The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia

by Philip Sidney

THE FOURTH ECLOGUES

The shepherds finding no place for them in these garboils, to which their quiet hearts, whose highest ambition was in keeping themselves up in goodness, had at all no aptness, retired themselves from among the clamorous multitude: and as sorrow desires company, went up together to the western side of an hill, whose prospect extended it so far that they might well discern many of Arcadia’s beauties. And there looking upon the sun’s as then declining race, the poor men sat pensive of their present miseries, as if they found a weariness of their woeful words: till at last good old Geron, who as he had longest tasted the benefits of Basilius’s government, so seemed to have a special feeling of the present loss, wiping his eyes and long white beard, bedewed with great drops of tears, began in this sort to complain: “Alas! poor sheep,” said he, “which hitherto have enjoyed your fruitful pasture in such quietness, as your wool among other things hath made this country famous, your best days are now past: now you must become the victual of an army, and perchance an army of foreign enemies, you are now not only to fear home-wolves, but alien lions: now, I say, now that our right Basilius is deceased. Alas! sweet pastures, shall soldiers that know not how to use you, possess you? shall they that cannot speak the Arcadian language be lords over your shepherds? for alas with good cause may we look for any evil, since Basilius our only strength is taken from us.”

To that all the other shepherds present uttered pitiful voices, especially the very born Arcadians. For as for the other, though humanity moved them to pity human cases, especially in a prince under whom they had found a refuge of their miseries, and justice equally administered, yet could they not so naturally feel the lively touch of sorrow. Nevertheless, of that number one Agelastus notably noted among them as well for his skill in poetry as for an austerely maintained sorrowfulness, wherewith he seemed to despise the works of nature, framing an universal complaint in that universal mischief, uttered it in this Sestine.

Since wailing is a bud of causeful sorrow,

Since sorrow is the follower of evil fortune,

Since no evil fortune equals public damage;

Now prince’s loss hath made our damage public,

Sorrow pay we to thee the rights of nature,

And inward grief seal up with outward wailing.

Why should we spare our voice from endless wailing,

Who justly make our hearts the seat of sorrow?

In such a case where it appears that nature

Doth add her force unto the sting of fortune:

Choosing alas, this our theatre public,

Where they would leave trophies of cruel damage.

Then, since such powers conspired unto our damage

(Which may be known, but never help with wailing)

Yet let us leave a monument in public

Of willing tears, torn hairs, and cries of sorrow,

For lost, lost is by blow of cruel fortune

Arcadia’s gem, the noblest child of nature.

O nature doting old, O blind dead nature,

How hast thou torn thyself, sought thine own damage

In granting such a scope to filthy fortune,

By thy imp’s loss to fill the world with wailing.

Cast thy step-mother eyes, upon our sorrow,

Public our loss: so, see, thy shame is public.

O that we had, to make our woes more public,

Seas in our eyes, and brazen tongues by nature,

A yelling voice, and hearts compos’d of sorrow,

Breath made of flames, wits knowing naught but damage,

Our sports murd’ring ourselves, our musics wailing,

Our studies fixed upon the falls of fortune.

No, no, our mischief grows in this vile fortune,

That private pains cannot breathe out in public

The furious inward griefs with hellish wailing:

But forced are to burden feeble nature

With secret sense of our eternal damage,

And sorrow feed, feeding our souls with sorrow.

Since sorrow then concluded all our fortune,

With all our deaths show we this damage public:

His nature fears to die who lives still wailing.

It seemed that this complaint of Agelastus had awaked the spirits of the Arcadians, astonished before with the exceedingness of sorrow. For he had scarcely ended when divers of them offered to follow his example in bewailing the general loss of that country which had been as well a nurse to strangers as a mother to Arcadians. Among the rest one accounted good in that kind, and made the better by the true feeling of sorrow, roared out a song of lamentation, which, as well as might be, was gathered up in this form:

Since that to death is gone the shepherd high,

Who most the silly shepherd’s pipe did prize,

Your doleful tunes sweet Muses now apply.

And you O trees, if any life there lies

In trees, now through your porous barks receive

The strange resound of these my causeful cries:

And let my breath upon your branches cleave,

My breath distinguished into words of woe,

That so I may signs of my sorrow leave.

But if among yourselves some one tree grow,

That aptest is to figure misery,

Let it embassage bear your griefs to show,

The weeping myrrh I think will not deny

Her help to this, this justest cause of plaint.

Your doleful tunes sweet Muses now apply.

And thou, poor earth, whom fortune doth attaint,

In nature’s name to suffer such a harm,

As for to lose thy gem, and such a saint,

Upon thy face let coaly ravens swarm:

Let all the sea thy tears accounted be;

Thy bowels will all killing metals arm.

Let gold now rust, let diamonds waste in thee:

Let pearls be wan with woe their dam doth bear!

Thyself henceforth the light do never see,

And you, O flowers, which sometimes princes wear,

Tell these strange alt’rings you did hap to try,

Of princes’ loss yourselves for tokens rear.

Lily in mourning black thy whiteness die:

O Hyacinth let “Ai” be on thee still,

Your doleful tunes sweet Muses now apply.

O Echo, all these woods with roaring fill,

And do not only mark the accents last,

But all, for all reach out my wailful will:

One Echo to another Echo cast

Sound of my griefs, and let it never end,

Till that it hath all words and waters passed,

Nay to the heav’ns your just complaining send,

And stay the stars’ inconstant constant race,

Till that they do unto our dolours bend:

And ask the reason of that special grace,

That they which have no lives should live so long,

And virtuous souls so soon should lose their place?

Ask, if in great men good men do so throng,

That he for want of elbow-room must die?

Or if that they be scant, if this be wrong?

Did Wisdom this our wretched time espy

In one true chest to rob all virtue’s treasure?

Your doleful tunes sweet Muses now apply.

And if that any counsel you to measure

Your doleful tunes, to them still plaining say,

“To well felt grief plaint is the only pleasure.”

O light of sun, which is entitled day:

O well thou dost that thou no longer bidest;

For mourning night her black weeds may display,

O Phoebus with good cause thy face thou hidest,

Rather than have thy all-beholding eye

Fouled with this sight, while thou thy chariot guidest,

And well methinks becomes this vaulty sky

A stately tomb to cover him deceased.

Your doleful tunes sweet Muses now apply.

O Philomela with thy breast oppressed

By shame and grief, help, help me to lament

Such cursed harms as cannot be redressed.

Or if thy mourning notes be fully spent,

Then give a quiet ear unto my plaining:

For I to teach the world complaint am bent.

You dimmy clouds, which well employ your staining.

This cheerful air with your obscured cheer,

Witness your woeful tears with daily raining.

And if, O sun, thou ever didst appear,

In shape, which by man’s eye might be perceived:

Virtue is dead, now set thy triumph here.

Now set thy triumph in this world, bereaved

Of what was good, where now no good doth lie:

And by the pomp our loss will be conceived,

O notes of mine yourselves together tie:

With too much grief methinks you are dissolved.

Your doleful tunes sweet Muses now apply.

Time ever old, and young is still revolved

Within itself, and never tasteth end:

But mankind is for aye to nought resolved,

The filthy snake her aged coat can mend,

And getting youth again, in youth doth flourish:

But unto man age ever death doth send,

The very trees with grafting we can cherish,

So that we can long time produce their time:

But man which helpeth them, helpless must perish.

Thus, thus the minds which over all do climb,

When they by years’ experience get best graces,

Must finish then by death’s detested crime.

We last short while, and build long lasting places:

Ah let us all against foul nature cry:

We nature’s works do help, she us defaces;

For how can nature unto this reply:

That she her child, I say, her best child killeth?

Your doleful tunes sweet Muses now apply.

Alas methinks my weakened voice but spilleth

The vehement course of his just lamentation:

Methinks, my sound no place with sorrow filleth.

I know not I, but once in detestation

I have myself, and all what life containeth,

Since death on virtue’s fort hath made invasion

One word of woe another after traineth:

Nor do I care how rude by my invention,

So it be seen what sorrow in me reigneth.

O elements, by whose, men say, contention,

Our bodies be in living power maintained,

Was this man’s death the fruit of your dissention?

O physic’s power, which some say, hath restrained

Approach of death, alas, thou helpest meagrely,

When once one is for Atropos distrained,

Great be physicians’ brags, but aid is beggarly,

When rooted moisture fails or groweth dry,

They leave off all, and say, death comes too eagerly.

They are but words therefore that men do buy

Of any, since god Aesculapius ceased,

Your doleful tunes sweet Muses now apply.

Justice, justice is now, alas, oppressed:

Bountifulness hath made his last conclusion:

Goodness for best attire in dust is dressed.

Shepherds bewail your uttermost confusion;

And see by this picture to you presented,

Death is our home, life is but a delusion,

For see, alas, who is from you absented,

Absented? nay I say for ever banished

For such as were to die for him contented?

Out of her sight in turn of hand is vanished

Shepherd of shepherds, whose well settled order

Private with wealth, public with quiet garnished

While he did live, far, far was all disorder,

Example more prevailing than direction,

Far was home-strife, and far was foe from border,

His life a law, his look a full correction:

As in his health we healthful were preserved,

So in his sickness grew our sure infection.

His death our death. But ah, my muse hath swerved,

For such deep plaint as should such woes descry,

Which he of us for ever hath deserved.

The style of heavy heart can never fly

So high, as should make such a pain notorious:

Cease Muse therefore: thy dart O death apply,

And farewell prince, whom goodness hath made glorious.

Many were ready to have followed this course, but the day was so wasted, that only this rhyming Sestine delivered by one of great account among them, could obtain favour to be heard.

Farewell, O sun, Arcadia’s clearest light:

Farewell, O pearl, the poor man’s plenteous treasure.

Farewell, O golden staff, the weak man’s might:

Farewell, O joy, the joyful’s only pleasure.

Wisdom, farewell, the skill-less man’s direction:

Farewell with thee, farewell all our affection.

For what place now is left for our affection,

Now that of purest lamp is quench’d the light.

Which to our darkened minds was best direction?

Now that the mine is lost of all our treasure?

Now death hath swallowed up our worldly pleasure,

We orphans made, void of all public might?

Orphans indeed, depriv’d of father’s might:

For he our father was in all affection,

In our well-doing placing all his pleasure,

Still studying how to us to be a light.

As well he was in peace a safest treasure:

In war his wit and word was our direction.

Whence, whence, alas, shall we seek our direction?

When that we fear our hateful neighbours’ might,

Who long have gap’d to get Arcadian’s treasure.

Shall we now find a guide of such affection,

Who for our sakes will think all travel light,

And make his pain to keep us safe, his pleasure?

No, no, for ever gone is all our pleasure;

For ever wand’ring from all good direction;

For ever blinded of our clearest light;

For ever lamed of our sured might;

For ever banish’d from well-plac’d affection;

For ever robb’d of all our royal treasure.

Let tears for him therefore be all our treasure,

And in our wailing naming him our pleasure:

Let hating of ourselves be our affection,

And unto death bend still our thoughts’ direction:

Let us against ourselves employ our might,

And putting out our eyes seek we our light.

Farewell our light, farewell our spoiled treasure:

Farewell our might, farewell our daunted pleasure:

Farewell direction, farewell all affection.

The night began to cast her dark canopy over them, and they, even weary with their woes, bended homewards, hoping by sleep, forgetting themselves, to ease their present dolours, when they were met with a troop of twenty horse, the chief of which asking them for the king, and understanding the hard news, thereupon stayed among them expecting the return of a messenger, whom with speed he dispatched to Philanax.

[End of Book IV]

ARCADIA
BOOK V

The dangerous division of men’s minds, the ruinous renting of all estates, had now brought Arcadia to feel the pangs of uttermost peril, such convulsions never coming, but that the life of that government draws near his necessary period, when to the honest and wise Philanax, equally distracted between desire of his master’s revenge and care of the estate’s establishment, there came, unlooked for, a Macedonian gentleman, who in short, but pithy manner, delivered unto him, that the renowned Euarchus, King of Macedon, purposing to have visited his old friend and confederate the King Basilius, was now come within half a mile of the lodges, where having understood by certain shepherds the sudden death of their prince, had sent unto him, of whose authority and faith he had good knowledge, desiring him to advertise him in what security he might rest there for that night, where willingly he would, if safely he might, help to celebrate the funeral of his ancient companion and ally; adding he need not doubt, since he had brought but twenty in his company, he would be so unwise as to enter into any forcible attempt with so small force. Philanax having entertained the gentleman, as well as in the midst of so many tumults he could, pausing a while with himself, considering how it should not only be unjust and against the law of nations, not well to receive a prince whom goodwill had brought among them, but, in respect of the greatness of his might, very dangerous to give him any cause of due offence; remembering withal the excellent trials of his equity, which made him more famous than his victories, he thought he might be the fittest instrument to redress the ruins they were in, since his goodness put him without suspicion, and his greatness beyond envy. Yet weighing with himself how hard many heads were to be bridled, and that in this monstrous confusion such mischief might be attempted, of which late repentance should after be but a simple remedy, he judged best first to know how the people’s minds would sway to this determination. Therefore desiring the gentleman to return to the King his master, and to beseech him, though with his pains, to stay for an hour or two, where he was, till he had set things in better order to receive him, he himself went first to the noblemen, then to Kalander, and the principal Mantineans, who were most opposite unto him, desiring them, that as the night had most blessedly staid them from entering into civil blood, so they would be content in the night to assemble the people together to hear some news which he was to deliver unto them. There is nothing more desirous of novelties than a man that fears his present fortune. Therefore they, whom mutual diffidence made doubtful of their utter destruction, were quickly persuaded to hear of any new matter, which might alter at least, if not help the nature of their fear. Namely, the chiefest men, who as they had most to lose, so were most jealous of their own case, and were already grown as weary to be followers of Timautus’s ambition, as before they were enviers of Philanax’s worthiness. As for Kalander and Sympathus as in the one a virtuous friendship had made him seek to advance, in the other a natural commiseration had made him willing to protect the excellent, though unfortunate prisoners, so were they not against this convocation. For having nothing but just desires in them, they did not mistrust the justifying of them. Only Timautus laboured to have withdrawn them from this assembly, saying it was time to stop their ears from the ambitious charms of Philanax. Let them first deliver Gynecia, and her daughters, which were fit persons to hear, and then they might begin to speak. That this was but Philanax’s cunning, to link broil upon broil, because he might avoid the answering of his trespasses, which as he had long intended, so had he prepared coloured speeches to disguise them. But as his words expressed rather a violence of rancour than any just ground of accusation, so pierced they no further than to some partial ear, the multitude yielding good attention to what Philanax would propose unto them. Who, like a man whose best building was a well-framed conscience, neither with plausible words, nor fawning countenance, but even with the grave behaviour of a wise father, whom nothing but love makes to chide, thus said unto them.

“I have,” said he, “a great matter to deliver unto you, and thereout am I to make a greater demand of you: but truly such hath this late proceeding been of yours that I know not what is to be demanded of you. Methinks I may have reason to require of you, as men are wont among pirates, that the life of him that never hurt you, may be safe. Methinks I am not without appearance of cause, as if you were Cyclopes or Cannibals, to desire that our prince’s body, which hath thirty years maintained us in a flourishing peace, be not torn in pieces, or devoured among you, but may be suffered to yield itself, which never was defiled with any of your bloods, to the natural rest of the earth. Methinks, not as to Arcadians renowned for your faith to prince, and love of country, but as to sworn enemies of this sweet soil. I am to desire you, that at least, if you will have strangers to your princes, yet you will not deliver the seigniory of this goodly kingdom to your noble king’s murderers. Lastly, I have reason, as if I had to speak to madmen, to desire you to be good to yourselves: for before God, what either barbarous violence or unnatural folly, hath not this day had his seat in your minds, and left his footsteps in your actions? but in troth I love you too well to stand long displaying your faults: I would you yourselves did forget them, so you did not fall again into them. For my part, I had much rather be an orator of your praises. But now, if you will suffer attentive judgment, and not forejudging passion, to be the weigher of my words, I will deliver unto you what a blessed mean the gods have sent unto you, if you list to embrace it. I think there is none among you so young, either in years, or understanding, but hath heard the true fame of that just prince Euarchus, King of Macedon. A prince with whom our late master did ever hold most perfect alliance. He, even he, is this day come, having but twenty horse with him, within two miles of this place, hoping to have found the virtuous Basilius alive, but now willing to do honour to his death. Surely, surely the heavenly powers have in so full a time bestowed him on us to unite our divisions. For my part therefore I wish, that since among ourselves we cannot agree in so manifold partialities, we do put the ordering of all these things into his hands, as well touching the obsequies of the king, the punishment of his death, as the marriage and crowning of our princesses, he is both by experience and wisdom taught how to direct: his greatness such as no man can disdain to obey him: his equity such as no man need to fear him. Lastly, as he hath all these qualities to help, so hath he, though he would, no force to hurt. If therefore you so think good, since our laws bear that our prince’s murder be chastised before his murdered body be buried, we may invite him to sit to-morrow in the judgment seat; which done, you may after proceed to the burial.”

When Philanax first named Euarchus’ landing, there was a muttering murmur among the people, as though, in that evil ordered weakness of theirs he had come to conquer their country. But when they understood he had so small a retinue, whispering one with another, and looking who should begin to confirm Philanax’s proposition, at length Sympathus was the first that allowed it, then the rest of the noblemen; neither did Kalander strive, hoping so excellent a prince could not but deal graciously with two such young men, whose authority joined to Philanax, all the popular sort followed. Timautus still blinded with his own ambitious haste, not remembering factions are no longer to be trusted, than the factious may be persuaded it is for their own good, would needs strive against the stream, exclaiming against Philanax, that now he showed who it was that would betray his country to strangers. But well he found, that who is too busy in the foundation of an house, may pull the building about his ears. For the people already tired with their own divisions, of which his clampring had been a principal nurse, and beginning now to espy a haven of rest, hated anything that should hinder them from it: asking one another whether this were not he whose evil tongue no man could escape? whether it were not Timautus that made the first mutinous oration, to strengthen the troubles? whether Timautus, without their consent, had not gone about to deliver Gynecia? And thus inflaming one another against him, they threw him out of the assembly, and after pursued him with stones and staves, so that with loss of one of his eyes, sore wounded and beaten, he was fain to fly to Philanax’s feet, for succour of his life; giving a true lesson, that vice itself is forced to seek the sanctuary of virtue. For Philanax, who hated his evil, but not his person, and knew that a just punishment might by the manner be unjustly done; remembering withal that although herein the people’s rage might have hit rightly, yet if it were nourished in this, no man knew to what extremities it might extend itself, with earnest dealing, and employing the uttermost of his authority he did protect the trembling Timautus. And then having taken a general oath, that they should in the nonage of the princess, or till these things were settled, yield full obedience to Euarchus, so far as were not prejudicial to the laws, customs and liberties of Arcadia: and having taken a particular bond of Sympathus, under whom he had a servant of his own, that the prisoners should be kept close, without conference with any man: he himself honourably accompanied with a great number of torches, went to the King Euarchus, whose coming in this sort into Arcadia had thus fallen out.

The woeful Prince Plangus receiving of Basilius no other succours, but only certain to conduct him to Euarchus, made all possible speed towards Byzantium, where he understood the king, having concluded all his wars with the winning of that town, had now for some good space made his abode. But being far gone on his way, he received certain intelligence, that Euarchus was not only some days before returned into Macedon, but since was gone with some haste to visit that coast of his country that lay towards Italy; the occasion given by the Latines, who having already gotten into their hands, partly by conquest and partly by confederacy, the greatest part of Italy, and long gaped to devour Greece also, observing the present opportunity of Euarchus’s absence, and Basilius’s solitariness, which two princes they knew to be in effect the whole strength of Greece, were even ready to lay an unjust gripe upon it, which after they might beautify with the noble name of conquest. Which purpose though they made not known by any solemn denouncing of war, but contrariwise gave many tokens of continuing still their former amity: yet the staying of his subjects’ ships, trafficking as merchants into those parts, together with the daily preparation of shipping, and other warlike provisions in ports, most convenient for the transporting of soldiers, occasioned Euarchus, not unacquainted with such practices, first to suspect, then to discern, lastly to seek to prevent the intended mischief. Yet thinking war never to be accepted until it be offered by the hand of necessity, he determined so long openly to hold them his friends, as open hospitality betrayed them not his enemies, nor ceasing in the meantime by letters and messages to move the states of Greece, by uniting their strength, to make timely provision against this peril; by many reasons making them see that, though in respect of place some of them might seem further removed from the first violence of the storm, yet being embarked in the same ship, the final wreck must needs be common to them all. And knowing the mighty force of example, with the weak effect of fair discourses, not waited on with agreeable actions, what he persuaded them, himself performed, leaving in his own realm nothing either undone or unprovided which might be thought necessary for withstanding an invasion. His first care was to put his people in a readiness for war, and by his experienced soldiers to train the unskilful to martial exercises. For the better effecting whereof, as also for meeting with other inconveniences in such doubtful times incident to the most settled states, making of the divers regions of his whole kingdom so many divisions as he thought convenient, he appointed the charge of them to the greatest, and of greatest trust he had about him: arming them with sufficient authority to levy forces within their several governments, both for the resisting the invading enemy, and punishing the disordered subject.

Having thus prepared the body, and assured the heart of his country against any mischief that might attaint it, he then took into his careful consideration the external parts, giving order both for the repairing and increasing his navy, and for the fortifying of such places, especially on the sea coast, as either commodity of landing, weakness of the country, or any other respect of advantage was likeliest to draw the enemy unto. But being none of them who think all things done, for which they have once given direction, he followed everywhere his commandment with his presence, which witnessed of every man’s slackness or diligence, chastising the one, and encouraging the other, suffered not the fruit of any profitable counsel for want of timely taking to be lost. And thus making one place succeed another in the progress of wisdom and virtue, he was now come to Aulon a principal port of his realm, when the poor Plangus extremely wearied with his long journey, desire of succouring Erona no more relieving, than fear of not succouring her in time, aggravating his travel, by a lamentable narration of his children’s death, called home his cares from encountering foreign enemies, to suppress the insurrection of inward passions. The matter so heinous, the manner so villainous, the loss of such persons, in so unripe years, in a time so dangerous to the whole state of Greece, how vehemently it moved to grief and compassion others, only not blind to the light of virtue, nor deaf to the voice of their country, might perchance by a more cunning workman in lively colours be delivered. But the face of Euarchus’s sorrow, to the one in nature, to both in affection a father, and judging the world so much the more unworthily deprived of those excellencies, as himself was better judge of so excellent worthiness, can no otherwise be shadowed out by the skilfullest pencil than by covering it over with the veil of silence. And indeed that way himself took, with so patient a quietness receiving this pitiful relation, that all words of weakness suppressed, magnanimity seemed to triumph over misery. Only receiving of Plangus perfect instruction of all things concerning Plexirtus and Artaxia, with promise not only to aid him in delivering Erona, but also with vehement protestation never to return into Macedon, till he had pursued the murderers to death, he dispatched with speed a ship for Byzantium, commanding the governor to provide all necessaries for the war against his own coming, which he purposed should be very shortly. In this ship Plangus would needs go, impatient of stay, for that in many days before he had understood nothing of his lady’s estate. Soon after whose departure, news was brought to Euarchus, that all the ships detained in Italy were returned. For the Latines finding by Euarchus’s proceedings their intent to be frustrate, as before by his sudden return they doubted it was discovered, deeming it no wisdom to show the will, not having the ability to hurt, had not only in free and friendly manner dismissed them, but for that time wholly omitted their enterprise attending the opportunity of fitter occasion. By means whereof Euarchus, rid from the cumber of that war, likely otherwise to have stayed him longer, with so great a fleet as haste would suffer him to assemble, forthwith embarked for Byzantium. And now followed with fresh winds he had in a short time run a long course, when on a night encountered with an extreme tempest, his ships were so scattered that scarcely any two were left together. As for the king’s own ship, deprived of all company, sore bruised, and weather beaten, able no longer to brook the sea’s churlish entertainment, a little before day it recovered the shore. The first light made them see it was the unhappy coast of Laconia: for no other country could have shown the like evidence of unnatural war. Which having long endured between the nobility and the Helots, and once compounded by Pyrocles, under the name of Daiphantus, immediately upon his departure had broken out more violently than ever before. For the king taking opportunity of their captain’s absence, refused to perform the conditions of peace as extorted from him by rebellious violence. Whereupon they were again deeply entered into war, with so notable an hatred towards the very name of a king, that Euarchus, though a stranger unto them, thought it not safe there to leave his person, where neither his own force could be a defence, nor the sacred name of majesty, a protection. Therefore calling to him an Arcadian, one that coming with Plangus had remained with Euarchus, desirous to see the wars, he demanded of him for the next place of surety where he might make his stay until he might hear somewhat of his fleet, or cause his ship to be repaired. The gentleman glad to have this occasion of doing service to Euarchus, and honour to Basilius, to whom he knew he should bring a most welcome guest, told him, that if it pleased him to commit himself to Arcadia, a part whereof lay open to their view, he would undertake ere the next night were far spent to guide him safely to his master Basilius. The present necessity much prevailed with Euarchus, yet more a certain virtuous desire to try whether by his authority he might withdraw Basilius from burying himself alive, and to employ the rest of his old years in doing good, the only happy action of man’s life. For besides the universal case of Greece, deprived by this means of a principal pillar, he weighed and pitied the pitiful state of the Arcadian people, who were in worse case than if death had taken away their prince. For so yet their necessity would have placed someone to the helm; now, a prince being, and not doing like a prince, keeping and not exercising the place, they were in so much more evil case, as they could not provide for their evil.

