The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia (part 3 of 5)

The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia (part 3 of 5)

PLANGUS 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?

BASILIUS Who still doth seek against himself offences, What pardon can avail? or who employs him To hurt himself, what shields can be defences? {191} 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.

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“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: {198} 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 Antiphilus----”

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.

{209}

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 receipt.”

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 while.

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.

{212}

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 service.

“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 victory.

“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:

{234}

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.

{240}

“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 finished.

{247}

“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 rest.”

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 mind.

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?

{254}

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 rageful.

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 practices.

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 more.

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 action.

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 danger.

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 happened.

“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 Antiphilus.

“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 SECOND ECLOGUES

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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. {278} 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.

DICUS and DORUS

DICUS 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.

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DORUS 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.

DICUS 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.

DORUS 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.

DICUS 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.

DORUS 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: {280} But how he doth by might, or by persuasion To conquer, and his conquest how to ratify, Experience doubts, and schools hold disputation.

DICUS 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.

DORUS 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.

DICUS 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.

DORUS 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, {281} 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!

DICUS 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.

DORUS 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.

STREPHON and CLAIUS

STREPHON 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.

CLAIUS 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.

STREPHON 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.

CLAIUS 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.

STREPHON Long since, alas! my deadly swannish music Hath made itself a crier of the morning: And hath with wailing strength climb’d highest mountains. {283} 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.

CLAIUS 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.

STREPHON 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.

CLAIUS 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.

STREPHON 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.

CLAIUS 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.

STREPHON 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, {284} 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.

CLAIUS 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.

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

CLAIUS 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.

STREPHON and CLAIUS

STREPHON 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.

CLAIUS 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.

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STREPHON 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.

CLAIUS 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.

STREPHON 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.

CLAIUS 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.

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STREPHON 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.

CLAIUS 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.

STREPHON 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.

CLAIUS 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.

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STREPHON 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.

GERON and PHILISIDES

GERON 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.

PHILISIDES 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.

GERON 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.

PHILISIDES Who ever taught a skilless man to teach, Or stop a breach that never cannon saw? {288} 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.

GERON 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.

PHILISIDES 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.

GERON 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, {289} A servant sex soon proud if they be coy’d: And to conclude thy mistress is a woman.

PHILISIDES 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!

GERON 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, {290} 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.

PHILISIDES 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.

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GERON and MASTIX

GERON 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.

MASTIX 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: {292} 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.

GERON 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. {293} 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.

PHILISIDES and ECHO

Fair rocks, goodly rivers, sweet woods, when shall I see peace? 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. {294} 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 thee. 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? 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? Oughts. 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. {295} 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 so. 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? 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? Devils. 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.

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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?

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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 Asclepiadiks.

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?

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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]

ARCADIA BOOK III

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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.

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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? {303} 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 violence.”

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 there.

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 succour.

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.

{317}

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.

{324}

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 infinite.

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.

{332}

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. {333} 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.” {334} 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. {335} 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 enemies.

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 manner:

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 violence.

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 enough to succour their party.

But there he found Phalantus, already waiting for him upon a horse milk white, but that upon his shoulders and withers he was freckled with red stain, as when a few strawberries are scattered into a dish of cream. He had caused his mane and tail to be dyed in carnation, his reins were vine branches, which engendering one with the other, at the end, when he came to the bit, there for the boss brought forth a cluster of grapes by the workman made so lively that it seemed, as the horse champed on his bit, he chopped for them, and that it did make his mouth water to see the grapes so near him. His furniture behind was of vines, so artificially made that it seemed the horse stood in the shadow of the vine, so prettily were clusters of ruby grapes dispersed among the trappings which embraced his sides. His armour was blue like the heaven, which a sun did with his rays (proportionably delivered) gild in most places. His shield was beautified with this device: a greyhound which over-running his fellow, and taking the hare, yet hurts it not when it takes it. The words were, “The glory, not the prey.”

{349}

But as soon as Amphialus landed, he sent his squire to Phalantus to tell him that there was the knight ready to know whether he had anything to say to him. Phalantus answered that his answer now must be in the language of lances; and so each attended the warning of the trumpets, which were to sound at the appointment of four judges, who with consideration of the same had divided the ground. Phalantus’s horse young, and feeling the youth of his master, stood curveting, which being well governed by Phalantus, gave such a glittering grace as when the sun in a clear day shines upon a waving water. Amphialus’s horse stood pawing upon the ground, with his further hoof before, as if he would for his master’s cause begin to make himself angry: till the trumpets sounding together, together they set spurs to their horses, together took their lances from their thighs, conveyed them up into the rest together, together let them sink downward, so as it was a delectable sight in a dangerous effect; and a pleasant consideration that there was so perfect agreement in so mortal disagreement; like a music made of cunning discords. But their horses keeping an even line their masters had skilfully allotted unto them, passed one by another without encountering, although either might feel the angry breath of the other. But the staves being come to a just descent, even when the mark was ready to meet them, Amphialus was run through the vamplate, and under the arm, so that the staff appearing behind him, it seemed to the beholders, he had been in danger. But he struck Phalantus just upon the gorget, so that he battered the lames thereof, and made his head almost touch the back of his horse. But either side having stayed the spur, and used the bit to stop their horse’s fury, casting away the truncheons of their staves, and drawing their swords, they attended the second summons of the death-threatening trumpet which quickly followed; and they as soon making their horses answer their hands, with a gentle gallop, set one toward the other, till they being come to the nearness of a little more than a stave’s length. Amphialus trusting more to the strength, than to the nimbleness of his horse, put him forth with speedy violence, and making his head join to the other’s flank, guided his blow with discretion, and strengthening it with the course of his horse, struck Phalantus upon the head in such sort that his feeling sense did both dazzle his sight, and astonish his hearing. But Phalantus (not accustomed to be ungrateful to such benefits) struck him upon the side of his face, with such force that he thought his jaw had been cut asunder; though the faithfulness of his armour indeed guarded him from further damage. And so remained they awhile, rather angry with fighting, than fighting for anger, till Amphialus’s horse leaning hard upon the other, and winning ground, the other horse feeling himself pressed, began to {350} rise a little before, as he was wont to do in his curvet, which advantage Amphialus taking, set forward his own horse with the further spur, so that Phalantus’s horse came over with his master under him. Which Amphialus seeing, lighted with the intention to help Phalantus. But his horse that had faulted, rather with untimely art than want of force, got up from burdening his burden, so that Phalantus, in the fall having gotten his feet free off the stirrup, could, though something bruised, arise, and seeing Amphialus near him, he asked him whether he had given him any help in removing his horse. Amphialus said “No.” “Truly,” said Phalantus, “I asked it, because I would not willingly have fought with him that had had my life in his mercy. But now,” said Phalantus, “before we proceed further, let me know who you are, because never did any man bring me to the like fortune.” Amphialus, listing to keep himself unknown, told him he was a gentleman to whom Amphialus that day had given armour and horse to try his valour, having never before been in any combat worthy remembrance. “Ah,” said Phalantus in a rage, “and must I be the exercise of your prentice age?” and with that, choler took away either the bruise, or the feeling of the bruise, so that he entered afresh into the combat, and boiling into his arms the disdain of his heart, struck so thick upon Amphialus, as if every blow would fain have been foremost. But Amphialus, that many like trials had taught, great spending to leave small remnants, let pass the storm with strong wards, and nimble avoidings, till his time fit, both for distance and nakedness, he struck him so cruel a blow on the knee that the poor gentleman fell down withal in a swoon.

But Amphialus, pitying approved valour, made precious by natural courtesy, went to him, and taking off his headpiece to give him air, the young knight (disdaining to buy life with yielding, bade him use his fortune, for he was resolved never to yield. “No more you shall,” said Amphialus, “if it be not to my request that you will account yourself to have great interest in me.” Phalantus more overcome by his kindness, than by his fortune, desired yet once again to know his name, who in his first beginning had shown such fury in his face, and yet such stay in his fury. Amphialus then named himself, telling him withal he would think his name much bettered if it might be honoured by the title of his friend. But no balm could be more comfortable to his wound than the knowledge thereof was to his mind, when he knew his mishap should be excused by the renowned valour of the other. And so promising each to other assuredness of goodwill, Phalantus, of whom Amphialus would have no other ransom but his word of friendship, was conveyed into the camp, where he {351} would but little remain among the enemies of Amphialus, but went to seek his adventures other-where.

As for Amphialus, he was received with triumph into the castle, although one might see by his eyes (humbly lifted up to the window where Philoclea stood) that he was rather suppliant than victorious: which occasion Cecropia taking, who as then stood by Philoclea, and had lately left Pamela in another room, whence also she might see the combat. “Sweet lady,” said she, “now you may see whether you have cause to love my son, who then lies under your feet, when he stands upon the neck of his bravest enemies.” “Alas!” said Philoclea, “a simple service to me, methinks it is, to have those who come to succour me destroyed: if it be my duty to call it love, be it so: but the effects it bring forth, I confess I account hateful.” Cecropia grew so angry with this unkind answer that she could not abstain from telling her that she was like them that could not sleep, when they were softly laid: but that if her son would follow her counsel, he should take another course with her: and so flung away from her.

Yet, knowing the desperate melancholy of Amphialus in like cases, framed to him a very thankful message, powdering it with some hope-giving phrases, which were of such joy to Amphialus that he, though against public respect and importunity of dissuaders, presently caused it to be made known to the camp that whatsoever knight would try the like fortune as Phalantus did, he should in like sort be answered: so that divers of the valiantest, partly of themselves, partly at the instigation of Basilius, attempted the combat with him; and according to everyone’s humour, so were the causes of the challenge grounded: one laying treason to his charge; another preferring himself in the worthiness to serve Philoclea; a third exalting some lady’s beauty beyond either of the sisters; a fourth laying disgrace to love itself naming it the bewitcher of the wit, the rebel to reason, the betrayer of resolution, the defiler of thoughts, the underminer of magnanimity, the flatterer of vice, the slave of weakness, the infection of youth, the madness of age, the curse of life, and reproach of death; a fifth disdaining to cast at less than at all, would make the cause of his quarrel the causers of love, and proclaim his blasphemies against womankind; that namely, that sex was the oversight of nature, the disgrace of reasonableness, the obstinate cowards, the slave born tyrants, the shops of vanities, the gilded weather cocks, in whom conscience is but peevishness, chastity, waywardness, and gratefulness a miracle. But all these challenges, how well soever indited, were so well answered, that some by death taught others, though past learning themselves, and some by yielding gave themselves the lie for having blasphemed; to the great grief of Basilius to see his rebel {352} prevail, and in his own sight, to crown himself with deserved honour.

Whereupon thirsting for revenge, and else not hoping to prevail, the best of his camp being already overthrown, he sent a messenger to Argalus, in whose approved courage and force he had, and had cause, to have great confidence, with a letter, requiring him to take his quarrel in hand, from which he had hitherto spared him in respect of his late marriage. But now his honour, and (as he esteemed it) felicity standing upon it, he could no longer forbear to challenge of him his faithful service.

The messenger made speed, and found Argalus at a castle of his own, sitting in a parlour with the fair Parthenia, he reading in a book the stories of Hercules, she by him, as to hear him read: but while his eyes looked on the book, she looked on his eyes, and sometimes staying him with some pretty question, not so much to be resolved of the doubt, as to give him occasion to look upon her: a happy couple, he joying in her, she joying in herself, but in herself, because she enjoyed him: both increased their riches by giving to each other; each making one life double, because they made a double life one; where desire never wanted satisfaction, nor satisfaction ever bred satiety; he ruling, because she would obey, or rather because she would obey, he therein ruling.

But when the messenger came in with letters in his hand, and haste in his countenance, though she knew not what to fear, yet she feared because she knew not; but she rose, and went aside, while he delivered his letters and message: yet afar off she looked, now at the messenger, and then at her husband: the same fear, which made her loth to have cause of fear, yet making her seek cause to nourish her fear. And well she found there was some serious matter: for her husband’s countenance figured some resolution between lothness and necessity: and once his eye cast upon her, and finding hers upon him, he blushed, and she blushed, because he blushed, and yet straight grew pale because she knew not why he had blushed. But when he had read, and heard, and dispatched away the messenger, like a man in whom honour could not be rocked asleep by affection, with promise quickly to follow; he came to Parthenia, and as sorry as might be for parting, and yet more sorry for her sorrow, he gave her the letter to read. She with fearful slowness took it, and with fearful quickness read it, and having read it. “Ah my Argalus,” said she, “and have you made such haste to answer? and are you so soon resolved to leave me?” but he discoursing unto her how much it imported his honour, which since it was dear to him, he knew it would be dear unto her, her reason overclouded with sorrow, suffered her not presently to reply, but left the charge thereof to tears, and sighs, {353} which he not able to bear, left her alone, and went to give order for his present departure.

But by that time he was armed, and ready to go, she had recovered a little strength of spirit again, and coming out, and seeing him armed, and wanting nothing for his departure but her farewell, she ran to him, took him by the arm, and kneeling down without regard who either heard her speech, or saw her demeanour. “My Argalus, my Argalus,” said she, “do not thus forsake me. Remember, alas remember that I have interest in you, which I will never yield shall be thus adventured. Your valour is already sufficiently known: sufficiently have you already done for your country: enough, enough there are beside you to lose less worthy lives. Woe is me, what shall become of me if you thus abandon me? then was it time for you to follow those adventures, when you adventured nobody but yourself, and were nobody’s but your own. But now pardon me, that now, or never, I claim mine own; mine you are, and without me you can undertake no danger: and will you endanger Parthenia? Parthenia shall be in the battle of your fight: Parthenia shall smart in your pain, and your blood must be bled by Parthenia.” “Dear Parthenia,” said he, “this is the first time that ever you resisted my will: I thank you for it, but persevere not in it; and let not the tears of these most beloved eyes be a presage unto me of that which you would not should happen, I shall live, doubt not: for so great a blessing as you are was not given unto me so soon to be deprived of it. Look for me, therefore, shortly, and victorious; and prepare a joyful welcome, and I will wish for no other triumph.” She answered not, but stood as it were thunder-stricken with amazement; for true love made obedience stand up against all other passions. But when he took her in his arms, and sought to print his heart in her sweet lips, she fell in a swoon, so that he was fain to leave her to her gentlewomen, and carried away by the tyranny of honour, though with many a back cast look and hearty groan, went to the camp. Where understanding the notable victories of Amphialus, he thought to give him some days respite of rest, because he would not have his victory disgraced by the other’s weariness. In which days, he sought by all means (having leave to parley with him) to dissuade him from his enterprise: and then imparting his mind to Basilius, because he found Amphialus was inflexible, wrote his defy unto him in this manner.

Right famous Amphialus, if my persuasion in reason, or prayer in goodwill, might prevail with you, you should by better means be like to obtain your desire. You should make many brave enemies become your faithful servants, and make your honour fly up to heaven, being carried up by both wings of valour and justice; {354} whereof now it wants the latter. But since my suit nor counsel can get no place in you, disdain not to receive a mortal challenge, from a man so inferior unto you in virtue, that I do not so much mislike of the deed, as I have the doer in admiration. Prepare therefore yourself, according to the noble manner you have used, and think not lightly of never so weak an arm, which strikes with the sword of justice.

To this he quickly received this answer.

Much more famous Argalus, I whom never threatenings could make afraid, am now terrified by your noble courtesy. For well I know, from what height of virtue it doth proceed, and what cause I have to doubt such virtue bent to my ruin: but love, which justifieth the injustice you lay unto me, doth also animate me against all dangers, since I come full of him by whom yourself have been (if I be not deceived) sometimes conquered. I will therefore attend your appearance in the isle, carrying this advantage with me, that as it shall be a singular honour, if I get the victory, so there can be no dishonour in being overcome by Argalus.

