselves so uncivil wights. Besides, I
tell you true, I have heard it of old men counted wisdom, to hear
much, and say little.” His sententious speech so prevailed, that the
most part began to listen. Then she, with such efficacy of
gracefulness, and such a quiet magnanimity represented in her face in
this uttermost peril, that the more the barbarous people looked, the
more it fixed their looks upon her, in this sort began unto them.

“It is no small comfort unto me,” said she, “having to speak something
unto you for your own behoofs, to find that I have to deal with such a
people, who show indeed in themselves the right nature of valour:
which as it leaves no violence unattempted, while the choler is
nourished with resistance, so when the subject of their wrath doth of
itself unlooked-for offer itself into their hands, it makes them at
least take a pause before they determine cruelties. Now then first,
before I come to the principal matter, have I to say unto you; that
your prince Basilius himself in person is within this lodge, and was
one of the three, whom a few of you went about to fight withal:” and
(this she said, not doubting but they knew it well enough, but because
she would have them imagine that the prince might think that they did
not know it) “by him I am sent unto you, as from a prince to his
well-approved subjects, nay as from a father to beloved children, to
know what it is that hath bred just quarrel among you, or who they be
that have any way wronged you; what it is with which you are
displeased, or of which you are desirous? This he requires, and
indeed, for he knows your faithfulness, he commands you presently to
set down and choose among yourselves, someone, who may relate your
griefs or demands unto him.”

This, being more than they hoped for from their prince, assuaged well
their fury, and many of them consented, especially the young farmer
helping on, who meant to make one of the demands that he might have
Zelmane for his wife, but when they began to talk of their griefs,
never bees made such a confused humming: the town dwellers demanding
putting down of imposts; the country fellows laying out of commons:
some would have the prince keep his court in one place, some in
another: all cried out to have new counsellors; but when they should
think of any new, they liked them as well as any other that they could
remember, especially they would have the treasure so looked unto, as
that he should never need to take any more subsidies. At length they
{258} fell to direct contrarieties. For the artisans they would have
corn and wine set at a lower price, and bound to be kept so still: the
ploughmen, vine-labourers, and the farmers would none of that. The
countrymen demanded that every man might be free in the chief towns;
that could not the burgesses like of. The peasants would have all the
gentlemen destroyed, the citizens, especially such as cooks, barbers,
and those other that lived most on gentlemen, would but have them
reformed. And of each side were like divisions, one neighbourhood
beginning to find fault with another; but no confusion was greater
than of particular men’s likings and dislikings: one dispraising such
a one, whom another praised, and demanding such a one to be punished,
whom the other would have exalted. No less ado was there about
choosing him, who should be their spokesman. The finer sort of
burgesses, as merchants, prentices, and cloth-workers, because of
their riches, disdaining the baser occupations; and they because of
their number, as much disdaining them; all they scorning the
countrymen’s ignorance, and the countrymen suspecting as much their
cunning: so that Zelmane (finding that their united rage was now
grown, not only to dividing, but to a crossing of one another, and
that the mislike grown among themselves did well allay the heat
against her) made tokens again unto them, as though she took great
care of their well-doing, and were afraid of their falling out, that
she would speak unto them. They now grow jealous one of another, the
stay having engendered division, and division having manifested their
weakness, were willing enough to hear, the most part striving to show
themselves willinger than their fellows: which Zelmane, by the
acquaintance she had had with such kind of humours soon perceiving,
with an angerless bravery, and an unabashed mildness, in this manner
spoke unto them.

“An unused thing it is, and I think not heretofore seen, O Arcadians,
that a woman should give public counsel to men, a stranger to the
country people, and that lastly in such a presence by a private
person, the regal throne should be possessed. But the strangeness of
your action makes that used for virtue, which your violent necessity
imposeth. For certainly a woman may well speak to such men, who have
forgotten all man-like government; a stranger may with reason instruct
such subjects that neglect due points of subjection; and is it marvel
this place is entered into by another, since your own prince, after
thirty years’ government, dare not show his face unto faithful people?
hear therefore, O Arcadians, and be ashamed; against whom hath this
zealous rage been stirred? whither have been bent those manful weapons
of yours? in this quiet harmless lodge there be harboured no Argians,
your ancient enemies; nor Laconians, your now {259} feared neighbours.
Here be neither hard landlords, nor biting usurers. Here lodge none,
but such, as either you have great cause to love, or no cause to hate:
here being none, besides your prince, princess, and their children,
but myself. Is it I then, O Arcadians, against whom your anger is
armed? am I the mark of your vehement quarrel? if it be so, that
innocency shall not be stopped for fury; if it be so, that the law of
hospitality, so long and holily observed among you, may not defend a
stranger fled to your arms for succour: if in fine, it be so, that so
many valiant men’s courages can be inflamed to the mischief of one
silly woman; I refuse not to make my life a sacrifice to your wrath.
Exercise on me your indignation, so it go no further; I am content to
pay the great favours I have received among you, with my life not
ill-deserving: I present here unto you, O Arcadians, if that may
satisfy you; rather than you, called over the world the wise and quiet
Arcadians, should be so vain, as to attempt that alone, which all the
rest of your country will abhor; than you shall show yourselves so
ungrateful as to forget the fruit of so many years peaceable
government; or so unnatural, as not to have with the holy name of your
natural prince, any fury overmastered. For such a hellish madness, I
know, did never enter into your hearts as to attempt anything against
his person; which no successor, though never so hateful, will ever
leave, for his own sake, unrevenged. Neither can your wonted valour be
turned to such a baseness, as instead of a prince, delivered unto you
by so many royal ancestors, to take the tyrannous yoke of your fellow
subject, in whom the innate means will bring forth ravenous
covetousness and the newness of his estate suspectful cruelty.
Imagine, what could your enemies more wish unto you than to see your
own estate with your own hands undermined? O what would your
forefathers say if they lived at this time, and saw their offspring
defacing such an excellent principality, which they with much labour
and blood so wisely have established? do you think them fools, that
saw you should not enjoy your vines, your cattle, no not your wives
and children without government? and that there could be no government
without a magistrate, and no magistrate without obedience, and no
obedience where everyone upon his own private passion may interpret
the doings of the rulers? let your wits make your present example a
lesson to you. What sweetness, in good faith, find you in your present
condition; what choice of choice find you, if you had lost Basilius?
under whose ensign would you go, if your enemies should invade you? if
you cannot agree upon one to speak for you, how will you agree upon
one to fight for you? but with this fear of I cannot tell what one is
troubled, and with that past wrong another is {260} grieved. And I
pray you did the sun ever bring you a fruitful harvest but that it was
more hot than pleasant? have any of you children that be not sometimes
cumbersome? have any of you fathers that be not sometimes wearish?
what, shall we curse the sun, hate our children, or disobey our
fathers--but what need I use those words, since I see in your
countenances, now virtuously settled, nothing else but love and duty
to him, by whom for your only sakes, the government is embraced. For
all that is done, he doth not only pardon you, but thank you; judging
the action by the minds, and not the minds by the action. Your griefs,
and desires whatsoever, and whensoever you list, he will consider of,
and to his consideration it is reason you should refer them. So then,
to conclude; the uncertainty of his estate made you take arms; now you
see him well; with the same love lay them down. If now you end, as I
know you will, he will make no other account of this matter, but as of
a vehement, I must confess, over vehement affection, the only
continuance might prove a wickedness. But it is not so, I see very
well, you began with zeal, and will end with reverence.”

The action Zelmane used, being beautified by nature and apparelled
with skill, her gestures being such, that, as her words did paint out
her mind, so they served as a shadow to make the picture more lively
and sensible, with the sweet clearness of her voice, rising and
falling kindly as the nature of the word and efficacy of the matter
required, altogether in such an admirable person, whose incomparable
valour they had well felt, whose beauty did pierce through the thick
dullness of their senses, gave such a way unto her speech through the
rugged wilderness of their imaginations, who, besides they were
stricken in admiration of her, as of more than a human creature, where
cooled with taking breath, and had learned doubts out of leisure that
instead of roaring cries there was now heard nothing but a confused
muttering, whether her saying were to be followed: betwixt fear to
pursue, and loathness to leave, most of them could have been content
it had never been begun, but how to end it, each afraid of his
companion, they knew not, finding it far easier to tie, than to loose
knots. But Zelmane thinking it no evil way in such mutinies, to give
the mutinous some occasion of such service as they might think, in
their own judgment, would countervail their trespass, withal to take
the more assured possession of their minds, which she feared might
begin to waver.

“Loyal Arcadians,” said she, “now do I offer unto you the manifesting
of your duties: all those that have taken arms for the prince’s
safety, let them turn their backs to the gate, with their weapons bent
again such as would hurt his sacred person.” “O {261} weak trust of
the many-headed multitude, whom inconstancy only doth guide to
well-doing, who can set confidence there where company takes away
shame, and each may lay the fault on his fellow?” So said a crafty
fellow among them, named Clinias, to himself, when he saw the word no
sooner out of Zelmane’s mouth, but there were some shouts of joy,
with, “God save Basilius,” and divers of them with much jollity grown
to be his guard that but little before meant to be his murderers.

This Clinias in his youth had been a scholar so far as to learn rather
words than manners, and of words rather plenty than order; and often
had used to be an actor in tragedies, where he had learned, besides a
slidingness of language, acquaintance with many passions, and to frame
his face to bear the figure of them: long used to the eyes and ears of
men, and to reckon no fault but shamefac’dness in nature; a most
notable coward, and yet more strangely than rarely venturous in privy

This fellow was become of near trust to Cecropia, Amphialus’s mother,
so that he was privy to all the mischievous devices wherewith she went
about to ruin Basilius and his children, for the advancing of her son,
and though his education had made him full of tongue, yet his love to
be doing, taught him in any evil to be secret, and had by his mistress
been used ever since the strange retiring of Basilius, to whisper
rumours in the people’s ears: and this time, finding great aptness in
the multitude, was one of the chief that set them in the uproar,
though quite without the consent of Amphialus, who would not for all
the kingdoms of the world so have adventured the life of Philoclea.
But now perceiving the flood of their fury begun to ebb, he thought in
policy to take the first of the tide, so that no man cried louder than
he upon Basilius. And some of the lustiest rebels not yet agreeing to
the rest, he caused two or three of his mates that were at his
commandment to lift him up, and then as if he had a prologue to utter,
he began with nice gravity to demand audience. But few attending what
he said, with vehement gesture, as if he would tear the stars from the
skies he fell to crying out so loud that not only Zelmane, but
Basilius might hear him. “O unhappy men, more mad than the giants that
would have plucked Jupiter out of heaven, how long shall this rage
continue? why do you not all throw down your weapons and submit
yourselves to our good prince, our good Basilius, the Pelops of
wisdom, and Minos of all good government? when will you begin to
believe me, and other honest and faithful subjects, that have done all
we could to stop your fury.”

The farmer that loved Zelmane could abide him no longer. For as the
first he was willing to speak of conditions, hoping to have gotten
great sovereignties, and among the rest Zelmane; so now {262}
perceiving, that the people, once anything down the hill from their
fury, would never stay till they came to the bottom of absolute
yielding, and so that he should be nearer fears of punishment than
hopes of such advancement, he was one of them that stood most against
the agreement: and to begin withal, disdaining this fellow should play
the preacher, who had been one of the chiefest makebates, struck him a
great wound upon the face with his sword. The cowardly wretch fell
down, crying for succour, and, scrambling through the legs of them
that were about him, got to the throne, where Zelmane took him and
comforted him, bleeding for that was past, and quaking for fear of

But as soon as the blow was given, as if Aeolus had broke open the
door to let all his winds out, no hand was idle, each one killing him
that was next, for fear he should do as much to him. For being divided
in minds, and not divided in companies, they that would yield to
Basilius were intermingled with them that would not yield. Those men
thinking their ruin stood upon it; those men to get favour of their
prince, converted their ungracious motion into their own bowels, and
by a true judgment grew their own punishers. None were sooner killed
than those that had been leaders in the disobedience: who by being so,
had taught them, that they did lead disobedience to the same leaders.
And many times it fell out that they killed them that were of their
own faction, anger whetting, and doubt hastening their fingers. But
then came down Zelmane; and Basilius with Dorus issued, and sometimes
seeking to draw together those of their party, sometimes laying
indifferently among them, made such havoc, among the rest Zelmane
striking the farmer to the heart with her sword, as before she had
done with her eyes, that in a while all they of the contrary side were
put to flight, and fled to certain woods upon the frontiers, where
feeding wildly, and drinking only water, they were disciplined for
their drunken riots: many of them being slain in the chase, about a
score only escaping. But when those late rebels, now soldiers, were
returned from the chase, Basilius calling them together, partly for
policy’s sake, but principally because Zelmane before had spoken it,
which was to him more than a divine ordinance, he pronounced their
general pardon, willing them to return to their houses, and hereafter
be more circumspect in their proceedings, which they did most of them
with sharp marks of their folly. But imagining Clinias to be one of
the chief that had bred this good alteration, he gave him particular
thanks, and withal willed him to make him know how this frenzy had
entered into the people.

Clinias purposing indeed to tell him the truth of all; saving what did
touch himself, or Cecropia, first dipping his hand in the {263} blood
of his wound: “Now by this blood,” said he, “which is more dear to me
than all the rest that is in my body, since it is spent for your
safety: this tongue, perchance unfortunate, but never false, shall not
now begin to lie unto my prince, of me most beloved.” Then stretching
out his hand, and making vehement countenances the ushers to his
speeches, in such manner of terms recounted this accident.
“Yesterday,” said he, “being your birthday, in the goodly green two
miles hence before the city of Enispus, to do honour to the day, where
four or five thousand people, of all conditions, as I think, gathered
together, spending all the day in dancing and other exercises, and
when night came under tents and bows making great cheer, and meaning
to observe a wassailing watch all that night for your sake. Bacchus,
the learned say, was begot with thunder: I think, that made him ever
since so full of stir and debate. Bacchus, indeed it was which sounded
the first trumpet to this rude alarm. For that barbarous opinion being
generally among them, to think with vice to do honour, and with
activity in beastliness to show abundance of love, made most of them
seek to show the depth of their affection in the depth of their
draught. But being once well chafed with wine, having spent all the
night, and some piece of the morning in such revelling, and emboldened
by your absented manner of living, there was no matter their ears had
ever heard of that grew not to be a subject of their winey conference.
I speak it by proof: for I take witness of the gods, who never leave
perjuries unpunished, that I often cried out against their impudency,
and, when that would not serve, stopped mine ears because I would not
be partaker of their blasphemies, till with buffets they forced me to
have mine ears and eyes defiled. Public affairs were mingled with
private grudges: neither was any man thought of wit, that did not
pretend some cause of mislike. Railing was counted the fruit of
freedom, and saying nothing had his uttermost praise in ignorance. At
the length, your sacred person, alas! why did I live to hear it? alas!
how do I breathe to utter it? But your commandment doth not only
enjoin obedience, but give me force; your sacred person I say, fell to
be their table-talk: a proud word swelling in their stomachs, and
disdainful reproaches against so great a greatness, having put on the
show of greatness in their little minds: till at length the very
unbridled use of words having increased fire in their minds, which God
wot thought their knowledge notable, because they had at all no
knowledge to condemn their own want of knowledge, they descended, O
never to be forgotten presumption, to a direct dislike of your living
from among them. Whereupon it were tedious to remember their
far-fetched constructions. But the sum was, you disdained them: and
what were the pomps of {264} your estate, if their arms maintained you
not? who would call you a prince, if you had not a people, when
certain of them of wretched estates, and worse minds, whose fortunes’
change could not impair, began to say that your government was to be
looked into; how the great treasures you had levied among them had
been spent; why none but great men and gentlemen could be admitted
into counsel, that the commons, forsooth, were too plain-headed to say
their opinions: but yet their blood and sweat must maintain all. Who
could tell whether you were not betrayed in this place where you
lived? nay whether you did live or no? therefore that it was time to
come and see; and if you were here, to know if Arcadia were grown
loathsome in your sight, why you did not rid yourself of the trouble?
there would not want those that would take so fair a cumber in good
part. Since the country was theirs, and the government an adherent to
the country, why should they not consider of the one as well as
inhabit the other? ‘Nay rather,’ said they, ‘let us begin that, which
all Arcadia will follow. Let us deliver our prince from danger of
practices, and ourselves from want of a prince. Let us do that which
all the rest think. Let it be said that we only are not astonished
with vain titles which have their force but in our force.’ Lastly, to
have said and heard so much was as dangerous as to have attempted: and
to attempt they had the glorious name of liberty with them. Those
words being spoken, like a furious storm, presently carried away their
well inclined brains. What I, and some other of the honester sort
could do was no more than if with a puff of breath, one should go
about to make a sail go against a mighty wind, or, with one hand, stay
the ruin of a mighty wall. So general grew this madness among them,
there needed no drum, where each man cried, each spoke to other that
spoke as fast to him, and the disagreeing sound of so many voices was
the chief token of their unmeet agreement. Thus was their banquet
turned to a battle, their winey mirths to bloody rages, and the happy
prayers for your life to monstrous threatening of your estate; the
solemnizing your birth-day, tended to have been the cause of your
funeral. But as a drunken rage hath, besides his wickedness, that
folly, that the more it seeks to hurt the less it considers how to be
able to hurt: they never weighed how to arm themselves, but took up
everything for a weapon that fury offered to their hands. Many swords,
pikes, and bills there were; others took pitchforks and rakes,
converting husbandry to soldiery: some caught hold of spits, things
serviceable for life, to be the instruments of death. And there was
some such one, who held the same pot wherein he drank your health, to
use it, as he could, to your mischief. Thus armed, thus governed,
forcing the unwilling, and heartening the {265} willing, adding fury
to fury, and increasing rage with running, they came headlong towards
this lodge: no man, I dare say, resolved in his own heart what was the
uttermost he would do when he came thither. But as mischief is of such
nature, that it cannot stand but with strengthening one evil by
another, and so multiply in itself, till it come to the highest and
then fall with his own weight: so to their minds one passed the bounds
of obedience, more and more wickedness opened itself, so that they,
who first pretended to preserve you, then to reform you (I speak it in
my conscience, and with a bleeding heart) now thought no safety for
them, without murdering you. So as if the gods, who preserve you for
the preservation of Arcadia, had not showed their miraculous power;
and that they had not used for instruments, both your own valour, not
fit to be spoken of by so mean a mouth as mine, and some, I must
confess, honest minds, whom alas! why should I mention, since what we
did, reached not to the hundredth part of our duty? our hands, I
tremble to think of it, had destroyed all that, for which we have
cause to rejoice that we are Arcadians.”

With that the fellow did wring his hands, and wrung out tears, so,
that Basilius, who was not the sharpest piercer into masked minds,
took a good liking to him; and so much the more as he had tickled him
with praise in the hearing of his mistress. And therefore pitying his
wound, willed him to get him home and look well into it, and make the
best search he could to know if there were any further depth in this
matter, for which he should be well rewarded. But before he went away,
certain of the shepherds being come, for that day was appointed for
their pastorals, he sent one of them to Philanax, and another to other
principal noblemen, and cities thereabouts, to make thorough inquiry
of this uproar, and withal to place such garrisons in all the towns
and villages near unto him, that he might thereafter keep his solitary
lodge in more security, upon the making of a fire, or ringing of a
bell, having them in readiness for him.

This Clinias, having his ear one way when his eye was another, had
perceived, and therefore hastened away with mind to tell Cecropia that
she was to take some speedy resolution, or else it were danger those
examinations would both discover and ruin her; and so went his way,
leaving that little company with embracements, and praising of
Zelmane’s excellent proceeding, to show, that no decking sets forth
anything so much as affection. For as, while she stood at the
discretion of those indiscreet rebels, every angry countenance any of
them made seemed a knife laid upon their own throats; so unspeakable
was now their joy that they saw, besides her safety and their own, the
same wrought, and safely wrought by her means, in whom they had placed
all their {266} delights. What examples Greece could ever allege of
wit and fortitude, were set in rank of trifles, being compared to this

But as they were in the midst of those unfeigned ceremonies, a cittern
ill-played on, accompanied with a hoarse voice, who seemed to sing
maugre the Muses, and to be merry in spite of fortune, made them look
the way of the ill-noised song. The song was this

 A hateful cure with hate to heal:
  A bloody help with blood to save:
 A foolish thing with fools to deal.
  Let him be bob’d, that bobs will have,
  But who by means of wisdom high
  Hath sav’d his charge? it is even I.

 Let others deck their pride with scars,
  And of their wounds make brave lame shows:
 First let them die, then pass the stars,
  When rotten fame will tell their blows:
  But eye from blade, and ear from eye;
  Who hath sav’d all? it is even I.

They had soon found it was Dametas, who came with no less lifted up
countenance than if he had passed over the bellies of all his enemies:
so wise a point he thought he had performed in using the natural
strength of the cave. But never was it his doing to come so soon
thence till the coast were more assuredly clear: for it was a rule
with him, that after a great storm there ever fell a few drops before
it be fully finished. But Pamela, who had now experienced how much
care doth solicit a lover’s heart, used this occasion of going to her
parents and sister, indeed as well for that cause, as being unquiet,
till her eye might be assured how her shepherd had gone through the

But Basilius with the sight of Pamela, of whom almost his head,
otherwise occupied, had left the wanted remembrance, was suddenly
stricken into a devout kind of admiration, remembering the oracle,
which according to the fawning humour of false hope, he interpreted
now his own to his own best, and with the willing blindness of
affection, because his mind ran wholly upon Zelmane, he thought the
gods in their oracles did principally mind her.

But as he was thinking deeply of the matter, one of the shepherds told
him that Philanax was already come with an hundred horse in his
company. For having by chance rode not far off the little desert, he
had heard of this uproar, and so was come upon the spur, gathering a
company of gentlemen, as fast as he could, to the succour of his
master; Basilius was glad of it; but not willing to have him nor any
other of the noblemen, see his mistress, he {267} himself went out of
the lodge: and so giving order unto him of placing garrisons, and
examining those matters; and Philanax with humble earnestness
beginning to entreat him to leave off this solitary course, which
already had been so dangerous unto him, “Well,” said Basilius, “it may
be ere long I will condescend unto your desire. In the meantime, take
you the best order you can to keep me safe in my solitariness. But,”
said he, “do you remember, how earnestly you wrote unto me that I
should not be moved by that oracle’s authority, which brought me to
this resolution?” “Full well, Sir,” answered Philanax, “for though it
pleased you not as then to let me know what the oracle’s words were,
yet all oracles hold in, in my conceit, one degree of reputation, it
sufficed me to know it was but an oracle which led you from your own
course.” “Well,” said Basilius, “I will now tell you the words, which
before I thought not good to do, because when all the events fall out,
as some already have done, I may charge you with your incredulity.” So
he repeated in this sort.

 Thy elder care shall from thy careful face
  By princely mean be stolen, and yet not lost:
 Thy younger shall with nature’s bliss embrace
  An uncouth love, which nature hateth most;
 Both they themselves unto such two shall wed,
  Who at thy bear, as at a bar, shall plead;
  Why thee, a living man, they had made dead.
 In thine own seat a foreign state shall sit;
 And ere that all those blows at thy head do hit,
 Thou, with thy wife adultery shall commit.

“For you, forsooth,” said he, “when I told you that some supernatural
cause sent me strange visions, which being confirmed with presagious
chances, I had gone to Delphos, and there received this answer, you
replied unto me that the only supernatural causes were the humours of
my body, which bred such melancholy dreams, and that both they framed
a mind full of conceits, apt to make presages of things, which in
themselves were merely chanceable: and withal, as I say, you remember
what you wrote me touching the authority of the oracle: but now I have
some notable trial of the truth thereof, which hereafter I will more
largely communicate unto you. Only now, know that the thing I most
feared is already performed; I mean, that a foreign state should
possess my throne. For that hath been done by Zelmane, but not as I
feared, to my ruin, but to my preservation.” But when he had once
named Zelmane, that name was as good as a pulley, to make the clock of
his praises run on in such sort that Philanax found was more exquisite
than the only admiration of virtue breedeth: which his faithful {268}
heart inwardly repining at, made him shrink away as soon as he could
to go about the other matters of importance which Basilius had
enjoined unto him.

Basilius returned into the lodge, thus by himself construing the
oracle: that in that, he said, his elder care should by princely mean
be stolen away from him, and yet not lost, it was now performed, since
Zelmane had, as it were, robbed from him the care of his first
begotten child, yet was it not lost, since in his heart the ground of
it remained. That his younger should with nature’s bliss embrace the
love of Zelmane, because he had so commanded her for his sake to do,
yet should it be with as much hate of nature, for being so hateful an
opposite to the jealousy he thought her mother had of him. The sitting
in that seat he deemed by her already performed. But that which most
comforted him was his interpretation of the adultery, which he thought
he should commit with Zelmane, whom afterwards he should have to his
wife. The point of his daughter’s marriage, because it threatened his
death withal, he determined to prevent with keeping them while he
lived, unmarried. But having, as he thought, gotten thus much
understanding of the oracle, he determined for three days after to
perform certain rites to Apollo: and even then began with his wife and
daughters to sing this hymn, and by them yearly used.