These rightly wise and virtuous considerations especially moved Euarchus to take his journey towards the deserts, where arriving within night, and understanding to his great grief the news of the prince’s death, he waited for his safe conduct from Philanax; in the meantime taking his rest under a tree, with no more affected pomps than as a man that knew, howsoever he was exalted, the beginning and end of his body was earth. But Philanax as soon as he was in sight of him, alighting from his horse, presented himself unto him in all those humble behaviours, which not only the great reverence of the party, but the conceit of one’s own misery, is wont to frame: Euarchus rose up unto him, with so gracious a countenance, as the goodness of his mind had long exercised him unto; careful so much more to descend in all courtesies, as he saw him bear a low representation of his afflicted state. But to Philanax, as soon as by near looking on him, he might perfectly behold him, the gravity of his countenance and years, not much unlike to his late deceased, but ever beloved master, brought his form so lively into his memory, and revived so all the thoughts of his wonted joys within him, that instead of speaking to Euarchus, he stood a while like a man gone a far journey from himself, calling as it were with his mind an account of his losses, imagining that this pain needed not, if nature had not been violently stopped of her own course; and casting more loving than wise conceits, what a world would this have been if this sudden accident had not interrupted it. And so far strayed he into his raving melancholy that his eyes, nimbler than his tongue, let fall a flood of tears, his voice being stopped with extremity of sobbing, so much had his friendship carried him to Basilius that he thought no age was timely for his death. But at length taking the occasion of his own weeping, he thus did speak to Euarchus: “Let not my tears, most worthily renowned prince, make my presence unpleasant, or my speech unmarked of you. For the justice of the cause takes away the blame of any weakness in me; and the affinity that the same beareth to your greatness, seems even lawfully to claim pity in you: a prince of a prince’s fall, a lover of justice, of a most unjust violence. And give me leave, excellent Euarchus, to say, I am but the representer of all the late flourishing Arcadia, which now with mine eyes doth weep, with my tongue doth complain, with my knees doth lay itself at your feet, which never have been unready to carry you to the virtuous protecting of innocents. Imagine, vouchsafe to imagine, most wise and good king, that here is before your eyes the pitiful spectacle of a most dolorously ending tragedy; wherein I do but play the part of all the new miserable province, which being spoiled of their guide, doth lie like a ship without a pilot, tumbling up and down in the uncertain waves, till it either run itself upon the rocks of self-division, or be overthrown by the stormy wind of foreign force. Arcadia finding herself in these desolate terms, doth speak, and I speak for her, to thee not vainly puissant prince, that since now she is not only robbed of the natural support of her lord, but so suddenly robbed that she hath not breathing time to stand for her safety: so unfortunately, that it doth appall their minds, though they had leisure; and so mischievously, that it doth exceed both the suddenness and unfortunateness of it; thou wilt lend thine arm unto her, and, as a man, take compassion of mankind; as a virtuous man, chastise most abominable vice; and as a prince protect a people, which all have with one voice called for thy goodness, thinking that as thou art only able, so thou art fully able, to redress their imminent ruins. They do therefore with as much confidence as necessity, fly unto you for succour, they lay themselves open unto you: to you, I mean yourself such as you have ever been: that is to say, one that hath always had his determinations bounded with equity. They only reserve the right to Basilius’s blood; the manner to the ancient prescribing of their laws. For the rest without exception they yield over unto you, as to the elected protector of this kingdom, which name and office they beseech you, till you have laid a sufficient foundation of tranquility, to take upon you; the particularity both of their statutes and demands you shall presently after understand. Now only I am to say unto you, that this country falls to be a fair field, to prove whether the goodly tree of your virtue will live in all soils. Here I say will be seen, whether either fear can make you short, or the lickerishness of dominion make you beyond justice. And I can for conclusion say no more but this, you must think upon my words, and on your answer depends not only the quiet, but the lives of so many thousands, which for their ancient confederacy, in this their extreme necessity, desire neither the expense of your treasure, nor hazard of your subjects, but only the benefit of your wisdom, whose both glory and increase stands in the exercising of it.”

The sum of this request was utterly unlooked for of Euarchus, which made him the more diligent in marking his speech, and after his speech take the greater pause for a perfect resolution. For as of the one side, he thought nature required nothing more of him than that he should be a help to them of like creation, and had his heart no wit commanded with fear, thinking his life well passed, having satisfied the tyranny of time, with the course of many years, the expectation of the world with more than expected honour: lastly, the tribute due to his own mind, with the daily offering of most virtuous actions: so of the other he weighed the just reproach that followed those who easily enter into other folk’s business, with the opinion might be conceived, love of seigniory rather than of justice, had made him embark himself thus into a matter nothing pertaining to him, especially in a time when earnest occasion of his own business so greatly required his presence. But in the end, wisdom being an essential and not an opinionate thing, made him rather to bend to what was in itself good than what by evil minds might be judged not good. And therein did see that though the people did not belong unto him, yet doing good, which is not enclosed within any terms of people, did belong unto him, and if necessity forced him for some time to abide in Arcadia, the necessity of Arcadia might justly demand some fruit of abiding. To this secret assurance of his own worthiness, which although it be never so well clothed in modesty, yet always lives in the worthiest minds, did much push him forward, saying unto himself, the treasure of those inward gifts he had were bestowed by the heavens upon him to be beneficial and not idle. On which determination resting, and yet willing before he waded any further, to examine well the depth of the other’s proffer; he thus with that well-poised gesture, unpassionate nature bestoweth upon mankind, made answer to Philanax’s most urgent petition.

“Although long experience hath made me know all men, and so princes which be but men, to be subject to infinite casualties, the very constitution of our lives remaining in continual change: yet the affairs of this country, or at least my meeting so jumply with them, makes me abashed with the strangeness of it. With much pain am I come hither to see my long approved friend, and now I find if I will see him, I must see him dead: after, for mine own security, I seek to be warranted mine own life; and there suddenly am I appointed to be a judge of other men’s lives: though a friend to him, yet am I a stranger to the country, and now of a stranger you would suddenly make a director. I might object, to your desire, my weakness, which age perhaps hath wrought in mind and body: and justly I may pretend the necessity of mine own affairs, to which as I am by all true rules most nearly tied, so can they not long bear the delay of my absence. But though I would and could dispense with these difficulties, what assurance can I have of the people’s will? which having so many circles of imaginations can hardly be enclosed in one point. Who knows a people, that knows not sudden opinion makes them hope, which hope if it be not answered, they fall into hate, choosing and refusing, erecting, and overthrowing, according as the presentness of any fancy carries them. Even this their hasty drawing to me, makes me think they will be as hastily withdrawn from me; for it is but one ground of inconstancy, soon to take or soon to leave. It may be they have heard of Euarchus more than cause: their own eyes will be perhaps more curious judges, out of hearsay they may have builded many conceits, which I cannot, perchance will not, perform, then will undeserved repentance be a greater shame and injury unto me than their undeserved proffer is honour. And to conclude, I must be fully informed how the patient is minded, before I can promise to undertake the cure.”

Philanax was not of the modern minds, who made suitors magistrates; but did ever think the unwilling worthy man, was fitter than the undeserving desirer. Therefore the more Euarchus drew back, the more he found in him, that the cunningest pilot doth most dread the rocks, the more earnestly he pursued his public request unto him. He desired him not to make any weak excuses of his weakness, since so many examples had well proved his mind was strong to overpass the greatest troubles, and his body strong enough to obey his mind: and that so long as they were joined together, he knew Euarchus would think it no wearisome exercise, to make them vessels of virtuous actions. The duty to his country he acknowledged, which as he had so settled as it was not to fear any sudden alteration, so since it did want him, as well it might endure a fruitful as an idle absence. As for the doubt he conceived of the people’s constancy in this their election, he said it was such a doubt as all human actions are subject unto; yet as much as in politic matters, which receive not geometrical certainties, a man may assure himself there was evident likelihood to be conceived of the continuance, both in their unanimity, and his worthiness; whereof the one was apt to be held, and the other to hold, joined to the present necessity the firmest band of mortal minds. In some he alleged so many reasons to Euarchus’s mind, already inclined to enter into any virtuous action, that he yielded to take upon himself the judgment of the present cause; so as he might find indeed, that such was the people’s desire out of judgment, and not faction.

Therefore mounting on their horses, they hasted to the lodges, where they found, though late in the night, the people wakefully watching for the issue of Philanax’s embassage. No man thinking the matter would be well done, without he had his voice in it, and each deeming his own eyes the best guardians of his throat in that unaccustomed tumult. But when they saw Philanax return, having on his right hand the King Euarchus, on whom they had now placed the greatest burden of their fears, with joyful shouts, and applauding acclamations, they made him and the world quickly know, that one man’s sufficiency is more available than ten thousand of the multitude. So evil balanced be the extremities of popular minds: and so much natural imperiousness there rests in a well-formed spirit. For, as if Euarchus had been born of the princely blood of Arcadia, or that long and well-acquainted proof had ingrafted him in their country, so flocked they about this stranger, most of them already from dejected fears, rising to ambitious considerations, who should catch the first hold of his favour. And then from those crying welcomes to babbling one with the other, some praising Philanax for his exceeding pain, others liking Euarchus’s aspect, and as they judged his age by his face, so judging his wisdom by his age, Euarchus passed through them like a man that did neither disdain a people, nor yet was anything tickled with their flatteries. But always holding his own, a man might read a constant determination in his eyes. And in that soft dismounting among them, he forthwith demanded the convocation to be made, which accordingly was done, with as much order and silence, as it might appear; Neptune had not more force to appease the rebellious wind, than the admiration of an extraordinary virtue hath, to temper a disordered multitude; he being raised up upon a place more high than the rest, where he might be best understood, in this sort speak unto them.

“I understand,” said he, “faithful Arcadians, by my Lord Philanax, that you have with one consent chosen me to be the judge of the late evils happened; orderer of the present disorders; and finally protector of this country till therein it be seen what the customs of Arcadia require.” He could say no further, being stopped with a general cry, that so it was, giving him all the honourable titles and happy wishes they could imagine. He beckoned unto them for silence, and then thus again proceeded, “Well,” said he, “how good choice you have made, the attending must be in you, the proof in me. But because it many times falls out, we are much deceived in others, we being the first to deceive ourselves, I am to require you, not to have an over-shooting expectation of me, the most cruel adversary of all honourable doings. Nor promise yourselves wonders out of a sudden liking: but remember I am a man, that is to say, a creature whose reason is often darkened with error. Secondly, that you will lay your hearts void of foretaken opinions: else whatsoever I do or say, will be measured by a wrong rule, like them that have the yellow jaundice, every thing seeming yellow unto them. Thirdly, whatsoever debates have risen among you, may be utterly extinguished; knowing that even among the best men are diversities of opinions, which are no more in true reason to breed hatred, than one that loves black, should be angry with him that is clothed in white; for thoughts and conceits are the very apparel of the mind: lastly, that you do not easily judge of your judge, but since you will have me to command, think it is your part to obey. And in reward of this, I will promise and protest unto you, that to the uttermost of my skill, both in the general laws of nature, especially of Greece, and particularly of Arcadia, wherein I must confess I am not unacquainted, I will not only see the past evils duly punished, and your weal hereafter established, but for your defence in it, if need shall require, I will employ the force and treasures of mine own country. In the meantime, this shall be the first order I will take, that no man, under pain of grievous punishment, name me by any other name but protector of Arcadia. For I will not leave any possible colour, to any of my natural successors, to make claim to this which by free election you have bestowed upon me. And so I vow unto you, to depose myself of it as soon as the judgment is passed, the king buried, and his lawful successor appointed. For the first whereof, I mean the trying which be guilty of the king’s death, and these other heinous trespasses, because your customs require such haste, I will no longer delay it, than till to-morrow as soon as the sun shall give us fit opportunity. You may therefore retire yourselves to your rest, that you may be readier to be present, at these so great important matters.”

With many allowing tokens was Euarchus’s speech heard, who now by Philanax, that took the principal care of doing all due services unto him, was offered a lodging made ready for him, the rest of the people as well as a small commodity of that place would suffer, yielding their weary heads to sleep, when lo, the night thoroughly spent in these mixed matters, was for that time banished the face of the earth, and Euarchus, seeing the day begin to disclose his comfortable beauties, desiring nothing more than to join speed with justice, willed Philanax presently to make the judgment-place be put in order: and as soon as the people, who yet were not fully dispersed, might be brought together, to bring forth the prisoners and the king’s body. Which the manner was, should in such cases be held in sight, though covered with black velvet, until they that were accused to be the murderers were acquitted or condemned; whether the reason of the law were to show the more grateful love to their prince, or by that spectacle, the more to remember the judge of his duty. Philanax, who now thought in himself, he approached to the just revenge he so much desired, went with all care and diligence to perform his charge.

But first it shall be well to know how the poor and princely prisoners passed this tedious night. There was never tyrant exercised his rage with more grievous torments upon any he most hated, than afflicted Gynecia did crucify her own soul, after the guiltiness of her heart was surcharged with the suddenness of her husband’s death: for although that effect came not from her mind, yet her mind being evil, and the effect evil, she thought the justice of God had for the beginning of her pains coupled them together. This incessantly boiled in her breast, but most of all, when Philanax having closely imprisoned her, she was left more freely to suffer the firebrands of her own thoughts, especially when it grew dark, and had nothing left her but a little lamp whose small light to a perplexed mind, might rather yield fearful shadows than any assured sight. Then began the heaps of her miseries, to weigh down the platform of her judgment, then began despair to lay his ugly claws upon her, she began then to fear the heavenly powers, she was wont to reverence, not like a child, but like an enemy, neither kept she herself from blasphemously repining against her creation, “O God,” would she cry out, “why did You make me to destruction? if You love goodness, why did You not give me a good mind? or if I cannot have it without Your gift, why do You plague me? Is it in me to resist the mightiness of Your power?” Then would she imagine she saw strange sights, and that she heard the cries of hellish ghosts, then would she shriek out for succour, but no man coming unto her, she would fain have killed herself, but knew not how. At sometimes again, the very heaviness of her imaginations would close up her senses to a little sleep: but then did her dreams become her tormentors. One time it would seem unto her, Philanax was hauling her by the hair of the head, and having put out her eyes was ready to throw her in a burning furnace. Another time she would think she saw her husband making the complaint of his death to Pluto, and the magistrates of that infernal region, contending in great debate to what eternal punishment they should allot her. But long her dreaming would not hold, but that it would fall upon Zelmane, to whom she would think she was crying for mercy, and that she did pass away by her in silence, without any show of pitying her mischief. Then waking out of a broken sleep, and yet wishing she might ever have slept; new forms, but of the same miseries, would seize her mind: she feared death, and yet desired death; she had passed the uttermost of shame, and yet shame was one of her cruellest assaulters; she hated Pyrocles as the original of her mortal overthrow; and yet the love she had conceived to him, had still a high authority of her passions, “O Zelmane,” would she say, not knowing how near he himself was to as great a danger, “now shalt thou glut thy eyes, with the dishonoured death of thy enemy. Enemy! alas! enemy, since so thou hast well showed thou wilt have me account thee: couldst thou not as well have given me a determinate denial, as to disguise thy first disguising, with a double dissembling? perchance if I had been utterly hopeless, the virtue was once in me might have called together his forces, and not have been led captive to this monstrous thraldom of punished wickedness.” Then would her own knowing of good inflame anew the rage of despair: which becoming an unresisted lord in her breast, she had no other comfort but in death, which yet she had in horror, when she thought of. But the wearisome detesting of herself made her long for the day’s approach, at which time she determined to continue her former course, in acknowledging anything that might hasten her end: wherein although she did not hope for the end of her torments, feeling already the beginning of hell-agonies; yet according to the nature of pain, the present being most intolerable, she desired to change that, and put to adventure the ensuing. And thus rested the restless Gynecia.

No less sorrowful, though less rageful, where the minds of the Princess Pamela, and the Lady Philoclea, whose only advantages were that they had not consented to so much evil, and so were at greater peace with themselves: and that they were not left alone, but might mutually bear part of each other’s woes. For when Philanax not regarding Pamela’s princely protestations, had by force left her under guard with her sister, and that the two sisters were matched, as well in the disgraces of fortune, as they had been in the best beauties of nature: those things that till then bashfulness and mistrust had made them hold reserved one from the other, now fear, the underminer of all determinations, and necessity the victorious rebel of all laws, forced them interchangeably to lay open. Their passions then so swelling in them as they would have made auditors of stones, rather than have swallowed up in silence the choking adventures were fallen unto them; truly the hardest hearts, which have at any time thought woman’s tears to be a matter of slight compassion, imagining that fair weather will quickly after follow, would now have been mollified; and been compelled to confess that the fairer a diamond is, the more pity it is it should receive a blemish. Although, no doubt, their faces did rather beautify sorrow, than sorrow could darken that which even in darkness did shine. But after they had so long, as their other afflictions would suffer them, with doleful ceremonies bemoaned their father’s death: they sat down together apparelled as their misadventures had found them; Pamela in her journeying weeds now converted to another use: Philoclea only in her night-gown, which she thought should be the raiment of her funerals. But when the excellent creatures had after much panting, with their inward travel, gotten so much breathing power as to make a pitiful discourse one to the other, what had befallen them, and that by the plain comparing the case they were in, they thoroughly found that their griefs were not more like in regard of themselves, than like in respect of the subject, the two princes, as Pamela had learned of Musidorus, being so minded that they would ever make both their fortunes one, it did more unite, and so strengthen their lamentation: seeing the one could not be miserable, but that it must necessarily make the other miserable also. That therefore was the first matter their sweet mouths delivered, the declaring the passionate beginning, troublesome proceeding, and dangerous ending, their never-ending loves had passed. And when at any time they entered into praises of the young princes, too long it would have exercised their tongues, but that their memory forthwith warned them, the more praiseworthy they were, the more at that time they were worthy of lamentation. Then again to crying and wringing of hands; and then anew, as unquiet grief sought each corner, to new discourses, from discourses to wishes, from wishes to prayers. Especially the tender Philoclea, who as she was in years younger, and had never lifted up her mind to any opinion of sovereignty, so was she the apter to yield to her misfortune; having no stronger debates in her mind, than a man may say a most witty childhood is wont to nourish, as to imagine with herself, why Philanax and the other noblemen should deal so cruelly by her that had never deserved evil of any of them. And how they could find in their hearts, to imprison such a personage as she did figure Pyrocles, whom she thought all the world was bound to love, as well as she did. But Pamela, although endued with a virtuous mildness, yet the knowledge of herself, and what was due unto her, made her heart full of a stronger disdain against her adversity.

So that she joined the vexation of her friend with the spite to see herself, as she thought, rebelliously detained, and mixed desirous thoughts to help, with revengeful thoughts if she could not help. And as in pangs of death, the stronger heart feels the greater torment, because it doth the more resist his oppressor: so her mind, the nobler it was set, and had already embraced the higher thoughts, so much more it did repine; and the more it repined, the more helpless wounds it gave unto itself. But when great part of the night was passed over the doleful music of these sweet ladies’ complaints, and that leisure though with some strife had brought Pamela to know that an eagle when she is in a cage must not think to do like an eagle, remembering with themselves that it was likely the next day the lords would proceed against those they had imprisoned. They employed the rest of the night in writing unto them, with such earnestness as the matter required, but in such styles as the state of their thoughts was apt to fashion.

In the meantime, Pyrocles and Musidorus were recommended to so strong a guard that they might well see it was meant they should pay no less price than their lives for the getting out of that place, which they like men indeed, fortifying courage with the true rampire of patience, did so endure that they did rather appear governors of necessity, than servants to fortune. The whole sum of their thoughts resting upon the safety of their ladies, and their care one for the other: wherein, if at all, their hearts did seem to receive some softness. For sometimes Musidorus would feel such a motion to his friend, and his unworthy case, that he would fall into such kind of speeches. “My Pyrocles,” would he say, “how unhappy may I think Thessalia, that hath been as it were the middle way to this evil estate of yours? For if you had not been there brought up, the sea should not have had this power thus to sever you from your dear father. I have therefore, if complaints do at any time become a man’s heart, most cause to complain, since my country, which received the honour of Pyrocles’s education, should be a step to his overthrow, if human chances can be counted an overthrow to him that stands upon virtue.” “Oh excellent Musidorus,” answered Pyrocles, “how do you teach me rather to fall out with myself, and my fortune, since by you I have received all good, you only by me this affliction? To you and your virtuous mother, I in my tenderest years, and father’s greatest troubles, was sent for succour. There did I learn the sweet mysteries of philosophy; there had I your lively example to confirm that which I learned; there, lastly, had I your friendship, which no unhappiness can ever make you say, but that hath made me happy. Now see how my destiny, the gods know, not my will, hath rewarded you: my father sends for you out of your land, whence but for me you had not come: what after followed, you know. It was my love, not yours, which first stayed you here; and therefore if the heavens ever held a just proportion, it were I, and not you, that should feel the smart.” “O blame not the heavens, sweet Pyrocles,” said Musidorus, “as their course never alters, so is there nothing done by the unreachable ruler of them, but hath an everlasting reason for it. And to say the truth of these things, we should deal ungratefully with nature, if we should be forgetful receivers of her gift, and diligent auditors of the chances we like not. We have lived, and have lived to be good to ourselves and others: our souls, which are put into the stirring earth of our bodies, have achieved the causes of their thither coming: they have known and honoured with knowledge the cause of their creation, and to many men, for in this time, place and fortune, it is lawful for us to speak gloriously, it hath been behoveful that we should live. Since then eternity is not to be had in this conjunction, what is to be lost by the separation, but time? which since it hath his end, when that is once come, all that is past is nothing: and by the protracting nothing gotten, but labour and care. Do not me, therefore, that wrong, who something in years, but much in all other deserts, am fitter to die than you, as to say you have brought me to any evil: since the love of you doth over-balance all bodily mischiefs, and those mischiefs be but mischiefs to the baser minds, too much delighted with the kennel of this life. Neither will I any more yield to my passion of lamenting you, which howsoever it might agree to my exceeding friendship, surely it would nothing to your exceeding virtue.” “Add this to your noble speech my dear cousin,” said Pyrocles, “that if we complain of this our fortune, or seem to ourselves faulty, in having one hurt the other, we show a repentance of the love we bear to these matchless creatures, or at least a doubt, it should be over dearly bought, which for my part, and so dear I answer for you, I call all the gods to witness, I am so far from, that no shame, no torment, no death, would make me forego the least part of the inward honour, essential pleasure, and living life, I have enjoyed in the presence of the faultless Philoclea.” “Take the pre-eminence in all things but in true loving,” answered Musidorus, “for the confession of that no death shall get of me.” “Of that,” answered Pyrocles, soberly smiling, “I perceive we shall have a debate in the other world, if at least there remain anything of remembrance in that place.” “I do not think the contrary,” said Musidorus, “although you know it is greatly held that with the death of body and senses, which are not only the beginning, but dwelling and nourishing of passions, thoughts and imaginations, they failing, memory likewise fails, which riseth only out of them, and then is there left nothing but the intellectual part or intelligence, which void of all moral virtues which stand in the mean of perturbations, doth only live in the contemplative virtue, and power of the omnipotent good, the soul of souls, and universal life of this great work, and therefore is utterly void from the possibility of drawing to itself these sensible considerations.” “Certainly,” answered Pyrocles, “I easily yield that we should not know one another, and much less these past things, with a sensible or passionate knowledge. For the cause being taken away, the effects follow. Neither do I think we shall have such a memory as now we have, which is but a relic of the senses, or rather a print the senses have left of things past in our thoughts, but it shall be a vital power of that very intelligence: which as vile as it was here, it held the chief seat of our life, and was as it were the last resort to which of all our knowledges the highest appeal came, and so by that means was never ignorant of our actions, though many times rebelliously resisted, always with this prison darkened; so much more being free of that prison, and returning to the life of all things, where all infinite knowledge is, it cannot but be a right intelligence which is both his name and being, of things both present and past, though void of imagining to itself anything; but even grown like to his creator hath all things, with a spiritual knowledge before it. The difference of which is as hard for us to conceive as it was for us when we were in our mother’s wombs to comprehend, if anybody would have told us, what kind of light we now in this life see, what kind of knowledge we now have: yet now we do not only feel our present being, but we conceive what we were before we were born, though remembrance make us not do it, but knowledge, and though we are utterly without any remorse of any misery we might then suffer. Even such, and much more odds, shall there be at that second delivery of ours, when void of sensible memory, or memorative passion, we shall not see the colours, but lives of all things that have been or can be, and shall, as I hope, know our friendship, though exempt from the earthly cares of friendship, having both united it, and ourselves in that high and heavenly love of the unquenchable light.” As he had ended his speech, Musidorus looking with a heavenly joy upon him, sang this song unto him he had made before love turned his muse to another subject.

Since nature’s works be good, and death doth serve

As nature’s work: why should we fear to die?

Since fear is vain, but when it may preserve:

Why should we fear that which we cannot fly?

Fear is more pain than is the pain it fears,

Disarming human minds of native might:

While each conceit an ugly figure bears,

Which were not evil well view’d in reason’s light.

Our owly eyes, which dimm’d with passions be,

And scarce discern the dawn of coming day,

Let them be clear’d, and now begin to see,

Our life is but a step in dusty way.

Then let us hold the bliss of peaceful mind,

Since this we feel, great loss we cannot find.

Thus did they, like quiet swans, sing their own obsequies, and virtuously enable their minds against all extremities which they did think would fall upon them, especially resolving that the first care they would have, should be by taking the fault upon themselves, to clear the two ladies, of whose case, as of nothing else that happened, they had not any knowledge. Although their friendly host, the honest gentleman Kalander, seeking all means how to help them, had endeavoured to speak with them, and to make them know who should be their judge. But the curious servant of Philanax forbade him the entry upon pain of death. For so it was agreed upon, that no man should have any conference with them, for fear of new tumults. Insomuch that Kalander was constrained to retire himself, having yet obtained thus much, that he would deliver unto the two princes their apparel and jewels, which being left with him at Mantinea, wisely considering that their disguised weeds, which were all as then they had, would make them more odious in the sight of the judges, he had that night sent for, and now brought unto them. They accepted their own with great thankfulness, knowing from whence it came, and attired themselves in it against the next day, which being indeed rich and princely, they accordingly determined to maintain the names of Palladius and Daiphantus, as before it is mentioned. Then gave they themselves to consider, in what sort they might defend their causes; for they thought it no less vain to wish death, than cowardly to fear it, till something before morning, a small slumber taking them, they were by and by after called up to come to the answer, of no less than their lives imported. But in this sort was the judgment ordered. As soon as the morning had took a full possession of the element, Euarchus called unto him Philanax, and willed him to draw out into the midst of the green, before the chief lodge, the throne of judgment seat, in which Basilius was wont to sit, and according to their customs, was ever carried with the prince. For Euarchus did wisely consider the people to be naturally taken with exterior shows, far more than with inward consideration of the material points. And therefore in this new entry into so entangled a matter, he would leave nothing which might be either an armour or an ornament unto him, and in these pompous ceremonies he well knew a secret of government much to consist. That was performed by the diligent Philanax, and therein Euarchus did set himself all clothed in black, with the principal men who could in that suddenness provide themselves of such mourning raiments; the whole people commanded to keep an orderly silence of each side, which was duly observed of them, partly for the desire they had to see a good conclusion of these matters, and partly stricken with admiration, as well at the grave and princely presence of Euarchus, as at the greatness of the cause which was then to come in question. As for Philanax, Euarchus would have done him the honour to sit by him, but he excused himself, desiring to be the accuser of the prisoners in his master’s behalf; and therefore since he made himself a party, it was not convenient for him to sit in the judicial place.

