The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia

by Philip Sidney

THE SECOND ECLOGUES

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

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

And the other that met him answered:

Passion. No, tyrant, no; mine, mine shall be the field.

R. Can Reason then a tyrant counted be?

P. If Reason will that Passions be not free.

R. But Reason will, that Reason govern most.

P. And Passion will, that Passion rule the roast.

R. Your will is will, but Reason reason is.

P. Will hath his will, when Reason’s will doth miss.

R. Whom Passion leads, unto his death is bent.

P. And let him die, so that he die content.

R. By nature you to Reason faith have sworn.

P. Not so but fellow like together born.

R. Who Passion doth ensue, lives in annoy.

P. Who Passion doth forsake, lives void of joy.

R. Passion is blind, and treads an unknown trace.

P. Reason hath eyes to see his own ill case.

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

R. Dare Passions then abide in Reason’s light?

P. And is not Reason dim with Passion’s might?

R. O foolish thing which glory doth destroy!

P. O glorious title of a foolish toy!

R. Weakness you are, dare you with our strength fight?

P. Because our weakness weakeneth all your might.

R. O sacred Reason, help our virtuous toils.

P. O Passion, pass on feeble Reason’s spoils.

R. We with ourselves abide a daily strife.

P. We gladly use the sweetness of our life.

R. But yet our strife sure peace in end doth breed.

P. We now have peace, your peace we do not need.

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

R. We are too strong: but Reason seeks no blood.

P. Who be too weak, do fain they be too good.

R. Though we cannot o’ercome, our cause is just.

P. Let us o’ercome, and let us be unjust.

R. Yet Passions yield at length to Reason’s stroke.

P. What shall we win by taking Reason’s yoke?

R. The joys you have shall be made permanent.

P. But so we shall with grief learn to repent.

R. Repent indeed, but that shall be your bliss.

P. How know we that, since present joys we miss?

R. You know it not; of Reason therefore know it.

P. No Reason yet had ever skill to show it.

R. Then let us both to heavenly rules give place.

P. Which Passions kill, and Reason do deface.

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

DICUS and DORUS

DICUS

Dorus, tell me, where is thy wonted motion,

To make those woods resound thy lamentation?

Thy saint is dead, or dead is thy devotion.

For who doth hold his love in estimation,

To witness that he thinks his thoughts delicious,

Thinks to make each thing badge of his sweet passion.

DORUS

But what doth make thee Dicus, so suspicious

Of my due faith, which needs must be immutable?

Who others’ virtues doubt, themselves are vicious:

Not so; although my metal were most mutable,

Her beams have wrought therein most fair impression,

To such a force some change were nothing suitable.

DICUS

The heart well set doth never shun confession;

If noble be thy bands, make them notorious;

Silence doth seem the mask of base oppression.

Who glories in his love, doth make love glorious:

But who doth fear, or bideth mute wilfully,

Shows, guilty heart doth deem his state opprobrious,

Thou then, that fram’st both words and voice most skilfully,

Yield to our ears a sweet and sound relation,

If love took thee by force, or caught thee guilefully.

DORUS

If sunny beams shame heavenly habitation,

If three-leav’d grass seem to the sheep unsavory;

Then base and sour is love’s most high vocation.

Or if sheep’s cries can help the sun’s own bravery,

Then may I hope, my pipe may have ability,

To help her praise, who decks me in her slavery.

No, no; no words ennoble self-nobility,

As for your doubts, her voice was it deceived me,

Her eye the force beyond all possibility.

DICUS

Thy words well voic’d, well grac’d, had almost heaved me,

Quite from myself, to love love’s contemplation;

Till of those thoughts thy sudden end bereaved me,

Go on therefore, and tell us by what fashion,

In thy own proof he gets so strange possession

And how possessed he strengthens his invasion.

DORUS

Sight is his root, in thought is his progression,

His childhood wonder, prenticeship attention,

His youth delight, his age the soul’s oppression,

Doubt is his sleep, he waketh in invention,

Fancy his food, his clothing is of carefulness;

Beauty his book, his play lover’s dissention:

His eyes are curious search, but veil’d with warefulness:

His wings desire, oft clipped with desperation.

Largess his hands could never skill of sparefulness:

But how he doth by might, or by persuasion

To conquer, and his conquest how to ratify,

Experience doubts, and schools hold disputation.

DICUS

But so thy sheep may thy good wishes satisfy,

With large increase, and wool of fine perfection,

So she thy love, her eyes thy eyes may gratify,

As thou wilt give our souls a dear refection,

By telling how she was, how now she framed is

To help, or hurt in thee her own infection.

DORUS

Blest be the name wherewith my mistress named is:

Whose wounds are salves, whose yokes please more than pleasure doth:

Her stains are beams: virtue the fault she blamed is,

The heart, eye, ear, here only find his treasure doth.

All numbering arts her endless graces number not:

Time, place, life, wit, scarcely her rare gifts measure doth,

Is she in rage? so is the sun in summer hot,

Yet harvest brings: doth she (alas!) absent herself?

The sun is hid; his kindly shadows cumber not

But when to give some grace she doth content herself.

O then it shines, then are the heavens distributed,

And Venus seems to make up her, she spent herself.

Thus then, I say, my mischiefs have contributed

A greater good by her divine reflection,

My harms to me, my bliss to her attributed.

Thus she is framed: her eyes are my direction,

Her love my life, her anger my destruction:

Lastly, what so she is, that’s my protection.

DICUS

Thy safety sure is wrapped in destruction,

For that construction thine own words do bear.

A man to fear a woman’s moody eye,

Makes reason lie a slave to servile sense,

A weak defence where weakness is thy force:

So is remorse in folly dearly bought.

DORUS

If I had thought to hear blasphemous words,

My breast to swords, my soul to hell have sold

I rather would, than thus mine ear defile

With words so vile, which viler breath doth breed.

O herds take heed; for I a wolf have found,

Who hunting round the strongest for to kill,

His breast doth fill with earth of others’ woe:

And loaden so pulls down, pull’d down destroys.

O shepherd boys, eschew those tongues of venom,

Which do envenom both the soul and senses;

Our best defences are to fly those adders.

O tongues like ladders made to climb dishonour,

Who judge that honour which hath scope to slander!

DICUS

Dorus you wander far in great reproaches,

So love encroaches on your charmed reason,

But it is season for to end our singing,

Such anger bringing: as for me, my fancy

In sick-man’s frenzy rather takes compassion,

Than rage for rage: rather my wish I send to thee,

Thou soon may have some help, or change of passion:

She oft her looks, the stars her favour bend to thee,

Fortune store, nature health, love grant persuasion.

A quiet mind none but thyself can lend to thee,

Thus I commend to thee all our former love.

DORUS

Well do I prove, error lies oft in zeal,

Yet it is zeal, though error of true heart.

Nought could impart such hates to friendly mind,

But for to find thy words did her disgrace,

Whose only face the little heaven is:

Which who doth miss, his eyes are but delusions,

Bar’d from their chiefest object of delightfulness,

Thrown on this earth, the chaos of confusions;

As for thy wish, to my enraged spitefulness,

The lovely blow, which rare reward, my prayer is:

Thou may’st love her, that I may see thy sightfulness.

The quiet mind (whereof myself impairer is,

As thou dost think) should most of all disquiet me.

Without her love, than any mind who fairer is:

Her only cure from surfeit woes can diet me.

She holds the balance of my contentation:

Her cleared eyes, nought else in storms can quiet me.

Nay rather than my ease discontentation

Should breed to her, let me for aye dejected be

From any joy, which might her grief occasion.

With so sweet plagues my happy arms infected be:

Pain wills me die, yet of death I mortify:

For though life irks, in life my loves protected be,

Thus for each change my changeless heart I fortify.

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

STREPHON and CLAIUS

STREPHON

Ye goat-herd gods, that love the grassy mountains,

Ye nymphs that haunt the springs in pleasant valleys,

Ye satyrs joy’d with free and quiet forests,

Vouchsafe your silent ears to plaining music,

Which to my woes give still an early morning,

And draws the dolour on till weary evening.

CLAIUS

O Mercury, foregoer to the evening,

O heavenly huntress of the savage mountains,

O lovely star, entitled of the morning,

While that my voice doth fill those woeful valleys,

Vouchsafe your silent ears to plaining music,

Which oft hath echo tir’d in secret forests.

STREPHON

I that was once free burgess of the forests,

Where shade from sun, and sports I sought at evening,

I that was once esteem’d for pleasant music,

Am banish’d now among the monstrous mountains

Of huge despair, and foul affliction’s valleys

Am grown a screech-owl to myself each morning.

CLAIUS

I that was once delighted every morning,

Hunting the wild inhabiters of forests:

I that was once the music of those valleys

So darken’d am, that all my day is evening,

Heart-broken so, that mole hills seem high mountains,

And fill the vales with cries instead of music.

STREPHON

Long since, alas! my deadly swannish music

Hath made itself a crier of the morning:

And hath with wailing strength climb’d highest mountains.

Long since my thoughts more desert be than forests:

Long since I see my joys come to their evening,

And state thrown down to over-trodden valleys.

CLAIUS

Long since the happy dwellers of those valleys

Have pray’d me leave my strange exclaiming music,

Which troubles their day’s work, and joys of evening:

Long since I hate the night, more hate the morning:

Long since my thoughts chase me like beasts in forests,

And make me wish myself laid under mountains.

STREPHON

Meseems I see the high and stately mountains,

Transform themselves to low dejected valleys

Meseems I hear in these ill-changed forests,

The Nightingales do learn of Owls their music:

Meseems I feel the comfort of the morning,

Turn’d to the mortal serene of an evening.

CLAIUS

Meseems I see a filthy cloudy evening,

As soon as sun begins to climb the mountains:

Meseems I feel a noisome scent, the morning

When I do smell the flowers of those valleys:

Meseems I hear, when I do hear sweet music,

The dreadful cries of murder’d men in forests.

STREPHON

I wish to fire the trees of all those forests,

I give the sun a last farewell each evening,

I curse the fiddling finders out of music:

With envy I do hate the lofty mountains:

And with despite despise the humble valleys:

I do detest night, evening, day and morning.

CLAIUS

Curse to myself my prayer is, the morning;

My fire is more than can be made with forests;

My state more base, than are the basest valleys:

I wish no evenings more to see, each evening;

Shamed I hate myself in sight of mountains,

And stop my ears lest I grow mad with music.

STREPHON

For she whose parts maintain’d a perfect music,

Whose beauty shin’d more than the blushing morning,

Who much did pass in state the stately mountains,

In straightness pass’d the cedars of the forests,

Hath cast me wretch into eternal evening,

By taking her two suns from those dark valleys.

CLAIUS

For she, to whom compar’d, the alps are valleys,

She, whose least word brings from the spheres their music,

At whose approach the sun rose in the evening,

Who where she went bare in her forehead morning,

Is gone, is gone, from those our spoiled forests,

Turning to deserts our best pastur’d mountains.

STREPHON

Those mountains witness shall, so shall those valleys,

Those forests eke, made wretched by our music.

CLAIUS

Our morning hymn is this, and song at evening.

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

STREPHON and CLAIUS

STREPHON

I joy in grief, and do detest all joys;

Despise delight, am tir’d with thought of ease:

I turn my head to all forms of annoys,

And with the change of them my fancy please,

I study that which may me most displease,

And in despite of that displeasure’s might,

Embrace that most, that most my soul destroys;

Blinded with beams, fell darkness is my sight:

Dwell in my ruins, feed with sucking smart,

I think from me, not from my woes to part.

CLAIUS

I think from me not from my woes to part,

And loath the time call’d life, nay think that life

Nature to me for torment did impart;

Think, my hard haps have blunted death’s sharp knife,

Not sparing me, in whom his works be rife:

And thinking this, think nature, life and death

Place sorrow’s triumph on my conquered heart,

Whereto I yield, and seek none other breath,

But from the scent of some infectious grave:

Nor of my fortune ought, but mischief crave.

STREPHON

Nor of my fortune ought but mischief crave,

And seek to nourish that, which now contains

All what I am: if I myself will save,

Then must I save, what in me chiefly reigns,

Which is the hateful web of sorrow’s pains.

Sorrow then cherish me, for I am sorrow:

No being now, but sorrow I can have:

Then deck me as thine own; thy help I borrow,

Since thou my riches art, and that thou hast

Enough to make a fertile mind lie waste.

CLAIUS

Enough to make a fertile mind lie waste,

Is that huge storm, which pours itself on me:

Hailstones of tears, of sighs a monstrous blast,

Thunders of cries; lightnings my wild looks be,

The darkened heav’n my soul, which nought can see,

The flying sprites which trees by roots uptear,

Be those despairs which have my hopes quite rased.

The difference is; all folks those storms forbear,

But I cannot; who then myself should fly,

So close unto myself my wrecks do lie.

STREPHON

So close unto myself my wrecks do lie,

But cause, effect, beginning, and the end

Are all in me: what help then can I try?

My ship, myself, whose course to love doth bend,

Sore beaten doth her mast of comfort spend:

Her cable reason, breaks from anchor’d hope:

Fancy, her tackling torn away doth fly:

Ruin, the wind, hath blown her from her scope:

Bruised with waves of cares, but broken is

On rock despair, the burial of my bliss.

CLAIUS

On rock despair, the burial of my bliss,

I long do plough with plough of deep desire:

The seed fast-meaning is, no truth to miss:

I harrow it with thoughts, which all conspire,

Favour to make my chief and only hire.

But woe is me, the year is gone about,

And now I fain would reap, I reap but this

Hatefully grown, absence new sprung out.

So that I see, although my sight impair,

Vain is their pain, who labour in despair.

STREPHON

Vain is their pain, who labour in despair.

For so did I, when with my angle will,

I sought to catch the fish Torpedo fair,

Ev’n then despair did hope already kill:

Yet fancy would perforce employ his skill,

And this hath got; the catcher now is caught.

Lam’d with the angle, which itself did bear,

And unto death, quite drown’d in dolours, brought

To death, as then disguis’d in her fair face:

Thus, thus, alas, I had my loss in chase.

CLAIUS

Thus, thus, alas, I had my loss in chase,

When first that crowned Basilisk I knew;

Whose footsteps I with kisses oft did trace,

Till by such hap, as I must ever rue,

Mine eyes did light upon her shining hue,

And hers on me, astonish’d with that sight.

Since then my heart did lose his wonted place,

Infected so with her sweet poison’s might,

That, leaving me for dead, to her it went:

But ha! her flight hath her my dead reliques spent.

STREPHON

But ah! her flight hath my dead reliques spent,

Her flight, from me, from me, though dead to me,

Yet living still in her, while her beams lent

Such vital spark, that her mine eyes might see.

But now those living lights absented be,

Full dead before, now I to dust should fall,

But that eternal pains my soul have bent,

And keep it still within this body thrall,

That thus I must while in this death I dwell,

In earthly fetters feel a lasting hell.

CLAIUS

In earthly fetters feel a lasting hell,

Alas I do; from which to find release,

I would the earth, I would the heavens fell:

But vain it is to think those pains should cease,

Where life is death, and death cannot breed peace.

O fair, O only fair, from thee alas,

Those foul, most foul disasters to me fell;

Since thou from me, O me! O sun did’st pass.

Therefore esteeming all good blessings toys,

I joy in grief, and do detest all joys.

STREPHON

I joy in grief, and do detest all joys,

But now an end, O Claius, now an end:

For even the herbs our hateful music stroys,

And from our burning breath the trees do bend.

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

GERON and PHILISIDES

GERON

Up, up, Philisides, let sorrows go,

Who yields to woe, but doth increase his smart.

Do not thy heart to plaintful custom bring:

But let us sing; sweet tunes do passions ease,

An old man hear who would thy fancies raise.

PHILISIDES

Who minds to please the mind drown’d in annoys

With outward joys, which inly cannot sink,

As well may think with oil to cool the fire:

Or with desire to make such foe a friend,

Who doth his soul to endless malice bend.

GERON

But sure an end to each thing time doth give,

Though woes now live, at length thy woes must die:

Then virtue try, if she can work in thee

That which we see in many time hath wrought,

And weakest hearts to constant temper brought.

PHILISIDES

Who ever taught a skilless man to teach,

Or stop a breach that never cannon saw?

Sweet virtue’s law bars not a causeful moan.

Time shall in one my life and sorrows end,

And me perchance your constant temper lend.

GERON

What can amend where physick is refus’d?

The wit’s abus’d that will no counsel take.

Yet for my sake discover us thy grief.

Oft comes relief when most we seem in trap.

The stars thy state, fortune may change thy hap.

PHILISIDES

If fortune’s lap became my dwelling place,

And all the stars conspired to my good,

Still were I one, this still should be my case,

Ruin’s relique, care’s web, and sorrow’s food:

Since she fair fierce to such a state me calls,

Whose wit the stars, whose fortune, fortune thralls.

GERON

Alas what falls are fall’n unto thy mind?

That there where thou confessed thy mischief lies,

Thy wit dost use still more harms to find.

Whom wit makes vain, or blinded with his eyes;

What counsel can prevail, or light give light?

Since all his force against himself he tries.

Then each conceit that enters in his sight,

Is made, forsooth, a jurate of his woes:

Earth, sea, air, fire, heaven, hell, and ghastly spright.

Then cries to senseless things, which neither knows

What aileth thee, and if they knew thy mind,

Would scorn in man, their king, such feeble shows.

Rebel, rebel, in golden fetters bind

This tyrant love; or rather do suppress

Those rebel-thoughts, which are thy slaves by kind.

Let not a glittering name thy fancy dress

In painted clothes; because they call it love:

There is no hate that can thee more oppress.

Begin, and half the work is done, to prove

By rising up, upon thyself to stand,

And think she is a she, that doth thee move.

He water ploughs, and soweth in the sand,

And hopes the flickering wind with net to hold

Who hath his hopes laid upon woman’s hand.

What man is he that hath his freedom sold?

Is he a manlike man, doth not know, man

Hath power that sex with bridle to withhold?

A fickle sex, and true in trust to no man,

A servant sex soon proud if they be coy’d:

And to conclude thy mistress is a woman.

PHILISIDES

O gods, how long this old fool hath annoy’d

My wearied ears! O gods, yet grant me this,

That soon the world of his false tongue be void.

O noble age who place their only bliss,

In being heard until the hearer die,

Uttering a serpent’s mind with a serpent’s hiss.

Then who will bear a well-authorized lie

(And patience hath) let him go learn of him

What swarms of virtues did in his youth fly

Such hearts of brass, wise heads, and garments trim

Were in his days: which heard, one nothing hears,

If from his words the falsehood he do skim.

And herein most their folly vain appears,

That since they still allege, when they were young,

It shows they fetch their wit from youthful years,

Like beast for sacrifice, where save the tongue

And belly nought is left: such sure is he,

This life-dead man in this old dungeon flung.

Old houses are thrown down for new we see:

The oldest rams are culled from the flock:

No man doth wish his horse should aged be.

The ancient oak well makes a fired block:

Old men themselves do love young wives to choose:

Only fond youth admires a rotten stock.

Who once a white long beard, well handle does

(As his beard him, he his beard did bare)

Though cradle-witted, must not honour lose,

O when will men leave off to judge by hair;

And think them old that have the oldest mind,

With virtue fraught, and full of holy fear!

GERON

If that thy face were hid, or I were blind,

I yet should know a young man speaketh now,

Such wandering reasons in thy speech I find,

He is a beast, that beasts use will allow.

For proof of man, who sprung of heav’nly fire

Hath strongest soul when most his reigns do bow.

But fondlings fond, know not your own desire

Loth to die young, and then you must be old.

Fondly blame that to which yourselves aspire.

But this light choler that doth make you bold,

Rather to wrong than unto just defence,

Is past with me, my blood is waxed cold,

Thy words, though full of malapert offence,

I weigh them not, but still will thee advise

How thou from foolish love mayest purge thy sense.

First think they err, that think them gaily wise,

Who well can set a passion out to show:

Such sight have they that see with goggling eyes,

Passion bears high when puffing wit doth blow.

But is indeed a toy, if not a toy,

True cause of evils: and cause of causeless woe,

If once thou mayest that fancy gloss destroy

Within thyself, thou soon wilt be ashamed

To be a player of thine own annoy.

Then let thy mind with better books be tamed.

Seek to espy her faults as well as praise,

And let thine eyes to other sports be framed.

In hunting fearful beasts, do spend some days,

Or catch the birds with pit-falls or with lime,

Or train the fox that train so crafty lays.

Lie but to sleep, and in the early prime

Seek skill of herbs in hills, haunt brooks near night,

And try with bait how fish will bite sometime.

Go graft again and seek to graft them right,

Those pleasant plants, those sweet and fruitful trees

Which both the palate and the eyes delight.

Cherish the hives of wisely painful bees,

Let special care upon thy flock be stayed,

Such active mind but seldom passion sees.

PHILISIDES

Hath any man heard what this old man said?

Truly not I, who did my thoughts engage,

Where all my pains one look of her hath paid.

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

GERON and MASTIX

GERON

Down, down Melampus, what? your fellow bite?

I set you o’er the flock I dearly love,

Them to defend, not with yourselves to fight.

Do you not think this will the wolves remove

From former fear, they had of your good minds,

When they shall such divided weakness prove?

What if Lelaps a better morsel find

Than you erst knew? rather take part with him

Than jarl: lo, lo, even those how envy blind,

And then Lelaps let not pride make thee brim;

Because thou hast thy fellow overgone,

But thank the cause, thou seest where he is dim.

Here Lelaps, here indeed, against the foe

Of my good sheep, thou never truce him took:

Be as thou art, but be with mine at one.

For though Melampus like a wolf do look

(For age doth make him of a wolfish hue)

Yet have I seen, when like a wolf he shook.

Fool that I am, that with my dogs speak grew:

Come near good Mastix, ’tis now full twa score

Of years, alas, since I good Mastix knew.

Thou heard’st even now a young man snub me sore,

Because I read him, as I would my son.

Youth will have will; age must to age therefore.

MASTIX

What marvel if in youth such fault be done,

Since that we see our saddest shepherds out,

Who have their lesson so long time begun?

Quickly secure, and easily in doubt,

Either asleep be all, if not assail,

Or all abroad if but a cub start out.

We shepherds are like them that under sail

Do speak high words, when all the coast is clear,

Yet to a passenger will bonnet vail.

I con thee thank to whom thy dogs be dear,

But commonly like curs we them treat,

Save when great need of them perforce appear,

Then him we kiss, whom late before we beat

With such intemperance, that each way grows

Hate of the first, contempt of latter feat.

And such discord ’twixt greatest shepherds flows,

That sport it is to see with how great art,

By justice work they their own faults disclose:

Like busy boys to win their tutor’s heart.

One saith, “he mocks;” another saith “he plays,”

The third his lesson missed, till all do smart.

As for the rest, how shepherds spend their days,

At blow-point, hot-cockles, or else at keels,

While, “let us pass our time,” each shepherd says,

So small account of time the shepherd feels,

And doth not feel, that life is not but time,

And when that time is past, death holds his heels;

To age thus do they draw their youthful prime,

Knowing no more, than what poor trial shows,

As fish sure trial hath of muddy slime.

This pattern good, unto our children goes,

For what they see their parents love or hate,

Their first-caught sense prefers to teachers’ blows.

Those cocklings cocker’d we bewail too late,

When that we see our offspring gaily bent,

Women man-wood, and men effeminate.

GERON

Fie man, fie man: what words hath thy tongue lent?

Yet thou art mickle worse, than e’er was I,

Thy too much zeal, I fear thy brain hath spent,

We oft are angrier than the feeble fly

For business, where it appertains him not,

Than with the poisonous toads that quiet lie.

I pray thee what hath e’er the Parrot got?

And yet they say he talks in great men’s bowers;

A cage, gilded perchance, is all his lot,

Who of his tongue the liquor gladly pours,

A good fool call’d with pain perhaps may be:

But even for that shall suffer mighty lowers.

Let swan’s example siker serve for thee,

Who once all birds, in sweetly singing passed,

But now to silence turn’d his minstrelsy,

For he could sing: but others were defac’d,

The Peacock’s pride, the Pie’s pil’d flattery,

Cormorant’s glut, Kite’s spoil, Kingfisher’s waste,

The Falcon’s fierceness, Sparrow’s lechery,

The Cuckoo’s shame, the Goose’s good intent,

Even Turtle touch’d he with hypocrisy,

And worse of other more, till by assent

Of all the birds, but namely those were grieved,

Of fowls there call’d was a Parliament:

There was the Swan of dignity deprived,

And statute made he never should have voice:

Since when, I think, he hath in silence lived.

I warn thee therefore (since thou may’st have choice)

Let not thy tongue become a fiery match;

No sword so bites, as that evil tool annoys.

Let our unpartial eyes a little watch

Our own demean, and soon we wonder shall,

That hunting faults, ourselves we did not catch.

Into our minds let us a little fall,

And we shall find more spots than Leopard’s skin.

Then who makes us, such Judges over all?

But farewell now, thy fault is no great sin,

Come, come my curs, ’tis late I will go in.

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

PHILISIDES and ECHO

Fair rocks, goodly rivers, sweet woods, when shall I see peace? Peace.

Peace? what bars me my tongue? who is it that comes me so nigh? I.

Oh! I do know what guest I have met, it is echo. ’Tis Echo.

Well met echo, approach: then tell me thy will too. I will too.

Echo, what do I get yielding my spirit to my griefs? Griefs.

What medicine may I find for a grief that draws me to death? Death.

O poisonous medicine! what worse to me can be than it? It.

In what state was I then, when I took this deadly disease? Ease.

And what manner a mind which had to that humour a vein? Vain.

Hath not reason enough vehemence the desire to reprove? Prove.

Oft prove I: but what salve, when reason seeks to be gone? One.

Oh! what is it? what is it that may be a salve to my love? Love.

What do lovers seek for, long seeking for to enjoy? Joy.

What be the joys, which for to enjoy they went to the pains? Pains.

Then to an earnest love what doth best victory lend? End.

End? but I can never end, love will not give me leave? Leave.

How be the minds dispos’d that cannot taste thy physick? Sick.

Yet say again thy advice for the evils that I told thee? I told thee.

Doth th’ infected wretch of his harm th’ extremity know? No.

But if he know not his harms, what guides hath he while he be blind? Blind.

What blind guides can he have that leans to fancy? A fancy.

Can fancies want eyes, or he fall that sleepeth aloft? Oft.

What causes first made those torments on me to light? Light.

Can then a cause be so light that forceth a man to go die? Aye.

Yet tell what light thing I had in me to draw me to die? Eye.

Eye-sight made me to yield, but what first pierc’d to my eyes? Eyes.

Eyes’ hurters, eyes hurt; but what from them to me falls? Falls.

But when I first did fall, what brought most fall to my heart? Art.

Art? what can be that art thou dost mean by thy speech? Speech.

What be the fruits of speaking art? what grows by the words? Words.

O much more than words: those words serv’d more me to bless. Less.

Oh when shall I be known, where most to be known I do long? Long.

Long be thy woes for such news, but how reck’s she my thoughts? Oughts.

Then then what I do gain, since unto her will I do wind? Wind.

Wind, tempests, and storms, yet in end what gives she desire? Ire.

Silly reward! yet among women hath she of virtue the most. Most.

What great name may I give to so heav’nly a woman? A Wo-man.

Woe, but seems to me joy, that agrees to my thoughts so. I thought so.

Think so, for of my desired bliss it is only the course. Curse.

Curs’d be thyself for cursing that which leads me to joys. Toys.

What be the sweet creatures where lowly demands be not heard? Hard.

What makes them be unkind? speak for th’ hast narrow pry’d? Pride.

Whence can pride come there, since springs of beauty be thence? Thence.

Horrible is this blasphemy unto the most holy. O lie.

Thou liest false echo, their minds as virtue be just. Just.

Mock’st thou those diamonds which only be match’d by the gods? Odds.

Odds? what an odds is there since them to the heav’ns I prefer? Err.

Tell yet again me the names of those fair form’d to do evils? Devils.

Devil? if hell such devils do abide, to the hells I do go. Go.

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

My muse, what ails this ardor

To blaze my only secrets?

Alas it is no glory

To sing mine own decayed state.

Alas it is no comfort,

To speak without an answer,

Alas it is no wisdom

To show the wound without cure.

My muse, what ails this ardor?

Mine eyes be dim, my limbs shake,

My voice is hoarse, my throat scorch’d,

My tongue to this my roof cleaves,

My fancy amaz’d, my thoughts dull’d,

My heart doth ache, my life faints,

My soul begins to take leave.

So great a passion all feel,

To think a sore so deadly

I should so rashly rip up.

My muse, what ails this ardor?

If that to sing thou art bent,

Go sing the fall of old Thebes,

The wars of ugly centaurs,

The life, the death of Hector:

So may the song be famous:

Or if to love thou art bent,

Recount the rape of Europa,

Adonis’ end, Venus’ net,

The sleepy kiss the moon stale:

So may the song be pleasant.

My muse, what ails this ardor?

To blaze my only secrets?

Wherein do only flourish

The sorry fruits of anguish.

The song thereof a last will,

The tunes be cries, the words plaints,

The singer is the song’s theme,

Wherein no ear can have joy.

Nor eye receive due object

Ne pleasure here, ne fame gat.

My muse, what ails this ardor?

“Alas,” she saith “I am thine,

So are thy pains my pains too.

Thy heated heart my seat is

Wherein I burn: thy breath is

My voice, too hot to keep in.

Besides, lo here the author

Of all thy harms: lo here she,

That only can redress thee,

Of her will I demand help.”

My muse I yield, my muse I sing,

But all thy song herein knit.

The life we lead is all love:

The love we hold is all death,

Nor ought I crave to feed life,

Nor ought I seek to shun death,

But only that my goddess,

My life my death do count hers.

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

Reason, tell me thy mind, if here be reason

In this strange violence, to make resistance,

Where sweet graces erect the stately banner

Of virtue’s regiment, shining in harness

Of fortune’s diadems, by beauty mustered:

Say then reason; I say, what is thy counsel?

Her loose hairs be the shot, the breasts the pikes be

Scouts each motion is, the hands be horsemen,

Her lips are the riches the wars to maintain,

Where well couched abides a coffer of pearl,

Her legs carriage is of all the sweet camp:

Say then reason; I say, what is thy counsel?

Her cannons be her eyes, mine eyes the walls be,

Which at first volley gave too open entry,

Nor rampier did abide; my brain was up blown,

Undermin’d with a speech, the piercer of thoughts.

Thus weakened by myself, no help remaineth;

Say then reason: I say, what is thy counsel?

And now fame the herald of her true honour,

Doth proclaim with a sound made all by men’s mouths,

That nature sovereign of earthly dwellers,

Commands all creatures to yield obeisance

Under this, this her own, her only darling.

Say then reason; I say what is thy counsel?

Reason sighs, but in end he thus doth answer:

“Nought can reason avail in heavenly matters.”

Thus nature’s diamond receive thy conquest,

Thus pure pearl, I do yield my senses and soul,

Thus sweet pain, I do yield whate’er I can yield,

Reason look to thyself, I serve a goddess.

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

O sweet woods the delight of solitariness!

O how much I do like your solitariness!

Where man’s mind hath a freed consideration

Of goodness to receive lovely direction.

Where senses do behold th’ order of heav’nly host,

And wise thoughts do behold what the creator is:

Contemplation here holdeth his only seat:

Bounded with no limits, borne with a wing of hope,

Climbs even unto the stars, nature is under it.

Nought disturbs thy quiet, all to thy service yields,

Each sight draws on a thought, thought mother of science:

Sweet birds kindly do grant harmony unto thee,

Fair trees’ shade is enough fortification,

Nor dangers to thyself, if ’t be not in thyself.

O sweet woods the delight of solitariness!

O how much do I like your solitariness!

Here nor treason is hid, veiled in innocence,

Nor envy’s snaky eye finds any harbour here,

Nor flatterers’ venomous insinuations,

Nor coming humourists’ puddled opinions,

Nor courteous ruin of proffered usury,

Nor time prattled away, cradle of ignorance,

Nor causeless duty, nor cumber of arrogance,

Nor trifling title of vanity dazzleth us,

Nor golden manacles stand for a paradise.

Here wrong’s name is unheard; slander a monster is,

Keep thy spirit from abuse, here no abuse doth haunt,

What man grafts in a tree dissimulation?

O sweet woods the delight of solitariness!

O how well I do like your solitariness!

Yet dear soil, if a soul clos’d in a mansion

As sweet as violets, fair as a lily is,

Strait as a cedar, a voice strains the canary birds,

Whose shade safely doth hold, danger avoideth her;

Such wisdom, that in her lives speculation:

Such goodness, that in her simplicity triumphs:

Where envy’s snaky eye, winketh or else dieth,

Slander wants a pretext, flattery gone beyond:

Oh! if such a one have bent to a lonely life,

Her steps, glad we receive, glad we receive her eyes.

And think not she doth hurt our solitariness,

For such company decks such solitariness.

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

[End of Book II]

ARCADIA
BOOK III

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

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

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

Unto a caitiff wretch, whom long affliction holdeth,

And now fully believes help to be quite perished,

Grant yet, grant yet a look, to the last moment of his anguish,

O you (alas so I find) cause of his only ruin,

Dread not a whit (O goodly cruel) that pity may enter

Into thy heart by the sight of this Epistle I send:

And to refuse to behold of these strange wounds the recital,

Lest it might thee allure home to thyself to return

(Unto thyself, I do mean those graces dwell so within thee,

Gratefulness, sweetness, holy love, hearty regard)

Such thing cannot I seek (despair hath giv’n me my answer:

Despair most tragical clause to a deadly request)

Such thing cannot he hope, that knows thy determinate hardness,

Hard like a rich marble: hard, but a fair diamond.