 Apollo great, whose beams the greater world do light,
 And in our little world do clear our inward sight,
 Which ever shine, though hid from earth by earthly shade,
 Whose lights do ever live, but in our darkness fade;
 Thou god, whose youth was decked with spoil of Python’s skin
 (So humble knowledge can throw down the snakish sin)
 Latona’s son, whose birth in pain and travail long
 Doth teach, to learn the good what travails do belong:
 In travail of our life, a short but tedious space,
 While brittle hour glass runs, guide thou our panting pace:
 Give us foresightful minds: give us minds to obey
 What foresight tells; our thoughts upon thy knowledge stay.
 Let so our fruits grow up that nature be maintain’d:
 But so our hearts keep down, with vice they be not stain’d.
 Let this assured hold our judgments overtake,
 That nothing wins the heaven, but what doth earth forsake.

As soon as he had ended his devotion (all the privileged shepherds
being now come) knowing well enough he might lay all his care upon
Philanax, he was willing to sweeten the taste of this past tumult with
some rural pastimes. For which, while the shepherds prepared
themselves in the best manner, Basilius took his daughter Philoclea
aside, and with such haste, as if his ears hunted for words, {269}
desired to know how she had found Zelmane. She humbly answered him
according to the agreement betwixt them, that thus much for her sake
Zelmane was content to descend from her former resolution, as to hear
him whenever he would speak; and further than that she said, as
Zelmane had not granted, so she neither did nor ever would desire.
Basilius kissed her with more than fatherly thanks, and straight, like
a hard-kept ward new come to his lands, would fain have used the
benefit of that grant, in laying his sickness before his only
physician. But Zelmane, that had not yet fully determined with herself
how to bear herself toward him, made him in few words understand, that
the time, in respect of the company, was unfit for such a parley; and
therefore to keep his brains the busier, letting him understand what
she had learned of his daughters, touching Erona’s distress, whom in
her travel she had known and been greatly beholden to, she desired him
to finish the rest, for so far as Plangus had told him; because, she
said, and she said truly, she was full of care for that lady, whose
desert, only except an over-base choice, was nothing agreeable to
misfortune. Basilius glad that she would command him anything, but
more glad that in executing the unfitness of that time, she argued an
intention to grant a fitter, obeyed her in this manner.

“Madame,” said he, “it is very true that since years enabled me to
judge what is or is not to be pitied, I never saw anything that more
moved me to justify a vehement compassion on myself than the estate of
that prince, whom strong against all his own afflictions, which yet
were great as I perceive you have heard, yet true and noble love had
so pulled down, as to lie under sorrow for another. Insomuch as I
could not temper my long idle pen in that subject, which I perceive
you have seen. But then to leave that unrepeated, which I find my
daughters have told you, it may please you to understand, since it
pleaseth you to demand, that Antiphilus being crowned, and so left by
the famous princes Musidorus and Pyrocles (led thence by the challenge
of Anaxius, who is now in those provinces of Greece, making a
dishonourable inquiry after that excellent prince Pyrocles, already
perished) Antiphilus I say, being crowned and delivered from the
presence of those two, whose virtues, while they were present, like
good schoolmasters, suppressed his vanities, he had not strength of
mind enough in him to make long delay of discovering what manner of
man he was. But straight like one carried up to so high a place that
he loseth the discerning of the ground over which he is, so was his
mind lifted so far beyond the level of his own discourse, that
remembering only that himself was in the high seat of a king, he could
not perceive that he was a king of reasonable creatures who would
quickly scorn follies, and repine at injuries. But imagining {270} no
so true property of sovereignty as to do what he listed, and to list
whatsoever pleased his fancy, he quickly made his kingdom a
tennis-court, where his subjects should be the balls, not in truth
cruelly, but licentiously abusing them, presuming so far upon himself,
that what he did was liked of everybody: nay, that his disgraces were
favours, and all because he was a king. For in nature not able to
conceive the bounds of great matters, suddenly borne into an unknown
ocean of absolute power, he was swayed withal, he knew not how, as
every wind of passion puffed him. Whereto nothing helped him better
than that poisonous sugar of flattery, which some used, out of the
innate baseness of their heart, straight like dogs fawning upon the
greatest; others secretly hating him, and disdaining his great rising
so suddenly, so undeservedly, finding his humour, bent their exalting
him only to his overthrow, like the bird that carries the shell-fish
high, to break him the easier with his fall. But his mind, being an
apt matter to receive what form their amplifying speeches would lay
upon it, danced so pretty a measure to their false music, that he
thought himself the wisest and worthiest and best beloved that ever
gave honour to royal title. And being but obscurely born, he had found
out unblushing pedigrees that made him not only of the blood royal,
but true heir, though unjustly dispossessed by Erona’s ancestors. And
like the foolish bird, that when it so hides the head that it sees not
itself, thinks nobody else sees it, so did he imagine that nobody knew
his baseness, while he himself turned his eyes from it.

“Then vainness, a meagre friend to gratefulness, brought him so to
despise Erona, as of whom he had received no benefit, that within half
a year’s marriage he began to pretend barrenness, and making first an
unlawful law of having more wives than one, he still keeping Erona
under-hand, by messages sought Artaxia; who no less hating him than
loving as unlucky a choice, the naughty king Plexirtus, yet to bring
to pass what she purposed, was content to train him into false hopes,
till already his imagination had crowned him king of Armenia, and had
made that but the foundation of more and more monarchies, as if
fortune had only gotten eyes to cherish him. In which time a great
assembly of most part of all the princes of Asia, being to do honour
to the never sufficiently praised Pyrocles and Musidorus, he would be
one; not to acknowledge his obligation, which was as great as any of
the others, but looking to have been young-mastered among those great
estates as he was among his abusing underlings. But so many valorous
princes, indeed far nearer to disdain him than otherwise, he was
quickly, as standing upon no true ground, inwardly out of countenance
with himself, till his seldom comfortless {271} flatterers, persuading
him it was envy and fear of his expected greatness, made him haste
away from that company, and without further delay, appointed the
meeting with Artaxia, so incredibly blinded with the over-bright
shining of his royalty that he could think such a queen would be
content to be joined-patent with another to have such an husband. Poor
Erona to all this obeyed, either vehemency of affection making her
stoop to so over-base a servitude, or astonished with an unlooked-for
fortune, dull to any behoveful resolution, or, as many times it falls
out even in great hearts when they can accuse none but themselves,
desperately bent to maintain it. For so went she on in that way of her
love, that, poor lady, to be beyond all other examples of ill-set
affection, she was brought to write to Artaxia, that she was content,
for the public good to be a second wife, and yield the first place to
her; nay to extol him, and even woo Artaxia for him.

“But Artaxia, mortally hating them both for her brother’s sake, was
content to hide her hate till she had time to show it: and pretending
that all her grudge was against the two paragons of virtue, Musidorus
and Pyrocles, even met them half way in excusing her brother’s murder,
as not being principal actors; and of the other side, driven to what
they did by the ever-pardonable necessity; and so well handled the
matter, as though she promised nothing, yet Antiphilus promised
himself all that she would have him think. And so a solemn interview
was appointed; but, as the poets say, Hymen had not there his
saffron-coloured coat. For Artaxia laying men secretly, and easily
they might be secret, since Antiphilus thought she over-ran him in
love, when he came even ready to embrace her, showing rather a
countenance of accepting than offering, they came forth, and, having
much advantage both in number, valour, and fore-preparation, put all
his company to the sword, but such as could fly away. As for
Antiphilus, she caused him and Erona both to be put in irons,
hastening back towards her brother’s tomb, upon which she meant to
sacrifice them; making the love of her brother stand between her and
all other motions of grace from which by nature she was alienated.

“But great diversity in those two quickly discovered itself for the
bearing of that affliction: for Antiphilus, who had no greatness but
outward, that taken away, was ready to fall faster than calamity could
thrust him; with fruitless begging of life, where reason might well
assure him his death was resolved, and weak bemoaning his fortune, to
give his enemies a most pleasing music, with many promises and
protestations, to as little purpose as from a little mind. But Erona,
sad indeed, yet like one rather used, than new fallen to sadness, as
who had the joys of her heart already broken {272} seemed rather to
welcome than to shun that end of misery; speaking little, but what she
spoke was for Antiphilus, remembering his guiltiness, being at that
time prisoner to Tiridates, when the valiant princess slew him: to the
disgrace of men, showing that there are women both more wise to judge
what is to be expected, and more constant to bear it when it is

“But her wit endeared by her youth, her affliction by her birth, and
her sadness by her beauty, made this noble prince Plangus, who, never
almost from his cousin Artaxia, was now present at Erona’s taking, to
perceive the shape of loveliness more perfectly in woe than in
joyfulness, as in a picture which receive greater life by the darkness
of shadows than by more glittering colours, and seeing to like, and
liking to love, and loving straight to feel the most incident effects
of love, to serve and preserve. So borne by the hasty tide of short
leisure, he did hastily deliver together his affection, and
affectionate care. But she, as if he had spoken of a small matter,
when he mentioned her life, to which she had not leisure to attend,
desired him if he loved her, to show it, in finding some way to save
Antiphilus. For her, she found the world but a wearisome stage unto
her, where she played a part against her will: and therefore besought
him not to cast his love in so unfruitful a place, as could not love
itself: but for a testimony of constancy, and a suitableness to his
word, to do so much comfort to her mind, as that for her sake
Antiphilus were saved. He told me how much he argued against her
tendering him who had so ungratefully betrayed her and foolishly cast
away himself. But perceiving she did not only bend her very good wits
to speak for him against herself, but when such a cause could be
allied to no reason, yet love would needs make itself a cause, and bar
her rather from hearing, than yield that she should yield to such
arguments: he likewise, in whom the power of love, as they say of
spirits, was subject to the love in her, with grief consented, and
though backwardly, was diligent to labour the help of Antiphilus, a
man whom he not only hated as a traitor to Erona, but envied as a
possessor of Erona; yet love swore his heart, in spite of his heart,
should make him become a servant to his rival. And so did he, seeking
all the means of persuading Artaxia, which the authority of so near
and so virtuous a kinsman could give unto him. But she, to whom the
eloquence of hatred had given revenge the face of delight, rejected
all such motions: but rather the more closely imprisoning them in her
chief city, where she kept them, with intention at the birthday of
Tiridates, which was very near, to execute Antiphilus, and at the day
of his death, which was about half a year after, to use the same
rigour towards Erona. Plangus much grieved, because much loving,
attempted the {273} humours of the Lycians, to see whether they would
come in with forces to succour their princess. But there the next
inheritor to the crown, with the true play that is used in the game of
kingdoms, had no sooner his mistress in captivity, but he had usurped
her place, and making her odious to her people, because of the unfit
election she had made, and so left no hope there: but, which is worse,
had sent to Artaxia, persuading the justicing her, because that
unjustice might give his title the name of justice. Wanting that way,
Plangus practised with some dear friends of his, to save Antiphilus
out of prison, whose day because it was much nearer than Erona’s, and
that he well found she had twisted her life upon the same thread with
his, he determined first to get him out of prison; and to that end
having prepared all matters, as well as in such case he could, where
Artaxia had set many of Tiridates’s old servants to have well-marking
eyes, he conferred with Antiphilus, as, by the authority he had, he
found means to do, and agreed with him of the time and manner how he
should, by the death of some of his jailors, escape. But all being
well ordered, and Plangus willingly putting himself into the greatest
danger, Antiphilus, who like a bladder, swelled ready to break, while
it was full of the wind of prosperity, that being out, was so
abjected, as apt to be trod on by everybody, when it came to the
point, that with some hazard he might be in apparent likelihood to
avoid the uttermost harm, his heart fainted, and, weak fool, neither
hoping nor fearing as he should, got a conceit, that with betraying
this practice, he might obtain pardon: and therefore even a little
before Plangus should have come unto him, opened the whole practice to
him that had the charge, with unpitied tears idly protesting, he had
rather die by Artaxia’s commandment than against her will escape; yet
begging life upon any the hardest and wretchedest conditions that she
would lay upon him. His keeper provided accordingly, so that when
Plangus came, he was like himself to have been entrapped; but that
finding, with a lucky insight, that it was discovered, he retired;
and, calling his friends about him, stood upon his guard, as he had
good cause. For Artaxia, accounting him most ungrateful, considering
that her brother and she had not only preserved him against the malice
of his father, but ever used him much liker his birth than his
fortune, sent forces to apprehend him. But he among the martial men
had gotten so great love that he could not only keep himself from her
malice, but work in their minds a compassion of Erona’s adversity.

“But for the succour of Antiphilus he could get nobody to join with
him, the contempt of him having not been able to qualify the hatred,
so that Artaxia might easily upon him perform {274} her will, which
was (at the humble suit of all the women of that city) to deliver him
to their censure, who mortally hated him for having made a law of
polygamy, after many tortures, forced him to throw himself from a high
pyramid which was built over Tiridates’s tomb, and so to end his
false-hearted life, which had planted no strong thought in him, but
that he could be unkind.

“But Plangus well perceiving that Artaxia stayed only for the
appointed day that the fair Erona’s body, consumed to ashes, should
make a notorious testimony how deeply her brother’s death was engraven
in her breast, he assembled good numbers of friends, whom his virtue,
though a stranger, had tied unto him by force, to give her liberty.
Contrariwise, Artaxia, to whom anger gave more courage than her sex
did fear, used her regal authority, the most she could, to suppress
that sedition, and have her will, which, she thought, is the most
princely thing that may be. But Plangus, who indeed, as all men
witness, is one of the best captains, both for policy and valour, that
are trained in the school of Mars, in a conflict overthrew Artaxia’s
power, though of far greater number; and there took prisoner a base
son of her brother’s whom she dearly affected, and then sent her word,
that he should run the same race of fortune, whatsoever it was, that
Erona did; and happy was that threatening for her, for else Artaxia
had hastened the day of her death, in respect of those tumults.

“But now, some principal noblemen of that country interposing
themselves, it was agreed that all persons else fully pardoned, and
all prisoners, except Erona, delivered, she should be put into the
hands of a principal nobleman, who had a castle of great strength, by
oath, if by the day two years from Tiridates’s death, Pyrocles and
Musidorus did not in person combat and overcome two knights, whom she
appointed to maintain her quarrel against Erona and them, of having by
treason destroyed her brother, that then Erona should be that same day
burned to ashes: but if they came, and had the victory, she should be
delivered; but upon no occasion neither freed nor executed till that
day. And hereto of both sides, all took solemn oath, and so the peace
was concluded; they of Plangus’s party partly forcing him to agree,
though he himself the sooner condescended, knowing the courtesy of
those two excellent princes, not to refuse so noble a quarrel, and
their power such, as two more, like the other two, were not able to
resist. But Artaxia was more, and upon better ground, pleased with
this action; for she had even newly received news from Plexirtus that
upon the sea he had caused them both to perish, and therefore she held
herself sure of the match.

“But poor Plangus knew not so much, and therefore seeing his {275}
party, as most times it falls out in like case, hungry of any
conditions of peace, accepted them: and then obtained leave of the
lord that indifferently kept her to visit Erona, whom he found full of
desperate sorrow, suffering neither his unworthiness, nor his wrongs,
nor his death, which is the natural conclusion of all worldly acts,
either to cover with forgetfulness, or diminish with consideration,
the affection she had borne him: but even glorying in affliction, and
shunning all comfort, she seemed to have no delight but in making
herself the picture of misery. So that when Plangus came to her, she
fell in deadly trances, as if in him she had seen the death of
Antiphilus, because he had not succoured him: and yet, her virtue
striving, she did at one time acknowledge herself bound, and profess
herself injured; instead of allowing the conclusion they had made, or
writing to the princes, as he wished her to do, craving nothing but
some speedy death to follow her, in spite of just hate, beloved

“So that Plangus having nothing but a ravished kiss from her hand at
their parting, went away toward Greece; whitherward he understood the
princes were embarked. But by the way it was his fortune to intercept
letters, written by Artaxia to Plexirtus, wherein she signified her
accepting him to her husband, whom she had ever favoured, so much the
rather, as he had performed the conditions of her marriage, in
bringing to their deserved end her greatest enemies: withal thanking
the sea, in such terms as he might well perceive it was by some
treason wrought in Plexirtus’s ship. Whereupon, to make more diligent
search, he took ship himself, and came into Laconia, inquiring, and by
his inquiry finding that such a ship was indeed with fight and fire
perished, none, almost, escaping. But for Pyrocles and Musidorus, it
was assuredly determined that they were cast away: for the name of
such princes, especially in Greece, would quickly else have been a
large witness to the contrary. Full of grief with that, for the loss
of such who left the world poor of perfection, but more sorry for
Erona’s sake, who now by them could not be relieved, a new
advertisement from Armenia overtook him, which multiplied the force of
his anguish. It was a message from the nobleman who had Erona in ward,
giving him to understand that since his departure, Artaxia, using the
benefit of time, had beseiged him in his castle, demanding present
delivery of her, whom yet for his faith given, he would not before the
day appointed, if possibly, he could resist; which he foresaw, long he
should not do for want of victual, which he had not so wisely
provided, because he trusted upon the general oath taken for two
years’ space: and therefore willed him to make haste to his succour,
and come with no small forces, for all they that were of his side in
Armenia were consumed, {276} and Artaxia had increased her might by
marriage of Plexirtus, who now crowned king there, sticked not to
glory in the murder of Pyrocles and Musidorus, as having just cause
thereto, in respect of the deaths of his sister Andromana, her son,
his nephew and his own daughter Zelmane: all whose loss he unjustly
charged them withal, and now openly sticked not to confess what a
revenge his wit had brought forth, Plangus much astonished herewith,
bethought himself what to do, for to return to Armenia was vain, since
his friends there were utterly overthrown. Then thought he of going to
his father; but he had already, even since the death of his stepmother
and brother, attempted the recovering of his favour, but all in vain.
For they that had before joined with Andromana to do him the wrong,
thought now no life for them if he returned; and therefore kept him
still, with new forged suspicions, odious to his father. So that
Plangus reserving that for a work of longer time, than the saving of
Erona could bear, determined to go to the mighty and good king
Euarchus; who lately having, to his eternal fame, fully, not only
conquered his enemies, but established good government in their
countries, he hoped he might have present succour of him, both for the
justness of the cause, and revenge of his children’s death, by so
heinous a treason murdered. Therefore with diligence he went to him,
and by the way (passing through my country) it was my hap to find him,
the most overthrown man with grief that ever I hope to see again. For
still it seemed he had Erona at a stake before his eyes, such an
apprehension he had taken of her danger, which in despite of all the
comfort I could give him, he poured out in such lamentations that I
was moved not to let him pass till he had made a full declaration,
which by pieces my daughters and I have delivered unto you. Fain he
would have had succour of myself, but the course of my life being
otherwise bent, I only accommodated him with some that might safely
guide him to the great Euarchus. For my part having had some of his
speeches so feelingly in my memory, that at an idle time, as I told
you, I set them down dialogue-wise, in such manner as you have seen.
And thus, excellent lady, I have obeyed you in this story; wherein if
it will please you to consider what is the strange power of love, and
what is due to his authority, you shall exercise therein the true
nobleness of your judgment, and do the more right to the unfortunate
historian.” Zelmane, sighing for Erona’s sake, yet inwardly comforted
in that she assured herself Euarchus would not spare to take in hand
the just delivering of her, joined with the just revenge of his
children’s loss, having now what she desired of Basilius, to avoid his
further discourses of affection, encouraged the shepherds to begin,
whom she saw already ready for them.



The rude tumult of the Enispians gave occasion to the honest
shepherds to begin their pastoral this day with a dance, which they
called the skirmish betwixt reason and passion. For seven shepherds,
which were named the reasonable shepherds, joined themselves, four of
them making a square, and other two going a little wide of either
side, like wings for the main battle, and the seventh man foremost,
like the forlorn hope, to begin the skirmish. In like order came out
the seven appassionated shepherds, all keeping the pace of their foot
by their voice, and sundry consorted instruments they held in their
arms. And first, the foremost of the reasonable side began to sing:

 Reason. Thou rebel vile, come, to thy master yield.

And the other that met him answered:

 Passion. No, tyrant, no; mine, mine shall be the field.
 R. Can Reason then a tyrant counted be?
 P. If Reason will that Passions be not free.
 R. But Reason will, that Reason govern most.
 P. And Passion will, that Passion rule the roast.
 R. Your will is will, but Reason reason is.
 P. Will hath his will, when Reason’s will doth miss.
 R. Whom Passion leads, unto his death is bent.
 P. And let him die, so that he die content.
 R. By nature you to Reason faith have sworn.
 P. Not so but fellow like together born.
 R. Who Passion doth ensue, lives in annoy.
 P. Who Passion doth forsake, lives void of joy.
 R. Passion is blind, and treads an unknown trace.
 P. Reason hath eyes to see his own ill case.

Then as they approached nearer, the two of reason’s side, as if they
shot at the other, thus sang:

 R. Dare Passions then abide in Reason’s light?
 P. And is not Reason dim with Passion’s might?
 R. O foolish thing which glory doth destroy!
 P. O glorious title of a foolish toy!
 R. Weakness you are, dare you with our strength fight?
 P. Because our weakness weakeneth all your might.
 R. O sacred Reason, help our virtuous toils.
 P. O Passion, pass on feeble Reason’s spoils.
 R. We with ourselves abide a daily strife.
 P. We gladly use the sweetness of our life.
 R. But yet our strife sure peace in end doth breed.
 P. We now have peace, your peace we do not need.

Then did the two square battles meet, and instead of fighting, embrace
one another, singing thus:

 R. We are too strong: but Reason seeks no blood.
 P. Who be too weak, do fain they be too good.
 R. Though we cannot o’ercome, our cause is just.
 P. Let us o’ercome, and let us be unjust.
 R. Yet Passions yield at length to Reason’s stroke.
 P. What shall we win by taking Reason’s yoke?
 R. The joys you have shall be made permanent.
 P. But so we shall with grief learn to repent.
 R. Repent indeed, but that shall be your bliss.
 P. How know we that, since present joys we miss?
 R. You know it not; of Reason therefore know it.
 P. No Reason yet had ever skill to show it.
 R. Then let us both to heavenly rules give place.
 P. Which Passions kill, and Reason do deface.

Then embraced they one another, and came to the king, who framed his
praises of them according to Zelmane’s liking; whose unrestrained
parts, the mind and eye, had their free course to the delicate
Philoclea, whose look was not short in well requiting it, although she
knew it was a hateful sight to her jealous mother. But Dicus, that had
in this time taken a great liking of Dorus for the good parts he found
above his age in him, had a delight to taste the fruits of his wit,
though in a subject which he himself most of all other despised; and
so entered speech with him in the manner of this following eclogue.


  Dorus, tell me, where is thy wonted motion,
  To make those woods resound thy lamentation?
  Thy saint is dead, or dead is thy devotion.
  For who doth hold his love in estimation,
  To witness that he thinks his thoughts delicious,
  Thinks to make each thing badge of his sweet passion.


  But what doth make thee Dicus, so suspicious
  Of my due faith, which needs must be immutable?
  Who others’ virtues doubt, themselves are vicious:
  Not so; although my metal were most mutable,
  Her beams have wrought therein most fair impression,
  To such a force some change were nothing suitable.

  The heart well set doth never shun confession;
  If noble be thy bands, make them notorious;
  Silence doth seem the mask of base oppression.
  Who glories in his love, doth make love glorious:
   But who doth fear, or bideth mute wilfully,
  Shows, guilty heart doth deem his state opprobrious,
   Thou then, that fram’st both words and voice most skilfully,
  Yield to our ears a sweet and sound relation,
  If love took thee by force, or caught thee guilefully.

   If sunny beams shame heavenly habitation,
  If three-leav’d grass seem to the sheep unsavory;
   Then base and sour is love’s most high vocation.
  Or if sheep’s cries can help the sun’s own bravery,
   Then may I hope, my pipe may have ability,
  To help her praise, who decks me in her slavery.
   No, no; no words ennoble self-nobility,
  As for your doubts, her voice was it deceived me,
   Her eye the force beyond all possibility.

  Thy words well voic’d, well grac’d, had almost heaved me,
  Quite from myself, to love love’s contemplation;
  Till of those thoughts thy sudden end bereaved me,
  Go on therefore, and tell us by what fashion,
  In thy own proof he gets so strange possession
  And how possessed he strengthens his invasion.