Then was it a while deliberated, whether the two young ladies should be brought forth in open presence: but that was stopped by Philanax, whose love and faith did descend from his master to his children, and only desired the smart should light upon the others, whom he thought guilty of his death and dishonour, alleging for this, that neither wisdom would they should be brought in presence of the people, which might hereupon grow to new uproars, nor justice required they should be drawn to any shame till somebody accused them. And as for Pamela, he protested the laws of Arcadia would not allow any judgment of her, although she herself were to determine nothing till age or marriage enabled her. Then the king’s body being laid upon a table, just before Euarchus, and all covered over with black, the prisoners, namely, the queen and two young princes, were sent for to appear in the protector’s name: which name was the cause they came not to knowledge, how near a kinsman was to judge of them, but thought him to be some nobleman, chosen by the country in this extremity. So extraordinary a course had the order of the heavens produced at this time, that both nephew and son were not only prisoners, but unknown to their uncle and father, who of many years had not seen them. And Pyrocles was to plead for his life before that throne, in which throne lately before he had saved the king’s life.

But first was Gynecia led forth in the same weeds that the day and night before she had worn, saving that instead of Zelmane’s garment in which she was found, she had cast on a long cloak which reached to the ground, of russet coarse cloth, with a poor felt hat which almost covered all her face, most part of her goodly hair, on which her hands had laid many a spiteful hold, so lying upon her shoulders, as a man might well see had no artificial carelessness. Her eyes down on the ground, of purpose not to look on Pyrocles’s face, which she did not so much shun, for the unkindness she conceived of her own overthrow as for the fear those motions in this short time of her life should be revived, which she had with the passage of infinite sorrows mortified. Great was the compassion the people felt to see their princess’s state and beauty so deformed by fortune and her own desert, whom they had ever found a lady most worthy of all honour.

But by and by the sight of the other two prisoners drew most of the eyes to that spectacle. Pyrocles came out led by Sympathus, clothed, after the Greek manner, in a long coat of white velvet reaching to the small of his leg, with great buttons of diamonds all along upon it; his neck without any collar, not so much as hidden with a ruff, did pass the whiteness of his garments, which was not much in fashion unlike to the crimson raiment our Knights of the Order[1] first put on. On his feet he had nothing but slippers, which, after the ancient manner, were tied up with certain laces, which were fastened under his knee, having wrapped about, with many pretty knots, his naked legs. His fair auburn hair, which he wore in great length, and gave at that time a delightful show, with being stirred up and down with the breath of a gentle wind, had nothing upon it, but a white ribbon, in those days used for a diadem. Which rolled once or twice about the uppermost part of his forehead, fell down upon his back, closed up at each end with the richest pearls were to be seen in the world. After him followed another nobleman, guiding the noble Musidorus, who had upon him a long cloak, after the fashion of that which we call the apostle’s mantle, made of purple satin; not that purple which we now have, and is but a counterfeit of the Getalian purple, which yet was far the meaner in price and estimation, but of the right Tyrian purple, which was nearest to a colour betwixt our murrey and scarlet. On his head, which was black and curled, he wore a Persian tiara, all set down with rows of so rich rubies, that they were enough to speak for him that they had to judge of no mean personage.

In this sort, with erected countenances, did these unfortunate princes suffer themselves to be led, showing aright, by the comparison of them and Gynecia, how to divers persons compassion is diversly to be stirred. For as to Gynecia, a lady known of great estate, and greatly esteemed, the more miserable representation was made of her sudden ruin, the more men’s hearts were forced to bewail such an evident witness of weak humanity: so to these men, not regarded because unknown, but rather, besides the detestation of their fact, hated as strangers, the more they should have fallen down in an abject semblance, the more, instead of compassion, they should have got contempt: but therefore were to use, as I may term it, the more violence of magnanimity, and so to conquer the expectation of the lookers with an extraordinary virtue. And such effect indeed it wrought in the whole assembly, their eyes yet standing as it were in balance to whether of them they should most direct their sight. Musidorus was in stature so much higher than Pyrocles as commonly is gotten by one year’s growth. His face, now beginning to have some tokens of a beard, was composed to a kind of manlike beauty. His colour was of a well-pleasing brownness, and the features of it such as they carried both delight and majesty: his countenance severe, and promising a mind much given to thinking. Pyrocles of a pure complexion, and of such a cheerful favour as might seem either a woman’s face in a boy, or an excellent boy’s face in a woman. His look gentle and bashful, which bred the more admiration, having showed such notable proofs of courage. Lastly, though both had both, if there were any odds, Musidorus was the more goodly, and Pyrocles the more lovely. But as soon as Musidorus saw himself so far forth led among the people, that he knew to a great number of them his voice should be heard, misdoubting their intention to the Princess Pamela, of whom he was more careful than of his own life, even as he went, though his leader sought to interrupt him, he thus with a loud voice spoke unto them.

“And is it possible, O Arcadians,” said he, “that you can forget the natural duty you owe to your Princess Pamela? Hath this soil been so little beholden to her noble ancestors? Hath so long a time rooted no surer love in your hearts to that line? Where is that faith to your prince’s blood which hath not only preserved you from all dangers heretofore, but hath spread your fame to all the nations of the world? Where is that justice the Arcadians were wont to flourish in, whose nature is to render to everyone his own? Will you now keep the right from your prince, who is the only giver of judgment, the key of justice, and life of your laws? Do you hope in a few years to set up another race, which nothing but length of time can establish? Will you reward Basilius’s children with ungratefulness, the very poison of manhood? Will you betray your long settled reputation with the foul name of traitors? Is this your mourning for your king’s death, to increase his loss with his daughter’s misery? Imagine your prince doth look out of the heavens unto you, what do you think he could wish more at your hands than that you do well by his children? and what more honour I pray you can you do to his obsequies than to satisfy his soul with a loving memory, as you do his body with an unfelt solemnity? What have you done with the Princess Pamela? Pamela, the just inheritrix of this country, Pamela, whom this earth may be happy that it shall be hereafter said, she was born in Arcadia; Pamela, in herself your ornament, in her education your foster child, and every way your only princess, what account can you render to yourselves of her? truly I do not think that you all know what is become of her: so soon may a diamond be lost: so soon may the fairest light in the world be put out. But look, look unto it, O Arcadians, be not so wilfully robbed of your greatest treasure, make not yourselves ministers to private ambitions, who do but use yourselves to put on your own yokes. Whatsoever you determine of us, who I must confess are but strangers, yet let not Basilius’s daughters be strangers unto you. Lastly, howsoever you bar her from her public sovereignty, which if you do, little may we hope of equity where rebellion reigns, yet deny not that child’s right unto her, that she may come and do the last duties to her father’s body. Deny not that happiness, if in such a case there be any happiness, to your late king, that his body may have his last touch of his dearest child.”

With such like broken manner of questions and speeches, was Musidorus desirous, as much as in passing by them he could, to move the people to tender Pamela’s fortune. But at length, by that they came to the judgment-place, both Sympathus and his guider had greatly satisfied him, with the assurance they gave him, this assembly of people had neither meaning nor power to do any hurt to the princess, whom they all acknowledged as their sovereign lady. But that the custom of Arcadia was such, till she had more years, the state of the country to be guided by a protector, under whom, he and his fellow were to receive their judgment. That eased Musidorus’s heart of his most vehement care, when he found his beloved lady to be out of danger. But Pyrocles as soon as the queen of the one side, he and Musidorus of the other, were stayed before the face of their judge, having only for their bar the table whereon the king’s body lay, being nothing less vexed with the doubt of Philoclea, than Musidorus was for Pamela, in this sort with a lowly behaviour, and only then like a suppliant, he spoke to the protector:

“Pardon me, most honoured judge,” saith he, “that uncommanded I begin my speech unto you, since both to you and me, those words of mine shall be most necessary. To you having the sacred exercise of justice in your hand, nothing appertains more properly than truth nakedly and freely set down. To me, being environed round about with many dangerous calamities, what can be more convenient, than, at least, to be at peace with myself, in having discharged my conscience in a most behoveful verity. Understand therefore, and truly understand, that the lady Philoclea, to whose unstained virtue it hath been my unspeakable misery, that my name should become a blot, if she be accused, is most unjustly accused of any dishonourable fact, which by my means she may be thought to have yielded unto. Whatsoever hath been done, hath been my only attempt, which notwithstanding was never intended against her chastity. But whatsoever hath been informed, was my fault. And I attest the heavens, to blaspheme which I am not now in fit tune, that so much as my coming into her chamber, was wholly unwitting unto her. This your wisdom may withal consider, if I would lie, I would lie for mine own behoof, I am not so old as to be weary of myself; but the very sting of my inward knowledge, joined with the consideration I must needs have what an infinite loss it should be to all those who love goodness in good folks if so pure a child of virtue should wrongfully be destroyed, compels me to use my tongue against myself, and receive the burden of what evil was upon mine own doing. Look therefore with pitiful eyes upon so fair beams, and that misfortune which by me hath fallen upon her, help to repair it with your public judgment, since whosoever deals cruelly with such a creature, shows himself a hater of mankind, and an envier of the world’s bliss. And this petition I make, even in the name of justice, that before you proceed further against us, I may know how you conceive of her noble, though unfortunate action, and what judgment you will make of it.”

He had not spoken his last word, when all the whole people, both of great and low estate, confirmed with an united murmur Pyrocles’s demand, longing, for the love generally was borne Philoclea, to know what they might hope of her. Euarchus though neither regarding a prisoner’s passionate prayer, nor bearing over-plausible ears to a many-headed motion, yet well enough content, to win their liking with things in themselves indifferent, he was content: first, to seek as much as might be of Philoclea’s behaviour in this matter: which being cleared by Pyrocles, and but weakly gainsaid by Philanax, who had framed both his own and Dametas’s evidence most for her favour, and in truth could have gone no further than conjecture, yet finding by his wisdom that she was not altogether faultless, he pronounced she should all her life long be kept prisoner among certain women of religion, like the Vestal nuns, so to repay the touched honour of her house, with well observing a strict profession of chastity. Although this were a great prejudicating of Pyrocles’s case, yet was he exceedingly joyous of it, being assured of his lady’s life; and in the depth of his mind not sorry, that what end soever he had, none should obtain the after enjoying that jewel whereon he had set his life’s happiness. After it was by public sentence delivered, what should be done with the sweet Philoclea, the laws of Arcadia bearing that what was appointed by the magistrates in the nonage of the prince could not afterwards be repealed. Euarchus still using to himself no other name but protector of Arcadia, commanded those that had to say against the Queen Gynecia to proceed, because both her estate required she should be first heard, and also for that she was taken to be the principal in the greater matter they were to judge of. Philanax incontinently stepped forth, and showing in his greedy eyes that he did thirst for her blood, began a well thought on discourse of her, in his judgment, execrable wickedness. But Gynecia, standing up before the judge, casting abroad her arms, with her eyes hidden under the breadth of her unseemly hat, laying open in all her gestures the despairful affliction, to which all the might of her reason was converted, with such like words stopped Philanax, as he was entering into his invective oration:

“Stay, stay, Philanax,” said she, “do not defile thy honest mouth with those dishonourable speeches thou art about to utter against a woman, now most wretched, lately thy mistress. Let either the remembrance how great she was move thy heart to some reverence, or the seeing how low she is, stir in thee some pity. It may be truth doth make thee deal untruly, and love of justice frames injustice in thee, do not therefore, neither shalt thou need, tread upon my desolate ruins. Thou shalt have what thou seekest; and yet shalt not be oppressor of her, who cannot choose but love thee for thy singular faith to thy master. I do not speak this to procure mercy, or to prolong my life, no, no, I say unto you I will not live, but I am only loth, my death should be engrieved with any wrong thou shouldst do unto me. I have been too painful a judge over myself to desire pardon in others’ judgment. I have been too cruel an executioner of my own soul to desire that execution of justice should be staid for me. Alas, they that know how sorrow can rend the spirits, they that know what fiery hells are contained in a self-condemning mind, need not fear that fear can keep such an one from desiring to be separated from that which nothing but death can separate. I therefore say to thee, O just judge, that I, and only I, was the worker of Basilius’s death. They were these hands that gave unto him the poisonous potion that hath brought death to him, and loss to Arcadia; it was I, and none but I, that hastened his aged years to an unnatural end, and that have made all his people orphans of their royal father. I am the subject that have killed my prince, I am the wife that have murdered my husband, I am a degenerate woman, an undoer of this country, a shame of my children. What wouldst thou have said more, O Philanax! and all this I grant, there resteth then nothing else to say but that I desire you, you will appoint quickly some to rid me of my life, rather than these hands, which else are destined unto it, and that indeed it may be done with such speed as I may not long die in this life, which I have in so great horror.” With that she crossed her arms, and sat down upon the ground, attending the judge’s answer. But a great while it was, before anybody could be heard speak, the whole people concurring in a lamentable cry, so much had Gynecia’s words and behaviour stirred their hearts to a doleful compassion, neither in troth could most of them in their judgments tell whether they should be more sorry for her fault, or her misery; for the loss of her estate, or loss of her virtue. But most were most moved with that which was under their eyes, the sense most subject to pity. But at length the reverent awe they stood in of Euarchus brought them to a silent waiting his determination, who, having well considered the abomination of the fact, attending more the manifest proof of so horrible a trespass, confessed by herself, and proved by others, than anything relenting to those tragical phrases of hers, apter to stir a vulgar pity than his mind, which hated evil in what colours soever he found it, having considered a while with the principal men of the country, and demanded their allowance, he definitively gave this sentence: “That whereas, both in private and public respects, this woman had most heinously offended, in private, because marriage being the most holy conjunction that falls to mankind, out of which all families, and so consequently all societies do proceed, which not only by community of goods, but community of children, is to knit the minds in a most perfect union, which whoso breaks, dissolves all humanity, no man living free from the danger of so near a neighbour, she had not only broken it, but broken it with death, and the most pretended death that might be: in public respect, the princes’ persons, being in all monarchal governments the very knot of the people’s welfare, and light of all her doings, to which they are not only in conscience, but in necessity bound to be loyal, she had traitorously empoisoned him, neither regarding her country’s profit, her own duty, nor the rigour of the laws. That therefore, as well for the due satisfaction to eternal justice, and accomplishment of the Arcadian statutes, as for the everlasting example to all wives and subjects, she should presently be conveyed to close prison, and there kept with such food as might serve to sustain her life, until the day of her husband’s burial, at which time she should be buried quick, in the same tomb with him: that so his murder might be a murder to herself, and she forced to keep company with the body from which she had made so detestable a severance; and lastly, death might redress their disjoined conjunction of marriage.” His judgment was received of the whole assembly, as not with disliking, so with great astonishment, the greatness of the matter and person as it were overpressing the might of their conceits. But when they did set it to the beam, with the monstrousness of her ugly misdeed, they could not but yield in their hearts, there was no over-balancing. As for Gynecia, who had already settled her thoughts, not only to look but long for this event, having, in this time of her vexation, found a sweetness in the rest she hoped by death, with a countenance witnessing she had before-hand so passed through all the degrees of sorrow, that she had no new look to figure forth any more, rose up, and offered forth her fair hands to be bound or led as they would, being indeed troubled with no part of this judgment, but that her death was as she thought long delayed. They that were appointed for it, conveyed her to the place she was in before, where the guard was relieved, and the number increased to keep her more sure for the time of her execution: none of them all that led her, though most of them were such whose hearts had been long hardened with the often exercising such offices, being able to bar tears from their eyes, and other manifest tokens of compassionate sorrow. So goodly a virtue is a resolute constancy, that even in evil deservers, it seems that party might have been notably well deserving. Thus the excellent lady Gynecia, having passed five and thirty years of her age, even to the admiration of a beautiful mind and body, and having not in her own knowledge ever spotted her soul with any wilful vice, but her immoderate love of Zelmane, was brought first by that ill-answered passion, and then by the despairing conceit she took of the judgment of God in her husband’s death and her own fortune, purposely to overthrow herself, and confirm by a wrong confession, that abominable shame, which with her wisdom, joined to the truth, perhaps she might have repelled.

Then did Euarchus ask Philanax, whether it were he that would charge the two young prisoners, or that some other should do it, and he sit, according to his estate, as an assistant in the judgment. Philanax told him as before he had done, that he thought no man could say manifest the naughtiness of those two young men with so much either truth or zeal as himself, and therefore he desired he might do this last service to his faithfully beloved master, as to prosecute the traitorous causers of his death and dishonour, which being done, for his part he meant to give up all dealing in public affairs, since that man was gone who had made him love them. Philanax thus being ready to speak, the two princes were commanded to tell their names, who answered, according to their agreements, that they were Daiphantus of Lycia, and Palladius Prince of Iberia. Which when they had said, they demanded to know by what authority they could judge of them, since they were not only foreigners, and so not born under their laws, but absolute princes, and therefore not to be touched by laws. But answer was presently made them that Arcadian laws were to have their force upon any found in Arcadia: since strangers have scope to know the customs of a country, before they put themselves in it: and when they once are entered, they must know that what by many was made must not for one be broken. And so much less for a stranger, as he is to look for no privilege in that place, to which in time of need his service is not to be expected. As for their being princes, whether they were so or no, the belief stood in their own words, which they had so diversly falsified, as they did not deserve belief. But whatsoever they were, Arcadia was to acknowledge them but as private men, since they were neither by magistracy nor alliance to the princely blood, to claim anything in that region. Therefore if they had offended, which now by the plaintiff and their defence was to be judged, against the laws of nations, by the laws of nations they were to be chastised: if against the peculiar ordinances of the province, those peculiar ordinances were to lay hold of them.

The princes stood a while upon that, demanding leisure to give perfect knowledge of their greatness; but when they were answered, that in a case of the prince’s death, the law of that country had ever been that immediate trial should be had, they were forced to yield, resolved that in those names they would as much as they could cover the shame of their royal parentage, and keep as long as might be, if evil were determined against them, the evil news from their careful kinsfolks, wherein the chief man they considered was Euarchus: whom the strange and secret working of justice had brought to be the judge over them. In such a shadow, or rather pit of darkness, the wormish mankind lives, that neither they know how to foresee, nor what to fear, and are but like tennis balls, tossed by the racket of the higher powers. Thus both sides ready, it was determined, because their cases were separated, first Philanax should be heard against Pyrocles, whom they termed Daiphantus, and that heard, the other’s cause should follow, and so receive together such judgment as they should be found to have deserved.

But Philanax that was even short-breathed at the first, with the extreme vehemency he had to speak against them, stroking once or twice his forehead, and wiping his eyes, which either wept, or he would at that time have them seem to weep, looking first upon Pyrocles, as if he had proclaimed all hatefulness against him, humbly turning to Euarchus, who with quiet gravity showed great attention, he thus began his oration: “That which all men, who take upon them to accuse another, are wont to desire, most worthy protector, to have many proofs of faults in them they seek to have condemned, that is to me in this present action my greatest cumber and annoyance. For the number is so great, and the quality so monstrous of the enormities this wretched young man hath committed, that neither I in myself can tell where to begin, my thoughts being confused with the horrible multitude of them, neither do I think your virtuous ears will be able to endure the report, but will rather imagine you hear some tragedy invented of the extremity of wickedness, than a just recital of a wickedness indeed committed: for such is the disposition of the most sincere judgments, that as they can believe mean faults, and such as man’s nature may slide into, so when they pass to a certain degree, nay, when they pass all degrees of unspeakable naughtiness, then find they in themselves a hardness to give credit that human creatures can so from all humanity be transformed. But in myself the strength of my faith to my dead master will help the weakness of my memory; in you, your excellent love of justice will force you to vouchsafe attention: and as for the matter, it is so manifest, so pitiful evidences lie before your eyes of it, that I shall need to be but a brief recounter, and no rhetorical enlarger of this most harmful mischief. I will therefore, in as few words as so huge a trespass can be obtained, deliver unto you the sum of this miserable fact: leaving out a great number of particular tokens of his naughtiness, and only touching the essential points of this doleful case. This man, whom to begin withal I know not how to name, since being come into this country, unaccompanied like a lost pilgrim, from a man grew a woman, from a woman a ravisher of women, thence a prisoner, and now a prince: but this Zelmane, this Daiphantus, this what you will, for any shape or title he can take upon him, that hath no restraint of shame, having understood the solitary life my late master lived, and considering how open he had laid himself to any traitorous attempt, for the first mask of his falsehood, disguised himself like a woman, which being the more simple and hurtless sex, might easier hide his subtle harmfulness. And presenting himself to my master, the most courteous prince that lived, was received of him with so great graciousness that might have bound not only any grateful mind, but might have mollified any enemy’s rancour. But this venomous serpent, admitted thus into his bosom, as contagion will easily find a fit body for it, so had he quickly fallen into so near acquaintance with this naughty woman, whom even now you have most justly condemned, that this was her right hand, she saw with no eyes but his, nor seemed to have any life but in him, so glad she was to find one more cunning than herself in covering wickedness with a modest veil. What is to be thought passed betwixt two such virtuous creatures, whereof the one hath confessed murder, and the other rape, I leave to your wise consideration. For my heart hastens to the miserable point of Basilius’s murder, for the executing of which with more facility, this young nymph of Diana’s bringing up, feigned certain rites she had to perform, so furious an impiety had carried him from all remembrance of goodness that he did not only not fear the gods, as the beholders and punishers of so ungodly a villainy, but did blasphemously use their sacred holy name as a minister unto it. And forsooth a cave hereby was chosen for the temple of his devotions, a cave of such darkness, as did prognosticate he meant to please the infernal powers; for there this accursed caitiff, upon the altar of falsehood, sacrificed the life of the virtuous Basilius. By what means he trained him thither, alas I know not, for if I might have known it, either my life had accompanied my master, or this fellow’s death had preserved him. But this may suffice that in the mouth of this cave, where this traitor had his lodging and chapel, when already master shepherd, his companion, had conveyed away the undoubted inheritrix of this country, was Gynecia found by the dead corpse of her husband, newly empoisoned, apparelled in the garments of the young lady, and ready no question to have fled to some place, according to their consort, but that she was by certain honest shepherds arrested: while in the meantime, because there should be left no revenger of this bloody mischief, this noble Amazon was violently gotten into the chamber of the Lady Philoclea, where by the mingling, as much as in him lay, of her shame with his misdeed, he might enforce her to be accessory to her father’s death, and under the countenance of her and her sister, against whom they knew we would not rebel, seize as it were with one grip into their treacherous hands, the regiment of this mighty province. But the Almighty Eye prevented him of the end of his mischief, by using a villain Dametas’s hand to inclose him in there, where with as much fortification as in a house could be made, he thought himself in most security. Thus see you most just judge, a short and simple story of the infamous misery fallen upon this country; indeed infamous, since by an effeminate man we should suffer a greater overthrow than our mightiest enemies have been ever able to lay upon us. And that all this, which I have said is most manifest, as well of the murdering of Basilius, as the ravishing of Philoclea, for those two parts I establish of my accusation, who is of so incredulous a mind, or rather who will so stop his eyes from seeing a thing clearer than the light, as not to hold for assured so palpable a matter? For to begin with his most cruel misdeed, is it to be imagined that Gynecia, a woman though wicked, yet witty, would have attempted and achieved an enterprise, no less hazardous than horrible, without having some counsellor in the beginning, and some comforter in the performing? had she, who showed her thoughts were so over-ruled with some strange desire, as in despite of God, nature, and womanhood, to execute that in deeds, which in words we cannot hear without trembling? Had she, I say, no practice to lead her unto it? or had she a practice without conspiracy? or could she conspire without somebody to conspire with? and if one were, who so likely as this, to whom she communicated I am sure her mind, the world thinks her body? neither let her words, taking the whole fault upon herself, be herein anything available. For to those persons who have vomited out of their souls all remnants of goodness, there rests a certain pride in evil, and having else no shadow of glory left them, they glory to be constant in iniquity, and that, God knows, must be held out to the last gasp, without revealing their accomplices; as thinking great courage is declared in being neither afraid of the heavens, nor ashamed of the world. But let Gynecia’s action die with herself, what can all the earth answer for his coming hither? Why alone, if he be a prince? How so richly jewelled if he be not a prince? Why then a woman if now a man? Why now Daiphantus, if then Zelmane? Was all this play for nothing, or if it had an end, what end but the end of my dear master? Shall we doubt so many secret conferences with Gynecia, such feigned favour to the over-soon beguiled Basilius, a cave made a lodging, and the same lodging made a temple of his religion, lastly, such changes and traverses, as a quiet poet could scarce fill a poem withal, were directed to any less scope than to this monstrous murderer? O snaky ambition, which can wind thyself in so many figures, to slide thither thou desirest to come! O corrupted reason of mankind, that can yield to deform thyself with so filthy desires? and O hopeless be those minds whom so unnatural desires do not with their own ugliness sufficiently terrify! But yet even of favour let us grant him thus much more, as to fancy that in these foretold things, fortune might be a great actor, perchance to an evil end, yet to a less evil end all these entangled devices were intended. But I beseech your ladyship, my Lady Daiphantus, tell me what excuse can you find for the changing your lodging with the queen that very instant she was to finish her execrable practice? how can you cloak the lending of your cloak unto her. Was all that by chance too? Had the stars sent such an influence unto you, as you should be just weary of your lodging and garments when our prince was destined to the slaughter? What say you to this, O shameful and shameless creature? fit indeed to be the dishonour of both sexes. But alas! I spend too many words in so manifest and so miserable a matter. They must be four wild horses, which according to our laws are the executioners of men which murder our prince, which must decide this question with you. Yet see so far had my zeal to my beloved prince transported me that I had almost forgotten my second part, and his second abomination, I mean his violence offered to the Lady Philoclea: wherewith as if it had well become his womanhood, he came braving to the judgment-seat: indeed our laws appoint not so cruel a death, although death too, for this fact as for the other. But whosoever well weighs it shall find it sprung out of the same fountain of mischievous naughtiness, the killing of the father, dishonouring the mother, and ravishing the child. Alas, could not so many benefits received of my prince, the justice of nature, the sign of hospitality be a bridle to thy lust, if not to thy cruelty? or if thou hadst, as surely thou hast, a heart recompensing goodness with hatred, could not his death, which is the last of revenges, satisfy thy malice, but thou must heap upon it the shame of his daughter? Were thy eyes so stony, thy breast so tigerish, that the sweet and beautiful shows of Philoclea’s virtue did not astonish thee? O woeful Arcadia, to whom the name of this mankind courtesan shall ever be remembered as a procurer of thy greatest loss! But too far I find my passion, yet honest passion hath guided me; the cause is every way too, too much unanswerable. It resteth in you, O excellent protector, to pronounce judgment, which if there be hope that such a young man may prove profitable to the world, who in the first exercise of his own determination, far passed the arrantest strumpet in luxuriousness, the cunningest forger in falsehood, a player in disguising, a tiger in cruelty, a dragon in ungratefulness, let him be preserved like a jewel to do greater mischief. If his youth be not more defiled with treachery than the eldest man’s age, let, I say, his youth be some cause of compassion. If he have not every way sought the overthrow of human society, if he have done anything like a prince, let his naming himself a prince breed a reverence of his base wickedness. If he have not broken all the laws of hospitality, and broken them in the most detestable degree that can be, let his being a guest be a sacred protection of his more than savage doings: or if his whorish beauty, have not been as the high way of his wickedness, let the picture drawn upon so poisonous a wood, be reserved to show how greatly colours can please us. But if it is as it is, what should I say more, a very spirit of hellish naughtiness; if his act be to be punished, and his defiled person not to be pitied, then restore unto us our prince by duly punishing his murderers, for then we shall think him and his name to live when we shall see his killers to die. Restore to the excellent Philoclea her honour, by taking out of the world her dishonour, and think that at this day, in this matter, are the eyes of the world upon you, whether anything can sway your mind from a true administration of justice. Alas! though I have much more to say, I can say no more, for my tears and sighs interrupt my speech, and force me to give myself over to my private sorrow.”