Can those eyes, that of eyes drown’d in most hearty flowing tears

(Tears and tears of a man? had no return to remorse)

Can those eyes now yield to the kind conceit of a sorrow,

Which ink only relates, but ne laments, ne replies?

Ah, that, that do I not conceive (though that to my bliss were)

More than Nestor’s years, more than a King’s diadem.

Ah, that, that do I not conceive; to the Heaven when a Mouse climbs

Then may I hope to achieve grace of a heavenly Tiger.

But, but alas, like a man condemned doth crave to be heard speak,

Not that he hopes for amends of the disaster he feels,

But finding the approach of death with an inly relenting,

Gives an adieu to the world, as to his only delight:

Right so my boiling heart, inflam’d with fire of a fair eye,

Bubbling out doth breathe signs of his huge dolours:

Now that he finds to what end his life and love be reserved,

And that he thence must part, where to live only he liv’d.

O fair, O fairest, are such the triumphs to thy fairness?

Can death beauty become? must I be such monument?

Must I be only the mark shall prove that virtue is angry?

Shall prove that fierceness can with a white dove abide?

Shall to the world appear that faith and love be rewarded

With mortal disdain, bent to unendly revenge.

Unto revenge? O sweet, on a wretch wilt thou be revenged?

Shall such high planets tend to the loss of a worm?

And to revenge who do bend, would in that kind be revenged

As th’ offence was done, and go beyond if he can.

All my offence was love: with love then must I be chastened;

And with more, by the laws that to revenge do belong.

If that love be a fault, more fault, more fault in you to be lovely:

Love never had me oppressed, but that I saw to be lov’d.

You be the cause that I lov’d: what Reason blameth a shadow,

That with a body ’t goes? since by a body it is?

If that love you did hate, you should your beauty have hidden:

You should those fair eyes have with a veil covered.

But fool, fool that I am, those eyes would shine from a dark cave:

What veils then do prevail, but to a more miracle?

Or those golden locks, those locks which lock me to bondage,

Torn you should disperse unto the blasts of a wind.

But fool, fool that I am, though I had but a hair of her head found,

Ev’n as I am, so I should unto that hair be a thrall.

Or with fair hand’s nails (O hand which nails me to this death)

You should have your face, since love is ill blemished.

O wretch, what do I say? should that fair face be defaced?

Should my too-much sight cause so true a sun to be lost?

First let Cimmerian darkness be my only habitation:

First be mine eyes pull’d out, first be my brain perished,

Ere that I should consent to do so excessive a damage

Unto the earth, by the hurt of this her heavenly jewel.

O not, but such love you say you could have afforded,

As might learn temp’rance, void of a rage’s events.

O sweet simplicity: from whence should love be so learned?

Unto Cupid, that Boy, should a pedant be found?

Well, but sulky I was: Reason to my passion yielded,

Passion unto my rage, rage to a hasty revenge,

But what’s this for a fault, for which such faith be abolished,

Such faith, so stainless, inviolate, violent?

Shall I not? O may I not thus yet refresh the remembrance,

What sweet joys I had once, and what a place I did hold?

Shall I not once object, that you, you granted a favour

Unto the man, whom now such miseries you award?

Bend your thoughts to the dear sweet words which then to me giv’n were,

Think what a world is now, think who hath alt’red her heart.

What? was I then worthy such good, now worthy such evil?

Now fled, then cherished? then so nigh, now so remote?

Did not a rosed breath from lips rosy proceeding,

Say, that I well should find in what a care I was had?

With much more: Now what do I find, but care to abhor me?

Care that I sink in grief, care that I live banished?

And banished do I live, nor now will seek a recovery,

Since so she will, whose will is to me more than a law.

If then a man in most ill case may give you a farewell:

Farewell, long farewell, all my woe, all my delight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But because he knew how violently rumours do blow the sails of popular judgments, and how few there be that can discern between truth and truth likeness, between shows and substance, he caused a justification of this his action to be written, whereof were sowed[1] abroad many copies, which with some glosses of probability, might hide indeed the foulness of his treason; and from true common-places, fetch down most false applications. For beginning in how much the duty which is owed to the country, goes beyond all other duties, since in itself it contains them all; and that for the respect thereof, not only all tender respects of kindred, or whatsoever other friendships, are to be laid aside, but that even long-held opinions (rather builded upon a secret of government than any ground of truth) are to be forsaken; he fell by degrees to show that since the end whereto anything is directed is ever to be of more noble reckoning, than the thing thereto directed, that therefore the weal-public was more to be regarded than any person or magistrate that thereunto was ordained: the feeling consideration whereof had moved him (though as near of kin to Basilius as could be, yet) to set principally before his eyes, the good estate of so many thousands over whom Basilius reigned, rather than so to hood-wink himself with affection, as to suffer the realm to run to manifest ruin. The care whereof did kindly appertain to those who being subaltern magistrates and officers of the crown, were to be employed, as from the prince, so for the people; and of all other, especially himself, who being descended of the royal race, and next heir male, nature had no sooner opened his eyes, but that the soil whereupon they did look, was to look for at his hands a continual carefulness: which as from his childhood he had ever carried, so now finding that his uncle had not only given over all care of government, but had put into the hands of Philanax (a man neither in birth comparable to many, nor for his corrupt, proud, and partial dealing, liked of any) but beside, had set his daughters, in whom the whole estate, as next heirs thereunto, had no less interest than himself, in so unfit and ill-guarded a place, that it were not only dangerous for their persons, but (if they should be conveyed to any foreign country) to the whole commonwealth pernicious, that therefore he had brought them into this strong castle of his, which way, if it might seem strange, they were to consider that new necessities required new remedies, but there they should be served and honoured as belonged to their greatness until by the general assembly of the states it should be determined how they should to their best (both private and public) advantage be matched; vowing all faith and duty both to the father and children, never by him to be violated. But if in the meantime, before the states could be assembled, he should be assailed, he would then for his own defence take arms; desiring all that either tendered the dangerous case of their country, or in their hearts loved justice, to defend him in this just action. And if the prince should command them otherwise, yet to know that therein he was no more to be obeyed than if he should call for poison to hurt himself withal: since all that was done, was done for his service, howsoever he might (seduced by Philanax) interpret of it: he protesting that whatsoever he should do for his own defence, should be against Philanax, and no way against Basilius.

To this effect, amplified with arguments and examples, and painted with rhetorical colours, did he sow[2] abroad many discourses, which as they prevailed with some of more quick than sound conceit to run his fortune with him, so in many did it breed a coolness, to deal violently against him, and a false-minded neutrality to expect the issue. But besides the ways he used to weaken the adverse party, he omitted nothing for the strengthening of his own. The chief trust whereof, because he wanted men to keep the field, he reposed in the surety of his castle, which at least would win him much time, the mother of many mutations. To that therefore he bent both his outward and inward eyes, striving to make art strive with nature, to whether of them two that fortification should be most beholding. The seat nature bestowed but art gave the building; which as his rocky hardness would not yield to undermining force, so to open assaults he took counsel of skill how to make all approaches, if not impossible, yet difficult; as well at the foot of the castle, as round about the lake, to give unquiet lodgings to them, whom only enmity would make neighbours. Then omitted he nothing of defence, as well simple defence as that which did defend by offending, fitting instruments of mischief to places whence the mischief might be most liberally bestowed. Neither was his smallest care for victuals, as well for the providing that which should suffice, both in store and goodness, as in well preserving it, and wary distributing it, both in quantity and quality, spending that first which would keep least.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But this day their speech was the sooner broken off, by reason that he who stood as watch upon the top of the Keep[3] did not only see a great dust rise (which the earth sent up as if it would strive to have clouds as well as the air) but might spy sometimes, especially when the dust (wherein the naked wind did apparel itself) was carried aside from them, the shining of armour; like flashing of lightning, wherewith the clouds did seem to be with child, which the sun gilding with his beams it gave a sight delightful to any but to them that were to abide the terror. But the watch gave a quick alarm to the soldiers within whom practice already having prepared, began each, with unabashed hearts, or at least countenances, to look to their charge, or obedience which was allotted unto them.

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

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

But as if the sight of the enemy had been a magnet-stone to his courage, he could not contain himself, but showing his face to the enemy, and his back to his soldiers, used that action as his only oration, both of denouncing war to the one, and persuading help from the other. Who faithfully following an example of such authority, they made the earth to groan under their furious burden, and the enemies to begin to be angry with them, whom in particular they knew not. Among whom there was a young man, youngest brother to Philanax, whose face as yet did not betray his sex with so much as show of hair; of a mind having no limits of hope, not knowing why to fear; full of jollity in conversation, and lately grown a lover. His name was Agenor, of all that army the most beautiful: who having ridden in sportful conversation among the foremost, all armed, saving that his beaver was up, to have his breath in more freedom, seeing Amphialus come a pretty way before his company, neither staying the commandment of the captain, nor reckoning whether his face were armed, or no, set spurs to his horse, and with youthful bravery casting his staff about his head, put it then into his rest, as careful of comely carrying it as if the mark had been but a ring, and the lookers-on ladies. But Amphialus’s lance was already come to the last of his descending line, and began to make the full point of death against the head of this young gentleman; when Amphialus perceiving his youth and beauty, compassion so rebated the edge of choler that he spared that fair nakedness, and let his staff fall to Agenor’s vampalt[4]: so that both with brave breaking should hurtlessly have performed that match, but that the pitiless lance of Amphialus (angry with being broken) with an unlucky counterbuff, full of unsparing splinters, lighted upon that face, far fitter for the combats of Venus, giving not only a sudden, but a foul death, leaving scarcely any tokens of his former beauty; but his hands abandoning the reins, and his thighs the saddle, he fell sideward from the horse. Which sight coming to Leontius, a dear friend of his, who in vain had lamentably cried unto him to stay when he saw him begin his career; it was hard to say whether the pity of the one, or revenge against the other held as then the sovereignty in his passions. But while he directed his eye to his friend, and his hand to his enemy, so wrongly consorted a power could not resist the ready minded force of Amphialus, who perceiving his ill-directed direction against him, so paid him his debt before it was lent, that he also fell to the earth, only happy that one place and one time did finish both their loves and lives together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The song was this.

Now was our heavenly vault deprived of the light,

With sun’s depart: and now the darkness of the night,

Did light those beamy stars which greater light did dark:

Now each thing that enjoy’d that fiery quick’ning spark

(Which life is call’d) were mov’d their spirits to repose,

And wanting use of eyes, their eyes began to close;

A silence sweet each where with one consent embrac’d

(A music sweet to one in careful musing plac’d)

And mother earth, now clad in mourning weeds, did breathe

A dull desire to kiss the image of our death:

When I, disgraced wretch, not wretched then did give

My senses such relief, as they which quiet live,

Whose brains boil not in woes, nor breasts with beatings ache,

With nature’s praise are wont in safest home to take.

Far from my thoughts was aught, where to their minds aspire

Who under courtly pomps do hatch a base desire.

Free all my powers were from those captivating snares,

Which heav’nly purest gifts defile with muddy cares.

Nay could my soul itself accuse of such a fault,

As tender conscience might with furious pangs assault.

But like the feeble flower, whose stalk cannot sustain

His weighty top, his top downward doth drooping lean:

Or as the silly bird in well-acquainted nest

Doth hide his head with cares, but only to rest:

So I in simple course, and unentangled mind,

Did suffer drowsy lids mine eyes, then clear, to blind;

And laying down mine head, did nature’s rule observe,

They first their youth forgot, then fancies lost their force;

Till deadly sleep at length possess’d my living corpse.

A living corpse I lay: but ah my wakeful mind

(Which made of heav’nly stuff, no mortal change doth blind)

Flew up with freer wings of fleshly bondage free;

And having plac’d my thoughts, my thoughts thus placed me.

Methought, nay sure I was, I was in fairest wood,

Of Samothea land, a land which whilom stood

An honour to the world, while honour was their end,

And while their line of years they did in virtue spend.

But there I was, and there my calmy thoughts I fed

On nature’s sweet repast, as healthful senses led.

Her gifts my study was, her beauty were my sport,

My work her works to know, her dwelling my resort.

Those lamps of heav’nly fire to fixed motion bound,

The ever turning spheres, the never moving ground;

What essence dest’ny hath, if fortune be or no;

Whence our immortal souls to mortal earth do flow:

What life it is, and how that all these lives do gather,

With outward maker’s force, or like an inward father.

Such thoughts, methought, I thought, and strain’d my single mind,

Then void of nearer care, the depth of things to find,

When lo with hugest noise, such noise a tower makes

When it blown down with wind, a fall of ruin takes,

Or, such a noise it was, as highest thunders send,

Or cannons thunder-like, all shot together lend.

The moon asunder rent, whereout with sudden fall

(More swift than falcon’s stoop to feeding falconer’s call)

There came a chariot fair, by doves and sparrows guided,

Whose storm-like course stay’d not till hard by me it bided.

I wretch astonished was, and thought the deathful doom,

Of heaven, of earth, of hell, of time and place was come.

But straight there issued forth two ladies, ladies sure

They seemed to me, on whom did wait a virgin pure.

Strange were the ladies’ weeds, yet more unfit than strange.

The first with clothes tucked up, as nymphs in woods do range,

Tucked up even with the knees with bow and arrows pressed:

Her right arm naked was, discovered was her breast.

But heavy was her pace, and such a meagre cheer,

As little hunting mind, God knows, did there appear.

The other had with art, more than our women know,

As stuff meant for the sale, set out to glaring show,

A wanton woman’s face, and with curl’d knots had twin’d

Her hair, which by the help of painter’s cunning shin’d,

When I such guests did see come out of such a house,

The mountains great with child, I thought brought forth a mouse,

But walking forth, the first thus to the second said,

“Venus come on.” Said she, “Diana you are obey’d.”

Those names abash’d me much, when those great names I heard:

Although their fame (meseem’d) from truth had greatly jarr’d.

As I thus musing stood, Diana call’d to her

The waiting nymph, a nymph that did excel as far

All things that erst I saw, as orient pearls exceed

That which their mother hight, or else their silly seed,

Indeed a perfect hew, indeed a sweet consent,

Of all those graces’ gifts the heavens have ever lent.

And so she was attir’d, as one that did not prize

Too much her peerless parts, nor yet could them despise.

But call’d, she came apace; apace, wherein did move

The band of beauty’s all, the little world of love.

And bending humbled eyes (O eyes the sun of sight)

She waited mistress’s will; who thus disclos’d her spright;

“Sweet Mira mine,” quoth she, “the pleasure of my mind,

In whom of all my rules the perfect proof I find;

To only thee, thou seest, we grant this special grace

Us to attend, in this most private time and place.

Be silent therefore now, and so be silent still

Of that thou seest; close up in secret not thy will.”

She answered was with look, and well-perform’d behest:

And Mira I admir’d; her shape sunk in my breast.

But thus with ireful eyes, and face that shook with spite

Diana did begin, “What mov’d me to invite,

Your presence, sister dear, first to my moony sphere,

And hither now, vouchsafe to take with willing ear.

I know full well you know, what discord long hath reign’d

Betwixt us two; how much that discord foul hath stain’d

Both our estates, while each the other did deprave,

Proof speaks too much to us, that feeling trial have,

Our names are quite forgot, our temples are defac’d;

Our offerings spoil’d, our priests from priesthood are displac’d.

Is this the fruit of strife? those thousand churches high,

Those thousand altars fair now in the dust to lie?

In mortal minds, our minds but planets’ names preserve;

No knees once bowed, forsooth, for them they say we serve.

Are we their servants grown? no doubt a noble stay:

Celestial powers to worms, Jove’s children serve to clay.

But such they say we be: this praise our discord bred,

While we for mutual spite, a striving passion fed.

But let us wiser be; and what foul discord brake,

So much more strong again let fastest concord make,

Our years do it require; you see we both do feel

The weak’ning work of time’s for ever whirling wheel.

Although we be divine, our grandsire Saturn is

With age’s force decay’d, yet once the heaven was his.

And now before we seek by wise Apollo’s skill,

Our young years to renew, for so he saith he will,

Let us a perfect peace between us two resolve;

Which least the ruinous want of government dissolve,

Let one the princess be, to her the other yield:

For vain equality is but contention’s field.

And let her have the gifts that should in both remain;

In her let beauty both, and chasteness fully reign.

So as if I prevail, you give your gifts to me,

If you, on you I lay what in my office be.

Now resteth only this, which of us two is she,

To whom precedence shall of both accorded be,

For that, so that you like, hereby doth lie a youth,”

(She beckoned unto me) “as yet of spotless truth;

Who may this doubt discern: for better wit, then lot,

Becometh us: in us fortune determines not.

This crown of amber fair,” (an amber crown she held)

“To worthiest let him give, when both he hath beheld:

And be it as he saith.” Venus was glad to hear

Such proffer made, which she well show’d with smiling cheer,

As though she were the same, as when by Paris’ doom

She had chief goddesses in beauty overcome.

And smirkly thus gan say, “I never sought debate,

Diana dear, my mind to love and not to hate

Was ever apt: but you my pastimes did despise.

I never spited you, but thought you overwise.

Now kindness proferr’d is, none kinder is than I;

And so most ready am this mean of peace to try;

And let him be our judge: the lad doth please me well.”

Thus both did come to me, and both began to tell;

For both together spoke, each loath to be behind,

That they by solemn oath their deities would bind,

To stand unto my will, their will they made me know

I that was first aghast, when first I saw their show;

Now bolder wax’d, wax’d proud, that I such sway must bear;

For near acquaintance doth diminish reverent fear.

And having bound them fast by Styx, they should obey

To all what I decreed, did thus my verdict say.

“How ill both you can rule, well hath your discord taught;

Nay yet for ought I see, your beauties merit ought.

To yonder Nymph therefore” (to Mira I did point)

“The crown above you both for ever I appoint.”

I would have spoken out; but out they both did cry;

“Fie, fie, what have we done? ungodly rebel, fie.

But now we needs must yield, to that our oaths require.”

“Yet thou shalt not go free,” quoth Venus. “Such a fire

Her beauty kindle shall within thy foolish mind,

That thou full oft shall wish thy judging eyes were blind.”

“Nay then,” Diana said, “the chasteness I will give,

In ashes of despair, though burnt, shall make thee live.”

“Nay thou,” said both, “shalt see such beams shine in her face,

That thou shalt never dare seek help of wretched case.”

And with that cursed curse away to heaven they fled,

First having all their gifts upon fair Mira spread.

The rest I cannot tell; for therewithal I wak’d,

And found with deadly fear that all my sinews shak’d.

Was it a dream? O dream, how hast thou wrought in me,

That I things erst unseen should first in dreaming see?

And thou, O traitor sleep, made for to be our rest;

How hast thou fram’d the pain wherewith I am oppress’d?

O coward Cupid, thus dost thou thy honour keep,

Unarm’d, alas! unwarn’d to take a man asleep?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To this he quickly received this answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The fire to see my wrongs for anger burneth;

The air in rain for my affection weepeth:

The sea to ebb for grief his flowing turneth:

The earth with pity dull his centre keepeth.

Fame is with wonder blazed;

Time runs away for sorrow:

Place standeth still amazed,

To see my night of evils, which hath no morrow.

Alas all only she no pity taketh

To know my miseries, but chaste and cruel,

My fall her glory maketh;

Yet still her eyes give to my flame their fuel.

Fire, burn me quite, till sense of burning leave me:

Air, let me draw thy Breath no more in anguish:

Sea, drown’d in thee of tedious life bereave me;

Earth, take this Earth wherein my spirits languish.

Fame, say I was not born:

Time, haste my dying hour.

Place, see my grave uptorn:

Fire, air, sea, earth, fame, time, place, show your power.

Alas from all their help I am exiled:

For hers am I, and death fears her displeasure.

Fie death thou art beguiled:

Though I be hers, she makes of me no treasure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Therefore putting off his headpiece and gauntlet, kneeling down unto her, and with tears testifying his sorrow, he offered his, by himself accursed, hands to help her, protesting his life and power to be ready to do her honour. But Parthenia, who had inward messengers of the desired death’s approach, looking upon him, and straight turning away her feeble sight, as from a delightless object, drawing out her words, which her breath, loth to depart from so sweet a body, did faintly deliver: “Sir,” said she, “I pray you, if prayers have place in enemies, to let my maids take my body untouched by you: the only honour I now desire by your means, is, that I have no honour of you. Argalus made no such bargain with you, that the hands which killed him, should help me. I have of them, and I do not only pardon you, but thank you for it, the service which I desired. There rests nothing now, but that I go live with him, since whose death I have done nothing but die.” Then pausing, and a little fainting, and again coming to herself; “O sweet life, welcome,” said she, “now feel I the bands united of the cruel death, which so long hath held me. And O life, O death, answer for me, that my thoughts have not so much as in a dream tasted any comfort, since they were deprived of Argalus. I come, my Argalus, I come: and, O God, hide my faults in thy mercies, and grant, as I feel thou dost grant, that in thy eternal love, we may love each other eternally. And this, O Lord:”——but there Atropos[5] cut off her sentence: for with that, casting up both eyes and hands to the skies, the noble soul departed (one might well assure himself) to heaven, which left the body in so heavenly a demeanour.

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

His Being was in her alone.

And he not Being she was none.

They joy’d One joy, One grief they griev’d,

One love they lov’d, One life they liv’d.

The hand was One, One was the sword

That did his death, her death afford.

As all the rest; so now the stone

That tombs the Two is justly One.

ARGALUS and PARTHENIA.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So passed he over into the island, taking with him the two brothers of Anaxius, where he found the forsaken knight attired in his own livery, as black as sorrow itself could see itself in the blackest glass: his ornaments of the same hue, but formed into the figures of ravens, which seemed to gape for carrion: only his reins were snakes, which finely wrapping themselves one within the other, their heads came together to the cheeks and bosses of the bit, where they might seem to bite at the horse, and the horse, as he champed the bit, to bite at them, and that the white foam was engendered by the poisonous fury of the combat. His impresa was a Catoblepa[6], which so long lies dead, as the moon, whereto it hath so natural a sympathy, wants her light. The word signified, that the moon wanted not the light, but the poor beast wanted the moon’s light. He had in his headpiece, a whip to witness a self-punishing repentance. Their very horses were coal black too, not having so much as one star to give light to their night of blackness: so as one would have thought they had been the two sons of sorrow and were come hither to fight for their birthright in that sorry inheritance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A place indeed over-fit for so unfit a matter: for being so stately made, that the bottom of it being even with the ground, the roof reached as high as any part of the castle, at either end it had convenient lodgings. In the one end was, one storey from the ground, Philoclea’s abode; in the other of even height, Pamela’s, and Zelmane’s in a chamber above her; but also vaulted of strong and thick built stone, as one could no way hear the other, each of these chambers had a little window to look into the hall, but because the sisters should not have so much comfort, as to look one to the other, there was, of the outsides, curtains drawn, which they could not reach with their hands, so barring the reach of their sight. But when the hour came that the tragedy should begin, and the curtains were withdrawn from before the windows of Zelmane and Philoclea: a sufficient challenge to call their eyes to defend themselves in such an encounter. And by and by came in at one end of the hall, with about a dozen armed soldiers, a lady, led by a couple, with her hands bound before her: from above her eyes to her lips muffled with a fair handkerchief, but from her mouth to her shoulders all bare: and so was led on to a scaffold raised a good deal from the floor, and all covered with crimson velvet. But neither Zelmane, nor Philoclea needed to be told who she was: for the apparel she wore, made them too well assured that it was the admirable Pamela. Whereunto the rare whiteness of her naked neck gave sufficient testimony to their astonished senses. But the fair lady being come to the scaffold, and then made to kneel down, and so left by her unkind supporters, as it seemed that she was about to speak somewhat (whereunto Philoclea, poor soul, earnestly listened, according to her speech, even minding to frame her mind, her heart never till then almost wavering to save her sister’s life) before the unfortunate lady could pronounce three words, the executioner cut off the one’s speech, and the other’s attention, with making his sword do his cruel office upon that beautiful neck. Yet the pitiless sword had such pity of so precious an object, that at first it did but hit flat-long. But that little availed, since the lady falling down astonished withal, the cruel villain forced the sword with another blow, to divorce the fair marriage of the head and body.

And this was done so in an instant, that the very act did over-run Philoclea’s sorrow (sorrow not being able so quickly to thunderbolt her heart through her senses, but first only oppressed her with a storm of amazement) but when her eyes saw that they did see, as condemning themselves to have seen it, they became weary of their own power of seeing, and her soul then drinking up woe with great draughts, she fell down to deadly trances: but her waiting jailors with cruel pity brought loathed life unto her; which yet many times took his leave, as though he would indeed depart: but when he was stayed by force, he kept with him deadly sorrow, which thus exercised her mourning speech: “Pamela, my sister, my sister, Pamela, woe is me for thee, I would I had died for thee. Pamela never more shall I see thee; never more shall I enjoy thy sweet company, and wise counsel. Alas! thou art gone to a beautiful heaven, and hast left me here, who have nothing good in me, but that I did ever love thee, and ever will lament thee. Let this day be noted of all virtuous folks for most unfortunate: let it never be mentioned but among curses, and cursed be they that did this mischief, and most cursed be mine eyes that beheld it. Sweet Pamela, that head is stricken off, where only wisdom might be spoken withal; that body is destroyed, which was the living book of virtue. Dear Pamela, how hast thou left me to all wretchedness and misery? yet while thou livedst, in thee I breathed, of thee I hoped. O Pamela, how much did I for thy excellency honour thee more than my mother, and love thee more than myself! never more shall I lie with thee; never more shall we bathe in the pleasant river together; never more shall I see thee in thy shepherds’ apparel. But thou art gone, and where am I? Pamela is dead, and live I? O my God!” And with that she fell again in a swoon, so that it was a great while before they could bring her to herself again; but being come to herself. “Alas!” said she, “unkind woman, since you have given me so many deaths, torment me not now with life: for God’s sake let me go, and excuse your hands of more blood. Let me follow my Pamela, whom ever I sought to follow. Alas! Pamela, they will not let me come to thee. But if they keep promise I shall tread thine own steps after thee. For to what am I born, miserable soul! but to be most unhappy in myself, and yet more unhappy in others? But O that a thousand more miseries had chanced unto me, so thou hadst not died: Pamela, my sister Pamela.” And so like a lamentable Philomela, complained she the horrible wrong done to her sister, which if it stirred not in the wickedly closed minds of her tormentors, a pity of her sorrow, yet bred it a weariness of her sorrow: so that only leaving one to prevent any harm she should do herself, the rest went away, consulting again with Cecropia, how to make profit of this their late bloody act.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But that speech put all good manners out of the conceit of Pyrocles, insomuch, that leaping out of his bed, he ran to have stricken her; but coming near her (the morning then winning the field of darkness) he saw, or he thought he saw, indeed the very face of Philoclea; the same sweetness, the same grace, the same beauty: with which carried into a divine astonishment, he fell down at her feet. “Most blessed angel,” said he, “well hast thou done to take that shape, since thou wouldst submit thyself to mortal sense; for a more angelical form could not have been created for thee. Alas, even by that excellent beauty, so beloved of me, let it be lawful, for me to ask of thee, what is the cause that she, that heavenly creature, whose form you have taken, should by the heavens be destined to so unripe an end? why should injustice so prevail? why was she seen to the world so soon to be ravished from us? why was she not suffered to live, to teach the world perfection?” “Do not deceive thyself,” answered she, “I am no angel; I am Philoclea, the same Philoclea, so truly loving you, so truly beloved of you.” “If it be so,” said he, “that you are indeed the soul of Philoclea, you have done well to keep your own figure, for no heaven could have given you a better. Then alas! why have you taken the pains to leave your blissful seat to come to this place most wretched, to me, who am wretchedness itself, and not rather obtain for me, that I might come where you are, there eternally to behold, and eternally to love your beauties? You know, I know, that I desire nothing but death, which I only stay to be justly revenged of your unjust murderers.” “Dear Pyrocles,” said she, “I am thy Philoclea, and as yet living: not murdered as you supposed, and therefore be comforted.” And with that gave him her hand. But the sweet touch of that hand seemed to his estrayed powers so heavenly a thing, that it rather for a while confirmed him in his former belief: till she with vehement protestations (and desire that it might be so, helping to persuade that it was so) brought him to yield; yet doubtfully to yield to this height of all comfort that Philoclea lived: which witnessing with tears of joy; “Alas!” said he, “how shall I believe mine eyes any more? or do you yet but appear thus unto me, to stay me from some desperate end? for alas, I saw the excellent Pamela beheaded, I saw your head, the head indeed, and chief part indeed of all nature’s works, standing in a dish of gold, too mean a shrine, God wot, for such a relic. How can this be, my only dear, and you live? Or if this be not so, how can I believe mine own senses? And if I cannot believe them, why should I believe these blessed tidings they bring me?”

“The truth is,” said she, “my Pyrocles, that neither I, as you find, nor yet my dear sister is dead: although the mischievously subtle Cecropia used slights to make either of us think so of other. For, having in vain attempted the farthest of her wicked eloquence to make either of us yield to her son: and seeing that neither it, accompanied with great flatteries and rich presents, could get any ground of us, nor yet the violent way she fell into, of cruelly tormenting our bodies, could prevail with us, at last she made either of us think the other dead, and so hoped to have wrested our minds to the forgetting of virtue: and first she gave to mine eyes the miserable spectacle of my sister’s, as I thought, death; but indeed it was not my sister, it was only Artesia, she who so cunningly brought us to this misery. Truly I am sorry for the poor gentlewoman, though justly she be punished for her double falsehood: but Artesia muffled so, that you could not easily discern her, and in my sister’s apparel, which they had taken from her under colour of giving her other, did they execute: and when I, for thy sake especially, dear Pyrocles, could by no force nor fear be one, they assayed the like with my sister, by bringing me down under the scaffold, and making me thrust my head up through a hole they had made therein, they did put about my neck a dish of gold, whereout they had beaten the bottom, so as having set blood in it, you saw how I played the part of death, God knows even willing to have done it in earnest, and so they had set me, that I reached but on tiptoes to the ground, so as I scarcely could breathe, much less speak: and truly if they had kept me there any whit longer, they had strangled me, instead of beheading me: but when they took me away, and seeking to see their issue of this practice, they found my noble sister, for the dear love she vouchsafeth to bear me, so grieved withal, that she willed them to do their uttermost cruelty unto her: for she vowed never to receive sustenance of them that had been the causers of my murder: and finding both of us even given over, not likely to live many hours longer, and my sister Pamela rather worse than myself, the strength of her heart worse bearing those indignities, the good woman Cecropia, with the same pity as folks keep fowls, when they are not fat enough for their eating, made us know her deceit, and let us come one to another; with what joy you can well imagine, who I know feel the like, saving that we only thought ourselves reserved to miseries, and therefore fitter for condoling than congratulating. For my part I am fully persuaded it is but with a little respite, to have a more feeling sense of the torment she prepares for us. True it is, that one of my guardians would have me to believe that this proceeds from my gentle cousin Amphialus; who having heard some inkling that we were evil intreated, had called his mother to his bedside, from whence he never rose since his last combat, and besought and charged her, upon all the love she bore him, to use us with all kindness: vowing with all the imprecations he could imagine, that if ever he understood, for his sake, that I received further hurt than the want of liberty, he would not live an hour longer. And the good woman swore to me that he would kill his mother, if he knew how I had been dealt with, but that Cecropia keeps him from understanding things how they pass, only having heard a whispering, and myself named, he had (of abundance, forsooth, of honourable love) given this charge for us; whereupon this enlargement of mine was grown: for my part I know too well their cunning, who leave no money unoffered that may buy mine honour, to believe any word they say, but, my dear Pyrocles, even look for the worst, and prepare thyself for the same. Yet I must confess, I was content to rob from death, and borrow of my misery the sweet comfort of seeing my sweet sister, and most sweet comfort of thee my Pyrocles. And so having leave, I came stealing into your chamber: where, O Lord, what a joy it was unto me, to hear you solemnize the funerals of the poor Philoclea. That I myself might live to hear my death bewailed? And by whom? By my dear Pyrocles. That I saw death was not strong enough to divide thy love from me? O my Pyrocles, I am too well paid for my pains. I have suffered; joyful is my woe for so noble a cause; and welcome be all my miseries, since to thee I am so welcome. Alas how I pitied to hear thy pity of me; and yet a great while I could not find in my heart to interrupt thee, but often had even pleasure to weep with thee: and so kindly came forth thy lamentations, that they forced me to lament too, as if indeed I had been a looker-on, to see poor Philoclea die. Till at last I spoke with you, to try whether I could remove thee from sorrow, till I had almost procured myself a beating.”