  Sight is his root, in thought is his progression,
  His childhood wonder, prenticeship attention,
  His youth delight, his age the soul’s oppression,
  Doubt is his sleep, he waketh in invention,
  Fancy his food, his clothing is of carefulness;
  Beauty his book, his play lover’s dissention:
  His eyes are curious search, but veil’d with warefulness:
  His wings desire, oft clipped with desperation.
  Largess his hands could never skill of sparefulness:
  But how he doth by might, or by persuasion
  To conquer, and his conquest how to ratify,
  Experience doubts, and schools hold disputation.

  But so thy sheep may thy good wishes satisfy,
  With large increase, and wool of fine perfection,
  So she thy love, her eyes thy eyes may gratify,
  As thou wilt give our souls a dear refection,
  By telling how she was, how now she framed is
  To help, or hurt in thee her own infection.

  Blest be the name wherewith my mistress named is:
  Whose wounds are salves, whose yokes please more than pleasure doth:
  Her stains are beams: virtue the fault she blamed is,
  The heart, eye, ear, here only find his treasure doth.
  All numbering arts her endless graces number not:
  Time, place, life, wit, scarcely her rare gifts measure doth,
  Is she in rage? so is the sun in summer hot,
  Yet harvest brings: doth she (alas!) absent herself?
  The sun is hid; his kindly shadows cumber not
  But when to give some grace she doth content herself.
  O then it shines, then are the heavens distributed,
  And Venus seems to make up her, she spent herself.
  Thus then, I say, my mischiefs have contributed
  A greater good by her divine reflection,
  My harms to me, my bliss to her attributed.
  Thus she is framed: her eyes are my direction,
  Her love my life, her anger my destruction:
  Lastly, what so she is, that’s my protection.

  Thy safety sure is wrapped in destruction,
  For that construction thine own words do bear.
  A man to fear a woman’s moody eye,
  Makes reason lie a slave to servile sense,
  A weak defence where weakness is thy force:
  So is remorse in folly dearly bought.

  If I had thought to hear blasphemous words,
  My breast to swords, my soul to hell have sold
  I rather would, than thus mine ear defile
  With words so vile, which viler breath doth breed.
  O herds take heed; for I a wolf have found,
  Who hunting round the strongest for to kill,
  His breast doth fill with earth of others’ woe:
  And loaden so pulls down, pull’d down destroys.
  O shepherd boys, eschew those tongues of venom,
  Which do envenom both the soul and senses;
  Our best defences are to fly those adders.
  O tongues like ladders made to climb dishonour,
  Who judge that honour which hath scope to slander!

  Dorus you wander far in great reproaches,
  So love encroaches on your charmed reason,
  But it is season for to end our singing,
  Such anger bringing: as for me, my fancy
  In sick-man’s frenzy rather takes compassion,
  Than rage for rage: rather my wish I send to thee,
  Thou soon may have some help, or change of passion:
  She oft her looks, the stars her favour bend to thee,
  Fortune store, nature health, love grant persuasion.
  A quiet mind none but thyself can lend to thee,
  Thus I commend to thee all our former love.

  Well do I prove, error lies oft in zeal,
  Yet it is zeal, though error of true heart.
  Nought could impart such hates to friendly mind,
  But for to find thy words did her disgrace,
  Whose only face the little heaven is:
   Which who doth miss, his eyes are but delusions,
  Bar’d from their chiefest object of delightfulness,
  Thrown on this earth, the chaos of confusions;
   As for thy wish, to my enraged spitefulness,
  The lovely blow, which rare reward, my prayer is:
  Thou may’st love her, that I may see thy sightfulness.
   The quiet mind (whereof myself impairer is,
  As thou dost think) should most of all disquiet me.
  Without her love, than any mind who fairer is:
   Her only cure from surfeit woes can diet me.
  She holds the balance of my contentation:
  Her cleared eyes, nought else in storms can quiet me.
   Nay rather than my ease discontentation
  Should breed to her, let me for aye dejected be
  From any joy, which might her grief occasion.
   With so sweet plagues my happy arms infected be:
  Pain wills me die, yet of death I mortify:
  For though life irks, in life my loves protected be,
  Thus for each change my changeless heart I fortify.

When they had ended, to the good pleasing of the assistants,
especially of Zelmane, who never forgot to give due commendations
{282} to her friend Dorus, Basilius called for Lamon to end his
discourse of Strephon and Claius, wherewith the other day he marked
Zelmane to have been exceedingly delighted. But him sickness had
stayed from that assembly; which gave occasion to Histor and Damon,
two young shepherds, taking upon them the two friendly rivals’ names,
to present Basilius with some other of their complaints eclogue-wise,
and first with this double Sestine.


  Ye goat-herd gods, that love the grassy mountains,
  Ye nymphs that haunt the springs in pleasant valleys,
  Ye satyrs joy’d with free and quiet forests,
  Vouchsafe your silent ears to plaining music,
  Which to my woes give still an early morning,
  And draws the dolour on till weary evening.

  O Mercury, foregoer to the evening,
  O heavenly huntress of the savage mountains,
  O lovely star, entitled of the morning,
  While that my voice doth fill those woeful valleys,
  Vouchsafe your silent ears to plaining music,
  Which oft hath echo tir’d in secret forests.

  I that was once free burgess of the forests,
  Where shade from sun, and sports I sought at evening,
  I that was once esteem’d for pleasant music,
  Am banish’d now among the monstrous mountains
  Of huge despair, and foul affliction’s valleys
  Am grown a screech-owl to myself each morning.

  I that was once delighted every morning,
  Hunting the wild inhabiters of forests:
  I that was once the music of those valleys
  So darken’d am, that all my day is evening,
  Heart-broken so, that mole hills seem high mountains,
  And fill the vales with cries instead of music.

  Long since, alas! my deadly swannish music
  Hath made itself a crier of the morning:
  And hath with wailing strength climb’d highest mountains.
  Long since my thoughts more desert be than forests:
  Long since I see my joys come to their evening,
  And state thrown down to over-trodden valleys.

  Long since the happy dwellers of those valleys
  Have pray’d me leave my strange exclaiming music,
  Which troubles their day’s work, and joys of evening:
  Long since I hate the night, more hate the morning:
  Long since my thoughts chase me like beasts in forests,
  And make me wish myself laid under mountains.

  Meseems I see the high and stately mountains,
  Transform themselves to low dejected valleys
  Meseems I hear in these ill-changed forests,
  The Nightingales do learn of Owls their music:
  Meseems I feel the comfort of the morning,
  Turn’d to the mortal serene of an evening.

  Meseems I see a filthy cloudy evening,
  As soon as sun begins to climb the mountains:
  Meseems I feel a noisome scent, the morning
  When I do smell the flowers of those valleys:
  Meseems I hear, when I do hear sweet music,
  The dreadful cries of murder’d men in forests.

  I wish to fire the trees of all those forests,
  I give the sun a last farewell each evening,
  I curse the fiddling finders out of music:
  With envy I do hate the lofty mountains:
  And with despite despise the humble valleys:
  I do detest night, evening, day and morning.

  Curse to myself my prayer is, the morning;
  My fire is more than can be made with forests;
  My state more base, than are the basest valleys:
  I wish no evenings more to see, each evening;
  Shamed I hate myself in sight of mountains,
  And stop my ears lest I grow mad with music.

  For she whose parts maintain’d a perfect music,
  Whose beauty shin’d more than the blushing morning,
  Who much did pass in state the stately mountains,
  In straightness pass’d the cedars of the forests,
  Hath cast me wretch into eternal evening,
  By taking her two suns from those dark valleys.

  For she, to whom compar’d, the alps are valleys,
  She, whose least word brings from the spheres their music,
  At whose approach the sun rose in the evening,
  Who where she went bare in her forehead morning,
  Is gone, is gone, from those our spoiled forests,
  Turning to deserts our best pastur’d mountains.

  Those mountains witness shall, so shall those valleys,
  Those forests eke, made wretched by our music.

  Our morning hymn is this, and song at evening.

But as though all this had been but the taking of a taste of their
wailings, Strephon again began this Dizain which was answered unto him
in that kind of verse which is called the crown.


  I joy in grief, and do detest all joys;
  Despise delight, am tir’d with thought of ease:
  I turn my head to all forms of annoys,
  And with the change of them my fancy please,
  I study that which may me most displease,
  And in despite of that displeasure’s might,
  Embrace that most, that most my soul destroys;
  Blinded with beams, fell darkness is my sight:
  Dwell in my ruins, feed with sucking smart,
  I think from me, not from my woes to part.

  I think from me not from my woes to part,
  And loath the time call’d life, nay think that life
  Nature to me for torment did impart;
  Think, my hard haps have blunted death’s sharp knife,
  Not sparing me, in whom his works be rife:
  And thinking this, think nature, life and death
  Place sorrow’s triumph on my conquered heart,
  Whereto I yield, and seek none other breath,
  But from the scent of some infectious grave:
  Nor of my fortune ought, but mischief crave.


  Nor of my fortune ought but mischief crave,
  And seek to nourish that, which now contains
  All what I am: if I myself will save,
  Then must I save, what in me chiefly reigns,
  Which is the hateful web of sorrow’s pains.
  Sorrow then cherish me, for I am sorrow:
  No being now, but sorrow I can have:
  Then deck me as thine own; thy help I borrow,
  Since thou my riches art, and that thou hast
  Enough to make a fertile mind lie waste.

  Enough to make a fertile mind lie waste,
  Is that huge storm, which pours itself on me:
  Hailstones of tears, of sighs a monstrous blast,
  Thunders of cries; lightnings my wild looks be,
  The darkened heav’n my soul, which nought can see,
  The flying sprites which trees by roots uptear,
  Be those despairs which have my hopes quite rased.
  The difference is; all folks those storms forbear,
  But I cannot; who then myself should fly,
  So close unto myself my wrecks do lie.

  So close unto myself my wrecks do lie,
  But cause, effect, beginning, and the end
  Are all in me: what help then can I try?
  My ship, myself, whose course to love doth bend,
  Sore beaten doth her mast of comfort spend:
  Her cable reason, breaks from anchor’d hope:
  Fancy, her tackling torn away doth fly:
  Ruin, the wind, hath blown her from her scope:
  Bruised with waves of cares, but broken is
  On rock despair, the burial of my bliss.

  On rock despair, the burial of my bliss,
  I long do plough with plough of deep desire:
  The seed fast-meaning is, no truth to miss:
  I harrow it with thoughts, which all conspire,
  Favour to make my chief and only hire.
  But woe is me, the year is gone about,
  And now I fain would reap, I reap but this
  Hatefully grown, absence new sprung out.
  So that I see, although my sight impair,
  Vain is their pain, who labour in despair.


  Vain is their pain, who labour in despair.
  For so did I, when with my angle will,
  I sought to catch the fish Torpedo fair,
  Ev’n then despair did hope already kill:
  Yet fancy would perforce employ his skill,
  And this hath got; the catcher now is caught.
  Lam’d with the angle, which itself did bear,
  And unto death, quite drown’d in dolours, brought
  To death, as then disguis’d in her fair face:
  Thus, thus, alas, I had my loss in chase.

  Thus, thus, alas, I had my loss in chase,
  When first that crowned Basilisk I knew;
  Whose footsteps I with kisses oft did trace,
  Till by such hap, as I must ever rue,
  Mine eyes did light upon her shining hue,
  And hers on me, astonish’d with that sight.
  Since then my heart did lose his wonted place,
  Infected so with her sweet poison’s might,
  That, leaving me for dead, to her it went:
  But ha! her flight hath her my dead reliques spent.

  But ah! her flight hath my dead reliques spent,
  Her flight, from me, from me, though dead to me,
  Yet living still in her, while her beams lent
  Such vital spark, that her mine eyes might see.
  But now those living lights absented be,
  Full dead before, now I to dust should fall,
  But that eternal pains my soul have bent,
  And keep it still within this body thrall,
  That thus I must while in this death I dwell,
  In earthly fetters feel a lasting hell.

  In earthly fetters feel a lasting hell,
  Alas I do; from which to find release,
  I would the earth, I would the heavens fell:
  But vain it is to think those pains should cease,
  Where life is death, and death cannot breed peace.
  O fair, O only fair, from thee alas,
  Those foul, most foul disasters to me fell;
  Since thou from me, O me! O sun did’st pass.
  Therefore esteeming all good blessings toys,
  I joy in grief, and do detest all joys.


  I joy in grief, and do detest all joys,
  But now an end, O Claius, now an end:
  For even the herbs our hateful music stroys,
  And from our burning breath the trees do bend.

So well were those wailful complaints accorded to the passions of all
the princely hearers, while every one made what he heard of another
the balance of his own fortune, that they stood a long while stricken
in sad and silent consideration of them. Which the old Geron no more
marking than condemning in them, desirous to set forth what counsels
the wisdom of age had laid up in store against such fancies, as he
thought, follies of youth, yet so as it might not appear that his
words respected them, bending himself to a young shepherd, named
Philisides, who neither had danced nor sung with them, and had all
this time lain upon the ground at the foot of a Cypress tree, leaning
upon his elbow with so deep a melancholy, that his senses carried to
his mind no delight from any of their objects, he struck him upon the
shoulder with a right old man’s grace, that will seem livelier than
his age will afford him. And thus began unto him this eclogue.


  Up, up, Philisides, let sorrows go,
  Who yields to woe, but doth increase his smart.
  Do not thy heart to plaintful custom bring:
  But let us sing; sweet tunes do passions ease,
  An old man hear who would thy fancies raise.

  Who minds to please the mind drown’d in annoys
  With outward joys, which inly cannot sink,
  As well may think with oil to cool the fire:
  Or with desire to make such foe a friend,
  Who doth his soul to endless malice bend.

  But sure an end to each thing time doth give,
  Though woes now live, at length thy woes must die:
  Then virtue try, if she can work in thee
  That which we see in many time hath wrought,
  And weakest hearts to constant temper brought.

  Who ever taught a skilless man to teach,
  Or stop a breach that never cannon saw?
  Sweet virtue’s law bars not a causeful moan.
  Time shall in one my life and sorrows end,
  And me perchance your constant temper lend.

  What can amend where physick is refus’d?
  The wit’s abus’d that will no counsel take.
  Yet for my sake discover us thy grief.
  Oft comes relief when most we seem in trap.
  The stars thy state, fortune may change thy hap.

  If fortune’s lap became my dwelling place,
  And all the stars conspired to my good,
  Still were I one, this still should be my case,
  Ruin’s relique, care’s web, and sorrow’s food:
  Since she fair fierce to such a state me calls,
  Whose wit the stars, whose fortune, fortune thralls.

  Alas what falls are fall’n unto thy mind?
  That there where thou confessed thy mischief lies,
  Thy wit dost use still more harms to find.
  Whom wit makes vain, or blinded with his eyes;
  What counsel can prevail, or light give light?
  Since all his force against himself he tries.
  Then each conceit that enters in his sight,
  Is made, forsooth, a jurate of his woes:
  Earth, sea, air, fire, heaven, hell, and ghastly spright.
  Then cries to senseless things, which neither knows
  What aileth thee, and if they knew thy mind,
  Would scorn in man, their king, such feeble shows.
  Rebel, rebel, in golden fetters bind
  This tyrant love; or rather do suppress
  Those rebel-thoughts, which are thy slaves by kind.
  Let not a glittering name thy fancy dress
  In painted clothes; because they call it love:
  There is no hate that can thee more oppress.
  Begin, and half the work is done, to prove
  By rising up, upon thyself to stand,
  And think she is a she, that doth thee move.
  He water ploughs, and soweth in the sand,
  And hopes the flickering wind with net to hold
  Who hath his hopes laid upon woman’s hand.
  What man is he that hath his freedom sold?
  Is he a manlike man, doth not know, man
  Hath power that sex with bridle to withhold?
  A fickle sex, and true in trust to no man,
  A servant sex soon proud if they be coy’d:
  And to conclude thy mistress is a woman.

  O gods, how long this old fool hath annoy’d
  My wearied ears! O gods, yet grant me this,
  That soon the world of his false tongue be void.
  O noble age who place their only bliss,
  In being heard until the hearer die,
  Uttering a serpent’s mind with a serpent’s hiss.
  Then who will bear a well-authorized lie
  (And patience hath) let him go learn of him
  What swarms of virtues did in his youth fly
  Such hearts of brass, wise heads, and garments trim
  Were in his days: which heard, one nothing hears,
  If from his words the falsehood he do skim.
  And herein most their folly vain appears,
  That since they still allege, when they were young,
  It shows they fetch their wit from youthful years,
  Like beast for sacrifice, where save the tongue
  And belly nought is left: such sure is he,
  This life-dead man in this old dungeon flung.
  Old houses are thrown down for new we see:
  The oldest rams are culled from the flock:
  No man doth wish his horse should aged be.
  The ancient oak well makes a fired block:
  Old men themselves do love young wives to choose:
  Only fond youth admires a rotten stock.
  Who once a white long beard, well handle does
  (As his beard him, he his beard did bare)
  Though cradle-witted, must not honour lose,
  O when will men leave off to judge by hair;
  And think them old that have the oldest mind,
  With virtue fraught, and full of holy fear!

  If that thy face were hid, or I were blind,
  I yet should know a young man speaketh now,
  Such wandering reasons in thy speech I find,
  He is a beast, that beasts use will allow.
  For proof of man, who sprung of heav’nly fire
  Hath strongest soul when most his reigns do bow.
  But fondlings fond, know not your own desire
  Loth to die young, and then you must be old.
  Fondly blame that to which yourselves aspire.
  But this light choler that doth make you bold,
  Rather to wrong than unto just defence,
  Is past with me, my blood is waxed cold,
  Thy words, though full of malapert offence,
  I weigh them not, but still will thee advise
  How thou from foolish love mayest purge thy sense.
  First think they err, that think them gaily wise,
  Who well can set a passion out to show:
  Such sight have they that see with goggling eyes,
  Passion bears high when puffing wit doth blow.
  But is indeed a toy, if not a toy,
  True cause of evils: and cause of causeless woe,
  If once thou mayest that fancy gloss destroy
  Within thyself, thou soon wilt be ashamed
  To be a player of thine own annoy.
  Then let thy mind with better books be tamed.
  Seek to espy her faults as well as praise,
  And let thine eyes to other sports be framed.
  In hunting fearful beasts, do spend some days,
  Or catch the birds with pit-falls or with lime,
  Or train the fox that train so crafty lays.
  Lie but to sleep, and in the early prime
  Seek skill of herbs in hills, haunt brooks near night,
  And try with bait how fish will bite sometime.
  Go graft again and seek to graft them right,
  Those pleasant plants, those sweet and fruitful trees
  Which both the palate and the eyes delight.
  Cherish the hives of wisely painful bees,
  Let special care upon thy flock be stayed,
  Such active mind but seldom passion sees.

  Hath any man heard what this old man said?
  Truly not I, who did my thoughts engage,
  Where all my pains one look of her hath paid.

Geron was even out of countenance, finding the words, he thought were
so wise, win so little reputation at this young man’s hands; and
therefore sometimes looking upon an old acquaintance of his called
Mastix, one of the repiningest fellows in the world, and that beheld
nobody but with a mind of mislike, saying still the world was amiss,
but how it should be amended he knew not, sometimes casting his eyes
to the ground, even ashamed to see his grey hairs despised, at last he
spied his two dogs, whereof the elder was called Melampus, and the
younger Lelaps (indeed the jewels he ever had with him) one brawling
with another; which occasion he took to restore himself to his
countenance, and rating Melampus, he began to speak to his dogs, as if
in them a man should find more obedience, than in unbridled young men.



  Down, down Melampus, what? your fellow bite?
  I set you o’er the flock I dearly love,
  Them to defend, not with yourselves to fight.
  Do you not think this will the wolves remove
  From former fear, they had of your good minds,
  When they shall such divided weakness prove?
  What if Lelaps a better morsel find
  Than you erst knew? rather take part with him
  Than jarl: lo, lo, even those how envy blind,
  And then Lelaps let not pride make thee brim;
  Because thou hast thy fellow overgone,
  But thank the cause, thou seest where he is dim.
  Here Lelaps, here indeed, against the foe
  Of my good sheep, thou never truce him took:
  Be as thou art, but be with mine at one.
  For though Melampus like a wolf do look
  (For age doth make him of a wolfish hue)
  Yet have I seen, when like a wolf he shook.
  Fool that I am, that with my dogs speak grew:
  Come near good Mastix, ’tis now full twa score
  Of years, alas, since I good Mastix knew.
  Thou heard’st even now a young man snub me sore,
  Because I read him, as I would my son.
  Youth will have will; age must to age therefore.

  What marvel if in youth such fault be done,
  Since that we see our saddest shepherds out,
  Who have their lesson so long time begun?
  Quickly secure, and easily in doubt,
  Either asleep be all, if not assail,
  Or all abroad if but a cub start out.
  We shepherds are like them that under sail
  Do speak high words, when all the coast is clear,
  Yet to a passenger will bonnet vail.
  I con thee thank to whom thy dogs be dear,
  But commonly like curs we them treat,
  Save when great need of them perforce appear,
  Then him we kiss, whom late before we beat
  With such intemperance, that each way grows
  Hate of the first, contempt of latter feat.
  And such discord ’twixt greatest shepherds flows,
  That sport it is to see with how great art,
  By justice work they their own faults disclose:
  Like busy boys to win their tutor’s heart.
  One saith, “he mocks;” another saith “he plays,”
  The third his lesson missed, till all do smart.
  As for the rest, how shepherds spend their days,
  At blow-point, hot-cockles, or else at keels,
  While, “let us pass our time,” each shepherd says,
  So small account of time the shepherd feels,
  And doth not feel, that life is not but time,
  And when that time is past, death holds his heels;
  To age thus do they draw their youthful prime,
  Knowing no more, than what poor trial shows,
  As fish sure trial hath of muddy slime.
  This pattern good, unto our children goes,
  For what they see their parents love or hate,
  Their first-caught sense prefers to teachers’ blows.
  Those cocklings cocker’d we bewail too late,
  When that we see our offspring gaily bent,
  Women man-wood, and men effeminate.

  Fie man, fie man: what words hath thy tongue lent?
  Yet thou art mickle worse, than e’er was I,
  Thy too much zeal, I fear thy brain hath spent,
  We oft are angrier than the feeble fly
  For business, where it appertains him not,
  Than with the poisonous toads that quiet lie.
  I pray thee what hath e’er the Parrot got?
  And yet they say he talks in great men’s bowers;
   A cage, gilded perchance, is all his lot,
  Who of his tongue the liquor gladly pours,
  A good fool call’d with pain perhaps may be:
  But even for that shall suffer mighty lowers.
  Let swan’s example siker serve for thee,
  Who once all birds, in sweetly singing passed,
  But now to silence turn’d his minstrelsy,
  For he could sing: but others were defac’d,
  The Peacock’s pride, the Pie’s pil’d flattery,
  Cormorant’s glut, Kite’s spoil, Kingfisher’s waste,
  The Falcon’s fierceness, Sparrow’s lechery,
  The Cuckoo’s shame, the Goose’s good intent,
  Even Turtle touch’d he with hypocrisy,
  And worse of other more, till by assent
  Of all the birds, but namely those were grieved,
  Of fowls there call’d was a Parliament:
  There was the Swan of dignity deprived,
  And statute made he never should have voice:
  Since when, I think, he hath in silence lived.
  I warn thee therefore (since thou may’st have choice)
  Let not thy tongue become a fiery match;
  No sword so bites, as that evil tool annoys.
  Let our unpartial eyes a little watch
  Our own demean, and soon we wonder shall,
  That hunting faults, ourselves we did not catch.
  Into our minds let us a little fall,
  And we shall find more spots than Leopard’s skin.
  Then who makes us, such Judges over all?
  But farewell now, thy fault is no great sin,
  Come, come my curs, ’tis late I will go in.

And away with his dogs straight he went, as if he would be sure to
have the last word, all the assembly laughing at the lustiness of the
old fellow, who departed muttering to himself he had seen more in his
days than twenty of them. But Basilius, who never before had heard
Philisides, though having seldom appeared to be at those meetings,
desired him he would begin some eclogue with some other of the
shepherds, according to the accustomed guise. Philisides, though very
unwilling, at the king’s commandment offered to sing with Thyrsis. But
he directly refused him, seeing he should within few days be married
to the fair Kala, and since he had gotten his desire he would sing no
more. Then the king willed Philisides to declare the discourse of his
own fortunes, unknown to them, as being a stranger in that country;
but he prayed the king to pardon him, the time being far too joyful to
suffer the rehearsal of his miseries. But to satisfy Basilius some
way, he began an eclogue betwixt himself and the Echo, framing his
voice so in those desert places, as what words he would have the Echo
reply unto, those he would sing higher than the rest; and so kindly
framed a disputation betwixt himself and it, which with those
Hexameters in the following order he uttered.