Thus when Philanax had uttered the uttermost of his malice, he made sorrow the cause of his conclusion. But while Philanax was in the course of his speech, and did with such bitter reproaches defame the princely Pyrocles, it was well to be seen, his heart was unused to bear such injuries, and his thoughts such as could arm themselves better against anything than shame. For sometimes blushing, his blood with divers motions coming and going, sometimes closing his eyes, and laying his hand over them, sometimes giving such a look to Philanax, as might show he assured himself he durst not so have spoken if they had been in an indifferent place: with some impatiency he bare the length of his oration; which being ended, with as much modest humbleness to the judge, as despiteful scorn to the accuser, with words to this purpose he defended his honour.

“My accuser’s tale may well bear witness with me, most rightful judge, in how hard a case, and environed with how many troubles, I may esteem myself. For if he who shows his tongue is not unacquainted with railing, was in an agony in the beginning of his speech with the multitude of the matters he had to lay unto me, wherein notwithstanding the most evil could fall unto him was that he should not do so much evil as he would, how cumbered do you think may I acknowledge myself, who, in things no less importing than my life, must be mine own advocate, without leisure to answer, or foreknowledge what should be objected? in things, I say, promoted with so cunning confusion, as having mingled truths with falsehoods, surmises with certainties, causes of no moment with matters capital, scolding with complaining, I can absolutely neither grant nor deny, neither can I tell whether I come hither to be judged, or before judgment to be punished, being compelled to hear such unworthy words, far more grievous than any death unto me. But since the form of this government allows such tongue-liberty unto him, I will pick as well as I can out of his invective speech those few points which may seem of some purpose in the touching of me, hoping that by your easy hearing of me, you will show that though you hate evil, yet you wish men may prove themselves not evil; so in that he hath said, you will not weigh so much what he hath said as what he hath proved, remembering that truth is simple and naked, and that if he had guided himself under that banner, he needed not out of the way have sought so vile and false disgracing of me, enough to make the untruest accusation believed. I will therefore, using truth as my best eloquence, repeat unto you as much as I know in this matter, and then, by the only clearness of the discourse, your wisdom I know will find the difference between cavilling supposition, and direct declaration. This Prince Palladius and I being inflamed with love, a passion far more easily reprehended than refrained, to the two peerless daughters of Basilius, and understanding how he had secluded himself from the world, that, like princes, there was no access unto him, we disguised ourselves, in such forms as might soonest bring us to the revealing our affections. The Prince Palladius had such event of his doings that, with Pamela’s consent, he was to convey her out of the thraldom she lived in, to receive the subjection of a greater people than her own, until her father’s consent might be obtained. My fortune was more hard, for I bare no more love to the chaste Philoclea, than Basilius, deceived in my sex, showed to me, insomuch that by his importunacy, I could have no time to obtain the like favour of the pure Philoclea, till this policy I found, taking under colour of some devotions, my lodging, to draw Basilius thither, with hope to enjoy me; which likewise I revealed to the queen, that she might keep my place, and so make her husband see his error. While I in the meantime, being delivered of them both, and having locked so the doors as I hoped, if the immaculate Philoclea would condescend to go with me, there should be none to hinder our going, I was made prisoner there, I know not by what means, when being repelled by her divine virtue, I would fainest have escaped. Here you have the thread to guide you in the labyrinth, this man of his tongue, had made so monstrous. Here you see the true discourse, which he mountebank-fashion doth make so wide a mouth over. Here may you conceive the reason why the queen had my garment, because in her going to the cave, in the moon-shine night, she might be taken for me, which he useth as the knot of all his wise assertions: so that as this double-minded fellow’s accusation was double, double likewise my answer must perforce be, to the murder of Basilius, and violence offered to the inviolate Philoclea. For the first, O heavenly gods, who would have thought any mouth could have been found so mercenary as to have opened so slight proofs of so horrible matters! His first argument is a question, who would imagine that Gynecia would accomplish such an act, without some accessories? and if any, who but I? truly I am so far from imagining anything, that till I saw these mourning tokens, and heard Gynecia’s confession, I never imagined the king was dead. And for my part so vehemently, and more like the manner of passionate than guilty folk, I see the queen persecute herself, that I think condemnation may go too hastily over her, considering the unlikelihood, if not impossibility, her wisdom and virtue so long nourished, should in one moment throw down itself to the uttermost end of wickedness. But whatsoever she hath done, which, as I say, I never believed, yet how unjustly should that aggravate my fault? she found abroad, I within doors, for as for the wearing my garment I have told you the cause, she seeking, as you say, to escape, I locking myself in a house: without perchance the conspiracy of one poor stranger, might greatly enable her attempt, or the fortification of the lodge, as the trim man alleged, might make me hope to resist all Arcadia. And see how treacherously he seeks to draw from me my chiefest clearing, by preventing the credit of her words, wherewith she had wholly taken the fault upon herself. An honest and impartial examiner: her words may condemn her, but may not absolve me. Thus, void of all probable allegation, the craven crows upon my affliction, not leaving out any evil that ever he hath felt in his own soul, to charge my youth withal. But who can look for a sweet breath out of such a stomach? or for honey from so filthy a spider? What should I say more? if in so inhuman a matter, which he himself confesseth, sincerest judgments are lothest to believe, and in the severest laws proofs clearer than the sun are required, his reasons are only the scum of a base malice, my answers most manifest, shining in their own truth, there remain any doubt of it, because it stands betwixt his affirming and my denial, I offer, nay I desire, and humbly desire I may be granted the trial by combat, wherein let him be armed, and me in my shirt, I doubt not justice will be my shield, and his heart will show itself as faint as it is false.

“Now come I to the second part of my offence towards the young lady, which, howsoever you term it, so far forth as I have told you, I confess, and for her sake heartily lament. But if herein I offered force to her, love offered more force to me. Let her beauty be compared to my years, and such effects will be found no miracles. But since it is thus as it is, and that justice teacheth us not to love punishment, but to fly to it for necessity: the salve of her honour, I mean as the world will take it, for else in truth it is most untouched, must be my marriage and not my death, since the one stops all mouths, the other becomes a doubtful fable. This matter requires no more words, and your experience, I hope, in these cases shall need no more; for myself methinks I have showed already too much love of my life to bestow so many. But certainly it hath been love of truth, which could not bear so unworthy falsehood, and love of justice that would brook no wrong to myself nor other, and makes me now, even in that respect to desire you to be moved rather with pity at a just cause of tears, than with the bloody tears this crocodile spends, who weeps to procure death, and not to lament death. It will be no honour to Basilius’s tomb to have guiltless blood sprinkled upon it, and much more may a judge over-weigh himself in cruelty than in clemency. It is hard, but it is excellent where it is found, a right knowledge when correction is necessary, when grace doth more avail. For mine own respect, if I thought in wisdom I had deserved death, I would not desire life: for I know nature will condemn me to die though you do not; and longer I would not wish to draw this breath, than I may keep myself unspotted of any horrible crime; only I cannot, nor ever will deny the love of Philoclea, whose violence wrought violent effects in me.”

With that he finished his speech, casting up his eyes to the judge, and crossing his hands, which he held in their length before him declaring a resolute patience in whatsoever should be done with him. Philanax, like a watchful adversary, curiously marked all that he said, saving that in the beginning he was interrupted by two letters which were brought him from the Princess Pamela, and the Lady Philoclea, who having all that night considered and bewailed their estate, careful for their mother likewise, of whom they could never think so much evil, but considering with themselves that she assuredly should have so due trial by the laws, as either she should not need their help, or should be past their help; they looked to that which nearliest touched them, and each wrote in this sort for him, in whom their lives’ joy consisted.

The humble hearted Philoclea wrote much after this manner:

My Lords, what you will determine of me, it is to me uncertain, but what I have determined of myself, I am most certain, which is no longer to enjoy my life, than I may enjoy him for my husband, whom the heavens for my highest glory have bestowed upon me. Those that judge him, let them execute me. Let my throat satisfy their hunger of murder. For alas what hath he done, that had not its original in me? Look upon him I beseech you with indifferency, and see whether in those eyes all virtue shines not. See whether that face could hide a murder. Take leisure to know him, and then yourselves will say, it hath been too great an inhumanity to suspect such excellency. Are the gods think you deceived in their workmanship? artificers will not use marble but to noble uses. Should those powers be so overshot, as to frame so precious an image of their own, but to honourable purposes? O speak with him, O hear him, O know him, and become not the putters-out of the world’s light. Hope you to joy my father’s soul with hurting him he loved above all the world? shall a wrong suspicion make you forget the certain knowledge of those benefits this house hath received by him? Alas, alas, let not Arcadia for his loss be accursed of the whole earth and of all posterity. He is a great prince, I speak unto you that which I know, for I have seen most evident testimonies. Why should you hinder my advancement? who if I have passed my childhood hurtless to any of you, if I have refused nobody to do what good I could, if I have often mitigated my father’s anger, ever sought to maintain his favour towards you, nay, if I have held you all as fathers and brothers unto me, rob me not of more than my life comes unto. Tear not that which is inseparably joined to my soul; but if he rest misliked of you, which, O God, how can it be, yet give him to me, let me have him, you know I pretend no right to your state. Therefore it is but a private petition I make unto you. Or if you be hard-heartedly bent to appoint otherwise, which, oh, sooner let me die than know, then, to end as I began, let me by you be ordered to the same end: without, for more cruelty, you mean to force Philoclea to use her own hands to kill one of your king’s children.

Pamela’s letter, which she meant to send to the general assembly of the Arcadian nobility, for so closely they were kept, as they were utterly ignorant of the new taken orders, was thus framed:

In such a state, my Lord, you have placed me that I can neither write nor be silent; for how can I be silent, since you have left me nothing but my solitary words to testify my misery? and how should I write, for as for speech I have none but my jailor that can hear me, who neither can resolve what to write, nor to whom to write? What to write is hard for me to say, as what I may not write, so little hope have I of any success, and so much hath no injury been left undone to me-wards. To whom to write, where may I learn, since yet I wot not how to entitle you? shall I call you my sovereigns? set down your laws that I may do you homage. Shall I fall lower, and name you my fellows? show me, I beseech you, the lord and master over us. But shall Basilius’s heir name herself your princess? alas I am your prisoner. But whatsoever I be, or whatsoever you be, O all you beholders of these doleful lines, this do I signify unto you, and signify it with a heart that ever shall remain in that opinion, the good or evil you do to the excellent prince who was taken with me, and after by force from me, I will ever impute it as either way done to mine own person. He is a prince, and worthy to be my husband, and so is he my husband by me worthily chosen. Believe it, believe it, either you shall be traitors for murdering of me, or if you let me live the murderers of him shall smart as traitors. For what do you think I can think? am I so childish, as not to see wherein you touch him you condemn me? can his shame be without my reproach? no, nor shall be, since nothing he hath done that I will not avow. Is this the comfort you bring me in my father’s death, to make me fuller of shame than sorrow? would you do this if it were not with full intention to prevent my power with slaughter? and so do I pray you it is high time for me to be weary of my life too long led, since you are weary of me, before you have me. I say again, I say it indefinitely unto you, I will not live without him, if it be not to revenge him: either do justly in saving both, or wisely in killing both. If I be your princess, I command his preservation; if but a private person, then are we both to suffer. I take all truth to witness he hath done no fault but in going with me. Therefore to conclude, in judging him you judge me, neither conceive with yourselves, the matter you treat of is the life of a stranger, though even in that name he deserved pity; nor of a shepherd, to which estate love of me made such a prince descend: but determine most assuredly, the life that is in question is of Pamela, Basilius’s daughter.

Many blots had the tears of these sweet ladies made in their letters, which many times they had altered, many times torn, and written anew, ever thinking something either wanted, or was too much, or would offend, or, which is worst, would breed denial: but at last, the day warned them to dispatch, which they accordingly did, and calling one of their guard, for nobody else was suffered to come near them, with great entreaty, they requested him that he would present them to the principal noblemen and gentlemen together. For they had more confidence in the numbers’ favour, than in any one, upon whom they would not lay the lives they held so precious. But the fellow trusted to Philanax, who had placed him there, delivered them both to him, what time Pyrocles began to speak, which he suddenly opened, and seeing to what they tended, by the first words, was so far from publishing them, whereby he feared in Euarchus’s just mind, either the princesses might be endangered, or the prisoners preserved, of which choice he knew not which to think the worst, that he would not himself read them over, doubting his own heart might be mollified, so bent upon revenge. Therefore utterly suppressing them, he lent a spiteful ear to Pyrocles, and as soon as he had ended, with a very willing heart desired Euarchus he might accept the combat: although it would have framed but evil with him: Pyrocles having never found any match near him besides Musidorus. But Euarchus made answer, since bodily strength is but a servant to the mind, it were very barbarous and preposterous that force should be made judge over reason. Then would he also have replied in words unto him, but Euarchus who knew what they could say was already said, taking their arguments into his mind, commanded him to proceed against the other prisoner, and that then he would sentence them both together.

Philanax nothing the milder for Pyrocles’s purging himself, but rather, according to the nature of arguing, especially when it is bitter, so much more vehement, entered thus into his speech against Musidorus, being so overgone with rage, that he forgot in this oration his precise method of oratory. “Behold, most noble protector, to what a state Arcadia is come, since such manner of men may challenge in combat the faithfullest of the nobility, and having merited the shamefullest of all deaths dare name in marriage the princesses of this country. Certainly my masters, I must say, you were much out of taste if you had not rather enjoy such ladies than be hanged. But the one you have as much deserved, as you have dishonoured the other. But now my speech must be directed to you, good master Dorus, who, with Pallas’s help perdy, are lately grown Palladius. Too much this sacred seat of justice grants unto such a fugitive bondslave, who, instead of these examinations, should be made confess with a whip, that which a halter should punish. Are not you he, Sir, whose sheephook was prepared to be our sceptre; in whom lay the knot of all this tragedy? or else perchance, they that should gain little by it were dealers in the murder, you only that had provided the fruits for yourself, knew nothing of it; knew nothing! Hath thy companion here infected thee with such impudency, as even in the face of the world to deny that which all the world perceiveth? The other pleads ignorance, and you, I doubt not, will allege absence. But he was ignorant when he was hard by, and you had framed your absence, just against the time the act should be committed, so fit a lieutenant he knew he had left of his wickedness, that for himself his safest mean, was to convey away the lady of us all, who once out of the country, he knew we would come with olive branches of intercession unto her, and fall at his feet to beseech him to leave keeping of sheep, and vouchsafe the tyrannizing over us: for to think they are princes, as they say, although in our laws it behoveth them nothing, I see at all no reason. These jewels certainly with their disguising slights, they have pilfered in their vagabonding race. And think you such princes should be so long without some followers after them? Truly if they be princes, it manifestly shows their virtues such, as all their subjects are glad to be rid of them. But be they as they are, for we are to consider the matter and not the men, Basilius’s murder hath been the cause of their coming, Basilius’s murder they have most treacherously brought to pass; yet that I doubt not, you will deny as well as your fellow. But how will you deny the stealing away the princess of this province, which is no less than treason? so notably hath the justice of the gods provided for the punishing of these malefactors, as if it were possible, men would not believe the certain evidences of their principal mischief, yet have they discovered themselves sufficiently for their most just overthrow. I say therefore, to omit my chief matter of the king’s death, this wolfish shepherd, this counterfeit prince, hath traitorously, contrary to his allegiance, having made himself a servant and subject, attempted the depriving this country of our natural princess, and therefore by all right must receive the punishment of traitors. This matter is so assured as he himself will not deny it, being taken and brought back in the fact. This matter is so odious in nature, so shameful to the world, so contrary to all laws, so hurtful to us, so false in him, as if I should stand further in declaring or defacing it, I should either show great doubts in your wisdom, or in your justice. Therefore I will transfer my care upon you, and attend, to my learning and comfort, the eternal example you will leave to all mankind, of disguisers, falsifiers, adulterers, ravishers, murderers and traitors.”

Musidorus, while Philanax was speaking against his cousin and him, had looked round about him, to see whether by any means he might come to have caught him in his arms, and have killed him, so much had his disgracing words filled his breast with rage. But perceiving himself so guarded as he should rather show a passionate act, than perform his revenge, his hand trembling with desire to strike, and all the veins in his face swelling, casting his eyes over the judgment seat: “O gods,” said he, “and have you spared my life to bear these injuries of such a drivel! Is this the justice of this place, to have such men as we are, submitted not only to apparent falsehood, but most shameful reviling? But mark I pray you the ungratefulness of the wretch, how utterly he hath forgotten the benefits both he and all this country hath received of us. For if ever men may remember their own noble deeds, it is then when their just defence, and others’ unjust unkindness doth require it. I omit our services done to Basilius in the late war with Amphialus, importing no less than his daughters’ lives, and his state’s preservation. Were not we the men who killed the wild beasts which otherwise had killed the princesses if we had not succoured them? Consider if it please you where had been Daiphantus’s rape, or my treason, if the sweet beauties of the earth had then been devoured? either think them now dead, or remember they live by us. And yet full often this telltale can acknowledge the loss they should have by their taking away while maliciously he overpasseth who were their preservers: neither let this be spoken of me, as if I meant to balance this evil with that good, for I must confess that saving of such creatures was rewarded in the act itself, but only to manifest the partial jangling of this vile pickthank. But if we be traitors, where was your fidelity, O only tongue-valiant gentleman, when not only the young princess, but the king himself was defended from uttermost peril, partly by me, but principally by this excellent young man’s both wisdom and valour? Were we that made ourselves against hundreds of armed men, openly the shields of his life, like secretly to be his impoisoners? Did we then show his life to be dearer to us than our own, because we might after rob him of his life to die shamefully? Truly, truly, master orator, whosoever hath hired you to be so busy in their matters, who keep honester servants than yourself, he should have bid you in so many railings, bring some excuse for yourself, why in the greatest need of your prince, to whom you pretend a miraculous goodwill, you were not then as forward to do like a man yourself, or at least to accuse them that were slack in that service: but commonly they use their feet for their defence, whose tongue is their weapon. Certainly a very simple subtlety it had been in us to repose our lives in the daughters when we had killed the father. But as this gentleman thinks to win the reputation of a copious talker by leaving nothing unsaid which a filthy mind can imagine, so think I, or else all words are vain, that to wise men’s judgment our clearness in the King’s death is sufficiently notorious. But at length when the merchant hath set out his gilded baggage, lastly, he comes to some stuff of importance, and saith, I conveyed away the princess of this country. And is she indeed your princess? I pray you then whom should I wait on else but her that was my mistress by my professed vow, and princess over me while I lived in this soil? Ask her why she went, ask not me while I served her. Since accounting me as a prince, you have not to do with me: taking me as her servant, then take withal that I must obey her. But you will say I persuaded her to fly away; certainly I will for no death deny it, knowing to what honour I should bring her from the thraldom by such fellow’s counsel as you, she was kept in. Shall persuasion to a prince grow treason to a prince? It might be error in me, but falsehood it could not be, since I made myself partaker of whatsoever I wished her unto. Who will ever counsel his king, if his counsel be judged by the event, and if it be not found wise, shall therefore be thought wicked? But if I be a traitor, I hope you will grant me a correlative, to whom I shall be the traitor. For the princess against whom the treasons are considered, I am sure will avow my faithfulness, without you will say that I am a traitor to her because I left the country? and a traitor to the country because I went with her. Here do I leave out my just excuses of love’s force, which as thy narrow heart hath never had noble room enough in it to receive, so yet those manlike courages, that by experience know how subject the virtuous minds are to love a most virtuous creature, witnessed to be such by the most excellent gifts of nature, will deem it a venial trespass to seek the satisfaction of honourable desires, honourable even in the curiousest points of honour, whereout there can no disgrace nor disparagement come unto her. Therefore, O judge, who I hope dost know what it is to be a judge, that your end is to preserve and not to destroy mankind, that laws are not made like lime twigs or nets, to catch everything that toucheth them, but rather like sea-marks, to avoid the shipwreck of ignorant passengers, since that our doing in the extremest interpretation is but a human error, and that of it you may make a profitable event, we being of such estate as their parents would not have misliked the affinity, you will not I trust at the persuasion of this babbler, burn your house to make it clean, but like a wise father turn even the fault of your children to any good that may come of it: since that is the fruit of wisdom and end of all judgments.”

While this matter was thus handling, a silent and as it were astonished attention, possessed all the people. A kindly compassion moved the noble gentleman Sympathus, but as for Kalander, everything was spoken either by or for his own dear guests, moved an affect in him: sometimes tears, sometimes hopeful looks, sometimes whispering persuasions in their ears that stood by him, to seek the saving the two young princes. But the general multitude waited the judgment of Euarchus, who showed in his face no motions, either at the one’s or other’s speech, letting pass the flowers of rhetoric and only marking whither their reasons tended; having made the question to be asked of Gynecia, who continued to take the whole fault upon herself, and having called Dametas with Miso and Mopsa, who by Philanax’s order had been held in most cruel prison, to make a full declaration how much they knew of these past matters, and then gathering as assured satisfaction to his own mind as in that case he could, not needing to take leisure for that, whereof a long practice had bred a well-grounded habit in him, with a voice and gesture directed to the universal assembly, in this form pronounced sentence.

“This weighty matter, whereof presently we are to determine, doth at the first consideration yield to important doubts. The first whether these men be to be judged; the second how they are to be judged. The first doubt ariseth because they give themselves out for princes absolute, a sacred name, and to which any violence seems to be an impiety. For how can any laws, which are the bonds of all human society, be observed if the law-givers and law-rulers, be not held in an untouched admiration? but hereto, although already they have been sufficiently answered, yet thus much again will I repeat unto you. That whatsoever they be or be not, here they be no princes, since betwixt prince and subject there is as necessary a relation, as between father and son; and as there is no man a father but to his child, so is not a prince a prince but to his own subjects. Therefore is not this place to acknowledge in them any principality, without it should at the same time, by a secret consent, confess subjection. Yet hereto may be objected, that the universal civility, the law of nations, all mankind being as it were co-inhabiters, or world-citizens together, hath ever required public persons should be of all parties especially regarded, since not only in peace but in war, not only princes, but heralds and trumpeters, are with great reason exempted from injuries. This point is true, but yet so true, as they that will receive the benefit of a custom, must not be the first to break it, for then can they not complain, if they be not helped by that which they themselves hurt. If a prince do acts of hostility without denouncing war, if he breaks his oath of amity, or innumerable such other things contrary to the law of arms, he must take heed how he fall into their hands whom he so wrongeth, for then is courtesy the best custom he can claim; much more these men, who have not only left to do like princes, but to be like princes, not only entered into Arcadia, and so into the Arcadian orders, but into domestical services, and so, by making themselves private, deprived themselves of respect due to their public calling. For no proportion it were of justice that a man might make himself no prince when he would do evil, and might anew create himself a prince when he would not suffer evil. Thus therefore by all laws of nature and nations, and especially by their own putting themselves out of the sanctuary of them, these young men cannot in justice avoid the judgment, but, like private men, must have their doings either cleared, excused, or condemned. There resteth then the second point, how to judge well. And that must undoubtedly be done, not by a free discourse of reason and skill of philosophy, but must be tied to the laws of Greece, and municipal statutes of this kingdom. For although out of them these came, and to them must indeed refer their offspring, yet because philosophical discourses stand in the general consideration of things, they leave to every man a scope of his own interpretation: where the laws applying themselves to the necessary use, fold us within assured bounds: which once broken, man’s nature infinitely rangeth. Judged therefore they must be, and by your laws judged. Now the action offereth itself to due balance, betwixt the accuser’s twofold accusation, and their answer accordingly applied. The questions being, the one of a fact simply, the other of the quality of a fact. To the first they use direct denial; to the second, qualification and excuse. They deny the murder of the King; and against mighty presumptions bring forth some probable answers, which they do principally fortify with the Queen’s acknowledging herself only culpable. Certainly as in equality of conjectures, we are not to take hold of the worse, but rather to be glad we may find any hope that mankind is not grown monstrous, being undoubtedly less evil a guilty man should escape, than a guiltless perish, so if in the rest they be spotless, then is this no further to be remembered. But if they have aggravated these suspicions with new evils, then are those suspicions so far to show themselves, as to cause the other points to be thoroughly examined, and with less favour weighed, since this no man can deny they have been accidental, if not principal causes of the king’s death. Now then we are to determine of the other matters, which are laid to them, wherein they do not deny the fact, but deny, or at least diminish the fault: but first I may remember, though it were not first alleged by them, the services they had before done, truly honourable, and worthy of great reward, but not worthy to countervail a following wickedness. Reward is proper to well doing, punishment to evil doing, which must not be confounded, no more than good and evil are to be mingled. Therefore hath it been determined in all wisdoms, that no man because he hath done well before should have his present evil spared, but rather so much the more punished, as having showed he knew how to be good, yet would against his knowledge be naught. The fact is then nakedly without passion or partiality to be viewed: wherein without all question they are equally culpable. For though he that terms himself Daiphantus, were sooner disappointed of his purpose of conveying away the Lady Philoclea, than he that persuaded the Princess Pamela to fly her country, and accompanied her in it: yet seeing in causes of this nature, the will by the rules of justice standeth for the deed, they are both alike to be found guilty, and guilty of heinous ravishment. For though they ravished them not from themselves, yet they ravished them from him that owned them, which was their father. An act punished by all the Grecian laws, by the loss of the head, as a most execrable theft. For if they must die, who steal from us our goods, how much more they who steal from us that for which we gather our goods? And if our laws have it so in private persons, much more forcibly are they to be in princes’ children, where one steals as it were the whole state and well-being of that people, being tied by the secret of a long use, to be governed by none but the next of that blood. Neither let any man marvel, our ancestors have been so severe in these cases, since the example of the Phoenician Europa, but especially of Grecian Helen, hath taught them, what destroying fires have grown of such sparkles. And although Helen was a wife, and this but a child, that booteth not, since the principal cause of marrying wives is that we may have children of our own. But now let us see how these young men, truly for their persons worthy of pity, if they had rightly pitied themselves, do go about to mitigate the vehemency of their errors. Some of their excuses are common to both, some peculiar only to him that was the shepherd. Both remember the force of love, and as it were the mending up of the matter by their marriage. If that unbridled desire, which is entitled love, might purge such a sickness as this, surely we should have many loving excuses of hateful mischief. Nay rather, no mischief should be committed that should not be veiled under the name of love. For as well he that steals might allege the love of money; he that murders, the love of revenge; he that rebels, the love of greatness, as the adulterer the love of a woman. Since they do in all speeches affirm they love that, which an ill-governed passion maketh them to follow: but love may have no such privilege. That sweet and heavenly uniting of the minds, which properly is called love, hath no other knot but virtue, and therefore if it be a right love, it can never slide into any action that is not virtuous. The other, and indeed more effectual reason is, that they may be married unto them, and so honourably redress the dishonour of them whom this matter seemeth most to touch. Surely if the question were, what were convenient for the parties, and not what is just in the never changing justice, there might be much said in it. But herein we must consider that the laws look how to prevent by due examples that such things be not done, and not how to salve such things when they are done. For if the governors of justice shall take such a scope, as to measure the foot of the law by the show of conveniency, and measure that conveniency not by the public society, but by that which is fittest for them which offend: young men, strong men, and rich men, shall ever find private conveniences how to palliate such committed disorders, as to the public shall not only be inconvenient, but pestilent. The marriage perchance might be fit for them, but very unfit were it to the state, to allow a pattern of such procurations of marriage. And thus much do they both allege. Further goes he that went with the princess Pamela, and requireth the benefit of a counsellor, who hath place of free persuasion, and the reasonable excuse of a servant, that did but wait of his mistress. Without all question, as counsellors have great cause to take heed how they advise anything, directly opposite to the form of that present government, especially when they do it singly without public allowance: yet so is the case much more apparent, since neither she was an effectual princess, her father being then alive, and though he had been dead, she not come to the years of authority, nor he her servant in such manner to obey her, but by his own preferment first belonging to Dametas, and then to the king; and therefore if not by Arcadian laws, yet by household orders, bound to have done nothing without his agreement. Thus therefore since the deeds accomplished by these two are both abominable and inexcusable, I do in the behalf of justice, and by the force of Arcadian laws pronounce that Daiphantus should be thrown out of a high tower to receive his death by his fall, Palladius shall be beheaded; the time before the sun set; the place, in Mantinea; the executioner, Dametas, which office he shall execute all the days of his life for his beastly forgetting the careful duty he owed to his charge.”