And with that she prettily smiled; which mingled with her tears; one could not tell whether it was a mourning pleasure, or a delightful sorrow: but like when a few April drops are scattered by a gentle Zephirus among fine coloured flowers. But Pyrocles, who had felt, with so small distance of time, in himself the overthrow both of hope and despair, knew not to what key he should frame his mind, either of joy or sorrow. But finding perfect reason in neither, suffered himself to be carried by the tide of his imagination, and his imaginations to be raised even by the sway which hearing or seeing might give unto them: he saw her alive, he was glad to see her alive; he saw her weep, he was sorry to see her weep; he heard her comfortable speeches, nothing more gladsome; he heard her prognosticating her own destruction, nothing more doleful. But when he had a little taken breath from the panting motion of such contraries in passions, he fell to consider with her of her present estate, but comforting her, that certainly the worst of this storm was past, since already they had done the worst, which man’s wit could imagine; and that if they had determined to have killed her, now they would have done it, and also earnestly counselling her, and enabling his counsels with vehement prayers, that she would so far second the hopes of Amphialus, as that she might but procure him liberty; promising then as much to her, as the liberality of loving courage durst promise to himself.

But who could lively describe the manner of these speeches, should paint out the lightsome colours of affection, shaded with the deepest shadows of sorrow, finding them between hope and fear, a kind of sweetness in tears; till Philoclea content to receive a kiss, and but a kiss of Pyrocles, sealed up his moving lips, and closed them up in comfort: and herself, for the passage was left between them open, went to her sister; with whom she had stayed but a while, fortifying one another while Philoclea tempered Pamela’s just disdain, and Pamela ennobled Philoclea’s sweet humbleness, when Amphialus came unto them: who never since he had heard Philoclea named, could be quiet in himself, although none of them about him (fearing more his mother’s violence than his power) would discover what had passed: and many messengers he sent to know her estate, which brought answer back, according as it pleased Cecropia to indite them, till his heart full of unfortunate affection, more and more misgiving him, having impatiently borne the delay of the night’s unfitness, this morning he got up, and though full of wounds, which not without danger could suffer such exercise, he apparelled himself, and with the countenance that showed strength in nothing but in grief, he came where the sisters were, and weakly kneeling down, he besought them to pardon him: if they had not been used in that castle according to their worthiness, and his duty, beginning to excuse small matters, poor gentleman, not knowing in what sort they had been handled.

But Pamela’s high heart, having conceived mortal hatred for the injury offered to her and her sister, could scarcely abide his sight, much less hear out his excuses, but interrupted him with these words: “Traitor,” said she, “to thine own blood, and false to the profession of so much love as thou hast vowed, do not defile our ears with thy excuses, but pursue on thy cruelty, that thou and thy godly mother have used towards us: for my part, assure thyself, and so do I answer for my sister, whose mind I know, I do not more desire mine own safety than thy destruction.” Amazed with this speech, he turned his eye full of humble sorrowfulness, to Philoclea: “And is this, most excellent lady, your doom of me also.” She, sweet lady, sat weeping; for as her most noble kinsman she had ever favoured him, and loved his love, though she could not be in love with his person; and now partly unkindness of his wrong, partly pity of his case, made her sweet mind yield some tears before she could answer; and her answer was no other, but that she had the same cause as her sister had. He replied no further, but delivering from his heart two or three untaught sighs, rose, and with most low reverence went out of their chamber, and straight, by threatening torture, learned of one of the women in what terrible manner these princesses had been used. But when he heard it, crying out, “O God!” and then not able to say any more, for his speech went back to rebound woe upon his heart, he needed no judge to go upon him; for no man could ever think any other worthy of greater punishment than he thought himself. Full therefore of the horriblest despair, which a most guilty conscience could breed, with wild looks, promising some terrible issue, understanding his mother was upon the top of the leads, he caught one of his servant’s swords from him, and none of them daring to stay him, he went up, carried by fury instead of strength, where she was at that time, musing how to go through with this matter, and resolving to make much of her nieces in show, and secretly to impoison them; thinking since they were not to be won, her son’s love would no otherwise be mitigated.

But when she saw him come in with a sword drawn, and a look more terrible than the sword, she straight was stricken with the guiltiness of her own conscience: yet the well-known humbleness of her son somewhat animated her, till he coming near her, and crying to her, “Thou damnable creature, only fit to bring forth such a monster of unhappiness as I am;” she fearing he would have stricken her, though indeed he meant it not, but only intended to kill himself in her presence, went back so far, till ere she were aware, she overthrew herself from over the leads, to receive her death’s kiss at the ground: and yet was she not so happy as presently to die, but that she had time with hellish agony to see her son’s mischief, whom she loved so well, before her end, when she confessed, with most desperate but not repenting mind, the purpose she had to impoison the princesses, and would then have had them murdered. But everybody seeing, and glad to see her end, had left obedience to her tyranny.

And, if it could be, her ruin increased woe in the noble heart of Amphialus, who when he saw her fall, had his own rage stayed a little with the suddenness of her destruction: “And was I not miserable enough before,” said he, “but that before my end I must be the death of my mother? Who, how wicked soever, yet I would she had received her punishment by some other: O Amphialus, wretched Amphialus, thou hast lived to be the death of thy most dear companion and friend Philoxenus, and of his father, thy most careful foster-father. Thou hast lived to kill a lady with thine own hands, and so excellent and virtuous a lady as the fair Parthenia was; thou hast lived to see thy faithful Ismenus slain in succouring thee, and thou not able to defend him; thou hast lived to show thyself such a coward, as that one unknown knight could overcome thee in thy lady’s presence: thou hast lived to bear arms against thy rightful prince, thine own uncle: thou hast lived to be accounted, and justly accounted a traitor, by the most excellent persons that this world holdeth: thou hast lived to be the death of her that gave thee life. But ah wretched Amphialus, thou hast lived for thy sake, and by thy authority, to have Philoclea tormented. O heavens, in Amphialus’s castle, where Amphialus commanded, tormented, tormented. Torment of my soul, Philoclea tormented, and thou hast had such comfort in thy life, as to live all this while. Perchance this hand, used only to mischievous acts, thinks it were too good a deed to kill me: or else filthy hand, only worthy to kill women, thou art afraid to strike a man. Fear not cowardly hand, for thou shalt kill but a cowardly traitor: and do it gladly, for thou shalt kill him whom Philoclea hateth.” With that furiously he tore open his doublet, and setting the pommel of the sword to the ground, and the point to his breast, he fell upon it. But the sword more merciful than he to himself, with the slipping of the pommel the point swerved, and razed him but upon the side: yet with the fall his other wounds opened so that he bled in such extremity, that Charon’s boat might very well be carried in that flood: which yet he sought so hasten by this means. As he opened his doublet, and fell, there fell out Philoclea’s knives which Cecropia at the first had taken from her, and delivered to her son; and he had ever worn them next his heart, as the only relic he had of his saint: now seeing them by him, his sword being so, as weakness could not well draw it out from his doublet, he took the knives, and pulling one of them out, and many times kissing it, and then, first with the passions of kindness and unkindness melting in tears. “O dear knives, you are come in good time to revenge the wrong I have done you all this while, in keeping you from her blessed side; and wearing you without your mistress’s leave. Alas! be witness with me, yet before I die, and well you may, for you have lain next my heart, that but my consent, your excellent mistress should have had as much honour as this poor place could have brought forth for so high an excellency; and now I am condemned to die by her mouth. Alas! other, far other hope would my desire often have given me; but other event it hath pleased her to lay upon me. Ah Philoclea,” with that his tears gushed out as though they would strive to overflow his blood, “I would yet thou knowest how I love thee. Unworthy I am, unhappy I am, false I am; but to thee alas! I am not false. But what a traitor am I, any way to excuse him, whom she condemneth? since there is nothing left me wherein I may do her service, but in punishing him who hath so offended her. Dear knife, then do your noble mistress’s commandment.” With that, he stabbed himself into divers places of his breast and throat, until these wounds, with the old, freshly bleeding, brought him to the senseless gate of death. By which time, his servants, having, with fear of his fury, abstained a while from coming unto him, one of them, preferring dutiful affection before fearful duty, came in and there found him swimming in his own blood, giving a pitiful spectacle, where the conquest was the conqueror’s overthrow, and self-ruin the only triumph of a battle, fought between him and himself. The time full of danger, the person full of worthiness, the manner full of horror, did greatly astonish all the beholders: so as by and by all the town was full of it, and they of all ages came running up to see the beloved body; everybody thinking their safety bled in his wounds, and their honour died in his destruction.

But when it came, and quickly it came to the ears of his proud friend Anaxius, who by that time was grown well of his wound, but never had come abroad, disdaining to abase himself to the company of any other but of Amphialus, he was exceedingly vexed either with kindness or, if a proud heart be not capable thereof, with disdain, that he, who had the honour to be called the friend of Anaxius, should come to such an unexpected ruin. Therefore then coming abroad, with a face red in anger, and engrained in pride, with lids raised, and eyes levelled from top to toe of them that met him, treading as though he thought to make the earth shake under him, with his hand upon his sword; short speeches, and disdainful answers, giving straight order to his two brothers, to go take the oath of obedience, in his name, of all the soldiers and citizens in the town: and withal to swear them to revenge the death of Amphialus upon Basilius; he himself went to see him, calling for all the surgeons and physicians there, spending some time in viewing the body, and threatening them all to be hanged, if they did not heal him. But they, taking view of his wounds, and falling down at Anaxius’s feet, assured him that they were mortal, and no possible means to keep him above two days alive: and he stood partly in doubt, to kill, or save them, between his own fury, and their humbleness. But vowing with his own hands to kill the two sisters, as causers of his friend’s death: when his brothers came to him, and told him they had done his commandment, in having received the oath of allegiance, with no great difficulties, the most part terrified by their valour, and force of their servants; and many that had been forward actors in the rebellion, willing to do anything, rather than come under the subjection of Basilius again; and such few as durst gainsay, being cut off by present slaughter.

But withal, as the chief matter of their coming to him, they told Anaxius, that the fair queen Helen was come, with an honourable retinue, to the town: humbly desiring leave to see Amphialus, whom she had sought in many places of the world; and lastly, being returned into her own country, she heard together of the late siege, and of his combat with the strange knight, who had dangerously hurt him. Whereupon full of loving care (which she was content even to publish to the world, how ungratefully soever he dealt with her) she had gotten leave of Basilius, to come by his frontiers, to carry away Amphialus with her, to the excellentest surgeon then known, whom she had in her country, but so old, as not able to travel: but had given her sovereign anointments, to preserve his body withal, till he might be brought unto him: and that Basilius had granted leave; either natural kindness prevailing over all the offences done, or rather glad to make any passage which might lead him out of his country, and from his daughters. This discourse Lycurgus understanding of Helen, delivered to his brother, with her vehement desire to see the body, and take her last farewell of him. Anaxius, though he were fallen out with all womankind, in respect of the hate he bore the sisters, whom he accounted murderers of Amphialus, yet at his brother’s request, granted her leave. And she, poor lady, with grievous expectation, and languishing desire, carried her faint legs to the place where he lay, either not breathing, or in all appearance breathing nothing but death.

In which piteous plight when she saw him, though sorrow had set before her mind the pitifullest conceit thereof that it could paint, yet the present sight went beyond all the former apprehensions: so that beginning to kneel by the body, her sight ran from her service, rather than abide such a sight; and she fell in a swoon upon him, as if she could not choose but die of his wounds. But when her breath, aweary to be closed up in woe, broke the prison of her fair lips, and brought memory with his servant senses to his natural office, she made yet the breath convey these doleful words with it. “Alas!” said she, “Amphialus, what strange disasters be these, that having sought thee so long, I should be now sorry to find thee? that these eyes should look upon Amphialus, and be grieved withal? that I should have thee in my power without glory, and embrace thee without comfort? how often have I blest the means that might bring me near thee? now woe worth the cause that brings me so near thee. Often, alas! often hast thou disdained my tears: but now, my dear Amphialus, receive them: these eyes can serve for nothing else but to weep for thee: since thou wouldst never vouchsafe them thy comfort, yet disdain not them thy sorrow. I would they had been more dear unto thee; for then hadst thou lived. Woe is me that thy noble heart could love who hated thee, and hate who loved thee. Alas why should not my faith to thee cover my other defects, who only sought to make my crown thy footstool, myself thy servant, that was all my ambition; and alas thou disdainest it, to serve them, by whom thy incomparable self wert disdained. Yet, O Philoclea, wheresoever you are, pardon me if I speak in the bitterness of my soul, excellent may you be in all other things, and excellent sure you are since he loved you, your want of pity, where the fault only was infiniteness of desert, cannot be excused. I would, O God, I would that you had granted his deserved suit of marrying you, and that I had been your serving-maid, to have made my estate the foil of your felicity, so he had lived. How many weary steps have I trodden after thee, while my only complaint was, that thou wert unkind? alas! I would now thou wert to be unkind. Alas, why wouldst thou not command my service, in persuading Philoclea to love thee? who could, or if everyone could, who would have recounted thy perfection so well as I? who with such kindly passions could have stirred pity for thee as I? who should have delivered not only the words, but the tears I had of thee: and so shouldst thou have exercised thy disdain in me, and yet used my service for thee.”

With that the body moving somewhat, and giving a groan, full of death’s music, she fell upon his face, and kissed him, and withal cried out; “O miserable I, that have only favour by misery;” and then would she have returned to a fresh career of complaints, when an aged and wise gentleman came to her, and besought her to remember what was fit for her greatness, wisdom, and honour: and withal, that it was fitter to show her love in carrying the body to her excellent surgeon, first applying such excellent medicines as she had received of him for that purpose, rather than only show herself a woman-lover in fruitless lamentations. She was straight warned with the obedience of an overthrown mind, and therefore leaving some surgeons of her own to dress the body, went herself to Anaxius, and humbling herself to him, as low as his own pride could wish, besought him, that since the surgeons there had utterly given him over, that he would let her carry him away in her litter with her, since the worst he could have should be to die, and to die in her arms that loved him above all things; and where he should have such monuments erected over him, as were fit for her love, and his worthiness: beseeching him withal, since she was in a country of enemies, where she trusted more to Anaxius’s valour, than Basilius’s promise, that he would convey them safely out of these territories. Her reasons something moved him, but nothing thoroughly persuaded him, but the last request of his help; which he straight promised: warranting all security, as long as that sword had his master alive. She as happy therein as unhappiness could be, having received as small comfort of her own surgeons as of the others, caused yet the body to be easily conveyed into the litter: all the people then beginning to roar and cry, as though never till then they had lost their lord. And if the terror of Anaxius had not kept them under, they would have mutinied, rather than suffered his body to be carried away.

But Anaxius himself riding before the litter, with the choice men of that place, they were afraid even to cry, though they were ready to cry for fear; but because that they might do, everybody forced, even with harming themselves, to do honour to him: some throwing themselves upon the ground; some tearing their clothes, and casting dust upon their heads, and some even wounding themselves, and sprinkling their own blood in the air.

The general consort of whose mourning performed so the natural tunes of sorrow, that even to them, if any such were, that felt not the loss, yet others’ grief taught them grief; having before both their compassionate sense so passionate a spectacle of a young man, of great beauty, beautified with great honour, honoured by great valour, made of inestimable value by the noble using of it, to lie there languishing under the arrest of death, and a death where the manner could be no comfort to the discomfortableness of the matter. But when the body was carried through the gate, and the people, saving such as were appointed, not suffered to go further, then was such an universal cry, as if they had all had but one life, and all received but one blow.

Which so moved Anaxius to consider the loss of his friend, that, his mind apter to revenge than tenderness, he presently giving order to his brothers to keep the prisoners safe, and unvisited till his return from conveying Helen, he sent a messenger to the sisters to tell them this courteous message: that at his return, with his own hands, he would cut off their heads, and send them for tokens to their father.

This message was brought unto the sisters, as they sat at that time together with Zelmane, conferring how to carry themselves, having heard of the death of Amphialus. And as no expectation of death is so painful, as where the resolution is hindered by the intermixing of hopes, so did this new alarm, though not remove, yet move somewhat the constancy of their minds, which were so unconstantly dealt with. But within a while, the excellent Pamela had brought her mind again to his old acquaintance: and then as careful for her sister, whom she most dearly loved, “Sister,” said she, “you see how many acts our tragedy hath: fortune is not yet aweary of vexing us: but what? a ship is not counted strong by biding one storm: it is but the same trumpet of death, which now perhaps gives the last sound: and let us make that profit of our former miseries, that in them we learned to die willingly.” “Truly,” said Philoclea, “dear sister, I was so beaten with the evils of life, that though I had not virtue enough to despise the sweetness of it, yet my weakness bred that strength to be weary of the pains of it: only I must confess that little hope, which by these late accidents was awakened in me, was at the first angry withal. But even in the darkness of that horror, I see a light of comfort appear; and how can I tread amiss, that see Pamela’s steps? I would only, O that my wish might take place, that my school-mistress might live, to see me say my lesson truly.” “Were that a life, my Philoclea?” said Pamela. “No, no,” said she, “let it come, and put on his worst face: for at the worst it is but a bugbear. Joy it is to me to see you so well resolved, and since the world will not have us, let it lose us. Only,” with that she stayed a little and sighed, “only my Philoclea,” then she bowed down, and whispered in her ear, “only Musidorus, my shepherd, comes between me and death, and makes me think I should not die, because I know he would not I should die.” With that Philoclea sighed also, saying no more, but looking upon Zelmane, who was walking up and down the chamber, having heard this message from Anaxius, and having in time past heard of his nature, thought him like enough to perform it, which winded her again into the former maze of perplexity. Yet debating with herself of the manner how to prevent it, she continued her musing humour, little saying, or indeed, little finding in her heart to say, in a case of such extremity, where peremptorily death was threatened: and so stayed they; having yet that comfort, that they might tarry together. Pamela nobly, Philoclea sweetly, and Zelmane sadly and desperately; none of them entertaining sleep, which they thought should shortly begin never to awake.

But Anaxius came home, having safely conducted Helen; and safely he might well do it; for though many of Basilius’s knights would have attempted something upon Anaxius, by that means to deliver the ladies, yet Philanax having received his master’s commandment, and knowing his word was given, would not consent unto it. And the black knight, who by then was able to carry abroad his wounds, did not know thereof; but was bringing force, by force to deliver his lady. So as Anaxius, interpreting it rather fear than faith, and making even chance an argument of his virtue, returned: and as soon as he was returned, with a felon heart calling his brothers up with him, he went into the chamber, where they were all three together, with full intention to kill the sisters with his own hands, and send their heads for tokens to their father, though his brothers, who were otherwise inclined, dissuaded him; but his reverence stayed their persuasions. But when he was come into the chamber, with the very words of choleric threatening climbing up his throat, his eyes first lighted upon Pamela; who hearing he was coming, and looking for death, thought she would keep her own majesty in welcoming it; but the beams thereof so struck his eyes, with such a counterbuff upon his pride, that if his anger could not so quickly love, nor his pride so easily honour, yet both were forced to find a worthiness.

Which while it bred a pause in him, Zelmane, who had already in her mind both what and how to say, stepped out unto him, and with a resolute steadiness, void either of anger, kindness, disdain, or humbleness, spoke in this sort. “Anaxius,” said she, “if fame hath not been over-partial to thee, thou art a man of exceeding valour. Therefore I do call thee even before that virtue, and will make it the judge between us. And now I do affirm, that to the eternal blot of all the fair acts that thou hast done, thou dost weakly, in seeking without danger to revenge his death, whose life with danger thou mightest perhaps have preserved: thou dost cowardly in going about by the death of these excellent ladies, to prevent the just punishment that hereafter they by the powers, which they better than their father, or any other could make, might lay upon thee, and dost most basely, in once presenting thyself as an executioner, a vile office upon men, and in a just cause; beyond the degree of any vile word, in so unjust a cause, and upon ladies, and such ladies. And therefore, as a hangman, I say, thou art unworthy to be counted a knight, or to be admitted into the company of knights. Neither for what I say, will I allege other reasons of wisdom, or justice, to prove my speech, because I know thou dost disdain to be tied to their rules, but even in thine own virtue, whereof thou so much gloriest, I will make my trial: and therefore defy thee, by the death of one of us two, to prove or disprove these reproaches. Choose thee what arms thou likest: I only demand that these ladies, whom I defend, may in liberty see the combat.”

When Zelmane began her speech, the excellency of her beauty and grace made him a little content to hear. Besides that, a new lesson he had read in Pamela, had already taught him some regard. But when she entered into a bravery of speech, he thought at first, a mad and railing humour possessed her; till finding the speeches hold well together, and at length come to a flat challenge of combat, he stood leaning back with his body and head, sometimes with bent brows looking upon the one side of her, sometimes of the other, beyond marvel marvelling, that he, who had never heard such speeches from any knight, should be thus rebuffed by a woman, and that marvel made him hear out her speech: which ended, he turned his head to his brother Zoilus, and said nothing, but only lifting up his eyes, smiled. But Zelmane finding his mind, “Anaxius,” said she, “perchance thou disdainest to answer me, because, as a woman, thou thinkest me not fit to be fought withal. But I tell thee that I have been trained up in martial matters, with so good success, that I have many times overcome braver knights than thyself: and am well known to be equal in feats of arms to the famous Pyrocles, who slew thy valiant uncle, the giant Euardes.” The remembrance of his uncle’s death something nettled him, so as he answered thus.

“Indeed,” said he, “any woman may be as valiant as that coward and traitorly boy, who slew my uncle traitorously, and after ran from me in the plain field. Five thousand such could not have overcome Euardes, but by falsehood. But I sought him all over Asia, following him still from one of his coney-holes to another, till coming into this country, I heard of my friend being besieged, and so came to blow away the wretches that troubled him. But wheresoever the miserable boy fly, heaven, nor hell shall keep his heart from being torn by these hands.” “Thou liest in thy throat,” said Zelmane, “that boy, wherever he went, did so noble acts, as thy heart, as proud as it is, dares not think of, much less perform. But to please thee the better with my presence, I tell thee, no creature can be nearer of kin to him than myself: and so well we love, that he would not be sorrier for his own death than for mine: I being begotten by his father, of an Amazon lady. And therefore, thou canst not devise to revenge thyself more upon him, than by killing me: which if thou darest do, manfully do it, otherwise, if thou harm these incomparable ladies, or myself without daring to fight with me, I protest before these knights, and before heaven and earth, that will reveal thy shame, that thou art the beggarliest dastardly villain that dishonoureth the earth with his steps: and if thou lettest me over-live them, so will I blaze thee.” But all this could not move Anaxius, but that he only said, “Evil should it become the terror of the world to fight, much worse to scold with thee.”

“But,” said he, “for the death of these same,” pointing to the princesses, “of my grace I give them life.” And withal going to Pamela, and offering to take her by the chin, “And as for you, minion,” said he, “yield but gently to my will, and you shall not only live, but live so happily:” he would have said further, when Pamela, displeased both with words, matter and manner, putting him away with her fair hand; “proud beast,” said she, “yet thou playest worse thy comedy, than thy tragedy. For my part, assure thyself, since my destiny is such, that each moment my life and death stand in equal balance, I had rather have thee, and think thee far fitter to be my hangman, than my husband.” Pride and anger would fain have cruelly revenged so bitter an answer, but already Cupid had begun to make it his sport to pull his plumes: so that unused to a way of courtesy, and put out of his bias of pride, he hastily went away, grumbling to himself: between threatening and wishing; leaving his brothers with them: the elder of whom Lycurgus, liked Philoclea, and Zoilus would needs love Zelmane, or at least entertain themselves with making them believe so. Lycurgus more bragged, and near his brother’s humour, began, with setting forth their blood, their deeds, how many they had despised of most excellent women; how much they were bound to them, that would seek that of them. In sum, in all his speeches, more like the bestower than the desirer of felicity. Whom it was an excellent pastime, to those that would delight in the play of virtue, to see with what a witty ignorance she would not understand: and how acknowledging his perfections, she would make that one of his perfections, not to be injurious to ladies. But when he knew not how to reply, then would he fall to touching and toying, still viewing his graces in no glass but self-liking. To which Philoclea’s shamefacedness and humbleness were as strong resisters as choler and disdain: for though she yielded not, he thought she was to be overcome: and that thought a while stayed him from further violence. But Zelmane had eye to his behaviour, and set it in her memory upon the score of revenge, while she herself was no less attempted by Zoilus; who less fond of brags was forwardest in offering, indeed, dishonourable violence.

But when after their fruitless labours they had gone away, called by their brother, who began to be perplexed between new conceived desires, and disdain to be disdained, Zelmane, who with most assured quietness of judgment looked into their present estate, earnestly persuaded the two sisters, that to avoid the mischiefs of proud outrage, they would only so far suit their behaviour to their estates, as they might win time, which, as it could not bring them to worse case than they were, so it might bring forth unexpected relief. “And why,” said Pamela, “shall we any longer flatter adversity? why should we delight to make ourselves any longer balls to injurious fortune, since our own parents are content to be tyrants over us, since our own kin are content traitorously to abuse us? certainly in mishap it may be some comfort to us that we are lighted in these fellows’ hands, who yet will keep us from having cause of being miserable by our friend’s means. Nothing grieves me more than that you, noble lady Zelmane, to whom the world might have made us able to do honour, should receive only hurt by the contagion of our misery. As for me and my sister, undoubtedly it becomes our birth to think of dying nobly, while we have done or suffered nothing which might make our soul ashamed at the parture from these bodies. Hope is the fawning traitor of the mind, while under colour of friendship it robs it of his chief force of resolution.” “Virtuous and fair lady,” said Zelmane, “What you say is true, and that truth may well make up a part in the harmony of your noble thoughts. But yet the time, which ought always to be one, is not tuned for it, while that may bring forth any good, do not bar yourself thereof: for then will be the time to die nobly, when you cannot live nobly.” Then so earnestly she persuaded with them both, to refer themselves to their father’s consent, in obtaining whereof they knew some while would be spent, and by that means to temper the minds of their proud wooers; that in the end Pamela yielded to her, because she spoke reason, and Philoclea yielded to her reason, because she spoke it.

And so when they were again solicited in that little pleasing petition, Pamela forced herself to make answer to Anaxius, that if her father gave his consent she would make herself believe, that such was the heavenly determination, since she had no means to avoid it. Anaxius who was the most frank promiser to himself of success, nothing doubted of Basilius’s consent, but rather assured himself, he would be his orator in that matter; and therefore he chose out an officious servant, whom he esteemed very wise, because he never found him but just of his opinion, and willed him to be his ambassador to Basilius, and to make him know, that if he meant to have his daughters both safe and happy, and desired himself to have such a son-in-law, as would not only protect him in his quiet course, but, if he listed to accept it, would give him the monarchy of the world, that then he should receive Anaxius, who never before knew what it was to pray anything. That if he did not, he would make him know that the power of Anaxius was in everything beyond his will, and yet his will not to be resisted by any other power. His servant, with smiling and cast-up look, desired God to make his memory able to contain the treasure of that wise speech: and therefore besought him to repeat it again, that by the oftener hearing it his mind might be the better acquainted with the divineness thereof; and that being graciously granted he then doubted not by carrying with him in his conceit the grace wherewith Anaxius spoke it, to persuade rocky minds to their own harm; so little doubted he to win Basilius to that, which he thought would make him think the heavens opened when he heard but the proffer thereof. Anaxius gravely allowed the probability of his conjecture; and therefore sent him away, promising him he should have the bringing up of his second son by Pamela.

The messenger with speed performed his lord’s commandment to Basilius; who by nature quiet, and by superstition made doubtful, was loth to take any matter of arms in hand, wherein already he had found so slow success; though Philanax vehemently urged him thereunto, making him see that his retiring back did encourage injuries. But Basilius, betwixt the fear of Anaxius’s might, the passion of his love, and jealousy of his estate, was so perplexed, that not able to determine, he took the common course of men, to fly only then to devotion, when they want resolution: therefore detaining the messenger with delays, he deferred the directing of his course to the counsel of Apollo, which because himself at that time could not go well to require, he entrusted the matter to his best trusted Philanax; who, as one in whom obedience was a sufficient reason unto him, went with diligence to Delphos, where being entered into the secret place of the temple, and having performed the sacrifices usual, the spirit that possessed the prophesying woman, with a sacred fury attended not his demand, but as if it would argue him of incredulity, told him, not in dark wonted speeches, but plainly to be understood, what he came for, and that he should return to Basilius, and will him to deny his daughters to Anaxius and his brothers; for that they were reserved for such as were better beloved of the Gods, that he should not doubt, for they should return unto him safely and speedily; and that he should keep on his solitary course till both Philanax and Basilius fully agreed in the understanding of the former prophecy: withal commanding Philanax from thence forward to give tribute, but not oblation to human wisdom.

Philanax then finding that reason cannot show itself more reasonable than to leave reasoning in things above reason, returns to his lord, and like one that preferred truth before the maintaining of an opinion, hid nothing from him, nor from thenceforth durst any more dissuade him from that which he found by the celestial providence directed; but he himself looking to repair the government, as much as in so broken an estate by civil dissention he might, and fortifying with notable art both the lodges, so that they were almost made unapproachable, he left Basilius to bemoan the absence of his daughters, and to bewail the imprisonment of Zelmane: yet wholly given holily to obey the oracle, he gave a resolute negative unto the messenger of Anaxius, who all this while had waited for it; yet in good terms desiring him to show himself in respect of his birth and profession, so princely a knight, as without forcing him to seek the way of force, to deliver in noble sort these ladies unto him, and so should the injury have been by Amphialus, and the benefit in him.

The messenger went back with this answer, yet having ever used to sugar anything which his master was to receive, he told him, that when Basilius first understood his desires, it did over-reach so far all his most hopeful expectations that he thought it were too great a boldness to hearken to such a man, in whom the heavens had such interest, without asking the God’s counsel; and therefore had sent his principal counsellor to Delphos, who although he kept the matter ever so secret, yet his diligence inspired by Anaxius’s privilege over all worldly things, had found out the secret, which was, that he should not presume to marry his daughter to one who already was enrolled among the demi-gods, and yet much less he should dare the attempting to take them out of his hands.

Anaxius, who till then had made fortune his creator, and force his god, now began to find another wisdom to be above, that judged so rightly of him: and where in this time of his servant’s waiting for Basilius’s resolution, he and his brothers had courted their ladies, as whom they vouchsafed to have for their wives; he resolved now to dally no longer in delays, but to make violence his orator, since he had found persuasions had gotten nothing but answers. Which intention he opened to his brothers, who having all this while wanted nothing to take that away but his authority, gave spurs to his runnings; and, worthy men, neither feeling virtue in themselves, nor tendering it in others, they went headlong to make that evil consort of love and force, when Anaxius had word, that from the tower there were descried some companies of armed men, marching towards the town, wherefore he gave present order to his servants and soldiers to go to the gates and walls, leaving none within but himself and his brothers: his thoughts then so full of their intended prey, that Mars his loudest trumpet could scarcely have awaked him.

But while he was directing what he would have done, his youngest brother Zoilus, glad that he had the commission, went in the name of Anaxius to tell the sisters, that since he had answer from their father, that he and his brother Lycurgus should have them in what sort it pleased them, that they would now grant them no longer time, but presently to determine whether they thought it more honourable comfort to be compelled or persuaded. Pamela made him answer, that in a matter whereon the whole state of her life depended, and wherein she had ever answered she would not lead, but follow her parents’ pleasure, she thought it reason she should either by letter, or particular messenger, understand something from themselves, and not have their belief bound to the report of their partial servant: and therefore as to their words, she and her sister had ever a simple and true resolution, so against their unjust force, God, they hoped, would either arm their lives, or take away their lives. “Well, ladies,” said he, “I will leave my brothers, who by and by will come unto you to be their own ambassadors: for my part I must now do myself service.” And with that turning up his mustaches, and marching as if he would begin a paven[7], he went toward Zelmane. But Zelmane having heard all this while of the messenger’s being with Basilius, had much to do to keep these excellent ladies from seeking by the passport of death to escape these base dangers whereunto they found themselves subject, still hoping that Musidorus would find some means to deliver them; and therefore had often, both by her own example and comfortable reasons, persuaded them to overpass many insolent indignities of their proud suitors, who thought it was a sufficient favour not to do the uttermost injury, now come again to the strait she most feared for them, either of death or dishonour, if heroical courage would have let her, she had been beyond herself amazed: but that yet held up her wit, to attend the uttermost occasion, which even then brought his hairy forehead unto her: for Zoilus smacking his lips, as for the prologue of a kiss, and something advancing himself, “Darling,” said he, “let thy heart be full of joy, and let thy fair eyes be of counsel with it, for this day thou shalt have Zoilus, whom many have longed for, but none shall have him but Zelmane. And oh! how much glory I have to think what a race will be between us? The world, by the heavens, the world will be too little for them.” And with that he would have put his arm about her neck; but she withdrawing herself from him, “My lord,” said she, “much good may your thoughts do you: but that I may not dissemble with you, my nativity being cast by one that never failed in any of his prognostications, I have been assured that I should never be apt to bear children; but since you will honour me with so high a favour, I must only desire that I may perform a vow, which I made among my countrywomen, the famous Amazons, that I would marry none, but such one as was able to withstand me in arms: therefore, before I make mine own desire serviceable to yours, you must vouchsafe to lend me armour and weapons, that at least with a blow or two of the sword I may not find myself perjured to myself.” But Zoilus, laughing with a hearty loudness, went by force to embrace her; making no other answer, but since she had a mind to try his knighthood, she should quickly know what a man of arms he was; and so without reverence to the ladies, began to struggle with her.