  Fair rocks, goodly rivers, sweet woods, when shall I see peace?
  Peace? what bars me my tongue? who is it that comes me so nigh? _I._
  Oh! I do know what guest I have met, it is echo. _’Tis Echo._
  Well met echo, approach: then tell me thy will too. _I will too._
  Echo, what do I get yielding my spirit to my griefs? _Griefs._
  What medicine may I find for a grief that draws me to death? _Death._
  O poisonous medicine! what worse to me can be than it? _It._
  In what state was I then, when I took this deadly disease? _Ease._
  And what manner a mind which had to that humour a vein? _Vain._
  Hath not reason enough vehemence the desire to reprove? _Prove._
  Oft prove I: but what salve, when reason seeks to be gone? _One._
  Oh! what is it? what is it that may be a salve to my love? _Love._
  What do lovers seek for, long seeking for to enjoy? _Joy._
  What be the joys, which for to enjoy they went to the pains? _Pains._
  Then to an earnest love what doth best victory lend? _End._
  End? but I can never end, love will not give me leave? _Leave._
  How be the minds dispos’d that cannot taste thy physick? _Sick._
  Yet say again thy advice for the evils that I told thee? _I told
  Doth th’ infected wretch of his harm th’ extremity know? _No._
  But if he know not his harms, what guides hath he while he be blind?
  What blind guides can he have that leans to fancy? _A fancy._
  Can fancies want eyes, or he fall that sleepeth aloft? _Oft._
  What causes first made those torments on me to light? _Light._
  Can then a cause be so light that forceth a man to go die? _Aye._
  Yet tell what light thing I had in me to draw me to die? _Eye._
  Eye-sight made me to yield, but what first pierc’d to my eyes? _Eyes._
  Eyes’ hurters, eyes hurt; but what from them to me falls? _Falls._
  But when I first did fall, what brought most fall to my heart? _Art._
  Art? what can be that art thou dost mean by thy speech? _Speech._
  What be the fruits of speaking art? what grows by the words? _Words._
  O much more than words: those words serv’d more me to bless. _Less._
  Oh when shall I be known, where most to be known I do long? _Long._
  Long be thy woes for such news, but how reck’s she my thoughts?
  Then then what I do gain, since unto her will I do wind? _Wind._
  Wind, tempests, and storms, yet in end what gives she desire? _Ire._
  Silly reward! yet among women hath she of virtue the most. _Most._
  What great name may I give to so heav’nly a woman? _A Wo-man._
  Woe, but seems to me joy, that agrees to my thoughts so. _I thought
  Think so, for of my desired bliss it is only the course. _Curse._
  Curs’d be thyself for cursing that which leads me to joys. _Toys._
  What be the sweet creatures where lowly demands be not heard? _Hard._
  What makes them be unkind? speak for th’ hast narrow pry’d? _Pride._
  Whence can pride come there, since springs of beauty be thence?
  Horrible is this blasphemy unto the most holy. _O lie._
  Thou liest false echo, their minds as virtue be just. _Just._
  Mock’st thou those diamonds which only be match’d by the gods? _Odds._
  Odds? what an odds is there since them to the heav’ns I prefer? _Err._
  Tell yet again me the names of those fair form’d to do evils?
  Devil? if hell such devils do abide, to the hells I do go. _Go._

Philisides was commended for the place of his echo; but little did he
regard their praises, who had set the foundations of his honour there
where he was most despised: and therefore returning again to the train
of his desolate pensiveness. Zelmane seeing nobody offer to fill the
stage, as if her long restrained conceits did now burst out of prison,
she thus, desiring her voice should be accorded to nothing but to
Philoclea’s ears, threw down the burden of her mind in Anacreon’s kind
of verses.

 My muse, what ails this ardor
 To blaze my only secrets?
 Alas it is no glory
 To sing mine own decayed state.
 Alas it is no comfort,
 To speak without an answer,
 Alas it is no wisdom
 To show the wound without cure.

 My muse, what ails this ardor?
 Mine eyes be dim, my limbs shake,
 My voice is hoarse, my throat scorch’d,
 My tongue to this my roof cleaves,
 My fancy amaz’d, my thoughts dull’d,
 My heart doth ache, my life faints,
 My soul begins to take leave.
 So great a passion all feel,
 To think a sore so deadly
 I should so rashly rip up.

 My muse, what ails this ardor?
 If that to sing thou art bent,
 Go sing the fall of old Thebes,
 The wars of ugly centaurs,
 The life, the death of Hector:
 So may the song be famous:
 Or if to love thou art bent,
 Recount the rape of Europa,
 Adonis’ end, Venus’ net,
 The sleepy kiss the moon stale:
 So may the song be pleasant.


 My muse, what ails this ardor?
 To blaze my only secrets?
 Wherein do only flourish
 The sorry fruits of anguish.
 The song thereof a last will,
 The tunes be cries, the words plaints,
 The singer is the song’s theme,
 Wherein no ear can have joy.
 Nor eye receive due object
 Ne pleasure here, ne fame gat.

 My muse, what ails this ardor?
 “Alas,” she saith “I am thine,
 So are thy pains my pains too.
 Thy heated heart my seat is
 Wherein I burn: thy breath is
 My voice, too hot to keep in.
 Besides, lo here the author
 Of all thy harms: lo here she,
 That only can redress thee,
 Of her will I demand help.”

 My muse I yield, my muse I sing,
 But all thy song herein knit.
 The life we lead is all love:
 The love we hold is all death,
 Nor ought I crave to feed life,
 Nor ought I seek to shun death,
 But only that my goddess,
 My life my death do count hers.

Basilius, when she had fully ended her song, fell prostrate upon the
ground, and thanked the gods they had preserved his life so long as to
hear the very music they themselves used in an earthly body. And then
with like grace to Zelmane, never left entreating her, till she had,
taking a lyre Basilius held for her, sung those Phaleuciacks:

 Reason, tell me thy mind, if here be reason
 In this strange violence, to make resistance,
 Where sweet graces erect the stately banner
 Of virtue’s regiment, shining in harness
 Of fortune’s diadems, by beauty mustered:
 Say then reason; I say, what is thy counsel?

 Her loose hairs be the shot, the breasts the pikes be
 Scouts each motion is, the hands be horsemen,
 Her lips are the riches the wars to maintain,
 Where well couched abides a coffer of pearl,
 Her legs carriage is of all the sweet camp:
 Say then reason; I say, what is thy counsel?

 Her cannons be her eyes, mine eyes the walls be,
 Which at first volley gave too open entry,
 Nor rampier did abide; my brain was up blown,
 Undermin’d with a speech, the piercer of thoughts.
 Thus weakened by myself, no help remaineth;
 Say then reason: I say, what is thy counsel?


 And now fame the herald of her true honour,
 Doth proclaim with a sound made all by men’s mouths,
 That nature sovereign of earthly dwellers,
 Commands all creatures to yield obeisance
 Under this, this her own, her only darling.
 Say then reason; I say what is thy counsel?

 Reason sighs, but in end he thus doth answer:
 “Nought can reason avail in heavenly matters.”
 Thus nature’s diamond receive thy conquest,
 Thus pure pearl, I do yield my senses and soul,
 Thus sweet pain, I do yield whate’er I can yield,
 Reason look to thyself, I serve a goddess.

Dorus had long he thought kept silence, from saying somewhat which
might tend to the glory of her, in whom all glory to his seeming was
included, but now he broke it, singing those verses called

 O sweet woods the delight of solitariness!
 O how much I do like your solitariness!
 Where man’s mind hath a freed consideration
 Of goodness to receive lovely direction.
 Where senses do behold th’ order of heav’nly host,
 And wise thoughts do behold what the creator is:
 Contemplation here holdeth his only seat:
 Bounded with no limits, borne with a wing of hope,
 Climbs even unto the stars, nature is under it.
 Nought disturbs thy quiet, all to thy service yields,
 Each sight draws on a thought, thought mother of science:
 Sweet birds kindly do grant harmony unto thee,
 Fair trees’ shade is enough fortification,
 Nor dangers to thyself, if ’t be not in thyself.

 O sweet woods the delight of solitariness!
 O how much do I like your solitariness!
 Here nor treason is hid, veiled in innocence,
 Nor envy’s snaky eye finds any harbour here,
 Nor flatterers’ venomous insinuations,
 Nor coming humourists’ puddled opinions,
 Nor courteous ruin of proffered usury,
 Nor time prattled away, cradle of ignorance,
 Nor causeless duty, nor cumber of arrogance,
 Nor trifling title of vanity dazzleth us,
 Nor golden manacles stand for a paradise.
 Here wrong’s name is unheard; slander a monster is,
 Keep thy spirit from abuse, here no abuse doth haunt,
 What man grafts in a tree dissimulation?


 O sweet woods the delight of solitariness!
 O how well I do like your solitariness!
 Yet dear soil, if a soul clos’d in a mansion
 As sweet as violets, fair as a lily is,
 Strait as a cedar, a voice strains the canary birds,
 Whose shade safely doth hold, danger avoideth her;
 Such wisdom, that in her lives speculation:
 Such goodness, that in her simplicity triumphs:
 Where envy’s snaky eye, winketh or else dieth,
 Slander wants a pretext, flattery gone beyond:
 Oh! if such a one have bent to a lonely life,
 Her steps, glad we receive, glad we receive her eyes.
 And think not she doth hurt our solitariness,
 For such company decks such solitariness.

The other shepherds were offering themselves to have continued the
sports, but the night had so quietly spent the most part of herself
among them that the king for that time licensed them to depart. And so
bringing Zelmane to her lodging, who would much rather have done the
same for Philoclea; of all sides they went to counterfeit a sleep in
their beds, for a true one their agonies could not afford them. Yet
there they lay, so might they be most solitary for the food of their
thoughts, till it was near noon the next day, after which Basilius was
to continue his Apollo devotions, and the other to meditate upon their
private desires.

 [End of Book II]



This last day’s danger, having made Pamela’s love discern what a
loss it should have suffered if Dorus had been destroyed, bred such
tenderness of kindness in her toward him that she could no longer keep
love from looking out through her eyes, and going forth in her words,
whom before as a close prisoner she had to her heart only committed;
so that finding not only by his speeches and letters, but by the
pitiful oration of a languishing behaviour, and the easily deciphered
character of a sorrowful face, that despair began now to threaten him
destruction, she grew content both to pity him, and let him see she
pitied him, as well by making her own beautiful beams to thaw away the
former iciness of her behaviour, as by entertaining his discourses
(whensoever he did use them) in the third person of Musidorus, to so
far a degree, that in the end she said that if she had been the
princess whom that disguised prince had virtuously loved, she would
have requited his faith with faithful affection; finding in her heart
that nothing could so heartily love as virtue: with many more words to
the same sense of noble favour, and chaste plainness. Which when at
the first it made that unexpected bliss shine upon Dorus, he was like
one frozen with extremity of cold, overhastily brought to a great
fire, rather oppressed than relieved with such a lightning of
felicity. But after the strength of nature had made him able to feel
the sweetness of joyfulness, that again being a child of passion, and
never acquainted with mediocrity, could not set bounds upon his
happiness, nor be content to give desire a kingdom, but that it must
be an unlimited monarchy. So that the ground he stood upon being
over-high in happiness, and slippery through affection, he could not
hold himself from falling into such an error, which with sighs blew
all comfort out of his {300} breast, and washed away all cheerfulness
of his cheer with tears. For this favour filling him with hope, hope
encouraging his desire, and desire considering nothing but
opportunity; one time (Mopsa being called away by her mother, and he
left alone with Pamela) the sudden occasion called love, and that
never stayed to ask reason’s leave, but made the too much loving Dorus
take her in his arms, offering to kiss her, and, as if it were, to
establish a trophy of his victory. But she, as if she had been ready
to drink a wine of excellent taste and colour, which suddenly she
perceived had poison in it, so did she put him away from her, looking
first up to heaven, as amazed to find herself so beguiled in him; then
laying cruel punishment upon him of angry love, and lowering beauty,
showing disdain, and a despising disdain. “Away,” (said she),
“unworthy man to love or to be loved. Assure thyself, I hate myself
being so deceived; judge then what I do to thee for deceiving me. Let
me see thee no more, the only fall of my judgment, and stain of my
conscience.” With that she called Mopsa, not staying for any answer
(which was no other but a flood of tears) which she seemed not to mark
(much less to pity) and chid her for having left her alone.

It was not a sorrow, but it was even a death which then laid hold of
Dorus: which certainly at that instant would have killed him, but that
the fear to tarry longer in her presence (contrary to her commandment)
gave him life to carry himself away from her sight, and to run into
the woods, where, throwing himself down at the foot of a tree, he did
not fall into lamentation (for that proceeded of pitying) or grieving
for himself (which he did no way) but to curses of his life, as one
that detested himself. For finding himself not only unhappy, but
unhappy after being fallen from all happiness: and to be fallen from
all happiness, not by any misconceiving, but by his own fault, and his
fault to be done to no other but Pamela; he did not tender his own
estate, but despised it, greedily drawing into his mind, all conceits
which might more and more torment him. And so remained he two days in
the woods, disdaining to give his body food, or his mind comfort,
loving in himself nothing but the love of her. And indeed that love
only strove with the fury of his anguish, telling it that if it
destroyed Dorus, it should also destroy the image of her that lived in
Dorus: and when the thought of that was crept in unto him, it began to
win of him some compassion to the shrine of that image, and to bewail
not for himself (whom he hated) but that so notable a love should
perish. Then began he only so far to wish his own good, as that Pamela
might pardon him the fault, though not the punishment: and the
uttermost height he aspired unto, was that after his death she might
yet pity his error and {301} know that it proceeded of love, and not
of boldness. That conceit found such friendship in his thoughts, that
at last he yielded, since he was banished her presence, to seek some
means by writing to show his sorrow, and testify his repentance.
Therefore getting him the necessary instruments of writing, he thought
best to counterfeit his hand (fearing that already as she knew his,
she would cast it away as soon as she saw it) and to put it in verse,
hoping that would draw her on to read the more, choosing the elegiac
as fittest for mourning. But never pen did more quakingly perform his
office; never was paper more double moistened with ink and tears;
never words more slowly married together, and never the Muses more
tired than now, with changes and re-changes of his devices: fearing
how to end, before he had resolved how to begin, mistrusting each
word, condemning each sentence. This word was not significant; that
word was too plain; this would not be conceived; the other would be
ill-conceived; here sorrow was not enough expressed, there he seemed
too much for his own sake to be sorry; this sentence rather showed art
than passion, that sentence rather foolishly passionate than forcibly
moving. At last, marring with mending, and putting out better than he
left, he made an end of it; being ended, was divers times ready to
tear it, till his reason assuring him, the more he studied the worse
it grew, he folded it up, devoutly invoking good acceptation unto it;
and watching his time, when they were all gone one day to dinner,
saving Mopsa to the other lodge, stole up into Pamela’s chamber, and
in her standish (which first he kissed, and craved of it a safe and
friendly keeping) left it there to be seen at her next using her ink
(himself returning again to be true prisoner to desperate sorrow)
leaving her standish upon her bed’s head, to give her the more
occasion to mark it: which also fell out.

For she finding it at her afternoon return in another place than she
left it, opened it. But when she saw the letter, her heart gave her
from whence it came; and therefore clapping it to again she went away
from it as if it had been a contagious garment of an infected person:
and yet was not long away, but that she wished she had read it, though
she were loth to read it. “Shall I,” said she, “second his boldness so
far, as to read his presumptuous letters? And yet,” saith she, “he
sees me not now to grow the bolder thereby: and how can I tell whether
they be presumptuous?” The paper came from him, and therefore not
worthy to be received; and yet the paper she thought was not guilty.
At last she concluded, it were not much amiss to look it over, that
she might out of his words pick some further quarrel against him. Then
she opened it, and threw it away, and took it up again, till (ere she
were aware) her eyes would needs read it, containing this matter.


 Unto a caitiff wretch, whom long affliction holdeth,
  And now fully believes help to be quite perished,
 Grant yet, grant yet a look, to the last moment of his anguish,
  O you (alas so I find) cause of his only ruin,
 Dread not a whit (O goodly cruel) that pity may enter
  Into thy heart by the sight of this Epistle I send:
 And to refuse to behold of these strange wounds the recital,
  Lest it might thee allure home to thyself to return
 (Unto thyself, I do mean those graces dwell so within thee,
  Gratefulness, sweetness, holy love, hearty regard)
 Such thing cannot I seek (despair hath giv’n me my answer:
  Despair most tragical clause to a deadly request)
 Such thing cannot he hope, that knows thy determinate hardness,
  Hard like a rich marble: hard, but a fair diamond.
 Can those eyes, that of eyes drown’d in most hearty flowing tears
  (Tears and tears of a man? had no return to remorse)
 Can those eyes now yield to the kind conceit of a sorrow,
  Which ink only relates, but ne laments, ne replies?
 Ah, that, that do I not conceive (though that to my bliss were)
  More than Nestor’s years, more than a King’s diadem.
 Ah, that, that do I not conceive; to the Heaven when a Mouse climbs
  Then may I hope to achieve grace of a heavenly Tiger.
 But, but alas, like a man condemned doth crave to be heard speak,
  Not that he hopes for amends of the disaster he feels,
 But finding the approach of death with an inly relenting,
  Gives an adieu to the world, as to his only delight:
 Right so my boiling heart, inflam’d with fire of a fair eye,
  Bubbling out doth breathe signs of his huge dolours:
 Now that he finds to what end his life and love be reserved,
  And that he thence must part, where to live only he liv’d.
 O fair, O fairest, are such the triumphs to thy fairness?
  Can death beauty become? must I be such monument?
 Must I be only the mark shall prove that virtue is angry?
  Shall prove that fierceness can with a white dove abide?
 Shall to the world appear that faith and love be rewarded
  With mortal disdain, bent to unendly revenge.
 Unto revenge? O sweet, on a wretch wilt thou be revenged?
  Shall such high planets tend to the loss of a worm?
 And to revenge who do bend, would in that kind be revenged
  As th’ offence was done, and go beyond if he can.
 All my offence was love: with love then must I be chastened;
  And with more, by the laws that to revenge do belong.
 If that love be a fault, more fault, more fault in you to be lovely:
  Love never had me oppressed, but that I saw to be lov’d.
 You be the cause that I lov’d: what Reason blameth a shadow,
  That with a body ’t goes? since by a body it is?
 If that love you did hate, you should your beauty have hidden:
  You should those fair eyes have with a veil covered.
 But fool, fool that I am, those eyes would shine from a dark cave:
  What veils then do prevail, but to a more miracle?
 Or those golden locks, those locks which lock me to bondage,
  Torn you should disperse unto the blasts of a wind.
 But fool, fool that I am, though I had but a hair of her head found,
  Ev’n as I am, so I should unto that hair be a thrall.
 Or with fair hand’s nails (O hand which nails me to this death)
  You should have your face, since love is ill blemished.
 O wretch, what do I say? should that fair face be defaced?
  Should my too-much sight cause so true a sun to be lost?
 First let Cimmerian darkness be my only habitation:
  First be mine eyes pull’d out, first be my brain perished,
 Ere that I should consent to do so excessive a damage
  Unto the earth, by the hurt of this her heavenly jewel.
 O not, but such love you say you could have afforded,
  As might learn temp’rance, void of a rage’s events.
 O sweet simplicity: from whence should love be so learned?
  Unto Cupid, that Boy, should a pedant be found?
 Well, but sulky I was: Reason to my passion yielded,
  Passion unto my rage, rage to a hasty revenge,
 But what’s this for a fault, for which such faith be abolished,
  Such faith, so stainless, inviolate, violent?
 Shall I not? O may I not thus yet refresh the remembrance,
  What sweet joys I had once, and what a place I did hold?
 Shall I not once object, that you, you granted a favour
  Unto the man, whom now such miseries you award?
 Bend your thoughts to the dear sweet words which then to me giv’n were,
  Think what a world is now, think who hath alt’red her heart.
 What? was I then worthy such good, now worthy such evil?
  Now fled, then cherished? then so nigh, now so remote?
 Did not a rosed breath from lips rosy proceeding,
  Say, that I well should find in what a care I was had?
 With much more: Now what do I find, but care to abhor me?
  Care that I sink in grief, care that I live banished?
 And banished do I live, nor now will seek a recovery,
  Since so she will, whose will is to me more than a law.
 If then a man in most ill case may give you a farewell:
  Farewell, long farewell, all my woe, all my delight.

What this would have wrought in her, she herself could not tell, for,
before her reason could moderate the disputation between favour and
faultiness, her sister and Miso, called her down to entertain Zelmane,
who was come to visit the two sisters, about whom, as about two poles,
the sky of beauty was turned: while {304} Gynecia wearied her bed with
her melancholy sickness, and made Miso’s shrewdness (who like a spirit
set to keep a treasure, barred Zelmane from any further conference) to
be the lieutenant of her jealousy; both she and her husband driving
Zelmane to such a straight of resolution, either of impossible
granting, or dangerous refusing, as the best escape she had was (as
much as she could) to avoid their company. So as this day, being the
fourth day after the uproar (Basilius being with his sick wife,
conferring upon such examinations as Philanax and other of his
noblemen had made of this late sedition, all touching Cecropia, with
vehement suspicion of giving either flame or fuel unto it) Zelmane
came with her body, to find her mind, which was gone long before her,
and had gotten his seat in Philoclea, who now with a bashful
cheerfulness (as though she were ashamed that she could not choose but
be glad) joined with her sister in making much of Zelmane.

And so as they sat devising how to give more feathers to the wings of
time, there came to the lodge-door six maids, all in one livery of
scarlet petticoats, which were tucked up almost to their knees, the
petticoats themselves being in many places garnished with leaves,
their legs naked, saving that above the ankles they had little black
silk laces, upon which did hang a few silver bells, like which they
had a little above their elbows upon their bare arms. Upon their hair
they wore garlands of roses and gilliflowers, and the hair was so
dressed, as that came again above the garlands, interchanging a mutual
covering so that it was doubtful whether the hair dressed the
garlands, or the garlands dressed the hair. Their breasts liberal to
the eye; the face of the foremost of them in excellency fair; and of
the rest lovely, if not beautiful: and beautiful might have been, if
they had not suffered greedy Phoebus over-often and hard, to kiss
them. Their countenances full of a graceful gravity, so as the gesture
match with the apparel, it might seem, a wanton modesty, an enticing
soberness. Each of them had an instrument of music in their hands,
which comforting their well-pleasing tunes, did charge each ear with
unsensibleness that did not lend itself unto them. The music entering
alone into the lodge, the ladies were all desirous to see from whence
so pleasant a guest was come: and therefore went out together, where
before they could take the pains to doubt, much less to ask the
question of their quality, the fairest of them (with a gay, but yet
discreet demeanour) in this sort spoke to them.

“Most excellent ladies (whose excellencies have power to make cities
envy those woods, and solitariness to be accounted the sweetest
company) vouchsafe our message your gracious hearing, which as it
comes from love, so comes it from lovely persons. The maids of all
this coast of Arcadia, understanding the often {305} access that
certain shepherds of those quarters are allowed to have in this
forbidden place, and that their rural sports are not disdained of you,
have been stirred up with emulation to them, and affection to you, to
bring forth something, which might as well breed your contentment: and
therefore hoping that the goodness of their intention, and the
hurtlessness of their sex, shall excuse the breach of the commandment
in coming to this place unsent for, they chose out us to invite both
your princely parents, and yourselves to a place in the woods about
half a mile hence, where they have provided some such sports, as they
trust your gracious acceptations will interpret to be delightful. We
have been at the other lodge, but finding them there busied in
weightier affairs, our trust is that you will not deny the shining of
your eyes upon us.” The ladies stood in some doubt whether they should
go or not, lest Basilius might be angry withal: But Miso (that had
been at none of the pastorals, and had a great desire to lead her old
senses abroad to some pleasure) told them plainly, they should nor
will, nor choose, but go thither, and make the honest country people
know that they were not so squeamish as folks thought of them. The
ladies glad to be warranted by her authority, with a smiling
humbleness obeyed her; Pamela only casting a seeking look, whether she
could see Dorus (who poor wretch wandered half mad for sorrow in the
woods, crying for pardon of her who could not hear him) but indeed was
grieved for his absence, having given the wound to him through her own
heart. But so the three ladies and Miso went with those six Nymphs,
conquering the length of the way with the force of music, leaving only
Mopsa behind, who disgraced weeping with her countenance, because her
mother would not suffer her to show her new-scoured face among them.
But the place appointed, as they thought, met them half in their way,
so well were they pleased with the sweet tunes and pretty conversation
of their inviters. There found they in the midst of the thickest part
of the wood, a little square place, not burdened with trees, but with
a board covered and beautified with the pleasantest fruits that
sun-burned Autumn could deliver to them. The maids besought the ladies
to sit down and taste of the swelling grapes, which seemed great with
child of Bacchus: and of the divers coloured plums, which gave the eye
a pleasant taste before they came to the mouth. The ladies would not
show to scorn their provision, but ate and drank a little of their
cool wine, which seemed to laugh for joy to come to such lips.