The challenge thus denounced and accepted, Argalus was armed in white armour, which was all gilded over with knots of women’s hair, which came down from the crest of his head-piece and spread itself in rich quantity over all his armour; his furniture was cut out in the fashion of an eagle, whereof the beak (made into a rich jewel) was fastened to the saddle, the tail covered the crupper of the horse, and the wings served for trappings; which falling off each side, as the horse stirred, the bird seemed to fly. His poitrel and reins were embroidered with feathers suitable unto it: upon his right arm he wore a sleeve which his dear Parthenia had made for him, to be worn in a joust, in the time that success was ungrateful to their well-deserved love: it was full of bleeding hearts, though never intended to any bloody enterprise. In his shield (as his own device) he had two palm-trees near one another, with a word signifying, “In that sort flourishing.” His horse was of fiery sorrel, with black feet, and black list on his back, who with open nostrils breathed war, before he could see an enemy: and now up with one leg, and then with another, seemed to complain of nature that she had made him any whit earthy.

But he had scarcely viewed the ground of the island, and considered the advantages, if any were, thereof, before the castle boat had delivered Amphialus, in all points provided to give a hard entertainment. And then sending each to other their squires in honourable manner, to know whether they should attend any further ceremony, the trumpets sounding, the horses with smooth {355} running, the staves with unshaken motion, obediently performed their choleric commandments. But when they drew near, Argalus’s horse being hot, pressed in with his head, which Amphialus perceiving, knowing if he gave him his side it should be to his disadvantage, pressed in also with him, so that both the horses and men met shoulder to shoulder, so that the horses (hurt as much with the striking as being stricken) tumbled down to the earth, dangerously to their masters, but that they, by strength nimble, and by use skilful in the falling, shunned the harm of the fall, and without more respite drew out their swords with a gallant bravery, each striving to show himself the less endamaged, and to make known that they were glad they had now nothing else to trust to but their own virtue. True it is that Amphialus was the sooner up, but Argalus had his sword out the sooner; and then fell they to the cruellest combat, that any present eye had seen. Their swords first, like canons, battering down the walls of their armour, making breaches almost in every place for troops of wounds to enter. Among the rest, Argalus gave a great wound to Amphialus’s disarmed face, though part of the force of it Amphialus warded upon his shield, and withal, first casting his eye up to Philoclea’s window, as if he had fetched his courage thence, feigning to extend the same sort of blow, turned his sword, and, with a mighty reverse, gave a cruel wound to the right arm of Argalus, the unfaithful armour yielding to the sword’s strong-guided sharpness. But though the blood accused the hurt of Argalus, yet would he in no action of his confess it: but keeping himself in a lower ward, stood watching with timely thrusts to repair his loss, which quickly he did. For Amphialus, following his fawning fortune, laid on so thick upon Argalus that his shield had almost fallen piecemeal to the earth, when Argalus, coming in with his right foot, and something stooping to come under his armour, thrust him into the belly dangerously; and mortally it would have been, but that with the blow before, Amphialus had over-stricken himself so, that he fell sideward down, and with falling saved himself from ruin, the sword by that means slipping aside and not piercing more deeply. Argalus seeing him fall, threatening with voice and sword, bade him yield. But he striving without answer to rise, Argalus struck him with all his might upon his head. But his hurt arm not able to master so sound a force, let the sword fall so that Amphialus, though astonished with the blow, could arise: which Argalus considering, ran in to grasp with him, and so closed together; falling so to the ground, now one getting above, and then the other; at length, both weary of so unlovely embracements, with a dissenting consent got up, and went to their swords but happened, each on his enemies; where Argalus finding his foe’s {356} sword garnished in blood, his heart rose with the same sword to revenge it, and on that blade to ally their bloods together. But his mind was evil waited on by his lamed force, so that he received still more and more wounds, which made all his armour seem to blush, that it had defended his master no better. But Amphialus perceiving it, and weighing the small hatefulness of their quarrel with the worthiness of the knight, desired him to take pity of himself. But Argalus, the more repining, the more he found himself in disadvantage, filling his veins with spite instead of blood, and making courage arise against faintness (like a candle, which a little before it goes out, gives then the greatest blaze) so did he unite all his force, that casting away the little remnant of his shield, and taking his sword in both hands, he struck such a notable blow, that he cleft his shield, armour, and arm almost to the bone.

But then Amphialus forgot all ceremonies, and with cruel blows made more of his best blood succeed the rest: till his hand being stayed by his ear, his ear filled with a pitiful cry, the cry guided his sight to an excellent fair lady, who came running as fast as she could, and yet because she could not so fast as she would, she sent her lamentable voice before her: and being come, and being known to them both to be the beautiful Parthenia, who had that night dreamed she saw her husband in such estate as she then found him, which made her make such haste thither, they both marvelled. But Parthenia ran between them, fear of love making her forget the fear of nature, and then fell down at their feet, determining so to part them, till she could get breath to sigh out her doleful speeches: and when her breath, which running had spent, and dismayedness made slow to return, had by sobs gotten into her sorrow-closed breast, for a while she could say nothing, but, “O wretched eyes of mine, O wailful sight, O day of darkness!” At length turning her eyes, wherein sorrow swam, to Amphialus, “My Lord,” said she, “it is said you love; in the power of that love, I beseech you to leave off this combat, as ever your heart may find comfort in his affection, even for her sake, I crave it: or if you be mortally determined, be so pitiful unto me, as first to kill me, that I might not see the death of Argalus.” Amphialus was about to have answered, when Argalus, vexed with his fortune, but most vexed that she should see him in that fortune; “Ah Parthenia,” said he, “never until now unwelcome unto me, do you come to get my life by request? and cannot Argalus live but by request? is that a life?” With that he went aside, for fear of hurting her, and would have began the combat afresh. But Amphialus not only conjured by that which held the monarchy of his mind, but even in his noble heart melting with compassion at {357} so passionate a sight, desired him to withhold his hands, for that he should strike one who sought his favour, and would not make resistance. A notable example of the wonderful effects of virtue, where the conqueror sought for friendship of the conquered, and the conquered would not pardon the conqueror: both indeed being of that mind to love each other for accepting, but not for giving mercy, and neither affected to outlive a dishonour: so that Argalus, not so much striving with Amphialus, for if he had him in the like sort, in like sort he would have dealt with him, as labouring against his own power, which he chiefly despised, set himself forward, stretching his strength to the uttermost. But the fire of that strife, blown with his inward rage, boiled out his blood in such abundance that he was driven to rest himself upon the pommel of his sword: and then each thing beginning to turn round in the dance of death before his eyes, his sight both dazzled and dimmed, till, thinking to sit down, he fell in a swoon. Parthenia and Amphialus both hastily went unto him: Amphialus took off his helmet, and Parthenia laid his head in her lap, tearing off her linen sleeves and partlet to serve about his wounds: to bind which she took off her hair-lace, and would have cut off her fair hair herself, but that the squires and judges came in with fitter things for that purpose: while she bewailed herself with so lamentable sweetness, as was enough to have taught sorrow to the gladdest thoughts, and have engraved it in the minds of hardest metal.

“O Parthenia, no more Parthenia,” said she, “what art thou? what seest thou? how is thy bliss in a moment fallen? how wert thou even now before all ladies the example of perfect happiness, and now the gazing stock of endless misery? O God, what hath been my desert, to be thus punished? Or if such had been my desert, why was I not myself punished? O wandering life, to what wilderness wouldst thou lead me. But sorrow, I hope thou art sharp enough to save my labour from other remedies. Argalus, Argalus, I will follow thee, I will follow thee.”

But with that Argalus came out of his swoon, and lifting up his languishing eyes, which a painful rest and iron sleep did seek to lock up, seeing her in whom, even dying, he lived, and himself seated in so beloved a place, it seemed a little cheerful blood came up to his cheeks, like a burning coal, almost dead, if some breath a little revive it: and forcing up, the best he could, his feeble voice, “My dear, my better half,” said he, “I find I must now leave thee: and by that sweet hand, and fair eyes of thine I swear that death brings nothing with it to grieve me but that I must leave thee, and cannot remain to answer part of thy infinite deserts with being some comfort unto thee. But since so it pleaseth Him, {358} whose wisdom and goodness guideth all, put thy confidence in Him, and one day we shall blessedly meet again, never to depart: meanwhile live happily, dear Parthenia, and I persuade myself, it will increase the blessedness of my soul so to see thee. Love well the remembrance of thy loving, and truly loving Argalus: and let not,” with that word he sighed, “this disgrace of mine make thee one day think thou hadst an unworthy husband.” They could scarcely understand the last words: for death began to seize himself of his heart, neither could Parthenia make answer, so full was her breast of anguish. But while the other sought to stanch his remediless wounds, she with her kisses made him happy: for his last breath was delivered into her mouth.

But when indeed she found his ghost was gone, then sorrow lost the wit of utterance, and grew rageful, and mad, so that she tore her beautiful face, and rent her hair, as though they could serve for nothing, since Argalus was gone; till Amphialus (so moved with pity of that sight as that he honoured his adversary’s death with tears) caused her, with the help of her women that came with her, partly by force to be conveyed into the boat, with the dead body of Argalus, from which she would not depart. And being come on the other side, there she was received by Basilius himself, with all the funeral pomp of military discipline, trailing all their ensigns upon the ground, making their warlike instruments sound doleful notes, and Basilius with comfort in his mouth and woe in his face, sought to persuade some ease into Parthenia’s mind: but all was as easeful to her, as the handling of sore wounds: all the honour done, being to her but the triumph of her ruin, she finding no comfort but in desperate yielding to sorrow: and rather determined to hate herself if ever she would find ease thereof. And well might she hear as she passed through the camp the great praises spoken of her husband, which were all records of her loss. But the more excellent he was, being indeed counted second to none in all Greece, the more did the breath of those praises bear up the wings of Amphialus’s fame: to whom yet such was his case, that trophy upon trophy, still did but build up the monument of his thraldom; he ever finding himself in such favour of Philoclea that she was most absent when he was present with her; and ever sorriest when he had best success: which would have made him renounce all comfort, but that his mother with diversity of devices kept up his heart.

But while he allayed thus his outward glory with inward discomfort, he was like to have been overtaken with a notable treason, the beginning whereof (though merely ridiculous) had like to have brought forth to him a weeping effect.

Among other that attended Basilius in this expedition, Dametas {359} was one; whether to be present with him, or absent from Miso, once, certain it was without any mind to make his sword cursed by any widow. Now being in the camp, while each talk seemed injurious, which did not acknowledge some duty to the fame of Amphialus, it fell out sometimes in communication, that as the speech of heaven doth often beget the mention of hell, so the admirable prowess of Amphialus (by a contrary) brought forth the remembrance of the cowardice of Clinias: insomuch, as it grew almost to a proverb, “As very a coward as Clinias;” describing him in such sort, that in the end Dametas began to think with himself that if he made a challenge unto him he would never answer it; and that then he should greatly increase the favourable conceit of Basilius. This fancy of his he uttered to a young gentleman that waited upon Philanax, in whose friendship he had especial confidence, because he haunted his company, laughing often merrily at his speeches, and not a little extolling the goodly dotes of Mopsa. The young gentleman as glad as if he had found a hare sitting, egged him on, breaking the matter with Philanax, and then, for fear the humour should quail in him, wrote a challenge himself for Dametas, and brought it to him. But when Dametas read it, putting his head on his shoulder, and somewhat smiling, he said, it was pretty indeed, but that it had not a lofty style enough; and so, would needs indite it in this sort.

O Clinias, thou Clinias, the wickedest worm that ever went upon two legs; the very fritter of fraud, and seething pot of iniquity: I Dametas, chief governor of all the royal cattle, and also of Pamela (whom thy master most perniciously hath suggested out of my dominion) do defy thee in a mortal affray from the bodkin to the pike upward: Which if thou dost presume to take in hand, I will, out of that superfluous body of thine, make thy soul to be evacuated.

The young gentleman seemed dumb-stricken with admiration, and presently took upon him to be the bearer thereof, while the heat of the fit lasted; and having gotten leave of Basilius (everybody helping on to ease his mind, overcharged with melancholy) he went into the town, according to the manner before time used, and, in the presence of Amphialus, delivered this letter to Clinias; desiring to have an answer, which might be fit for his reputation. Clinias opened it, read it, and, in the reading, his blood, not daring to be in so dangerous a place, went out of his face, and hid itself more inwardly: and his very words, as if they were afraid of blows, came very slowly out of his mouth: but, as well as his panting breath would utter it, he bade him tell the lout that sent him, that he disdained to have anything to do with him. But Amphialus, perceiving the matter, took him aside, and very {360} earnestly dealt with him, not to shame himself; Amphialus only desirous to bring it to pass, to make some sport to Philoclea: but, not being able to persuade him, Amphialus licensed the gentleman, telling him that by next morning he should have an answer.

The young gentleman, sorry he had sped no better, returned to Dametas, who had fetched many a sower-breathed sigh, for fear Clinias would accept the challenge. But when he perceived, by his trusty messenger, that this delay was in effect a denial, there being no disposition in him to accept it, then lo, Dametas began to speak his loud voice, to look big, to march up and down, and, in his march, to lift his legs higher than he was wont, swearing, by no mean devotions, that the walls should not keep the coward from him, but he would fetch him out of his coney-burrow: and then was hotter than ever to provide himself of horse and armour, saying he would go to the island bravely addubed, and show himself to his charge Pamela. To this purpose many willing hands were about him, letting him have reins, poitrel, with the rest of the furniture, and very brave bases; but all coming from divers houses, neither colour nor fashion, showed any kindred one with another. But that liked Dametas the better, for that he thought would argue, that he was master of many brave furnitures. Then gave he order to a painter for his device; which was a plough with the oxen loosed from it, a sword, with a great number of arms and legs cut off: and lastly, a great army of pen and ink-horns, and books. Neither did he stick to tell the secret of his intent; which was that he had left off the plough to do such bloody deeds with his sword, as many ink-horns and books should be employed about the historifying of them: and being asked, why he set no word unto it, he said, that was indeed like the painter, that saith in his picture, “here is the dog, and there is the hare:” and with that he laughed so perfectly, as was great consolation to the beholders. Yet remembering that Miso would not take it well at his return, if he forgot his duty to her, he caused in a border about to be written, “Miso, mine own pigsnie, thou shalt hear news of Dametas.”

Thus all things being condignly ordered, with an ill-favoured impatience he waited until the next morning, that he might make a muster of himself in the island, often asking them that very diligently waited upon them, whether it were not pity that such a coward as Clinias should set his run-away feet upon the face of the earth.

But as he was, by divers principal young gentlemen, to his no small glory, lifted up on horseback, comes a page of Amphialus, who with humble smiling reverence, delivered a letter unto him from Clinias, whom Amphialus had brought to this; first with {361} persuasions (that for certain, if he did accept the combat, Dametas would never dare to appear, and that then the honour should be his) but principally threatening him that if he refused it, he would turn him out of the town to be put to death for a traitor by Basilius: so as the present fear (ever to a coward most terrible) of being turned out of the town, made him, though full unwillingly, undertake the other fear, wherein he had some show of hope, that Dametas might hap either to be sick, or not to have the courage to perform the matter. But when Dametas heard the name of Clinias, very aptly suspecting what the matter might be, he bade the page carry back his letter, like a naughty boy as he was; for he was in no humour, he told him, of reading letters. But Dametas his friend, first persuading him, that for certain it was some submission, took upon him so much boldness as to open the letter, and to read it aloud, in this sort.

Filthy drivel, unworthy to have thy name set in any letter by a soldier’s handwriting, could thy wretched heart think it was timorousness that made Clinias suspend awhile his answer? no, caitiff, no: it was but as a ram, which goes back to return with the greater force: Know therefore, that thou shalt no sooner appear (appear now if thou darest) I say thou shalt no sooner appear in the island (O happy thou if thou dost not appear) but that I will come upon thee with all my force, and cut thee in pieces (mark what I say) joint after joint, to the eternal terror of all presumptuous villains. Therefore look what thou dost; for I tell thee, horrible smart and pains shall be thy lot, if thou wilt needs be so foolish, I having given thee no such cause as to meet with me.