But in Zelmane then disdain became wisdom, and anger gave occasion. For abiding no longer abode in the matter, she that had not put off, though she had disguised Pyrocles, being far fuller of stronger nimbleness, tripped up his feet so that he fell down at hers. And withal, meaning to pursue what she had begun, pulled out his sword which he wore about him: but before she could strike him withal, he got up, and ran to a fair chamber, where he had left his two brethren, preparing themselves to come down to their mistresses. But she followed at his heels, and even as he came to throw himself into their arms for succour, she hit him with his own sword such a blow upon the waist that she almost cut him asunder: once she sundered his soul from his body, sending it to Proserpina, an angry goddess against ravishers. But Anaxius, seeing before his eyes the miserable end of his brother, fuller of despite than wrath, and yet fuller of wrath than sorrow, looking with a woeful eye upon his brother Lycurgus; “Brother,” said he, “chastise this vile creature, while I go down and take order lest further mischief arise:” and so went down to the ladies, whom he visited, doubting there had been some further practice than yet he conceived. But finding them only strong in patience, he went and locked a great iron gate, by which only anybody might mount to that part of the castle; rather to conceal the shame of his brother, slain by a woman, than for doubt of any other annoyance: and then went up to receive some comfort of the execution, he was sure his brother had done of Zelmane. But Zelmane no sooner saw these brothers, of whom reason assured her she was to expect revenge, but that she leaped to a target, as one that well knew the first mark of valour to be defence. And then accepting the opportunity of Anaxius going away, she waited not the pleasure of Lycurgus, but without any words, which she ever thought vain, when resolution took the place of persuasion, gave her own heart the contentment to be the assailer. Lycurgus, who was in the disposition of his nature hazardous, and by the lucky passing through many dangers, grown confident in himself, went toward her, rather as to a spoil than to fight; so far from fear, that his assuredness disdained to hope. But when her sword made demonstrations above all flattery of arguments, and that he found she pressed so upon him, as showed that her courage sprang not from blind despair, but was guarded both with cunning and strength; self-love then first in him divided itself from vainglory, and made him find that the world of worthiness had not his whole globe comprised in his breast, but that it was necessary to have strong resistance against so strong assailing. And so between them, for a few blows, Mars himself might have been delighted to look on. But Zelmane, who knew that in her case, slowness of victory was little better than ruin, with the bellows of hate blew the fire of courage; and he striking a main blow at her head, she warded it with the shield, but so warded, that the shield was cut in two pieces while it protected her: and withal she ran in to him, and thrusting at his breast, which he put by with his target, as he was lifting up his sword to strike again, she let fall the piece of her shield, and with her left hand catching his sword on the inside of the pommel, with nimble and strong slight she had gotten his sword out of his hand, before his sense could convey to his imagination what was to be doubted. And having now two swords against one shield, meaning not foolishly to be ungrateful to good fortune, while he was no more amazed with his being unweaponed, than with the suddenness thereof, she gave him such a wound upon his head, in despite of the shield’s over-weak resistance, that withal he fell to the ground astonished with the pain, and aghast with fear. But seeing Zelmane ready to conclude her victory in his death, bowing up his head to her with a countenance that had forgotten all pride, “Enough, excellent lady,” said he, “the honour is yours; whereof you shall want the best witness if you kill me. As you have taken from men the glory of manhood, return so now again to your own sex for mercy. I will redeem my life of you with no small services; for I will undertake to make my brother obey all your commandments. Grant life, I beseech you, for your own honour, and for the person’s sake that you love best.”

Zelmane repressed a while her great heart, either disdaining to be cruel or pitiful, and therefore not cruel; and now the image of the human condition began to be an orator unto her of compassion, when she saw, as if he lifted up his arms with a suppliant’s grace about one of them, unhappily tied a garter with a jewel, which, given to Pyrocles by his aunt of Thessalia, and greatly esteemed by him, he had presented to Philoclea, and with inward rage promising extreme hatred, had seen Lycurgus with a proud force, and not without some hurt to her, pull away from Philoclea, because at entreaty she would not give it him. But the sight of that was like a cypher, signifying all the injuries which Philoclea had of him suffered, and that remembrance feeding upon wrath, trod down all conceits of mercy. And therefore saying no more, but, “No, villain, die: it is Philoclea that sends thee this token for thy love.” With that she made her sword drink the blood of his heart, though he wresting his body, and with a countenance prepared to excuse, would fain have delayed the receiving of death’s ambassadors. But neither stayed Zelmane’s hand, nor yet Anaxius’s cry unto her; who having made fast the iron gate, even then came to the top of the stairs, when contrary to all his imaginations, he saw his brother lie at Zelmane’s mercy. Therefore crying, promising, and threatening to her to hold her hand: the last groan of his brother was the only answer he could get to his unrespected eloquence. But then pity would fain have drawn tears, which fury in their spring dried; and anger would fain have spoken, but that disdain sealed up his lips; but in his heart he blasphemed heaven, that it could have such a power over him, no less ashamed of the victory he should have of her, than of his brother’s overthrow: and no more spited that it was yet unrevenged, than that the revenge should be no greater than a woman’s destruction. Therefore with no speech, but such a groaning cry as often is the language of sorrowful anger, he came running at Zelmane; use of fighting then serving instead of patient consideration what to do. Guided wherewith, though he did not with knowledge, yet he did according to knowledge, pressing upon Zelmane in such a well-defended manner, that in all the combats that ever she had fought, she had never more need of quick senses, and ready virtue. For being one of the greatest men of stature then living; as he did fully answer that stature in greatness of might; so did he exceed both in greatness of courage, which with a countenance formed by the nature both of his mind and body, to an almost horrible fierceness, was able to have carried fear to any mind that was not privy to itself of a true and constant worthiness. But Pyrocles, whose soul might well be separated from his body, but never alienated from the remembering of what was comely, if at the first he did a little apprehend the dangerousness of his adversary, whom once before he had something tried, and now perfectly saw as the very picture of forcible fury; yet was that apprehension quickly stayed in him, rather strengthening than weakening his virtue by that wrestling, like wine growing the stronger by being moved. So that they both prepared in hearts, and able in hands, did honour solitariness there with such a combat, as might have demanded, as a right of fortune, whole armies of beholders. But no beholders needed there, where manhood blew the trumpet, and satisfaction did whet as much as glory. There was strength against nimbleness: rage against resolution; fury against virtue; confidence against courage; pride against nobleness: love in both breeding mutual hatred, and desire of revenging the injuries of his brother’s slaughter, to Anaxius, being like Philoclea’s captivity to Pyrocles. Who had seen the one, would have thought nothing could have resisted: who had marked the other, would have marvelled that the other had so long resisted. But like two contrary tides, either of which are able to carry worlds of ships and men upon them, with such swiftness that nothing seems able to withstand them, yet meeting one another, with mingling their watery forces, and struggling together, it is long to say, whether stream gets the victory; so between these, if Pallas had been there, she could scarcely have told, whether she had nursed better in the feats of arms. The Irish greyhound against the English mastiff; the sword-fish against the whale; the rhinoceros against the elephant, might be models, and but models of this combat. Anaxius was better armed defensively: for (besides a strong casque bravely covered, wherewith he covered his head) he had a huge shield, such perchance, as Achilles showed to the pale walls of Troy, wherewithal that great body was covered. But Pyrocles utterly unarmed for defence, to offend had the advantage, for, in either hand he had a sword, and with both hands nimbly performed that office. And according as they were diversely furnished, so they did differ in the manner of fighting: for Anaxius most by warding, and Pyrocles oftenest by avoiding, resisted the adversary’s assault. Both hasty to end, yet both often staying for advantage. Time, distance and motion, custom made them so perfect in, that as if they had been fellow counsellors, and not enemies, each knew the other’s mind, and knew how to prevent it. So as their strength failed them sooner than their skill, and yet their breath failed them sooner than their strength. And breathless indeed they grew, before either could complain of any loss of blood.

So that consenting by the meditation of necessity to a breathing time of truce, being withdrawn a little one from the other, Anaxius stood leaning upon his sword with his grim eye so settled upon Zelmane, as is wont to be the look of an earnest thought. Which Zelmane marking, and according to the Pyroclean nature, fuller of gay bravery in the midst than in the beginning of danger: “What is it,” said she, “Anaxius, that thou so deeply musest on? doth thy brother’s example make thee think of thy fault past, or of thy coming punishment?” “I think,” said he, “what spiteful god it should be, who envying my glory, hath brought me to such a wayward case, that neither thy death can be a revenge, nor thy overthrow a victory.” “Thou dost well indeed,” said Zelmane, “to impute thy case to the heavenly providence, which will have thy pride find itself, even in that whereof thou art most proud, punished by the weak sex which thou most contemnest.”

But then having sufficiently rested themselves, they renewed again their combat far more terrible than before: like nimble vaulters, who at the first and second leap do but stir, and, as it were, awake the fiery and airy parts, which after in the other leaps they do with more excellency exercise. For in this pausing, each had brought to his thoughts the manner of the other’s fighting, and the advantages, which by that, and by the quality of their weapons they might work themselves, and so again repeated the lesson they had said before, more perfectly by the using of it; Anaxius oftener used blows, his huge force, as it were, more delighting therein, and the large protection of his shield animating him unto it. Pyrocles, of a more fine and deliberate strength, watching his time, when to give fit thrusts, as, with the quick obeying of his body, to his eye’s quick commandment, he shunned any harm Anaxius could do to him: so would he soon have made an end of Anaxius, if he had not found him a man of wonderful and almost matchless excellency in matters of arms. Pyrocles used divers feignings to bring Anaxius on into some inconvenience, but Anaxius keeping a sound manner of fighting, never offered but seeing fair cause, and then followed it with well-governed violence. Thus spent they a great time, striving to do, and with striving to do, wearying themselves more than with the very doing. Anaxius finding Zelmane so near unto him, that with little motion he might reach her, knitting all his strength together, at that time mainly foiled at her face. But Zelmane strongly putting it by with her right-hand sword, coming in with her left foot and hand, would have given a sharp visitation to his right side, but that he was fain to leap away. Whereat ashamed, as having never done so much before in his life.

* * *[8]

The fire of rage then burning contempt out of his breast, did burst forth in flames through his eyes, and in smoke from his mouth; so that he was returning with a terrible madness (all the strength of his whole body transferred to the one hand for a singular service) which the resolute Zelmane did earnestly observe with a providently all despising courage, whilst the ears of Anaxius were suddenly arrested by a sound, whereof they were only capable, which, in consort with his own humour, could only of him with authority have challenged a due attendance: straight a martial noise (raised by the violence of invaders; and distractedness of others, dreadfully tumultuous) giving him intelligence what a bloody scene was acting without in the court of the castle, where he was expected as a special actor; though his eye, as harbinger of his blow, had already marked the room, where his bended arm threatened to lodge it; yet his feet did so suddenly ravish away the rest of his body, that even his own thoughts, much more Zelmane’s, were prevented by the suddenness of his flight, a flight indeed, not from the fighting with one, but to the fighting with many, where he did not look for an object worthy of the wrath of Anaxius. So that vanishing away, as carried in a cloud of whirlwind, Zelmane either could not, or else would not reach him: as disdaining the base advantage of these dishonourable wounds, which though greatest shame to the flying receiver, can give no glory to the unresisted giver.

The impetuous storm that transported the spirit of Anaxius, had quickly blown him down the stairs, and up the door, his sword ushering his way, till his eyes were encountered with the beams of the lightning weapons of a small number, which rather seemed surprised within the castle, than to have surprised the castle. Yet they had speedily purchased a great room for so small a company, challenging as their own all the bounds that their swords could compass: and in effect their enemies proved their fewness many, reckoning the black knight and his second (as cyphers are esteemed when valued by others, over which they are raised) not for the number which indeed they were, but for the number which they were worth. These three were quickly known by their wonted arms; but more by their wonted valour. The court had been a fitter list for two, than a field for so many, where the narrowness of the place, not giving place to sleight, there was no way but by plain force; so that the greatest cowards were as forward as the most courageous, fear making them bold, who saw no refuge but by fighting; which made the conflict exceeding cruel, either of the parties having more spurs than one to draw blood.

The Amphialians, besides their rage for being abused by an unexpected stratagem, and their desire to defend the place, being bound both by private interest and public vows; they had added further, to make up the accomplishment of a just wrath, the means of revenge, as they thought, on their master’s murderer; looking no otherwise on the black knight than as on him who had buried all their hopes in the ruins of Amphialus, whereof to their further grief, they had been idle witnesses. All this made them desperately endeavour that the eyes of Anaxius might be entertained with their victory, before his ears could be burdened with their error; chiefly at his coming, those of his own train kindled their courage at the torches of his eyes, prodigious comets of a deluge of blood. As for the pursued pursuers, like those who landing to make war in an island burn the ships which brought them thither, by the impossibility of their return to show the desperate necessity of their victory; they were assured they could neither advance nor retire, but over the bellies of their enemies; yet were they not so desperate of their retreat, as confident of their victory. The black knight, though all the giants that fought against the gods had been there, he thought they could not hinder him from going where his heart was already, nor from prevailing where the prize was the delivery of his lady, and friend, the double treasures of his soul, whereof any was valued above his life, yea, both were balanced with his honour; so that he did show not only the height of valour, but a ravishing of his soul, and a transportation of magnanimity, far from the level of ordinary aims, and even scarce within the prospect of more lofty thoughts. Yet neither love nor courage could blind his judgment, in seeing his advantage: marching with his company ever the next wall, to prevent being compassed: though sometimes making brave sallies. Which Anaxius at his first approach espying, upbraided his own troop as unworthy of his attendance, and all as traitors in receiving, or dastards in not expelling that, in his eyes, contemned crew, oftentimes urging them by their retiring to make way for him, and he alone would either beat them over the walls, or in the walls: for the truth is, they seemed all too small a sacrifice to appease his high indignation. It was superfluous labour for Alecto to inflame his soul with poisonous inspirations; for his soul might have furnished all the infernal furies with fury, and yet have continued the most furious of all itself. Rage and disdain, burning his bosom, made him utter a roaring voice, as if his breath had been able to have blown away the world, which for the sound that his sword made, could not distinctly be understood.

The first whom he encountered, lifting up his hand to strike, and withal opening his mouth, as if intending some speech, his proposition was prevented by an active answer, cutting him from the lips to the ears, so by opening his mouth, restraining his speech. The knight of the sheep succeeding in his place, a vindictive heir, was exchanging blows with Anaxius with no disadvantage, when suddenly a dart, none knew to whose hand the honour of it was due, did wound him in the thigh, which he doubtful to whom he stood debtor, did pay back to many, an extraordinary interest, with the death of someone striving to defray every drop of his blood.

The black knight, black indeed to all his adversaries, when viewing the wonderful valour of Anaxius, with whom then rival in fame he entertained a terrible emulation, what bred terror in others, bred in him contentment; that his conquest, whereof he never doubted, might be endeared by the difficulty, and his victory be honoured by so honourable an enemy, with whom, above all others, he laboured to meet, by the ruin of many making a room where they might fight.

But in the meantime the torrent of the violence of Anaxius was interrupted by a sudden tumult; seeming to proceed from an ambushment broken forth from the houses behind them. And no wonder though all thought so: the two swords of Zelmane being riotous in their charges, were so covetous to extend their confines. She following, or rather, as a falcon in an earnest chase, flying down the stairs after him, did not overtake Anaxius but with her eyes till he was walled about with the armed multitude, and then, like a lioness lately enraged, that had been long famished in prison, she ranged over all for her prey: but yet like a cunning hound, that out of a whole herd of deer, doth only single him out with whom she had entered first in hostility (a little drop of his blood having betrayed all the rest) she disdained to fight with any other, but would be resisted by none till she might unbend all her forces on Anaxius, whose sight as soon as her eyes had greedily swallowed, she burst forth: “Base dastard, who hast abused the world with shadows of worth, yet art void of all valour, having doubly forfeited the usurped title of honour, in offering injurious violence to a woman, and yet flying the just violence of a woman, to hide thyself (being protected by the shield of some trusted attender) where the sufficiency of others may conceal thy cowardice: but all this shall not defraud my wrath, nor prevent thy punishment.”

Anaxius, more troubled with these words, than if all the swords of the enemies had lighted upon him (whom for the highest of all his wishes, would have but wished her a man, yea an army of men) looked over his shoulder with an eye burning with disdain, as if one of his looks might have served to consume a woman, and at the same instant, uttering his rage another way, with a blow worthy of his arm, he did cleave one before him through the helmet to the shoulders, making him so, by being two headed, headless. But seeing Zelmane press near him, though he hoped for no honour from her, yet to prevent dishonour from her (shame kindling rage, and rage quenching reason) he commanded Armagines his nephew, a youth of great valour, to take these foolish fellows prisoners who durst adventure within that castle without his leave, and to shut all the gates, that none of them might escape; and therewith whirling about, and casting a sideward look on Zelmane, made an imperious sign with a threatening allurement (a disinviting inviting of her) to follow, which she performed with a countenance witnessing as great contentment, as ever Venus did to most with Mars; Mars and Venus at the same time having met within her mind, to make, though a less loving, yet a more martial meeting.

The crowds of people in their way were quickly dispersed by the tempestuous breath of Anaxius, so that they had no hindrance: he being feared of all, and she hated of none. Neither was their solitary retiring, in respect of their different seeming sex, suspiciously censured by any: the disdainfulness of their countenance bearing witness, that they were led by hate to honour, and not by love to the contrary.

The place appointed by fortune to be famous by the famousness of this combat, was a back court, which they found out at that time emptied of inhabitants; the stronger being gone to pursue others, and the weaker run to hide themselves: mediocrity being no more a virtue, where all was at height, to make excellency eminent in extremity.

They two came here alone, for they would have no seconds, or rather were so far first as they could have no seconds, and every one of them being confident in his own worth could not mistrust another’s. As if words had been too weak messengers of their wrath, and swords only worthy to utter their minds, they began with that wherewith they hoped to end; none of them now could flatter himself so far against the proof of his own experienced knowledge, as to contemn his fellow.

Anaxius at the first, rioting in rage, and burning with a voluptuous appetite of blood, did abandon his hands to their accustomed prodigality, which contrary to the nature of that vice, was hurtful to the receiver, and profitable for the spender. But Zelmane, well weighing with whom she had to deal, was more wary in her charges, and circumspectly managing the treasure of her strength, would not idly bestow it, but was liberal when occasion offered. It was hard to say, whether the one was more frank, or the other more thankful: the guerdon never deferred, oft preventing the gift, above the desire of the receiver, yet short of the giver’s mind. Their thought, eye, hand, and foot seemed chained to one motion, as all being tuned by violence, to make up a harmony in horror. Never was courage better supported by skill and strength nor skill and strength better accompanied by courage; the blows of every one of them seemed not only to strive with the others, but even among themselves, for singularity; the latter still (by being more observable) seeking to bury the remembrance of the former.

It seemed that these two were not retired from the battle, but that the battle was transferred where they were. The eye might well have taken them to be two, but the ear would never have been persuaded that so mighty sounds could be sent but from the weapons of a number; the environing windows with a sad solitariness seemed to bewail their want of eyes, which defrauded them the entertainment of that delectable terror, transporting sports.

Anaxius more angry with himself than with his enemy, that he should be so long in vanquishing, where, when victorious, he would be but ashamed of the victory, all his active powers being highly bended, both by choler and courage, he thus discharged his tongue: “What spiteful god, jealous of my greatness, or envying my glory, hath sent this devil in a woman’s shape (as a cloud for Juno to Ixion) to mock me? but all this is one: though thou be a devil in a woman, or all the devils in one devil, I swear by this blow, I will beat thee hence to the hells, to the eternal terror of all the dark region;” and with that lighted on Zelmane with such a huge force, that all she could procure by the mediation of one of her swords, was, that what was intended wholly at her head, by the wrying of her body, did but wound her a little on the shoulder. This was so far from dismaying her, that it did confirm, increase it could not, her resolution already at a height: Yet, though not more courage, she pretended more fury, compassing him about to espy advantages, and oft giving him feigned alarms, as bragging to make a breach in his breast, advanced her right-hand sword, which Anaxius beat down, and withal encroached to usurp a room in her right side: but Zelmane suddenly inclining to the left, gave him a flat blow with that hand’s sword, which returned back clad with the spoils of that part of the body which it had forced.

Both thus being already allied by blood, yet did strive for a more strict affinity: wounds, in regard of their frequency, being no more respected than blows were before. Though they met in divers colours, now both were clad in one livery, as most suitable to their present estate: being servants to one master, and rivals in preferment. Neither could showers of blood quench the winds of their wrath, which did blow it forth in great abundance, till faintness would have fain persuaded both that they were mortal, and though neither of them by another, yet both overcomable by death. Then despair came to reinforce the fight, joining with courage, not as a companion, but as a servant: for courage never grew desperate, but despair grew courageous; both being resolved, if not conquering, none of them should survive the other’s conquest, nor owe trophy but to death.

The greatest grief of the one was to die by a woman; and of the other, to die as a woman: both in respect of her apparel, and, as she thought, action; being matched by one man, who had o’ermatched multitudes of men. At last the great storm of blows being past, she rested one of her swords on the earth, either forced by faintness, or intending art, offering a thrust with the other, which Anaxius perceiving, did speedily repel: and with that (gathering his distressed strength together, as ready to remove, but first bent to give a gallant farewell) ran forward with such a violent violence on Zelmane (nought being able to resist his unresistable force) that she presently interposing her reposed sword, though it ran him through the heart, or rather he his heart upon it, it could not hinder him from running her through the body, and both to the earth, a brave flash of a dying light! a mighty thunder of a quenched lightning! Thus did he overthrow his overthrower: not falling till none was able to stand before him; whilst though he were vanquished, none could vaunt of the victory. His breast fell above the hand with the sword, as if he would needs die embracing it, even after death adoring that idol of his life, and his dead weight striving with Zelmane’s weak life, whilst she struggling to rise did break the sword, a part remaining under him, and the rest within her: thus hard it was to force Anaxius, though he was dead, and impossible while he lived.

Zelmane, after her rising, did draw the other sword out of him, as bent to return not interested in anything. She was stepping forward with a sword in each hand, and a part of one in her breast: a trophy of victory, yet a badge of ruin; never better weaponed, never more unfit for fighting; when lo all the followers of Anaxius, discomforted by his absence, but more by the black knight’s presence, Armagines having his death honoured by his hand, the rest were quickly discomfited, and, despairing to save the castle, sought to save themselves.

The black knight committed the following of their flight to others, as a dangerless action, and therefore not worthy of him; then fearing that elsewhere for another which he could no more find there for himself, he went by the direction of his eyes, and the information of his ears, to seek out the two retired champions, when suddenly he encountered his other self, marching like Pallas from the giant’s overthrow.

As soon as the eyes of Pyrocles, no, his soul was ravished with the sight of Musidorus, it having infused a fresh vigour in his feeble members, and that physic applied to his mind, triumphing over the infirmity of his body; he threw away his swords, only conquerable by kindness, and pulled out that which was in his body, that nothing might hinder him from embracing the image of his soul, which reflected his own thoughts. Their souls by a divine sympathy did first join, preventing the elemental masses of the bodies: but ah! whilst they were clasped in each other’s arms (like two grafts grafted in one stock) the high tide of over-flowing affection restraining their tongues with astonishment, as unable to express an unexpressible passion.

Pyrocles weakened with the loss of blood, the effects of hate, and in that weakness surcharged with kindness, the fruits of love, not able to abide the interchoking of such extremities, the paleness of his face witnessed the parting of his spirits, so that not able to stand, Musidorus was forced to fall with him, or else would not stand after him. And at the suddenness of his unexpected adventure, or vehemently respectable misadventure; like one (who unawares slipping from a great height) is choked betwixt the height and the lowness, ere he can consider, either whence he fell, or where he falls. Being thrown from the top of contentment, to be drowned in the depths of misery, he had his reasonable part so hastily overwhelmed with confusion, that he remained dead alive, as the other was living in death. At last, re-assembling his confounded senses from the rocks of ruin, grief had gathered so much strength through weakness, as to attempt an impossibility in manifesting itself.

“O what a monster of misery am I! even when most fortunate, most unfortunate, who never had a lightning of comfort, but that it was suddenly followed with a thunder of confusion. Twice was my felicity by land (that it might be washed for ever away) made a prey to the inexorable waves, whilst the relenting destinies pitying the rigour of their own decrees, to prevent their threatened effects, would have drowned me in (respecting the ocean of sorrow prepared to swallow me) that little drop of the sea. And, O thrice happy I, if I had perished whilst I was altogether unhappy; then, when a dejected shepherd offensive to the perfection of the world, I could hardly, being oppressed by contempt, make myself worthy to be disdained, disdain to be despised, being a degree of grace. O would to God that I had died obscurely, whilst my life might still have lived famous with others, and my death have died with myself; whilst my not being known might have kept my dishonour unknown, even then when matched, matched by one, and in the presence of many fighting for one who was more dear to me than all the world. Ah me! most miserable, in not being more miserable. Such a pestilentious influence poisoned the time of my nativity, that I have had a spark of happiness, to clear me the way to destruction. I was carried high to be fit for a precipice, and that from that height I might behold how low the dungeons were wherein I was to fall. Even now I was so far from fear, that I was higher than hope, being in imagination master of all my wishes; yet at an instant, as if all that could be inflicted on myself were not sufficient to afflict me, being armed with resolution, both to brave the terrors of death, and to contemn the flatteries of life, I am tormented in another, whose sufferings could only make me tenderly sensible. And with that, sorrow, as it were sorry to be interrupted by utterance, did damn itself up to swell higher, feeding on the contemplation of itself within: where, when absolute tyrant of the breast, it might rather burst him, than burst out.”

Then he was lying down senselessly on his senseless friend, as in all estates striving to be still like him, when lo he felt his breast beat, and thereafter saw his unclouded eyes weakly strive to shine again; thus first re-saluting the light, “Oh where am I?” Musidorus replied: “With him who is hasting to die with you.” “No,” said he, “I have hastened to live with you.” “Death or life,” said Musidorus, “either of them must join us, but neither of them is able to part us.” With that Pyrocles, weakly rising, entrusted his feet with their own burden, but Musidorus, jealous of the carriage of so precious a treasure, would needs aid them with his arm, his strength strengthening Pyrocles, and the weakness of Pyrocles weakening him.

Thus, whilst guided by one, who was acquainted with the castle, they were seeking out a room, where Pyrocles reposing might cause take a trial of the estate of his body, and repair the bloody breaches of the late battery; it being, though evil fortified, yet well defended: as they were walking along a gallery, they heard, from a chamber neighbouring the side of it, a dolorous sound, but so heavily delivered with a disorderly convoy, that choked with sobs, else drowned with tears, the pains of the bearer had so spoiled the birth that it could not be known; yet a secret sympathy, by an unexpressible working, did more wound the mind of Pyrocles, than it was wounded by all the wounds of his body, he pitying his complaint, though not knowing from whom, nor for what: “O how the soul, apt for all impressions transcending reason, can comprehend unapprehensible things;” this was the lamentation of the lamentable Philoclea.

The ladies after the departure of Zelmane, by the inundation in their ears of horrible sounds, were violently invited to come fearfully to a window overlooking the court, where they beheld the bloody effects of that, whereof they were the innocent causes. At first the lilies of their cheeks overgrowing the roses, paleness had almost displaced beauty, were it not beauty was so powerful as to make paleness beautiful; yet their often travelled memory instructed their judgment, that misery being at a height, could not but of force either work the end of itself, or a beginning of comfort, and they could expect no worse estate than that in which they were.

Pamela would fain have flattered herself to think that it was Musidorus come to deliver her, but she had rather have still remained captive than to have drawn him to such a danger for her delivery; and having once apprehended that he was there, never a blow was given but that she was wounded with it, being ever sorry for the overthrown, never glad for the overthrower; either pity prevailing with the tenderness of her sex, or because she knew no danger could come by overcoming.

As for Philoclea, she who through the gentleness of her own nature would have smarted for any other who had been in danger, when she remembered the hazard of her treasure Zelmane, who, as she knew, did not use to be an idle spectator of so earnest a game, a multitude of thoughts, without art artificial, did paint fear in her face, and engrave grief in her bosom. Whilst they continued thus, Pamela, in vain striving to match majesty with affection, stood with a distracted stateliness, and with a stately astonishment, where grief and fear in Philoclea made easily a consort in sorrow, with watery eyes, like the sun shining in a shower, weakly clearing a cloudy countenance; when suddenly they heard one cry, since the castle was won to set the ladies at liberty; but they who were well acquainted both with the frowns and smiles of fortune, as they had ever triumphed over the one, would not suffer themselves to be led captives by the other; neither could this accomplish their contentment, till they had the lords of that pleasant bondage, which they did value more than unvaluable liberty; the constrained activity of the body having nothing diminished the voluntary thraldom of the mind.

But ah! this smooth calm came only to make them the more sensible of the succeeding tempest, which the breath of one from below, roaring forth the death of Zelmane, did thunder up upon them. Pamela (like a rock amidst the sea, beaten both with the winds and with the waves, yet itself immoveable) did receive this rigorous charge with a constant, though sad countenance, and with fixed eyes witnessing the moving of her mind, yet neither uttering word, nor tear, as disdaining to employ their weakness in so great a grief. Such might have been the gesture of Niobe hearing the news of her children’s death, ere she was metamorphosed into a stone; like one, majesty triumphing over misery, who would rather burst strongly within than be disburdened by bursting out in an abject manner.

But, ah me, the confounded Philoclea, who, being the weaker, had received the sharpest assault, an affectionate fury forcing from her an absolute passion, which a dutiful kindness through compassion only provoked in her sister, she, smothered with so monstrous a weight, did sink down under it to the earth.

This made Pamela forget her other grief without any comfort, transferring her affection from her friend to her more than friendly sister; for whom she saw at that time her care might be more serviceable, wherewith she brought her to herself, and she herself to sorrow. At first the tongue and the eyes being too feeble instruments for so violent a passion, she used her hands, beating that breast which the most barbarous creature else in the world could not have done; offering those torn hairs as oblations to him after death, which had been the delights of his life; and deforming that face, the register of nature’s wonders, confirmed by the admiration of men. Which when Pamela, of a patient became a physician, sought to hinder, she thus said: “Alas! sister, you do not know what a treasure I have lost, even a treasure more worth than all the world was worthy to enjoy. Ah, pardon me thou, whom even death is not able to kill in my soul: pardon me, who have ever concealed thy secret, now to discover mine own, for while my life lasts, short may it be, and long it shall not be, I will show to all the world that, which, whilst thou livedst, I would have been ashamed to have shown to thyself even thy perfection and mine affection. Neither do I regard how the conceits of others censure my carriage in this; for there is no eye now, wherein I desire to appear precious, nor no opinion, whereof I crave to make a purchase; death may end my life, but not my love, which, as it is infinite, must be immortal. I would gladly use means to dispatch this miserable life; but it were a shame for me, if, after so great a disaster, sorrow only were not sufficient to kill me.” And with that beauty in the heaven of her face, two suns eclipsed, being wrapped up in paleness, she fell down grovelling on the ground.

Pyrocles, imagining what report might be made, and not doubting what effect it would work, bent to furnish physic for her mind, ere he sought any for his own body, came in at the door, whom Pamela, her arms and her tongue rivals in kindness, embracing, said, “Never more welcome, though ever welcome, Zelmane; thou who ever art victorious, hast thou likewise brought thyself away a trophy from death?” “Sweet ladies,” replied she, “who would faint to fight for such divine creatures as you are? and who could have force to fight against you?”

Philoclea, who at first, either dull through excessive dolour, did not conceive her sister’s words; or else suspecting, as she thought, her impossible desire to please her, all being doubtful to trust what they do extremely affect, did misconceive her meaning. She was raising her eyes to examine her ears: but the most trusty of her senses preventing both, by a palpable proof, gave her an absolute assurance; so that ere she could think Zelmane was at all to be embraced, finding herself embraced by Zelmane, she was lifted up to a heaven of joy, as before she had been sunk down in a hell of grief; never absolutely her own; but either ravished or ruined. Spying the blood on Zelmane’s garment, not knowing whether her own, or her enemy’s, she grew pale; and then, looking on her sister, she blushed, suspecting that she suspected the cause of her paleness, conferring it with her former plaints, to be more than a friendly kindness; but Zelmane, fearing what might be the effects of her fear, said, that she expected a congratulation of her victory, and not condoling of past danger, which was acquitted with the speechless answer of an affectionate look, and a passionate pressing of her hand.

Then Pamela, inquiring the perilous course of her short progress, she told how fortified with their fortune, trusting more to it than to her own valour, which, like their beauty, could not but prevail, she had first overthrown the two brethren of Anaxius; and thereafter, fighting with himself, it was her chance, God strengthening her weakness to punish his injustice, to kill him; she could not say overcome him, no, she was not ashamed to affirm, that though he was killed, she thought him not overcome, seeing both he died with opinion, and in action of victory; death preventing the knowledge of his last success. A rare happiness, his life and fortune having both but one bound.

Both highly praising her valour, and admiring her modesty, and glad of their own delivery, whereof they thought her the author, thoughts striving to express themselves the more powerfully without words, they were acknowledging the fame with a grateful countenance, and kindly affecting looks, when Zelmane, not complementally hunting that which she fled, but like one who with a glass reflects the force of the sun somewhere else, earnestly protested that she would be loth to usurp that which was due to another, especially in the owner’s presence. And, turning towards the black knight, who all the time stood aside as her attender, though armed, trembling for fear of one unarmed, who unarmed, would not have been so afraid of an army in arms, she freely affirmed, “There is the deliverer of us all, from whom we receive our liberty, to whom we owe ourselves, since it is that which makes us ourselves.”