But after the collation was ended, and that they looked for the coming
forth of such devices as were prepared for them, there rushed out of
the woods twenty armed men, who round about environed them, and laying
hold on Zelmane before she could {306} draw her sword, and taking it
from her, put hoods over the heads of all four, and so muffled, by
force set them on horse-back, and carried them away; the sisters
crying in vain for succour, while Zelmane’s heart was rent in pieces
with rage of the injury and disdain of her fortune. But when they had
carried them four or five miles further, they left Miso with a gag in
her mouth, and bound hand and foot, so to take her fortune; and
brought the three ladies (by that time the night seemed with her
silence to conspire to their treason) to a castle about ten miles from
the lodges, where they were fain to take a boat which waited for them,
for the castle stood in the midst of a great lake upon a high rock,
where partly by art, but principally by nature, it was by all men
esteemed impregnable. But at the castle-gate their faces were
discovered, and there were met with a great number of torches, after
whom the sisters knew their aunt-in-law Cecropia. But that sight
increased the deadly terror of the princesses, looking for nothing but
death, since they were in the power of the wicked Cecropia, who yet
came unto them, making courtesy the outside of mischief, and desiring
them not to be discomforted for they were in a place dedicated to
their service. Philoclea (with a look where love shined through the
midst of fear) besought her to be good unto them, having never
deserved evil of her. But Pamela’s high heart disdaining humbleness to
injury, “Aunt,” said she, “what you have determined of us I pray you
do it speedily: for my part I look for no service, where I find

But Cecropia, using no more words with them, conveyed them all three
to several lodgings (Zelmane’s heart so swelling with spite that she
could not bring forth a word) and so left them: first taking from them
their knives, because they should do themselves no hurt, before she
had determined of them: and then giving such order that they wanted
nothing but liberty and comfort, she went to her son, who yet kept his
bed, because of his wound he had received of Zelmane, and told him
whom now he had in his power. Amphialus was but even then returned
from far countries where he had won immortal fame both of courage and
courtesy, when he met with the princesses, and was hurt by Zelmane, so
that he was utterly ignorant of all his mother’s wicked devices, to
which he would never have consented, being (like a rose out of a
briar) an excellent son of an evil mother: and now, when he heard of
this, was as much amazed as if he had seen the sun fall to the earth.
And therefore desired his mother that she would tell him the whole
discourse, how all these matters had happened. “Son,” said she, “I
will do it willingly, and since all is done for you I will hide
nothing from you. And howsoever I might be ashamed to tell it to
strangers who would think it wickedness, yet what is done for your
sake (how evil {307} soever to others) to you is virtue. To begin then
even with the beginning: this doting fool Basilius that now reigns,
having lived unmarried until he was nigh threescore years old (and in
all his speeches affirming, and in all his doings, assuring that he
never would marry) made all the eyes of this country to be bent upon
your father, his only brother (but younger by thirty years) as upon
the undoubted successor, being indeed a man worthy to reign, thinking
nothing enough for himself: where this goose (you see) puts down his
head, before there be anything near to touch him. So that he holding
place and estimation as heir of Arcadia, obtained me of my father the
king of Argos, his brother helping to the conclusion, with protesting
his bachelorly intentions, for else you may be sure the king of Argos,
nor his daughter, would have suffered their royal blood to be stained
with the base name of a subjection. So that I came into this country
as apparent princess thereof, and accordingly was courted and followed
of all the ladies of this country. My port and pomp did well become a
king of Argos’s daughter: in my presence their tongues were turned
into ears, and their ears were captives unto my tongue; their eyes
admired my majesty, and happy was he or she, on whom I would suffer
the beams thereof to fall. Did I go to church? It seemed the very gods
waited for me, their devotions not being solemnized till I was ready.
Did I walk abroad to see any delight? Nay, my walking was the delight
itself: for to it was the concourse, one thrusting upon another, who
might show himself most diligent and serviceable towards me: my sleeps
were enquired after, and my wakings never unsaluted: the very gate of
my house full of principal persons, who were glad if their presents
had received a grateful acceptation. And in this felicity wert thou
born, the very earth submitting itself unto thee to be trodden as by
his prince; and to that pass had my husband’s virtue (by my good help)
within short time brought it, with a plot we laid, as we should not
have needed to have waited the tedious work of a natural end of
Basilius, when the heavens (I think envying my great felicity) then
stopped thy father’s breath, when he breathed nothing but power and
sovereignty. Yet did not thy orphancy, or my widowhood, deprive us of
the delightful prospect which the hill of honour doth yield, while
expectation of thy succession did bind dependencies unto us.

“But before, my son, thou wert come to the age to feel the sweetness
of authority, this beast (whom I can never name with patience) falsely
and foolishly married this Gynecia, then a young girl, and brought her
to sit above me in all feasts, to turn her shoulder to me-ward in all
our solemnities. It is certain it is not so great a spite to be
surmounted by strangers as by one’s own allies. Think then what my
mind was, since withal there is no {308} question, the fall is greater
from the first to the second, than from the second to the undermost.
The rage did swell in my heart so much the more as it was fain to be
suppressed in silence, and disguised with humbleness. But above all
the rest, the grief of griefs was, when with these two daughters, now
thy prisoners, she cut off all hope of thy succession. It was a
tedious thing to me that my eyes should look lower than anybody’s,
that (myself being by) another’s voice than mine should be more
respected. But it was unsupportable unto me to think that not only I,
but thou, should’st spend all thy time in such misery, and that the
sun should see my eldest son less than a prince. And though I had been
a saint I could not choose, finding the change this change of fortune
bred unto me: for now from the multitude of followers, silence grew to
be at my gate, and absence in my presence. The guess of my mind could
prevail more before than now many of my earnest requests. And thou (my
dear son) by the fickle multitude no more than an ordinary person
(born of the mud of the people) regarded. But I (remembering that in
all miseries weeping becomes fools, and practice wise folks) have
tried divers means to pull us out of the mire of subjection. And
though many times fortune failed me, yet did I never fail myself. Wild
beasts I kept in a cave hard by the lodges, which I caused by night to
be fed in the place of their pastorals. I as then living in my house
hard by the place, and against the hour they were to meet (having kept
the beasts without meat) then let them loose, knowing that they would
seek their food there, and devour what they found. But blind fortune
hating sharp-sighted inventions, made them unluckily to be killed.
After I used my servant Clinias to stir a notable tumult of country
people; but those louts were too gross instruments for delicate
conceits. Now lastly, finding Philanax’s examinations grow dangerous,
I thought to play double or quit, and with a slight I used of my
fine-witted wench Artesia, with other maids of mine, would have sent
those goodly inheritrixes of Arcadia to have pleaded their cause
before Pluto, but that over fortunately for them, you made me know the
last day how vehemently this childish passion of love doth torment
you. Therefore I have brought them unto you, yet wishing rather hate
than love in you. For hate often begetteth victory, love commonly is
the instrument of subjection. It is true that I would also by the same
practice have entrapped the parents, but my maids failed of it, not
daring to tarry long about it. But this sufficeth, since (these being
taken away) you are the undoubted inheritor, and Basilius will not
long over-live this loss.”

“O mother,” said Amphialus, “speak not of doing them hurt, no more
than to mine eyes, or my heart, or if I have anything more dear than
eyes or heart unto me. Let others find what sweetness {309} they will
in ever fearing, because they ever are feared: for my part, I will
think myself highly entitled, if I may be once by Philoclea accepted
for a servant.” “Well,” said Cecropia, “I would I had born you of my
mind, as well as of my body, then should you not have sunk under those
base weaknesses. But since you have tied your thoughts in so wilful a
knot, it is happy my policy hath brought matters to such a pass that
you may both enjoy affection, and upon that build your sovereignty.”
“Alas!” said Amphialus, “my heart would fain yield you thanks for
setting me in the way of felicity, but that fear kills them in me
before they are fully born. For if Philoclea be displeased, how can I
be pleased? if she count it unkindness, shall I give tokens of
kindness? perchance she condemns me of this action, and shall I
triumph, perchance she drowns now the beauties I love with sorrowful
tears, and where is then my rejoicing?” “You have reason,” said
Cecropia with a feigned gravity; “I will therefore send her away
presently that her contentment may be recovered.” “No good mother,”
said Amphialus, “since she is here, I would not for my life constrain
presence, but rather would I die than consent to absence.” “Pretty
intricate follies,” said Cecropia, “but get you up and see how you can
prevail with her, while I go to the other sister. For after, we shall
have our hands full to defend ourselves if Basilius hap to besiege
us.” But remembering herself she turned back and asked him what he
would have done with Zelmane, since now he might be avenged of his
hurt? “Nothing but honourably,” answered Amphialus, “having deserved
no other of me, especially being (as I hear) greatly cherished of
Philoclea, and therefore I could wish they were lodged together.” “O
no,” said Cecropia, “company confirms resolutions, and loneliness
breeds a weariness of one’s thoughts, and so a sooner consenting to
reasonable proffers.”

But Amphialus (taking of his mother Philoclea’s knives, which he kept
as a relic since she had worn them) got up, and calling for his
richest apparel, nothing seemed sumptuous enough for his mistress’s
eyes; and that which was costly, he feared was not dainty; and though
the invention were delicate, he misdoubted the making. As careful he
was too of the colour; lest if gay he might seem to glory in his
injury, and her wrong; if mourning, it might strike some evil presage
unto her of her fortune. At length he took a garment more rich than
glaring, the ground being black velvet, richly embroidered with great
pearl, and precious stones, but they set so among certain tufts of
cypress that the cypress was like black clouds, through which the
stars might yield a dark lustre. About his neck he wore a broad and
gorgeous collar, whereof the pieces interchangeably answering, the one
was of diamonds and {310} pearl set with a white enamel, so that by
the cunning of the workman it seemed like a shining ice; and the other
piece being of rubies and opals, had a fiery glistering, which he
thought pictured the two passions of fear and desire, wherein he was
enchained. His hurt, not yet fully well, made him a little halt, but
he strove to give the best grace he could unto his halting.

And in that sort he went to Philoclea’s chamber: whom he found
(because her chamber was over-lightsome) sitting on that side of her
bed which was from the window, which did cast such a shadow upon her
as a good painter would bestow upon Venus, when under the trees she
bewailed the murder of Adonis: her hands and fingers (as it were)
indented one within the other; her shoulder leaning to her bed’s head,
and over her head a scarf, which did eclipse almost half her eyes,
which under it fixed their beams upon the wall by, with so steady a
manner, as if in that place they might well change but not mend their
object: and so remained they a good while after his coming in, he not
daring to trouble her, nor she perceiving him, till that (a little
varying her thoughts, something quickening her senses) she heard him
as he happened to stir his upper garment: and perceiving him, rose up,
with a demeanour, where, in the book of beauty, there was nothing to
be read but sorrow: for kindness was blotted out, and anger was never

But Amphialus who had entrusted his memory with long and forcible
speeches, found it so locked up in amazement that he could pick
nothing out of it but the beseeching her to take what was done in good
part, and to assure herself there was nothing but honour meant unto
her person. But she making no other answer, but letting her hands fall
one from the other, which before were joined (with eyes something cast
aside, and a silent sigh) gave him to understand that considering his
doings, she thought his speech as full of incongruity, as her answer
would be void of purpose: whereupon he kneeling down, and kissing her
hand (which she suffered with a countenance witnessing captivity, but
not kindness) he besought her to have pity of him, whose love went
beyond the bounds of conceit, much more of uttering: that in her hands
the balance of his life or death did stand; whereto the least motion
of hers would serve to determine, she being indeed the mistress of his
life, and he her eternal slave, and with true vehemency besought her
that he might hear her speak; whereupon she suffered her sweet breath
to turn itself into these kind of words.

“Alas! cousin,” said she, “what shall my tongue be able to do, which
is informed by the ears one way, and by the eyes another? You call for
pity, and use cruelty; you say you love me, and yet do {311} the
effects of enmity. You affirm your death is in my hands, but you have
brought me to so near a degree of death, as when you will, you may lay
death upon me, so that while you say, I am mistress of your life, I am
not mistress of mine own. You entitle yourself my slave, but I am sure
I am yours. If then violence, injury, terror, and depriving of that
which is more dear than life itself, liberty, be fit orators for
affection, you may expect that I will be easily persuaded. But if the
nearness of our kindred breed any remorse in you, or there be any such
thing in you, which you call love toward me, then let not my fortune
be disgraced with the name of imprisonment: let not my heart waste
itself by being vexed with feeling evil, and fearing worse. Let not me
be a cause of my parents’ woeful destruction; but restore me to
myself, and so doing, I shall account I have received myself of you.
And what I say for myself, I say for my dear sister, and my friend
Zelmane, for I desire no well-being without they may be partakers.”
With that her tears rained down from her heavenly eyes, and seemed to
water the sweet and beautiful flowers of her face.

But Amphialus was like the poor woman, who loving a tame doe she had
above all earthly things, having long played withal, and made it feed
at her hand and lap, is constrained at length by famine, all her flock
being spent, and she fallen into extreme poverty, to kill the deer to
sustain her life. Many a pitiful look doth she cast upon it, and many
a time doth she draw back her hand before she can give the stroke. For
even so Amphialus by a hunger-starved affection, was compelled to
offer this injury, and yet the same affection made him with a
tormenting grief think unkindness in himself that he could find in his
heart any way to restrain her freedom. But at length, neither able to
grant nor deny, he thus answered her: “Dear lady,” said he, “I will
not say unto you (how justly soever I may do it) that I am neither
author nor accessory unto this your withholding; for since I do not
redress it, I am as faulty as if I had begun it. But this I protest
unto you (and this protestation of mine let the heavens hear, and if I
lie, let them answer me with a deadly thunderbolt) that in my soul I
wish I had never seen the light, or rather, that I never had a father
to beget such a child, than that by my means those eyes should
overflow their own beauties; than by my means the sky of your virtue
should be overclouded with sorrow. But woe is me, most excellent lady,
I find myself most willing to obey you: neither truly do mine ears
receive the least word you speak, with any less reverence than as
absolute and unresistable commandments. But alas, that tyrant love
(which now possesseth the hold of all my life and reason) will no way
suffer it. It is love, it is love, not I which disobey you. What then
shall I say? {312} but that I, who am ready to lie under your feet, to
venture, nay to lose my life at your least commandment: I am not the
stay of your freedom, but love, love, which ties you in your own
knots. It is you yourself that imprison yourself: it is your beauty
which makes those castle walls embrace you: it is your own eyes which
reflect upon themselves this injury. Then is there no other remedy,
but that you some way vouchsafe to satisfy this love’s vehemency;
which since it grew in yourself) without question you shall find it
(far more than I) tractable.”

But with these words Philoclea fell to so extreme a quaking, and her
lively whiteness did degenerate to such a deadly paleness that
Amphialus feared some dangerous trance: so that taking her hand, and
feeling that it (which was wont to be one of the chief firebrands of
Cupid) had all the sense of it wrapt up in coldness, he began humbly
to beseech her to put away all fear, and to assure herself upon the
vow he made thereof unto God, and herself, that the uttermost forces
he would ever employ to conquer her affection, should be desire and
desert. That promise brought Philoclea again to herself, so that
slowly lifting up her eyes upon him, with a countenance ever
courteous, but then languishing, she told him that he should do well
to do so, if indeed he had ever tasted what true love was: for that
where now she did bear him goodwill, she should (if he took any other
way) hate and abhor the very thought of him, assuring him withal, that
though his mother had taken away her knives, yet the house of death
had so many doors that she would easily fly into it if ever she found
her honour endangered.

Amphialus having the cold ashes of care cast upon the coals of desire,
leaving some of his mother’s gentlewomen to wait upon Philoclea,
himself indeed a prisoner to his prisoner, and making all his
authority to be but a foot-stool to humbleness, went from her to his
mother. To whom with words, which affection indited, but amazement
uttered, he delivered what had passed between him and Philoclea,
beseeching her to try what her persuasions could do with her, while he
gave order for all such things as were necessary against such forces,
as he looked daily Basilius would bring before his castle. His mother
bade him quiet himself, for she doubted not to take fit times: But
that the best way was, first to let her own passion tire itself.

So they called Clinias and some other of their council, advised upon
their present affairs. First, he dispatched private letters to all
those principal lords and gentlemen of the country whom he thought
either alliance, or friendship to himself might draw, with special
motion from the general consideration of duty: not omitting all such,
whom either youthful age, or youthlike minds {313} did fill with
unlimited desires: besides such whom any discontentment made hungry of
change, or an overspended want, made want a civil war: to each
(according to the counsel of his mother) conforming himself after
their humours. To his friend, friendliness; to the ambitious, great
expectations; to the displeased, revenge; to the greedy, spoil;
wrapping their hopes with such cunning that they rather seemed given
over unto them as partakers, than promises sprung of necessity. Then
sent he to his mother’s brother, the king of Argos; but he was then so
over-laid with war himself as from thence he could attend small

But because he knew how violently rumours do blow the sails of popular
judgments, and how few there be that can discern between truth and
truth likeness, between shows and substance, he caused a justification
of this his action to be written, whereof were sowed[b3-01] abroad
many copies, which with some glosses of probability, might hide indeed
the foulness of his treason; and from true common-places, fetch down
most false applications. For beginning in how much the duty which is
owed to the country, goes beyond all other duties, since in itself it
contains them all; and that for the respect thereof, not only all
tender respects of kindred, or whatsoever other friendships, are to be
laid aside, but that even long-held opinions (rather builded upon a
secret of government than any ground of truth) are to be forsaken; he
fell by degrees to show that since the end whereto anything is
directed is ever to be of more noble reckoning, than the thing thereto
directed, that therefore the weal-public was more to be regarded than
any person or magistrate that thereunto was ordained: the feeling
consideration whereof had moved him (though as near of kin to Basilius
as could be, yet) to set principally before his eyes, the good estate
of so many thousands over whom Basilius reigned, rather than so to
hood-wink himself with affection, as to suffer the realm to run to
manifest ruin. The care whereof did kindly appertain to those who
being subaltern magistrates and officers of the crown, were to be
employed, as from the prince, so for the people; and of all other,
especially himself, who being descended of the royal race, and next
heir male, nature had no sooner opened his eyes, but that the soil
whereupon they did look, was to look for at his hands a continual
carefulness: which as from his childhood he had ever carried, so now
finding that his uncle had not only given over all care of government,
but had put into the hands of Philanax (a man neither in birth
comparable to many, nor for his corrupt, proud, and partial dealing,
liked of any) but beside, had set his {314} daughters, in whom the
whole estate, as next heirs thereunto, had no less interest than
himself, in so unfit and ill-guarded a place, that it were not only
dangerous for their persons, but (if they should be conveyed to any
foreign country) to the whole commonwealth pernicious, that therefore
he had brought them into this strong castle of his, which way, if it
might seem strange, they were to consider that new necessities
required new remedies, but there they should be served and honoured as
belonged to their greatness until by the general assembly of the
states it should be determined how they should to their best (both
private and public) advantage be matched; vowing all faith and duty
both to the father and children, never by him to be violated. But if
in the meantime, before the states could be assembled, he should be
assailed, he would then for his own defence take arms; desiring all
that either tendered the dangerous case of their country, or in their
hearts loved justice, to defend him in this just action. And if the
prince should command them otherwise, yet to know that therein he was
no more to be obeyed than if he should call for poison to hurt himself
withal: since all that was done, was done for his service, howsoever
he might (seduced by Philanax) interpret of it: he protesting that
whatsoever he should do for his own defence, should be against
Philanax, and no way against Basilius.

To this effect, amplified with arguments and examples, and painted
with rhetorical colours, did he sow[b3-02] abroad many discourses,
which as they prevailed with some of more quick than sound conceit to
run his fortune with him, so in many did it breed a coolness, to deal
violently against him, and a false-minded neutrality to expect the
issue. But besides the ways he used to weaken the adverse party, he
omitted nothing for the strengthening of his own. The chief trust
whereof, because he wanted men to keep the field, he reposed in the
surety of his castle, which at least would win him much time, the
mother of many mutations. To that therefore he bent both his outward
and inward eyes, striving to make art strive with nature, to whether
of them two that fortification should be most beholding. The seat
nature bestowed but art gave the building; which as his rocky hardness
would not yield to undermining force, so to open assaults he took
counsel of skill how to make all approaches, if not impossible, yet
difficult; as well at the foot of the castle, as round about the lake,
to give unquiet lodgings to them, whom only enmity would make
neighbours. Then omitted he nothing of defence, as well simple defence
as that which did defend by offending, fitting instruments of mischief
to places whence the mischief might be most liberally {315} bestowed.
Neither was his smallest care for victuals, as well for the providing
that which should suffice, both in store and goodness, as in well
preserving it, and wary distributing it, both in quantity and quality,
spending that first which would keep least.

But wherein he sharpened his wits to the piercingest point, was
touching his men (knowing them to be the weapon of weapons, and
master-spring, as it were, which makes all the rest to stir: and that
therefore in the art of man stood the quintessence and ruling skill of
all prosperous government, either peaceable or military) he chose in
number as many as without pestering (and so danger of infection) his
victual would serve for two years to maintain; all of able bodies, and
some few of able minds to direct, not seeking many commanders, but
contenting himself that the multitude should have obeying wits,
everyone knowing whom he should command, and whom he should obey, the
place where, and the matter wherein; distributing each office as near
as he could, to the disposition of the person that should exercise it:
knowing no love, danger nor discipline can suddenly alter an habit in
nature. Therefore would he not employ the still man to a shifting
practice, nor the liberal man to be a dispenser of his victuals, nor
the kind-hearted man to be a punisher; but would exercise their
virtues in sorts, where they might be profitable, employing his chief
care to know them all particularly, and thoroughly regarding also the
constitution of their bodies; some being able better to abide
watching, some hunger, some labour, making his benefit of each
ability, and not forcing beyond power. Time to everything by just
proportion he allotted, and as well in that, as in everything else, no
small error winked at, lest greater should be animated. Even of vices
he made his profit, making the cowardly Clinias to have care of the
watch, which he knew his own fear would make him very wakefully
perform. And before the siege began, he himself caused rumours to be
sowed, and libels to be spread against himself, fuller of malice than
witty persuasion, partly to know those that would be apt to stumble at
such motions, that he might call them from the faithfuller band, but
principally, because in necessity they should not know when any such
things were in earnest attempted, whether it were, or not of his own
invention. But even then (before the enemy’s face came near to breed
any terror) did he exercise his men daily in all their charges, as if
danger had presently presented his most hideous presence: himself
rather instructing by example than precept; being neither more sparing
in travel, nor spending in diet than the meanest soldier; his hand and
body disdaining no base matters nor shrinking from the heavy.

The only odds was, that when others took breath, he sighed; {316} and
when others rested, he crossed his arms. For love passing through the
pikes of danger, and tumbling itself in the dust of labour, yet still
made him remember his sweet desire and beautiful image. Often when he
had begun to command one, somewhat before half the sentence were
ended, his inward guest did so entertain him that he would break it
off, and a pretty while after end it, when he had (to the marvel of
the standers by) sent himself to talk with his own thoughts. Sometimes
when his hand was lifted up to do something, as if with the sight of
Gorgon’s head he had been suddenly turned into a stone, so would he
there abide with his eyes planted, and hands lifted, till at length
coming to the use of himself, he would look about whether any had
perceived him; then he would accuse, and in himself condemn all those
wits that durst affirm idleness to be the well-spring of love. “O,”
would he say, “all you that affect the title of wisdom by ungrateful
scorning the ornaments of nature, am I now piping in a shadow? Or do
slothful feathers now enwrap me? Is not hate before me, and doubt
behind me? Is not danger of the one side, and shame of the other? And
do I not stand upon pain and travail, and yet over all, my affection
triumphs? The more I stir about urgent affairs, the more methinks the
very stirring breeds a breath to blow the coals of my love: the more I
exercise my thoughts, the more they increase the appetite of my
desires. O sweet Philoclea (with that he would cast up his eyes,
wherein some water did appear, as if they would wash themselves
against they should see her) thy heavenly face is my astronomy; thy
sweet virtue, my sweet philosophy; let me profit therein, and farewell
all other cogitations. But alas! my mind misgives me, for your planets
bear a contrary aspect unto me. Woe, woe is me, they threaten my
destruction; and whom do they threaten this destruction? even him that
loves them; and by what means will they destroy, but by loving them? O
dear, though killing, eyes, shall death head his dart with the gold of
Cupid’s arrow? shall death take his aim from the rest of beauty? O
beloved, though hating, Philoclea, how, if thou be’st merciful, hath
cruelty stolen into thee? or how, if thou be’st cruel, doth cruelty
look more beautiful than ever mercy did? or alas! is it my destiny
that makes mercy cruel; like an evil vessel which turns sweet liquor
to sourness? so when thy grace falls upon me, my wretched constitution
makes it become fierceness.” Thus would he exercise his eloquence when
she could not hear him, and be dumb-stricken when her presence gave
him fit occasion of speaking: so that his wit could find out no other
refuge but the comfort and counsel of his mother, desiring her, whose
thoughts were unperplexed, to use for his sake the most prevailing
manners of intercession.