This said, he turned himself to Philanax, and two of the other noblemen, commanding them to see the judgment presently performed. Philanax more greedy than any hunter of his prey, went straight to lay hold of the excellent prisoners, who, casting a farewell look one upon the other, represented in their faces as much unappalled constancy as the most excellent courage can deliver in outward graces. Yet if at all there were any show of change in them, it was that Pyrocles was somewhat nearer to bashfulness, and Musidorus to anger, both over-ruled by reason and resolution. But as with great number of armed men, Philanax was descending unto them, and that Musidorus was beginning to say something in Pyrocles’s behalf, behold Kalander, that with arms cast abroad, and open mouth, came crying to Euarchus, holding a stranger in his hand that cried much more than he, desiring they might be heard speak before the prisoners were removed, even the noble gentleman Sympathus aided them in it, and taking such as he could command, stopped Philanax, betwixt entreaty and force, from carrying away the princes until it were heard what new matters these men did bring. So again mounting to the tribunal, they hearkened to the stranger’s vehement speech, or rather a passionate exclaiming. It was indeed Kalodulus, the faithful servant of Musidorus, to whom his master, when in despite of his best-grounded determinations he first became a slave to affection, had sent the shepherd Menalcas to be arrested, by the help of whose raiment in the meantime he advanced himself to that estate which he accounted most high, because it might be serviceable to that fancy which he had placed most high in his mind. For Menalcas having faithfully performed his errand, was faithfully imprisoned by Kalodulus. But as Kalodulus performed the first part of his duty in doing the commandment of his prince, so was he with abundance of sincere loyalty extremely perplexed, when he understood of Menalcas the strange disguising of his beloved master. For as the acts he and his cousin Pyrocles had done in Asia, had filled all the ears of the Thessalonians and Macedonians with no less joy than admiration: so was the fear of their loss no less grievous unto them, when by the noise of report they understood of their lonely committing themselves to the sea, the issue of which they had no way learned. But now that by Menalcas he perceived where he was, guessing the like of Pyrocles, comparing the unusedness of this act with the unripeness of their age, seeing in general conjecture they could do it for nothing that might not fall out dangerous, he was somewhile troubled with himself what to do, betwixt doubt of their hurt, and doubt of their displeasure. Often he was minded, as his safest and honestest way, to reveal it to King Euarchus, that both his authority might prevent any damage to them, and under his wings he himself might remain safe. But considering a journey to Byzantium, whereas yet he supposed Euarchus lay, would require more time than he was willing to remain doubtful of his prince’s estate, he resolved at length to write the matter to Euarchus, and himself the while to go into Arcadia: uncertain what to do when he came thither, but determined to do his best service to his dear master, if by any good fortune he might find him. And so it happened, that being even this day come to Mantinea, and as warily and attentively as he could, giving ear to all reports, in hope to hear something of them he sought, he straight received a strange rumour of these things, but so uncertainly, as popular reports carry so rare accidents. But this by all men he was willed, to seek out Kalander a great gentleman of that country, who would soonest satisfy him of all occurrents. Thus instructed he came even about the midst of Euarchus’s judgment to the desert, where seeing great multitudes, and hearing unknown names of Palladius and Daiphantus, and not able to press to the place where Euarchus sat, he enquired for Kalander, and was soon brought unto him, partly because he was generally known unto all men, and partly because he had withdrawn himself from the press, when he perceived by Euarchus’s words whither they tended, being not able to endure his guests’ condemnation. He requireth forthwith of Kalander the cause of the assembly; and whether the same were true of Euarchus’s presence: who with many tears made a doleful recital unto him, both of the Amazon and shepherd, setting forth their natural graces, and lamenting their pitiful undoing. But this description made Kalodulus immediately know the shepherd was his duke, and so judging the other to be Pyrocles, and speedily communicating it to Kalander, who he saw did favour their case, they break the press with astonishing every man with their cries. And being come to Euarchus, Kalodulus fell at his feet, telling him those he had judged, were his own son and nephew, the one the comfort of Macedon, the other the only stay of Thessalia. With many such like words; but as from a man that assured himself in that matter he should need small speech, while Kalander made it known to all men what the prisoners were to whom he cried they should salute their father, and joy in the good hap the gods had sent them, who were no less glad, than all the people amazed at the strange event of these matters. Even Philanax’s own revengeful heart was mollified when he saw from divers parts of the world so near kinsmen should meet in such a necessity. And withal the fame of Pyrocles and Musidorus greatly drew him to a compassionate conceit, and had already unclothed his face of all show of malice.

But Euarchus staid a good while upon himself, like a valiant man that should receive a notable encounter, being vehemently stricken with the fatherly love of so excellent children, and studying with his best reason what his office required: at length with such a kind of gravity, as was near to sorrow, he thus uttered his mind: “I take witness of the immortal gods,” said he, “O Arcadians that what this day I have said, hath been out of my assured persuasion, what justice itself and your just laws require. Though strangers then to me, I had no desire to hurt them, but leaving aside all considerations of the persons, I weighed the matter which you committed into my hands with my most impartial and farthest reach of reason. And thereout have condemned them to lose their lives, contaminated with so many foul breaches of hospitality, civility, and virtue. Now, contrary to all expectations, I find them to be my only son and nephew, such upon whom you see what gifts nature hath bestowed: such who have so to the wonder of the world heretofore behaved themselves as might give just cause to the greatest hopes that in an excellent youth may be conceived. Lastly, in few words, such in whom I placed all my mortal joys, and thought myself now near my grave, to recover a new life. But alas! shall justice halt? or shall she wink in one’s cause, which had lynx’s eyes in another’s; or rather shall all private respects give place to that holy name? Be it so, be it so, let my grey hairs be laid in the dust with sorrow, let the small remnant of my life be an inward and outward desolation, and to the world a gazing flock of wretched misery, but never, never let sacred righteousness fall; it is immortal, and immortally ought to be preserved. If rightly I have judged, then rightly I have judged mine own children, unless the name of a child should have force to change the never changing justice. No, no, Pyrocles, and Musidorus, I prefer you much before my life, but I prefer justice as far before you: While you did like yourselves, my body should willingly have been your shield, but I cannot keep you from the effects of your own doing: nay, I cannot in this case acknowledge you for mine, for never had I shepherd to my nephew, nor ever had woman to my son; your vices have degraded you from being princes, and have disannulled your birthright. Therefore if there be anything left in you of princely virtue, show it in constant suffering that your unprincely dealing hath purchased unto you. For my part I must tell you, you have forced a father to rob himself of his children. Do you therefore, O Philanax, and you my other lords of this country, see the judgment be rightly performed in time, place, and manner, as before appointed.”

With that though he would have refrained them, a man might perceive the tears drop down his long white beard. Which moved not only Kalodulus and Kalander to roaring lamentations, but all the assembly dolefully to record that pitiful spectacle. Philanax himself could not abstain from great shows of pitying sorrow, and manifest withdrawing from performing the King’s commandment. But Musidorus having the hope of his safety, and recovering of the Princess Pamela, which made him most desirous to live so suddenly dashed, but especially moved for his dear Pyrocles, for whom he was ever resolved his last speech should be, and stirred up with rage of unkindness, he thus spoke:

“Enjoy thy bloody conquest, tyrannical Euarchus,” said he, “for neither is convenient the title of a king to a murderer, nor the remembrance of kindred to a destroyer of his kindred. Go home and glory that it hath been in thy power, shamefully to kill Musidorus. Let thy flattering orators dedicate crowns of laurel unto thee, that the first of thy race thou hast overthrown a prince of Thessalia. But for me, I hope the Thessalians are not so degenerate from their ancestors but that they will revenge my injury and their loss upon thee. I hope my death is no more unjust to me than it shall be bitter to thee; howsoever it be, my death shall triumph over thy cruelty; neither as now would I live to make my life beholden unto thee. But if thy cruelty hath not so blinded thine eyes, that thou canst not see thine own hurt, if thy heart be not so devilish, as thou hast no power but to torment thyself, then look upon this young Pyrocles with a manly eye, if not with a pitiful; give not occasion to the whole earth to say: ‘See how the gods have made the tyrant tear his own bowels!’ Examine the eyes and voices of all this people; and what all men see, be not blind in thine own cause. Look, I say look upon him, in whom the most curious searcher is able to find no fault but that he is thy son. Believe it, thy own subjects will detest thee for robbing them of such a prince, in whom they have right as well as thyself.”

Some more words to that purpose he would have spoken, but Pyrocles, who often had called to him, did now fully interrupt him, desiring him not to do him the wrong to give his father ill words before him, willing him to consider it was their own fault and not his injustice; and withal, to remember their resolution of well suffering all accidents, which this impatiency did seem to vary from: and then kneeling down with all humbleness, he took the speech in this order to Euarchus: “If my daily prayers to the almighty gods had so far prevailed as to have granted me the end whereto I have directed my actions, I should rather have been now a comfort to your mind than an example of your justice; rather a preserver of your memory by my life than a monument of your judgment by my death. But since it hath pleased their unsearchable wisdoms to overthrow all the desires I had to serve you and make me become a shame unto you; since the last obedience I can show you is to die, vouchsafe yet, O Father, if my fault have not made me altogether unworthy so to term you, vouchsafe I say to let the few and last words your son shall ever speak, not be tedious unto you. And if the remembrance of my virtuous mother, who once was dear unto you, may bear any sway with you, if the name of Pyrocles have at any time been pleasant, let one request of mine, which shall not be for mine own life, be graciously accepted of you. What you owe to justice is performed in my death: A father to have executed his only son, will leave a sufficient example for a greater crime than this. My blood will satisfy the highest point of equity, my blood will satisfy the hardest hearted in this country. O save the life of this prince; that is the only all I will with my last breath demand of you. With what face will you look upon your sister, when in reward of nourishing me in your greatest need, you take away, and in such sort take away that which is more dear to her than all the world, and is the only comfort wherewith she nourisheth her old age? O give not such an occasion to the noble Thessalians, for ever to curse the match that their prince did make with the Macedonian blood. By my loss there follows no public loss, for you are to hold the seat, and to provide yourself perchance of a worthier successor. But how can you or all the earth recompense that damage that poor Thessalia shall sustain? Who sending out, whom otherwise they would no more have spared than their own eyes, their prince to you, and your requesting to have him, by you he should thus dishonourably be extinguished. Set before you, I beseech you, the face of that miserable people, when no sooner shall the news come that you have met your nephew, but withal they shall hear that you have beheaded him. How many tears they shall spend, how many complaints they shall make, so many just execrations will light upon you. And take heed, O Father, for since my death answers my fault, while I live I will call upon that dear name, lest seeking too precise a course of justice, you be not thought most unjust in weakening your neighbours’ mighty estate by taking away their only pillar. In me, in me this matter began, in me let it receive his ending. Assure yourself no man will doubt your severe observing the laws, when it shall be known Euarchus hath killed Pyrocles. But the time of my ever farewell approaches: if you do think my death sufficient for my fault, and do not desire to make my death more miserable than death, let these dying words of him that was once your son, pierce your ears. Let Musidorus live, and Pyrocles shall live in him, and you shall not want a child.”

“A child,” cried out Musidorus, “to him that kills Pyrocles?” With that he fell again to entreat for Pyrocles, and Pyrocles as fast for Musidorus, each employing his wit how to show himself most worthy to die, to such an admiration of all the beholders, that most of them examining the matter by their own passions, thought Euarchus, as often extraordinary excellencies, not being rightly conceived, do rather offend than please, an obstinate hearted man, and such an one, who being pitiless, his dominion must needs be insupportable. But Euarchus that felt his own misery more than they, and yet loved goodness more than himself, with such a sad assured behaviour as Cato killed himself withal, when he had heard the uttermost of that their speech tended unto, he commanded again they should be carried away, rising up from the seat, which he would much rather have wished should have been his grave, and looking who would take the charge, whereto every one was exceeding backward.

But as this pitiful matter was entering into, those that were next the Duke’s body, might hear from under the velvet, wherewith he was covered, a great voice of groaning. Whereat every man astonished, and their spirits appalled with these former miseries, apt to take any strange conceit, when they might perfectly perceive the body stir, then some began to fear spirits, some to look for a miracle, most to imagine they knew not what. But Philanax and Kalander, whose eyes honest love, though to divers parties, held most attentive, leaped to the table, and putting off the velvet cover, might plainly discern, with as much wonder as gladness, that the Duke lived. For so it was, that the drink he received was neither as Gynecia first imagined, a love-potion, nor, as it was after thought, a deadly poison, but a drink made by notable art, and as it was thought not without natural magic, to procure for thirty hours such a deadly sleep, as should oppress all show of life. The cause of the making of this drink had first been that a princess of Cyprus, grandmother to Gynecia, being notably learned, and yet not able with all her learning to answer the objections of Cupid, did furiously love a young nobleman of her father’s court, who fearing the king’s rage, and not once daring either to attempt or accept so high a place, she made that sleeping drink, and found means by a trusty servant of hers, who of purpose invited him to his chamber, to procure him that suspected no such thing, to receive it. Which done, he, no way able to resist, was secretly carried by him into a pleasant chamber, in the midst of a garden she had of purpose provided for this enterprise, where that space of time, pleasing herself with seeing and cherishing of him, when the time came of the drink’s end of working, and he more astonished than if he had fallen from the clouds, she bade him choose either then to marry her, and to promise to fly away with her in a bark she had made ready, or else she would presently cry out, and show in what place he was, with oath he was come thither to ravish her. The nobleman in these straights, her beauty prevailed, he married her, and escaped the realm with her. And after many strange adventures, were reconciled to the king her father, after whose death they reigned. But she gratefully remembering the service that drink had done her, preserved in a bottle, made by singular art long to keep it without perishing, great quantity of it, with the foretold inscription, which wrongly interpreted by her daughter-in-law, the Queen of Cyprus, was given by her to Gynecia at the time of her marriage; and the drink finding an old body of Basilius, had kept him some hours longer in the trance than it would have done a younger. But a while it was before the good Basilius could come again to himself: in which time Euarchus more glad than of the whole world’s monarchy to be rid of his miserable magistracy, which even in justice he was now to surrender to the lawful prince of that country, came from the throne unto him, and there with much ado made him understand how these intricate matters had fallen out. Many garboils passed through his fancy before he could be persuaded Zelmane was other than a woman. At length remembering the oracle, which now indeed was accomplished, not as before he had imagined, considering all had fallen out by the highest providence, and withal weighing in all these matters his own fault had been the greatest; the first thing he did was with all honourable pomp to send for Gynecia, who, poor lady, thought she was leading forth to her lively burial, and, when she came, to recount before all the people, the excellent virtue was in her, which she had not only maintained all her life most unspotted, but now was content so miserably to die, to follow her husband. He told them how she had warned him to take heed of that drink: and so with all the exaltings of her that might be, publicly desired her pardon for those errors he had committed. And so kissing her, left her to receive the most honourable fame of any princess throughout the world, all men thinking, saving only Pyrocles and Philoclea, who never betrayed her, that she was the perfect mirror of all wifely love. Which though in that point undeserved, she did in the remnant of her life duly purchase, with observing all duty and faith to the example and glory of Greece: so uncertain are mortal judgments, the same person most infamous, and most famous, and neither justly. Then with princely entertainment to Euarchus, and many kind words to Pyrocles, whom still he dearly loved, though in a more virtuous kind, the marriage was concluded, to the inestimable joy of Euarchus, towards whom now Musidorus acknowledged his fault, betwixt the peerless princes and princesses. Philanax for his singular faith ever held dear of Basilius while he lived, and no less of Musidorus, who was to inherit that kingdom, and therein confirmed to him and his the second place in that province, with great increase of his living to maintain it. With like proportion he used to Kalodulus in Thessalia: highly honouring Kalander while he lived, and after his death continuing in the same measure to love and advance his son Clitophon. But as for Sympathus, Pyrocles, to whom his father in his own time gave the whole kingdom of Thrace, held him always about him, giving him in pure gift the great city of Abdera. But the solemnities of these marriages, with the Arcadian pastorals, full of many comical adventures happening to those rural lovers; the strange stories of Artaxia and Plexirtus, Erona and Plangus, Helen and Amphialus, with the wonderful chances that befell them; the shepherdish loves of Menalcas with Kalodulus’s daughter; the poor hopes of the poor Philisides in the pursuit of his affections; the strange continuance of Claius and Strephon’s desire; lastly, the son of Pyrocles, named Pyrophilus, and Melidora, the fair daughter of Pamela by Musidorus, who even at their birth entered into admirable fortunes; may awake some other spirit to exercise his pen in that wherewith mine is already dulled.

[End of Book V]

A SIXTH BOOK TO THE COUNTESS OF
PEMBROKE’S ARCADIA

By R.B., of Lincoln’s-Inn, Esq.

TO THE READER

To strive to lessen the greatness of the attempt, were to take away the glory of the action. To add to Sir Philip Sidney, I know is rashness; a fault pardonable in me, if custom might as well excuse the offence, as youth may prescribe in offending in this kind. That he should undergo that burthen, whose mother-tongue differs as much from this language, as Irish from English, augments the danger of the enterprise, and gives your expectation, perhaps, an assurance what the event must be. Yet, let no man judge wrongfully of my endeavours: I have added a limb to Apelles’s picture; but my mind never entertained such vain hopes, to think it of perfection sufficient to delude the eyes of the most vulgar, with the likeness in the workmanship. No, no, I do not follow Pythagoras’s opinion of transmigration: I am well assured divine Sidney’s soul is not infused into me, whose judgment was only able to finish what his invention was only worthy to undertake. For this, courteous reader, let it suffice I place Sir Philip Sidney’s desert (even in mine own esteem) as far beyond my endeavours, as the most fault-finding censor can imagine this essay of mine to come short of his Arcadia. Vale.

R. B.

ARCADIA
BOOK VI

[This Sixth Book was written in the Year 1633.]

What changes in fortune the princes of Macedon and Thessaly have passed, together with what event the uncertain actions of so blind a goddess have been crowned, they may remember, whose ears have been fed with the eloquent story, written by the never-enough renowned Sir Philip Sidney.

Basilius, therefore, having beheld with the eye of success, the accomplishment of his misinterpreted oracle, hastened (together with Euarchus) to his court of Mantinea; where the infinite assembly, and the public sacrifices of his subjects, did well witness what joy did possess their hearts, whose eyes were restored to the sight of long eclipsed sovereignty. Fame, also, proud to be the messenger of such royal news, had soon (with speedy flight) passed the limits of Arcadia, so that in few days the court was filled with foreign princes, whom either the tie of a long observed league of amity, or a nearness in blood to Basilius, at such a time, brought thither to congratulate with him, or were such, whose honour-thirsty minds hunted after occasions to make known their acts in chivalry.

And now was the marriage-day come, when Pamela, attired in the stately ornament of beauteous majesty, led by the constant forwardness of a virtuous mind, waited on by the many thoughts of his fore-past crosses in her love, which now made up a perfect harmony in the pleasing discord of endeared affection, was brought to church; whom, soon after, her sister Philoclea (being in the same degree of happiness, clad in the bashful innocency of an unspotted soul, guided by the shame-faced desire of her Pyrocles’s satisfaction, attended on by many graces of a mild cheerfulness) followed; both equally admired, both equally looked on.

The temple (whereto in triumph beauty and majesty were led prisoners by the famous sisters) was a fit dwelling-place for the Arcadian deities, fenced from the sun and winds’ too free access, by many ranks of even-grown, even-set trees, near which, in divided branches, ran two clear streams, whose sweet murmur (as they tumbled over their bed of pebble stones) did much adorn the religious solitariness of that place. And, that nothing should be wanting that might set forth the careful judgment of the builder, it was seated in such a near distance from the palace, as might not presently bury the gloriousness of the show, nor cloy the beholders with the tediousness of the sight. In the way, on both hands, were many altars, on which the crowned entrails of the much-promising sacrifices were laid. At the door the two sisters were received by as many virgins, attired in a white lawn livery, with garlands on their heads of lilies and roses intermixed, holding in their left hands a pair of pigeons, the grateful offering to the queen of love. Soon after, the accustomed rites in the Arcadian nuptials being ended, the King and Euarchus, with the rest of the princes, returned unto a stately palace, sumptuously furnished, where both art and nature seemed to be at variance, whether should bestow most ornaments to enrich so rare a work: seated where the earth did rise a little (as proud to be the supporter of so curious a building) by means whereof, the sight had freedom to overlook a large territory, where the green level of the Arcadian plains, beautified by the intercourse of many forests, represented the delightful mixture of a civil wilderness. The building of marble, where, whether the art in carving into many forms the in vain resisting hardness of the stone, the cunning in knitting these disjointed members, or the invention in contriving their several rooms, did excel, was hard to be judged of.

The inside also might well be the inner part of so glorious an outside; for, besides the well-matched largeness of the rooms, and lightsome pleasantness of the windows, it was all hung with the choice rareness of far-fetched arras, in which the ingenious workman, with the curious pencil of his little needle, had limned the dumb records of revived antiquity. Here did he present the memorable siege of Thebes, where the ruins of her walls seemed yet to hang, and make the beholders fear the downfall of the lively stones. There you might see how cunningly he had expressed the constrained flight of the Trojan prince, and the cruel sacrifice of enraged Dido’s love. Nor was the story of Scylla forgotten, who there stood before Minos, with the present of her father’s fatal hair; while you might perceive, by his bent brows and disdainful countenance, the just reward of her unnatural attempt. With these and others, wherein cost and invention strove for the mastery, were the hangings adorned; yet these many stories did so stealingly succeed each other that the most curious observer’s eye (though his admiration might dwell on each piece) could find no cause of stay until he had overlooked them all. But neither these, nor what art or nature could have added, did set forth so much the palace, as the graceful presence of the Arcadian sisters; whose beauties, till now, of long time had borne a part with their troubled minds, in a sweet pilgrimage to a happy event; and therefore at this present, so far disburdened of those thoughts, as it was to be settled in the most desired enjoying of unspeakable bliss, the imagination would needs persuade, if it were possible, were bettered.

Dinner being set and ended, while the knights (who, to honour that day with tilting, and to show what they dared and could effect in the service, as they thought, of unresistable beauties) were putting on their armour, there entered the hall a page, who, with submissive humbleness, told the King, he was sent from his master, the naked knight, who desired there to be received as a challenger, to eternize, as the justness of his cause required, the famous memory of his deceased mistress Helen, the Queen of Corinth. Basilius, much pitying the before-unheard death of so excellent a queen, willed the page to relate the circumstance, which being strange in itself, and of so great a subject, wrought a passionate willingness in the hearers to be attentive.

“After that fortune,” said he, “had bestowed, by the conquest of Amphialus, at Cecropia’s castle, the victory on his adversary the black knight, this queen (having long time, by the command of love, her inward tyrant, made all Greece a stage for her wandering passions) at length went thither, where the end of her search was the beginning of her sorrows. Finding the curtains of eternal night ready to close up his eyes, who (in the voyage her affection made) had alway been the port she steered to; yet hoping she knew not what, that if perhaps Proserpine should meet in Elysium his departed soul, she would in mere compassion of her sorrow, send it back to reinhabit her ancient seat; she carried the life little-desiring body, to Corinth, where, at that time, lived an aged man, by name Artelio, one whose fortunate experience in desperate cures had made famous. Him, by the powerful command of his queen, and the humble tears of a still-mistrusting lover, she conjures to employ the uttermost of his skill in preserving him in whom she lived. Some time there was ere his vital spirits, almost now proved strangers to their wonted mansion, would accept the tie of hospitality; but when the hand of art had taught them courtesy, and that each sense, though faintly, did exercise his charge, Amphialus, returning to himself, from that sweet ignorance of cares wherein he lived, began to question, in what estate the castle was against the besiegers? thinking he had always been there; when Helen entered the room with a countenance where beauty appeared through the clouds of care and fear of his danger: Her, the double and deeply wounded patient (bearing still about him the inward picture of Philoclea, whom long I have heard, in vain he loved) thought to be the same saint, the remembrance of whom returned, together with his wandering soul, from which it was inseparable. Now, therefore, with a languishing look (the true herald of what he suffered) ‘Lady,’ said he, ‘though the welcome harbinger of a near-following death hath provided this body (while it was mine, alway devoted to your service) as a lodging for his master an ever-certain guest, yet when I pass to the Elysian plains (if any memory there remain of this world of comfort you now vouchsafe, heaven knows! your faithful, though unfortunate servant) I shall never cease to pay the eternal tribute of thanks to well-deserving death, who, with his presence brings the happiness in life denied me.’