Then the black knight, invited by the willing countenance of the princess, abasing his helmet, advanced more fearfully than to a battle, to kiss her hand: when Zelmane, courteously retired Philoclea a little distance from thence, as glad to confer with her, as to give her friend occasion to confer with Pamela, who presently, whilst the roses of his lips made a flower of affection with the lilies of her hands, knowing her own Dorus, at the suddenness of the assault, the moving of her mind was betrayed by the changes of her countenance, the blood of her face ebbing and flowing according to the tide of affection; yet borrowing a mask from hate, wherewith to hide love, she thus charged him, who already had yielded: “How durst you thus presume to present yourself in my presence, being discharged it, when you deserved the uttermost that reason could devise, or fury execute? Hath my dejected estate emboldened you to exalt yourself against me?” Then he, gathering courage from the extremity of despair, thus cleared his intention: “True it is, lady of my life, and shall be of my death, I was worthy then to have been banished from the world. But what of a world of worlds? I was banished from your sight, and, which is worst of all, deservedly. Neither come I now of contempt, but only to testify my obedience, which otherwise at this time might have been construed to a cowardice. Such a love as mine, wedded to virtue, can never be so adulterated by any accident, no, nor yet ravished by passion, as to bring forth a bastard disobedience, whereof my very conscience not being able to accuse my thoughts, I come to clear myself. But now, having performed all that was within the compass of my power, a part of my blood witnessing my affection, which I wish were confirmed by the rest: you may see, directness of my destiny, that no force can force me to anything, much less from your sight, save only your own will, which is unto me a law, yea, an oracle. And now when you see I do it not for fear of others, but only out of a reverence to you; if not for your satisfaction, yet for my punishment, so to persecute him whom you hate, I will go waste the remnant of my wretched days in some remote wilderness as not worthy to be seen of any, since odious in your sight: having, I hope, by many proofs prevailed thus much with your opinion, that after my death you will think there was some worth in me; though not worthy of your love.” When he, full of humble affection, was retiring himself with a courtesy as low as his thoughts; she, thinking enough done to try him, yet without seeming to trust him, whilst, though guilty of grief, her countenance could accuse her of no care, as out of a fresh remembrance, said, “That she would not have Dametas to lose a servant, nor Mopsa a suitor, by her means; and if he would needs return towards the lodges, that he should first expect some employment homewards from her.” Then he, as one, who fallen in the bottom of some deep water, coming to float above, in sight of land, receiveth some comfort, though still in danger, began to re-assemble his dispersed spirits again, looking more cheerfully. But ere his thoughts, every one of them overflowing another, could settle themselves in words, she, preventing the violence of so sudden a change, did call to her sister, by accusing their indiscretion, in holding these two so long by talking with them, from looking to themselves. Which Philoclea allowed, trembling with an earnest fear, to know in what estate Zelmane stood.

They two, injured by this courtesy, with an unwilling obedience accepted of it; more respecting the pleasure of others, than their own necessity. Pamela as only affecting Zelmane, offered her either all, or a part of their chamber: and she, her tongue rebelling against her heart, refused what she desired, pretending a lothness to trouble them. Then the sisters offered to accompany them; but, after they had a while coloured true kindness with ordinary compliments, Zelmane prevailed against herself, to go accompanied as she came: yet both looking as if they would have left their eyes behind them, as well as their hearts; as soon as they were by themselves in a chamber, Zelmane disapparelling herself, the black knight, though better skilled in giving, than in curing of wounds, yet lately experienced by passing the like danger, he would needs prove a surgeon: and after he had purchased the things necessary, having considered his wounds, he found none, save the last that went through the body, dangerous; and yet not deadly: thereafter melting their minds in discourses, either of them had his own contentment doubled by hearing of the others.

Then the black knight, taking leave for a while, locking the door behind him, went down to the court, to try if any spark of the late fire remained as yet to quench. For after the opposite party, as if their arms were not sufficient to arm them, unless their arms were armed with walls, ran to fortify themselves within houses, which had no strength save that which men were to afford them: he, who thought his own good fortune no better than a misfortune, till he was assured that his friend had the like, without whom no happiness of his could be accomplished, recommending the remnant of the adversary’s ruins to his two companions, had gone to learn if he were alike happy in all places: and they, fear freezing the courage, and dissolving the hearts of their scattered enemies, found quickly more throwing themselves weaponless at their feet, than they could have leisure severally to raise, so that they were more weary, though more contented with pardoning than they had been with punishing.

Some more crafty, or more fearful, cried out at the windows that they would surrender upon security of pardon. But they, scorning to capitulate with fugitives, who would not have done it with them when fighters: and disdaining all that, by the most large construction, could be wrested to the sense of constraint, they would not equal them with those who were already humble till they submitted in a more submissive manner, depending only on their free disposition. Which they, either trusting to the virtue of others, or mistrusting their own, having done the knight of the sheep was constrained, his wound bleeding in great abundance, which being made by an impoisoned dart, had inflamed all his body, to retire. The other, having received the keys of the gate, committed the chief captives to keepers, till the black knight’s coming, who presently thereafter exacting what conditions he pleased, did discharge them all. Then sentinels were set on the wall, and a company appointed to watch all night: when suddenly one came from their friend, to desire them to come and take their last farewell of him: a request wonderfully grieving them, yet quickly granted; yea, performed ere answered.

Being met, and all others retired, he with these words deeply wounded their souls. “Dear friends, whom I may justly call so, though none of us as yet doth know another; You see, I have acted my part, and the curtain must quickly be drawn. Death, the only period of all respects, doth dispense with a free speech. At a tilting in Iberia, where I was born, dedicated to the memory of the queen Andromana’s marriage, a novice in arms, amongst others, I ran in a pastoral show against the Corinthian knights, whom the success had preferred in the opinion of the beholders: till the worthily admirable princes, Musidorus and Pyrocles, drawn forth by the young prince Palladius, brought back the reputation to our party, and there did such things as might have honoured Mars, if he had been in any of their places, and made either of them worthy of his. Thereafter being drawn away from that country by an accident, the report whereof craves a longer time, and a stronger breath than the heavens are like to afford me, their glory tyrannizing over my rest, did kindle such flames in my bosom, that, burning with a generous ardour, I did resolve leaving my own country, as too strict a bound for my thoughts, to try my fortune, where I might either live famous, or die unknown; vowing withal to travel, till these princes were either the subject or witnesses of my valour. What passed in my way I pass over: perchance others may remember. At last, invited by fame, I came to this fatal country, it the band of my heart was, and now must be of my body: where first carried with curiosity, the fever of youth, I went to the Arcadian pastorals for my recreation, but found the ruin of my rest. There, blinded with beholding, and tormented with delight, my earnest eyes surfeited on the excellencies of the pattern of perfection, the quintessence of worth, even the most divinely divine Philoclea. Ah too adventurous eyes! Neither could this content them, but they would needs offer up her picture on the altar of my heart; where, by my thoughts their choice might be allowed, yea, and idolatrously advanced. For they, scorning the simple rudeness of the eyes, as easily defrauded of their too forwardly affected object, would securely entreasure it in a more precious place, by a piercing apprehension sinking it in the soul for ever. For a time, suffered as a stranger, and a shepherd, known as you know, by the name of Philisides, amongst the rest, I had the means to pour forth my plaints before her, but never to her, and, though overthrown, not rendered, I had concluded never to have thrown the dice betwixt hope and despair, so betraying my estate to the tyranny of another’s will. No, I was resolved she should never know her power in me, till I had known her mind of me: so that, if she would not raise me, she should not have means to insult over me. Thus if I had not procured pity, I should not have exposed myself to disdain.

“In the haughtiness of my heart, thinking nothing impossible, I durst promise myself, that, my deeds having purchased reputation, with words worthy of respect, I might venture the process of my affection. In the meantime I joined joyful with you in this late war now ended: though professing a general desire of glory, yet for a particular end, and happy end, since I send for her. But since whilst I lived, I had not the means, as I wished, to content her. I crave not, by the knowledge of this, after death to discontent her. It shall satisfy me, that I die before my hopes; and she cannot grieve for the loss of that which she never knew to be hers.”

With this, the other sliding apart to bear and bury his sorrow privately, the black knight, weeping, embraced him in his arms, and told him what he was, saying, he was glad that his vow was performed; he being a benefitted witness, not the endangered subject of his valour. Then contentment, budding forth in his countenance, flourished in a smile, and having kissed his friends, desiring to live in their memory, wished them as contented lives, as his was a death. He died as joyful as he left them sorrowful, who had known him a mirror of courage and courtesy, of learning and arms; so that it seemed that Mars had begotten him upon one of the Muses.

Musidorus, exceedingly sorrowful for this irreparable loss, was yet more sorrowful when he remembered himself to be in danger of a greater; and recommending the direction of all below to the knight of the pole, he went himself up to visit his patient, whom he found, though lying, yet resting; and though not sleeping, yet dreaming. As soon as he heard Musidorus, starting as one awakened out of a slumber, he looked on his face, grieved to see the impression of grief in it, he not knowing the cause, with an inquisitive amazement. But the other preventing that threatened tempest, did blow away the clouds that were gathered in his countenance; telling him that he had no interest in the anguish which then did afflict him. “What,” said Pyrocles, being passionately moved, “can Musidorus have anything wherein I have no interest?” “Aye,” said he, “and for the present a greater wonder; my grief may breed you joy, I having lost a friend, and you a rival.” Then he began to discourse unto him what was past. And beside that, which was justly deserved, pity adorning praise and praise augmenting pity, a generous passion so conquered the unconquerable Pyrocles, that he lamented him dead, whom he had not known; no, nor would never have loved alive, and undoubtedly would have wished him no better success than he had. Yea the very thing which before might have most discontented him, did then most content him; having his judgment confirmed by the like, in one of such worth.

After that, laid down in one bed together, friendship making them free, and solitariness bold, whilst their minds began to be delivered of all, wherewith they had a long time travelled, a maid came to the door, sent by the two sisters, to visit Zelmane, who hearing two, where she expected but one, and the one by the manner of his speech likely to be a man, did presently return, and reported to the ladies, who were lying together, that whereof her ears had given her sufficient assurance. At which news Pamela, burning within, sparkled forth these words to her sister: “What wonder though strangers ever wandering, wander from all things. Chiefly those of our sex, who being born to be bounded within houses, when they cannot be bounded within kingdoms, how can they be bounded by modesty? Yet, though I hate the deed, the respect of the doer, but more of us whose company she hath haunted, left her reproach, by the commentary of fame, be too largely extended, binds me to conceal her shame, that we blush not at it. But we must either free ourselves from her, or she herself from this slander.”

“Oh,” but answered the ever (and now more than ever) mild Philoclea, “we must not, sister, rashly condemn those whom we have oftentimes considerately approved, lest the change be in our judgment, and not in them. No doubt, because of the indisposition of her body, it was necessary that she should have someone to accompany her; perchance a woman mistaken, and if a man, who knows for what end? She, who being sound would acquaint herself with none, in this estate could not be acquainted with any.”

“It is an easy matter,” replied Pamela, “for one who can deceive to dissemble; neither is this a new acquaintance. You might have seen her use that knight who did come in with her, rather kindly than courteously; a preceding friendship overpassing present respects: for where a great familiarity is, no ceremonial duty can be observed.” Then Philoclea, having found her, could hardly restrain the violence of a just laughter. “As for that which you affirm last,” said she, “I cannot deny it: no, I dare assure you, and assure yourself I will assure nothing without assurance, that knight is the man of the world whom Zelmane most dearly loves, and yet I know, that neither would he offer nor she suffer her honour to be wronged, as you imagine.” This last wound was too deep for Pamela to speak after it: so that she, abandoning her heart to throw itself over the rock of unkindness, in danger to be drowned with her own tears, was thus prevented by Philoclea: “Dear sister, and if any word can express more dearness more dear than that, your using me not only as a sister, but as a friend in the highest degree of trust, would make me ashamed to mistrust you, or that you should be beholden to any other than to me for my secret. So might my strangeness justify your unkindness, though you should discover and condemn that which I know you will conceal, perchance approve, and further being by my imparting of it to you, made of the party, ere the report of others make you a judge; be bold my tongue: though my cheeks blush, yet they cover you. Be not ashamed, nay even glory to tell that Zelmane is the prince Pyrocles: he, whom you have heard so oft, yet ever to his honour named; and, to define him unto you more particularly, the friend of Musidorus, over whom with him you are jealous; they lying now in one bed, with no less love than I told you. Why he goes disguised with others, and why I am plain with you I need not tell; you may imagine. One God hath metamorphosed both, the one in a shepherd, the other in a woman; and we only can restore them to themselves, and themselves to the world, that they may grace it with the glory of their actions as they were wont to do.”

Then Philoclea, exchanging estates with her sister, words arrested by thoughts, she became sad, and the other joyful; who thinking herself well revenged of the past scorn, and having a sufficient pledge of her sister’s secrecy, began to complain of their father’s strict using of them, by surmisings of his own minding to mar their fortunes, so that where he should rejoice at such an occasion, if coming to the knowledge thereof, he would not fail to disappoint it, perchance with the ruin of the princes; which would not only prove a particular loss for them, but, which she lamented more, a general loss for all the world; depriving it of these patterns of virtue, who in all their actions did but point out the height of perfection, and encourage others to follow their footsteps in the way of worth. Therefore it behoved them to regard themselves, and seriously to consider a matter of so great importance. Then, both beginning to muse, night did cast the nets of sleep over their eyes, yet could not hinder their earnest thoughts from prosecuting the course of their own fancies: for what they were thinking when waking, they still dreamed when sleeping.

But ere the morning star began to retire, as giving place to a greater light, whose coming, it, as a forerunner, had only warned the world to attend, both awaked complaining of the night’s length, and having with passionate discourses worn away darkness, as weary of them, they arose and hastily apparelled themselves, though not in a curious, yet in a comely manner. Then, with a pretended charity, they would needs go visit the diseased patient, being themselves impatient. A little before their coming, Musidorus being gone to give order for the burial of Philisides, and, at the earnest desire of Pyrocles, of Anaxius, whose valour now had the full praise, from which his own presumption had derogated much whilst he lived: as they approached to his chamber door, they heard Pyrocles preparing his voice for the convoy of a sadly conceived, and weakly delivered song, which they resolved not to interrupt, attending the letter which followed.

More dangerous darts than death, love throws I spy,

Who by experience now know both their wounds:

Death pierc’d me all, yet could not make me die:

Love with a thought me in effect confounds.

The power of death, art sometimes may restrain,

Where love, I find, can never physic find:

Death only plagues the body but with pain,

Where love with pleasure doth torment the mind.

Death still to all alike none free doth leave;

Where partial love shafts but at some doth send:

Death with more mercy kills than love doth save:

Death’s end breeds rest, love never rests to end.

Death doth enlarge, where love imprisons still;

Death forc’d by fates; love willingly doth kill.

As soon as this song was ended, Pamela opened the door, saluting him still (so to disguise her knowledge) by the name of Zelmane; and asked in what estate she was with herself, who returned this answer; “How can I smart having such angels to give me comfort? Or how can I feel pain in their presence, whose faces are heavens of pleasure?” “Since,” said Pamela, “being only unfortunate by falling in our company, the hazard of your life hath procured our liberty, so that accidentally, though far from our intention, we have been the causes of all your trouble, how can we think of your pain, but as of our own? Or have any delight whilst you rest grieved?” “Wonders of worth,” said Zelmane, “I shall ever, whilst I live, reckon for my highest happiness my being honoured by your company; and as for my travels in this, they are by the success abundantly rewarded, since I could aspire to no higher good than I have compassed, having purchased you any contentment.”

Whilst that passionate Zelmane, with an animated fervency, did incorporate her hand with Philoclea’s, whose speaking looks, however some time out of modesty obliquely moving, had a continual revolution about his face; the black knight’s coming in drew Pamela’s spirits from her thoughts to her eyes. A gentleman followed him, directed from Basilius; who after his duty done to the ladies, having shown them that their father and mother were in good health, invited by their enquiring attendants, told how the first, whom prodigal fame had breathed forth with news, hastened by himself, as who carried an acceptable message in hope of benefit or thanks, certified the king how the castle was won, and his daughters delivered by the black knight, who before had put a period to the victories of Amphialus. At this Pamela looking on Musidorus, blushed; and he, though by no gesture betraying his joy, rejoiced, not because he heard himself praised, but because she heard him praised, and that Anaxius in a single combat was killed by Zelmane, she not long over-living the victory.

The king hearing this, who of his gracious nature would rather save one friend than destroy all his enemies, as if the delivery of his daughters had been a matter of small moment, and a gain too light to counterpoise so great a loss, did abandon his soul to the tyranny of sorrow, even more than majesty in a prince, or virtue in affliction, in the balances of reason, would have allowed of such weight. At this Zelmane’s smile was accompanied with Philoclea’s. But when he spoke of Gynecia’s griefs overgrowing the other, they grew pale, being afraid of the fountain from whence her tears did flow, lest it should drown them.

But whilst Gynecia (the messenger insisted) as run mad with anguish, enclosed in a chamber, would suffer none to come unto her; all wondered that her children being safe, a stranger’s death, or her husband’s grief, could weaken the known strength of her mind so much. The next messenger came, being the latter, and thereby the better informed, who sugared the first news with the assurance of Zelmane’s safety. Then the queen coming forth as after a great tempest, the sky of her countenance cleared, looking brighter than before. The king would have come himself here in person, but he was persuaded to send Philanax with a number of chosen men, to receive the castle and ladies; eftsoons being curious to know who cured Zelmane; when it was told him that the knight who won the castle would trust none with that save himself, he was sorry that one of his worth should be put to such trouble, and would needs have an ordinary surgeon sought out to undertake the charge. “In the meantime the queen came and brought out of a box a sovereign balm, which she hath sent by me to be applied to your wounds, fair Zelmane, not doubting but they will quickly become sound if her direction be observed, which is only that you rest and keep yourself quiet from company now, and by the way till she herself may use other remedies. And for this effect she entreats you, miracles of nature, her daughters, to forbear her company during this time: that your example, whose authority abused might embolden the indiscretion of inferiors, may be a law for others: and she assured me that she would by a secret spy learn how she were obeyed in this. Such a care hath she of this sweet lady’s health.”

By the end of this commission well did Zelmane and Philoclea know at whom in particular those general injunctions did only aim. This enjoined abstinence did give Zelmane a surfeit in sorrow, who had rather have continued still infirm, than to have recovered by so cruel a physic. And yet her misery was multiplied when she remembered the cause, whereof this, in respect of that which she did expect, was a slender issue, and but a little fury, sent to afflict her out of that hell of Gynecia’s breast, into whose company she was shortly to enter. Now the black knight, purposing to depart before Philanax arrived, brought his companion, the knight of the pole, as a partner of his victory, to kiss the ladies’ hands extenuating his own part, and preferring his: Those who have true worth in themselves, can never envy it in another. Thereafter advising him privately to have their little company in a readiness, he went with an uncounterfeited reverence, humbling himself before the idol of his soul, to know her will: telling her what he had done, being only done for her, he would attend thanks from no other; neither would he be known till he might be known for hers: and she, her countenance rather lightening courtesy than affection, desired him to return to his old master, and he should be restored to the estate which by his fault he had before justly forfeited; wishing that he would carry himself more moderately hereafter, if he would not incur her indignation, and raise all regard of him out of her memory.

Then Musidorus, as contented as one who had been brought from hell to heaven, with many vehement attestations to win trust with her, and imprecations against himself in case of perjury, wished, if ever his mind were so unhappy as to be surprised by any purpose tending in the least degree to grieve her, that he might never live till it took effect, but die ere it were discovered. And like a wary gamester, who having once advantage is loth to adventure again, willing to seal up his ears with the acceptable sounds which they had received, he took leave, leaving his heart with her, and taking hers with him. Then went he towards Pyrocles, the joy of his heart shining through his face, and acquainted him with his unwilling absenting himself, referring all further conference till their meeting at the arbour. And having in a complimental manner craved, but not desired employment from Philoclea, in any service after the funerals were performed, he marched with his troop away, the most part thinking that he went to meet Philanax: whilst Pamela from a window followed with her eyes, till clouds of dust did bury their object in the air.

Soon after their departure from the castle, about this time, Philanax arrived, who, immediately after he had received the castle in the king’s name, sought for the knight, whose gift, though not given by him, he esteemed it to be. For he, being generously judicious, thought it more fit that princes should defray obligations by rewards, every man being inferior to him to whom he stands indebted, than to be behind with any by being beholden; and hearing that he was gone by public enquiry for him, and praises of him, he witnessed to the world how highly his valour was valued. After he had saluted the princesses, he visited Zelmane, and told her how careful his master was to have those wounds cured, which in his service had been procured, that thereafter he might otherwise express his gratefulness. But Zelmane affirmed that though that blood which was shed had been followed by all the rest of her body; with the king’s former courtesies towards her, the deserving by the recompense was both preceded and exceeded. Then Philanax, loth to strive with deeds in words, desired her, if her health might serve, to provide for her removing with the rest to-morrow, otherwise, that should be done for her which she herself would direct.

Immediately after his departure Zelmane arose; and having apparelled herself, began to walk, not so much to try how she might comport with the intended journey, as that she might pretend any means which might afford her the satisfaction of Philoclea’s presence; where, violently carried by her thoughts, she came soon, but not so soon as she wished, and was wished: where Pamela apart entertaining her thoughts, she thus entered with Philoclea: “Dear love, Oh in what an ocean of troubles doth our estate continually float, yet hath never so much as attained the sight of any secure port. I see that this freedom will but bring us to a greater bondage: we are led from captivity, only to become captives. For where before those senseless walls were thought sufficient to guard us, we shall be watched now by one more jealous than Juno, with more eyes than ever Argus had. I would willingly convey you where I might enjoy you, and you a kingdom: but this, my infirmity first hindered, and the coming of Philanax hath altogether prevented. In the meantime, till for performing of that, a longed for occasion come, I must arm myself against your father’s folly, and your mother’s fury. The one’s might easily be deluded, but the other’s cannot be resisted, but by a show of yielding, which I must cunningly counterfeit: and therefore trust no external show; for whoever have my countenance, you have my heart.” Philoclea’s words were, that she cared not where she went, so it were with him, nor what she did, so it were warranted by his direction, as bent rather to burn her breast, than to let it lodge any thought which durst but doubt of the sufficiency of his intentions, since whatever circle they made, having always for their centre the excellency of his own worth. So parting, as if they had been to go to live in sundry kingdoms; though going to live in one company, night invited them to repose.

The next morning being saluted by the trumpet’s sounds, and all ready to remove, they were quickly transported over the lake; and as quickly, when landed, mounted by the provident care of Philanax, to finish their journey. But ere they came two or three miles off the lodges, Basilius met them, who embraced his daughters; not that he would go first to them, but that he would be last with Zelmane, whom he had kissed with his eyes, ere his lips were drawn from his daughters. And as soon as he had shown as much affection, encountering her, as his state before so many would permit: he said, that notwithstanding her countenance was the treasure in the world whereof he was most covetous, yet it grieved him that another should be so happy as to have procured her liberty rather than himself; and that it was his purpose, as a private adventurer, to have manifested his affection, fighting as a knight, not as a king, for her delivery.

Zelmane replying, that it had been against all reason, that so great a prince, on whom the lives of so many did depend, should have been hazarded for the life of one whose fall could extend no further than to her own ruin: “Your ruin,” said he, “I wish that mine were first; for it could not but follow after. And do not think that the black knight, or any other durst do more for you than I: yet such is the miserable estate of us kings, that we cannot prove men, but are compelled to move in our own sphere.”

The journey’s end cutting off their discourse, Gynecia was waiting on their alighting, and having first duty—tyrannizing over affection—carelessly kissed Pamela, disdainfully Philoclea, and vehemently Zelmane, thereafter enquiring of her wounds, thanks (though bestowing nothing defraying much) were courteously returned for the balm which was sent; she protesting that if no other thing could help, she would pull out her own heart, when Basilius interrupted them, coming to have lightened his heart, by burdening his body with his mistress’s alighting.

Dametas came starting and leaping like a giddy kid to meet with Pamela; and as soon as she was alighted, for the first salutation, told her how much she was beholden to him, having shown his manhood and goodwill as much as the best fellow in these bounds could have done, swearing that he had ventured more for her than he would do for all the world again, and for his own life too; “Aye,” quoth he, “and when my man Dorus durst not be seen, who was thought a brave fellow, yet he feigned a business far from the noise of war, to seek sheep; but the truth is, to hide himself, whilst my deeds made all our army laugh for joy: so that during all that time of trouble, which I tremble yet to think upon, I never heard of him, till even now he sent me word by a shepherd, whom he met on the way, that he had found the ewes which had strayed, with great difficulty, and was driving them at leisure, for fear they should miscarry. But when he comes, I promise I will make his cowardice be known for leaving me, when I would fain have left myself for fear.” “O but,” said Pamela, “you must not be offended, though every man be not so stout as you are; he may be an evil soldier, but yet a good shepherd: and I hope you keep him that he may keep sheep, not that he may kill men.” “Now in good faith,” said he, “I see you are not changed, for you were ever wise, and so you do continue still. I may well chide the fellow, but I will not beat him.”

Then all entering the lodge with Basilius, though the supper was ready, Gynecia would dress Zelmane’s wounds first, and Basilius would see them dressed; so by his despised importunateness restraining the torrent of Gynecia’s passions, which would but burst forth more furiously thereafter. This freeing Zelmane’s ears at that time, was but a relief to her, as they find who expel poison by counterpoison, she being as weary of him, as afraid of the other.

Then sitting down to the supper, more curious of a surfeit to their eyes, than for their sustenance to the rest of the body: the eyes of Basilius were ever feeding on the face of Zelmane with a fearful earnestness, save sometimes when they were constrained to retire by the violence of his wife’s looks, thinking that they with a jealous anger had upbraided his error, which she, otherwise busied, had never so much as observed. The one of her eyes was settled like a fixed star on Zelmane, the other like a wandering comet threatening confusion where it shined, strayed betwixt Zelmane, and her daughter Philoclea, watching and chastising with her look her stolen looks. Zelmane’s languishing lights made the table envied, whilst her dejected looks did only bless it, as scorning to look on any, since she might not look where she liked. Philoclea chained by thoughts to Zelmane, did imitate her being pensive, because she was pensive: yet like a cunning painter, who having fully fed his eyes with the affected object, turns back within himself, that his imagination may engrave it the more exactly within his memory, she would sometimes with a thievishly adventurous look spy Zelmane’s gesture, that she might the better counterfeit it in her countenance. As for Pamela, she kept her accustomed majesty, being absent where she was, and present where she was not. Then, the supper being ended, after some ambiguous speeches, which might, for fear of being mistaken, be taken in two senses, or else were altogether estranged from the speaker’s mind; speaking as in a dream, not what they thought, but what they would be thought to think: everyone retired to the lodge where they had used afore to lie; Basilius having first invited them the next morning to see a pastoral represented by the ordinary shepherds, to congratulate their prosperous return.

* * *[9]

After that Basilius, according to the oracle’s promise, had received home his daughters, and settled himself again in his solitary course and accustomed company, there passed not many days ere the now fully recomforted Dorus, having waited a time of Zelmane’s walking alone towards her little arbour took leave of his master Dametas’s husbandry to follow her. Near whereunto overtaking her, and sitting down together among the sweet flowers, whereof that place was very plentiful, under the pleasant shade of a broad leaved sycamore, they recounted one to another their strange pilgrimage of passions, omitting nothing which open hearted friendship is wont to lay forth, where there is cause to communicate both joys and sorrows, for indeed there is no sweeter taste of friendship than the coupling of souls in this mutuality, either of condoling or comforting; where the oppressed mind finds itself not altogether miserable, since it is sure of one which is feelingly sorry for his misery: and the joyful spends not his joy, either alone, or there where it may be envied; but may freely send it to such a well-grounded object, from whence he shall be sure to receive a sweet reflection of the same joy, and, as in a clear mirror of sincere goodwill, see a lively picture of his own gladness. But after much discourse on either part, Dorus, his heart scarce serving him to come to the point whereunto his then coming had been wholly directed, as loth in the kindest sort to discover to his friend his own unkindness, at length, one word emboldening another, made known to Zelmane, how Pamela upon his vehement oath to offer no force unto her, till he had invested her in the duchy of Thessalia, had condescended to his stealing her away to the next seaport. That besides the strange humours she saw her father more and more falling into, and unreasonable restraint of her liberty, whereof she knew no cause but light-grounded jealousies, added to the hate of that manner of life, and confidence she had in his virtue, the chiefest reason had won her to this was the late danger she stood in of losing him, the like whereof, not unlike to fall if this course were continued, she chose rather to die than again to undergo. That now they waited for nothing else but some fit time for their escape, by the absence of their three loathsome companions, in whom folly engendered suspicion. “And therefore now,” said Dorus, “my dear cousin, to whom nature began my friendship, education confirmed it, and virtue hath made it eternal; here have I discovered the very foundation whereupon my life is built: be you the judge betwixt me and my fortune. The violence of love is not unknown to you, and I know my case shall never want pity in your consideration. How all the joys of my heart do leave me, in thinking I must for a time be absent from you, the eternal truth is witness unto me, I know I should not so sensibly feel the pangs of my last departure. But this enchantment of my restless desire hath such authority in myself above myself, that I am become a slave unto it, I have no more freedom in mine own determination. My thoughts are now all bent how to carry away my burdenous bliss. Yet, most beloved cousin, rather than you should think I do herein violate that holy band of true friendship wherein I unworthy am knit unto you, command me stay. Perchance the force of your commandment may work such impression into my heart that no reason of mine own can imprint into it. For the gods forbid, the foul word of abandoning Pyrocles might ever be objected to the faithful Musidorus. But if you can spare my presence, whose presence no way serves you, and by the division of those two lodges is not oft with you: nay, if you can think my absence may, as it shall, stand you in stead, by bringing such an army hither, as shall make Basilius, willing or unwilling, to know his own hap, in granting you Philoclea, then I will cheerfully go about this my most desired enterprise, and shall think the better half of it already achieved, being begun in the fortunate hour of my friend’s contentment.”

These words, as they were not knit together with such a constant course of flowing eloquence as Dorus was wont to use, so was his voice interrupted with sighs, and his countenance with interchanging colour dismayed. So much his own heart did find him faulty to unbend any way the continual use of their dear friendship. But Zelmane, who had all this while gladly hearkened to the other tidings of their friends happy success, when this last determination of Dorus struck her attentive ears, she stayed a great while oppressed with a dead amazement. There came straight before her mind, made tender with woes, the images of her own fortune, her tedious longings, her causes to despair, the cumbersome folly of Basilius, the enraged jealousy of Gynecia, herself a prince without retinue; a man annoyed with the troubles of womankind, loathsomely loved, and dangerously loving. And now for the perfecting of all, her friend to be taken away by himself, to make the loss the greater by the unkindness. But within a while she resolutely passed over all inward objections; and preferring her friend’s profit to her own desire, with a quiet, but heavy look, she thus answered him: “If I bear thee this love, virtuous Musidorus, for mine own sake, and that our friendship grew, because I, for my part, might rejoice to enjoy such a friend, I should now so thoroughly feel my own loss, that I should call the heavens and earth to witness how cruelly you rob me of my greatest comfort, measuring the breach of friendship by mine own passion. But because indeed I love thee for thyself, and in my judgment judge of thy worthiness to be loved, I am content to build my pleasure upon thy comfort, and then will I deem my hap in friendship great when I shall see thee, whom I love, happy. Let me be only sure thou lovest me still, the only price of true affection: go therefore on, worthy Musidorus, with the guide of virtue and service of fortune. Let thy love be loved, thy desires prosperous, thy escape safe, and thy journey easy. Let everything yield his help to thy desert, for my part absence shall not take thee from mine eyes, nor affliction shall bar me from gladding in thy good, nor a possessed heart shall keep thee from the place it hath for ever allotted unto thee.”

Dorus would fain have replied again, to have made a liberal confession that Zelmane had of her side the advantage of well-performing friendship: but partly his own grief of parting from one he loved so dearly, partly the kind care in what state she should leave Zelmane, bred such a conflict in his mind, that many times he wished he had either never attempted, or never revealed his secret enterprise. But Zelmane, who had now looked to the utmost of it, and established her mind upon an assured determination: “My only friend,” said she, “since to so good towardness your courteous destinies have conducted you, let not a ceremonial consideration of our mutual love be a bar unto it. I joy in your presence, but I joy more in your good: that friendship brings forth the fruits of enmity which prefers his own tenderness before his friend’s damage. For my part, my greatest grief herein shall be, I can be no further serviceable unto you.” “O Zelmane,” said Dorus, with his eyes even covered with water, “I did not think so soon to have displayed my determination unto you, but to have made my way first in your loving judgment. But alas! as your sweet disposition drew me so far, so doth it now strengthen me in it. To you therefore be the due commendation given; who can conquer me in love, and love in wisdom. As for me, then shall goodness turn to evil, and ungratefulness be the token of a true heart, when Pyrocles shall not possess a principal seat in my soul, when the name of Pyrocles shall not be held of me in devout reverence.”