These terrible words Clinias used, hoping they would give a cooling to the heat of Dametas’s courage: and so indeed they did, that he did groan to hear the thundering of those threatenings. And when the gentlemen had ended the reading of them, Dametas told them, that in his opinion he thought this answer came too late, and that therefore he might very well go and disarm himself, especially considering the other had in courteous manner warned him not to come: but they having him now on horseback, led him into the ferry, and so into the island; the clashing of his own armour striking miserable fear into him, and in his mind, thinking great unkindness in his friend that he had brought him to a matter so contrary to his complexion. There stayed he but a little (the gentleman that came with him teaching him how to use his sword and lance, while he cast his eye about, to see which way he might run away, cursing all islands for being evil situated) when Clinias with a brave sound of trumpets landed at the other end: who came all the way debating with himself, what he had deserved of Amphialus to drive him to those inconveniences. Sometimes his wit {362} made him bethink himself what was best to be done: but fear did so corrupt his wit, that whatsoever he thought was best, he still found danger therein; fearfulness (contrary to all other vices) making him think the better of another, the worse he found himself, rather imagining in himself what words he would use (if he were overcome) to get his life of Dametas, than how to overcome, whereof he could think with no patience. But oftentimes looking to the earth, pitifully complaining, that a man of such sufficiency, as he thought himself, should in his best years be swallowed up by so base an element: fain he would have prayed, but he had not heart enough to have confidence in prayer; the glittering of the armour, and sounding of trumpets giving such an assault to the weak breach of his false senses, that he grew from the degree of fear to an amazement, not almost to know what he did, till two judges (chosen for the purpose) making the trumpet cease, and taking the oath of these champions, that they came without guile or witchcraft, set them at wonted distance, one from the other.

Then the trumpets sounding, Dametas’s horse (used to such causes) when he thought least of the matter, started out so lustily, that Dametas was jogged back with head and body, and pulling withal his bridle-hand, the horse, that was tender of mouth, made half a stop, and fell to bounding, so that Dametas threw away his lance, and with both his hands held by the pommel, the horse half running, half leaping, till he met with Clinias; who fearing he should miss his rest, had put his staff therein before he began his career: neither would he then have begun, but that at the trumpets warning, one (that stood behind) struck on his horse, who running swiftly, the wind took such hold of his staff, that it crossed quite over his breast, in that sort gave a flat bastinado to Dametas: who half out of his saddle, went near to his old occupation of digging the earth, but with the crest of his helmet. Clinias when he was past him, not knowing what he had done, but fearing lest Dametas were at his back, turned with a wide turn; and seeing him on the ground, he thought then was his time, or never, to tread him under his horse’s feet; and withal, if he could, hurt him with his lance, which had not broken, the encounter was so easy. But putting forth his horse, what with the falling of the staff too low before the legs of the horse, and the coming upon Dametas, who was then scrambling up, the horse fell over and over, and lay upon Clinias. Which Dametas, who was gotten up, perceiving, drew out his sword, prying which way he might best come to kill Clinias behind. But the horse that lay upon him, kept such a pawing with his feet, that Dametas durst not approach, but very leisurely, so as the horse, being lusty, got up, and withal began {363} to strike, and leap, that Dametas started back a good way, and gave Clinias time to rise, but so bruised in body, and broken in heart, that he meant to yield himself to mercy; and with that intent drew out his sword, intending when he came nearer to present the pommel of it to Dametas. But Dametas, when he saw him coming with his sword drawn, not conceiving any such intent, went back as fast as his back and heels would lead him. But as Clinias found that he began to think a possibility in the victory, and therefore followed him with the cruel haste of a prevailing coward; laying upon Dametas, who did nothing but cry out to him to hold his hand, sometimes that he was dead, sometimes that he would complain to Basilius; but still bore the blows ungratefully, going back, till at length he came into the water with one of his feet.

But then a new fear of drowning took him, so that daring not to go back, nor to deliberate (the blows still so lighted on him) nor to yield, because of the cruel threatenings of Clinias, fear being come to the extremity, fell to a madness of despair; so that (winking as hard as ever he could) he began to deal some blows, and his arm (being used to the flail in his youth) laid them on so thick that Clinias now began with lamentable eyes to see his own blood come out in many places: and before he had lost half an ounce, finding in himself that he fainted, cried out aloud to Dametas that he yielded. “Throw away thy sword then,” said Dametas, “and I will save thee;” but still laying on as fast as he could. Clinias straight obeyed, and humbly craved mercy, telling him his sword was gone. Then Dametas first opened his eyes, and seeing him indeed unweaponed, made him stand a good way off from it; and then willed him to lie down upon the earth as flat as he could; Clinias obeyed; and Dametas (who never could think himself safe, till Clinias were dead) began to think with himself, that if he struck at him with his sword, if he did not kill him at the first blow, that then Clinias might hap to rise, and revenge himself. Therefore he thought best to kneel down upon him, and with a great whittle he had (having disarmed his head) to cut his throat, which he had used so with calves, as he had no small dexterity in it. But while he sought for his knife, which under his armour he could not well find out, and that Clinias lay with so sheepish a quietness, as if he would have been glad to have his throat cut for fear of more pain, the judges came in, and took Dametas from off him, telling him he did against the law of arms, having promised life if he threw away his sword. Dametas was loath to consent, till they swore, they would not suffer him to fight any more, when he was up; and then more forced, then persuaded, he let him rise, crowing over him, and warning him to take heed {364} how he dealt any more with any that came of his father’s kindred. But thus this combat of cowards being finished, Dametas was with much mirth and melody received into the camp as victorious, never a page there failing to wait upon his triumph.

But Clinias, though he wanted heart to prevent shame, yet he wanted not wit to feel shame; not so much repining at it for the abhorring of shame, as for the discommodities, that to them that are ashamed, ensue. For well he deemed, it would be a great bar to his practice, and a pulling on of injuries, when men needed not care how they used him. Insomuch, that Clinias (finding himself the scorning-stock of every company) fell with repining, to hate the cause thereof; and hate in a coward’s heart, could set itself no other limits, but death. Which purpose was well egged on by representing unto himself, what danger he lately was in; which still kept no less ugly figure in his mind than when it was present; and quickly (even in his dissembling countenance) might be discerned a concealed grudge. For though he forced himself to a far more diligent officiousness toward Amphialus than ever before, yet a leering eye upon the one side at him, a countenance still framed to smiling before him (how little cause soever there was of smiling) and grumbling behind him at any of his commandments, with an uncertain manner of behaviour: his words coming out, though full of flattery, yet slowly, and hoarsely pronounced, might well have blazed what arms his false heart bore. But despised, because of his cowardliness, and not marked because despised, he had the freer scope of practice. Which he did the more desperately enter into, because the daily dangers Amphialus did submit himself unto, made Clinias assuredly look for his overthrow, and for his own consequently, if he did not redeem his former treason to Basilius, with a more treasonable falsehood toward Amphialus. His chief care therefore was, to find out among all sorts of the Amphialians, whom either like fear, tediousness of the siege, or discontent of some unsatisfied ambition would make apt to dig in the same mine that he did: and some already of wealthy weary folks, and unconstant youths (who had not found such sudden success as they had promised themselves) he had made stoop to his lure. But of none he made so good account as of Artesia, sister to the late slain Ismenus, and the chief of the six maids, who had trained out the princesses to their banquet of misery: so much did the sharpness of her wit countervail, as he thought, any other defects of her sex: for she had undertaken that dangerous practice by the persuasion of Cecropia, who assured her that the two princesses should be made away, and then Amphialus would marry her, which she was the apter to believe, by some false persuasion her glass had given her of her own incomparable {365} excellencies, and by the great favour she knew he bare to her brother Ismenus, which, like a self-flattering woman, she conceived was done for her sake. But when she had achieved her attempt, and that she found the princesses were so far from their intended death, as that one of them was like to be her sovereign; and that neither her service won of Amphialus much more than an ordinary favour, nor her over-large offering herself to a mind otherwise owed, had obtained a looked for acceptation: disdain to be disdained, spite of a frustrate hope, and perchance unquenched lust-grown rage, made her unquiet thoughts find no other rest, but malice; which was increased by the death of her brother, whom she judged neither succoured against Philanax, nor revenged upon Philanax. But all these coals were well blown by the company she especially kept with Zelmane all this time of her imprisonment. For finding her presence uncheerful to the mourning Philoclea, and condemned of the high-hearted Pamela, she spent her time most with Zelmane: Who though at the first hardly brooking the instrument of their misery, learning cunning in the school of adversity, in time framed herself to yield her acceptable entertainment. For Zelmane, when she had by that unexpected mischief her body imprisoned, her valour over-mastered, her wit beguiled, her desires barred, her love eclipsed; assured of evil, fearing worse, able to know Philoclea’s misfortune, and not able to succour her, she was a great while before the greatness of her heart could descend to sorrow, but rather rose boiling up in spite and disdain, reason hardly making courage believe that it was distressed: but as if the walls would be afraid of her, so would her looks shoot out threatenings upon them. But the fetters of servitude, growing heavier with wearing, made her feel her case, and the little prevailing of repining: and then grief got a seat in her softened mind, making sweetness of past comforts, by due title, claim tears of present discomforts: and since her fortune made her able to help as little as anybody, yet to be able to wail as much as anybody; solitary sorrow, with a continual circle in herself, going out at her own mouth, to come in again at her own ears. Then was the name of Philoclea graved in the glass windows, and by the foolish idolatry of affection, no sooner written, than adored; and no sooner adored, than pitied: all the wonted praises (she was wont to give unto her) being now but figures of rhetoric to amplify the injuries of misfortune; against which being alone, she would often make invective declamations, methodised only by raging sorrow.

But when Artesia did insinuate herself into her acquaintance, she gave the government of her courage to wit, and was content to familiarize herself with her: so much the rather, as that she {366} perceived in her certain flaws of ill-concealed discontentment: insomuch that when Zelmane would sweeten her mouth with the praise of the sisters, especially setting forth their noble gratefulness in never forgetting well-intended services, and invoking the justice of the gods not to suffer such treasures to be wrongfully hidden, and sometimes with a kind of unkindness charging Artesia that she had been abused to abuse so worthy persons: Artesia, though falsely, would protest that she had been beguiled in it, never meaning other matter than recreation; and yet withal by alleging how ungratefully she was dealt with, it was easy to be seen it was the unrewarding, and not the evil employing her service, which grieved her. But Zelmane, using her own bias to bowl near the mistress of her own thoughts, was content to lend her belief, and withal to magnify her desert, if willingly she would deliver, whom unwillingly she had imprisoned; leaving no argument which might tickle ambition, or flatter revenge. So that Artesia, pushed forward by Clinias, and drawn onward by Zelmane, bound herself to that practice; wherein Zelmane, for her part, desired no more but to have armour and weapons brought into her chamber, not doubting therewith to perform anything, how impossible soever, which longing love can persuade, and invincible valour dare promise.

But Clinias, whose faith could never comprehend the mysteries of courage, persuaded Artesia, while he by corruption had drawn the guard of one gate, to open it, when he would appoint the time to the enemy, that she should impoison Amphialus, which she might the easier do, because she herself had used to make the broths, when Amphialus, either wearied or wounded, did use such diet. And all things already were ready to be put in execution, when they thought best to break this matter with the two excellent sisters, not doubting of their consent in a thing so behoveful to themselves: their reasons being that the princesses knowing their service, might be sure to preserve them from the fury of the entering soldiers: whereof Clinias, even so, could scarcely be sufficiently certain: and withal, making them privy to their action, to bind them afterwards to a promised gratefulness towards them. They went therefore at one time, when they knew them to be alone, Clinias to Philoclea, and Artesia to Pamela; and Clinias, with no few words, did set forth what an exploit was intended for her service. But Philoclea, in whose clear mind, treason could find no hiding-place, told him that she would be glad if he could persuade her cousin to deliver her, and that she would never forget his service therein; but that she desired him to lay down any such way of mischief, for, that for her part, she would rather yield to perpetual imprisonment than consent to the destroying her cousin, who, she knew, loved her, though wronged her. This unlooked-for {367} answer amazed Clinias, so that he had no other remedy in his mind but to kneel down to Philoclea, and beseech her to keep it secret, considering that the intention was for her service, and vowing, since she misliked it, to proceed no further therein, she comforted him with promise of silence, which she performed.

But that little availed; for Artesia having in like sort opened this device to Pamela, she, in whose mind virtue governed with the sceptre of knowledge, hating so horrible a wickedness, and straight judging what was fit to do: “Wicked woman,” said she, “whose unrepenting heart can find no way to amend treason, but by treason, now the time is come that thy wretched wiles have caught thyself in thine own net: as for me, let the gods dispose of me as shall please them; but sure it shall be no such way, nor way-leader, by which I will come to liberty.” This she spoke something with a louder voice than she was wont to use, so that Cecropia heard the noise, who was, sooner than Artesia imagined she would, come up, to bring Pamela to a window where she might see a notable skirmish happened in the camp, as she thought among themselves: and being a cunning fisher in troubled waters, straight found by their voices and gestures there was some matter of consequence, which she desired Pamela to tell her. “Ask of her,” said Pamela, “and learn to know, that who do falsehood to their superiors, teach falsehood to their inferiors.” More she would not say. But Cecropia taking away the each-way guilty Artesia, with fear of torture, got of her the whole practice: so that Zelmane was the more closely imprisoned, and Clinias, with the rest of his corrupted mates, according to their merits, executed: for as for Artesia, she was but locked up in her chamber, Amphialus not consenting, for the love he bore to Ismenus, that further punishment should be laid upon her.

But the noise they heard in the camp was by occasion of the famous prince Anaxius, nephew to the giant Euardes, whom Pyrocles slew; a prince of body exceedingly strong, in arms so skilful and fortunate, as no man was thought to excel him; of courage that knew not how to fear; of parts worthy praise, if they had not been guided by pride, and followed by injustice. For by a strange composition of mind, there was no man more tenderly sensible in anything offered to himself, which in the farthest-fetched construction might be wrested to the name of wrong; no man that in his own actions could worse distinguish between valour and violence: so proud, that he could not abstain from a Thraso-like boasting, and yet, so unlucky a lodging his virtues had gotten, he would never boast more than he would accomplish, falsely accounting an inflexible anger a courageous constancy; esteeming fear and astonishment righter causes of admiration, {368} than love and honour. This man had four sundry times fought with Amphialus, but Mars had been so impartial an arbiter, that neither side got advantage of the other. But in the end, it happened that Anaxius found Amphialus, unknown in great danger, and saved his life: whereupon, loving his own benefit, began to favour him, so much the more, as thinking so well of himself, he could not choose but like him, whom he found a match for himself: which at last grew to as much friendship towards him, as could by a proud heart be conceived. So as in this travel (seeking Pyrocles to be revenged of his uncle’s death) hearing of this siege, never taking pains to examine the quarrel, like a man whose will was his god, and his hand his law, taking with him his two brothers, men accounted little inferior to himself in martial matters, and two hundred chosen horsemen, with whom he thought himself able to conquer the world, yet commanding the rest of his forces to follow, he himself upon such an unexpected suddenness entered in upon the back of Basilius, that many with great unkindness took their death, not knowing why, nor how they were so murdered. There, if ever, did he make known the wonderfulness of his force. But the valiant and faithful Philanax, with well-governed speed, made such head against him as would have showed how soon courage falls in the ditch which hath not the eye of wisdom; but that Amphialus at the same time issued out and winning with abundance of courage one of the sconces which Basilius had builded, made way for his friend Anaxius, with great loss of both sides, but especially of the Basilians, such notable monuments had those two swords especially left of their master’s redoubted worthiness.