“The Queen with a pensive silence, sorrowing she stood to act the counterfeit of her rival, and still desirous to enjoy the sweet speech of her revived Amphialus, was like a passenger, whom the loud command of the rough winds had forced to wander through the unevenness of the deep-furrowed seas, now in sight of land, equally distracted between the desire to leave his unnatural habitation, where each wave seems to be the proud messenger of destruction, and fear to approach it, being jealous of his hard entertainment on the rocky shore: thus did she continue (fixed in a doubtful imagination) loth to interrupt his pleasing speech, and more than grieved he meant not her whom he spoke to, until Amphialus (strengthening his newly recovered senses with the conceited presence of Philoclea) found his error, and then, with a look on his mistaken object (which he could not make disdainful, because his happy thoughts had once adored it for Philoclea) he suddenly fell into a deadly trance, whereat Helen (feelingly suffering in his danger) ran to him, and bedewing his even then lovely face with the loving oblation of her many tears, she together poured forth the most passionate plaints that love could invent, or grief utter; so as a while, this accident overthrowing the fabric of her half-built comfort with the suddenness of so unlooked-for an assault, constrained her (with bemoaning his case) to forget the care of his safety; but being withdrawn by her servants, the indisposition of her body, caused her a while to entertain in bed the fever of her affectionate sorrow.

“In the meantime, Amphialus, by the skilful care of Artelio, was again brought to enjoy that, whose loss he would account his chiefest happiness; and faintly withdrawing the cover that obscured his weak sight, and settling his look upon Artelio, ‘Father,’ said he, ‘if you felt the inward agonies of my tormented soul, as you see the desperate state of my low-brought body, I assure myself you would not be so inhuman, there to employ your endeavours, where, when they have wrought their effect, they serve only to confirm the memory of fore-passed calamity, with the growing apprehension of future misfortune. But since my destinies have so set down, that the whole course of my life should be inevitably disastrous, I must think my tragedy is not yet acted; though what worse than hath befallen me cannot be imagined, or what may be kept in store (more than I have passed), far exceeds my apprehension, though not my expectation.’

“Here he began to run over his unfortunate love to Philoclea, the killing of Parthenia, his overthrow in the encounter with the black knight; inserting many more disgraces, which the most envious of his glory, would not have cast as aspersions on his well-known fame. Thus, with the thought that fate (whose working he could not limit) had reserved him for more mischief, he suffered his wounds to be cured; and soon after, walking one evening, as his manner was, in the garden, he chose a time, as he thought unespied by any, to convey himself through a back-door, and there finding his horse (which his page had brought by his appointment) he rode away, whither he knew not, and not much cared, so he might leave her, whose affection deserved a more courteous farewell. But alas! when she heard of his going, what tongue is able to express her sorrow, in whom the equally tormenting passions of grief and despair were lifted to their uttermost height?

“Two days, since the departure of Amphialus, posted away, striving in vain to overtake their irrecoverable fellows, and now the third was come, to be a prologue to the following tragedy: when Helen (slacking the violent course of her incessant plaints) gave occasion to her servants to be less mistrustful of her actions, thinking that time began to wear away her sorrows. But she (as by the event was gathered) using this as a policy to rid herself of the cumber of careful attendance, when (now her truce, in show, with sorrow, and the restraint of her plaints had wrought the effect she desired) taking her trusty servant Mylama with her, and leaving a letter with Lada (whom, besides Mylama, she only trusted with this secret) which, upon the first knowledge of her flight, should be given to Drenus the chief of her council; wherein she excused her secret stealing away, by a vow passed to Apollo, in such manner to go a pilgrimage to Delphos; she put herself on her journey, having an army of passions for her convoy, led by love, and waited on by desire, in hope of what she knew was hopeless; yet often checking her despairing foresight with such unlikely possibilities as affection (upon these occasions) is wont to supply.

“Many days she had not wandered (changing places, to renew her companions in sorrow) when coming into a pleasant valley, where of each side, many trees (in the green-leaved mantle of their summer livery) did apparel two neighbour mountains, where some sunburnt sapless pines, by the advantage of the ground (like little-deserving, in themselves, birth-only ennobled men) overtopped the straight upraised cedar, the stock of self-begun honour. Through this flowery plain ran a many-headed crystal current that did indent the earth as it smoothly glided by, to make the obligation of friendship between them more firm; and where, it fame-like, increased by travel, there (as it was the natural) so, it seemed to have been the politic body of the state of springs, such was the constant care of the fountain magistrates, and such the well-agreeing union of the watery commons. Here she stayed (invited by solitariness, the best repose for wearied sorrow) yet giving no respite to her mind, she spoke nothing but Amphialus, or of Amphialus. ‘O Amphialus!’ did she say, and to this invocation the flattering nymph (that always seconds what is spoken) did join the like of her own; and Helen delighted to hear the sound of so sweet a name beaten back upon her, for a time sealed up her lips, listening (with attentive silence) what echo would have further said. But she (who of all the powers of a reasonable soul, only had a memory and a tongue only serviceable for that use) together gave over to reflect her borrowed language, expecting (with like stillness) her further speech. But Helen, not able longer to restrain the overflow of her panting heart, began to cry out, ‘Unkind Amphialus!’ This also did the echo repeat. But she hearing by the rebound of the words, Amphialus accused. ‘Discourteous nymph,’ said she, ‘and how is Amphialus unkind? Can the harmony of such excellence admit so foul a fault to bear a part with his virtues? Yet, woe is me! he is unkind. Could his hard heart else suffer this love of his (which I only name because it is the only part worth naming in me) thus long unregarded? Could not my crown (crowned in being a foot-stool to Amphialus) have purchased some respect? Alas! no: how could unhappy Helen expect the Fates reserved so great a blessing in store for her?’

“She had not long debated the reasons of her misfortune, when Rinatus (the only brother to Timotheus, but younger by many years) chanced to pass that way. A man on whom fame had bestowed, and deservingly, the name of valiant; yet of disposition so mischievously cruel, and ambitiously proud, that where his deeds might well have claimed so great an honour, there his conditions (as well weighed) brought a reproachful burden to the balance of his reputation. He (his father dying young, and unwilling to dismember his estate, and unable otherwise to satisfy the hopes of his son’s ambition) hearing of the wars of Laconia, went thither; where soon he purchased the opinion of a man resolute to undertake, and fortunate to execute what he had undertaken: and serving under Eborbas (chief commander for the king) because of the sympathy of humours between them (whereby nature did insinuate for Rinatus, and taught him flattery without dissimulation) he grew great in his favour. Soon after this, Eborbas in a conflict between him and the Helots being mortally wounded, yet in death, careful of the welfare of his country, recommended this Rinatus (partly for his good liking of him, but principally for his experience in wars, and well-seconded judgment) to the king, who, though with some opposition (the country-men repining at his, a stranger’s advancement) after trusty Eborbas’s death, preferred him to the same place. His discharge of which, outwent so far the envy of the jealous noblemen, that well might their king and they, in the death of the valiant Eborbas, deplore the loss of a private man, but must confess that this watchful care and undaunted well-ordered courage, did survive in this their general.

“In this esteem he had scarce lived a year, when, hearing of his brother and nephew’s death, together with his undoubted right to the large territory which his brother in his life-time had enjoyed, he, notwithstanding, continued in the charge to which he was lately advanced: framing in his conceit his new-acquired greatness but as a step to climb the sovereignty of Laconia: which being elective, he thought the easier to be compassed, having by his bounteous affability gained the hearts of the soldiers, and being already possessed of the chief forts (the best strength of the country) wherein he had placed such who had their devotions linked to his will, because they owed him the benefit of their creation. But finding the accomplishment of these practices to depend upon the death of the king, which, his youth promised was unlikely soon to happen, and fearful to draw on the discovery of his practices by seeking any secret means to make him away, whom the watchful eye of dutiful observance did warrant secure from any traitorous plots, he solicits the King to dispense with his presence, who (seeing the ground of his journey to be the just cause of his long-deferred revenge for Timotheus his brother, and Philoxenus his nephew’s death, now a peace was lately concluded with the Helots, and therefore his absence the more excusable) upon condition of a speedy return, though unwilling, yet for his satisfaction, grants his request: who now on his journey, and having in his way to cross this valley, met the unfortunate queen, whom, though her habit might disguise, her words (overheard) did assure Rinatus his willingness to believe that she was the same she so often spoke herself to be, the unfortunate Helen.

“Awhile he stood doubtful of the person, awhile amazed at so fortunate an encounter, and a long time perplexed what punishment his revenge would judge fit for (the conceited heinousness of) his brother and nephew’s death. At length the Queen (now first withdrawing her thoughts from that object whereto affection, in sweetest contemplation, had bound them, and suffering her mind, before retired within itself, now to be informed by her servant’s sense) seeing this stranger near her, began, as her manner was, to find by enquiry what he knew of Amphialus. ‘Wicked woman,’ replied Rinatus, ‘the all-seeing justice hath now delivered thee to receive fit punishment for Philoxenus’s and Timotheus’s death,’ and using no more words, presently caused her to be mounted on horseback, prolonging her life to make her death more miserable. Thus far hath Mylama discovered, who, poor lady, was there left, most cruelly beaten, to be the reporter of Rinatus’s revenge, and her mistress’s hard hap.

“The last act of this tragedy, my master had the fortune to know, by one of trust and great esteem in the court of Laconia, to which Rinatus had conveyed Helen, where, for a time, she was honourably entertained, finding no want but of command and liberty; the king, belike fearing the power of the wronged Corinthians, preserving her as a sure card for a dead lift. But when he understood that one Tenarus (a man apt to practice innovations, and at this time able, when the many-headed multitude wanted the awful presence of their sovereign) took upon him the government, pretending a title to the crown, as descended from those, from whom Helen’s ancestors, as he alleged, had traitorously forced it, then did the tyrant of Laconia, finding the way secure for his mischievous practice, vehemently importuned by Rinatus, and urged forward by the politic wickedness of his own desire to pleasure the new king, secretly cause Helen to be poisoned: Such was the end of this great queen, justly beloved of all who heard the fame of her virtues, and therefore justly to be deplored of all who hear the unredeemable loss of so many perfections.”

Basilius, and the rest of the princes, were much moved with so tragical a story, especially Musidorus, who (in search of Pyrocles) having the fortune to see her, could witness, that though fame had borrowed all men’s mouths to proclaim her many excellencies, yet it was far from doing right to her desert. But this was no fit lodging for pity to dwell in, where joy had so great a command. The messenger therefore being permitted to part, with free leave for his master to enter the lists, judges were appointed, and the challenge proclaimed.

The challenger understanding of the King’s liking of his demand, came forth of his pavilion, with armour so lively representing nakedness, wounded in many places (where the staunchless blood, in the course the workman had allotted it, seemed to drop destruction) that many thought a madness had possessed him (so unarmed, so wounded) to present himself in such a trial, where a surer defence, and a sounder body were more needful. Before him went six, as savages, bearing the lances for his first courses; who coming within distance to be heard, did sing these following verses.

Too soon you fled from hence to that fair place,

The happy period of a well-run race:

Too late I stay in grief’s eternal night,

To do this penance for my over-sight.

Once let me die, let not my dying life

Prolong my woes, and keep my thoughts at strife:

Let him that did offend your heav’nly eyes,

Now please your anger with self-sacrifice.

Then one of them, reaching him a lance, he began his course against Tyro Prince of Andria, famous for his constant love to the fair Lydia, now married, and Queen of Epire, and ever fortunate in the course of his adventures: but here his fortune gave place to virtue, or rather joined with her to assist the naked knight; for, at the third encounter, he was put beside his saddle, much bruised in body, and no less afflicted in mind.

The next that supplied his place, was Pausanias, a Macedonian, one, who in his late wars had done Euarchus faithful service, and now, thinking to be as successful in this enterprise, had put on armour to do honour to his mistress: but his first course compelled him to acknowledge he was deceived, seeing himself fall so short of his expectation.

To him succeeded Nicanor, a Corinthian knight, advanced by the new king, one extremely confident of himself, because never tried, and now very forward, fearing to be prevented of the honour, for which already, in conceit, he had triumphed at Corinth with the great applause of the people, and the good liking of the king. But the naked knight, at second course, cut off both his life and imagined trophy: for, couching his lance, and allotting it in his course a just descent, rightly levelled by his well-judging experience, it met with Nicanor’s sight, and passing thorough that weak resistance, it pierced his right eye, and with it his brain, so that Nicanor fell down, forgetful both of his forethought fame and following reproach. With this adventure the tilting that day ended; the sun with loose rays, posting to his western home, and the naked knight retired himself to his pavilion, whence he sent his page, who, humbly, for his master, entreated, that his unwillingness to be known should excuse the omission of his duty to the king.

Thus that night drew on, which to them who enjoyed delight, seemed to have put on all her sails to be the speedier in passing over. But far other was the naked knight’s apprehension: he (who made her ugly darkness a pattern of the sorrow his afflicted soul endured) thought she was becalmed in the sea of his misfortune. At length Phoebus, weary of his importunity, made haste to distribute his grateful light to his care-tired senses; and he as soon embracing the smallest show of comfort, put on his armour. About two hours after, the judges being set, and Basilius and Euarchus (with the rest of the court) present, Leonatus, the young King of Pontus (who had been there to acknowledge his beholdingness to them whom he was deservingly bound to) took the field. His armour was of a dark colour, through which many flames seemed to break out, as when the clouds, great in labour with exhalations, at length gave way to their more violent power: his three first courses promised a more happy event than fortune meant he should enjoy, for (having performed them with a well-ordered firmness in his seat, and a moving constancy in the carriage of his lance, to the great delight of the beholders) the fourth time he was dismounted; whose disgrace Pyrocles was ready to revenge, but he was, by a secret look from Philoclea, commanded the contrary. Then Telamon, Phelauceas and Diremus felt, with little advantage in fortune, the like success.

Thus, most part of that morning, the naked knight, with little resistance, had the best against all comers, which most of the lookers-on, with public acclamation, did testify, but he having given over the use of himself to sorrow, sometimes by the careless shaking of his head, did let them know, they burdened his desert with the unpleasing weight of his praise; and staying a while on horseback, he expected the next adventurer, with such a demeanour of himself, that (though it did accuse him of much grief) could not conceal the grace of his stately presence. But when he saw none ready to take the field, with an humble bend taking his leave of the king, he softly trotted towards his tent, not so much to repose his body, as to give a quiet way to the assaults of his mind. At length, when all the beholders’ expectations were almost wearied, there entered the lists a lady, attended only by one page, who having alighted, presently went towards the place where Basilius sat, where first kneeling, then taking away a black scarf (which grief had hired to join with herself, in eclipsing the excellent feature of a most fair face) she began to speak; but Basilius and Gynecia hastily ran to embrace Helen Queen of Corinth, for this was she. Great was the joy of her revived presence, and great the desire to know the means of her safety. But she (accounting these gratulations cumbersome, and the relation of her adventures tedious) fixing her watery eyes on Basilius: “Great king, I am,” said she, “that unfortunate Helen, sometime Queen of Corinth, now both deprived of crown and kingdom by Tenarus. Yet why should I mention this, as fit to be inserted among my greatest misfortunes? The cause why now I come, is my care of Amphialus’s safety, in whom I live, to whose disdain I have vowed the tribute of my constant love. He (alas! why should I live to speak it?) not long since following the course of his adventures, came to Amasia, where he was made prisoner, and carried to Dunalbus prince of that country, whose brother it was Amphialus’s fortune to kill in rescue of a lady, to whom he would have offered dishonourable violence. These news came to mine ears (to add more to many miseries) at that time when I chanced to be at Delphos, pouring forth my heartiest devotions for my most beloved, my most unkind Amphialus: but the pitying God, either to stay my hands from the execution they intended (but to what end might that be? that God knows; for no time can unbend my affection) or, as heaven grant it may be, in commiseration of my case, thus comforted me:

Helen, return; a naked knight shall find

Rest for thy hopes, and quiet to thy mind.

“Thus far have I wandered, led by that divine promise, in pursuit of such a one: But nowhere can I find a happy event to confirm that oracle; yet dare I not despair, having so high a warrant; nor hope, having so bad success.”

“You are fortunately come,” said the King, “This knight, whose skill in arms hath made your well-deserving virtues famous, may be that man pointed out by the finger of heaven, to release Amphialus, who both in name and armour represents a naked knight.” “O no,” said the Queen, “it cannot be expected that Apollo, would leave so plain a way for us to track out the footsteps of his obscure mysteries.” “Madam,” replied Basilius (having first placed her in a chair by him) “the all-seeing providence, with whom the ends of all things are present, is sometimes pleased to cast forth the emblem of our destinies, so strangely hidden in the covert of ambiguous words, that, doubtless, it serves to beget nothing but matters of distrust, and labyrinths of errors, where the imagination a thousand ways may be led astray; of this you have a present proof, confirmed by my experience. And sometimes the same justice unfolds the secret of our fate, and plainly lets us know the mystery of our fortune; yet even that plainness, to the curious search of our still-mistrusting brain, becomes a reason sufficient to enforce us to a contrary belief. This last, I think (if, in the interpretation of an oracle, my opinion may be received) is that mean, whereby Apollo both reveals and hides the author of Amphialus’s freedom.”

This said, he sends presently for the naked knight, who as soon obeying the king’s command, as he was completely armed, came before him; to whom Basilius cheerfully told (as glad to be the reporter of good news to him, whose prowess in arms deservingly gained much of his good opinion) of Helen’s being there, together with her desire to employ him in an action the heavens had also interested him in. “What is it,” replied the naked knight, “that, without such a command, I would not endeavour to accomplish for my most dear Helen?” And then, with excess of comfort and astonishment, his weak limbs were ready to give over the support of his joy-burdened body; but, being upheld by Musidorus, who stood next him, his overcharged spirits had time to recollect themselves.

The Queen gathering comfort from his promise, and seeing fair likelihood of the oracle’s accomplishment, with the oratory of love, who thinks no words but his own able to express his mind, began in this manner: “Sir, ill-fortune my awful governess, as in the most of my actions she is pleased to keep a hard hand over me, so in this (distrustful belike of my willingness) she forces me to repeat my wonted lesson of receiving courtesies without power of requital; making one undeserved favour from you become a cause of further beholdingness to you: But the glory that follows your good success in this adventure (the best spur to set forward brave spirits to noble actions) hath almost assured me that the love you profess, and a distressed lady’s cause, need not join petitioners in a request your virtue must be willing to grant. The reward of your victory, is the releasing of Amphialus, of whom I may speak, and the world with me, all praise-worthy things.” “Madam,” replied the naked knight, “I thought the gods could not have favoured me more than in giving you respite of life, and me power to be serviceable to you: but when I consider the end I must employ my endeavours to, it buries my conceited happiness in the grave of a certain misfortune. Shall I labour to preserve that monster of men, whose story (if the world will needs read) contains nothing but a volume of disasters, and a vain discourse of a few adventures cast upon him by the blindness of chance? Shall I hazard my life for him, against whom, had I lives innumerable, I would venture them all? Shall I live to make another happy in your favour, and cross mine own desires? No, madam, I will sooner leave my blood here before you, as a testimony that fear hath no interest in my disobedience to your command, than I will make my after-life, truly miserable in the burden of a hopeless affection.” To this the Queen awhile in tears, as if her eyes strove to speak for her, made a silent answer; but when her sighs had breathed forth the over-charge of her breast, first she kneeled, then faintly said: “O eternal president of this court of cares, when will thy just pity commiserate my distress! Alas, Sir, what new way have the gods found to vent their malice on me! have I made disdain my only mishap, and must now affection towards me be another undeserved misfortune? Behold, Sir, and, if you can, with pity, a Queen born to command a suppliant at your feet, begging what goodness solicits you to grant, release Amphialus: and if your jealousy thinks he hath too much interest in my love, restore him to the world that wants him, I will vow a virgin’s life.” “Stay, virtuous Queen,” replied the naked knight, and lifting up his beaver, “receive,” said he, “thou best of women! the overjoyed Amphialus.”

The Queen, as when the ocean swells with the rage of a tempest, if on a sudden these blasts be appeased, yet the proud waves, mindful of their fore-passed injury, and indisposed to so speedy a reconcilement, some while retain the rough remembrance of the winds’ malice, so were her thoughts, before moved by the storm of despair, though now she had cause of contented quiet, on a sudden, incapable of so unlooked-for a happiness, first doubt, then amazement, lastly excess of joy, by succession, were admitted to the helm of her distressed heart. But when joy had once got to be the steersman, his want of practice (by his long absence from that employment) soon brought a confusion; here the warm tears of sorrow, there the cold drops of a present comfort, did strive whether should show itself most officious in drowning her pale blushing cheeks: At length they both, no longer able to resist this powerful invasion of their minds, as by mutual consent, fell the one entwined in the other’s arms, and made the earth happy in bearing such matchless lovers. But their senses being soon restored to their wonted function, after some passionate words (to which their eyes and touch of their hands gave the life of expression) Amphialus, divided into many minds by the turbulent working of his thoughts, turning towards his uncle, with his eyes fixed on the ground, stood with the grace of a man condemned, who having led a loathsome life in an ugly dungeon, is now brought to a freedom of looking upon the open air, yet sees the day is but a taper to light him to his execution. Of the one side he was brought from the hell of despair, wherein he lived in the assurance of Helen’s death, to the certainty of her life and presence; of the other, what was his treason to his uncle to expect, but an infamous death, and a divorce from his new-born happiness. The shame also of a crime so foul as his rebellion, was not the least torment to his mind, unwillingly beaten from a settled course of virtue by Cecropia’s practices. At length, when these thoughts, that almost overcame all the powers of life in him, were themselves overcome by his resolution, casting himself at Basilius’s feet, thus said: “Great Sir, if treason in a subject, and unnaturalness in a nephew, be punishable, here you have before you a fit exercise for your justice, I am that subject whose rebellion interrupted the contented quiet of my King’s solitary life, and brought him to behold the bloody tragedy of a civil dissention in his divided state: I am that nephew, whom a wilful disobedience made a traitor to the nearness of his blood. Hither did I come, Orestes-like, tormented by the inward fright of my guilty conscience, with my blood to wash away (if good fortune, in the defence of the cause I undertook, would draw death upon me) the stains of such unpardonable faults; but now that I have found what I least looked for (and then he cast a side-look on Helen) for her, I confess, I should desire to live, if your just indignation might find mercy for so heinous offences, which I will not strive to mitigate, however justly I may; for I would think such faults ill-excused with which, to ease myself, I must have burdened my nearest friends.”

Basilius, first graciously lifting him from the ground: “Nephew,” replied he, “did I retain the memory of your youthful oversights, this your virtuous acknowledgment were sufficient to bear them away; but long since I have buried in oblivion the thought of your rashness because I knew (by what after happened) that the gods had made you an instrument to work their ends; it were injury therefore to question his actions, whose will was not his own, being over-ruled by their all-commanding decree. No, nephew, I do not only pardon these transgressions, but freely also do resign all such possessions as your father held in Arcadia, taken from you in the last war, and now in the hands of Philanax. Live happy in your choice, I shall be proud of our alliance with the crown of Corinth, and shall rejoice to see the succession continue in our blood.” This said, he led him to Gynecia, then to Euarchus, but when he came to Musidorus: “This, nephew, is that black knight,” said he, “who at your last meeting gave such evident proof of his unconquerable valour; this is Musidorus the Prince of Thessalia, whom the gods have bestowed as a blessing on my daughter Pamela.” Amphialus, now assured by the king’s speech, unto whose hand the honour of his conquest had fallen (for doubt had long tormented him that, some baser hand had reaped the glory of his victory). “Prince Musidorus,” said he, “my hard success in our last encounter much perplexed me; not that my confidence of myself was lifted to such an arrogant presumption to think my strength and skill in arms matchless, but that it grieved me, an unknown knight (one, whom the world might think had concealed his name, lest, together with him, his bad fortune in trials of that kind might be discovered) should have the better of me. But now, that I know to whose lot my victory hath fallen, I do not only bring an excuse, but an honour from the worthiness of the conqueror.”

“Courteous Amphialus,” replied the Prince, “whose side the advantage of fortune did then incline to, if it may be determined, with greater reason, and more desert, should the honour be given you, than bestowed on me; but, however, such trial I then made of your manhood that, hereafter, I shall desire to be of your part.” “Worthy Prince,” said Amphialus, “your virtue will always choose to be of the weaker side.” And so turning to Philoclea, “Divine lady,” said he, “in your excellent choice of the famous Pyrocles, you have (besides the happiness gained to yourself, for which the world may envy you) showed me the way to my best hopes, by grafting my affection in the stock of my Helen’s constancy.” “Dear cousin,” replied Philoclea, “I am glad it was in my power, and your good fortune, so much to better your choice in so excellent a remove:” And so, casting a bashful look towards Pyrocles: “Sir,” said she, “we may join in thanksgiving. This is my cousin, whose virtuous disposition during our imprisonment was our safest defence against my Aunt Cecropia’s cruelty.” “I do acknowledge it,” said Pyrocles, “and besides this favour, in which we have a common interest, Sir, I must crave pardon for a wound given you at such a time when, belike, you made patience your only defence.”

Amphialus stood with his eyes fixed on Pyrocles, for his memory supplied him with a confused remembrance of such a face: Zelmane he could not take him to be, her sex and this change, at their first birth, destroyed these apprehensions. Pyrocles, his heart swore he was not, whose youth and beauty, God wot! were no fit livery for such achievements as the world famed him for. Thus awhile he continued, troubled with the uncertainty of conjectures, until Pyrocles (happily conceiving the cause of his amazement) stopped his further admiration by letting him know that the then Zelmane was the now Pyrocles. Whereat Amphialus, as one newly waked out of a dream, cried out, “Anaxius, Anaxius,” said he, “’twas the Prince of Macedon (not a woman) overcame thee. Wheresoever thy soul be, let it keep this time festival as the birthday of thy glory.” And so, after mutual embraces, together with the rest of the princes, they entered the palace, where, when they were seated, the eyes of all the company were set on the Queen of Corinth, longing to know the story of her strange fortune; now a queen, then a prisoner; now alive, then dead; which she, at Basilius’s entreaty, with a majesty which her fortune could not change, because it was innate, thus declared.