They would never have come to the cruel instant of parting, nor to the ill-faring word of farewell, had not Zelmane seen afar off the old Basilius, who having performed a sacrifice to Apollo, for his daughters’, but principally for his mistress’s happy return, had since been everywhere to seek her. And now being come within compass of discerning her, he began to frame the loveliest countenance he could, stroking up his legs, setting his beard in due order, and standing bolt upright. “Alas!” said Zelmane, “behold an evil fore-token of your sorrowful departure. Yonder see I one of my furies, which doth daily vex me, farewell, farewell my Musidorus, the gods make fortune to wait on thy virtues, and make me wade through this lake of wretchedness.” Dorus burst out into a flood of tears, wringing her fast by the hand. “No, no,” said he, “I go blindfold whither the course of my ill hap carries me: for now, too late, my heart gives me this our separating can never be prosperous. But if I live, attend me here shortly with an army.” Thus both apparelled with the grievous renting of their first combination, having first resolved with themselves that whatsoever fell upon them, they should never upon any occasion utter their names, for the conserving the honour of their royal parentage, but keep the names of Daiphantus and Palladius, as before had been agreed between them, they took divers ways: Dorus to the lodge-ward, where his heavy eyes might be something refreshed; Zelmane towards Basilius, saying to herself, with a scornful smiling, “Yet hath not my friendly fortune deprived me of a pleasant companion.” But he, having with much search come to her presence, doubt and desire bred a great quarrel in his mind. For his former experience had taught him to doubt; and true feeling of love made doubts dangerous, but the working of his desire had ere long won the field. And therefore, with the most submissive manner his behaviour could yield, “O goddess,” said he, “towards whom I have the greatest feeling of religion, be not displeased at some show of devotion I have made to Apollo, since he, if he knew anything, knows that my heart bears far more awful reverence to yourself, than to his, or any other the like deity.” “You will ever be deceived in me,” answered Zelmane; “I will make myself no competitor with Apollo, neither can blasphemies to him be duties to me.” With that Basilius took out of his bosom certain verses he had written, and kneeling down, presented them to her. They contained this:

Phoebus, farewell, a sweeter saint I serve,

The high conceits, thy heav’nly wisdom’s breed,

My thoughts forget: my thoughts which never swerve

From her in whom is sown their freedom’s seed,

And in whose eyes my daily doom I read.

Phoebus, farewell, a sweeter saint I serve,

Thou art far off, thy kingdom is above;

She heav’n on earth with beauties doth preserve,

Thy beams I like, but her clear rays I love:

Thy force I fear, her force I still do prove.

Phoebus yield up thy title in my mind;

She doth possess, thy image is defac’d,

But if thy rage some brave revenge will find,

On her, who hath in me thy temple raz’d,

Employ thy might, that she my fires may taste,

And how much more her worth surmounteth thee,

Make her as much more base by loving me.

“This is my hymn to you,” said he, “not left me by my ancestors, but begun in myself. The temple wherein it is daily sung is my soul; and the sacrifice I offer to you withal is all whatsoever I am.” Zelmane, who ever thought she found in his speeches the ill taste of a medicine, and the operation of a poison, would have suffered a disdainful look to have been the only witness of her good acceptation but that Basilius began afresh to lay before her many pitiful prayers and in the end to conclude that he was fully of opinion it was only the unfortunateness of that place that hindered the prosperous course of his desires. And therefore since the hateful influence, which made him embrace this solitary life was now passed over him, as he doubted not the judgment of Philanax would agree with his, and his late mishaps had taught him how perilous it was to commit a prince’s state to a place so weakly guarded, he was now inclined to return to his palace in Mantinea, and there he hoped he should be better able to show how much he desired to make all he had hers: with many other such honey words, which my pen grows almost weary to set down. This indeed nearly pierced Zelmane: for the good beginning she had obtained of Philoclea made her desire to continue the same trade, till the more perfecting of her desires; and to come to any public place she did deadly fear, lest her mask by many eyes might the sooner be discovered, and so her hopes stopped, and the state of her joys endangered. Therefore a while she rested, musing at the daily changing labyrinth of her own fortune, but in herself determined it was her only best to keep him there, and with favours to make him love the place where the favours were received, as disgraces had made him apt to change the soil.

Therefore, casting a kind of corner-look upon him, “It is truly said,” said she, “that age cooleth the blood. How soon, good man, you are terrified before you receive any hurt? Do you not know that daintiness is kindly unto us? And that hard obtaining, is the excuse of woman’s granting? Yet speak I not as though you were like to obtain, or I to grant. But because I would not have you imagine I am to be won by courtly vanities, or esteem a man the more because he hath handsome men to wait on him, when he is afraid to live without them.” You might have seen Basilius humbly swell, and, with a lowly look, stand upon his tiptoes; such diversity her words delivered unto him. “O Hercules,” answered he, “Basilius afraid? Or his blood cold that boils in such a furnace? Care I who is with me while I enjoy your presence? Or is any place good or bad to me, but as it pleaseth you to bless or curse it? O let me be but armed in your good grace, and I defy whatsoever there is or can be against me. No, no, your love is forcible, and my age is not without vigour.”

Zelmane thought it not good for his stomach to receive a surfeit of too much favour, and therefore thinking he had enough for the time to keep him from any sudden removing, with a certain gracious bowing down of her head towards him, she turned away, saying she would leave him at this time to see how temperately he could use so bountiful a measure of her kindness. Basilius, that thought every drop a flood that bred any refreshment, durst not further press her, but with ancient modesty left her to the sweet repast of her own fancies. Zelmane, as soon as he was departed, went toward Pamela’s lodge in hope to have seen her friend Dorus, to have pleased herself with another painful farewell, and further to have taken some advice with him touching her own estate, whereof before sorrow had not suffered her to think. But being come even near the lodge, she saw the mouth of a cave, made as it should seem by nature in despite of art, so fitly did the rich growing marble serve to beautify the vault of the first entry. Under foot the ground seemed mineral, yielding such a glistering show of gold in it as they say the river Tagus carries in his sandy bed. The cave framed out into many goodly spacious rooms, such as self-liking men have with long and learned delicacy found out the most easeful: there ran through it a little sweet river, which had left the face of the earth to drown herself for a small way in this dark but pleasant mansion. The very first show of the place enticed the melancholy mind of Zelmane, to yield herself over there to the flood of her own thoughts. And therefore, sitting down in the first entry of the cave’s mouth, with a song she had lately made, she gave a doleful way to her bitter affects, and sung to this effect:

Since that the stormy rage of passions dark

(Of passions dark, made dark by beauty’s light)

With rebel force, hath clos’d in dungeon dark

My mind, ere now led forth by reason’s light.

Since all the things which give mine eyes their light.

Do foster still the fruits of fancies dark:

So that the windows of my inward light

Do serve to make my inward powers dark.

Since, as I say, both mind and senses dark

Are hurt, not help’d, with piercing of the light:

While that the light may show the horrors dark,

But cannot make resolved darkness light:

I like this place, where at the least the dark

May keep my thoughts from thought of wonted light.

Instead of an instrument, her song was accompanied with the wringing of her hands, the closing of her weary eyes, and even sometimes cut off with the swelling of her sighs, which did not suffer the voice to have his free and native passage. But, as she was a while musing upon her song, raising up her spirits, which were something fallen into the weakness of lamentation, considering solitary complaints do no good to him whose help stands without himself, she might afar off first hear a whispering sound, which seemed to come from the inmost part of the cave, and being kept together with the close hollowness of the place, had, as in a trunk, the more liberal access to her ears, and by and by she might perceive the same voice deliver itself into musical tunes, and with a base Lyra give forth this song:

Hark, plaintful ghosts, infernal furies, hark

Unto my woes the hateful heavens do send,

The heavens conspir’d to make my vital spark

A wretched wreck, a glass of ruin’s end.

Seeing, alas, so mighty powers bend

Their ireful shot against so weak a mark,

Come cave, become my grave, come death, and lend

Receipt to me, within thy bosom dark.

For what is life to daily dying mind,

Where, drawing breath, I suck the air of woe:

Where too-much sight makes all the body blind,

And highest thoughts downward most headlong throw?

Thus then my form, and thus my state I find,

Death wrapp’d in flesh, to living grave assign’d.

And pausing but a little, with mournful melody it continued this octave:

Like those sick folks in whom strange humours flow,

Can taste no sweets, the sower only please,

So to my mind, while passions daily grow,

Whose fiery chains, upon his freedom seize;

Joys strangers seem, I cannot bide their show,

Nor brook aught else but well-acquainted woe.

Bitter griefs taste best, pain is my ease,

Sick to the death, still loving my disease.

“O Venus,” said Zelmane, “who is this so well acquainted with me, that can make so lively a portraiture of my miseries? It is surely the spirit appointed to have care of me, which doth now, in this dark place, bear part with the complaint of his unhappy charge. For if it be so, that the heavens have at all times a measure of their wrathful harms, surely so many have come to my blissless lot that the rest of the world hath too small a portion to make with cause so wailful a lamentation. But,” said she, “whatsoever thou be, I will seek thee out, for thy music well assures me we are at least-hand fellow-prentices to one ungracious master.” So rose she and went, guiding herself by the still plaining voice, till she saw upon a stone a little wax-light set, and under it a piece of paper, with these verses very lately, as it should seem, written in it:

How is my sun, whose beams are shining bright,

Become the cause of my dark ugly night?

Or how do I, captiv’d in this dark plight,

Bewail the case, and in the cause delight?

My mangled mind huge horrors still do fright,

With sense possessed, and claim’d by reason’s right:

Betwixt which two in me I have this fight:

Where who so wins, I put myself to flight.

Come cloudy fears, close up my dazzled sight,

Sorrows suck up the marrow of my might,

Due sighs blow out all sparks of joyful light,

Tire on despair upon my tired spright.

An end, an end, my dull’d pen cannot write,

Nor maz’d head think, nor falt’ring tongue recite.

And hard underneath the sonnet were these words written:

This cave is dark, but it had never light.

This wax doth waste itself, yet painless dies.

These words are full of woes, yet feel they none.

I darkened am, who once had clearest sight.

I waste my heart, which still new torments tries.

I plain with cause, my woes are all mine own.

No Cave, no wasting wax, no words of grief,

Can hold, show, tell my pains without relief.

She did not long stay to read the words, for not far off from the stone she might discern in a dark corner, a lady lying with her face so prostrate upon the ground that she could neither know nor be known. But, as the general nature of man is desirous of knowledge, and sorrow especially glad to find fellows, she went, as softly as she could convey her feet, near unto her, where she heard these words come with vehement sobbings from her. “O darkness,” said she, “which dost lightsomely, methinks, make me see the picture of my inward darkness: since I have chosen thee to be the secret witness of my sorrows, let me receive a false receipt in thee; and esteem them not tedious, but, if it be possible, let the uttering them be some discharge to my over-laden breast. Alas! sorrow, now thou hast the full sack of my conquered spirits, rest thyself awhile, and set not still new fire to thy own spoils: O accursed reason, how many eyes thou hast to see thy evils, and how dim, nay blind thou art in perceiving them? Forlorn creature that I am! I would I might be freely wicked, since wickedness doth prevail: but the footsteps of my overtrodden virtue lie still as bitter accusations against me. I am divided in myself, how can I stand? I am overthrown in myself, who shall raise me? Vice is but a nurse of new agonies, and the virtue I am divorced from, makes the hateful comparison the more manifest. No, no, virtue, either I never had but a shadow of thee, or thou thyself are but a shadow. For how is my soul abandoned? How are all my powers laid waste? My desire is pained because it cannot hope, and if hope came, his best should be but mischief. O strange mixture of human minds; only so much good left, as to make us languish in our own evils. Ye infernal furies, for it is too late for me to awake my dead virtue, or to place my comfort in the angry gods, ye infernal furies, I say, aid one that dedicates herself unto you; let my rage be satisfied, since the effect of it is fit for your service. Neither be afraid to make me too happy, since nothing can come to appease the smart of my guilty conscience, I desire but to assuage the sweltering of my hellish longing dejected Gynecia.”

Zelmane no sooner heard the name of Gynecia, but that, with a cold sweat all over her, as if she had been ready to tread upon a deadly stinging adder, she would have withdrawn herself, but her own passion made her yield more unquiet motions than she had done in coming. So that she was perceived, and Gynecia suddenly risen up, for indeed it was Gynecia, gotten into the cave, the same cave wherein Dametas had safely kept Pamela in the late uproar, to pass her pangs, with change of places. And as her mind ran still upon Zelmane, her piercing lover’s eye had soon found it was she. And seeing in her countenance to fly away, she fell down at her feet, and catching fast hold of her: “Alas!” said she, “whither, or from whom dost thou fly away? The savagest beasts are won with service, and there is no flint but may be mollified: how is Gynecia so unworthy in thine eyes? or whom cannot abundance of love make worthy? O think not that cruelty, or ungratefulness can flow from a good mind! O weigh, alas! weigh with thyself the new effects of this mighty passion, that I, unfit for my estate, uncomely for my sex, must become a suppliant at thy feet! By the happy woman that bare thee, by all the joys of thy heart, and success of thy desire, I beseech thee turn thyself to some consideration of me, and rather show pity in now helping me, than in too late repenting my death, which hourly threatens me.” Zelmane imputing it to one of her continual mishaps, thus to have met with this lady, with a full weary countenance; “Without doubt, Madam,” said she, “where the desire is such as may be obtained, and the party well deserving as yourself, it must be a great excuse that may well colour a denial: but when the first motion carries with it a direct impossibility, then must the only answer be, comfort without help, and sorrow to both parties; to you not obtaining, to me not able to grant.” “O,” said Gynecia, “how good leisure you have to frame these scornful answers? Is Gynecia thus to be despised? Am I so vile a worm in your sight? No, no, trust to it hard-hearted tiger, I will not be the only actor of this tragedy: since I must fall, I will press down some others with my ruins; since I must burn, my spiteful neighbours shall feel my fire. Dost thou not perceive that my diligent eyes have pierced through the cloudy mask of thy disguisement? Have I not told thee, O fool (if I were not much more fool) that I knew thou wouldst abuse us with thy outward show? wilt thou still attend the rage of love in a woman’s heart? The girl, thy well-chosen mistress, perchance shall defend thee when Basilius shall know how thou hast sotted his mind with falsehood, and falsely sought the dishonour of his house. Believe it, believe it, unkind creature, I will end my miseries with a notable example of revenge, and that accursed cradle of mine shall feel the smart of my wound, thou of thy tyranny, and lastly (I confess) myself of mine own work.”

Zelmane that had long before doubted herself to be discovered by her, and now plainly finding it was, as the proverb saith, like them that hold the wolf by the ears, bitten while they hold, and slain if they loose. If she held her off in these wonted terms, she saw rage would make her love work the effects of hate; to grant unto her, her heart was so bound upon Philoclea, it had been worse than a thousand deaths. Yet found she it was necessary for her to come to a resolution, for Gynecia’s sore could bide no leisure, and once discovered, besides the danger of Philoclea, her desires should be for ever utterly stopped. She remembered withal the words of Basilius, how apt he was to leave this life, and return to his court, a great bar to her hopes. Lastly, she considered Dorus’s enterprise might bring some strange alteration of this their well-liked fellowship. So that encompassed with these instant difficulties, she bent her spirits to think of a remedy, which might at once both save her from them, and serve her to the accomplishment of her only pursuit. Lastly, she determined thus, that there was no way but to yield to the violence of their desires, since striving did the more chafe them. And that following their own current, at length of itself it would bring her to the other side of her burning desires.

Now in the meanwhile, the divided Dorus, long divided between love and friendship, and now for his love divided from his friend, though indeed without prejudice of friendship’s loyalty, which doth never bar the mind from his free satisfaction: yet still a cruel judge over himself, thought he was some ways faulty, and applied his mind how to amend it with a speedy and behoveful return. But then was his first study, how to get away, whereto already he had Pamela’s consent confirmed and concluded under the name of Mopsa in her own presence: Dorus taking this way, that whatsoever he would have of Pamela he would ask her, whether in such a case it were not best for Mopsa so to behave herself, in that sort making Mopsa’s envy an instrument of that she did envy. So having passed over his first and most feared difficulty, he busied his spirits how to come to the harvest of his desires, whereof he had so fair a show. And thereunto (having gotten leave for some days of his master Dametas, who now accounted him as his son-in-law) he roamed round about the desert, to find some unknown way that might bring him to the next seaport, as much as might be out of all course of other passengers: which all very well succeeding him, and he having hired a barque for his life’s traffic, and provided horses to carry her thither, returned homeward, now come to the last point of his care, how to go beyond the loathsome watchfulness of these three uncomely companions, and therein did wisely consider how they were to be taken with whom he was to deal, remembering that in the particularities of everybody’s mind and fortune, there are particular advantages, by which they are to be held. The muddy mind of Dametas he found most easily stirred with covetousness. The cursed mischievous heart of Miso, most apt to be tickled with jealousy, as whose rotten brain could think well of nobody. But young mistress Mopsa, who could open her eyes upon nothing that did not all to be-wonder her, he thought curiosity the fittest bait for her. And first for Dametas, Dorus having employed a whole day’s work, about a ten mile off from the lodge, quite contrary way to that he meant to take with Pamela, in digging and opening the ground under an ancient oak that stood there, in such sort as he might longest hold Dametas’s greedy hopes in some show of comfort, he came to his master with a countenance mixed between cheerfulness and haste, and taking him by the right hand, as if he had a great matter of secrecy to reveal unto him: “Master,” said he, “I did never think that the gods had appointed my mind freely brought up to have so longing a desire to serve you, but that they minded thereby to bring some extraordinary fruit to one so beloved of them as your honesty makes me think you are. This binds me even in conscience to disclose that which I persuade myself is allotted unto you, that your fortune may be of equal balance with your deserts.” He said no further, because he would let Dametas play upon the bit a while, who not understanding what his words intended, yet well finding they carried no evil news, was so much the more desirous to know the matter, as he had free scope to imagine what measure of good hap himself would. Therefore putting off his cap to him, which he never had done before, and assuring him he should have Mopsa, though she had been all made of cloth of gold, he besought Dorus not to hold him long in hope, for that he found a thing his heart was not able to bear. “Master,” answered Dorus, “you have so satisfied me with promising me the utmost of my desired bliss, that if my duty bound me not, I were in it sufficiently rewarded. To you therefore shall my good hap be converted, and the fruit of my labour dedicated.” Therewith he told him, how under an ancient oak (the place he made him easily understand by sufficient marks he gave to him) he had found digging but a little depth, scatteringly lying a great number of rich medals, and that, piercing further into the ground he had met with a great stone, which, by the hollow sound it yielded, seemed to be the cover of some greater vault, and upon it a box of cypress, with the name of the valiant Aristomenes, graven upon it: and that within the box he found certain verses, which signified that some depth again under that all his treasures lay hidden, what time for the discord fell out in Arcadia, he lived banished. Therewith he gave Dametas certain medals of gold he had long kept about him, and asked him, because it was a thing much to be kept secret, and a matter one man in twenty hours might easily perform, whether he would have him go and seek the bottom of it, which he refrained to do till he knew his mind, promising he would faithfully bring him what he found, or else that he himself would do it, and be the first beholder of that comfortable spectacle; no man need doubt which part Dametas would choose, whose fancy had already devoured all this great riches, and even now began to grudge at a partner, before he saw his own share. Therefore taking a strong jade, laden with spades and mattocks, which he meant to bring back otherwise laden, he went in all speed thitherward, taking leave of nobody, only desiring Dorus he would look well to the princess Pamela, promising him mountains of his own labour, which nevertheless he little meant to perform, like a fool, not considering, that no man is to be moved with part, that neglects the whole. Thus away went Dametas, having already made an image in his fancy, what palaces he would build, how sumptuously he would fare, and among all other things imagined what money to employ in making coffers to keep his money; his ten miles seemed twice so many leagues, and yet contrary to the nature of it, though it seemed long, it was not wearisome. Many times he cursed his horse’s want of consideration, that in so important a matter would make no greater speed: many times he wished himself the back of an ass to help to carry away the new sought riches (an unfortunate wisher, for if he had as well wished the head, it had been granted him). At length being come to the tree, which he hoped should bear so golden acorns, down went all his instruments, and forthwith to the renting up of the hurtless earth, where by and by he was caught with the lime of a few promised medals, which was so perfect a pawn unto him of his further expectation that he deemed a great number of hours well employed in groping further into it, which with logs and great stones was made as cumbersome as might be, till at length, with sweaty brow, he came to the great stone. A stone, God knows, full unlike to the cover of a monument, but yet there was the cypress box with “Aristomenes” graven upon it, and these verses written in it.

A banish’d man, long barr’d from his desire

By inward lets, of them his state possessed,

Hid here his hopes, by which he might aspire

To have his harms with wisdom’s help redressed.

Seek then and see what man esteemeth best,

All is but this, this is our labour’s hire:

Of this we live, in this we find our rest;

Who holds this fast no greater wealth require,

Look further then, so shalt thou find at least,

A bait most fit for hungry minded guest.

He opened the box, and to his great comfort read them, and with fresh courage went about to lift up that stone. But in the meantime, ere Dametas was half-a-mile gone to the treasure-ward, Dorus came to Miso, whom he found sitting in the chimney’s end, babbling to herself, and showing by all her gestures that she was loathsomely weary of the world, not for any hope of a better life, but finding no one good, neither in mind nor body, whereout she might nourish a quiet thought, having long since hated each thing else, began now to hate herself. Before this sweet humoured dame Dorus set himself, and framed towards her such a smiling countenance, as might seem to be mixed between a tickled mirth and a forced pity. Miso, to whom cheerfulness in others was ever a sauce of envy in herself, took quickly mark of his behaviour, and with a look full of forworn spite: “Now the devil,” said she, “take these villains that can never leave grinning, because I am not so fair as mistress Mopsa, to see how this skipjack looks at me.” Dorus, that had the occasion he desired, “Truly mistress,” answered he, “my smiling is not at you, but at them that are from you, and indeed I must needs a little accord my countenance with others’ sport.” And therewithal took her in his arms, and rocking her to and fro, “In faith mistress,” said he, “it is high time for you to bid us good night for ever, since others can possess your place in your own time.” Miso, that was never void of malice enough to suspect the uttermost evil, to satisfy a further shrewdness, took on a present mildness, and gently desired him to tell her what he meant; “For,” said she, “I am like enough to be knavishly dealt with by that churl my husband.” Dorus fell off from the matter again, as if he had meant no such thing, till by much refusing her entreaty, and vehemently stirring up her desire to know, he had strengthened a credit in her to that he should say. And then with a formal countenance, as if the conscience of the case had touched himself. “Mistress,” said he, “I am much perplexed in mine own determination, for my thoughts do ever will me to do honestly, but my judgment fails me what is honest, betwixt the general rule, that entrusted secrecies are holily to be deserved, and the particular exception, that the dishonest secrecies are to be revealed; especially there, where by revealing they may either be prevented, or at least amended. Yet in this balance your judgment weighs me down, because I have confidence in it, that you will use what you know moderately, and rather take such faults as advantage to your own good desert, than by your bitter using it be contented to be revenged on others with your own harms. So it is, mistress,” said he, “that yesterday driving my sheep up to the stately hill which lifts his head over the fair city of Mantinea, I happened upon the side of it, in a little falling of the ground, which was a rampier against the sun’s rage, to perceive a young maid, truly of the finest stamp of beauty; and that which made her beauty the more admirable, there was at all no art added to the helping of it: for her apparel was but such as shepherds’ daughters are wont to wear; and as for her hair, it hung down at free liberty of his goodly length, but that sometimes falling before the clear stars of her sight, she was forced to put it behind her ears, and so open again the treasures of her perfection, which that for a while had in part hidden. In her lap there lay a shepherd so wrapped up in that well-liked place, that I could discern no piece of his face, but as mine eyes were intent in that, her angel-like voice struck mine ears with this song.

My true love hath my heart, and I have his,

By just exchange, one for the other giv’n:

I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss;

There never was a bargain better driv’n.

His heart in me, keeps me and him in one,

My heart in him, his thoughts and senses guide:

He loves my heart, for once it was his own,

I cherish his, because in me it bides.

His heart his wound received from my sight:

My heart was wounded with his wounded heart,

For as from me, on him his hurt did light;

So still me thought in me his heart did smart:

Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss,

My true love hath my heart, and I have his.

“But as if the shepherd that lay before her had been organs, which were only to be blown by her breath, she had no sooner ended with the joining her sweet lips together, but that he recorded to her music this rural poesy.

O words which fall like summer dew on me,

O breath more sweet, than is the growing bean;

O tongue in which all honeyed liquors be,

O voice that doth the thrush in shrillness strain;

Do you say still, this is her promise due,

That she is mine, as I to her am true.

Gay hair, more gay than straw when harvest lies,

Lips red and plump, as cherry’s ruddy side,

Eyes fair and great like fair great ox’s eyes;

O breast in which two white sheep swell in pride:

Join you with me, to seal this promise due,

That she be mine, as I to her am true.

But thou white skin, as white as curds well pressed,

So smooth as sleek stone, like it smooths each part:

And thou dear flesh, as soft as wool new dressed,

And yet as hard as brawn, made hard by art:

First four but say, next four their saying seal,

But you must pay the gage of promis’d weal.

“And with the conclusion of his song he embraced her about the knees. ‘O sweet Charita,’ said he, ‘when shall I enjoy the rest of my toiling thoughts; and when shall your blissful promise, now due, be verified with just performance?’ With that I drew nearer to them and saw, for now he had lifted up his face to glass himself in her fair eyes, that it was my master Dametas”; but here Miso interrupted his tale with railing at Dametas, with all those exquisite terms, which I was never good scold enough to imagine. But Dorus, as if he had been much offended with her impatiency, would proceed no further till she had vowed more stillness: “For,” said he, “if the first drum thus chafe you, what will you be when it comes to the blows.” Then he told her, how after many familiar entertainments betwixt them, Dametas, laying before her his great credit with the king, and withal giving her very fair presents, with promise of much more, had at length concluded together to meet that night at Mantinea in the Oudemian Street, at Charita’s uncle’s house, about ten of the clock. After which bargain Dametas had spied Dorus, and, calling him to him, had with great bravery told him all his good hap, willing him in any case to return to the old witch Miso; “for so indeed, mistress of liveliness, and not of ill-will, he termed you, and to make some honest excuse of his absence. ‘For,’ said he, kissing Charita, ‘if thou didst know what a life I lead with that drivel, it would make thee even of pity receive me into thy only comfort.’ ‘Now mistress,’ said he, ‘exercise your discretion, which if I were well assured of, I would wish you to go yourself to Mantinea, and (lying secret in some one of your gossip’s houses till the time appointed come) so may you find them together, and using mercy reform my master from his evil ways.’”

There had nothing more enraged Miso than the praises Dorus gave to Charita’s beauty, which made her jealousy swell the more with the poison of envy. And that being increased with the presents she heard Dametas had given her, which all seemed torn out of her bowels, her hollow eyes yielded such wretched looks, as one might well think Pluto at that time might have had her soul, very good, cheap. But when the fire of spite had fully caught hold of all her inward parts, then whosoever would have seen the picture of Alecto, or with what manner of countenance Medea killed her own children, needed but take Miso for the full satisfaction of that point of his knowledge. She that could before scarce go but supported by crutches, now flew about the house, borne up by the wings of anger; there was no one sort of mortal revenge that had ever come to her ears, but presented itself now to her gentle mind. At length with few words, for her words were choked up with the rising of her revengeful heart, she ran down, and with her own hands saddled a mare of hers; a mare that seven years before had not been acquainted with the saddle, and so to Mantinea she went, casting with herself how she might couple shame with the punishment of her accursed husband: but the person is not worthy in whose passion I should too long stand.

Therefore now must I tell you that mistress Mopsa, who was the last party Dorus was to practice his cunning withal, was at the parting of her parents attending upon the princess Pamela, whom, because she found to be placed in her father’s house, she knew it was for suspicion the king had of her. This made Mopsa with a right base nature, which joys to see any hard hap happen to them they deem happy, grow proud over her, and use great ostentation of her own diligence, in prying curiously into each thing that Pamela did. Neither is there anything sooner overthrows a weak heart than opinion of authority, like too strong a liquor for so feeble a glass; which joined itself to the humour of envying Pamela’s beauty, so far that oft she would say to herself, if she had been born a princess as well as Pamela, her perfections then should have been as well seen as Pamela’s. With this manner of woman, and placed in these terms, had Dorus to play his last part, which he would have quickly dispatched in tying her up in such a manner that she should little have hindered his enterprise. But that the virtuous Pamela, when she saw him so minded, by countenance absolutely forbid it, resolutely determining she would not leave behind her any token of wrong: since the wrong done to herself was the best excuse of her escape: so that Dorus was compelled to take her in the manner he first thought of, and accordingly Pamela sitting musing at the strange attempt she had condescended unto, and Mopsa hard by her (looking in a glass with very partial eyes) Dorus put himself between them, and casting up his face to the top of the house, struggling all over his body, and stamping sometimes upon the ground, gave Mopsa occasion (who was as busy as a bee to know anything) to ask her lover Dorus what ailed him, that made him use so strange a behaviour: he, as if his spirits had been ravished with some supernatural contemplation, stood still mute, sometimes rubbing his forehead, sometimes starting in himself, that he set Mopsa in such an itch of inquiry that she would have offered her maidenhead, rather than be long kept from it. Dorus not yet answering to the purpose, still keeping his amazement: “O Hercules,” said he, “resolve me in this doubt. A tree to grant one’s wishes! Is this the cause of the king’s solitary life? which part shall I take? happy in either, unhappy because I cannot know which were my best hap.” These doubtful self-speeches, made Mopsa yet in a further longing of knowing the matter: so that the pretty pig, laying her sweet burden about his neck, “My Dorus,” said she, “tell me these words, or else I know not what will befall me, honey Dorus, tell them me.” Dorus having stretched her mind upon a right last: “Extremely loved Mopsa,” said he, “the matters be so great, as my heart fails me in the telling them: but since you hold the greatest seat in it, it is reason your desire should add life unto it.” Therewith he told her a far-fetched tale; how that many millions of years before, Jupiter fallen out with Apollo, had thrown him out of heaven, taking from him the privilege of a god. So that poor Apollo was fain to lead a very miserable life, unacquainted to work, and never used to beg, that in this order having in time learned to be Admetus’s herdsman, he had upon occasion of fetching a certain breed of beasts out of Arcadia, come to that very desert, where wearied with travel, and resting himself in the boughs of a pleasant ash tree, which stood a little off from the lodge, he had with pitiful complaints, gotten his father Jupiter’s pardon, and so from that tree was received again to his golden sphere. But having that right nature of a god, never to be ungrateful, to Admetus he had granted a double life: and because that tree was the chapel of his prosperous prayers, he had given it this quality, that whatsoever of such estate, and in such manner as he then was, sat down in that tree, they should obtain whatsoever they wished. This Basilius having understood by the oracle, was the only cause which had made him try, whether framing himself to the state of an herdsman, he might have the privilege of wishing only granted to that degree; but that having often in vain attempted it, because indeed he was not such, he had now opened the secret to Dametas, making him swear he should wish according to his direction. “But because,” said Dorus, “Apollo was at that time with extreme grief, muffled round about his face, with a scarlet cloak Admetus had given him, and because they that must wish, must be muffled in like sort, and with like stuff, my master Dametas is gone I know not whither, to provide him a scarlet cloak, and to-morrow doth appoint to return with it. My mistress, I cannot tell how, having gotten some inkling of it, is trudged to Mantinea, to get herself a cloak before him, because she would have the first wish. My master at his parting, of great trust told me this secret, commanding me to see nobody should climb that tree. But now Mopsa,” said he, “I have here the like cloak of mine own, and am not so very a fool, as though I keep his commandments in others, to bar myself. I rest only extremely perplexed, because having nothing in the world I wish for, but the enjoying you and your favour, I think it a much pleasanter conquest to come to it by your own consent, than to have it by such a charming force as this is. Now therefore choose, since have you I will, in what sort I shall have you.” But never child was so desirous of a gay puppet, as Mopsa was to be in the tree, and therefore without squeamishness, promising all he would, she conjured him by all her precious loves that she might have the first possession of the wishing tree, assuring him that for the enjoying her, he would never need to climb far. Dorus, to whom time was precious, made no great ceremonies with her; but helping her up to the top of the tree, from whence likewise she could ill come down without help, he muffled her round about the face, so truly, that she herself could not undo it. And so he told her the manner was, she should hold her mind in continual devotion to Apollo, without making at all any noise, till at the farthest within twelve hours’ space, she should hear a voice call her by name three times, and that till the third time she must in no wise answer; “and then you shall not need to doubt your coming down, for at that time,” said he, “be sure to wish wisely, and in what shape soever he come unto you, speak boldly unto him, and your wish shall have as certain effects as I have a desire to enjoy your sweet love.” In this plight did he leave Mopsa, resolved in her heart to be the greatest lady in the world, and never after to feed on worse than frumenty.