There, with the respect fit to his estate, the honour due to his worthiness, and the kindness which accompanies friendship, made fast by interchanged benefits, did Amphialus enforce himself, as much as in a besieged town he could, to make Anaxius know that his succour was not so needful as his presence grateful. For causing the streets and houses of the town to witness his welcome, making both soldiers and magistrates in their countenances to show their gladness of him, he led him to his mother, whom he besought to entertain him with no less love and kindness, than as one who once had saved her son’s life, and now came to save both life and honour. “Tush,” said Anaxius, speaking aloud, looking upon his brothers, “I am only sorry there are not half-a-dozen kings more about you, than what Anaxius can do might be the better manifested.” His brothers smiled, as though he had over-modestly spoken, far underneath the pitch of his power. Then was he disarmed at the earnest request of Amphialus: for Anaxius boiled with desire to issue out upon the {369} enemies, persuading himself that the sun should not be set before he had overthrown them. And having reposed himself, Amphialus asked him whether he would visit the young princesses. But Anaxius whispered him in the ear, “In truth,” said he, “dear friend Amphialus, though I am none of those that love to speak for themselves, I never came yet in company of ladies but that they fell in love with me. And that I in my heart scorn them as a peevish paltry sex, nor worthy to communicate with my virtues, would not do you the wrong: since, as I hear, you do debase yourself so much as to affect them.” The courteous Amphialus could have been angry with him for those words; but knowing his humour, suffered him to dance to his own music: and gave himself to entertain both him and his brothers, with as cheerful a manner as could issue from a mind whom unlucky love had filled with melancholy. For to Anaxius he yielded the direction of all. He gave the watch-word, and if any grace were granted, the means were to be made to Anaxius. And that night when supper was ended wherein Amphialus would needs himself wait upon him, he caused in boats upon the lake an excellent music to be ordered; which, though Anaxius might conceive was for his honour, yet indeed he was but the brick wall to convey it to the ears of the beloved Philoclea.

The music was of cornets, whereof one answering the other, with a sweet emulation striving for the glory of music, and striking upon the smooth face of the quiet lake, was then delivered up to the castle walls, which with a proud reverberation, spreading it into the air, it seemed before the harmony came to the ear, that it had enriched itself in travel, the nature of those places adding melody to that melodious instrument. And when a while that instrument had made a brave proclamation to all possessed minds of attention, an excellent concert straight followed, of five viols, and as many voices; which all being but orators of their master’s passions, bestowed this song upon her that thought upon another matter.

The fire to see my wrongs for anger burneth; The air in rain for my affection weepeth: The sea to ebb for grief his flowing turneth: The earth with pity dull his centre keepeth. Fame is with wonder blazed; Time runs away for sorrow: Place standeth still amazed, To see my night of evils, which hath no morrow. Alas all only she no pity taketh To know my miseries, but chaste and cruel, My fall her glory maketh; {370} Yet still her eyes give to my flame their fuel.

Fire, burn me quite, till sense of burning leave me: Air, let me draw thy Breath no more in anguish: Sea, drown’d in thee of tedious life bereave me; Earth, take this Earth wherein my spirits languish. Fame, say I was not born: Time, haste my dying hour. Place, see my grave uptorn: Fire, air, sea, earth, fame, time, place, show your power. Alas from all their help I am exiled: For hers am I, and death fears her displeasure. Fie death thou art beguiled: Though I be hers, she makes of me no treasure.

But Anaxius, seeming a-weary before it was ended, told Amphialus, that for his part he liked no music but the neighing of horses, the sound of trumpets, and the cries of yielding persons: and therefore desired, that the next morning they should issue upon the same place where they had entered that day, not doubting to make them quickly a-weary of being the besiegers of Anaxius. Amphialus, who had no whit less courage, though nothing blown up with pride, willingly condescended: and so the next morning, giving false alarm to the other side of the camp, Amphialus at Anaxius’s earnest request, staying within the town to see it guarded, Anaxius and his brethren, Lycurgus and Zoilus sallied out with the best chosen men. But Basilius, having been the last day somewhat unprovided, now had better fortified the overthrown sconce; and so well had prepared everything for defence, that it was impossible for any valour from within to prevail. Yet things were performed by Anaxius beyond the credit of the credulous: for thrice, valiantly followed by his brothers, did he set up his banner upon the rampire of the enemy; though thrice again by the multitude, and advantage of the place, but especially by the coming of three valiant knights, he was driven down again. Numbers there were that day, whose deaths and overthrows were excused by the well known sword of Anaxius: but the rest by the length of time and injury of historians have been wrapped up in dark forgetfulness; only Tressenius is spoken of, because when all abandoned the place, he only made head to Anaxius; till having lost one of his legs, yet not lost the heart of fighting, Lycurgus, second brother to Anaxius, cruelly murdered him; Anaxius himself disdaining any further to deal with them.

But so far had Anaxius at the third time prevailed, that now the Basilians began to let their courage descend to their feet; Basilius and Philanax in vain striving with reverence of authority to bridle the flight of astonishment, and to teach fear, discretion: so that {371} Amphialus, seeing victory show such a flattering countenance to him, came out with all his force, hoping that day to end the siege.

But that fancy altered quickly, by the sudden coming to the other side of the three knights, whereof the one was in white armour, the other in green, and the third by his black armour and device, straight known to be the notable knight who the first day had given fortune so short a stop with his notable deeds, fighting hand to hand with the deemed invincible Amphialus. For the very cowards no sooner saw him, but as borrowing some of his spirit, they went like young eagles to the prey, under the wing of their dam. For the three adventurers, not content to keep them from their rampire, leapt down among them, and entered into a brave combat with the three valiant brothers. But to whether side fortune would have been partial, could not be determined. For the Basilians, lightened with the beams of their strangers’ valour, followed so thick, that the Amphialians were glad with some haste to retire to the wall-ward: though Anaxius neither reason, fear, nor example, could make him assuage the fury of his fight: until one of the Basilians (unworthy to have his name registered, since he did it cowardly, sideward, when he least looked that way) almost cut off one of his legs, so that he fell down, blaspheming heaven, that all the influences thereof had power to overthrow him: and there death would have seized on his proud heart, but that Amphialus took in hand the black knight, while some of his soldiers conveyed away Anaxius, so requiting life for life unto him.

And for the love and example of Amphialus, the fight began to enter into a new fit of heat: when Basilius, that thought enough to be done for that day, caused retreat to be sounded; fearing lest his men following over-earnestly, might be the loss of those excellent knights whom he desired to know. The knights as soon as they heard the retreat, though they were eagerly set, knowing that courage without discipline, is nearer beastliness than manhood, drew back their swords, though hungry of more blood: especially the black knight, who knowing of Amphialus, could not refrain to tell him, that this was the second time he escaped out of his hands, but that he would shortly bring him a bill of all the former accounts. Amphialus seeing it fit to retire also, most of his people being hurt, both in bodies and hearts, withdrew himself with so well-seated a resolution, that it was as far from anger, as from dismayedness, answering no other to the black knight’s threats, but that when he brought him his account, he should find a good paymaster.

The fight being ceased, and each side withdrawn within their strengths, Basilius sent Philanax to entertain the strange knights, {372} and to bring them unto him that he might acknowledge what honour was due to their virtue. But they excused themselves, desiring to be known first by their deeds, before their names should accuse their unworthiness: and though the other replied according as they deserved, yet (finding that unwelcome courtesy is a degree of injury) he suffered them to retire themselves to a tent of their own without the camp, where they kept themselves secret: Philanax himself being called away to another strange knight; strange not only by the unlooked-for-ness of his coming, but by the strange manner of his coming.

For he had before him four damsels, and so many behind him, all upon palfreys, and all apparelled in mourning weeds; each of them a servant on each side, with like liveries of sorrow. Himself in an armour, all painted over with such a cunning of shadow, that it represented a gaping sepulchre; the furniture of his horse was all of cypress branches: wherewith in old time they were wont to dress graves. His bases, which he wore so long, as they came almost to his ankle, were embroidered only with black worms, which seemed to crawl up and down, as ready to devour him. In his shield, for impresa, he had a beautiful child, but having two heads, whereon the one showed that it was already dead; the other alive, but in that case, necessarily looking for death. The word was: “No way to be rid from death, but by death.”

This knight of the tomb, for so the soldiers termed him, sent to Basilius to demand leave to send a damsel into the town, to call out Amphialus, according as before time some others had done. Which being granted, as glad any would undertake the charge, which nobody else in that camp was known willing to do, the damsel went in, and having with tears sobbed out a brave challenge to Amphialus, from the knight of the tomb, Amphialus honourably entertaining the gentlewoman, and desiring to know the knight’s name, which the doleful gentlewoman would not discover, accepted the challenge, only desiring the gentlewoman to say thus much to the strange knight from him, that if his mind were like to his title, there were more cause of affinity than enmity between them. And therefore presently, accordingly as he was wont, as soon as he perceived the knight of the tomb, with his damsels and judge, was come into the island, he also went over in accustomed manner; and yet for the courtesy of his nature, desired to speak with him.

But the knight of the tomb, with silence and drawing his horse back, showed no will to hear, nor speak: but with lance on thigh, made him know, it was fit for him to go to the other end of the career, whence waiting the start of the unknown knight, he likewise made his spurs claim haste of his horse. But when his staff was in his rest, coming down to meet with the knight, now very near {373} him, he perceived the knight had missed his rest: wherefore the courteous Amphialus would not let his lance descend: but with a gallant grace, ran over the head of his therein friended enemy: and having stopped his horse, and with the turning of him, blessed his sight with the window where he thought Philoclea might stand, he perceived the knight had lighted from his horse, and thrown away his staff, angry with his misfortune, as of having missed his rest, and drawn his sword, to make that supply his fellow’s fault; he also alighted, and drew his sword, esteeming victory with advantage, rather robbed than purchased: and so the other coming eagerly toward him, he with his shield out; and sword aloft, with more bravery than anger drew unto him, and straight made their swords speak for them a pretty while with equal fierceness. But Amphialus, to whom the earth brought forth few matches, having both much more skill to choose the places, and more force to work upon the chosen, had already made many windows in his armour for death to come in at, when in the nobleness of his nature abhorring to make the punishment overgo the offence, he stepped a little back, and withal, “Sir knight,” said he, “you may easily see that it pleaseth God to favour my cause; employ your valour against them that wish you hurt, for my part I have not deserved hate of you.” “Thou liest, false traitor,” said the other, with an angry, but weak voice; but Amphialus, in whom abused kindness became spiteful rage. “Ah barbarous wretch,” said he, “only courageous in discourtesy, thou shalt soon see whether thy tongue hath betrayed thy heart, or no:” and with that redoubled his blows, gave him a great wound upon his neck, and closing with him, overthrew him, and with the fall thrust him mortally into the body, and with that went to pull off his helmet, with intention to make him give himself the lie, for having so said, or to cut off his head.

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 the 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 round sweetly swelling lips a little trembling, as though they kissed their 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 drown his own beauties; so that here was a river of purest red, there an island of perfectest white, each giving {374} 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 looked upon through the spectacles of pity, did even increase the lines of her natural fairness; so that Amphialus was astonished with grief, compassion and shame, detesting his fortune that made him unfortunate in victory.

Therefore putting off his headpiece and gauntlet, kneeling down unto her, and with tears testifying his sorrow, he offered his, by himself accursed, hands to help her, protesting his life and power to be ready to do her honour. But Parthenia, who had inward messengers of the desired death’s approach, looking upon him, and straight turning away her feeble sight, as from a delightless object, drawing out her words, which her breath, loth to depart from so sweet a body, did faintly deliver: “Sir,” said she, “I pray you, if prayers have place in enemies, to let my maids take my body untouched by you: the only honour I now desire by your means, is, that I have no honour of you. Argalus made no such bargain with you, that the hands which killed him, should help me. I have of them, and I do not only pardon you, but thank you for it, the service which I desired. There rests nothing now, but that I go live with him, since whose death I have done nothing but die.” Then pausing, and a little fainting, and again coming to herself; “O sweet life, welcome,” said she, “now feel I the bands united of the cruel death, which so long hath held me. And O life, O death, answer for me, that my thoughts have not so much as in a dream tasted any comfort, since they were deprived of Argalus. I come, my Argalus, I come: and, O God, hide my faults in thy mercies, and grant, as I feel thou dost grant, that in thy eternal love, we may love each other eternally. And this, O Lord:”----but there Atropos[b3-05] cut off her sentence: for with that, casting up both eyes and hands to the skies, the noble soul departed (one might well assure himself) to heaven, which left the body in so heavenly a demeanour.

But Amphialus, with a heart oppressed with grief, because of her request, withdrew himself: but the judges, as full of pity, had been all this while disarming her, and her gentlewomen with lamentable cries labouring to staunch the remediless wounds: and a while she was dead before they perceived it, death being able to divide the soul, but not the beauty from that body. But when the infallible tokens of death assured them of their loss, one of the women would have killed herself, but that the squire of Amphialus perceiving, by force held her. Others that had as {375} strong passion, though weaker resolution, fell to cast dust upon their heads, to tear their garments; all falling upon the earth, and crying upon their sweet mistress, as if their cries could persuade the soul to leave the celestial happiness, to come again into the elements of sorrow: one time calling to remembrance her virtue, chasteness, sweetness, and goodness to them; another time accursing themselves that they had obeyed her; being deceived by her words, who assured them that it was revealed unto her that she should have her heart’s desire in the battle against Amphialus, which they wrongly understood. Then kissing her cold hands and feet, weary of the world, since she was gone who was their world, the very heavens seemed with a cloudy countenance to lour at the loss, and fame itself (though by nature glad to tell such rare accidents) yet could not choose but deliver it in lamentable accents, and in such sort went it quickly all over the camp: and as if the air had been infected with sorrow, no heart was so hard, but was as subject to that contagion; the rareness of the accident, matching together, the rarely matched together, pity with admiration. Basilius himself came forth, and brought the fair Gynecia with him, who was come into the camp under colour of visiting her husband, and hearing of her daughters: but indeed Zelmane was the saint to which her pilgrimage was intended, cursing, envying, blessing, and in her heart kissing the walls which imprisoned her. But both they, with Philanax, and the rest of the principal nobility, went out to make honour triumph over death, conveying that excellent body (whereto Basilius himself would needs lend his shoulder) to a church a mile from the camp, where the valiant Argalus lay entombed; recommending to that sepulchre the blessed relics of a faithful and virtuous love, giving order for the making of two marble images to represent them, and each way enriching the tomb: upon which Basilius himself caused this epitaph to be written,

His Being was in her alone. And he not Being she was none.

They joy’d One joy, One grief they griev’d, One love they lov’d, One life they liv’d. The hand was One, One was the sword That did his death, her death afford.

As all the rest; so now the stone That tombs the Two is justly One.

ARGALUS and PARTHENIA.

{376}

Then with eyes full of tears, and mouths full of her praises, returned they to the camp, with more and more hate against Amphialus, who, poor gentleman, had therefore greater portion of woe than any of them. For that courteous heart, which would have grieved but to have heard the like adventure, was rent with remembering himself to be the author; so that his wisdom could not so far temper his passion, but that he took his sword, counted the best in the world (which with much blood he had once conquered of a mighty giant) and broke it into many pieces, which afterwards he had good cause to repent, saying, that neither it was worthy to serve the noble exercise of chivalry, nor any other worthy to feel that sword, which had stricken so excellent a lady; and withal, banishing all cheerfulness of his countenance he returned home: where he got him to his bed, not so much to rest his restless mind, as to avoid all company; the sight whereof was tedious unto him. And then melancholy, only rich in unfortunate remembrances, brought before him all the mishaps with which his life had wrestled: taking this, not only as a confirming of the former, but a presage of following misery, and to his heart, already overcome by sorrowfulness, even trifling misfortunes came, to fill up the roll of a grieved memory, labouring only his wits to pierce further and further into his own wretchedness. So as all that night, in despite of darkness, he held his eyes open; and in the morning, when the light began to restore to each body his colour, then with curtains barred he himself from the enjoying of it; neither willing to feel the comfort of the day, nor the ease of the night, until his mother (who never knew what love meant, but only to him-ward) came to his bedside, and beginning with loving earnestness to lay a kind chiding upon him, because he would suffer the weakness of sorrow to conquer the strength of his virtues; he did with a broken piecemeal speech, as if the tempest of passion unorderly blew out his words, remember the mishaps of his youth, the evils he had been the cause of, his rebelling with shame, and that shame increased with shameful accidents, the deaths of Philoxenus and Parthenia, wherein he found himself hated of the ever-ruling powers, but especially (and so especially, as the rest seemed nothing when he came to that) his fatal love to Philoclea: to whom he had so governed himself as one that could neither conquer, nor yield; being of the one side a slave, and of the other a jailor: and withal almost upbraiding unto his mother the little success of her large hoping promises, he in effect finding Philoclea nothing mollified, and now himself, so cast down as he thought himself unworthy of better. But his mother, as she had plentiful cause, making him see that of his other griefs there was little or no fault in {377} himself, and therefore there ought to be little or no grief in him; when she came to the head of the sore, indeed seeing that she could no longer patch up her former promises (he taking a desperate deafness to all delaying hopes) she confessed plainly that she could prevail nothing: but the fault was his own, who had marred the young girl by seeking to have that by prayer, which he should have taken by authority. That it were an absurd cunning to make high ladders to go in a plain way; so was it an untimely and foolish flattery, there to beseech, where one might command, puffing them up by being besought, with such a self-pride of superiority, that it was not, forsooth, to be held out but by denial. “O God,” said Amphialus, “how well I thought my fortune would bring forth this end of your labours? assure yourself, mother, I will sooner pull out these eyes, than they should look upon the heavenly Philoclea, but as upon a heaven whence they have their light, and to which they are subject. If they will pour down any influences of comfort: O happy I: but if by the sacrifice of a faithful heart, they will not be called unto me, let me languish and wither with languishing, and grieve with withering, but never so much as repine with never so much grieving. Mother, O Mother, lust may well be a tyrant, but true love where it is indeed, it is a servant. Accursed more than I am, may I be, if ever I did approach her, but that I freezed as much in a fearful reverence, as I burned in a vehement desire. Did ever man’s eye look through love upon the majesty of virtue, shining through beauty, but that he became, as it well became him, a captive? and it is the style of the captive to write, ‘Our will and pleasure?’”