She seeing her son’s safety depend thereon, though her pride much
disdained the name of a desirer, took the charge upon her, not
doubting the easy conquest of an unexpert virgin, who had already with
subtlety and impudency begun to undermine a monarchy. Therefore
weighing Philoclea’s resolutions by the counterpoise of her own
youthful thoughts, which she then called to mind, she doubted not at
least to make Philoclea to receive the poison distilled in sweet
liquor which she with little disguising had drank up thirstily.
Therefore she went softly to Philoclea’s chamber, and peeping through
the side of the door, then being a little open, she saw Philoclea
sitting low upon a cushion in such a given-over manner, that one would
have thought silence, solitariness, and melancholy were come there
under the ensign of mishap, to conquer delight, and drive him from his
natural seat of beauty: her tears came dropping down like rain in
sunshine, and she not taking heed to wipe the tears, they hung upon
her cheeks and lips as upon cherries which the dropping tree bedeweth.
In the dressing of her hair and apparel, she might see neither a
careful art, nor an art of carelessness, but even left to a neglected
chance, which yet could no more unperfect her perfections than a die
any way cast could lose its squareness.

Cecropia, stirred with no other pity but for her son, came in, and
hailing kindness into her countenance, “What ails this sweet lady,”
said she, “will you mar so good eyes with weeping? shall tears take
away the beauty of that complexion which the women of Arcadia wish
for, and the men long after? Fie of this peevish sadness; insooth it
is untimely for your age. Look upon your own body and see whether it
deserve to pine away with sorrow: see whether you will have these
hands (with that she took one of her hands, and kissing it, looked
upon it as if she were enamoured with it) fade from their whiteness
which makes one desire to touch them; and their softness, which
rebounds again a desire to look on them, and become dry, lean and
yellow, and make everybody wonder at the change, and say, that sure
you had used some art before, which now you had left; for if the
beauties had been natural, they would never so soon have been
blemished. Take a glass, and see whether those tears become your eyes:
although I must confess, those eyes are able to make tears comely.”
“Alas! madam,” answered Philoclea, “I know not whether my tears become
my eyes, but I am sure my eyes thus beteared, become my fortune.”
“Your fortune,” said Cecropia, “if she could see to attire herself,
she would put on her best raiments. For I see, and I see it with
grief, and (to tell you true) unkindness, you misconstrue everything
that only for your sake is attempted. You think you are offended, and
are, indeed, defended: you esteem yourself a {318} prisoner, and are,
in truth, a mistress; you fear hate, and shall find love. And truly, I
had a thing to say unto you, but it is no matter since I find you are
so obstinately melancholy as that you woo his fellowship, I will spare
my pains, and hold my peace:” and so stayed indeed, thinking Philoclea
would have had a female inquisitiveness of the matter. But she, who
rather wished to unknow what she knew than to burden her heart with
more hopeless knowledge, only desired her to have pity of her, and if,
indeed, she did mean her no hurt, then to grant her liberty; for else
the very grief and fear would prove her unappointed executioners.

“For that,” said Cecropia, “believe me upon the faith of a king’s
daughter, you shall be free, so soon as your freedom may be free of
mortal danger, being brought hither for no other cause, but to prevent
such mischiefs as you know not of. But if you think, indeed, to win me
to have care of you, even as of mine own daughter, then lend your ears
unto me, and let not your mind arm itself with a wilfulness to be
flexible to nothing. But if I speak reason, let reason have his due
reward, persuasion. Then sweet niece,” said she, “I pray you
pre-suppose, that now, even in the midst of your agonies, which you
paint unto yourself most horrible, wishing with sighs, and praying
with vows, for a soon and safe delivery: imagine niece (I say) that
some heavenly spirit should appear unto you, and bid you follow him
through the door that goes into the garden, assuring you that you
should thereby return to your dear mother, and what other delights
soever your mind esteems delights, would you (sweet niece) would you
refuse to follow him, and say that if he led you not through the chief
gate, you would not enjoy your over-desired liberty? Would you not
drink the wine you thirst for, without it were in such a glass as you
especially fancied? Tell me (dear niece) but I will answer for you,
because I know your reason and wit is such, as must needs conclude
that such niceness can no more be in you, to disgrace such a mind,
than disgracefulness can have any place in so faultless a beauty. Your
wisdom would assuredly determine how the mark were hit, not whether
the bow were of yew or no, wherein you shot. If this be so, and thus
sure (my dear niece) it is, then, I pray you, imagine that I am that
same good angel, who grieving in your grief, and, in truth, not able
to suffer that bitter sighs should be sent forth with so sweet a
breath, am come to lead you, not only to your desired and imagined
happiness, but to a true and essential happiness; not only to liberty,
but to liberty with commandment. The way I will show you; which if it
be not the gate builded hitherto in your private choice, yet shall it
be a door to bring you through a garden of pleasures, as sweet as this
life can bring forth; nay rather, which {319} makes this life to be a
life: My son (let it be no blemish to him that I name him my son, who
was your father’s own nephew; for you know I am no small king’s
daughter) my son, I say, far passing the nearness of his kindred with
nearness of goodwill, and striving to match your matchless beauty with
a matchless affection, doth by me present unto you the full enjoying
of your liberty, so that with this gift you will accept a greater,
which is, this castle, with all the rest which you know he hath in
honourable quantity, and will confirm his gift, and your receipt of
both, with accepting him to be yours. I might say much both for the
person and matter; but who will cry out the sun shines? It is so
manifest a profit unto you, as the meanest judgment must straight
apprehend it; so far it is from the sharpness of yours, thereof to be
ignorant. Therefore (sweet niece!) let your gratefulness be my
intercession and your gentleness my eloquence, and let me carry
comfort to a heart which greatly needs it.”

Philoclea looked upon her, and cast down her eye again: “Aunt,” said
she, “I would I could be so much a mistress of my own mind as to yield
to my cousin’s virtuous request; for so I construe of it. But my heart
is already set” (and staying a while on that word, she brought forth
afterwards) “to lead a virgin’s life to my death; for such a vow I
have in myself devoutly made.” “The heavens prevent such a mischief,”
said Cecropia. “A vow, quoth you? No, no, my dear niece, nature, when
you were first born, vowed you a woman, and as she made you child of a
mother, so to do your best to be mother of a child: She gave you
beauty to move love; she gave you wit to know love; she gave you an
excellent body to reward love; which kind of liberal rewarding is
crowned with an unspeakable felicity. For this, as it bindeth the
receiver, so it makes happy the bestower. This doth not impoverish,
but enrich the giver. O the sweet name of a mother! O the comfort of
comforts to see your children grow up, in whom you are, as it were,
eternized! if you could conceive what a heart-tickling joy it is to
see your own little ones with awful love come running to your lap, and
like little models of yourself still carry you about them, you would
think unkindness in your own thoughts, that ever they did rebel
against the mean unto it. But perchance I set this blessedness before
your eyes, as captains do victory before their soldiers, to which they
must come through many pains, griefs and dangers: No, I am content you
shrink from this my counsel, if the way to come unto it be not most of
all pleasant.” “I know not” (answered the sweet Philoclea, fearing
lest silence would offend for sullenness) “what contentment you speak
of; but I am sure the best you can make of it (which is marriage) is a
burdenous yoke.” “Ah, dear niece,” said Cecropia, “how much you are
{320} deceived: A yoke, indeed, we all bear, laid upon us in our
creation, which by marriage is not increased; but thus far eased that
you have a yoke-fellow to help to draw through the cloddy cumbers of
this world. O widow-nights, bear witness with me of the difference!
How often, alas! do I embrace the orphan-side of my bed which was wont
to be imprinted by the body of my dear husband, and with tears
acknowledge that I now enjoy such a liberty as the banished man hath;
who may, if he list, wander over the world, but is for ever restrained
from his most delightful home? That I have now such a liberty as the
seeled dove hath, which, being first deprived of eyes, is then by the
falconer cast off: For believe me, niece, believe me, man’s experience
is woman’s best eye-sight. Have you ever seen a pure rose-water kept
in a crystal glass? How fine it looks, how sweet it smells while that
beautiful glass imprisons it? Break the prison; and let the water take
its own course, doth it not embrace dust, and lose all its former
sweetness and fairness? Truly so are we, if we have not the stay,
rather than the restraint of crystalline marriage. My heart melts to
think of the sweet comforts I, in that happy time, received, when I
had never cause to care, but the care was doubled: When I never
rejoiced, but that I saw my joy shine in another’s eyes. What shall I
say of the free delight which the heart might embrace without the
accusing of the inward conscience, or fear of outward shame? And is a
solitary life as good as this? Then can one string make as good music
as a consort: then can one colour set forth a beauty. But it may be,
the general consideration of marriage doth not so much mislike you, as
the applying of it to him. He is my son, I must confess I see him with
a mother’s eyes, which if they do not much deceive me, he is no such
one, over whom contempt may make a just challenge. He is comely, he is
noble, he is rich; but that which in itself should carry all
comeliness, nobility and riches, he loves you; and he loves you who is
beloved of others. Drive not away his affection (sweet lady) and make
no other lady hereafter proudly brag that she hath robbed you of so
faithful and notable a service.”

Philoclea heard some pieces of her speeches, not otherwise than one
doth when a tedious prattler cumbers the hearing of a delightful
music. For her thoughts had left her ears in that captivity, and
conveyed themselves to behold (with such eyes as imagination could
lend them) the estate of her Zelmane: for whom how well she thought
many of those sayings might have been used with a far more grateful
acceptation. Therefore listening not to dispute in a matter, whereof
herself was resolved, and desired not to inform the other; she only
told her that whilst she was so captivated she could not conceive of
any such {321} persuasions (though never so reasonable) any otherwise
than as constraints: and as constraints must needs even in nature
abhor them, which at her liberty, in their own force of reason, might
more prevail with her; and so fain would have returned the strength of
Cecropia’s persuasions, to have procured freedom.

But neither her witty words in an enemy, nor those words, made more
than eloquent with passing through such lips, could prevail in
Cecropia, more than her persuasions could win Philoclea to disavow her
former vow, or to leave the prisoner Zelmane, for the commanding
Amphialus. So that both sides being desirers, and neither granters,
they broke off conference; Cecropia sucking up more and more spite out
of her denial, which yet for her son’s sake she disguised with a
vizard of kindness, leaving no office unperformed which might either
witness, or endear her son’s affection. Whatsoever could be imagined
likely to please her was with liberal diligence performed: musics at
her window, and especially such musics as might (with doleful
embassage) call the mind to think of sorrow, and think of it with
sweetness; with ditties so sensibly expressing Amphialus’s case, that
every word seemed to be but a diversifying of the name of Amphialus.
Daily presents, as it were oblations to pacify an angry deity, sent
unto her; wherein, if the workmanship of the form had striven with the
sumptuousness of the matter, as much did the invention, in the
application, contend to have the chief excellency: for they were as so
many stories of his disgraces, and her perfections; where the richness
did invite the eyes, the fashion did entertain the eyes, and the
device did teach the eyes, the present misery of the presenter himself
awfully serviceable; which was the more notable, as his authority was
manifest. And for the bondage wherein she lived, all means used to
make known that if it were a bondage, it was a bondage only knit in
love-knots: but she in heart already understanding no language but
one, the music wrought, indeed, a dolefulness, but it was a
dolefulness to be in his power: the ditty intended for Amphialus, she
translated to Zelmane: the presents seemed so many tedious clogs of a
thralled obligation: and his service, the more diligent it was, the
more it did exprobrate, as she thought, unto her, her unworthy estate:
that even he that did her service, had authority of commanding her,
only construing her servitude in his own nature, esteeming it a right,
and a right better servitude: so that all their shots, how well soever
levelled, being carried awry from the mark by the storm of her
mislike, the prince Amphialus affectionately languished, and Cecropia
spitefully cunning, disdained at the barrenness of their success.

Which willingly Cecropia would have revenged, but that she saw her
hurt could not be divided from her son’s mischief: {322} wherefore she
bethought herself to attempt Pamela, whose beauty being equal, she
hoped if she might be won, that her son’s thoughts would rather rest
on a beautiful gratefulness than still be tormented with a disdaining
beauty. Therefore giving new courage to her wicked inventions, and
using the more industry, because she had missed in this, and taking
even precepts of prevailing in Pamela, by her failing in Philoclea,
she went to her chamber, and (according to her own ungracious method
of subtle proceeding) stood listening at the door, because that out of
the circumstance of her present behaviour, there might kindly arise a
fit beginning of her intended discourse.

And so she might perceive that Pamela did walk up and down, full of
deep, though patient thoughts. For her look and countenance was
settled, her pace soft, and almost still of one measure, without any
passionate gesture, or violent motion: till at length, as it were
awaking, and strengthening herself; “Well,” said she, “yet this is the
best, and of this I am sure, that howsoever they wrong me, they cannot
over-master God: no darkness blinds his eyes, no jail bars Him out. To
whom then else should I fly, but to Him for succour?” and therewith
kneeling down even where she stood, she thus said.

“O all-seeing light, and eternal life of all things, to whom nothing
is either so great that it may resist, or so small that it is
contemned: look upon my misery with Thine eye of mercy, and let Thine
infinite power vouchsafe to limit out some proportion of deliverance
unto me, as to Thee shall seem most convenient. Let not injury, O
Lord, triumph over me, and let my faults by Thy hand be corrected, and
make not mine unjust enemy the minister of Thy justice. But yet, my
God, if in Thy wisdom, this be the aptest chastisement for my
unexcusable folly, if this low bondage be fittest for my over-high
desires; if the pride of my not enough humble heart, be thus to be
broken, O Lord, I yield unto Thy will, and joyfully embrace what
sorrow Thou wilt have me suffer. Only thus much let me crave of Thee,
let my craving, O Lord, be accepted of Thee (since even that proceeds
from Thee) let me crave, even by the noblest title, which in my
greatest affliction I may give myself, that I am Thy creature, and by
Thy goodness, which is Thyself, that Thou wilt suffer some beam of Thy
majesty so to shine into my mind, that it may still depend confidently
upon Thee. Let calamity be the exercise, but not the overthrow of my
virtue: let their power prevail, but prevail not to destruction: let
my greatness be their prey: let my pain be the sweetness of their
revenge: let them (if so it seem good unto Thee) vex me with more and
more punishment. But, O Lord, let never their wickedness have such a
hand, but that I may carry {323} a pure mind in a pure body!” and
pausing awhile, “And, O most gracious Lord,” said she, “whatever
becomes of me, preserve the virtuous Musidorus.”

The other part Cecropia might well hear; but this latter prayer for
Musidorus, her heart held it, as so jewel-like a treasure that it
would scarce trust her own lips withal. But this prayer sent to heaven
from so heavenly a creature, with such a fervent grace as if devotion
had borrowed her body to make of itself a most beautiful
representation; with her eyes so lifted to the skyward that one would
have thought they had begun to fly thitherward to take their place
among their fellow stars; her naked hands raising up their whole
length, and as it were, kissing one another, as if the right had been
the picture of zeal, and the left of humbleness, which both united
themselves to make their suits more acceptable. Lastly, all her senses
being rather tokens than instruments of her inward motions, altogether
had so strange a working power, that even the hard-hearted wickedness
of Cecropia, if it found not a love of that goodness, yet it felt an
abashment at that goodness, and if she had not a kindly remorse, yet
had she an irksome accusation of her own naughtiness; so that she was
put from the bias of her fore-intended lesson. For well she found
there was no way at that time to take that mind but with some, at
least, image of virtue; and what the figure thereof was, her heart
knew not.

Yet did she prodigally spend her uttermost eloquence, leaving no
argument unprovided which might with any force invade her excellent
judgment; the justness of the request being but for marriage; the
worthiness of the suitor: then her own present fortune: fortune, which
should not only have amendment, but felicity: besides falsely making
her believe that her sister would think herself happy if now she might
have his love, which before she contemned: and obliquely touching,
what danger it should be for her if her son should accept Philoclea in
marriage, and so match the next heir apparent, she being in his power:
yet plentifully perjuring how extremely her son loved her, and
excusing the little shows he made of it, with the dutiful respect he
bare unto her; and taking upon herself that she restrained him, since
she found she could set no limits to his passions. And as she did to
Philoclea, so did she to her, with the tribute of gifts seek to bring
her mind into servitude: and all other means, that might either
establish a beholdingness, or at least awake a kindness; doing it so,
that by reason of their imprisonment, one sister knew not how the
other was wooed but each might think that only she was sought. But if
Philoclea with sweet and humble dealing did avoid their assaults, she
with the majesty of virtue did beat them off.


But this day their speech was the sooner broken off, by reason that he
who stood as watch upon the top of the Keep[b3-03] did not only see a
great dust rise (which the earth sent up as if it would strive to have
clouds as well as the air) but might spy sometimes, especially when
the dust (wherein the naked wind did apparel itself) was carried aside
from them, the shining of armour; like flashing of lightning,
wherewith the clouds did seem to be with child, which the sun gilding
with his beams it gave a sight delightful to any but to them that were
to abide the terror. But the watch gave a quick alarm to the soldiers
within whom practice already having prepared, began each, with
unabashed hearts, or at least countenances, to look to their charge,
or obedience which was allotted unto them.

Only Clinias and Amphialus did exceed the bounds of mediocrity, the
one in his natural coldness of cowardice, the other in heat of
courage. For Clinias (who was bold only in busy whisperings, and even
in that whisperingness rather, indeed, confident in his cunning that
it should not be betrayed than any way bold, if ever it should be
betrayed) now that the enemy gave a dreadful aspect unto the castle,
his eyes saw no terror, nor ear heard any martial sound but that they
multiplied the hideousness of it to his matted mind. Before their
coming he had many times felt a dreadful expectation, but yet his mind
(that was willing to ease itself of the burden of fear) did sometimes
fain unto itself possibility of let, as the death of Basilius, the
discord of the nobility, and, when other cause failed him, the nature
of chance served as a cause unto him, and sometimes the hearing other
men speak valiantly, and the quietness of his unassailed senses would
make himself believe that he durst do something. But now, that present
danger did display itself unto his eye, and that a dangerous doing
must be the only mean to prevent the danger of suffering, one that had
marked him would have judged that his eyes would have run into him,
and his soul out of him, so unkindly did either take a scent of
danger. He thought the lake was too shallow, and the walls too thin:
he misdoubted each man’s treason, and conjectured every possibility of
misfortune, not only forecasting likely perils, but such as all the
planets together could scarcely have conspired: and already began to
arm himself, though it was determined he should tarry within doors;
and while he armed himself, imagined in what part of the vault he
would hide himself if the enemies won the castle. Desirous he was that
everybody should do valiantly but himself; and therefore was afraid to
show his fear, but for very fear would have hid his fear, lest it
should discomfort others: but the more he sought {325} to disguise it,
the more the unsuitableness of a weak broken voice to high brave
words, and of a pale shaking countenance, to a gesture of animating,
did discover him.

But quite contrarily Amphialus, who, before the enemies came, was
careful, providently diligent, and not sometimes without doubting of
the issue, now the nearer danger approached (like the light of a
glow-worm) the less still it seemed: and now his courage began to boil
in choler, and with such impatience to desire to pour out both upon
the enemy, that he issued presently into certain boats he had of
purpose, and carrying with him some choice men, went to the fortress
he had upon the edge of the lake, which he thought would be the first
thing that the enemy would attempt, because it was a passage, which
commanding all that side of the country, and being lost, would stop
victuals, or other supply that might be brought into the castle: and
in that fortress having some force of horsemen, he issued out with two
hundred horse and five hundred footmen; ambushed his footmen in the
falling of a hill, which was over-shadowed with a wood; he with his
horsemen went a quarter of a mile further; aside hand of which he
might perceive the many troops of the enemy who came but to take view
where best to encamp themselves.

But as if the sight of the enemy had been a magnet-stone to his
courage, he could not contain himself, but showing his face to the
enemy, and his back to his soldiers, used that action as his only
oration, both of denouncing war to the one, and persuading help from
the other. Who faithfully following an example of such authority, they
made the earth to groan under their furious burden, and the enemies to
begin to be angry with them, whom in particular they knew not. Among
whom there was a young man, youngest brother to Philanax, whose face
as yet did not betray his sex with so much as show of hair; of a mind
having no limits of hope, not knowing why to fear; full of jollity in
conversation, and lately grown a lover. His name was Agenor, of all
that army the most beautiful: who having ridden in sportful
conversation among the foremost, all armed, saving that his beaver was
up, to have his breath in more freedom, seeing Amphialus come a pretty
way before his company, neither staying the commandment of the
captain, nor reckoning whether his face were armed, or no, set spurs
to his horse, and with youthful bravery casting his staff about his
head, put it then into his rest, as careful of comely carrying it as
if the mark had been but a ring, and the lookers-on ladies. But
Amphialus’s lance was already come to the last of his descending line,
and began to make the full point of death against the head of this
young gentleman; when Amphialus perceiving his youth and beauty,
compassion so rebated the edge of choler that he spared {326} that
fair nakedness, and let his staff fall to Agenor’s vampalt[b3-04]: so
that both with brave breaking should hurtlessly have performed that
match, but that the pitiless lance of Amphialus (angry with being
broken) with an unlucky counterbuff, full of unsparing splinters,
lighted upon that face, far fitter for the combats of Venus, giving
not only a sudden, but a foul death, leaving scarcely any tokens of
his former beauty; but his hands abandoning the reins, and his thighs
the saddle, he fell sideward from the horse. Which sight coming to
Leontius, a dear friend of his, who in vain had lamentably cried unto
him to stay when he saw him begin his career; it was hard to say
whether the pity of the one, or revenge against the other held as then
the sovereignty in his passions. But while he directed his eye to his
friend, and his hand to his enemy, so wrongly consorted a power could
not resist the ready minded force of Amphialus, who perceiving his
ill-directed direction against him, so paid him his debt before it was
lent, that he also fell to the earth, only happy that one place and
one time did finish both their loves and lives together.