Thus Dorus having delivered his hands of his three tormentors, took speedily the benefit of his device, and mounting the gracious Pamela upon a fair horse he had provided for her, he thrust himself forthwith into the wildest part of the desert, where he had left marks to guide him from place to place to the next seaport, disguising her very fitly with scarfs; although he rested assured he should meet that way with nobody, till he came to his bark, into which he meant to enter by night. But Pamela, who all this while transported with desire and troubled with fear, had never free scope of judgment to look with perfect consideration into her own enterprise, but even by the laws of love, had bequeathed the care of herself upon him, to whom she had given herself; now that the pang of desire, with evident hope was quieted, and most part of the fear passed, reason began to renew his shining in her heart, and make her see herself in herself; and weigh with what wings she flew out of her country; and upon what ground she built so strong a determination. But love, fortified with her lover’s presence, kept still his own in her heart; so that as they rode together, with her hand upon her faithful servant’s shoulder, suddenly casting her bashful eyes to the ground, and yet binding herself towards him (like the client that commits the cause of all his worth to a well-trusted advocate) from a mild spirit said unto him these sweetly delivered words: “Prince Musidorus, for so my assured hope is I may justly call you, since with no other my heart would ever have yielded to go; and if so I do not rightly term you, all other words are as bootless, as my deeds miserable, and I as unfortunate, as you wicked, my prince Musidorus, I say now that the vehement shows of your faithful love towards me have brought my mind to answer it in so due a proportion, that contrary to all general rules of reason, I have laid in you my estate, my life, my honour: it is your part to double your former care, and make me see your virtue no less in preserving, than in obtaining: and your faith to be a faith as much in freedom, as bondage. Tender now your own workmanship, and so govern your love towards me, that I may still remain worthy to be loved. Your promise you remember, which here by the eternal givers of virtue I conjure you to observe, let me be your own as I am, but by no unjust conquest; let not our joys which ought ever to last, be stained in our own consciences, let no shadow of repentance steal into the sweet consideration of our mutual happiness; I have yielded to be your wife, stay then till the time that I may rightly be so; let no other defiled name burden my heart, what should I more say? if I have chosen well, all doubt is past, since your action only must determine, whether I have done virtuously or shamefully in following you.”

Musidorus, that had more abundance of joy in his heart than Ulysses had what time with his own industry he stole the fatal Palladium, imagined to be the only relic of Troy’s safety, taking Pamela’s hand, and many times kissed it. “What I am,” said he, “the gods I hope will shortly make your own eyes judge; and of my mind towards you, the meantime shall be my pledge unto you; your contentment is dearer to me than mine own, and therefore doubt not of his mind, whose thoughts are so thralled unto you, as you are to bend or slack them as it shall seem best unto you. You do wrong to yourself, to make any doubt that a base estate could ever undertake so high an enterprise or a spotted mind be able to behold your virtues. Thus much only I confess, I can never do, to make the world see you have chosen worthily, since all the world is not worthy of you.” In such delightful discourses, kept they on their journey, maintaining their hearts in that right harmony of affection, which doth interchangeable deliver each to other the secret workings of their souls, till with the unusual travel, the princess being weary, they alighted down in a fair thick wood, which did entice them with the pleasantness of it to take their rest there. It was all of pine trees, whose broad heads meeting together, yielded a perfect shade to the ground, where their bodies gave a spacious and pleasant room to walk in, they were set in so perfect an order that every way the eye being full, yet no way was stopped. And even in the midst of them, were there many sweet springs which did lose themselves upon the face of the earth. Here Musidorus drew out such provisions of fruits and other cates, as he had brought for that day’s repast, and laid it down upon the fair carpet of the green grass. But Pamela had much more pleasure to walk under those trees, making in their barks pretty knots, which tied together the names of Musidorus and Pamela, sometimes intermixedly changing them, to Pammidorus and Musimela, with twenty other flowers of her travelling fancies, which had bound themselves to a greater restraint than they could without much pain well endure: and to one tree more beholding to her than the rest, she entrusted the treasure of her thoughts in these verses:

Do not disdain, O straight up-raised pine,

That wounding thee, my thoughts in thee I grave:

Since that my thoughts as straight as straightness thine,

No smaller wound, alas! far deeper have.

Deeper engraved, which salve nor time can save,

Giv’n to my heart, by my forewounded eyne:

Thus cruel to myself how canst thou crave

My inward hurt should spare thy outward rine?

Yet still fair tree, lift up thy stately line,

Live long, and long witness my chosen part,

Which barr’d desires, barr’d by myself, impart,

And in this growing-bark grow verses mine.

My heart my word, my word hath giv’n my heart;

The giver giv’n from gift shall never part.

Upon a root of the tree, that the earth had left something barer than the rest, she wrote this couplet:

Sweet root say thou, the root of my desire

Was virtue clad in constant love’s attire.

Musidorus, seeing her fancies drawn up to such pleasant contemplations, accompanied her in them, and made the trees as well bear badges of his passions, as this song engraved in them did testify:

You goodly pines, which still with brave ascent,

In nature’s pride your heads to heav’nward heave;

Though you besides such graces earth hath lent,

Of some late grace a greater grace receive.

By her who was (O blessed you) content

With her fair hand, your tender barks to cleave,

And so by you (O blessed you) hath sent,

Such piercing words as no thoughts else conceive.

Yet yield your grant, a baser hand may leave

His thoughts in you, where so sweet thoughts were spent,

For how would you the mistress’s thoughts bereave

Of waiting thoughts all to her service meant.

Nay higher thoughts (though thralled thoughts) I call

My thoughts then hers, who first your rind did rent:

Than hers, to whom my thoughts a lonely thrall

Rising from low, are to the highest bent;

Where hers, whom worth makes highest over all

Coming from her, cannot but downward fall.

While Pamela sitting her down under one of them, and making a poesy of the fair undergrowing flowers, filled Musidorus’s ears with the heavenly sound of her music, which before he had never heard, so that it seemed unto him a new assault given to the castle of his heart, already conquered: which to signify, and withal reply to her sweet notes, he sung in a kind of still, but ravishing tune, a few verses: her song was this, and his reply follows.

PAMELA

Like divers flowers, whose divers beauties serve

To deck the earth with his well-coloured weed,

Though each of them, his private form preserve,

Yet joining forms one sight of beauty breed.

Right so my thoughts, whereon my heart I feed:

Right so my inward parts, and outward glass,

Though each possess a divers working kind;

Yet all well knit to one fair end do pass:

That he to whom these sundry gifts I bind,

All what I am, still one, his own, do find.

MUSIDORUS

All what you are still one, his own to find,

You that are born to be the world’s eye;

What were it else but to make each thing blind:

And to the sun with waxen wings to fly.

No, no, such force with my small force to try,

Is not my skill, or reach of mortal mind:

Call me but yours, my title is most high:

Hold me most yours, then my long suit is sign’d.

You none can claim but you yourself aright,

For you do pass yourself, in virtue’s might.

So both are yours: I bound with gaged heart:

You only yours, too far beyond desert.

In this virtuous wantonness, suffering their minds to descend to each tender enjoying their united thoughts, Pamela having tasted of the fruits, and growing extreme sleepy, having been long kept from it with the perplexity of her dangerous attempt, laying her head in his lap, was invited by him to sleep with these softly uttered verses:

Look up, fair lids, the treasure of my heart,

Preserve those beams, this age’s only light:

To her sweet sense, sweet sleep some ease impart,

Her sense too weak to bear her spirit’s might.

And while, O sleep, thou closest up her sight,

Her sight where love did forge his fairest dart,

O harbour all her parts in easeful plight:

Let no strange dream make her fair body start.

But, O dream, if thou wilt not depart

In this rare subject from thy common right:

But wilt thyself in such a seat delight,

Then take my shape, and play a lover’s part:

Kiss her from me, and say unto her sprite,

Till her eyes shine, I live in darkest night.

The sweet Pamela was brought into a sweet sleep with this song, which gave Musidorus opportunity at leisure to behold her excellent beauties. He thought her fair forehead was a field where all his fancies fought, and every hair of her head seemed a strong chain that tied him. Her fairer lids then hiding her fairer eyes, seemed unto him sweet boxes of mother-of-pearl, rich in themselves, but containing in them far richer jewels. Her cheeks with their colour most delicately mixed, would have entertained his eyes some while, but that the roses of her lips, whose separating was wont to be accompanied with most wise speeches, now by force drew his sight to mark how prettily they lay one over the other, uniting their divided beauties: and through them the eye of his fancy delivered to his memory the lying, as in ambush, under her lips of those armed ranks, all armed in most pure white, and keeping the most precise order of military discipline. And lest this beauty might seem the picture of some excellent artificer, forth there stole a soft breath, carrying good testimony of her inward sweetness: and so stealing it came out, as it seemed loath to leave his contentful mansion, but that it hoped to be drawn in again to that well-closed paradise, which did so tyrannize over Musidorus’s effects, that he was compelled to put his face as low to hers, as he could, sucking the breath with such joy that he did determine in himself there had been no life to a Chameleon’s if he might be suffered to enjoy that food. But long he was not suffered, being within a while interrupted by the coming of a company of clownish villains, armed with divers sorts of weapons, and for the rest both in face and apparel so forewasted that they seemed to bear a great conformity with the savages; who, miserably in themselves, taught to increase their mischiefs in other bodies’ harms, came with such cries that they both awaked Pamela, and made Musidorus turn unto them full of a most violent rage, with the look of a she-tiger when her whelps are stolen away.

But Zelmane, whom I left in the cave hardly bestead, having both great wits and stirring passions to deal with, makes me lend her my pen a while to see with what dexterity she could put by her dangers. For having in one instant both to resist rage, and go beyond wisdom, being to deal with a lady that had her wits awake in everything but in helping her own hurt, she saw now no other remedy in her case, but to qualify her rage with hope, and to satisfy her wit with plainness: Yet lest too abrupt falling into it, should yield too great advantage unto her, she thought good to come to it by degrees with this kind of insinuation. “Your wise, but very dark speeches, most excellent lady, are woven up in so intricate a manner that I know not how to proportion mine answer unto them: so are your prayers mixed with threats, and so is the show of your love hidden with the name of revenge, the natural effect of mortal hatred; you seem displeased with the opinion you have of my disguising, and yet if I be not disguised, you must needs be much more displeased. Hope then, the only succour of perplexed minds, being quite cut off, you desire my affection, and yet you yourself think my affection already bestowed. Your pretend cruelty, before you have the subjection, and are jealous of keeping that which as yet you have not gotten. And that which is strangest in your jealousy, is both the injustice of it, in being loth that should come to your daughter, which you deem good; and the vainness, since you two are so in divers respects, that there is no necessity one of you should fall to be a bar to the other. For neither, if I be such as you fancy, can I marry you, which must needs be the only end I can aspire to in her: neither need the marrying of her keep me from a grateful consideration, how much you honour me in the love you vouchsafe to bear me.” Gynecia, to whom the fearful agonies she still lived in made any small reproval sweet, did quickly find her words falling to a better way of comfort, and therefore, with a mind ready to show nothing could make it rebellious against Zelmane but too extreme tyranny, she thus said: “Alas, too much beloved Zelmane, the thoughts are but overflowings of the mind, and the tongue is but a servant of the thoughts; therefore marvel not that my words suffer contrarieties, since my mind doth hourly suffer in itself whole armies of mortal adversaries. But, alas, if I had the use of mine own reason, then should I not need, for want of it, to find myself in this desperate mischief: but because my reason is vanished, so have I likewise no power to correct my unreasonableness. Do you therefore accept the protection of my mind which hath no other resting place, and drive it not, by being unregarded, to put itself into unknown extremities. I desire but to have my affection answered, and to have a right reflection of my love in you. That granted, assure yourself mine own love will easily teach me to seek your contentment; and make me think my daughter a very mean price to keep still in mine eyes the food of my spirits. But take heed that contempt drive me not into despair, the most violent cause of that miserable effect.”

Zelmane who already saw some fruit of her last determined fancy, so far as came to a mollifying of Gynecia’s rage, seeing no other way to satisfy suspicion which was held open with the continual pricks of love, resolved now with plainness to win trust, which trust she might after deceive with a greater subtlety. Therefore looking upon her with a more relenting grace than ever she had done before, pretending a great bashfulness before she could come to confess such a fault, she thus said unto her: “Most worthy lady, I did never think till now, that pity of another could make me betray myself, nor that the sound of words could overthrow any wise body’s determination. But your words, I think, have charmed me, and your grace bewitched me. Your compassion makes me open my heart to you, and leave unharboured my own thoughts; for proof of it, I will disclose my greatest secret, which well you might suspect, but never know, and so have your wandering hope in a more painful wilderness, being neither way able to be lodged in a perfect resolution. I will, I say, unwrap my hidden estate, and after make you judge of it, perchance director. The truth is, I am a man: nay, I will say further to you, I am born a prince. And to make up your mind in a thorough understanding of me since I came to this place, I may not deny I have had some sprinkling of I know not what good liking to my lady Philoclea. For how could I ever imagine the heavens would have rained down so much of your favour upon me, and of that side there was a show of possible hope, the most comfortable counsellor of love. The cause of this my changed attire, was a journey two years ago I made among the Amazons, where, having sought to try my unfortunate valour, I met not one in all the country but what was too hard for me, till in the end, in the presence of their queen Marpesia, I hoping to prevail against her, challenged an old woman of fourscore years, to fight on horseback to the uttermost with me. Who having overthrown me, for the saving of my life, made me swear I should go like an unarmed Amazon, till the coming of my beard did, with the discharge of my oath deliver me of that bondage.”

Here Zelmane ended, not coming to a full conclusion, because she would see what it wrought in Gynecia’s mind, having in her speech sought to win a belief of her, and, if it might be, by disgrace of herself to diminish Gynecia’s affection. For the first it had much prevailed: but Gynecia, whose end of loving her was not her fighting, neither could her love, too deeply grounded, receive diminishment; and besides, she had seen herself sufficient proofs of Zelmane’s admirable prowess. Therefore slightly passing over that point of her feigned dishonour, but taking good hold of the confessing her manly sex, with the shamefaced look of that suitor, who having already obtained much, is yet forced by want to demand more, put forth her sorrowful suit in these words: “The gods,” said she, “reward thee for thy virtuous pity of my over-laden soul, who yet hath received some breath of comfort, by finding thy confession to maintain some possibility of my languishing hope. But alas! as they who seek to enrich themselves by mineral industry, the first labour is to find the mine, which to their cheerful comfort being found, if after any unlooked for stop, or casual impediment keep them from getting the desired ore, they are so much the more grieved, as the late conceived hope adds torment to their former want. So falls it out with me happy or hapless woman, as it pleaseth you to ordain, who am now either to receive some guerdon of my most woeful labours, or to return into a more wretched darkness, having had some glimmering of my blissful sun. O Zelmane, tread not upon a soul that lies under your foot: let not the abasing of myself make me more base in your eyes, but judge of me according to that I am, and have been, and let my errors be made excusable by the immortal name of love.” With that, under a feigned rage, tearing her clothes, she discovered some parts of her fair body, which if Zelmane’s heart had not been so fully possessed that there was no place left for any new guest, no doubt it would have yielded to that gallant assault. But Zelmane so much the more arming her determination, as, she saw such force threatened, yet still remembering she must wade betwixt constancy and courtesy, embracing Gynecia, and once or twice kissing her, “Dear lady,” said she, “he were a great enemy to himself, that would refuse such an offer, in the purchase of which a man’s life were blessedly bestowed. Nay, how can I ever yield due recompense for so excessive a favour? but having nothing to give you but myself, take that: I must confess a small but a very free gift: what other affection so ever I have had shall give place to as great perfection, working besides upon the bond of gratefulness. The gods forbid I should be so foolish as not to see, or so wicked, as not to remember, how much my small deserts are over-balanced by your unspeakable goodness. Nay, happy may I well account my mishap among the Amazons, since that dishonour hath been so true a path to my greatest honour, and the changing of my outward raiment hath clothed my mind in such inward contention. Take therefore, noble lady, as much comfort to your heart, as the full commandment of me can yield you: wipe your fair eyes, and keep them for nobler services. And now I will presume thus much to say unto you, that you make much of yourself for my sake, that my joys of my new obtained riches may be accomplished in you. But let us leave this place, lest you be too long missed, and henceforward quiet your mind from any further care, for I will now, to my too much joy, take the charge upon me, within few days to work your satisfaction, and my felicity.” Thus much she said, and withal led Gynecia out of the cave, for well she saw the boiling mind of Gynecia did easily apprehend the fitness of that lonely place. But indeed this direct promise of a short space, joined with the cumbersome familiarness of womankind, I mean modesty, stayed so Gynecia’s mind that she took thus much at that present for good payment, remaining with a painful joy, and a wearisome kind of comfort, not unlike to the condemned prisoner, whose mind still running upon the violent arrival of his death, hears that his pardon is promised, but not yet signed. In this sort they both issued out of that obscure mansion: Gynecia already half persuaded in herself, O weakness of human conceit, that Zelmane’s affection was turned towards her. For such, alas! we are all, in such a mould are we cast, that with the too much love we bear ourselves, being first our own flatterers, we are easily hooked with others’ flattery, we are easily persuaded of others’ love.

But Zelmane, who had now to play her prize, seeing no way things could long remain in that state, and now finding her promise had tied her trial to a small compass of time, began to throw her thoughts into each corner of her invention, how she might achieve her life’s enterprise: for well she knew deceit cannot otherwise be maintained but by deceit: and how to deceive such heedful eyes, and how to satisfy, and yet not satisfy such hopeful desires, it was no small skill. But both their thoughts were called from themselves with the sight of Basilius, who then lying down by his daughter Philoclea, upon the fair, though natural, bed of green grass, seeing the sun what speed he made to leave our west to do his office in the other hemisphere, his inward muses made him in his best music, sing this Madrigal.

Why dost thou haste away

O Titan fair, the giver of the day?

It is not to carry news

To western wights, what stars in east appear?

Or dost thou think that here

Is left a sun, whose beams thy place may use?

Yet stay and well peruse,

What be her gifts, that make her equal thee,

Bend all thy light to see

In earthly clothes enclos’d a heavenly spark:

Thy running course cannot such beauties mark.

No, no, thy motions be

Hastened from us with bar of shadow dark,

Because that thou the author of our sight

Disdain’st we see thee stain’d with others’ light.

And having ended; “Dear Philoclea,” said he, “sing something that may divert my thoughts from the continual task of their ruinous harbour:” she, obedient to him, and not unwilling to disburden her secret passion, made her sweet voice be heard in these words.

O stealing time, the subject of delay

(Delay, the rack of unrestrain’d desire)

What strange design hast thou my hopes to stay,

My hopes which do but to mine own aspire?

Mine own? O word on whose sweet sound doth prey

My greedy soul, with gripe of inward fire:

Thy title great I justly challenge may,

Since in such phrase his faith he did attire.

O time, become the chariot of my joys,

As thou drawest on, so let my bliss draw near,

Each moment lost, part of my hap destroys.

Thou art the father of occasion dear:

Join with thy son to ease my long annoys,

In speedy help, thank-worthy things appear.

Philoclea broke off her song as soon as her mother with Zelmane came near unto them, rising up with a kindly bashfulness, being not ignorant of the spite her mother bare her, and stricken with the sight of that person, whose love made all those troubles seem fair flowers of her dearest garland, nay, rather all those troubles made the love increase. For as the arrival of enemies makes a town to fortify itself as ever after it remains stronger, so that a man may say, enemies were no small cause of the town’s strength: so to a mind once fixed in a well-pleased determination, who hopes by annoyance to overthrow it, does but teach it to knit together all his best grounds, and so perchance of a chanceable purpose, make an unchangeable resolution. But no more did Philoclea see the wonted signs of Zelmane’s affection towards her, she thought she saw another light in her eyes, with a bold and careless look upon her, which was wont to be dazzled with her beauty; and the framing of her courtesies rather ceremonious than affectionate, and that which worst liked her, was, that it proceeded with such quiet settledness, that it rather threatened a full purpose than any sudden passion. She found her behaviour bent altogether to her mother, and presumed in herself she discerned the well-acquainted face of his fancies now turned to another subject. She saw her mother’s worthiness, and too well knew her affection. These joining their divers working powers together in her mind, but yet a prentice in the painful mystery of passions, brought Philoclea into a new traverse of her thoughts, and made her keep her careful look the more attentive upon Zelmane’s behaviour, who indeed, though with much pain, and condemning herself to commit a sacrilege against the sweet saint that lived in her inmost temple, yet strengthening herself in it; being the surest way to make Gynecia bite of her other baits, did so quite over-rule all wonted shows of love to Philoclea, and convert them to Gynecia, that the part she played did work in both a full and lively persuasion: to Gynecia, such excessive comfort, as the being preferred to a rival doth deliver to swelling desire, but to the delicate Philoclea, whose calm thoughts were unable to nourish any strong debate, it gave so stinging a hurt, that, fainting under the force of her inward torment, she withdrew herself to the lodge, and there, weary of supporting her own burden, cast herself upon her bed, suffering her sorrow to melt itself into abundance of tears; at length closing her eyes, as if each thing she saw was a picture of her mishap, and turning upon her heart-side, which, with vehement panting did summon her to consider her fortune, she thus bemoaned herself.

“Alas! Philoclea, is this the price of all thy pains? is this the reward of thy given-way liberty? hath too much yielding bred cruelty? or can too great acquaintance make me held for a stranger? hath the choosing of a companion made me left alone; or doth granting desire, cause the desire to be neglected? alas! despised Philoclea, why didst thou not hold thy thoughts in their simple course, and content thyself with the love of thine own virtue, which would never have betrayed thee? Ah, silly fool, didst thou look for truth in him that with his own mouth confessed his falsehood? for plain proceeding in him that still goes disguised? They say the falsest men will yet bear outward shows of a pure mind. But he that even outwardly bears the badge of treachery, what hells of wickedness must needs in the depth be contained? But O wicked mouth of mine, how darest thou thus blaspheme the ornament of the earth, the vessel of all virtue? O wretch that I am, that will anger the gods in dispraising their most excellent work: O no, no, there was no fault but in me, that could ever think so high eyes would look so low, or so great perfections would stain themselves with my unworthiness. Alas! why could I not see I was too weak a band to tie so heavenly an heart? I was not fit to limit the infinite course of his wonderful destinies. Was it ever like that upon only Philoclea his thoughts should rest? Ah silly fool, that couldst please thyself with so impossible an imagination! an universal happiness is to flow from him. How was I so inveigled to hope, I might be the mark of such a mind? He did thee no wrong, O Philoclea, he did thee no wrong, it was thy weakness to fancy the beams of the sun should give light to no eyes but to thine! And yet, O Prince Pyrocles, for whom I may well begin to hate myself, but can never leave to love thee, what triumph canst thou make of this conquest? What spoils wilt thou carry away of this my undeserved overthrow? could thy force find out no fitter field than the feeble mind of a poor maid, who at the first sight did wish thee all happiness? Shall it be said, the mirror of mankind hath been employed to destroy a hurtless gentlewoman? O Pyrocles, Pyrocles, let me yet call thee before the judgment of thy virtue, let me be accepted for a plaintiff in cause which concerns my life: what need hadst thou to arm thy face with the enchanting mask of thy painted passions? what need hadst thou to fortify thy excellencies with so exquisite a cunning, in making our own arts betray us? what needest thou descend so far from thy incomparable worthiness, as to take on the habit of weak womankind. Was all this to win the undefended castle of a friend, which being won, thou wouldst after raze? Could so small a cause allure thee? or did not so unjust a cause stop thee? O me, what say I more? this is my case, my love hates me, virtue deals wickedly with me, and he does me wrong, whose doings I can never account a wrong.” With that the sweet lady turning herself upon her weary bed she happily saw a lute, upon the belly of which Gynecia had written this song, what time Basilius imputed her jealous motions to proceed of the doubt she had of his untimely loves. Under which veil she, contented to cover her never ceasing anguish, had made the lute a monument of her mind, which Philoclea had never much marked, till now the fear of a competitor more stirred her, than before the care of a mother. The verses were these:

My lute within thyself thy tunes enclose,

Thy mistress’s song is now a sorrow’s cry,

Her hand benumb’d with fortune’s daily blows,

Her mind amaz’d can neither’s help apply.

Wear these my words as mourning weeds of woes,

Black ink becomes the state wherein I die,

And though my moans be not in music bound,

Of written griefs, yet be the silent ground.

The world doth yield such ill-consorted shows,

With circled course, which no wise stay can try,

That childish stuff which knows not friends from foes,

(Better despis’d) bewonder gazing eye.

Thus noble gold, down to the bottom goes,

When worthless cork, aloft doth floating lie.

Thus in thyself least strings are loudest found,

And lowest stops do yield the highest sound.

Philoclea read them, and throwing down the lute, “Is this the legacy you have bequeathed me, O kind mother of mine?” said she, “did you bestow the light upon me for this? or did you bear me to be the author of my burial? a trim purchase you have made of your own shame, robbed your daughter to ruin yourself? the birds unreasonable, yet use so much reason, as to make nests for their tender young ones; my cruel mother turns me out of mine own harbour; alas, plaint boots not, for my case can receive no help; for who should give me help? shall I fly to my parents? they are my murderers: shall I go to him, who already being won and lost, must needs have killed all pity? alas! I can bring no new intercessions; he knows already what I am is his. Shall I come home again to myself? O me, contemned wretch; I have given away myself.” With that the poor soul beat her breast, as if that had been guilty of her faults, neither thinking of revenge, nor studying for remedy, but, sweet creature, gave grief a free dominion, keeping her chamber a few days after, not needing to feign herself sick, feeling even in her soul the pangs of extreme pain.

But little did Gynecia reck that, neither when she saw her go away from them, neither when she after found that sickness made her hide her fair face, so much had fancy prevailed against nature. But O you that have ever known, how tender to every motion love makes the lover’s heart, how he measures all his joys upon her contentment: and doth with respectful eye hang his behaviour upon her eyes: judge I pray you now of Zelmane’s troubled thoughts when she saw Philoclea, with an amazed kind of sorrow, carry away her sweet presence, and easily found, so happy a conjecture unhappy affection hath, that her demeanour was guilty of that trespass. There was never foolish soft-hearted mother, that, forced to beat her child, did weep first for his pains, and doing that she was loth to do, did repent before she began, did find half that motion in her weak mind that Zelmane did, now that she was forced by reason to give an outward blow to her passions, and for the lending of a small time, to seek the usury of her desires. The unkindness she conceived Philoclea might conceive, did wound her soul, each tear she doubted she spent, drowned all her comfort. Her sickness was a death unto her. Often would she speak to the image of Philoclea, which lived and ruled in the highest of her inward part, and use vehement oaths, and protestations unto her; that nothing should ever falsify the free chosen vow she had made. Often would she desire her, that she would look well to Pyrocles’s heart, for as for her she had no more interest in it to bestow it any way: “Alas!” would she say, “only Philoclea hast thou not so much feeling of thine own force as to know no new conqueror can prevail against thy conquests? Was ever any dazzled with the moon that used his eyes to the beams of the sun? Is he carried away with a greedy desire of acorns that hath had his senses ravished with a garden of most delightful fruits? O Philoclea, Philoclea, be thou but as merciful a princess to my mind as thou art a true possessor, and I shall have as much cause of gladness, as thou hast no cause of misdoubting? O no, no, when a man’s own heart is the gage of his debt, when a man’s own thoughts are willing witnesses to his promise; lastly, when a man is the jailor over himself; there is little doubt of breaking credit, and less doubt of such an escape.”

In this combat of Zelmane’s doubtful imaginations, in the end reason, well-backed with the vehement desire to bring her matter soon to the desired haven, did over-rule the boiling of her inward kindness, though as I say with such a manifest strife, that both Basilius and Gynecia’s well-waiting eyes, had marked her muses had laboured in deeper subjects than ordinary: which she likewise perceiving they had perceived, awaking herself out of those thoughts, and principally caring how to satisfy Gynecia, whose judgment and passion she stood most in regard of, bowing her head to her attentive ears. “Madam,” said she, “with practice of my thoughts, I have found out a way, by which your contentment shall draw on my happiness.” Gynecia delivering in her face as thankful a joyfulness as her heart could hold, said, “It was then time to retire themselves to their rest, for what with riding abroad the day before, and late sitting up for eclogues, their bodies had dearly purchased that night’s quiet.” So went they home to their lodge, Zelmane framing of both sides bountiful measures of loving countenances to either’s joy, and neither’s jealousy, to the special comfort of Basilius, whose weaker bowels were straight full with the least liquor of hope. So that still holding her by the hand, and sometimes tickling it, he went by her with the most gay conceits that ever had entered his brains, growing now so hearted in his resolution that he little respected Gynecia’s presence. But with a lustier note than wonted, clearing his voice, and cheering his spirits, looking still upon Zelmane, whom now the moon did beautify with her shining almost at the full, as if her eyes had been his song-book, he did the message of his mind in singing these verses.

When two suns do appear,

Some say it doth betoken wonders near,

As prince’s loss or change:

Two gleaming suns of splendour like I see,

And seeing feel in me

Of prince’s heart quite lost the ruin strange.

But now each where doth range

With ugly cloak the dark envious night:

Who full of guilty spite,

Such living beams should her black seat assail,

Too weak for them our weaker sight doth veil.

“No,” says fair moon, “my light

Shall bar that wrong, and though it not prevail

Like to my brother’s rays, yet those I send

Hurt not the face, which nothing can amend.”

And by that time being come to the lodge, and visited the sweet Philoclea, with much less than natural care of the parents, and much less than wanted kindness of Zelmane, each party full fraught with diversly working fancies, made their pillows weak props of their over-laden heads. Yet of all other were Zelmane’s brain most turmoiled, troubled with love both active and passive; and lastly, and especially with care, how to use her short limited time to the best purpose, by some wise and happy diverting her two lovers’ unwelcome desires. Zelmane having had the night, her only counsellor in the busy enterprise she was to undertake, and having all that time mused, and yet not fully resolved, how she might join prevailing with preventing, was offended with the day’s bold entry into her chamber, as if he had now by custom grown an assured bringer of evil news. Which she taking a cittern to her, did lay to Aurora’s charge, with these well-sung verses:

Aurora now thou showest thy blushing light,

Which oft to hope lays out a guileful bait,

That trusts in time to find the way aright,

To ease those pains, which on desire do wait.

Blush on for shame: that still with thee do light

On pensive souls (instead of restful bait)

Care upon care (instead of doing right)

To over pressed breasts, more grievous weight.

As oh! myself, whose woes are never light

(Tied to the stake of doubt) strange passion’s bait.

While thy known course observing nature’s right,

Stirs me to think what dangers lie in wait,

For mischiefs great, day after day doth show,

Make me still fear, thy fair appearing show.

“Alas!” said she, “am I not run into a strange gulf, that am fain for love to hurt her I love? and because I detest the others, to please them I detest? O only Philoclea, whose beauty is matched with nothing but with the unspeakable beauty of thy fairest mind, if thou didst see upon what rack my tormented soul is set, little would you think I had any scope now to leap to any new change.” With that with hasty hands she got herself up, turning her sight to everything, as if change of objects might help her invention. So went she again to the cave, where forthwith it came into her head that should be the fittest place to perform her exploit, of which she had now a kind of confused conceit, although she had not set down in her fancy, the meeting with each particularity that might fall out. But as the painter doth at the first but show a rude proportion of the thing he imitates, which after with more curious hand he draws to the representing each lineament, so had her thoughts, beating about it continually, received into them a ground-plot of her device, although she had not in each part shaped it according to a full determination. But in this sort having early visited the morning’s beauty in those pleasant deserts, she came to the king and queen, and told them that for the performance of certain country devotions, which only were to be exercised in solitariness, she did desire their leave she might for a few days lodge herself in the cave, the fresh sweetness of which did greatly delight her in that hot country; and that for that small space they would not otherwise trouble themselves in visiting her, but at such times as she would come to wait upon them, which should be every day at certain hours; neither should it be long, she would desire this privileged absence of them. They, whose minds had already taken out that lesson, perfectly to yield a willing obedience to all her desires, with consenting countenance made her soon see her pleasure was a law unto them. Both indeed inwardly glad of it, Basilius hoping that her dividing herself from them, might yet give him some fitter occasion of coming in secret to her, whose favourable face had lately strengthened his fainting courage. But Gynecia of all other most joyous, holding herself assured that this was but a prologue to the play she had promised her.

Thus both flattering themselves with diversly grounded hopes, they rang a bell, which served to call certain poor women which ever lay in cabins not far off, to do the household services of both lodges, and never came to either but being called for, and commanded them to carry forthwith Zelmane’s bed and furniture of her chamber into the pleasant cave, and to deck it up as finely as it was possible for them, that their soul’s rest might rest her body to her best pleasing manner: that was with all diligence performed of them, and Zelmane already in possession of her new-chosen lodging; where she like one of Vesta’s nuns, entertained herself for a few days in all show of straightness, yet once a day coming to her duty to the king and queen, in whom the seldomness of the sight increased the more unquiet longing, though somewhat qualified, as her countenance was decked to either of them with more comfort than wonted; especially to Gynecia, who seeing her, wholly neglected her daughter Philoclea, had now promised herself a full possession of Zelmane’s heart, still expecting the fruit of the happy and hoped for invention. But both she and Basilius kept such a continual watch about the precincts of the cave, that either of them was a bar to the other from having any secret communing with Zelmane.