“Great Sir! that I was made prisoner by Rinatus, and by him carried to Laconia, fame, together with the news of my supposed death, belike hath brought you; the rest, since you esteem worthy your hearing, I shall esteem worthy my relation. There yet governs, and then did, among the nobility of Laconia, one Creton, a man elected to the crown rather to recompense the desert of his ancestors, than for his own virtues, beloved and borne with for the same reason; such an everlasting monument of itself, can goodness leave to posterity. To him when I was brought, my guilt and my guilty self, with the best oratory Rinatus had, was made known, who, with vehement importunity, desired that my speedy punishment, as my fault, should be terrible. The king answered, though he found his demands reasonable, and such to which he was sure there could be no opposition made, yet he thought it fit the nobility should be acquainted with so weighty a cause before he proceeded further in it, and so, for this time (being committed to the charge of Pertinax, chamberlain to the king) I was dismissed. The next day, the council being sent for, my cause ran the hazard of many opinions; some thought it fit I should die; and though justice, said they, might not dispense with such severity, yet it was fit to please Rinatus, one who had deserved well, and had the power, if otherwise he were dealt with, to revenge his injury. Others, the more in number, and esteemed the wiser, because the King held with them, opposed this sentence, alleging, so inconsiderate an act might call the safety of Laconia in question; ‘For,’ said they, ‘shall we think the Corinthians so degenerate, that, being justly incensed against us they will not endeavour to revenge the death of their prince, in the shade of whose reign they enjoy that peace and plenty their neighbours envy them for? And if they stir in it, what people is so barbarous, whom the justness of their cause will not procure into the society of this war? See then if a private man’s satisfaction be to be compared to these ensuing dangers? No, let her live, and when the gods do otherwise dispose of her, let her death come without the ruin of Laconia.’ This determined, a new doubt arose, how I should be disposed of. They that before thought it expedient I should die, now that opinion was put by, concluded that it was best to send me to Corinth, with an honourable convoy, so to tie them by a perpetual bond of gratitude, to be their friends whom they so much feared to be their enemies; the rest, to gratify the King, whose affection they perceived to lean that way, and well assured it was an advice too profitable to be rejected that gained a kingdom, though his promise after the queen’s death (who, not long before, left him a widower) had been passed to Lemnia, a fair and virtuous lady, daughter to my keeper Pertinax, yet they wished, if so he pleased, my crown might win me to his bed, little doubting but I had thought it an egregious felicity to be so graced. The King, after many protractions, at length, as if he were wrought to it by a desire to satisfy the nobility rather than self-will, declares his mind to be directed by them; which, once known, behold! the flattery of the court began to fawn upon me; who more observed? who more admired? Only Rinatus, much impatient of this my greatness in court, uttered some words in choler, which made known, by a further inquiry, a conspiracy of his against the king, so that soon after (the rather to give me, whom they studied to please, satisfaction) he was beheaded.

“But long it was not before fortune, neither constant to my happy adversity, nor adverse felicity, had brought thither (sent by the usurper Tenarus) a wise, but wicked instrument, whom he called his ambassador, who laboured, by the policy of his high-reaching brain, and the secret practices of his undermining gold, so far for his master’s ends, that now, in an instant, the still-changing face of court-respect began to frown upon me: my death was decreed, and until the time were appointed for it, myself made a close prisoner in my accustomed gaol. But the King, chiefly moved with the hope of my crown, and drawn by a self-conceit of liking to my sorrow, which, perhaps, had a sympathy with his melancholy, wouldst needs continue the suit of his affection to me, though he durst not interpose his over-ruled authority for my liberty. Thus, for a time, did I live, accompanied by some few whom the king might trust with his intents, he, in show, courting his first love Lemnia, and making that a pretence to come private to her father’s house near adjoining to court. But indeed, as at that time he could have no reason to dissemble with me, this kindness came another way; which Lemnia suspecting, and being as far gone in affection to this double-dealing king, as he was in the profession of a little-regarded love to me, her watchful eye soon found the advantage of a happy opportunity to hear himself speak his own deceit, with such a heart-burning vehemency that Lemnia (who had placed herself, unknown to either of us, behind the hangings) scarce could suppress her entry to play a part in our comedy of affection. But to his demands truth answered for me plainly that death, in whose expectation I lived, would be far more pleasing than the marriage he thought so reasonable; adding withal to my speech much of Lemnia’s praise, which she deserved, to instruct his eyes that indeed were blind in his choice.

“But when he parted, vowing to be severe in my punishment, unless I resolved better at his next coming, behold Lemnia, with tears in her eyes, fell at my feet, and when she saw amazement in my looks, with a kind bashfulness, taking my hand, and rising with that help: ‘Virtuous lady,’ said she, ‘if ever you have been acquainted with the tyranny of all-commanding affection, to that judge I appeal, who (though courtesy and good manners oppose him) will find my fault excusable. This man, who in your presence hath been the trumpet of his own inconstancy, first with the vehement protestation of his sincere affection, won me in gratefulness to meet him, in recompense of his unknown dissimulation, if such then it were; and now with the good liking of the state, were the solemnities appointed for our marriage, when your arrival crossed those hopes, and drew his thoughts to their natural temper of unstayedness. But since I have found, by this fortunate unmannerliness, your answers so resolutely opposed to his demands, henceforth I vow to work your freedom, or bring myself to perish with you.’ Her fault found an easy pardon at the tribunal she appealed to—I thanked her, as there was good cause, for her desire of my good; only I wished, if my freedom could not be procured without danger to her, she should not heap miseries upon me by joining herself a companion in my disasters. She comforts me with the hope of a better event, and to bring her intention to a wished success, she wins my unwillingness to show some favour to the king: which next day I did, having placed Lemnia where she had placed herself the day before, to be a witness to our conference; for otherwise, perhaps, her love this second time might have egged her suspicion, already prone that way, to the distrust of a practice betwixt us. And happy was this forced dissimulation; for the King, not long before his coming to me, had received advertisement that the usurper of Corinth had levied an army, and set forth many ships to invade Laconia, making the delay of my promised execution the pretence of this war; which being also known, they (who, together with this foreign enemy, feared the rebellion of the Helots, who always lay in wait for an opportunity of such advantage) now, more than ever, began to solicit the King to satisfy so potent an enemy in so just a demand. The King, well weighing the imminent dangers that were to be prevented by my death, and seeing the little comfort he did enjoy by the prolonging of my life (likely every day to increase my obstinacy, being none of those lovers that would die for his disdaining mistress) was ready to deliver me over as a sacrifice for the state and country, when, behold! his sails were filled with self-opinion of my favour. Borne up, therefore, with the wings of hope, he returns to court, where love (or some indulgent fate) inspired this project into his head; he calls the nobility, and after a long narration of the mischiefs that hung over Laconia, he desires their advice for prevention. They, glad that the only opposer, as they thought, of their designs, would have recourse to their directions, in that cause wherein they were jealous of his partaking after a flattering insinuation (the common exordium to men of his place) they concluded that it was fit Helen should die. ‘I doubt it not,’ said he (nor was it to that end I sought your counsel) ‘that the necessity of the times, the welfare of our person, and the preservation of our estate required her death; but it much perplexed me, that our fame should bleed with her, or that the world should say the threats of the King of Corinth had enforced us to behead her whom lately we were to take to wife. ’Twas this, my lords, that caused my misinterpreted resolution to hang in suspense; for this I have turned my invention into all forms, and now, behold, I have found an even way to lead me between the perils of a threatened war, and the ill-bought quiet of an ignominious peace. My will is she be brought to court (for Pertinax’s house I think not convenient for this project) and placed here, with such about her as I know most trusty in such a secret; then, that her keepers, at farthest within two days, poison her; which done, we will give it out she died of a disease; and to confirm this opinion in the vulgar, we will honour her death with such funeral pomp as the state of her life required. Thus shall our cause of dissention with Corinth be taken away, and we freed from that imputation the world might justly lay upon us.’ The nobility, with silent admiration, began to applaud what he had determined, chiefly Pertinax, who, making the common cause his pretence, laboured by all means to confirm a resolution so necessary for his daughter Lemnia’s happiness.

“The King having dismissed the council, acquaints me with these his proceedings, setting forth, with no mean pride, the pregnancy of his own wit, who had found a way to over-reach such grey-bearded dotards: ‘For,’ said he, ‘you shall that night when you are thought to be poisoned be conveyed hence (by two of chiefest trust about me) unto my castle of Nicos; then will I cause a statue, formed to your proportion, to be coffined up, on which, forsooth, my grave council shall solemnly wait, and perform the obsequies in that ceremony requisite; meantime you shall live, and live beloved of him who hath undergone this dangerous enterprise, and will do many more to endear his affection to you. And when the limbs of this disjointed state be set again, you shall be restored to be yourself, and to enjoy this crown of Laconia so much envied you: till when, I lock these projects in the closet of your secrecy.’

“The good King was scarce gone from me when I made Lemnia of counsel with me, who, seeing the fitness of the time, seeing my journey to Nicos was to be performed in the night, and the easy execution of so dangerless an enterprise, my guard being only two of the King’s servants, she gives in charge to a sufficient number of such whom she knew faithful to her, to meet them mid way, and after they had well beaten my convoy, to discharge them of the suspicion of their consenting to the fact, to carry me to the next seaport, where there staid a ship bound for Delphos, to which I needs would bend my course. This being resolved upon, the lady (equally troubled with the care of my safety and the loss of my presence) wept many tears, which I confess, had been ingratitude in me not to second; so as a while sorrow seemed to have flown thither to bathe herself in our eyes: but love, at length, in both of one another’s good, had well near claimed this passion, when the guard appointed by the King, was come and ready to carry me to court. But why should I, great sir, any longer stay you in a story, whose tediousness I am well assured hath tired you? Know therefore, that this means of my safety was as fortunately executed as happily contrived: the King not once daring to send to seek me, lest he should by that discover his own craft used in this dangerous deluding of the Laconian noblemen.

“But I was scarce a month absent, when he, whose eyes held the reins of his constancy, the object being removed, married (as it was before determined) the beauteous Lemnia, who, now in possession of his love, sticked not to make known to him this whole matter, which otherwise in her behalf I was bound to keep secret. Thus, Sir, if my desire to obey your commands hath made the story of my misfortunes tedious, you may excuse me, since all is done for your satisfaction.”

“Fair Queen,” replied Basilius, “the sweetly-delivered strangeness of the story would still ravish the hearers with a desire of a further cause of attentiveness, did not a greater desire in us, who know your virtues, hasten to hear the end of your much pitied distress.” And so, calling Amphialus to him, having agreed on the day of marriage between the Queen and him, they all arose; for now their appetites (growing jealous of the satisfaction their minds received by the former discourse) began to solicit them in the behalf of their stomachs.

After dinner, when most of the company began to imp the wings of time with the feathers of several recreations, Amphialus and Helen privately went together into an arbour in the garden, where, first with tears, the common apology of overjoyed affection, they speak their minds in silence, their panting hearts, as they embraced, with mutual desire, beating their envious garments that gave them not leave to meet. At length Helen, gracefully shaking her head as if she would shake away the drops that, like the morning-dew on full ripe cherries, hung on her rosy cheeks: “O Amphialus!” said she, and then kissed him, as loth to leave so perfect a sentence without a comma; “I will not say you were unkind, but——,” and there with his lips (loth, loth, belike, to accuse him) she closed up her speech. “My sole happiness!” replied Amphialus, softly wringing her hand, “though the foulness of my fault be no fit subject for her to speak of who breathes nothing but goodness, yet I want not an accuser: my soul sets forth my ingratitude; nor can I yet conceive how mercy can be so far removed from justice, as to find a pardon from my offence: But you have given it, and, if it be any requital, it shall be my after-life’s study to love and honour your virtues, as it was hitherto to offend you.” “It is fit therefore,” said Helen, with the counterfeit settledness of majesty, “we impose a penance upon you for your oversight, and this it shall be, that henceforth you neither speak nor think of that you account your fault: and to help you in obeying my commands, I must entreat you to keep your mind and tongue, for a time, busied in telling me what befell you in your travels since our being at Corinth; and do it not so niggardly, as if you meant to conceal what fame hath so largely blown abroad: yet, if you were exposed at any time to much danger, dwell not there too long, lest I forget I have you here.”

“Most dear lady,” said Amphialus, “to conform my speech to your last request would make me disobedient to your first command. Shall I begin with my departure from you? alas! at what time should I more employ my memory and speech in discovery of my faulty self than now? But I see your eyes begin to take anger into them; I will no longer insist on mine own accusation.

“Know therefore, most constant lady, that, accompanied only with Fidutio my page, when I had passed the limits of your dominion, at that time of day when the high-mounted sun makes least shadows, wearied with travel, and desirous of some shelter from the sun’s violent rays, I laid myself under the protection of an olive tree, thinking to set my mutinous thoughts at peace, but it would not be: these outward signs could not appease the fury of an inward enemy. Thus I lay, dearly purchasing the little ease of my body with the affliction of mind, until mine ears, like faithful servants, desirous to end this dissention between their master and himself, caused all the powers of my mind to join in attentiveness; and mine eyes, loth to be outgone in such good offices, did look that way from whence the noise came; where I might discern six men armed, on horseback, carry a fair lady with them, whose tears and out-cries well showed her indisposition to that journey. This sight moved compassion in me, and pity brought a desire to help her distress, but my horse (divining, belike, my intent, and unwilling to leave his food) could by no means be taken; so that, mad with anger, I began to repeat over all the misfortunes that ever had befallen me, to let this know it wanted no fellows, when there came posting that way, one whom by his haste I guessed to have been of the company gone before. Of whom I entreated to know what fault could be so heinous that might take away the name of injury from so unmanly a violence as they offered to so beauteous a lady: But he, with a scornful silence, smiled, and would be gone; and so, perhaps, he might, had not the narrowness of the way, and his courteous horse that would not tread upon me, compelled him to stay. Whereat his anger burst forth into these threats: ‘Villain!’ said he, ‘thy want of armour shall not excuse thee from a death wilfully drawn upon thee; and though there be no glory, there will be satisfaction in thy overthrow.’ Then, drawing his horse a little back, he alighted, and without further complement, ran towards me: But his fury brought him too hastily to his death, for thinking, belike, his threatening mouth was able to defend itself, he forgot to put by my sword that by good fortune lay in his way, and so justly his death entered at his mouth, whose life I think was in his tongue. At his fall Fidutio came in, who helping to fit on the armour, of which we had disfurnished this unserviceable knight, I mounted on his horse, that seemed to have regarded my haste more than mine own, and riding on the spur, I overtook my company, for so they would needs make themselves, saluting me by the name of my friend Satibarsis. But the better observance soon put them out of that opinion. So that guessing (indeed rightly) that I had killed Satibarsis, and by that means got his armour, without desire to be further than by their own conjecture satisfied, they joined all hands in his revenge. But the lady’s cause was just, whose rescue I came to, and the all-seeing providence that would not see justice over-laid, fought for me. And now five of them had either received their well deserved payment of death, or were kept by their wounds from further opposition, when the sixth, who all this while had held the lady, and looked on, seeing my hand (whose weakness had left such precedents of the effects of a good cause) now set against him alone, took his prisoner by the hair, and with his sword gave her a deep wound in the neck. That inhuman act would have given desire to the most barbarous, and power of revenge to the most cowardly: but he, as if he meant to save me a labour, making haste that their warm blood should meet, with the same sword runs himself through, dying as just a judge as he was a traitorous offender. Amazement would have fixed mine eyes upon him, but the lady’s wound brought them to her succour. Experience on myself, made me skilful, and my fair patient officious, so that tying up the wound, for some time I staunched the blood; she, in the meantime, with her watery eyes bent toward heaven, heartily praying for my good fortune, and many times thanking her destiny, that, with her death, had ended the miseries of her ever-dying life. When I had done comforting her, as I thought, with my opinion of her safety, I entreated to know her name, and the cause of this injury done to her. ‘No, no,’ replied she, ‘courteous stranger, the comfort of my near-coming death (in spite of the torment the memory of my most wretched life puts me to) brings this cheerfulness I now present in my looks: and though the least delay of my end is accompanied with a world of sorrows, yet I am glad, for satisfaction of your demand, my breath is a while preserved.

“‘My name is Leaucade, the only daughter to Count Brunio, a man of large possessions in this country, whom, you may well think, because in expectation of his lands, many sued for, and those not of the meanest esteem: but my carelessness of love had taught me such a carriage, that further than of the favour of my courtesy (of which they did all indifferently partake) none could boast. And this, till about a year since, was my daily practice, disdaining (as most that have not known it do) so ridiculous a passion as I then esteemed love. At which time this Fluento, whose happy hand hath done us both right, came to my father’s court. A neighbour prince, with whom (for encroaching upon the bounds of his territory) my father hath had much dissention. But a reconcilement being made between them, and both alike thinking the best means to persevere in amity were to have us two joined in marriage; without my knowledge (as if it were fit I should be a stranger to their proceeding) determine of the match. But, alas! Sir, at this time I was so far from being at their dispose, that I was not at mine own: for love (I think keeping mischief until it were ripe for me) had presented a gentleman to mine eyes, by birth noble, whose ancestors, all to his father, being men of known virtue in the country, were admitted to the prime offices of the kingdom. But he taking a pride to be unthrifty, and little esteeming these public employments, lavished exceedingly both his fame and patrimony; yet it seemed he only made away his estate to purchase goodness for his child: such a son he was father to, so rare, so excellent. His name was Persidas;’ and at that word the tears gushed forth in such abundance that it seemed her blood had changed his course and colour to run forth at the sluices of her eyes: ‘Alas! Sir, what shall I say of him? or who, from Leaucade, will believe the desert of Persidas? But, alas! if they deserve no credit that love him, in this country you must hear nothing of him; the knowledge of his person, and the love of his virtues, being things inseparable. In him begun this tragedy, in me it ends: for when my father and Fluento had drawn their agreement to a head, then, and not before, he thought it time, he said, to let me know my happiness.’ And thus, finding me alone, he breaks the matter to me: ‘Dear child, I have, ever since the death of your virtuous mother (though much importuned by many) reserved you to these years unmarried, because your content should be of counsel with me in your choice: and happy was this delay for the honour of our house; for, behold! Fluento makes his fortunes serviceable to your will: Prince Fluento, daughter, whose powerful greatness the neighbour potentates stand in awe of: him I have won for you, and so forward we be that this day-fortnight he is to take you to wife.’ ‘Father,’ said I, ‘that your wisdom hath deferred my marriage hitherto to give me the comfort of election, my obedience, my only requital, shall be the same it ever was to you: and yet I wonder, that having attained to these years, when my judgment in my choice may be received, you will exclude me from the end for which I was so long reserved; just like a physician that telleth his patient he hath brought a potion to cure him, yet says he must by no means take it. I must be married to Prince Fluento, and yet your meaning is, I should have liberty to choose; as if this enforcement destroyed not my freedom of election. That he is a man, beyond all respects, as you praise him, fit for your estate, I may well grant you, but that he is unfit for your daughter, I am privileged to say.’ At this, his severe look, before he spoke, began to lay before me my obedience: and when he had walked two or three turns in the room, ‘Daughter, daughter,’ said he, ‘I never thought you were so wilful! Where, I pray you, is there a match fit for your birth, if not Fluento? Beware, beware, you do not give your posterity just cause to curse you, that denied them so great, so good a father.’ I answered that I thought it were too tender a respect of children, whom perhaps I might not have, or should not enjoy, to choose for them, and not a husband for myself, and too senseless a feeling of the honour of my house, to wrong myself to do my birth right. Then kneeling on my knees, ‘Sir,’ said I, ‘solicit me no more, I have not power to grant.’ He hastily, when it was scarce delivered, snatched this word: ‘And why not power to grant?’ said he. ‘Because Persidas is the anchor-hold of my life and love.’ ‘Persidas!’ cried out my father, ‘Now all misfortune fall thick upon me, shall my means help to make up a bankrupt in his estate? Accursed be my fate that gave me life to hear it. Persidas! Why, sure it cannot be.’ ‘Sir,’ said I, ‘if my love were not far past, my desperate presumption would not bring a truth, much less an untruth, to move your anger. And if those after hopes have not clean compelled you to forget you are my father, have pity on me? If so, I crave the trial of the law.’ This last request (after conference with Fluento) finding my obstinacy, he condescended to. But because, I perceive, Sir, you are a stranger here, and that the knowledge of this law doth much concern the story of my present mishap, I will make it known to you.

“This kingdom of Argos, wherein you are, was governed not long since by Phenissa, a woman worthy to have come to that place by election if nature had not bestowed it upon her by descent from her famous ancestors. This queen (that you may see we want not the precedent of greatness to excuse affection) in her father’s life-time, though by him she was promised to Deoxippus, the tyrant of Syracusa, was enamoured of one Eumenes, governor (for the Lacedaemonians) of the island and city of Delphos. And when it well might be thought the king’s death, and her succession, had taken away the restraint of her will, yet she, growing less willing when she was most powerful, like a horse that finding the reins hang loose upon him begins to stay his fury; so she, though by this change she had not received any slackness into her affection, began to tender the cause of her country that lay open to the invasion of her proud enemy Deoxippus, if so she would have made him. Preferring therefore now this common respect, before her private satisfaction, as she had done her obedience in her father’s life-time before her love, she buries herself in the grave of Deoxippus’s loathsome bed.

“When the unexpected news of Phenissa’s marriage came to the ears of her faithful lover Eumenes, his passion (as Agamemnon’s at the death of Iphigenia) can best be expressed in silence, all the wild furies that distracted grief could gather, being summoned to the siege of his soon-overthrown heart: hastily thereupon to the temple his mad passion bears him, where, casting himself at the feet of Apollo, ‘Unjust god!’ said he, ‘have I for this thy ungratefulness given up the offerings of my daily prayers? But if I wrong thy name, show thy justice in revenging my death.’ Whereat, transported with violence of sorrow, running his head against the altar, his bloody brains flew forth of their battered lodging. Soon after, the contagion of a most pestilent air brought such a plague among the Argians, that many daily felt the fury of the gods revenging indignation: amongst whom, the King and Queen (reserved, belike, the more to be punished in their subjects’ calamity) after the desolation of their well-peopled country, both in one day, by the same infection, ended their lives and government; wherewith this mortality ceased, as hitting now at length the mark it aimed at.

“The few remnant of the nobility sent to Delphos to know what fault of theirs had brought these miseries upon their country? Where, being informed of what was past, Apollo advised them to provide, that no such mischief should after happen. They, well weighing whence it arose, being fully satisfied by the oracle, enact this law: that neither private nor public respect should detain a virgin from revealing her love; and if her friends, or parents, think another than she hath chosen more fit for her, the combat between the two shall determine the god’s pleasure. How unwilling I was to hazard my Persidas in this trial, love, that bleeds in the thought of a danger, can best assure you: but his earnestness that it might be so, and the hard constraint that it could not be otherwise, won me to it.

“The day therefore being appointed, Fluento (upon whom fame the flatterer of greatness had pinned the opinion of valour) entered the lists, mounted on a bay courser, whose armour all over represented a green plain, through which ran little rivulets of blood that sprang from the wounds of many centaurs dispersed over all the field. In his shield he bore the counterfeit of Hercules and Deianira, with these words, ‘Endeared by Conquest.’ From him my Persidas drew the eyes and hearts of all the company; his horse was a fiery sorrel; his armour like the azure sky, curiously spotted with many stars (whose glimpse the well set diamonds, by reflection of the sun, represented) showed as if night had flown thither to end, in that assembly, some controversy between her and her brother. In his shield he caused Andromeda and Perseus to be engraven, with these words, ‘Never too dearly bought.’ ‘But I must hasten to the event,’ said she; ‘for long I find you may not enjoy your historian: Know, therefore, that my Persidas, contenting himself only with the victory, when he might have taken (woe is me that he was so merciful!) Fluento’s life, was accepted by my father for his son-in-law; good fortune, as I then thought, changing my husband, and not my day of marriage. In the meantime Fluento, repining at this disgrace, and desirous, even now upon the basest terms to be revenged, plotted a treachery unheard-of against him. This morning, having before heard we were to hunt in this forest, Fluento (with that company your valour hath brought to their deserved ends) lay in wait for us; and when myself and my Persidas (Count Brunio my father, and the rest, having followed the chase) were left alone, behold these bloody villains, coming unawares upon him, with many wounds, sent his soul to that place whither mine (hoping to find a more lasting union in that life than our loves hath done in this) doth also hasten.’ And with this word, her dull languishing eyes began to roll as if they strove to reserve motion in spite of death: yet, raising herself a little, her love found breath to say this, ‘Let me be buried by my Persidas!’ and so grasping my hand, as it were, to put me in mind of her last words, alas! she dies.

“But many tears I could not have bestowed as obsequies upon her, when some of her father’s train, who by chance crossing that way where Persidas lay dead, guided by Fidutio (who, with their helps, had now taken my horse) came to this place; to whom when I had related all what I learned from Leaucade of Persidas’s death, together with her last will, we all joined hands in carrying her to the next village; whither also certain of their fellows (whom they had left behind to that end) conveyed the body of Persidas; from whence, soon after, Count Brunio (having begged of grief a little respite of life to fulfil his daughter’s testament) brought them both with all funeral pomp to his chief city Coniga, where he caused a stately tomb to be built for them, on which this epitaph was engraven,

Love, beauty, valour, when their death drew nigh,

Consulted long where they should buried lie:

At length, with one consent they hasten’d hither,

And chose this place to be intomb’d together.

“Leaving the woeful kingdom of Argos, no better accompanied than with Fidutio, yet better guarded by Satibarsis’s armour, my sorrow, I think, that bore infection with it, made all places where I came, fit stages for tragedies: for, descending into a green valley, where, of each side the rocky mountains threatened the humble earth with the frowns of their downcast brows, I might see a young man leaning with both hands on his sword, breathing as over-toiled with labour, and round about him four or five cast prostrate at his feet, who were dead, or thought their counterfeiting so to be, would prove their best defence against this young man’s fury. But the clashing of my armour had no sooner made known my approach, than he came running towards me, uttering words whereby I might gather his quarrel to me brought the excuse of mistake with it. Not to draw on therefore his misconceived opinion, that his breathless companions did witness would be dangerous for me; ‘Sir,’ replied I, ‘I am so far from maintaining their cause, whose revenge upon a lone man, being so many, mine own eyes do persuade me was injurious, that had I come at the beginning of your fight (though this event shows I should but have robbed you of part of the honour of this action) I would have joined myself to you.’