“Tush, tush, son,” said Cecropia, “if you say you love, but withal you fear, you fear lest you should offend. Offend? and how know you that you should offend? because she doth deny. Deny? now by my truth, if your sadness would let me laugh, I could laugh heartily to see that you are ignorant, that ‘No’ is no Negative in a woman’s mouth. My son, believe me, a woman speaking of women; a lover’s modesty among us is much more praised, than liked: or if we like it, so well we like it, that for marring of his modesty, he shall never proceed further. Each virtue hath his time: if you command your soldier to march foremost, and he for courtesy put others before him, would you praise his modesty? love is your general, he bids you dare, and will Amphialus be a dastard? let example serve: do you think Theseus should ever have gotten Antiope with sighing and crossing his arms? he ravished her, and ravished her that was an Amazon, and therefore had gotten a habit of stoutness above the nature of a woman: but having ravished her, he got a child of her. And I say no {378} more, but that, they say, is not gotten without consent on both sides. Iole had her own father killed by Hercules, and herself ravished, by force ravished, and yet ere long this ravished and unfathered lady could sportfully put on the lion’s skin upon her own fair shoulders, and play with the club with her own delicate hands: so easily had she pardoned the ravisher, that she could not but delight in those weapons of ravishing. But above all mark Helen, daughter to Jupiter, who could never brook her mannerly-wooing Menelaus, but disdained his humbleness, and loathed his softness. But so well she could like the force of enforcing Paris, that for him she could abide what might be abidden. But what? Menelaus takes heart, he recovers her by force, by force carries her home, by force enjoys her; and she who would never like him for serviceableness, ever after loved him for violence. For what can be more agreeable than upon force to lay the fault of desire, and in one instant to join a dear delight with a just excuse? or rather the true cause is (pardon me, O woman-kind, for revealing to mine own son the truth of this mystery) we think there wants fire, where we find no sparkles, at least of fury. Truly I have known a great lady, long sought by most great, most wise, most beautiful, and most valiant persons, never won, because they did over-superstitiously solicit her: the same lady brought under by another, inferior to all them in all those qualities, only because he could use that imperious masterfulness which nature gives to men above women. For indeed, son, I confess unto you, in our very creation we are servants: and who prayeth his servants, shall never be well obeyed: but as a ready horse straight yields when he finds one that will make him yield, the same falls to bounds when feels a fearful horseman. Awake thy spirits, good Amphialus, and assure thyself, that though she refuseth, she refuseth but to endear the obtaining. If she weep, and chide, and protest before it be gotten, she can but weep, and chide, and protest, when it is gotten. Think, she would not strive, but that she means to try thy force; and my Amphialus, know thyself a man, and show thyself a man; and, believe me upon my word, a woman is a woman.”

Amphialus was about to answer her, when a gentleman of his made him understand that there was a messenger come, who had brought a letter unto him from out of the camp: whom he presently calling for, took, opened, and read the letter, importing this.

To thee Amphialus of Arcadia, the forsaken knight wisheth health and courage, that by my hand thou mayest receive punishment for thy treason, according to thine own offer, which wickedly occasioned, thou hast proudly begun, and accursedly maintained. I will {379} presently (if thy mind faint thee not for his own guiltiness) meet thee in thy island, in such order, as hath by the former been used: or if thou likest not the time, place, or weapon, I am ready to take thy own reasonable choice in any of them, so as thou do perform the substance. Make me such answer as may show that thou hast some taste of honour: and so I leave thee, to live till I meet thee.

Amphialus read it, and with a deep sigh (according to the humour of inward affliction) seemed even to condemn himself, as though indeed his reproaches were true. But howsoever the dullness of melancholy would have languishingly yielded thereunto, his courage, unused to such injuries, desired help of anger to make him this answer.

Forsaken knight, though your nameless challenge might carry in itself excuse for a man of my birth and estate, yet herein set your heart at rest, you shall not be forsaken. I will, without stay, answer you in the wonted manner, and come both armed in your foolish threatenings, and yet the more fearless, expecting weak blows, where I find so strong words. You shall not therefore long attend me in the island, before proof teach you, that of my life you have made yourself too large a promise. In the meantime, farewell.

This being written, and delivered, the messenger told him that his lord would, if he liked the same, bring two knights with him to be his patrons. Which Amphialus accepted, and withal shaking off, with resolution, his mother’s importunate persuasions, he furnished himself for the fight, but not in his wonted furniture. For now, as if he would turn his inside outward, he would needs appear all in black; his decking both for himself, and horse, being cut out into the fashion of very rags: yet all so daintily joined together with precious stones, as it was a brave raggedness, and a rich poverty: and so cunningly had the workman followed his humour in his armour, that he had given it a rusty show, and yet so that any man might perceive was by art, and not negligence; carrying at one instant a disgraced handsomeness, and a new oldness. In his shield he bare for his device, a Night, by an excellent painter, excellently painted, with a sun with a shadow, and upon the shadow a speech signifying, that it only was barred from enjoying that, whereof it had his life? or “From whose I am, banished.” In his crest he carried Philoclea’s knives, the only token of her forced favour.

So passed he over into the island, taking with him the two brothers of Anaxius, where he found the forsaken knight attired in his own livery, as black as sorrow itself could see itself in the blackest glass: his ornaments of the same hue, but formed into the figures of ravens, which seemed to gape for carrion: only his {380} reins were snakes, which finely wrapping themselves one within the other, their heads came together to the cheeks and bosses of the bit, where they might seem to bite at the horse, and the horse, as he champed the bit, to bite at them, and that the white foam was engendered by the poisonous fury of the combat. His impresa was a Catoblepa[b3-06], which so long lies dead, as the moon, whereto it hath so natural a sympathy, wants her light. The word signified, that the moon wanted not the light, but the poor beast wanted the moon’s light. He had in his headpiece, a whip to witness a self-punishing repentance. Their very horses were coal black too, not having so much as one star to give light to their night of blackness: so as one would have thought they had been the two sons of sorrow and were come hither to fight for their birthright in that sorry inheritance.

Which alliance of passions so moved Amphialus, already tender minded by the afflictions of love, that without staff or sword drawn, he trotted fairly to the forsaken knight, willing to have put off this combat, to which his melancholy heart did, more than ever in like occasion, misgive him: and therefore saluting him, “Good knight,” said he, “because we are men, and should know reason why we do things, tell me the cause, that makes you thus eager to fight with me.” “Because I affirm,” answered the forsaken knight, “that thou dost most rebellious injury to these ladies to whom all men owe service.” “You shall not fight with me,” said Amphialus, “upon the quarrel: for I confess the same too: but it proceeds from their own beauty, to enforce love to offer this force.” “I maintain then,” said the forsaken knight, “that thou art not worthy so to love.” “And that I confess too,” said Amphialus, “since the world is not so richly blessed, as to bring forth anything worthy thereof. But no more unworthy than any other, since in none can be a more worthy love.” “Yes, more unworthy than myself,” said the forsaken knight, “for though I deserve contempt, thou deservest both contempt and hatred.”

But Amphialus by that thinking, though wrongly, each indeed mistaking other, that he was his rival, forgot all mind of reconciliation, and having all his thoughts bound up in choler, never staying either judge, trumpet, or his own lance, drew out his sword, and saying, “Thou liest, false villain,” unto him, his words and blows came so quick together, as the one seemed a lightning of the other’s thunder. But he found no barren ground of such seed: for it yielded him his own with such increase, that though reason and amazement go rarely together, yet the most reasonable eyes that saw it, found reason to be amazed at the fury of their combat. Never game of death better played; never fury set itself forth in {381} greater bravery. The courteous Vulcan, when he wrought at his more courteous wife’s request Aeneas an armour, made not his hammer beget a greater sound than the swords of these noble knights did: they needed no fire to their forge, for they made the fire to shine at the meeting of their swords and armours, each side fetching still new spirit from the castle window, and careful of keeping their sight that way as a matter of greater consideration in their combat, than either the advantage of sun or wind; which sun and wind, if the astonished eyes of the beholders were not by the astonishment deceived, did both stand still to be beholders of this rare match. For neither could their amazed eyes discern motion of the sun, and no breath of wind stirred, as if either for fear it would not come among such blows, or with delight had eyes so busy, as it had forgot to open his mouth. This fight being the more cruel, since both love and hatred conspired to sharpen their humours, that hard it was to say whether love with one trumpet, or hatred with another, gave the louder alarm to their courages. Spite, rage, disdain, shame, revenge, came waiting upon hatred: of the other side came with love, longing desire, both invincible hope, and fearless despair, with rival-like jealousy, which, although brought up within doors in the school of Cupid, should show themselves no less forward than the other dusty band of Mars, to make themselves notable in the notableness of this combat. Of either side confidence, unacquainted with loss, but assuring trust to overcome, and good experience how to overcome: now seconding their terrible blows with cunning labouring the horses to win ground of the enemy; now unlooked-for parting one from the other to win advantages by an advantageous return. But force against force, skill against skill, so interchangeably encountered that it was not easy to determine whether enterprising, or preventing came former: both sometimes at one instant, doing and suffering wrong, and choler no less rising of the doing than of the suffering. But as the fire, the more fuel is put to it, the more hungry still it is to devour more, so the more they struck, the more unsatisfied they were with striking. Their very armour by piecemeal fell away from them; and yet their flesh abode the wounds constantly, as though it were less sensible of smart, than the senseless armour: their blood in most places staining their black colour, as if it would give a more lively colour of mourning than black can do. And so long a space they fought, while neither virtue nor fortune seemed partial of either side: which so tormented the unquiet heart of Amphialus, that he resolved to see a quick end: and therefore with the violence of courage, adding strength to his blow, he struck in such wise upon the side of the other’s head that his remembrance left that battered lodging, so that he was quite from himself, casting his {382} arms abroad, and ready to fall down; his sword likewise went out of his hand, but that being fast by a chain to his arm, he could not lose. And Amphialus used the favour of occasion, redoubling his blows: but the horse, weary to be beaten, as well as the master, carried his master away, till he came unto himself. But then who could have seen him, might well have discerned shame in his cheeks, and revenge in his eyes: so that setting his teeth together with rage, he came running upon Amphialus, reaching out his arm, which had gathered up his sword, meaning with that blow to have cleaved Amphialus in two. But Amphialus, seeing the blow coming, shunned it with nimble turning his horse aside; wherewith the forsaken knight overstrake himself, so as almost he came down with his own strength: but the more hungry of his purpose, the more he was barred the food of it: disdaining the resistance, both of force and fortune, he returned upon the spur again, and ran with such violence upon Amphialus that his horse with the force of the shock rose up before, almost overturned: which Amphialus perceiving, with rein and spur put forth his horse, and withal gave a mighty blow in the descent of his horse, upon the shoulder of the forsaken knight, from whence sliding, it fell upon the neck of his horse, so as horse and man fell to the ground: but he was scarce down before he was upon his feet again, with brave gesture showing rising of courage, in the falling of fortune. But the courteous Amphialus excused himself, for having, against his will, killed his horse. “Excuse thyself for viler faults,” answered the forsaken knight, “and use this poor advantage the best thou canst, for thou shalt quickly find thou hast need of more.” “Thy folly,” said Amphialus, “shall not make me forget myself:” and therefore, trotting a little aside, alighted from his horse, because he would not have fortune come to claim any part of the victory. Which courteous act would have mollified the noble heart of the forsaken knight, if any other had done it besides the jailor of his mistress; but that was a sufficient defeasance of the firmest bond of good nature; and therefore he was no sooner alighted but that he ran unto him, re-entering into as cruel a fight as eye did ever see, or thought could reasonably imagine; far beyond the reach of weak words to be able to express it. For what they had done on horseback, was but a morsel to keep their stomachs in appetite in comparison of that which now (being themselves) they did. Nor ever glutton by the change of dainty diet could be brought to fresh feeding, when he might have been satisfied before, with more earnestness, than those, by the change of their manner of fight, fell clean to a new fight, though any else would have thought they had their fill already. Amphialus being the taller man, for the most part stood with his right leg before, his shield at the uttermost {383} length of his arm; his sword high, but with the point towards his enemy. But when he struck, which came so thick, as if every blow would strive to be foremost, his arm seemed still a postilion of death. The forsaken knight showed with like skill, unlike gesture, keeping himself in continual motion, proportioning the distance between them to anything that Amphialus attempted; his eye guided his foot, and his foot conveyed his hand; and since nature had made him something the lower of the two, he made art follow, and not strive with nature; shunning rather than warding his blows; like a cunning mastiff who knows the sharpness of the horn and strength of the bull, fights low to get his proper advantage; answering mightiness with nimbleness, and yet at times employing his wonderful force, wherein he was second to none. In sum, the blows were strong, the thrusts thick, and the avoidings cunning. But the forsaken knight, that thought it a degree of being conquered to be long in conquering, struck him so mighty a blow, that he made Amphialus put knee to the ground, without any humbleness. But when he felt himself stricken down, and saw himself stricken down by his rival, then shame seemed one arm, and disdain another; fury in his eyes, and revenge in his heart; skill and force gave place and they took the place of skill and force, with so unweariable a manner that the forsaken knight was driven also to leave the stern of cunning, and gave himself wholly to be guided by the storm of fury: there being in both, because hate would not suffer admiration, extreme disdain to find themselves so matched.

“What,” said Amphialus to himself, “am I Amphialus, before whom so many monsters and giants have fallen dead, when I only sought causeless adventures? and can one knight now withstand me in the presence of Philoclea, and fighting for Philoclea, or since I lost my liberty, have I lost my courage, have I gotten the heart of a slave as well as the fortune? If an army were against me in the sight of Philoclea, could it resist me? O beast, one man resists thee: thy rival resists thee: or am I indeed Amphialus? have not passions killed him, and wretched I, I know not how, succeeded into his place?” Of the other side the forsaken knight with no less spite fell out with himself; “Hast thou broken,” said he to himself, “the commandment of thy only princess, to come now into her presence, and in her presence to prove thyself a coward? Doth Asia and Egypt set up trophies unto thee to be matched here by a traitor? O noble Barsanes, how shamed will thy soul be, that he that slew thee, should be resisted by this one man? O incomparable Pyrocles, more grieved wilt thou be with thy friend’s shame, than with thine own imprisonment, when thou shalt know how little I have been able to do for the delivery of thee, and these {384} heavenly princesses. Am I worthy to be friend to the most valorous prince that ever was entitled valorous, and show myself so weak a wretch? No, shamed Musidorus, worthy for nothing but to keep sheep, get thee a sheep-hook again, since thou canst use a sword no better.”