But by this time there had been a furious meeting of either side:
whether after the terrible salutation of warlike noise, the shaking of
hands was with sharp weapons: some lances according to the metal they
met and skill of the guider, did stain themselves in blood; some flew
up in pieces, as if they would threaten heaven because they failed on
earth. But their office was quickly inherited, either by (the prince
of weapons) the sword, or by some heavy mace, or biting axe; which
hunting still the weakest chase, sought ever to light there where
smallest resistance might worse prevent mischief. The clashing of
armour, the crushing of staves, the jostling of bodies, the resounding
of blows, was the first part of that ill-agreeing music which was
beautified with the grisliness of wounds, the rising of dust, the
hideous falls and groans of the dying. The very horses angry in their
master’s anger, with love and obedience, brought forth the effects of
hate and resistance, and with minds of servitude did as if they
affected glory. Some lay dead under their dead masters, whom
unknightly wounds had unjustly punished for a faithful duty. Some lay
upon their lords by like accident, and in death had the honour to be
borne by them, whom in life they had borne. Some, having lost their
commanding burdens, ran scattered about the field, abashed with the
madness of mankind. The earth itself (wont to be a burial of men) was
now, as it were, buried with men, so was the face thereof hidden with
dead bodies, to whom death had come masked in divers manners. In one
place lay disinherited heads, dispossessed of their natural
seignories; in another whole bodies to see to, but that their hearts
{327} wont to be bound all over so close, were now with deadly
violence opened: in others, fouler deaths had uglily displayed their
trailing guts. There lay arms, whose fingers yet moved, as if they
would feel for him that made them feel: and legs, which contrary to
common reason, by being discharged of their burden, were grown
heavier. But no sword payed so large a tribute of souls to the eternal
kingdom as that of Amphialus; who like a tiger, from whom a company of
wolves did seek to ravish a new gotten prey, so he (remembering they
came to take away Philoclea) did labour to make valour, strength,
choler and hatred, to answer the proportion of his love which was

There died of his hand the old knight Eschylus, who though by years
might well have been allowed to use rather the exercises of wisdom
than of courage, yet having a lusty body and a merry heart, he ever
took the summons of time in jest, or else it had so creepingly stolen
upon him that he had heard scarcely the noise of his feet, and
therefore was as fresh in apparel, and as forward in enterprises, as a
far younger man: but nothing made him bolder than a certain prophecy
had been told him that he should die in the arms of his son, and
therefore feared the less the arm of an enemy. But now when
Amphialus’s sword was passed through his throat, he thought himself
abused, but that before he died, his son indeed seeing his father
begin to fall, held him up in his arms, till a pitiless soldier of the
other side, with a mace brained him, making father and son become
twins in the never again dying birth. As for Drialus, Memnon, Nisus
and Polycrates, the first had his eyes cut out so that he could not
see to bid the near following death welcome; the second had met with
the same prophet that old Eschylus had; and having found many of his
speeches true, believed this too, that he should never be killed but
by his own companions; and therefore no man was more valiant than he
against an enemy, no man more suspicious of his friends: so as he
seemed to sleep in security, when he went to a battle, and to enter
into a battle, when he began to sleep, such guards he would set about
his person, yet mistrusting those very guards, lest they would murder
him. But now Amphialus helped to unriddle his doubts; for he
overthrowing him from his horse, his own companions coming with a
fresh supply, pressed him to death. Nisus grasping with Amphialus, was
with a short dagger slain. And for Polycrates, while he shunned as
much as he could, keeping only his face for fear of punishment,
Amphialus with a memorable blow struck off his head; where, with the
convulsions of death, setting his spurs to his horse, he gave so brave
a charge upon the enemy, as it grew a proverb, that Polycrates was
only valiant after his head was off. But no man {328} escaped so well
his hands as Phebilus did: for he having long loved Philoclea, though
for the meanness of his estate he never durst reveal it, now knowing
Amphialus, setting the edge of a rival upon the sword of an enemy, he
held strong fight with him. But Amphialus had already in the most
dangerous places disarmed him, and was lifting up his sword to send
him away from himself; when he thinking indeed to die, “O Philoclea,”
said he, “yet this joys me that I die for thy sake.” The name of
Philoclea first stayed his sword, and he heard him out, though he
abhorred him much worse than before, yet could he not vouchsafe him
the honour of dying for Philoclea, but turned his sword another way,
doing him no hurt for over-much hatred. But what good did that to poor
Phebilus, if escaping a valiant hand, he was slain by a base soldier,
who seeing him so disarmed, thrust him through?

But thus with the well-followed valour of Amphialus were the others
almost overthrown, when Philanax, who was the marshal of the army,
came in with new force renewing the almost decayed courage of his
soldiers. For crying to them, and asking them whether their backs or
their arms were better fighters, he himself thrust just into the
press, and making force and fury wait upon discretion and government,
he might seem a brave lion, who taught his young lionets, how in
taking a prey, to join courage with cunning. Then fortune, as if she
had made chases enough of the one side of the bloody tennis-court,
went of the other side the line, making as many fall down of
Amphialus’s followers as before had done of Philanax, they losing the
ground, as fast as before they had won it, only leaving them to keep
it, who had lost themselves in keeping it. Then those that had killed,
inherited the lot of those that had been killed; and cruel death made
them lie quietly together, who most in their lives had sought to
disquiet each other; and many of those first overthrown, had the
comfort to see their murderers over-run them to Charon’s ferry.

Codrus, Ctesiphon, and Milo, lost their lives upon Philanax’s sword.
But nobody’s case was more pitied than of a young squire of Amphialus,
called Ismenus, who never abandoning his master, and making his tender
age aspire to acts of the strongest manhood, in this time that his
side was put to the worst, and that Amphialus’s valour was the only
stay of them from delivering themselves over to a most shameful
flight, he saw his master’s horse killed under him. Whereupon asking
advice of no other thought but of faithfulness and courage, he
presently alighted from his own horse, and with the help of some
choice and faithful servants, got his master up. But in the multitude
that came of either side, some {329} to succour, some to save
Amphialus, he came under the hand of Philanax: and the youth
perceiving he was the man that did most hurt to his party, desirous
even to change his life for glory, struck at him as he rode by him,
and gave him a hurt upon the leg that made Philanax turn towards him;
but seeing him so young, and of a most lovely presence, he rather took
pity of him, meaning to take him prisoner, and then to give him to his
brother Agenor to be his companion, because they were not much unlike,
neither in years, nor countenance. But as he looked down upon him with
that thought, he espied where his brother lay dead, and his friend
Leontius by him, even almost under the squire’s feet. Then sorrowing
not only his own sorrow, but the past-comfort sorrow which he foreknew
his mother would take, who with many tears and misgiving sighs had
suffered him to go with his elder brother Philanax, blotted out all
figures of pity out of his mind, and putting forth his horse, while
Ismenus doubled two or three more valiant than well-set blows, saying
to himself, let other mothers bewail an untimely death as well as
mine, he thrust him through. And the boy fierce, though beautiful, and
beautiful though dying, not able to keep his falling feet, fell down
to the earth, which he bit for anger, repining at his fortune, and as
long as he could resisting death, which might seem unwilling too, so
long as he was in taking away his young struggling soul.

Philanax himself could have wished the blow ungiven, when he saw him
fall like a fair apple, which some uncourteous body, breaking his
bough, should throw down before it were ripe. But the case of his
brother made him forget both, that, and himself: so as over-hastily
pressing upon the retiring enemies, he was (ere he was aware) further
engaged than his own soldiers could relieve him; where being
overthrown by Amphialus, Amphialus, glad of him, kept head against his
enemies, while some of his men carried away Philanax.

But Philanax’s men, as if with the loss of Philanax they had lost the
fountain of their valour, had their courage so dried up in fear that
they began to set honour at their backs, and to use the virtue of
patience in an untimely time, when into the press comes, as hard as
his horse, more afraid of the spur than the sword, could carry him, a
knight in armour as black as darkness could make it, followed by none,
and adorned by nothing; so far without authority that he was without
knowledge. But virtue quickly made him known, and admiration bred him
such authority that though they of whose side he came knew him not,
yet they all knew it was fit to obey him; and while he was followed by
the valiantest, he made way for the vilest. For taking part with he
besiegers, he made the Amphialians’ blood serve for a caparison {330}
to his horse, and a decking to his armour. His arm no oftener gave
blows, than the blows gave wounds, than the wounds gave deaths, so
terrible was his force, and yet was his quickness more forcible than
his force, and his judgment more quick than his quickness. For though
his sword went faster than eyesight could follow it yet his own
judgment went still before it. There died of his hand, Sarpedon,
Plistonax, Strophilus, and Hippolitus, men of great proof in wars, and
who had that day undertaken the guard of Amphialus. But while they
sought to save him, they lost the fortresses that nature had placed
them in. Then slew he Megalus, who was a little before proud to see
himself stained in the blood of his enemies, but when his own blood
came to be married to theirs, he then felt that cruelty doth never
enjoy a good cheap glory. After him sent he Palemon, who had that day
vowed, with foolish bravery, to be the death of ten; and nine already
he had killed, and was careful to perform his, almost performed, vow,
when the black knight helped him to make up the tenth himself.

And now the often-changing fortune began also to change the hue of the
battles. For at the first, though it were terrible, yet terror was
decked so bravely with rich furniture, gilt swords, shining armours,
pleasant pensils, that the eye with delight had scarce leisure to be
afraid: but now all universally defiled with dust, blood, broken
armour, mangled bodies, took away the mask, and set forth horror in
his own horrible manner. But neither could danger be dreadful to
Amphialus his undismayable courage, nor yet seem ugly to him, whose
truly affected mind did still paint it over with the beauty of
Philoclea: and therefore he, rather inflamed than troubled with the
increase of dangers, and glad to find a worthy subject to exercise his
courage, sought out this new knight, whom he might easily find: for
he, like a wanton rich man that throws down his neighbour’s house to
make himself the better prospect, so had his sword made him so
spacious a room that Amphialus had more cause to wonder at the
finding, than labour for the seeking: which if it stirred hate in him
to see how much harm he did to the one side, it provoked as much
emulation in him to perceive how much good he did to the other side.
Therefore, they approaching one to the other, as in two beautiful
folks, love naturally stirs a desire of joining, so in their two
courages hate stirred a desire of trial. Then began there a combat
between them, worthy to have had more large lists, and more quiet
beholders: for with the spur of courage, and the bit of respect, each
so guided himself, that one might well see the desire to overcome made
them not forget how to overcome: in such time and proportion they did
employ their blows, that none of Ceres’s servants could more {331}
cunningly place his flail: while the left foot spur set forward his
own horse, the right set backward the contrary horse, even sometimes
by the advantage of the enemy’s leg, while the left hand, like him
that held the stern, guided the horse’s obedient courage. All done in
such order that it might seem the mind was a right prince indeed, who
sent wise and diligent lieutenants into each of those well-governed
parts. But the more they fought, the more they desired to fight; and
the more they smarted, the less they felt the smart: and now were like
to make a quick proof to whom fortune and valour would seem most
friendly, when, in comes an old governor of Amphialus, always a good
knight, and careful of his charge; who giving a sore wound to the
black knight’s thigh, while he thought not of him, with another blow
slew his horse under him. Amphialus cried to him that he dishonoured
him: “You say well,” answered the old knight, “to stand now like a
private soldier, setting your credit upon particular fighting, while
you may see Basilius with all his host is getting between you and your
town.” He looked that way, and found that true indeed, that the enemy
was beginning to encompass him about and stop his return: and
therefore causing the retreat to be sounded, his governor led his men
homeward, while he kept himself still hindmost, as if he had stood at
the gate of a sluice to let the stream go, with such proportion as
should seem good unto him, and with so manful discretion performed it,
that (though with loss of many of his men) he returned himself safe,
and content, that his enemies had felt how sharp the sword could bite
of Philoclea’s lover. The other party being sorry for the loss of
Philanax, was yet sorrier when the black knight could not be found:
for he having gotten a horse, whom his dying master had bequeathed to
the world, finding himself sore hurt, and not desirous to be known,
had in the time of the enemy’s retiring, retired away also; his thigh
not bleeding blood so fast, as his heart bled revenge. But Basilius
having attempted in vain to bar the safe return of Amphialus, encamped
himself as strongly as he could, while he, to his grief, might hear
the joy that was made in town by his own subjects, that he had that
day sped no better. For Amphialus, being well beloved of that people,
when they saw him not vanquished, they esteemed him as victorious, his
youth setting a flourishing show upon his worthiness and his great
nobility ennobling his dangers.

But the first thing Amphialus did, being returned, was to visit
Philoclea, and first presuming to cause his dream to be sung unto her,
which he had seen the night before he fell in love with her, making a
fine boy he had accord the pretty dolefulness unto it.


The song was this.

 Now was our heavenly vault deprived of the light,
 With sun’s depart: and now the darkness of the night,
 Did light those beamy stars which greater light did dark:
 Now each thing that enjoy’d that fiery quick’ning spark
 (Which life is call’d) were mov’d their spirits to repose,
 And wanting use of eyes, their eyes began to close;
 A silence sweet each where with one consent embrac’d
 (A music sweet to one in careful musing plac’d)
 And mother earth, now clad in mourning weeds, did breathe
 A dull desire to kiss the image of our death:
 When I, disgraced wretch, not wretched then did give
 My senses such relief, as they which quiet live,
 Whose brains boil not in woes, nor breasts with beatings ache,
 With nature’s praise are wont in safest home to take.
 Far from my thoughts was aught, where to their minds aspire
 Who under courtly pomps do hatch a base desire.
 Free all my powers were from those captivating snares,
 Which heav’nly purest gifts defile with muddy cares.
 Nay could my soul itself accuse of such a fault,
 As tender conscience might with furious pangs assault.
 But like the feeble flower, whose stalk cannot sustain
 His weighty top, his top downward doth drooping lean:
 Or as the silly bird in well-acquainted nest
 Doth hide his head with cares, but only to rest:
 So I in simple course, and unentangled mind,
 Did suffer drowsy lids mine eyes, then clear, to blind;
 And laying down mine head, did nature’s rule observe,
 They first their youth forgot, then fancies lost their force;
 Till deadly sleep at length possess’d my living corpse.
 A living corpse I lay: but ah my wakeful mind
 (Which made of heav’nly stuff, no mortal change doth blind)
 Flew up with freer wings of fleshly bondage free;
 And having plac’d my thoughts, my thoughts thus placed me.
 Methought, nay sure I was, I was in fairest wood,
 Of Samothea land, a land which whilom stood
 An honour to the world, while honour was their end,
 And while their line of years they did in virtue spend.
 But there I was, and there my calmy thoughts I fed
 On nature’s sweet repast, as healthful senses led.
 Her gifts my study was, her beauty were my sport,
 My work her works to know, her dwelling my resort.
 Those lamps of heav’nly fire to fixed motion bound,
 The ever turning spheres, the never moving ground;
 What essence dest’ny hath, if fortune be or no;
 Whence our immortal souls to mortal earth do flow:
 What life it is, and how that all these lives do gather,
 With outward maker’s force, or like an inward father.
 Such thoughts, methought, I thought, and strain’d my single mind,
 Then void of nearer care, the depth of things to find,
 When lo with hugest noise, such noise a tower makes
 When it blown down with wind, a fall of ruin takes,
 Or, such a noise it was, as highest thunders send,
 Or cannons thunder-like, all shot together lend.
 The moon asunder rent, whereout with sudden fall
 (More swift than falcon’s stoop to feeding falconer’s call)
 There came a chariot fair, by doves and sparrows guided,
 Whose storm-like course stay’d not till hard by me it bided.
 I wretch astonished was, and thought the deathful doom,
 Of heaven, of earth, of hell, of time and place was come.
 But straight there issued forth two ladies, ladies sure
 They seemed to me, on whom did wait a virgin pure.
 Strange were the ladies’ weeds, yet more unfit than strange.
 The first with clothes tucked up, as nymphs in woods do range,
 Tucked up even with the knees with bow and arrows pressed:
 Her right arm naked was, discovered was her breast.
 But heavy was her pace, and such a meagre cheer,
 As little hunting mind, God knows, did there appear.
 The other had with art, more than our women know,
 As stuff meant for the sale, set out to glaring show,
 A wanton woman’s face, and with curl’d knots had twin’d
 Her hair, which by the help of painter’s cunning shin’d,
 When I such guests did see come out of such a house,
 The mountains great with child, I thought brought forth a mouse,
 But walking forth, the first thus to the second said,
 “Venus come on.” Said she, “Diana you are obey’d.”
 Those names abash’d me much, when those great names I heard:
 Although their fame (meseem’d) from truth had greatly jarr’d.
 As I thus musing stood, Diana call’d to her
 The waiting nymph, a nymph that did excel as far
 All things that erst I saw, as orient pearls exceed
 That which their mother hight, or else their silly seed,
 Indeed a perfect hew, indeed a sweet consent,
 Of all those graces’ gifts the heavens have ever lent.
 And so she was attir’d, as one that did not prize
 Too much her peerless parts, nor yet could them despise.
 But call’d, she came apace; apace, wherein did move
 The band of beauty’s all, the little world of love.
 And bending humbled eyes (O eyes the sun of sight)
 She waited mistress’s will; who thus disclos’d her spright;
 “Sweet Mira mine,” quoth she, “the pleasure of my mind,
 In whom of all my rules the perfect proof I find;
 To only thee, thou seest, we grant this special grace
 Us to attend, in this most private time and place.
 Be silent therefore now, and so be silent still
 Of that thou seest; close up in secret not thy will.”
 She answered was with look, and well-perform’d behest:
 And Mira I admir’d; her shape sunk in my breast.
 But thus with ireful eyes, and face that shook with spite
 Diana did begin, “What mov’d me to invite,
 Your presence, sister dear, first to my moony sphere,
 And hither now, vouchsafe to take with willing ear.
 I know full well you know, what discord long hath reign’d
 Betwixt us two; how much that discord foul hath stain’d
 Both our estates, while each the other did deprave,
 Proof speaks too much to us, that feeling trial have,
 Our names are quite forgot, our temples are defac’d;
 Our offerings spoil’d, our priests from priesthood are displac’d.
 Is this the fruit of strife? those thousand churches high,
 Those thousand altars fair now in the dust to lie?
 In mortal minds, our minds but planets’ names preserve;
 No knees once bowed, forsooth, for them they say we serve.
 Are we their servants grown? no doubt a noble stay:
 Celestial powers to worms, Jove’s children serve to clay.
 But such they say we be: this praise our discord bred,
 While we for mutual spite, a striving passion fed.
 But let us wiser be; and what foul discord brake,
 So much more strong again let fastest concord make,
 Our years do it require; you see we both do feel
 The weak’ning work of time’s for ever whirling wheel.
 Although we be divine, our grandsire Saturn is
 With age’s force decay’d, yet once the heaven was his.
 And now before we seek by wise Apollo’s skill,
 Our young years to renew, for so he saith he will,
 Let us a perfect peace between us two resolve;
 Which least the ruinous want of government dissolve,
 Let one the princess be, to her the other yield:
 For vain equality is but contention’s field.
 And let her have the gifts that should in both remain;
 In her let beauty both, and chasteness fully reign.
 So as if I prevail, you give your gifts to me,
 If you, on you I lay what in my office be.
 Now resteth only this, which of us two is she,
 To whom precedence shall of both accorded be,
 For that, so that you like, hereby doth lie a youth,”
 (She beckoned unto me) “as yet of spotless truth;
 Who may this doubt discern: for better wit, then lot,
 Becometh us: in us fortune determines not.
 This crown of amber fair,” (an amber crown she held)
 “To worthiest let him give, when both he hath beheld:
 And be it as he saith.” Venus was glad to hear
 Such proffer made, which she well show’d with smiling cheer,
 As though she were the same, as when by Paris’ doom
 She had chief goddesses in beauty overcome.
 And smirkly thus gan say, “I never sought debate,
 Diana dear, my mind to love and not to hate
 Was ever apt: but you my pastimes did despise.
 I never spited you, but thought you overwise.
 Now kindness proferr’d is, none kinder is than I;
 And so most ready am this mean of peace to try;
 And let him be our judge: the lad doth please me well.”
 Thus both did come to me, and both began to tell;
 For both together spoke, each loath to be behind,
 That they by solemn oath their deities would bind,
 To stand unto my will, their will they made me know
 I that was first aghast, when first I saw their show;
 Now bolder wax’d, wax’d proud, that I such sway must bear;
 For near acquaintance doth diminish reverent fear.
 And having bound them fast by Styx, they should obey
 To all what I decreed, did thus my verdict say.
 “How ill both you can rule, well hath your discord taught;
 Nay yet for ought I see, your beauties merit ought.
 To yonder Nymph therefore” (to Mira I did point)
 “The crown above you both for ever I appoint.”
 I would have spoken out; but out they both did cry;
 “Fie, fie, what have we done? ungodly rebel, fie.
 But now we needs must yield, to that our oaths require.”
 “Yet thou shalt not go free,” quoth Venus. “Such a fire
 Her beauty kindle shall within thy foolish mind,
 That thou full oft shall wish thy judging eyes were blind.”
 “Nay then,” Diana said, “the chasteness I will give,
 In ashes of despair, though burnt, shall make thee live.”
 “Nay thou,” said both, “shalt see such beams shine in her face,
 That thou shalt never dare seek help of wretched case.”
 And with that cursed curse away to heaven they fled,
 First having all their gifts upon fair Mira spread.
 The rest I cannot tell; for therewithal I wak’d,
 And found with deadly fear that all my sinews shak’d.
 Was it a dream? O dream, how hast thou wrought in me,
 That I things erst unseen should first in dreaming see?
 And thou, O traitor sleep, made for to be our rest;
 How hast thou fram’d the pain wherewith I am oppress’d?
 O coward Cupid, thus dost thou thy honour keep,
 Unarm’d, alas! unwarn’d to take a man asleep?

Laying not only the conquest, but the heart of the conqueror at her
feet. But she receiving him after her wonted sorrowful, but otherwise
unmoved, manner, it made him think his good success was but as a
pleasant monument of a doleful burial: Joy itself seeming bitter unto
him, since it agreed not to her taste.

Therefore, still craving his mother’s help to persuade her, he himself
sent for Philanax unto him, whom he had not only long {336} hated but
now had his hate greatly increased by the death of his squire Ismenus.
Besides, he had made him as one of the chief causes that moved him to
this rebellion, and therefore was inclined, to colour the better his
action, and the more to embrew the hands of his accomplices by making
them guilty of such a trespass, in some formal sort to cause him to be
executed, being also greatly egged thereunto by his mother, and some
other, who long had hated Philanax; only because he was more worthy
than they to be loved.

But while that deliberation was handled, according rather to the
humour, than the reason of each speaker; Philoclea coming to the
knowledge of the hard plight wherein Philanax stood, she desired one
of the gentlewomen appointed to wait upon her to go in her name and
beseech Amphialus, that, if the love of her had any power of
persuasion in his mind, he would lay no further punishment than
imprisonment upon Philanax. This message was delivered even as
Philanax was entering to the presence of Amphialus, coming, according
to the warning was given him, to receive judgment of death. But when
he, with manful resolution, attended the fruit of such a tyrannical
sentence, thinking it wrong, but no harm to him that should die in so
good a cause; Amphialus turned quite the form of his pretended speech,
and yielded him humble thanks that by his means he had come to that
happiness, as to receive a commandment of his lady: and therefore he
willingly gave him liberty to return in safety whither he would,
quitting him not only of all former grudge, but assuring him that he
would be willing to do him any friendship and service: only desiring
thus much of him, that he would let him know the discourse and intent
of Basilius’s proceeding.

“Truly, my Lord,” answered Philanax, “if there were any such, known to
me, secret in my master’s counsel, as that the revealing thereof,
might hinder his good success, I should loathe the keeping of my blood
with the loss of my faith, and would think the just name of a traitor
a hard purchase of a few years’ living. But since it is so, that my
master hath indeed no way of privy practice; but means openly and
forcibly to deal against you, I will not stick, in few words, to make
your required declaration.” Then told he him in what a maze of
amazement, both Basilius and Gynecia were when they missed their
children and Zelmane. Sometimes apt to suspect some practice of
Zelmane, because she was a stranger; sometimes doubting some relic of
the late mutiny, which doubt was rather increased than anywise
satisfied, by Miso, who, being found almost dead for hunger by certain
country people, brought home word with what cunning they were trained
out, and with what violence they were carried away. But that within a
few {337} days they came to knowledge where they were by Amphialus’s
own letters sent abroad to procure confederates in his attempts; that
Basilius’s purpose was never to leave the siege of the town till he
had taken it, and revenged the injury done unto him. That he meant
rather to win it by time and famine, than by force of assault; knowing
how valiant men he had to deal withal in the town: that he had sent
orders that supplies of soldiers, pioneers, and all things else
necessary, should daily be brought unto him: so as, “My Lord,” said
Philanax, “let me now, having received my life by your grace, let me
give you your life and honour by my counsel; protesting unto you, that
I cannot choose but love you, being my master’s nephew; and that I
wish you well in all causes but this. You know his nature is as apt to
forgive as his power is able to conquer. Your fault past is excusable,
in that love persuaded, and youth was persuaded. Do not urge the
effects of angry victory, but rather seek to obtain that constantly by
courtesy, which you can never assuredly enjoy by violence.”

One might easily have seen in the cheer of Amphialus that disdainful
choler would fain have made the answer for him, but the remembrance of
Philoclea served for forcible barriers between anger, and angry
effects: so as he said no more, but that he would not put him to the
trouble to give him any further counsel, but that he might return, if
he listed, presently. Philanax glad to receive an uncorrupted liberty,
humbly accepted his favourable convoy out of the town; and so
departed, not visiting the princesses, thinking it might be offensive
to Amphialus, and no way fruitful to them, who were no way, but by
force, to be rescued.