“‘Alas! Sir,’ said he, ‘to oppose yourself against me (though it were the more unjust) would be the more secure way, for what you see is but a fore-runner of a certain destruction soon at hand. Leave me therefore, courteous sir, and seek for safety: death to me is so grateful that I envy you should be a partner in so great a gain. But it were a fault unpardonable, to have abandoned the most accomplished man that ever mine eyes before that time, beheld.’ My resolution therefore, though hard against his will, must have prevailed with him: so that entreating to know the cause of his former fight, and further doubt, I found his courtesy as forward in the relation of his own danger as it was obstinate in the care of my safety.

“‘Sir,’ said he, ‘seeing my story will be but a heap of misfortunes, I shall do well to lay the foundation myself, than whom the sun looks not upon a more miserable creature: My name is Cariclio, nephew, by his brother Castor, to the King of Natolia, brought up in my youth in the good opinion of my uncle, and the great expectation of many; fortune, then belike, proroguing my miseries until a more serious age should make me more sensible of them: which time had no sooner brought on, but that my ill fate, to train me up for the burden of the mischief that was prepared for me, began by little and little to make me acquainted with the course I was to run; first taking away my father, whose virtuous age deserved (if that may be thought a recompense for desert) a longer time in this life: When he was dead, and that the slippery steps of my rash youth wanted the stay of his fatherly advice, presently (not knowing what one man’s hands I should put the reins of my then unbridled youth into, and yet well seeing I might not trust myself with mine own government) I chose many friends; and being by nature given to hate pride, to eschew a vice so loathsome (thinking it might not be done otherwise) I began to affect popularity. But I had scarce lived thus a twelve-month, when my cousin the King’s son, a young man, who (besides the hope of succession, for which the courtiers did adore him) had nothing more than ordinary in him, grew suspicious of my practices, as he termed them: to which humour (besides the mistrust of his own little desert) his sycophants, the bellows of this fire, did daily add further causes to increase his jealousy. But seeing the discovery of his suspicion would little please the king, who ever since the death of my father had doubled his care upon me; he was compelled to dissemble a good liking towards me. In meantime a truce, made for some few years with the Duke of Amasia, being expired, the war grew hot on both sides. At length, after the trial of many changes in fortune, necessity meditating peace between them, myself being given as a hostage for performance of certain conditions of my uncle’s part, a perpetual league was concluded on: ’Twas now, and not before, mischief began to unmask herself, and take a pride to grow terrible. There was at court, during my abode there, attending upon the Duchess, a lady, by name Alcida, whose many excellencies won as many hearts as she had beholders, nature making her beauty and shape but the most fair cabinet of a far fairer mind. To her, mine eyes at first sight gave up my heart, with so unfortunate an encounter in affection, that this surrender was but a mutual exchange, she having, in a merciful gratefulness, fixed her love on mine. But her parentage, though not base, was so mean in respect of my birth, that thence whole armies of afflictions did invade my mind, equally distracted between my desire to enjoy this my best of happiness and fear of my uncle’s displeasure, on whom this match (for his care and love of me) I was sure would draw on an untimely death. But before I could determine a doubt of so great consequence, the conditions of the league being faithfully performed, I was safely, at a day prefixed, sent back to Natolia, desirous, even in my soul desirous, I am sure, rather by their breach of covenant to have hazarded my life, than thus cruelly to be taken away from her presence, who, far beyond my life, was most dear to me. Soon after my return, the King, as if the gods had stayed him to see the quiet of his state, now that was brought to pass, worn with age, and much broken with travel and care in his last wars, left his kingdom to his degenerate son and successor, who had no sooner seized upon the government, but, meaning to begin his reign with an admirable act of policy, now his power was unrestrained, limits me to the absence from my country, declaring my blood for ever incapable of succession: and not content with this, to such a height his undeserved malice to me was raised, that he dealt with some bad ministers of his wickedness, secretly to make me away. To prevent therefore what was plotted against me, disguising myself, I hastily fled away, and making use of necessity, to further my affection, I put myself into the service of a nobleman here in the court of Amasia, easily remaining undiscovered, among them who would sooner fall out with their eyes than believe that the greatness wherein they lately had seen me, could admit so great a change: by mean whereof, I enjoyed the presence of my Alcida, whose constancy, neither time, nor absence (the mothers of affection) nor what is more, this my change in fortune, could alter.

“‘Thus, while I lived in this happiness of servitude, Mermidon (brother to the Duke) having commanded, with fortunate success, against the Dacians, returned to court, where seeing this lady, he became enamoured of her, to no other end than to satisfy his lust: and thinking, at first (because he was in good esteem with himself) she would have strained her modesty to sue for the acceptance of a present so grateful to him, a while he was silent; but when he perceived the vanity of his fruitless expectation, and found that this delay increased the fury of his passion, dispensing with the majesty he had taken on, he began to make known his love to her (for such a title did he give to so base a desire) forgetting not withal to tell her that to excuse her modesty he had first spoken her wishes. But the virtuous Alcida, loathing as much the thought of such a sin, as she loved the memory of me, together with a resolute denial, let him know how base his mind was that made so injurious a request. Whereat Mermidon, because this answer came unexpected, was so much the more amazed. But bringing arguments from his late practice in the war, he began to think his honour would be the greater, if, after long resistance, he did surprise a well-defended fort: and therefore daily, both by rich gifts, the base enamel of affection, and many promises (which, to win the more upon her, were sent by one of her own sex, who, if example might move her, could tell of such a precedent in herself) did he seek to undermine her resolution. Meantime, my constant Alcida, seeing the intemperance of Mermidon’s lust to bring threats of force with it, not daring to speak with me, because our conference began to be suspected, sent me a letter to hasten her carrying away, appointing this the fatal place of our meeting.

“‘I much rejoiced to be so near my happiness, the rather that since our last conference, I received intelligence that my young cousin of Natolia being made away by one whom he had raised to an undeserved height in his favour, the country was in great distress by the factious ambition of the nobility, and that the best affected to the state, much desired my presence. But these means, how well soever, as I thought, conducing to my happiness, by the unmercifulness of my hard destiny were prevented, as one of those, whom it was my fortune to kill, at his death revealed: for Mermidon having intercepted the messenger, mad with rage to find his hopes crossed by so mean a man as he took me to be, having again sealed up the letter, he caused it to be delivered, and determining to be revenged, sent these men to apprehend me, himself intending to follow presently, leading with him my dearest Alcida, whom, in my presence (to add a glory to the execrableness of the offence) he means to ravish. And now, Sir, you have heard,’ said he, ‘of my birth and fortune, till this time (when, I am well assured, my end is near at hand) kept secret.’

“He scarce had closed up this lamentable story with a hearty sigh, the compendious abridgment of his sufferings, when we might discern Mermidon, with twenty more (so distrustful is treachery though there be no cause to fear) make towards us: but that sight, together with the thought of Alcida’s distress, was a signal sufficient for Cariclio to begin his unequal encounter, so as, like a she-tiger, who, at her return to her cave, finds her little ones to be stolen, with a wild fury, breathing nothing but destruction, he runs amongst them, making way for my willingness to second his attempt. Awhile, the justice of the cause, and Cariclio’s valour (to which the glory is only due) with the death of many, did hold the victory in an equal balance: At length, the multitude of our assailants made injury the stronger, bringing to a death much to be pitied, so incomparable a man at arms as was Cariclio; yet, not before he had, in the sight of Alcida, sent Mermidon to be his harbinger at Charon’s ferry. And when by his death the only stay and support of the fight was removed, if sometimes my desire of revenge made good the ground Cariclio had bequeathed me; alas! how could I long resist without him? Know therefore, excellent lady, that, here I was made prisoner, and, together with Alcida, carried back to court; though I call Cariclio’s ghost to witness, I sought all means to join myself, even in death, a companion to his virtues. The solemnity intended for our execution, and the preparation of new forms of torment for us that had been parties in the murder of the Duke’s brother, won some lingering days of life to the inward torture of our expectation: In meantime the everlasting providence, that by changing the intentions and dooms of men, will let them know there is a power beyond theirs, sent an unexpected mean to help our distress.

“Plangus, the famous Prince of Iberia, at this time making haste with a few, such as virtue had joined partners in his cause, and taking into his army such of Euarchus’s soldiers, as in a tempest at sea were driven to Byzantium, to the succour of Erona (whose story you cannot be ignorant of) and being to pass through Amasia, sent to the Duke to demand a thorough-fare for his soldiers. But he, who of long time had observed an inviolable league with the Armenians, knowing the pretence of this war, and despising the weakness of those few Plangus led with him, not only denied his request, but, gathering a great power of soldiers (whom since his last wars he had kept in garrison in his frontier towns) meant, with the overthrow of her ungrateful nephew, to gratify Artaxia, and her ill-chosen husband Plexirtus. But the excellent Plangus (than whom this age shows not, for conduct in war, a better general) with the well-ordering those few resolute troops, and skilful industry in choice of advantages, in two set battles put him to the worst; after which, the Duke not able to reinforce his weakened power, put himself, with the relics of his late overthrow, into his chief city, wherein we were prisoners; to which Plangus, finding no other resistance, with wonderful celerity followed him: and though the town by nature and art, for site and fortification were thought impregnable, yet being defended but by such, who, by their own loss, held a too superstitious opinion of the enemies, it was soon forced by Plangus’s victorious troops, who believed the success of nothing impossible to which their ever-fortunate captain would lead them. With the sack of this city (wherein he took the Duke, with his son, prisoners) Plangus having enriched his soldiers with the booty, and his own fame by the speediness of the conquest, not able to assure the country to his devotion, otherwise than by dismembering his army, and delaying his chief ends, moved with a necessary clemency, having first received six months’ pay for his soldiers, and the Duke’s son a hostage, to bar his desire of revenge (making Alcida and myself, to secure our freedoms, companions in his travel) he leaves the Amasians to their former government.

“Many days’ journey we had not been in our way to Armenia, when the good Alcida, by the inward working of her thoughts, began to find the burden of her grief too heavy for her, which when the dullness of her ever-watery eyes, and the paleness of her cheeks had betrayed to us, we carried her to a monastery near adjoining, dedicated to Diana, and much famed for the strictness of virgins’ orders that be attendants on the goddess her ceremonies, where having recommended her to the governess of the house, alas! I left her, bound, even by the greatest tie of gratefulness, to follow him whom I owe my life to.

“These former accidents, most dear lady, together with the excellent Plangus’s company, in whom sorrow was drawn to the life, made me reflect upon my ungrateful self, and consider how cruel I had been to you, whose desert passed my best endeavours of requital; so that (far engaged to the memory of your virtues) thenceforth the thought of my most dear Helen, won my heart to a most passionate affection.”

The Queen at this interrupted his speech, with this answer: “My Amphialus, they who follow examples in their actions are to match rightly what they are to do, and what they see done. Leaucade, Alcida, and Erona might justly claim the reward of love, but Helen (whose desert was far short) could expect but disdain.” “Disdain!” said Amphialus, “you renew a punishment your mercy did once forgive.” And here, with tears in his eyes, he would have kneeled to beg a further pardon; but Helen, kissing away the burden his eyes went with, made as much haste to prevent his suit with the like of her own; so that a friendly composition being made (as it well might be where both were parties, and both judges in one cause) the Queen got the continuance of the story (which Amphialus would put off to another time) to boot; and then, willing to discharge himself of the debt he owed for so good a bargain, he thus began.

“Madam, though my memory be a continued record of much sorrow, yet, among the many stories grief hath engraven in me, there is none, compared with the disaster of Plangus and Erona, that deserves compassion: Know therefore, my only happiness, that Plangus having received advertisement how the nobleman, unto whose faithful custody Erona (upon the accord between him and Artaxia) was delivered, being hardly besieged by Plexirtus, and brought to an extremity by famine, had yielded to a composition that if within five days he was not succoured, he must deliver the castle, Plangus therefore over-running the fame of his coming with his presence, the fifth night was near Plexirtus’s camp, where (by one of the enemies whom his scouts had taken) he was informed that late that evening, the keys of the city and fort were given up to Plexirtus, but that he deferred his entry till morning, leaving the next gate to the camp open that all night his officers might prepare a magnificent triumph for him. As for Erona, he would determine nothing of her until he had received the honour due to his victory. At this news Plangus, causing the reporter to be safely kept, and giving to his wearied soldiers some time to refresh themselves after the toil endured in their last day’s travel, an hour before day (rightly imagining the air was then apt to disperse a dull sleepiness among Plexirtus’s careless soldiers) he calls his troops together, and setting before them the easiness of the victory, the riches of the camp, and the necessity of the time, he did encourage them with the repetition of their former conquest in Amasia, the justness of their cause, and the fame of their enterprise; and then presently disposing of them for his most advantage, he sets upon his enemy, who dreamed of nothing but security. But what should I fright you, most dear lady, with the particulars of this fight; it will suffice you to know that Plangus (doing things in his own person past the power of expression) made a bloody slaughter among them. Some few there were that escaped—among whom Plexirtus (fortune being always indulgent to mischief) found in the speed of his horse a dishonourable safeguard for his wretched life. This tumult being soon perceived by the citizens (whom sorrow made watchful, and the well-known treacheries of Plexirtus, suspicious) they as soon imagined this was a practice of his, contrary to his faith given, to sack the town. This once conceived, it seemed by the hideous cries and confused lamentations, that, as sorrow had put on the vizard of night to make grief ugly, so black night had borrowed the mouth of sorrow to implore compassion. The people leaving their walls and houses, ran to their temples and altars, offering up, as they thought, their last devotions to their gods. Nor did this mistake bring forth the effect of mistrust only in the city; the camp had likewise this fear added to their present misfortune; for Plexirtus’s soldiers (like satyrs, frightened with the sound of the horn themselves blow) thinking the vanguard of the enemy had entered the town, and caused this confusion, durst not venture to make themselves masters of it; but between both, unable to determine of a mean of safety, stood fixed in a stupid irresolution.

“Meantime Aurora, weary of aged Titan’s bed, began to warn Phoebe of her brother’s approach, when Erona who had set down in her settled judgment, a death worthy the greatness of her birth, now first giving ear to the cries of the citizens, and misdoubting the same false measure they expected, and not long after, hearing a man armed coming up the stairs to her lodging, she took a poisoned cup, long before for that end prepared, and making haste lest she should be made a present to the proud conqueror the wicked Plexirtus, she drank more than half, when her eyes met with the eyes of Plangus, who, unfortunate gentleman! desirous to be the messenger to Erona of Erona’s freedom, had made this haste. The sight of Plangus stayed her full draught a while; but, unable to satisfy herself how he might come thither, she began to imagine that it was the force of the poison which dimmed her eyes, and placed the character of Plangus (ever present to her mind) upon each object. With this thought she was ready to begin again, when Plangus, falling at her feet, let her know the event of so many dangers undergone for her: whereat Erona being much astonished, lifting him up from the ground, thus said: ‘Prince Plangus, you come in a fit time to receive a hearty welcome, and as hearty a farewell. What I mean by this leave-taking, alas! you will too soon know: Now suffer me, only at such a time when the end will assure you I did not flatter, speak a few words I would have you believe; yet I am sorry, for your sake, I have practised such a mean to work a belief in you: True it is, most excellent Plangus (nor let that truth accuse me of inconstancy) that since the death of Antiphilus, whose memory even at this time is dear to me, though at first the excess of sorrow had closed up my mind from the thought of a second choice; yet, enforced by your desert, and to reward mine own love in rewarding your desires, I was resolved to satisfy you, and make myself happy; but my envious fate, finding the times fit to cause me to despair, hath made yourself the instrument to bar our hopes for ever.’ ‘Dear Erona,’ replied the Prince, ‘what may there now be that the most partial judgment can equal to the excess of content Plangus enjoys in the welfare of his free and loving Erona? for this I have paid the merciful heavens the tribute of my vows and tears: to this harbour, through the sea of grief (having embarked my careful love in the ship of my desire) I have always bent my course; and shall I now, when my wishes be at anchor in so secure a haven, fear fortune? No, no, most dear lady, you are the life and being of what I only esteem happy.’ ‘Alas! Plangus,’ said the sweet Erona, ‘the testimonies of your love have been so many that I fear (and only fear) they who have heard your undeserved affection, and are not present at this my dying protestation, will for ever record, together with my want of judgment, my injury to your virtues.’ ‘Your dying protestation!’ said Plangus, ‘affright not my soul with such heavy news. Long may you live; the Fates must be indulgent to your youth and beauty.’ ‘And perhaps,’ said she, ‘so they might, had not myself hastened Clotho to cut in two the half-spun thread of my life.’ And then she let him know how (to prevent the tortures and disgraces Artaxia’s indignation had prepared for her, seeing the city brought to that desperate state in which he found it, and thinking himself to have been an officer sent by Plexirtus to bring her before him) she had poisoned herself. Plangus at these last words, with a fixed look upon Erona, as if his eyes would for ever dwell there, indenting his hands, and suffering them to fall down, or rather not able to stay them, sinks to the ground, and was a while happy in this excess of sorrow that made him senseless of all sorrow. Erona would have forced herself to help him, but this sight (joined with the inward working of the poison) constrained her to bear him company in his happy forgetfulness of his misfortunes. But when, by the help of her women, her senses were restored, and that my endeavours wrought the same effect on Plangus, as if this had been but grief’s dumb show: ‘Alas! excellent Prince,’ said she, ‘what unexpected effects hath the speech of my death brought forth; and yet though I were silent, I believe the deadly signs in mine eyes, this trembling in my full-swollen veins, and the often set and rise of the blood in my cheeks, would express it. But, my Plangus, should you, whom the world is proud of, take it so to heart? Erona loves you; why so may a more deserving lady: Yet, Plangus, remember me, and it will be the best part of my soul’s life to live in your memory.’ Then, taking his hand, and placing it on her heart, that now proudly began to beat the loud alarm of death, ‘Feel here,’ said she, ‘the battery is begun, and this fort is abandoned of all the powers of life, only my desire to be with you, desperately a while keeps the breach. But, O my Plangus!——’ and at that word death closed up in eternal silence her tongue, that yet still moved as loth to leave her speech imperfect.

“It was a desperate grief, and wild passion, that seized upon the heart of the poor Plangus. ‘Accursed earth!’ did he say, ‘how darest thou support the burden of these many mischiefs cast by the spiteful heavens into this sink of misery? ’Twas I, Erona, brought an untimely set to thy sun-shine of goodness; and do the heavens mean I should breathe that have so much wronged them? What do they do? Will they hear me speak that killed Erona? But they would have me live, to torture me with the memory of my guilt. No, no, I will prevent their project; that were a punishment fit for an ill-meant offence, not an unfortunate.’ And with these words, drawing his sword, and lifting up his bases, he would have run himself through the belly, but I stayed his hand from so unmanly, as I then alleged it, a violence, forcing (with the remembrance of our friendship, and my much prevailing tears) the sword, but not his resolution from him. Then did I begin to allege all that I thought in reason might remove him from this purpose; for well I might see in the unappalled stayedness of his countenance, the greatness of some determination. To all my objections, for a time, his eyes gave a more heedful attention than did his ears; but when I came to call his valour in question, whose unspotted memory hitherto, I said, this last inconsiderate act would accuse of a little firm constancy in bearing the changes of fortune; ‘Alas!’ said he, ‘and will you, my friend, be cruel to me? Is it certain, Amphialus, that it well becomes that courage you would have in your friend, to bear an equal temper both in the frowns and smiles of fortune? And is it not as certain that when the malice of heaven hath joined with fortune in producing a monstrous effect, there cannot be left in man so infinite a power of suffering which he dare oppose to such unlimited works? No, I will not, giant-like, bandy against the gods; such is their will; I must die.’ Then leading me softly over to Erona, as if he would persuade me the violence of passion had not been his guide to this resolution: ‘See Amphialus,’ said he, ‘this is she whom you would have me to live after; what can mine eyes, now she is gone, desire to look on! Erona, a woman, could die for Plangus, and would you have me wrong mankind with a greater fear of death, or my love with a less desire to die?’ This said (but with a countenance that promised no suddenness in the execution, especially to me who was master of his sword, his only offensive weapon) behold! with a downcast look, which sorrow excused, though deceit had then, I am sure, put it on for further mischief, and such a pace as used slowness to the same end, he approached the window, where the remains of Erona’s intercepted draught, appointed by the destinies to be fatal to them both, stood in a gilt cup: This he hastily takes, and as hastily drinks off. I, all confused, pale and trembling, as if the poison had wrought its effect in me, made, alas! too slow speed to him. But Plangus (now first presenting an unfeigned cheerfulness in his looks, as if this draught had given him life) kneeling near Erona: ‘Divine soul,’ said he, ‘if confidence in thy Plangus’s constancy makes thee hover near this sacred mansion of thine to see the end of his sufferings, O stay awhile, and bear me with thee; thy presence, when I appear before Radamanth, will be a countenance to my cause.’ Then turning himself to me, ‘Amphialus, revenge, Amphialus, Erona’s death upon the wicked Plexirtus; his blood will be the best sacrifice to my ghost. Lead the army to Byzantium and restore the Amasian hostage.’ Then putting his trembling lips to the pale lips of Erona, he coldly kissed away his life.

“What my sorrow was, to be a looker on these tragedies, these tears, even at the remembrance of that time, may testify; yet leaving the bodies to be embalmed with the nobleman, who, in her life-time, had been faithful to Erona, dissembling the death of Plangus, lest it should work an innovation among the soldiers, with some choice troops of light horsemen, I followed Plexirtus, who, posting to court, had received advertisement from thence, how Arguto (the admirable engine by whom he wrought much mischief) being lately fallen from the faith vowed to his practices, had revealed to Artaxia the purpose his master had to dispatch her out of his way, since now he had a son by her to whom he might be guardian, esteeming it more content to be great alone than to share the royalties of her own kingdom with Artaxia. These news made his flight as dangerous as would be his stay; but when he understood (for the heavens had made this the rendezvous where his misfortunes should meet) that the Princes of Thessaly and Macedon, of whom his treacheries were to expect their just reward, did live, and should be happy in the addition of Arcadia to their greatness; that Leonatus had seized upon his seigniories in Trebizond for his treason to Pyrocles and Musidorus, of which not long before he had gloriously boasted; that there was no new form of dissimulation left, to which, in this extremity, he might have recourse: O then the ugliness of his guilty conscience, that until this time had made peace with his wickedness, presented before him the progress of his ill-spent days, drawn to life in the colours of despair: now his father, now his friends, Tydeus and Telenor were summoned by his soul to make party against him. In this fright he continued all that day, which scarce was time sufficient for him to read over his misdeeds, and when the silent night, drawn in her ebon chariot, had spread her curtains to hide her brother’s face, Plexirtus, glad to see her flatter his mind in this likeness of darkness, resolved, by despair, that the gods wanted mercy for his faults, and well-assured men had less, he secretly went into a garden, to which a back-door from his chamber led him; where, loathing as much to die, as wishing he were dead, he spent some time in execrations on himself. At length, tying a cord (newly taken out of his bed) to the stump of an elder tree that stood with such convenience as if it would invite him to that exercise, he slipped into his death, easing the earth until morning of the burden of so detestable a wretch.

“But when the day appeared, and made known his death, the magistrates of the town, striving who could be best-sighted in the discovery of the murder, hoping to have the reward of their diligence from the Queen Artaxia, soon found out, as a man to be most suspected, the messenger come from court, whom Plexirtus had, till late in the night, kept in his chamber, to know of him the particulars of Arguto’s revolt. This fellow, because none more likely in the wild form of their popular justice, was to die a thousand manner of deaths; but he making just protestations of his innocency, being questioned what occasion he had so long to stay the last night with the king if not for that end, he plainly let them know what Arguto discovered, which he then reported to Plexirtus. The many-headed multitude called not the truth much in question of what they heard, but with the same violence as before, everyone, in this also thinking to gratify the queen, ran to as uncertain a form of execution on the dead as they did before to a judgment of the living; first they stripped the body naked, then dragged it through the streets; now they open his belly and suffer his guts to mark forth his progress, doing many more indignities to him who had deserved many more. I much rejoiced to hear Plexirtus had been so just to himself; yet I determined to join Erona’s revenge on Artaxia to Plexirtus’s judgment on himself; but her an untimely death had freed from my revenge, for taking to the heart Plexirtus’s treacheries, and her brother Tyridates’s unrevenged death, she calmly gave herself over to a life-oppressing grief, leaving her kingdom and young son to the care of Salindor, whom she appointed protector during the minority.

“Returning, therefore, somewhat grieved that both Plangus and Erona’s death without my help had been revenged, I conveyed the bodies to Lycia, where the sumptuousness of their tombs shows their estates, and their everlasting fame their ever-living virtues. From hence I would have parted private, but remembering Plangus’s last will, I passed through Amasia, restoring his son to the Duke, and coming to Byzantium, I gave up my charge into the hands of Lisantus a Macedonian, leaving the soldiers full of hearty sorrow for the death of Plangus their general.

“Soon after, hearing of your death, and resolved to sacrifice my blood to your memory, to disengage myself of some part of my faultiness, leaving Fidutio in Thrace, lest by him I should be discovered, disguising myself in an armour, fitly, as I thought, presenting the massacre of my naked heart; passing the court of Elis and Argos, and, lastly, coming hither, I met (what should I more say?) with thee my Helen, reserved to be a blessing beyond what most I could desire.”

And so, with a sincere servency, kissing her hand, they both walked towards the palace, where, having ended supper, where Basilius and Euarchus, with the rest, expected a mask prepared for them; the Queen of Corinth let them know what she had heard of Plangus and Erona, together with Plexirtus’s deserved end, and the death of Artaxia. The audience greatly pitied their fortunes, especially Pyrocles, who much grieved to hear of Plangus’s death, for the love he bore his virtues, and was no less troubled at Plexirtus’s mischance, for his dear servant Zelmane’s sake. But the entry of the maskers caused him to put over those thoughts to more solitariness, his eye being fed with dainty variety of representations, and his ears with most harmonious well-agreeing music, to which the footing kept so good time, that doubtful it was whether the music conformed itself to the life of their motion, or the masters their motion to the music’s liveliness. But night (masked in these sports) crept on undiscovered; and though Pyrocles and Musidorus at other times would dispense with the length of the sports, yet now, in respect of the armfuls of joy they were to expect in bed, they thought them tedious; which once perceived, their dances were sooner at an end than was intended.

Thus days and nights passed over, as if they had no other sphere than delight to move in; and the appointed time for Amphialus’s marriage was at hand, to which Basilius invited the shepherds, both to change their daily pleasures, as also to show Euarchus that though a greater cause had moved him to the solitary course of life by him embraced, yet the wits of Arcadia, and the pleasantness of their harmless life, might have drawn him to that retiredness.