Thus at times did they, now with one thought, then with another, sharpen their over-sharp humours; like the lion that beats himself with his own tail, to make himself the more angry. These thoughts indeed not staying, but whetting their angry swords, which now had put on the apparel of cruelty: they bleeding so abundantly, that everybody that saw them, fainted for them, and yet they fainted not in themselves: their smart being more sensible to other eyes than to their own feeling. Wrath and courage barring the common sense from bringing any message of their case to the mind: pain, weariness, and weakness, not daring to make known their case, though already in the limits of death, in the presence of so violent fury: which filling the veins with rage instead of blood, and making the mind minister spirits to the body, a great while held out their fight, like an arrow shot upward by the force of the bow, though by his own nature he would go downward. The forsaken knight had the more wounds, but Amphialus had the sorer; which the other, watching time and place, had cunningly given unto him: who ever saw a well-manned galley fight with a tall ship, might make unto himself some kind of comparison of the difference of these two knights; a better couple than which the world could not brag of. Amphialus seemed to excel in strength, the forsaken knight in nimbleness; and yet did the one’s strength excel in nimbleness, and the other’s nimbleness excel in strength; but now strength and nimbleness were both gone, and excess of courage only maintained the fight. Three times had Amphialus, with his mighty blows driven the forsaken knight to go staggering backward, but every one of these times he requited pain with smart, and shame with repulse. And now whether he had cause, or that over-much confidence, an over-forward scholar of unconquered courage, made him think he had cause, he began to persuade himself he had the advantage of the combat though the advantage he took himself to have was only that he should be the later to die: which hope, hate, as unsecret as love, could not conceal, but drawing himself a little back from him, broke out in these manner of words.

“Ah Amphialus,” said the forsaken knight, “this third time thou shalt not escape me, but thy death shall satisfy thy injury and my malice, and pay for the cruelty thou showedst in killing the noble Argalus, and the fair Parthenia.” “In troth,” said Amphialus, “thou art the best knight that ever I fought withal, which would {385} make me willing to grant thee thy life, if thy wit were as good as thy courage; that, besides other follies, layest that to my charge, which most against my will was committed. But whether my death be in thy power, or no, let this tell thee;” and upon the word waited a blow, which parted his shield in two pieces; and despising the weak resistance of his already broken armour, made a great breach into his heart side, as if he would make a passage for his love to get out at.

But pain rather seemed to increase life, than to weaken life in these champions. For the forsaken knight coming in with his right leg, and making it guide the force of the blow, struck Amphialus upon the belly so horrible a wound, that his guts came out withal. Which Amphialus perceiving (fearing death, only because it should come with overthrow) he seemed to conjure all his strength for one moment’s service; and so lifting up his sword with both hands, hit the forsaken knight upon the head, a blow, wherewith his sword broke. But, as if it would do a notable service before it died, it prevailed so, even in the instant of breaking, that the forsaken knight fell to the ground, quite for that instant forgetting both love and hatred: and Amphialus (finding himself also in such weakness, as he looked for speedy death) glad of the victory, though little hoping to enjoy it, pulled up his vizor, meaning with his dagger to give him death; but instead of death, he gave him life: for the air so revived his spirits, that coming to himself, and seeing his present danger, with a life conquering death, he took Amphialus by the thigh, and together rose himself, and overturned him. But Amphialus scrambled up again, both now so weak indeed, as their motions rather seemed the after-drops of a storm, than any matter of great fury.

But Amphialus might repent himself of his wilful breaking his sword: for the forsaken knight (having with the extremity of justly-conceived hate, and the unpitifulness of his own near-threatening death, blotted out all compliments of courtesy) let fly at him so cruelly, that though the blows were weak, yet weakness upon a weakened subject, proved such strength, that Amphialus having attempted in vain once or twice to close with him, receiving wound upon wound, sent his whole burden to strike the earth with falling, since he could strike his foe no better in standing: giving no other tokens of himself, than as of a man even ready to take his oath to be death’s true servant.

Which when the hardy brothers of Anaxius perceived, not reckoning law of arms, nor use of chivalry, they flew in to defend their friend, or revenge their loss of him. But they were forthwith encountered with the two brave companions of the forsaken knight, whereof the one being all in green, both armour and furniture, it {386} seemed a pleasant garden, wherein grew orange trees; which with their golden fruits, cunningly beaten in and embroidered, greatly enriched the eye-pleasing colour of green. In his shield was a sheep feeding in a pleasant field, with this word, “Without fear or envy.” And therefore was called the knight of the sheep. The other knight was all in milk white, his attiring else all cut in stars, which made of cloth of silver, and silver spangles, each way seemed to cast many aspects. His device was the very pole itself, about which many stars stirring, but the place itself left void. The word was, “The best place yet reserved.” But these four knights inheriting the hate of their friends, began a most fierce combat: the forsaken knight himself not able to help his side, but was driven to sit him down, with the extreme faintness of his more and more fainting body. But these valiant couples seeking honour by dishonouring, and to build safety upon ruin, gave new appetites to the almost glutted eyes of the beholders; and now blood began to put sweat from the full possession of their outsides, no advantage being yet to be seen, only the knight of the sheep seeming most inclined to deliver, and effecting most of all that viewed him, when a company of soldiers sent by Cecropia, came out in boats to the island, and all came running to the destruction of the three knights, whereof one was utterly unable to defend himself.

But then did the other two knights show their wonderful courage and fidelity, for turning back to back, and both bestriding the black forsaken knight (who had fainted so long till he had lost the feeling of faintness) they held play against the rest, though the two brothers unknightly helped them; till Philanax, who watchfully attended such traitorous practices, sent likewise over, both by boat and swimming, so choice a number, as did put most of the others to the sword. Only the two brothers, with some of the bravest of them, carrying away the body of Amphialus, which they would rather have died, than have left behind them.

So was the forsaken knight, laid upon cloaks, carried home to the camp. But his two friends knowing his earnest desire not to be known, covering him from anybody’s eyes, conveyed him to their own tent: Basilius himself conquering his earnest desire to see him, with fear to displease him, who had fought so notably in his quarrel. But fame set the honour upon his back, which he would not suffer to shine in his face: no man’s mouth being barren of praises to the noble knight that had battered the most esteemed knight in the world; everybody praying for his life, and thinking that therein they prayed for themselves. But he himself, when by the diligent care of friends, and well-applied cunning of surgeons, he came to renew again the league between his mind and body; then fell he to a fresh war with his own thoughts, wrongfully {387} condemning his manhood, laying cowardice to himself, whom the impudentest backbiter would not have so wronged. For his courage (used to use victory as an inheritance) could brook no resistance at any time: but now that he had promised himself not only the conquest of him, but the scaling of the walls, and delivery of Pamela, though he had done beyond all others’ expectation, yet so short was he of his own, that he hated to look upon the sun that had seen him do so weakly: and so much abhorred all visitation or honour, whereof he thought himself unworthy, that he besought his two noble friends to carry him away to a castle not far off, where he might cure his wounds, and never be known till he made success excuse this, as he thought, want in him. They lovingly obeyed him, leaving Basilius and all the camp very sorry for the parting of these three unknown knights, in whose prowess they had reposed the greatest trust of victory.

But they being gone, Basilius and Philanax gave good order to the strengthening of the siege, fortifying themselves, so that they feared no more any such sudden onset, as that of Anaxius. And they within (by reason of Anaxius’s hurt, but especially of Amphialus’s) gave themselves only to a diligent watch and ward, making no sallies out, but committing the principal trust to Zoilus and Lycurgus. For Anaxius was yet forced to keep his chamber. And as for Amphialus, his body had such wounds, and he gave such wounds to his mind, as easily it could not be determined whether death or he made the greater haste one to the other: for when the diligent care of cunning surgeons had brought life to the possession of his own right, sorrow and shame, like two corrupted servants, came waiting of it, persuading nothing but the giving over of itself to destruction. They laid before his eyes his present case, painting every piece of it in most ugly colours: they showed him his love wrapped in despair, his fame blotted by overthrow; so that if before he languished, because he could not obtain his desiring, he now lamented, because he durst not desire the obtaining. “Recreant Amphialus,” would he say to himself, “how darest thou entitle thyself the lover of Philoclea, that hath neither showed thyself a faithful coward, or a valiant rebel, but both rebellious and cowardly, which no law can quit, nor grace have pity of? alas! life! what little pleasure thou dost me, to give me nothing but sense of reproach, and exercise of ruin? I would, sweet Philoclea, I had died, before thy eyes had seen my weakness: and then perchance with some sigh thou wouldst have confessed, thou hadst lost a worthy servant. But now, caitiff that I am, whatever I have done, serves but to build up my rival’s glory.”

To these speeches he would couple such gestures of vexation, and would fortify the gestures with such effects of fury, as sometimes {388} offering to tear up his wounds, sometimes to refuse the sustenance of meat, and council of physicians, that his perplexed mother was driven to make him by force to be tended, with extreme courtesy to herself, and annoyance to him: till in the end he was contented to promise her he would attempt no violence upon himself, upon condition he might be troubled by nobody but only his physicians: his melancholy detesting all company, so that the very surgeons nor servants durst speak unto him in doing him service; only he had prayed his mother, as she tendered his life, she would procure him grace, and that without that she would never come at him more.

His mother, who had confined all her love only unto him, set only such about him as were absolutely at her commandment, whom she forbade to let him know anything that passed in the castle, till his wounds were cured, but as she from time to time should instruct them: she, for herself, being resolved, now she had the government of all things in her own hands, to satisfy her son’s love by their yielding, or satisfy her own revenge in their punishment. Yet first, because she would be the freer from outward force, she sent a messenger to the camp to denounce unto Basilius, that if he did not presently raise his siege, she would cause the heads of the three ladies, prisoners, to be cut off before his eyes. And to make him the more fear a present performance, she caused his two daughters and Zelmane to be led unto the walls, where she had made a scaffold, easy to be seen by Basilius: and there caused them to be kept, as ready for the slaughter, till answer came from Basilius. A sight full of pity it was, to see these three (all excelling in all those excellencies, wherewith nature can beautify anybody: Pamela giving sweetness to majesty; Philoclea enriching nobleness with humbleness, Zelmane setting in womanly beauty manlike valour) to be thus subjected to the basest injury of unjust fortune. One might see in Pamela a willingness to die, rather than to have life at other’s discretion; though sometimes a princely disdain would sparkle out of her princely eyes, that it should be in other’s power to force her to die. In Philoclea a pretty fear came up, to endamask her rosy cheeks: but it was such a fear, as rather seemed a kindly child to her innate humbleness, than any other dismayedness: or if she were dismayed, it was more for Zelmane, than for herself; or if more for herself, it was because Zelmane should lose her. As for Zelmane, as she went with her hands bound (for they durst not adventure on her well-known valour, especially among a people, which perchance might be moved by such a spectacle to some revolt) she was the true image of overmastered courage, and of spite, that sees no remedy. For her breast swelled withal, the blood burst out at her {389} nose, and she looked paler than accustomed, with her eyes cast upon the ground, with such a grace, as if she were fallen out with the heavens, for suffering such an injury. The lookers on were so moved withal, as they misliked what themselves did, and yet still did what themselves misliked. For some glad to rid themselves of the dangerous annoyances of this siege, some willing to shorten the way to Amphialus’s succession, whereon they were dependants, some, and the greatest some, doing because others did, and suffering because none durst begin to hinder, did in this sort set their hands to this, in their own conscience, wicked enterprise.

But when this message was brought to Basilius, and that this pitiful preparation was a sufficient letter of credit for him to believe it, he called unto him his chief counsellors: among which, those he chiefly trusted were Philanax and Kalander, lately come to the camp at Basilius’s commandment, and in himself weary of his solitary life, wanting his son’s presence, and never having heard from his beloved guests since they departed from him. Now in this doubt what he should do, he willed Kalander to give him his advice: who spoke much to this purpose. “You command me, Sir,” said he, “to speak, rather because you will keep your wonted grave and noble manner, to do nothing of importance without counsel, than that in this cause, which indeed hath but one way, your mind needs to have any counsel: so that my speech shall rather be to confirm what you have already determined, than to argue against any possibility of other determination. For what sophistical scholar can find any question in this, whether you will have your incomparable daughters live or die? whether since you be here to cause their deliverance, you will make your being here the cause of their destruction? for nothing can be more insensible than to think what one doth, and to forget the end why it is done. Do therefore as I am sure you mean to do, remove the siege, and after seek by practice, or other gentle means, to recover that which by force you cannot: and therefore is indeed, when it pleaseth you, more counsel to be taken. Once, in extremities the winning of time is the purchase of life, and worse by no means than their deaths can befall unto you. A man might use more words, if it were to any purpose to gild gold, or that I had any cause to doubt of your mind: but you are wise, and are a father.” He said no more, for he durst not attempt to persuade the marrying of his daughter to Amphialus, but left that to bring in at another consultation. But Basilius made sign to Philanax, who standing a while in a maze as inwardly perplexed, at last thus delivered his opinion.

“If ever I could wish my faith untried, and my counsel untrusted, it should be at this time, when in truth I must confess I would be {390} content to purchase silence with discredit. But since you command, I obey: only let me say thus much, that I obey not to these excellent ladies’ father, but to my prince: and a prince it is to whom I give counsel. Therefore as to a prince I say, that the grave, and, I well know, true-minded counsel of my Lord Kalander had come in good time when you first took arms, before all your subjects got notice of your intention, before so much blood was spent, and before they were driven to seek this shift for their last remedy. But if now, this force you away, why did you take arms, since you might be sure when ever they were in extremity they would have recourse to this threatening? and for a wise man to take in hand that which his enemy may with a word overthrow, hath in my conceit great incongruity, and as great, not to forethink what his enemy in reason will do. But they threaten they will kill your daughters. What if they promised you, if you removed your siege, they would honourably send home your daughters? would you be angry at their promises? truly no more ought you to be terrified by their threatenings. For yet of the two, promise binds faith more than threatening. But indeed a prince of judgment ought not to consider what his enemies promise, or threaten, but what the promisers and threateners in reason will do; and the nearest conjecture thereunto, is what is best for their own behoof to do. They threaten, if you remove not, they will kill your daughters: and if you do remove, what surety have you but that they will kill them? since if the purpose be to cut off all impediments of Amphialus’s ambition, the same cause will continue when you are away; and so much the more encouraged, as the revenging power is absent, and they have the more opportunity to draw their factious friends about them; but if it be for their security only, the same cause will bring forth the same effects: and for their security they will preserve them. But it may be said, no man knows what desperate folks will do; it is true, and as true that no reason nor policy can prevent what desperate folks will do: and therefore they are among those dangers, which wisdom is not to reckon. Only let it suffice to take away their despair, which may be by granting pardon for what is past; so that the ladies may be freely delivered. And let them that are your subjects trust you that are their prince; do not you subject yourself to trust them, who are so untrusty as to be manifest traitors. For if they find you so base-minded, as by their threatening to remove your force, what indignity is it, that they would not bring you unto still by the same threatening? since then if love stir them, love will keep them from murdering what they love: and if ambition provoke them, ambitious they will be when you are away, as well as while you are here: take not away your force, which bars not the one, and bridles the {391} other. For as for their shows and words, they are but fear-babes, not worthy once to move a worthy man’s conceit, which must still consider what in reason they are like to do. Their despair, I grant, you shall do well to prevent: which as it is the last of all resolutions, so no man falls into it, while so good a way as you may offer, is open unto them. In sum, you are a prince, and a father of people, who ought with the eye of wisdom, the hand of fortitude, and the heart of justice, to set down all private conceits, in comparison of what for the public is profitable.”