The poor ladies, indeed, not suffered either to meet together, or to
have conference with any other, but such as Cecropia had already
framed, to sing all their songs to her tune, she herself omitting no
day, and catching hold of every occasion to move forward her son’s
desire, and remove their own resolutions; using the same arguments to
the one sister, as to the other; determining that whom she could win
first, the other should, without her son’s knowledge, by poison be
made away. But though the reasons were the same to both, yet the
handling was diverse, according as she saw their humours to prepare a
more or less aptness of apprehension. This day having long speech to
Philoclea, amplifying not a little the great dutifulness her son had
shown in delivering Philanax; of whom she could get no answer, but a
silence sealed up in virtue, and so sweetly graced, as that in one
instant it carried with it both resistance and humbleness: Cecropia
threatening in herself to run a more rugged race with her, went to her
sister Pamela, who that day having wearied herself with reading, and
with the height of her heart disdaining to keep company with any {338}
of the gentlewomen appointed to attend her, whom she accounted her
jailors, was working upon a purse certain roses and lilies, as by the
fineness of the work, one might see she had borrowed her wits of the
sorrow that then owed them, and lent them wholly to that exercise. For
the flowers she had wrought carried such life in them that the
cunningest painter might have learned of her needle, which with so
pretty a manner made his careers to and fro through the cloth, as if
the needle itself would have been loth to have gone fromward such a
mistress but that it hoped to return thitherward very quickly again,
the cloth looking with many eyes upon her, and lovingly embracing the
wounds she gave it: the shears also were at hand to behead the silk
that was grown too short. And if at any time she put her mouth to bite
it off, it seemed, that where she had been long in making of a rose
with her hands, she would in an instant make roses with her lips; as
the lilies seemed to have their whiteness rather of the hand that made
them than of the matter whereof they were made, and that they grew
there by the suns of her eyes, and were refreshed by the most, in
discomfort, comfortable air, which an unawares sigh might bestow upon
them. But the colours for the ground were so well chosen, neither
sullenly dark, nor glaringly lightsome; and so well proportioned, as
that, though much cunning were in it, yet it was but to serve for
ornament of the principal work; that it was not without marvel to see
how a mind which could cast a careless semblant upon the greatest
conflicts of fortune could command itself to take care for so small
matters. Neither had she neglected the dainty dressing of herself; but
as if it had been her marriage time to affliction, she rather seemed
to remember her own worthiness than the unworthiness of her husband.
For well might one perceive she had not rejected the counsel of a
glass, and that her hands had pleased themselves in paying the tribute
of undeceiving skill to so high perfections of nature.

The sight whereof so divers from her sister, who rather suffered
sorrow to dress itself in her beauty than that she would bestow any
entertainment of so unwelcome a guest, made Cecropia take a sudden
assuredness of hope that she should obtain somewhat of Pamela:
thinking, according to the squaring out of her own good nature that
beauty carefully set forth, would soon prove a sign of an unrefusing
harbour. Animated therewith, she sat down by Pamela, and taking the
purse, and with affected curiosity looking upon the work: “Fully happy
is he,” said she, “at least if he knew his own happiness, to whom a
purse in this manner, and by this hand wrought, is dedicated. In faith
he shall have cause to account it, not as a purse for treasure, but as
a treasure itself, worthy to be pursed up in the purse of his own
heart.” “And {339} think you so indeed?” said Pamela, half smiling, “I
promise you I wrought it but to make some tedious hours believe that I
thought not of them; for else I valued it but even as a very purse.”
“It is the right nature,” said Cecropia, “of beauty to work unwitting
effects of wonder.” “Truly,” said Pamela, “I never thought till now
that this outward gloss, entitled beauty, which it pleaseth you to lay
to my (as I think) unguilty charge, was but a pleasant mixture of
natural colours, delightful to the eye, as music is to the ear,
without any further consequence, since it is a thing, which not only
beasts have, but even stones and trees many of them do greatly excel
in it.” “That other things,” answered Cecropia, “have some portion of
it, takes not away the excellency of it, where indeed it doth excel:
since we see that even those beasts, trees and stones are in the name
of beauty only highly praised. But that the beauty of human persons is
beyond all other things, there is great likelihood of reason, since to
them only is given the judgment to discern beauty; and among
reasonable wights, as it seems, that our sex hath the pre-eminence, so
that in that pre-eminence, nature countervails all other liberalities
wherein she may be thought to have dealt more favourably toward
mankind. How do men crown, think you, themselves with glory for having
either by force brought others to yield to their mind, or with long
study, and premeditated orations, persuaded what they would have
persuaded? and see, a fair woman shall not only command without
authority, but persuade without speaking. She shall not need to
procure attention, for their own eyes will chain their ears unto it.
Men venture lives to conquer, she conquers lives without venturing.
She is served, and obeyed, which is the most notable, not because the
laws so command it, but because they become laws themselves to obey
her; not for her parents’ sake, but for her own. She need not dispute,
whether to govern by fear or love, since without her thinking thereof,
their love will bring forth fear, and their fear will fortify their
love; and she need not seek offensive or defensive force, since her
only lips may stand for ten thousand shields, and ten thousand
inevitable shot go from her eyes. Beauty, beauty, dear niece, is the
crown of the feminine greatness; which gift on whomsoever the heavens
(therein most niggardly) do bestow, without question, she is bound to
use it to the noble purpose for which it is created; not only winning,
but preserving, since that indeed is the right happiness which is not
only in itself happy, but can also derive the happiness to another.”
“Certainly, Aunt,” said Pamela, “I fear you will make me not only
think myself fairer than ever I did, but think my fairness a matter of
greater value than heretofore I could imagine it. For I ever, till
now, conceived those conquests you speak of rather to proceed from the
{340} weakness of the conquered than from the strength of the
conquering power: as they say, the Cranes overthrow whole battles of
Pigmies, not so much of their cranish courage, as because the other
are Pigmies; and that we see young babes think babies of wonderful
excellency, and yet the babies are but babies. But since your older
years, and abler judgment find beauty to be worthy of so incomparable
estimation, certainly, methinks, it ought to be held in dearness,
according to the excellency, and no more than we would do of things
which we account precious, never to suffer it to be defiled.”

“Defiled?” said Cecropia, “Marry, God forbid that my speech should
tend to any such purpose as should deserve so foul a title. My meaning
is, to join your beauty to love, your youth to delight. For, truly, as
colours should be as good as nothing if there were no eyes to behold
them; so is beauty nothing, without the eye of love behold it: and
therefore so far is it from defiling it, that it is only the honouring
of it, only the preserving of it; for beauty goes away, devoured by
time, but where remains it ever flourishing, but in the heart of a
true lover? and such a one, if ever there were any, is my son, whose
love is so subjected unto you, that rather than breed any offence unto
you, it will not delight itself in beholding you.” “There is no effect
of his love,” answered Pamela, “better pleaseth me than that: but as I
have often answered you, so resolutely I say unto you, that he must
get my parents’ consent, and then he shall know further of my mind:
for, without that I know I should offend God.” “O sweet youth,” said
Cecropia, “how untimely subject it is to devotion? no, no, sweet
niece, let us old folks think of such precise considerations: do you
enjoy the heaven of your age, whereof you are sure; and like good
householders, which spend those things that would not be kept, so do
you pleasantly enjoy that which else will bring an over late
repentance, when your glass shall accuse you to your face what a
change there is in you. Do you see how the spring-time is full of
flowers, decking itself with them, and not aspiring to the fruits of
autumn? what lesson is that unto you, but that in the April of your
age, you should be like April? let not some of them for whom already
the grave gapeth, and perhaps envy the felicity in you, which
themselves cannot enjoy, persuade you to loose the hold of occasion,
while it may not only be taken, but offers, nay sues to be taken,
which if it be not now taken, will never hereafter be overtaken.
Yourself know how your father hath refused all offers made by the
greatest princes about you, and will you suffer your beauty to be
hidden in the wrinkles of his peevish thoughts?” “If he be peevish,”
said Pamela, “yet he is my father; and how beautiful soever I be, I am
his daughter: so that God {341} claims at my hands obedience, and
makes me no judge of his imperfections.”

These often replies upon conscience in Pamela, made Cecropia think
that there was no righter way for her than as she had, in her opinion,
set her in liking of beauty, with persuasion not to suffer it to be
void of purpose; so if she could make her less feeling of those
heavenly conceits, that then she might easily wind her to her crooked
bias. Therefore employing the uttermost of her mischievous wit, and
speaking the more earnestly, because she spoke as she thought, she
thus dealt with her.

“Dear niece, or rather dear daughter, if my affection and wish might
prevail therein, how much doth it increase, through you, the earnest
desire I have of this blessed match, to see these virtues of yours
knit fast with such zeal of devotion (indeed the best bond) which the
most politic wits have found to hold man’s wit in well doing? For as
children must first by fear be induced to know that which after when
they do know, they are most glad of, so are these bugbears of opinions
brought by great clerks into the world to serve as shewels to keep
them from those faults, whereto else the vanity of the world, and
weakness of senses might pull them. But in you, niece, whose
excellency is such as it need not to be held up by the staff of vulgar
opinions, I would not you should love virtue servilely, for fear of I
know not what, which you see not, but even for the good effects of
virtue which you see. Fear, and indeed foolish fear, and fearful
ignorance, was the first inventor of those conceits; for when they
heard it thunder, not knowing the natural cause, they thought there
was some angry body above that spake so loud: and ever the less they
did perceive, the more they did conceive; whereof they knew no cause,
that grew straight a miracle: foolish folks not marking that the
alterations be but upon particular accidents, the universality being
always one. Yesterday was but as to-day, and to-morrow will tread the
same footsteps of his foregoers: so as it is manifest enough that all
things follow but the course of their own nature, saving only man, who
while by the pregnancy of his imagination he strives to things
supernatural, meanwhile he loseth his own natural felicity. Be wise,
and that wisdom shall be a God unto thee; be contented, and that is
thy heaven: for else to think that those powers, if there be any such,
above are moved either by the eloquence of our prayers, or in a chafe
at the folly of our actions, carries as much reason, as if flies
should think that men take great care which of them hums sweetest, and
which of them flies nimblest.”

She would have spoken further, to have enlarged and confirmed her
discourse, when Pamela, whose cheeks were dyed in the beautifullest
grain of virtuous anger, with eyes which glistered {342} forth beams
of disdain, thus interrupted her. “Peace, wicked woman, peace,
unworthy to breathe, that dost not acknowledge the breath giver; most
unworthy to have a tongue which speaketh against him, through whom
thou speakest: keep your affection to yourself, which like a bemired
dog, would defile with fawning. You say yesterday was as to-day. O
foolish woman, and most miserably foolish, since wit makes you
foolish; what doth that argue but that there is a constancy in the
everlasting governor? Would you have an inconstant God, since we count
a man foolish that is inconstant? He is not seen, you say, and would
you think him a God who might be seen by so wicked eyes as yours?
Which yet might see enough if they were not like such, who for sport’s
sake, willingly hoodwink themselves to receive blows the easier. But
though I speak to you without any hope of fruit in so rotten a heart,
and there be nobody else here to judge of my speeches, yet be thou my
witness, O captivity, that my ears shall not be willingly guilty of my
creator’s blasphemy. You say because we know not the causes of things,
therefore fear was the mother of superstition; nay, because we know
that each effect hath a cause that hath engendered a true and lively
devotion. For this goodly work of which we are, and in which we live,
hath not his being by chance; on which opinion it is beyond marvel, by
what chance any brain could stumble. For if it be eternal, as you
would seem to conceive of it, eternity and chance are things
unsufferable together. For that is chanceable which happeneth; and if
it happen, there was a time before it happened when it might not have
happened; or else it did not happen, and, if so chanceable, not
eternal. And as absurd it is to think, that if it had a beginning, his
beginning was derived from chance: for chance could never make all
things of nothing; and there were substances before, which by chance
should meet to make up this work; thereon follows another bottomless
pit of absurdities. For then those substances must needs have been
from ever, and so eternal: and that eternal causes should bring forth
chanceable effects, is as sensible as that the sun should be the
author of darkness. Again, if it were chanceable, then was it not
necessary; whereby you take away all consequence. But we see in all
things, in some respect or other, necessity of consequence: therefore
in reason we must needs know that the causes were necessary. Lastly,
chance is variable, or else it is not to be called chance: but we see
this work is steady and permanent. If nothing but chance had glued
those pieces of this All, the heavy parts would have gone infinitely
downward, the light infinitely upward, and so never have met to have
made up this goodly body. For before there was a heaven, or earth,
there was neither a heaven to stay the height of the ring, or an
earth, {343} which (in respect of the round walls of heaven) should
become a centre. Lastly, perfect order, perfect beauty, perfect
constancy, if these be the children of chance, let wisdom be counted
the root of wickedness. But, you will say, it is so by nature; as much
as if you said, it is so, because it is so. If you mean of many
natures conspiring together, as in a popular government to establish
this fair estate; as if the elementish and ethereal parts should in
their town-house set down the bounds of each one’s office: then
consider what follows, that there must needs have been a wisdom which
made them concur: for their natures being absolutely contrary, in
nature rather would have sought each others’ ruin, than have served as
well-consorted parts to such an unexpressible harmony. For that
contrary things should meet to make up a perfection without force and
wisdom above their powers, is absolutely impossible unless that you
will fly to that hissed-out opinion of chance again. But you may,
perhaps, affirm that one universal nature, which hath been for ever,
is the knitting together of these many parts to such an excellent
unity. If you mean a nature of wisdom, goodness and providence, which
knows what it doth; then say you that which I seek of you, and cannot
conclude those blasphemies with which you defiled your mouth, and mine
ears: but if you mean a nature, as we speak of the fire, which goeth
upward, it knows not why; and of the nature of the sea, which in
ebbing and flowing seems to observe so just a dance, and yet
understands no music, it is but still the same absurdity superscribed
with another title. For this word, One, being attributed to that which
is All, is but one mingling of many, and many ones; as in a less
matter, when we say one kingdom which contains many cities, or one
city which contains many persons, wherein the under-ones, if there be
not a superior power and wisdom, cannot by nature have regard to any
preservation but of themselves: no more we see they do, since the
water willingly quenches the fire, and drowns the earth, so far as
they from a conspired unity; but that a right heavenly nature indeed,
as it were unnaturing them, doth so bridle them. Again, it is as
absurd in nature, that from an unity many contraries should proceed
still kept in an unity; as that from the number of contrarieties an
unity should arise. I say still, if you banish both a singularity and
plurality of judgment from among them, then (if so earthly a mind can
lift itself up so high) do but conceive how a thing whereto you give
the highest and most excellent kind of being, which is eternity, can
be of a base and vilest degree of being, and next to a not being:
which is so to be, as not to enjoy his own being? I will not here call
all your senses to witness, which can hear nor see nothing, which
yields not most evident evidence of {344} the unspeakableness of that
wisdom: each thing being directed to an end, and an end of
preservation, so proper effects of judgment, as speaking and laughing,
are of mankind. But what mad fury can ever so inveigle any conceit, as
to see our mortal and corruptible selves to have a reason, and that
this universality, whereof we are but the least pieces, should be
utterly devoid thereof: as if one should say, that one’s foot might be
wise, and himself foolish: this heard I once alleged against such a
godless mind as yours, who being driven to acknowledge this beastly
absurdity that our bodies should be better than the whole world, if it
had the knowledge whereof the other were void; he sought, not able to
answer directly, to sift it off in this sort; and if that reason were
true, then must it follow also that the world must have in it a
spirit, that could write and read too, and be learned, since that was
in us commendable. Wretched fool, not considering that books be but
supplies of defects, and so are praised because they help our want,
and therefore cannot be incident to the eternal intelligence, which
need no recording of opinions to confirm his knowledge, no more than
the sun wants wax to be the fuel of his glorious lightfulness. This
world therefore cannot otherwise consist but by a mind of wisdom,
which governs it; which whether you will allow to be the creator
thereof, as undoubtedly he is, or the soul and governor thereof, most
certain it is, that whether he govern all, or make all, his power is
above either his creatures, or his government. And if his power be
above all things, then consequently it must needs be infinite, since
there is nothing above it to limit it. For beyond which there is
nothing, must needs be boundless and infinite: if his power be
infinite, then likewise must his knowledge be infinite: for else there
should be an infinite proportion of power which he should not know how
to use, the unsensibleness whereof I think even you can conceive: and
if infinite, then must nothing, no not the estate of flies, which you
with so unsavoury scorn did jest at, be known unto him. For if there
were, then there were his knowledge bounded, and so not infinite: if
his knowledge and power be infinite, then must needs his goodness and
justness march in the same rank: for infiniteness of power and
knowledge, without like measure of goodness must necessarily bring
forth destruction and ruin, and not ornament and preservation. Since
then there is a God, and an all-knowing God, so as he seeth into the
darkness of all natural secrets, which is the heart of man; and sees
therein the deepest dissembled thoughts, nay sees the thought before
they be thought: since he is just to exercise his might, and mighty to
perform his justice, assure thyself, most wicked woman, that has so
plaguily a corrupted mind that thou canst not keep thy sickness to
thyself, but must {345} most wickedly infect others; assure thyself, I
say, for what I say depends on everlasting and unremovable causes,
that the time will come when thou shalt know that power by feeling it;
when thou shalt see His wisdom in the manifesting thy ugly
shamefulness, and shalt only perceive him to have been a creator in
thy destruction.”

Thus she said, thus she ended, with so fair a majesty of unconquered
virtue, that captivity might seem to have authority over tyranny: so
foully was the filthiness of impiety discovered by the shining of her
unstained goodness, so far as either Cecropia saw indeed, or else the
guilty amazement of a self-excusing conscience made her eyes untrue
judges of their natural object, that there was a light more than
human, which gave a lustre to her perfections. But Cecropia, like a
bat, which though it have eyes to discern that there is a sun, yet
hath so evil eyes that it cannot delight in the sun, found a truth but
could not love it. But as great persons are wont to make the wrong
they have done, to be a cause to do the more wrong, her knowledge rose
to no higher point, but to envy a worthier; and her will was no
otherwise bent, but the more to hate, the more she found her enemy
provided against her. Yet all the while she spoke, though with eyes
cast like a horse that would strike at the stirrup, and with colour
which blushed through yellowness, she sat rather still than quiet, and
after her speech rather muttered than replied: for the war of
wickedness in herself, brought forth disdainful pride to resist
cunning dissimulation; so that, saying little more unto her, but that
she should have leisure enough better to bethink herself, she went
away repining, but not repenting, condemning greatly, as she thought,
her son’s over-feeble humbleness, and purposing to egg him forward to
a course of violence. For herself, determining to deal with neither of
them both any more in manner of a suitor: for what majesty of virtue
did in the one, that did silent humbleness in the other. But finding
her son over-apt to lay both condemnation, and execution of sorrow
upon himself, she sought to mitigate his mind with feigned delays of
comfort, who (having this inward overthrow in himself) was the more
vexed that he could not utter the rage thereof upon his outward

But Basilius, taught by the last day’s trial, what dangerous effects
chosen courages can bring forth, rather used the spade than the sword;
or the sword, but to defend the spade, girding about the whole town
with trenches; which beginning a good way off from the town, with a
number of well-directed pioneers, he still carried before him, till
they came to a near distance, where he built forts, one answering the
other, in such sort, as it was a pretty consideration in the
discipline of war, to see building used for the {346} instrument of
ruin, and the assailer intrenched as if he was besieged. But many
sallies did Amphialus make to hinder their working. But they
(exercising more melancholy than choler in their resolution) made him
find, that if by the advantage of the place, few are able to defend
themselves from many, that many must needs have power (making
themselves strong in seat) to repel few, referring the revenge rather
to the end, than to a present requital. Yet oftentimes they dealt some
blows in light skirmishes, each side having a strong retiring place,
and rather fighting with many alarms to vex the enemy, than for any
hope of great success.

Which every way was a tedious cumber to the impatient courage of
Amphialus; till the fame of this war, bringing thither diverse, both
strangers and subjects, as well of princely, as noble houses, the
gallant Phalantus, who refrained his sportful delights as then, to
serve Basilius (whom he honoured for received honours) when he had
spent some time in considering the Arcadian manner in marching,
encamping and fighting, and had learned in what points of government
and obedience their discipline differed from others, and so had
satisfied his mind in the knowledges, both for the cutting off the
enemy’s helps, and furnishing one’s self, which Basilius’s orders
could deliver unto him, his young spirits (weary of wanting cause to
be weary) desired to keep his valour in knowledge by some private act,
since the public policy restrained him; the rather, because his old
mistress Artesia might see whom she had so lightly forsaken: and
therefore demanding and obtaining leave of Basilius, he caused a
herald to be furnished with apparel of his office, and tokens of a
peaceable message, and so sent him to the gate of the town to demand
audience of Amphialus: who, understanding thereof, caused him both
safely and courteously to be brought into his presence: who, making
lowly reverence unto him, presented his letters, desiring Amphialus,
that whatsoever they contained, he would consider he was only the
bearer, and not the inditer. Amphialus with noble gentleness assured
him both by honourable speeches, and a demeanour which answered for
him, that his revenge, whensoever, should sort unto itself a higher
subject. But opening the letters, he found them to speak in this

 Phalantus of Corinth, to Amphialus of Arcadia, sendeth the greeting
 of a hateless enemy. The liking of martial matter without any dislike
 of your person hath brought me rather to the company than to the mind
 of your besiegers: where languishing in idleness, I desire to refresh
 my mind with some exercise of arms, which might make known the doers,
 with delight of the beholders. Therefore if there be any gentleman in
 your town that either for the love of honour, or honour of his love,
 well armed on horseback, with lance {347} and sword, win another, or
 lose himself, to be prisoner at discretion of the conqueror, I will
 to-morrow morning by sunrising, with a trumpet and a squire only,
 attend him in like order furnished. The place I think fittest, the
 island within the lake, because it stands so well in the view of your
 castle, as that the ladies may have the pleasure of seeing the combat:
 which, though it be within the commandment of your castle, I desire no
 better security than the promise I make to myself of your virtue. I
 attend your answer, and wish you success as may be to your honour,
 rather in yielding to that which is just than in maintaining wrong by

Amphialus read it with cheerful countenance, and thinking but a little
with himself, called for pen and paper, and wrote this answer:

 Amphialus of Arcadia, to Phalantus of Corinth, wisheth all his own
 wishes, saving those which may be hurtful to another. The matter of
 your letters to fit for a worthy mind, and the manner so suitable to
 the nobleness of the matter, give me cause to think how happy I might
 account myself, if I could get such a friend; who esteem it no small
 happiness to have met with so noble an enemy. Your challenge shall be
 answered, and both time, place, and weapon accepted. For your security
 from any treachery (having no hostage worthy to countervail you) take
 my word, which I esteem above all respects. Prepare therefore your
 arms to fight, but not your heart to malice, since true valour needs
 no other whetstone than desire of honour.

Having written and sealed his letter, he delivered it to the herald,
and withal took a fair chain from off his own neck and gave it him.
And so with safe convoy sent him away from out his city: and he being
gone, Amphialus showed unto his mother, and some other of his chief
counsellors what he had received, and how he had answered, telling
them withal, that he was determined to answer the challenge in his own
person. His mother, with prayers authorized by motherly commandment;
his old governor, with persuasions mingled with reprehension (that he
would rather affect the glory of a private fighter than of a wise
general) Clinias with falling down at his feet, and beseeching him to
remember that all their lives depended upon his safety, sought all to
dissuade him. But Amphialus (whose heart was inflamed with courage,
and courage inflamed with affection) made an imperious resolution, cut
off the tediousness of replies, giving them a charge what they should
do upon all occasions, and particularly to deliver the ladies, if
otherwise than well happened unto him: only desiring his mother that
she would bring Philoclea to a window, whence she might with ease
perfectly discern the combat. And so soon as the morning began to draw
dew from the fairest greens to wash her {348} face withal against the
approach of the burning sun, he went to his stable, where himself
chose out a horse, whom (though he was near twenty years old) he
preferred for a piece of sure service, before a great number of
younger. His colour was of a brown bay, dappled thick with black
spots; his forehead marked with a white star; to which, in all his
body there was no part suitable, but the left foot before; his mane
and tail black and thick, of goodly and well-proportioned greatness.
He caused him to be trimmed with a sumptuous saddle of tawny and gold
enamel, enriched with precious stones: his furniture was made into the
fashion of branches of a tree, from which the leaves were falling, and
so artificially were the leaves made, that, as the horse moved, it
seemed indeed that the leaves wagged as when the wind plays with them;
and being made of a pale cloth of gold, they did bear the
straw-coloured livery of ruin. His armour was also of tawny and gold,
but formed into the figures of flames darkened, as when they newly
break the prison of a smoky furnace. In his shield he had painted the
Torpedo fish. And so appointed, he caused himself with his trumpet and
squire (whom he had taken since the death of Ismenus) to be ferried
over into the island, a place well chosen for such a purpose. For it
was so plain that there was scarcely any bush, or hillock, either to
unlevel or shadow it: of length and breadth enough, to try the
uttermost both of lance and sword; and the one end of it facing the
castle, the other extending itself toward the camp, and no access to
it, but by water, there could on secret treachery be wrought; and for
manifest violence, either side might have time enou