He would have proceeded on, when Gynecia came running in amazed for her daughter Pamela, but mad for Zelmane: and falling at Basilius’s feet, besought him to make no delay, using such gestures of compassion instead of stopped words, that Basilius, otherwise enough tender-minded, easily granted to raise the siege, which he saw dangerous to his daughters; but indeed more careful for Zelmane, by whose besieged person the poor old man was straightly besieged: so as to rid him of the famine of his mind, he went in speed away, discharging his soldiers: only leaving the authority, as before, in Philanax’s hands, he himself went with Gynecia to a strong castle of his, where he took counsel how first to deliver Zelmane, whom he called the poor stranger, as though only law of hospitality moved him; and for that purpose sent divers messengers to traffic with Cecropia.

But she by this means rid of the present danger of the siege, desiring Zoilus and Lycurgus to take the care, till their brother recovered, of revictualling and furnishing the city, both with men and what else wanted, against any new occasion should urge them, she herself disdaining to hearken to Basilius, without he would grant his daughter in marriage to her son, which by no means he would be brought unto, bent all the sharpness of her malicious wit, how to bring a comfortable grant to her son, whereupon she well found no less than his life depended. Therefore for a while she attempted all means of eloquent praying, and flattering persuasions, mingling sometimes gifts, sometimes threatenings, as she had cause to hope, that either open force or undermining would best win the castle of their resolution. And ever as much as she did to Philoclea, so much did she to Pamela, though in manner sometimes differing, as she found fit to level at the one’s noble height, and the other’s sweet lowliness. For though she knew her son’s heart had wholly given itself to Philoclea, yet seeing the equal gifts in Pamela, she hoped a fair grant would recover the sorrow of a fair refusal; cruelly intending the present impoisoning the one, as soon as the other’s affection were purchased.

But in vain were all her vain oratory employed. Pamela’s determination was built upon so brave a rock that no shot of hers {392} could reach unto it: and Philoclea, though humbly seated, was so environed with sweet rivers of clear virtue, as could neither be battered nor undermined: her witty persuasions had wise answers; her eloquence recompensed with sweetness; her threatenings repelled with disdain in the one, and patience in the other; her gifts either not accepted, or accepted to obey, but not to bind. So as Cecropia in nature violent, cruel, because ambitious; hateful, for old rooted grudge to their mother, and now spiteful, because she could not prevail with girls, as she counted them: lastly, drawn on by her love to her son, and held up by a tyrannical authority, forthwith followed the bias of her own crooked disposition, and doubling and redoubling her threatenings, fell to confirm some of her threatened effects; first withdrawing all comfort both of servants and service from them. But that these excellent ladies had been used unto, even at home, and then found in themselves how much good the hardness of education doth to the resistance of misery. Then dishonourably using them both in diet and lodging, by a contempt to pull down their thoughts to yielding. But as before, the consideration of a prison had disgraced all ornaments, so now the same consideration made them attend all diseasefulness. Then still as she found those not prevail, would she go forward with giving them terrors, sometimes with noise of horror, sometimes with sudden frightings in the night, when the solitary darkness thereof might easier astonish the disarmed senses. But as all virtue and love resisted, strengthened one by the other, when each found itself over vehemently assaulted; Cecropia still sweetening her fierceness with fair promises, if they would promise fair, that feeling evil, and seeing a way far better, their minds might the sooner be mollified. But they that could not taste her behaviour, when it was pleasing indeed, could worse now, when they had lost all taste by her injuries.

She resolving all extremities rather than fail of conquest, pursued on her rugged way; letting no day pass without new and new perplexing the poor ladies’ minds, and troubling their bodies; and still swelling the more she was stopped, and growing hot with her own doings; at length abominable rage carried her to absolute tyrannies; so that taking with her certain old women, of wicked dispositions, and apt for envy’s sake to be cruel to youth and beauty, with a countenance impoisoned with malice, flew to the sweet Philoclea, as if so many kites should come about a white dove, and matching violent gestures with mischievous threatenings, she having a rod in her hand, like a fury that should carry wood to the burning of Diana’s temple, fell to scourge that most beautiful body: love in vain holding the shield of beauty against her blind {393} cruelty. The sun drew clouds up to hide his face from so pitiful a sight, and the very stone wall did yield drops of sweat for agony of such a mischief: each senseless thing had sense of pity, only they that had sense were senseless. Virtue rarely found her worldly weakness more, than by the oppression of that day: and weeping Cupid told his weeping mother, that he was sorry he was not deaf as well as blind, that he might never know so lamentable a work. Philoclea, with tearful eyes and sobbing breast, as soon as her weariness rather than compassion gave her respite, kneeled down to Cecropia, and making pity in her face honourable, and torment delightful, besought her since she hated her, for what cause she took God to witness she knew not, that she would at once take away her life, and not please herself with the tormenting of a poor gentlewoman. “If,” said she, “the common course of humanity cannot move you, nor the having me in your own walls cannot claim pity, nor womanly mercy, nor near alliance, nor remembrance, how miserable soever now, that I am a prince’s daughter, yet let the love, you have often told me, your son bears me, so much procure, that for his sake one death may be thought enough for me. I have not lived so many years but that one death may be able to conclude them. Neither have my faults I hope, been so many, but that one death may satisfy them. It is no great suit to an enemy, when but death is desired. I crave but that. As for the granting your request, know for certain you lose your labours, being every day further off minded from becoming his wife, who useth me like a slave.”

But that, instead of getting grace, renewed again Cecropia’s fury; so that, excellent creature, she was newly again tormented by these hellish monsters: Cecropia using no other words, but that she was a proud and ungrateful wench, and that she would teach her to know her own good, since of herself she would not conceive it. So that with silence and patience (like a fair gorgeous armour, hammered upon by an ill-favoured smith) she abode her pitiless dealing with her; till rather reserving her for more, than meaning to end, they left her to an uncomfortable leisure, to consider with herself her fortune; both helpless, herself being a prisoner; and hopeless, since Zelmane was a prisoner; who therein only was short of the bottom of misery, that she knew not how unworthily her angel, by these devils, were abused: but wanted, God wot, no stings of grief when those words did but strike upon her heart, that Philoclea was a captive, and she not able to succour her. For well she knew the confidence Philoclea had in her, and well she knew Philoclea had cause to have confidence, and all trodden under foot by the wheel of senseless fortune. Yet if there be that imperious power in the soul, that {394} it can deliver knowledge to another without bodily organs; so vehement were the working of their spirits, that one met with the other, though themselves perceived it not, but only thought it to be the doubling of their own loving fancies. And that was the only worldly thing whereon Philoclea rested her mind, that she knew she should die beloved of Zelmane, and would die rather than to be false to Zelmane. And so this most dainty nymph, easing the pain of her mind with thinking of another’s pain; and almost forgetting the pain of her body, through the pain of her mind, she wasted even longing for the conclusion of her tedious tragedy.

But for a while she was unvisited, Cecropia employing her time in using the like cruelty upon Pamela, her heart growing not only to desire the fruit of punishing them, but even to delight in the punishing them. But if ever the beams of perfection shined through the clouds of affliction, if ever virtue took a body to show his (else-unconceivable) beauty, it was in Pamela. For when reason taught her there was no resistance, for to just resistance first her heart was inclined, then with so heavenly a quietness, and so graceful a calmness, did she suffer the divers kinds of torments she used to her, that while they vexed her fair body, it seemed that she rather directed than obeyed the vexation. And when Cecropia ended, and asked whether her heart would yield, she a little smiled, but such a smiling as showed no love, and yet could not but be lovely. “And then, beastly woman,” said she, “follow on, do what thou wilt and canst upon me: for I know thy power is not unlimited. Thou mayest well wreck this silly body, but thou canst never overthrow. For my part I will not do thee the pleasure to desire death of thee: but assure thyself, both my life and death shall triumph with honour, laying shame upon thy detestable tyranny.”

And so, in effect, conquering their doing with her suffering, while Cecropia tried as many sorts of pains, that might rather vex them than spoil them (for that she would not do while she was in any hope to win either of them for her son) Pamela remained almost as much content with trial in herself, what virtue could do, as grieved with the misery wherein she found herself plunged; only sometimes her thoughts softened in her, when with open wings they flew to Musidorus. For then she would think with herself, how grievously Musidorus would take this her misery; and she that wept not for herself, wept yet Musidorus’s tears which he would weep for her. For gentle love did easier yield to lamentation, than the constancy of virtue would else admit. Then would she remember the case wherein she had left her poor shepherd, and she that wished death for herself, feared death for him; and she that condemned in herself the feebleness of sorrow, {395} yet thought it great reason to be sorry for his sorrow: and she that long had prayed for the virtuous joining themselves together, now thinking to die herself, heartily prayed that long time their fortunes might be separated. “Live long, my Musidorus,” would she say, “and let my name live in thy mouth, in thy heart my memory. Live long, that thou mayest love long the chaste love of thy dead Pamela.” Then she would wish to herself that no other woman might ever possess his heart: and yet scarcely the wish was made a wish, when herself would find fault with it, as being too unjust that so excellent a man should be banished from the comfort of life. Then would she fortify her resolution, with bethinking the worst, taking the counsel of virtue, and comfort of love.

So these diamonds of the world, whom nature had made to be preciously set in the eyes of men, to be the chief works of her workmanship, the chief ornaments of the world, and princesses of felicity, by rebellious injury were brought to the uttermost distress that an enemy’s heart could wish, or a woman’s spite invent: Cecropia daily in one or other sort punishing them, still with her evil torments giving them fear of worse, making the fear itself the sorest torment of all, that in the end, weary of their bodies, they should be content to bestow them at her appointment.

But, as in labour, the more one doth exercise it, the more by the doing one is enabled to do, strength growing upon the work; so that what at first would have seemed impossible, after grows easy; so these princesses, second to none, and far from any second, only to be matched by themselves, with the use of suffering, their minds got the habit of suffering so that all fears and terrors were to them but summons to a battle, whereof they knew beforehand they should be victorious, and which in the suffering was painful, being suffered was a trophy to itself; whereby Cecropia found herself still further off: for whereat first she might perchance have persuaded them to have visited her son, and have given him some comfort in his sickness, drawing near to the confines of death’s kingdom, now they protested that they would never otherwise speak to him than as to the enemy of most unjust cruelty towards them, that any time or place could ever make them know.

This made the poison swell in her cankered breast, perceiving that, as in water, the more she grasped the less she held; but yet now having run so long the way of rigour, it was too late in reason, and too contrary to her passion to return to a course of meekness. And therefore, taking counsel of one of her old associates (who so far excelled in wickedness, as that she had not only lost all feeling of conscience, but had gotten a very glory in evil) in the end they determined, that beating, and other such sharp dealing, did not so {396} much pull down a woman’s heart as it bred anger, and that nothing was more enemy to yielding than anger; making their tender hearts take on the armour of obstinacy: for thus did their wicked minds, blind to the light of virtue, and owly-eyed in the night of wickedness, interpret it; and that therefore was no more to be tried. And for fear of death (which no question would do most with them) they had been so often threatened, as they began to be familiarly acquainted with it, and learned to esteem threatening words to be but words. Therefore the last, but the best way now was, that the one seeing indeed the other’s death, should perceive there was no dallying meant: and then there was no doubt, that a woman’s soul would do so much, rather than leave so beautiful a body.

This being concluded, Cecropia went to Philoclea and told her that now she was to come to the last part of the play, for her part though she found her hard-hearted obstinacy such that neither the sweetness of loving means, nor the force of hard means could prevail with her, yet before she would pass to a further degree of extremity, she had sought to win her sister; in hopes that her son might be in time satisfied with the love of so fair a lady; but finding her also rather more than less wilful, she was now minded that one of their deaths should serve for an example to the other, that despising worthy folks, was more hurtful to the despiser than the despised: that yet because her son especially affected her, and that in her own self she was more inclinable to pity her than she had deserved, she would begin with her sister, who that afternoon should have her head cut off before her face; if in the meantime one of them did not pull out their ill-wrought stitches of unkindness, she bade her look for no other, nor longer time than she told her. There was no assault given to the sweet Philoclea’s mind, that entered so far, as this: for where to all pains and dangers of herself, foresight, with his lieutenant resolution, had made ready defence, now with the love she bare her sister, she was driven to a stay, before she determined: but long she stayed not, before this reason did shine unto her, that since in herself she preferred death before such a base servitude, love did teach her to wish the same to her sister. Therefore crossing her arms, and looking sideward upon the ground, “Do what you will,” said she, “with us: for my part heaven shall melt before I be removed. But if you will follow my counsel, for your own sake (for as for prayers for my sake I have felt how little they prevail) let my death first serve for example to win her, who perchance is not so resolved against Amphialus, and so shall you not only justly punish me, who indeed do hate both you and your son, but, if that may move you, you shall do more virtuously in preserving one most worthy of life, and {397} killing another most desirous of death: lastly, in winning her, instead of peevish unhappy creature that I am, you shall bless your son with the most excellent woman in all praiseworthy things, that the world holdeth.” But Cecropia, who had already set down to herself what she would do, both with bitter terms and countenance, told her, that she should not need to woo death over-eagerly: for if her sister going before her did not teach her wit, herself should quickly follow.

For since they were not to be gotten, there was no way for her son’s quiet, but to know that they were past getting. And so since no entreating, nor threatening might prevail, she bade her prepare her eyes for a new play, which she should see within a few hours in the hall of that castle.

A place indeed over-fit for so unfit a matter: for being so stately made, that the bottom of it being even with the ground, the roof reached as high as any part of the castle, at either end it had convenient lodgings. In the one end was, one storey from the ground, Philoclea’s abode; in the other of even height, Pamela’s, and Zelmane’s in a chamber above her; but also vaulted of strong and thick built stone, as one could no way hear the other, each of these chambers had a little window to look into the hall, but because the sisters should not have so much comfort, as to look one to the other, there was, of the outsides, curtains drawn, which they could not reach with their hands, so barring the reach of their sight. But when the hour came that the tragedy should begin, and the curtains were withdrawn from before the windows of Zelmane and Philoclea: a sufficient challenge to call their eyes to defend themselves in such an encounter. And by and by came in at one end of the hall, with about a dozen armed soldiers, a lady, led by a couple, with her hands bound before her: from above her eyes to her lips muffled with a fair handkerchief, but from her mouth to her shoulders all bare: and so was led on to a scaffold raised a good deal from the floor, and all covered with crimson velvet. But neither Zelmane, nor Philoclea needed to be told who she was: for the apparel she wore, made them too well assured that it was the admirable Pamela. Whereunto the rare whiteness of her naked neck gave sufficient testimony to their astonished senses. But the fair lady being come to the scaffold, and then made to kneel down, and so left by her unkind supporters, as it seemed that she was about to speak somewhat (whereunto Philoclea, poor soul, earnestly listened, according to her speech, even minding to frame her mind, her heart never till then almost wavering to save her sister’s life) before the unfortunate lady could pronounce three words, the executioner cut off the one’s speech, and the other’s attention, with making his sword do his cruel office upon that {398} beautiful neck. Yet the pitiless sword had such pity of so precious an object, that at first it did but hit flat-long. But that little availed, 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 this was done so in an instant, that the very act did over-run Philoclea’s sorrow (sorrow not being able so quickly to thunderbolt her heart through her senses, but first only oppressed her with a storm of amazement) but when her eyes saw that they did see, as condemning themselves to have seen it, they became weary of their own power of seeing, and her soul then drinking up woe with great draughts, she fell down to deadly trances: but her waiting jailors with cruel pity brought loathed life unto her; which yet many times took his leave, as though he would indeed depart: but when he was stayed by force, he kept with him deadly sorrow, which thus exercised her mourning speech: “Pamela, my sister, my sister, Pamela, woe is me for thee, I would I had died for thee. Pamela never more shall I see thee; never more shall I enjoy thy sweet company, and wise counsel. Alas! thou art gone to a beautiful heaven, and hast left me here, who have nothing good in me, but that I did ever love thee, and ever will lament thee. Let this day be noted of all virtuous folks for most unfortunate: let it never be mentioned but among curses, and cursed be they that did this mischief, and most cursed be mine eyes that beheld it. Sweet Pamela, that head is stricken off, where only wisdom might be spoken withal; that body is destroyed, which was the living book of virtue. Dear Pamela, how hast thou left me to all wretchedness and misery? yet while thou livedst, in thee I breathed, of thee I hoped. O Pamela, how much did I for thy excellency honour thee more than my mother, and love thee more than myself! never more shall I lie with thee; never more shall we bathe in the pleasant river together; never more shall I see thee in thy shepherds’ apparel. But thou art gone, and where am I? Pamela is dead, and live I? O my God!” And with that she fell again in a swoon, so that it was a great while before they could bring her to herself again; but being come to herself. “Alas!” said she, “unkind woman, since you have given me so many deaths, torment me not now with life: for God’s sake let me go, and excuse your hands of more blood. Let me follow my Pamela, whom ever I sought to follow. Alas! Pamela, they will not let me come to thee. But if they keep promise I shall tread thine own steps after thee. For to what am I born, miserable soul! but to be most unhappy in myself, and yet more unhappy in others? But O that a thousand more miseries had chanced unto me, so thou hadst not died: Pamela, my sister Pamela.” And so like a {399} lamentable Philomela, complained she the horrible wrong done to her sister, which if it stirred not in the wickedly closed minds of her tormentors, a pity of her sorrow, yet bred it a weariness of her sorrow: so that only leaving one to prevent any harm she should do herself, the rest went away, consulting again with Cecropia, how to make profit of this their late bloody act.

In the end, that woman that used most to keep company with Zelmane, told Cecropia that she found by many more sensible proofs in Zelmane, that there was never woman so loved another, as she loved Philoclea: which was the cause that she, further than the commandment of Cecropia, had caused Zelmane’s curtains to be also drawn: because having the same spectacle that Philoclea had, she might stand in the greater fear for her, whom she loved so well: and that indeed she had hit the needle in that device: for never saw she creature so astonished as Zelmane, exceeding sorrow for Pamela, but exceedingly exceeding that exceedingness in fear for Philoclea. Therefore her advice was, she should cause Zelmane to come and speak with Philoclea. For there being such vehemency of friendship between them, it was most likely both to move Zelmane to persuade, and Philoclea to be persuaded. Cecropia liked well of the counsel, and gave order to the same woman to go deal therein with Zelmane, and to assure her with oath, that Cecropia was determined Philoclea should pass the same way that Pamela had done, without she did yield to satisfy the extremity of her son’s affection: which the woman did, adding thereunto many, as she thought, good reasons to make Zelmane think Amphialus a fit match for Philoclea.

But Zelmane (who had from time to time understood the cruel dealing they had used to the sisters, and now had her own eyes wounded with the sight of one’s death) was so confused withal (her courage still rebelling against her wit, desiring still with force to do impossible matters) that as her desire was stopped with power, so her conceit was darkened with a mist of desire. For blind love, and invincible valour still would cry out, that it could not be, Philoclea should be in so miserable estate, and she not relieve her: and so while she hailed her wit to her courage, she drew it from his own limits. But now Philoclea’s death, a word able to marshal all his thoughts in order, being come to so short a point, either with small delay to be suffered, or by the giving herself to another to be prevented, she was driven to think and to desire some leisure of thinking, which the woman granted for that night unto her. A night that was not half so black, as her mind; nor half so silent, as was fit for her musing thoughts. At last he that would fain have desperately lost a thousand lives for her sake, could not find in his heart, that she should lose any life for her own sake; and he that {400} despised his own death in respect of honour, yet could well nigh dispense with honour itself in respect of Philoclea’s death; for once the thought could not enter into his heart, nor the breath issue out of his mouth, which could consent to Philoclea’s death for any bargain. Then how to prevent the next degree to death, which was her being possessed by another, was the point of his mind’s labour: and in that he found no other way but that Philoclea should pretend a yielding unto Cecropia’s request; and so by speaking with Amphialus, and making fair, but delaying, promises, procure liberty for Zelmane; who only wished but to come by a sword, not doubting then to destroy them all, and deliver Philoclea: so little did both the men, and their forces seem in her eyes, looking down upon them from the high top of affection’s tower.

With that mind therefore, but first well bound, she was brought to Philoclea, having already plotted out in her conceit how she should deal with her: and so came she with heart and eyes, which did each sacrifice other to love upon the altar of sorrow: and there had she the pleasing displeasing sight of Philoclea: Philoclea, whom already the extreme sense of sorrow had brought to a dullness therein, her face not without tokens that beauty had been by many miseries cruelly battered, and yet showed it most the perfection of that beauty, which could remain unoverthrown by such enemies. But when Zelmane was set down by her, and the woman gone away (because she might be the better persuaded when nobody was by, that had heard her say she would not be persuaded) then began first the eyes to speak, and the hearts to cry out: sorrow a while would needs speak his own language, without using their tongues to be his interpreters. At last Zelmane broke silence, but spoke with the only eloquence of amazement: for all her long methodised oration was inherited only by such kind of speeches. “Dear lady, in extreme necessities we must not. But alas! unfortunate wretch that I am that I live to see this day. And I take heaven and earth to witness, that nothing,” and with that her breast swelled so with spite and grief, that her breath had not leisure to turn itself into words. But the sweet Philoclea that had already died in Pamela, and of the other side had the heaviness of her heart something quickened in the most beloved sight of Zelmane, guessed somewhat at Zelmane’s mind, and therefore spoke unto her in this sort: “My Pyrocles,” said she, “I know this exceeding comfort of your presence, is not brought unto me for any goodwill that is owed unto me: but, as I suppose, to make you persuade me to save my life with the ransom of mine honour: although nobody should be so unfit a pleader in that cause as yourself, yet perchance you would have me live.” “Your honour? {401} God forbid,” said Zelmane, “that ever, for any cause, I should yield to any touch of it. But a while to pretend some affection, till time, or my liberty might work something for your service, this if my astonished senses would give me leave, I would fain have persuaded you.”

“To what purpose, my Pyrocles?” said Philoclea, “of a miserable time what gain is there? hath Pamela’s example wrought no more in me? is a captive life so much worth? can it ever go out of these lips, that I love any other but Pyrocles? shall my tongue be so false a traitor to my heart, as to say I love any other but Pyrocles? and why should I do all this to live? O Pamela, sister Pamela, why should I live? only for thy sake, Pyrocles, I would live: but to thee I know too well I shall not live; and if not to thee hath thy love so base allay, my Pyrocles, as to wish me to live? for dissimulation, my Pyrocles, my simplicity is such, that I have hardly been able to keep a straight way, what shall I do in a crooked? But in this case there is no mean of dissimulation, not for the cunningest: present answer is required, and present performance upon the answer. Art thou so terrible, O death? no, my Pyrocles; and for that I do thank thee, and in my soul thank thee: for I confess the love of thee is herein my chiefest virtue. Trouble me not therefore, dear Pyrocles, nor double not my death by tormenting my resolution: since I cannot live with thee, I will die for thee. Only remember me, dear Pyrocles, and love the remembrance of me: and if I may crave so much of thee, let me be thy last love; for though I be not worthy of thee, who indeed art the worthiest creature living, yet remember that my love was a worthy love.”

But Pyrocles was so overcome with sorrow (which wisdom and virtue made just in so excellent a lady’s case, full of so excellent kindness) that words were ashamed to come forth, knowing how weak they were to express his mind, and her merit: and therefore so stayed in a deadly silence, forsaken of hope, and forsaking comfort; till the appointed guardians came in, to see the fruits of Zelmane’s labour: and then Zelmane warned by their presence, fell again to persuade, though scarcely herself could tell what; but in sum, desirous of delays. But Philoclea, sweetly continuing constant, and in the end, punishing her importunity with silence, Zelmane was fain to end. Yet craving another time’s conference, she obtained it, and divers others; till at the last Cecropia found it to no purpose, and therefore determined to follow her own way. Zelmane yet still desirous to win, by any means, respite, even wasted with sorrow and uncertain, whether in worse case in her presence, or absence, being able to do nothing for Philoclea’s succour, but by submitting the greatest courage of the earth to {402} fall at the feet of Cecropia, and crave stay of their sentence till the uttermost was seen what her persuasions might be.

Cecropia seemed much to be moved by her importunity, so as divers days were won of painful life to the excellent Philoclea; while Zelmane suffered some hope to cherish her mind, especially trusting upon the help of Musidorus, who, she knew, would not be idle in this matter; till one morning a noise awaked Zelmane, from whose over-watchful mind the tired body had stolen a little sleep: and straight with the first opening of her eyes, care taking his wonted place, she ran to the window which looked into the hall (for that way the noise guided her) and there might she see (the curtain being left open ever since the last execution) seven or eight persons in a cluster upon the scaffold: who by and by retiring themselves, nothing was to be seen thereupon, but a basin of gold pitifully enamelled with blood, and in the midst of it, the head of the most beautiful Philoclea. The horribleness of the mischief was such, that Pyrocles could not at first believe his own senses, but bent his woeful eyes to discern it better; where too well he might see it was Philoclea’s self, having no veil, but beauty over her face, which still appeared to be alive, so did these eyes shine, even as they were wont, and they were wont more than any other: and sometimes as they moved, it might well make the beholder think, that death therein had borrowed her beauty, and not they any way disgraced by death, so sweet and piercing a grace they carried with them.

It was not a pity, it was not an amazement, it was not a sorrow which then laid hold on Pyrocles, but a wild fury of desperate agony: so that he cried out, “O tyrant heaven, traitor earth, blind providence, no justice, how is this done? how is this suffered? hath this world a government? if it have, let it pour out all his mischiefs upon me, and see whether it have power to make me more wretched than I am. Did she excel for this? have I prayed for this? abominable hand that did it; detestable devil that commanded it; cursed light that beheld it; and if the light be cursed, what are then mine eyes that have seen it? and have I seen Philoclea dead, and do I live? and do I live not to help her, but to talk of her? and stand I still talking?” and with that, carried by the madness of anguish, not having a readier way to kill himself, he ran as hard as ever he could with his head against the wall, with intention to brain himself; but the haste to do it made the doing the slower. For as he came to give the blow, his foot tripped, so that it came not with the full force: yet forcible enough to strike him down, and withal to deprive him of his senses, so that he lay a while comforted by the hurt, in that he felt not his discomfort.

{403}

And when he came again to himself, he heard, or he thought he heard a voice, which cried, “Revenge, Revenge,” unto him: whether indeed it were his good angel which used that voice to stay him from unnatural murdering of himself, or that his wandering spirits lighted upon that conceit, and by their weakness, subject to apprehensions, supposed they heard it. But that indeed helped with virtue and her valiant servant anger, stopped him from present destroying of himself; yielding in reason and manhood, first to destroy man, woman, and child, that were any way of kin to them that were accessory to this cruelty; then to raze the castle, and to build a sumptuous monument for her sister, and a most sumptuous one for herself, and then himself to die upon her tomb. This determining in himself to do, and to seek all means how, for that purpose, to get out of prison, he was content a while to bear the thirst of death: and yet went he again to the window, to kiss the beloved head with his eyes; but there saw he nothing but the scaffold, all covered over with scarlet, and nothing but solitary silence to mourn this mischief. But then, sorrow having dispersed itself from his heart into his noble parts, it proclaimed his authority in cries and tears, nor with a more gentle dolefulness could pour out his inward evil.

“Alas!” said he, “is that head taken away too, so soon from my eyes? What, mine eyes, perhaps they envy the excellency of your sorrow? indeed, there is nothing now left to become the eyes of all mankind, but tears; and woe be to me, if any exceed me in woefulness. I do conjure you all my senses, to accept no object but of sorrow, be ashamed, nay abhor to think of comfort. Unhappy eyes, you have seen too much, that ever the light should be welcome to you: unhappy ears, you shall never hear the music of music in her voice: unhappy heart that hast lived to feel these pangs. Thou hast done thy worst, world, and cursed be thou, and cursed art thou, since to thine ownself thou hast done the worst thou couldst do. Exiled beauty, let only now thy beauty be blubbered faces. Widowed music, let now thy tunes be roarings and lamentations. Orphan virtue, get thee wings, and fly after her into heaven: here is no dwelling-place for thee. Why lived I, alas! alas, why loved I? to die wretched, and to be the example of heaven’s hate? and hate and spare not, for your worst blow is stricken. Sweet Philoclea, thou art gone, and hast carried with thee my love; and hast left thy love in me, and I wretched man do live; I live, to die continually, till thy revenge do give me leave to die, and then die I will, my Philoclea, my heart willingly makes this promise to itself. Surely he did not look on thee when he gave the cruel blow, for no eye could have abidden to see such beauty overthrown by such mischief. Alas! {404} why should they divide such a head from such a body? no other body is worthy of that head; no other head is worthy of that body: O yet if I had taken my last leave, if I might have taken a holy kiss from that dying mouth! where art thou hope, which promisest never to leave a man while he liveth? tell me, what canst thou hope for? nay tell me, what is there that I would willingly hope after? wishing power which is accounted infinite, what now is left to wish for; she is gone, and gone with her all my hope, all my wishing. Love be ashamed to be called love. Cruel hate, unspeakable hate is victorious over thee. Who is there now left that can justify thy tyranny, and give reason to thy passion? O cruel divorce of the sweetest marriage that ever was in nature: Philoclea is dead, and dead with her is all goodness, all sweetness, all excellency. Philoclea is dead, and yet life is not ashamed to continue upon the earth. Philoclea is dead: O deadly word, which containeth in itself the uttermost of all misfortunes. But happy word when thou shalt be said of me, and long it shall not be, before it be said.”

Then stopping his words with sighs, drowning his sighs in tears, and drying again his tears in rage, he would sit a while in a wandering muse, which represented nothing but vexations unto him; then throwing himself sometimes upon the floor, and sometimes upon the bed: then up again, till walking was wearisome, and rest loathsome: and so neither suffering food, nor sleep to help his afflicted nature, all that day and night he did nothing but weep Philoclea, sigh Philoclea, and cry out Philoclea; till as it happened (at that time upon his bed) toward the dawning of the day he heard one stir in his chamber, by the motion of garments: and with an angry voice asked who was there. “A poor gentlewoman, answered the party, that wishes long life unto you.” “And I soon death to you,” said he, “for the horrible curse you have given me.” “Certainly,” said she, “an unkind answer, and far unworthy the excellency of your mind, but not unsuitable to the rest of your behaviour. For most part of this night I have heard you (being let into your chamber, you never perceiving it, so was your mind estranged from your senses) and have heard nothing of Zelmane, in Zelmane, nothing but weak wailing, fitter for some nurse of a village, than so famous a creature as you are.” “O God,” cried out Pyrocles, “that thou wert a man that usest these words unto me. I tell thee I am sorry, I tell thee I will be sorry, in the despite of thee, and all them that would have me joyful.” “And yet,” replied she, “perchance Philoclea is not dead, whom you so much bemoan.” “I would we were both dead on that condition,” said Pyrocles. “See the folly of your passion,” said she, “as though you should be nearer to her, you being dead, {405} and she alive, than she being dead and you alive? and if she be dead, was she not born to die? what then do you cry out for? not for her, who must have died one time or other; but for some few years: so as it is time and this world, that seem so lovely things, and not Philoclea unto you.” “O noble sisters,” cried Pyrocles, “now you be gone, who were the only exalters of all womankind, what is left in that sex, but babbling and business?” “And truly,” said she, “I will yet a little longer trouble you.” “Nay, I pray you do,” said Pyrocles, “for I wish for nothing in my short life but mischiefs and cumbers: and I am content you shall be one of them.” “In truth,” said she, “you would think yourself a greatly privileged person, if since the strongest building, and lastingest monarchies are subject to end, only your Philoclea, because she is yours, should be exempted. But indeed you bemoan yourself who have lost a friend; you cannot her, who hath in one act both preserved her honour, and left the miseries of this world.” “O woman’s philosophy, childish folly,” said Pyrocles, “as though I do bemoan myself: I have not reason so to do, having lost more than any monarchy, nay then my life can be worth unto me.” “Alas!” said she, “comfort yourself; nature did not forget her skill, when she made them: and you shall find many their superiors, and perchance such, as when your eyes shall look abroad, yourself will like better.”