While in the meantime the sweet Philoclea forgotten of her father, despised of her mother, and in appearance left of Zelmane, had yielded up her soul to be a prey to sorrow and unkindness, not with raging conceit of revenge, as had passed through the wise and stout heart of her mother, but with a kindly meekness taking upon her the weight of her own woes, and suffering them to have so full a course, as it did exceedingly weaken the estate of her body; as well for which cause, as for that she could not see Zelmane, without expressing, more than she would, how far now her love was imprisoned in extremity of sorrow, she bound herself first to the limits of her own chamber, and after (grief breeding sickness) of her bed. But Zelmane having now a full liberty to cast about every way how to bring her conceived attempt to a desired success, was oft so perplexed with the manifold difficulty of it, that sometimes she would resolve by force to take her away, though it were with the death of her parents, sometimes to go away with Musidorus, and bring both their forces, so to win her. But lastly, even the same day that Musidorus by feeding the humour of his three loathsome guardians, had stolen away the princess Pamela (whether it were that love meant to match them every way, or that her friend’s example had helped her invention, or that indeed Zelmane forbare to practise her device till she found her friend had passed thro’ his): the same day, I say, she resolved on a way to rid out of the lodge her two cumbersome lovers, and in the night to carry away Philoclea: whereunto she was assured her own love no less than her sister’s, would easily win her consent; hoping that although their abrupt parting had not suffered her to demand of Musidorus which way he meant to direct his journey; yet either they should by some good fortune find him; or if that course failed, yet they might well recover some town of the Helots, near the frontiers of Arcadia, who being newly again up in arms against the nobility, she knew would be as glad of her presence, as she of their protection. Therefore having taken order for all things requisite for their going, and first put on a slight under-suit of man’s apparel, which before for such purposes she had provided, she curiously trimmed herself to the beautifying of her beauties, that being now at her last trial she might come unto it in her bravest armour. And so putting on that kind of mild countenance, which doth encourage the looker on to hope for a gentle answer, according to her received manner, she left the pleasant darkness of her melancholy cave, to go take her dinner of the King and Queen, and give unto them both a pleasant food of seeing the owner of their desires. But even as the Persians were anciently wont to leave no rising-sun unsaluted, but as his fair beams appeared clearer unto them, would they more heartily rejoice, laying upon them a great foretoken of their following fortune: so was there no time that Zelmane encountered their eyes with her beloved presence, but that it bred a kind of burning devotion in them, yet so much the more gladding their greedy souls, as her countenance was cleared with more favour unto them; which now being determinately framed to the greatest descent of kindness, it took such hold of her unfortunate lovers, that like children about a tender father from a long voyage returned, with lovely childishness hang about him, and yet with simple fear measure by his countenance, how far he accepts their boldness, so were these now thrown into so serviceable an affection, that the turning of Zelmane’s eyes was a strong stern enough to all their motions, winding no way but as the enchanting force of it guided them. But having made a light repast of the pleasant fruits of that country, interlarding their food with such manner of general discourses as lovers are wont to cover their passion, when respect of a third person keeps them from plain particulars, at the earnest entreaty of Basilius, Zelmane first saluting the Muses with a base viol hung hard by her, sent this ambassage in versified music to both her ill-requited lovers.

Beauty hath force to catch the human sight;

Sight doth bewitch the fancy evil awaked,

Fancy we feel includes all passion’s might,

Passion rebell’d oft reason’s strength hath shaked.

No wonder then, though sight my sight did taint,

And though thereby my fancy was infected,

Though, yoked so, my mind with sickness faint,

Had reason’s weight for passion’s ease rejected.

But now the fit is past; and time hath giv’n

Leisure to weigh what due desert requireth.

All thoughts so sprung, are from their dwelling driv’n,

And wisdom to his wonted seat aspireth;

Crying in me: “Eye-hopes deceitful prove;

Things rightly priz’d: love is the band of love.”

And after her song with an affected modesty she threw down her eye, as if the conscience of a secret grant her inward mind made, and suddenly cast a bashful veil over her. Which Basilius finding, and thinking now was the time to urge his painful petition, beseeching his wife with more careful eye to accompany his sickly daughter Philoclea, being rid for that time of her; who was content to grant him any scope, that she might after have the like freedom; with a gesture governed by the force of his passions, making his knees best supporters, he thus said unto her: “If either,” said he, “O lady of my life, my deadly pangs could bear delay, or that this were the first time the same were manifested unto you, I would now but maintain still the remembrance of my misfortune, without urging any further reward, than time and pity might procure for me. But, alas! since my martyrdom is no less painful than manifest, and that I no more feel the miserable danger, than you know the assured truth thereof, why should my tongue deny his service to my heart? Why should I fear the breath of my words, who daily feel the flame of your works? Embrace in your sweet consideration, I beseech you, the misery of my case, acknowledge yourself to be the cause, and think it is reason for you to redress the effects. Alas! let no certain imaginative rules whose truth stands but upon opinion, keep so wise a mind from gratefulness and mercy, whose never failing laws nature hath planted in us. I plainly lay my death unto you, the death of him that loves you, the death of him whose life you may save; say your absolute determination, for hope itself is a pain, while it is over-mastered with fear; and if you do resolve to be cruel, yet is the speediest condemnation, as in evils, most welcome.” Zelmane, who had fully set to herself the train she should keep, yet knowing that who soonest means to yield, doth well to make the bravest parley, keeping countenance aloft; “Noble prince,” said she, “your words are too well couched to come out of a restless mind, and thanked be the Gods, your face threatens no danger of death. These are but those swelling speeches which give the uttermost name to every trifle, which all were worth nothing, if they were not enamelled with the goodly outside of love. Truly love were very unlovely if it were half so deadly, as you lovers, still living, term it. I think well it may have a certain childish vehemency, which for the time to one desire will engage all the soul, so long as it lasteth. But with what impatience you yourself show, who confess the hope of it a pain, and think your own desire so unworthy that you would fain be rid of it; and so with over-much love sue hard for a hasty refusal.” “A refusal!” cried out Basilius, amazed with all, but pierced with the last, “Now assure yourself whensoever you use that word definitively it will be the undoubted doom of my approaching death. And then shall your own experience know in me, how soon the spirits dried up with anguish leave the performance of their ministry, whereupon our life dependeth. But alas! what a cruelty is this, not only to torment but to think the torment slight? The terriblest tyrants would say by no man they killed, he died not; nor by no man they punished, that he escaped free: for of all other, there is least hope of mercy where there is no acknowledging of the pain; and with like cruelty are my words breathed out from a flamy heart, accounted as messengers of a quiet mind. If I speak nothing I choke myself, and am in no way of relief; if simply, neglected: if confusedly, not understood: if by the bending together all my inward powers, they bring forth any lively expressing of that they truly feel, that is a token, forsooth, the thoughts are at too much leisure. Thus is silence desperate, folly punished, and wit suspected: but indeed it is vain to try any more, for words can bind no belief. Lady, I say, determine of me, I must confess I cannot bear this battle in my mind, and therefore let me soon know what I may account of myself; for it is a hell of dolours when the mind still in doubt for want of resolution, can make no resistance.”

“Indeed,” answered Zelmane, “if I should grant to your request, I should show an example in myself that I esteem the holy band of chastity to be but an imaginative rule, as you termed it, and not the truest observance of nature, the most noble commandment that mankind can have over themselves, as indeed both learning teacheth, and inward feeling assureth. But first shall Zelmane’s grave become her marriage bed, before my soul shall consent to his own shame, before I will leave a mark in myself of an unredeemable trespass. And yet must I confess that if ever my heart were stirred, it hath been with the manifest and manifold shows of the misery you live in for me. For in truth so it is, nature gives not to us her degenerate children any more general precept than one to help the other, one to feel a true compassion of the other’s mishap. But yet if I were never so contented to speak with you (for further, never, O Basilius, never look for at my hands) I know not how you can avoid your wife’s jealous attendance but that her suspicion shall bring my honour into question.” Basilius, whose small sails the least wind did fill, was forthwith as far gone into a large promising himself his desire, as before he was stricken down with a threatened denial. And therefore bending his brows, as though he were not a man to take the matter as he had done; “What,” said he, “shall my wife become my mistress? Think you not that thus much time hath taught me to rule her? I will mew the gentlewoman till she have cast all her feathers if she rouse herself against me.” And with that he walked up and down, nodding his head, as though they mistook him much that thought he was not his wife’s master. But Zelmane now seeing it was time to conclude: “Of your wisdom and manhood,” said she, “I doubt not, but that sufficeth not me, for both they can hardly tame a malicious tongue, and impossibly bar the freedom of thought, which be the things that must be only witnesses of honour or judges of dishonour. But that you may see I do not set light your affection, if to-night after your wife be assuredly asleep, whereof by your love I conjure you to have a most precise care, you will steal handsomely to the cave unto me, there do I grant you as great proportion as you will take of free conference with me, ever remembering you seek no more, for so shall you but deceive yourself, and for ever lose me.”

Basilius, who was old enough to know that women are wont to not appoint secret night meetings for the purchasing of land, holding himself already an undoubted possessor of his desires, kissing her hand, and lifting up his eyes to heaven, as if the greatness of the benefit did go beyond all measure of thanks, said no more, lest stirring of more words might bring forth some, perhaps, contrary matter. In which trance of joy Zelmane went from him, saying she would leave him to the remembrance of their appointment, and for her, she would go visit the Lady Philoclea, into whose chamber being come, keeping still her late taken-on gravity, and asking her how she did, rather in the way of dutiful honour than in any special affection, with extreme inward anguish to them both, she turned from her, and taking the Queen Gynecia, led her into a bay window of the same chamber, determining in herself, not to utter to so excellent a wit as Gynecia had, the uttermost point of her pretended device, but to keep the clause of it for the last instant, when the shortness of the time should not give her spirits leisure to look into all those doubts that easily enter to an open invention. But with smiling eyes, and with a delivered over grace, feigning as much love to her, as she did counterfeit little love to Philoclea, she began with more credible, than eloquent speech, to tell her, that with much consideration of a matter so nearly importing her own fancy, and Gynecia’s honour, she had now concluded that the night following should be the fittest time for the joining together their several desires, what time sleep should perfectly do his office upon the king her husband, and that the one should come to the other into the cave: which place as it was the first receipt of their promised love, so it might have the first honour of the due performance. That the cause why those few days past, she had not sought the like, was, lest the new change of her lodging might make the king more apt to mark any sudden event; which now the use of it would take out of his mind. “And therefore most excellent lady,” said she, “there resteth nothing, but that quickly after supper, you train up the king to visit his daughter Philoclea, and then feigning yourself not well at ease, by your going to bed, draw him not long to be after you. In the meantime I will be gone home to my lodging, where I will attend you, with no less devotion, but as I hope with better fortune than Thisbe did the too much loving, and too much loved Pyramus.” The blood that quickly came into Gynecia’s fair face, was the only answer she made, but that one might easily see, contentment and consent were both to the full in her; which she did testify with the wringing Zelmane fast by the hand, closing her eyes, and letting her head fall, as if she would give her to know, she was not ignorant of her fault, although she were transported with the violence of her evil.

But in this triple agreement did the day seem tedious of all sides, till his never erring course had given place to the night’s succession: and the supper by each hand hasted, was with no less speed ended, when Gynecia presenting a heavy sleepiness in her countenance, brought up both Basilius and Zelmane to see Philoclea, still keeping her bed, and far more sick in mind than body, and more grieved than comforted with any such visitation. Thence Zelmane wishing easeful rest to Philoclea, did seem to take that night’s leave of this princely crew, when Gynecia likewise seeming somewhat diseased, desired Basilius to stay a while with his daughter, while she recommended her sickness to her bed’s comfort, indeed desirous to determine again of the manner of her stealing away; to no less comfort to Basilius, who the sooner she was asleep, the sooner hoped to come by his long pursued prey. Thus both were bent to deceive each other, and to take the advantage of either other’s disadvantage. But Gynecia having taken Zelmane into her bed-chamber, to speak a little with her of their sweet determination; Zelmane upon a sudden, as though she had never thought of it before. “Now the Gods forbid,” said she, “so great a lady as you are should come to me; or that I should leave it to the hands of fortune, if by either the ill-governing of your passion, or your husband’s sudden waking, any danger might happen unto you: no, if there be any superiority in the points of true love, it shall be yours; if there be any danger, since myself am the author of this device, it is reason it should be mine. Therefore do you but leave with me the keys of the gate, and upon yourself take my upper garment, that if any of Dametas’s house see you they may think you be myself, and I will presently lie down in your place, so muffled for your supposed sickness, as the king shall nothing know me. And then as soon as he is asleep, will I, as it much better becomes me, wait upon you. But if the uttermost of mischiefs should happen, I can assure you the king’s life shall sooner pay for it than your honour.” And with the ending of her words she threw off her mantle, not giving Gynecia any space to take the full image of this new change into her fancy. But seeing no ready objection against it in her heart, and knowing that there was no time then to stand long disputing; besides remembering the giver was to order the manner of his gift, yielded quickly to this conceit, indeed not among the smallest causes tickled thereunto by a certain wanton desire that her husband’s deceit might be the more notable. In this sort did Zelmane nimbly disarraying herself, possess Gynecia’s place hiding her head in such a close manner, as grievous and over watched sickness is wont to invite to itself the solace of sleep. And of the other side the queen putting on Zelmane’s outmost apparel, went first into her closet, there quickly to beautify herself with the best and sweetest night-deckings. But there casting an hasty eye over her precious things, which ever since Zelmane’s coming, her head otherwise occupied, had left unseen, she happened to see a bottle of gold, upon which down along were graved these verses:

Let him drink this, whom long in arms to fold

Thou dost desire, and with free power to hold.

She remembered the bottle, for it had been kept of long time by the kings of Cyprus, as a thing of rare virtue, and given to her by her mother, when she being very young married to her husband of much greater age, her mother persuaded it was of property to force love with love effects, had made a precious present of it to this her beloved child, though it had been received rather by tradition to have such a quality than by any approved experiment. This Gynecia (according to the common disposition, not only, though especially of wives, but of all other kinds of people, not to esteem much one’s own, but to think the labour lost employed about it) had never cared to give her husband, but suffered his affection to run according to his own scope. But now that love of her particular choice had awakened her spirits, and perchance the very unlawfulness of it had a little blown the coal, among her other ornaments with glad mind she took most part of this liquor, putting it into a fair cup all set with diamonds: for what dares not love undertake armed with the night, and provoked with lust? And thus down she went to the cave-ward, guided only by the moon’s fair shining, suffering no other thought to have any familiarity with her brains, but that which did present under her a picture of her approaching contentment. She that had long disdained this solitary life her husband had entered into, now wished it much more solitary, so she might only obtain the private presence of Zelmane. She that before would not have gone so far, especially by night, and to so dark a place, now took a pride in the same courage, and framed in her mind a pleasure out of the pain itself. Thus with thick doubled paces she went to the cave, receiving to herself, for her first contentment, the only lying where Zelmane had done; whose pillow she kissed a thousand times, for having born the print of that beloved head. And so keeping with panting heart her travelling fancies so attentive that the wind could stir nothing, but that she stirred herself, as if it had been the space of the longed for Zelmane, she kept her side of the bed, descending only and cherishing the other side with her arms, till after a while waiting, counting with herself how many steps were betwixt the lodge and the cave, and of accusing Zelmane of more curious stay than needed, she was visited with an unexpected guest.

For Basilius, after his wife was departed to her feigned repose, as long as he remained with his daughter, to give his wife time of unreadying herself, it was easily seen it was a very thorny abode he made there: and the discourses with which he entertained his daughter, not unlike to those of earnest players, when in the midst of their game, trifling questions be put unto them, his eyes still looking about, and himself still changing places, beginning to speak of a thing, and breaking it off before it were half done. To any speech Philoclea ministered unto him, with a sudden starting and casting up his head, made an answer far out of all grammar; a certain deep musing, and by and by out of it: uncertain motions, unstayed graces. Having borne out the limit of a reasonable time, with as much pain as might be, he came darkling into his chamber, forcing himself to tread as softly as he could. But the more curious he was, the more he thought everything creaked under him; and his mind being out of the way with another thought, and his eyes not serving his turn in that dark place, each coffer or cupboard he met, one saluted his shins, another his elbows; sometimes ready in revenge to strike them again with his face. Till at length, fearing his wife were not fully asleep, he came lifting up the clothes as gently as I think poor Pan did, when, instead of Ioles’s bed, he came into the rough embracing of Hercules; and laying himself down, as tenderly as a new bride, rested a while with a very open ear, to mark each breath of his supposed wife. And sometimes he himself would yield a long-fetched sigh, as though that had been a music to draw on another to sleep, till within a very little while, with the other party’s well-counterfeit sleep, who was as willing to be rid of him as he was to be gone thence, assuring himself he left all safe there, in the same order stole out again, and putting on his night gown, with much groping and scrambling he got himself out of the little house, and then did the moonlight serve to guide his feet. Thus, with a great deal of pain, did Basilius go to her whom he fled, and with much cunning left the person for whom he had employed all his cunning. But when Basilius was once gotten, as he thought, into a clear coast, what joy he then made, how each thing seemed vile in his sight, in comparison of his fortune, how far already he deemed himself in the chief towers of his desires, it were tedious to tell: once his heart could not choose but yield this song, as a fairing of his contentment.

Get hence, foul grief, the canker of the mind:

Farewell complaint, the miser’s only pleasure.

Away vain cares, by which few men do find

Their sought-for treasure.

Ye helpless sighs, blow out your breath to nought,

Tears drown yourselves, for woe, your cause is wasted;

Thought, think to end, too long the fruit of thought

My mind hath tasted.

But thou, sure hope, tickle my leaping heart:

Comfort, step thou in place of wonted sadness,

Fore-felt desire, begin to favour part

Of coming gladness.

Let voice of sighs into clear music run;

Eyes, let your tears with gazing now be mended,

Instead of thought, true pleasure be begun,

And never ended.

Thus imagining as then with himself, his joys so held him up, that he never touched ground. And like a right old beaten soldier, that knew well enough the greatest captains do never use long orations, when it comes to the very point of execution, as soon as he was gotten into the cave, to the joyful, though silent, expectation of Gynecia, come close to the bed, never recking his promise to look for nothing but conference, he leaped in that side reserved for a more welcome guest. And laying his loving’st hold upon Gynecia: “O Zelmane,” said he, “embrace in your favour this humble servant of yours: hold within me my heart, which pants to leave his master to come unto you.” In what case poor Gynecia was, when she knew the voice, and felt the body of her husband, fair ladies, it is better to know by imagination than experience. For straight was her mind assaulted, partly with the being deprived of her unquenched desire, but principally with the doubt that Zelmane had betrayed her to her husband, besides the renewed sting of jealousy, what in the meantime might befall her daughter. But of the other side her love with a fixed persuasion she had taught her to seek all reason of hopes. And therein thought best before discovering of herself, to mark the behaviour of her husband; who, both in deeds and words still using her, as taking her to be Zelmane, made Gynecia hope that this might be Basilius’s own enterprise, which Zelmane had not stayed, lest she should discover the matter which might be performed at another time. Which hope accompanied with Basilius’s manner of dealing, he being at that time fuller of livelier fancies than many years before he had been, besides the remembrance of her daughter’s sickness, and late strange countenance betwixt her and Zelmane, all coming together into her mind, which was loth to condemn itself of an utter overthrow, made her frame herself, not truly with a sugared joy, but with a determinate patience to let her husband think he had found a very gentle and supple-minded Zelmane; which he good man making full reckoning of, did melt in as much gladness as she was oppressed with divers ungrateful burdens.

But Pyrocles, who had at this present no more to play the part of Zelmane, having so naturally measured the manner of his breathing, that made no doubt of his sound sleeping, and lain a pretty while with the quiet unquietness to perform his intended enterprise, as soon as by the debate between Basilius’s shins and the unregarding forms, he perceived that he had fully left the lodge: after him went he with his stealing steps, having his sword under his arm, still doubting lest some mischance might turn Basilius back again, down to the gate of the lodge. Which not content to lock fast, he barred and fortified with as many devices, as his wit and haste would suffer him, that so he might have full time both for making ready Philoclea, and conveying her to her horse, before any might come in to find them missing. For further ends of those ends, and what might ensue of this action, his love and courage well-matched never looked after, holding for an assured ground, that “whatsoever in great things will think to prevent all objections must lie still and do nothing.” This determination thus weighed, the first part was thus performed, up to Philoclea’s chamber door when Pyrocles, rapt from himself with the excessive fore-feeling of his, as he assured himself, near-coming contentment. Whatever pains he had taken, what dangers he had run into, and especially those saucy pages of love, doubts, griefs, languishing hopes, and threatening despairs, came all now to his mind, in one rank to beautify his expected blissfulness, and to serve for a most fit sauce, whose sourness might give a kind of life to the delightful cheer his imagination fed upon. All the great estate of his father, all his own glory, seemed unto him but a trifling pomp, whose good stands in other men’s conceit, in comparison of the true comfort he found in the depth of his mind, and the knowledge of any misery that might ensue his joyous adventure, was recked of but as a slight purchase of possessing the top of happiness; for so far were his thoughts passed through all perils, that already he conceived himself safely arrived with his lady at the stately palace of Pella, among the exceeding joys of his father, and infinite congratulations of his friends, giving order for the royal entertaining of Philoclea, and for sumptuous shows and triumphs, against their marriage. In the thought whereof as he found extremity of joy, so well found he that the extremity is not without a certain joyful pain, by extending the heart beyond his wonted limits, and by so forcible a holding all the senses to one object, that it confounds their mutual working, not without a charming kind of ravishing them from the free use of their own function. Thus grieved only with too much gladness, being come to the door which should be the entry to his happiness, he was met with the latter end of a song, which Philoclea like a solitary nightingale, bewailing her guiltless punishment, and helpless misfortune, had newly delivered over, meaning none should be judge of her passion, but her own conscience. The song having been accorded to a sweetly played on lute, contained these verses, which she had lately with some art curiously written, to enwrap her secret and resolute woes.

Virtue¹, beauty², and speech³, did strike¹, wound², charm³,[10]

My heart¹, eyes², ears³, with wonder¹, love², delight³:

First¹, second², last³, did bind¹, enforce² and arm³,

His works¹, shows², suits³, with wit¹, grace² and vows’³ might,

Thus honour¹, liking², trust³, much¹, far², and deep³,

Held¹, pierc’d², possess’d³, my judgment¹, sense² and will³.

Till wrong¹, contempt², deceit³ did grow¹, steal², creep³,

Bands¹, favour², faith³, to break¹, defile² and kill³,

Then grief¹, unkindness², proof³, took¹, kindled², taught³,

Well¹-grounded, noble², due³, spite¹, rage², disdain³

But¹ ah², alas³! (in vain) my mind¹, sight², thought³,

Doth him¹, his face², his words³, leave¹, shun², refrain³,

For no thing¹, time², nor place³, can lose¹, quench², ease³,

Mine own¹, embraced², sought³, knot¹, fire², disease³.

The force of love to those poor folk that feel it is many ways very strange, but no way stranger than that it doth so enchain the lover’s judgment upon her that holds the reins of his mind, that whatsoever she doth is ever in his eyes best. And that best, being the continual motion of our changing life, turned by her to any other thing that thing again becometh best. So that nature in each kind suffering but one superlative, the lover only admits no positive. If she sits still, that is best, for so is the conspiracy of her several graces, held best together to make one perfect figure of beauty. If she walk, no doubt that is best, for, besides, the making happy the more places by her steps, the very stirring adds a pleasing life to her native perfections. If she be silent, that without comparison is best, since by that means the untroubled eye most freely may devour the sweetness of his object. But if she speak, he will take it upon his death that is best, the quintessence of each word being distilled down into his affected soul: example of this was well to be seen in the given-over Pyrocles, who with panting breath, and sometimes sighs, not such as sorrow restraining the inward parts doth make them glad to deliver, but such as the impatience of delay, with the unsurety of never so sure hope, is wont to breathe out. Now being at the door, of the one side hearing her voice, which he thought if the philosopher said true of the heavenly seven-sphered harmony, was by her not only represented, but far surmounted, and of the other having his eyes over-filled with her beauty, for the king at his parting had left the chamber open, and she at that time lay, as the heat of that country did well suffer, upon the top of her bed, having her beauties eclipsed with nothing but with a fair smock, wrought all in flames of ash-colour silk and gold lying so upon her right side, that the left thigh down to the foot, yielded his delightful proportion to the full view, which was seen by the help of a rich lamp, which through the curtains a little drawn cast forth a light upon her, as the moon doth when it shines into a thin wood: Pyrocles I say was stopped with the violence of so many darts cast by Cupid altogether upon him, that quite forgetting himself, and thinking therein already he was in the best degree of felicity, he would have lost much of his time, and with too much love omitted the enterprise undertaken for his love, had not Philoclea’s pitiful accusing of him forced him to bring his spirits again to a new bias; for she laying her hand under her fair cheek, upon which there did privily trickle the sweet drops of her delightful, though sorrowful tears, made these words wait upon her moanful song. “And hath that cruel Pyrocles,” said she, “deserved thus much of me, that I should for his sake lift up my voice in my best tunes, and to him continually, with pouring out my plaint, make a disdained oblation? shall my soul still do this honour to his unmerciful tyranny, by my lamenting his loss, to show his worthiness and my weakness? He hears thee not, simple Philoclea, he hears thee not; and if he did, some hearts grow the harder the more they find their advantage. Alas! what a miserable constitution of mind have I! I disdain my fortune, and yet reverence him that disdains me. I accuse his ungratefulness, and have his virtue in admiration. O ye deaf heavens, I would either his injury could blot out mine affection, or my affection could forget his injury.” With that giving a pitiful but sweet shriek, she took again the lute, and began to sing this sonnet, which might serve as an explaining to the other.

The love which is imprinted in my soul

With beauty’s seal, and virtue fair disguis’d,

With inward cries puts up a bitter roll

Of huge complaints, that now it is despis’d.

Thus, thus the more I love, the wrong the more

Monstrous appears, long truth received late,

Wrong stirs remorsed Grief, grief’s deadly sore

Unkindness breeds, unkindness fostereth hate.

But ah, the more I hate, the more I think

Whom I do hate; the more I think on him,

The more his matchless gifts do deeply sink

Into my breast, and loves renewed swim.

What medicine then can such disease remove,

Where love draws hate, and hate engendereth love?

But Pyrocles, that had heard his name accused and condemned by the mouth, which of all the world, and more than all the world, he most loved, had then cause enough to call his mind to his home, and with the most haste he could, for true love fears the accident of an instant, to match the excusing of his fault, with declaration of his errand thither. And therefore blown up and down with as many contrary passions as Aeolus sent out winds upon the Trojan relics guided upon the sea by the valiant Aeneas, he went into her chamber with such a pace as reverend fear doth teach, where kneeling down, and having prepared a long discourse for her, his eyes were so filled with her sight, that as if they would have robbed all their fellows of their services, both his heart fainted, and his tongue failed in such sort that he could not bring forth one word, but referred her understanding to his eyes’ language. But she in extremity amazed to see him there, at so undue a season, and ashamed that her beautiful body made so naked a prospect, drawing in her delicate limbs into the weak guard of the bed, and presenting in her face to him such a kind of pitiful anger, as might show this was only a fault; therefore, because she had a former grudge unto him, turning away her face from him, she thus said unto him:

“O Zelmane or Pyrocles, for whether name I use, it much skills not, since by the one I was first deceived, and by the other now betrayed, what strange motion is the guide of thy cruel mind hither? Dost thou not think the day-torments thou hast given me sufficient, but that thou dost envy me the night’s quiet? Wilt thou give my sorrows no truce, but by making me see before mine eyes how much I have lost, offer me due cause of confirming my plaint? or is thy heart so full of rancour that thou dost desire to feed thine eyes with the wretched spectacle of thine overthrown enemy, and so to satisfy the full measure of thy undeserved rage with the receiving into thy sight the unrelievable ruins of my desolate life! O Pyrocles, Pyrocles, for thy own virtue’s sake, let miseries be no music unto thee, and be content to take to thyself some colour of excuse, that thou didst not know to what extremity thy inconstancy, or rather falsehood hath brought me.”

Pyrocles, to whom every syllable she pronounced was a thunderbolt to his heart, equally distracted betwixt amazement and sorrow, abashed to see such a stop of his desires, grieved with her pain, but tormented to find himself the author of it, with quaking lips, and pale cheer, “Alas! divine lady,” said he, “your displeasure is so contrary to my desert, and your words so far beyond all expectations that I have least ability now I have most need to speak in the cause upon which my life dependeth. For my troth is so undoubtedly constant unto you, my heart is so assured a witness to itself, of his unspotted faith, that having no one thing in me, whereout any such sacrilege might arise; I have likewise nothing in so direct a thing to say for myself, but sincere and vehement protestations; for in truth there may most words be spent, where there is some probability to breed of both sides conjectural allegations. But so perfect a thing as my love is of you, as it suffers no question, so it seems to receive injury by any addition of any words unto it. If my soul could have been polluted with treachery it would likewise have provided for itself due furniture of colourable answers, but as it stood upon the naked conscience of his untouched duty, so I must confess it is altogether unarmed against so unjust a violence as you lay upon me. Alas! let not the pains I have taken to serve you, be now accounted injurious unto you, let not the dangerous cunning I have used to please you, be deemed a treason against you: since I have deceived them whom you fear for your sake, do not you destroy me for their sake; what can I without you further do? or to what more forwardness can any counsel bring our desired happiness? I have provided whatsoever is needful for our going, I have rid them both out of the lodge, so that there is none here to be hinderers or knowers of our departure, but only the almighty powers, whom I invoke as triers of mine innocency, and witnesses of my well-meaning. And if ever my thoughts did receive so much as a fainting in their affections, if they have not continually with more and more ardour from time to time pursued the possession of your sweetest favour, if ever in that possession they received either spot or falsehood, then let their most horrible plagues fall upon me, let mine eyes be deprived of the light, which did abase the heavenly beams that struck them, let my falsified tongue serve to no use but to bemoan mine own wretchedness, let my heart impoisoned with detestable treason, be the seat of infernal sorrow, let my soul with the endless anguish of his conscience become his own tormentor.” “O false mankind!” cried out the sweet Philoclea. “How can an imposthumed heart but yield forth evil matter by his mouth? are oaths there to be believed, where vows are broken? No, no, who doth wound the eternal justice of the gods, cares little for abusing their names, and who in doing wickedly doth not fear due recompensing plagues, doth little fear that invoking of plagues will make them come ever a whit the sooner. But alas! what aileth this new conversation, have you yet another sleight to pay, or do you think to deceive me in Pyrocles’s form, as you have done in Zelmane’s: or rather, now you have betrayed me in both, is some third sex left you, to transform yourself into, to inveigle my simplicity? enjoy, enjoy the conquest you have already won: and assure yourself you are to come to the farthest point of your cunning. For my part, unkind Pyrocles, my only defence shall be belief of nothing, my comfort my faithful innocency, and the punishment I desire of you, shall be your own conscience.”

Philoclea’s hard persevering in this unjust condemnation of him, did so overthrow all the might of Pyrocles’s mind, who saw that time would not serve to prove by deeds, and that the better words he used, the more they were suspected of deceitful cunning. That void of all counsel, and deprived of all comfort, finding best deserts punished, and nearest hopes prevented, he did abandon the succour of himself, and suffered grief so to close his heart, that his breath failing him with a dreadful shutting of his eyes, he fell down at her bedside. Having had time to say no more but, “oh! whom dost thou kill Philoclea?” she that little looked for such an extreme event of her doings, started out of her bed, like Venus rising from her mother the sea, not so much stricken down with amazement and grief of her fault, as lifted up with the force of love, and desire to help, she laid her fair body over his breast, and throwing no other water in his face, but the stream of her tears, not giving him other blows, but the kissing of her well-formed mouth, her only cries were these lamentations: “O unfortunate suspicion,” said she, “the very mean to lose what we most suspect to lose. O unkind kindness of mine, which returns an imagined wrong with an effectual injury. O fool to make quarrel my supplication, or to use hate as the mediator of love: childish Philoclea, hast thou thrown away the jewel wherein all thy pride consisted? Hast thou with too much haste over-run thyself?” Then would she renew her kisses, and yet not finding the life return, redouble her plaints in this manner. “O divine soul,” said she, “whose virtue can possess no less than the highest place in heaven, if for mine eternal plague thou hast utterly left this most sweet mansion, before I follow thee with Thisbe’s punishment for my rash unweariness, hear this protestation of mine: that as the wrong I have done thee proceeded of a most sincere, but unresistable affection, so led with this pitiful example, it shall end in the mortal hate of myself, and, if it may be, I will make my soul a tomb of thy memory.” At that word with anguish of mind and weakness of body increased one by the other, and both augmented by this fearful accident, she had fallen down in a swoon, but that Pyrocles, then first severing his eyelids and quickly apprehending her danger, to him more than death, beyond all powers striving to recover the commandment of all his powers, stayed her from falling, and then lifting the sweet burden of her body in his arms, laid her again in her bed. So that she, but then the physician, was now become the patient, and he to whom her weakness had been serviceable, was now enforced to do service to her weakness, which performed by him with that hearty care which the most careful love on the best loved subject in greatest extremity could employ, prevailed so far, that ere long she was able, though in strength exceedingly dejected, to call home her wandering senses, to yield attention to that her beloved Pyrocles had to deliver. But he lying down on the bed by her, holding her hand in his, with so kind an accusing her of unkindness, as in accusing her he condemned himself, began from point to point to discover unto her all that had passed between his loathed lovers and him. How he had entertained, and by entertaining deceived, both Basilius and Gynecia; and that with such a kind of deceit, as either might see the cause in the other, but neither espy the effect in themselves. That all his favours to them had tended only to make them strangers to this his action; and all his strangeness to her, to the final obtaining of her long promised, and now to be performed favour. Which device seeing it had so well succeeded to the removing all other hindrances, that only her resolution remained for the taking their happy journey, he conjured her by all the love she had ever borne him, she would make no longer delay to partake with him whatsoever honours the noble king of Macedon, and all other Euarchus’s dominions might yield him, especially since in this enterprise he had now waded so far, as he could not possibly retire himself back, without being overwhelmed with danger and dishonour: he needed not have used further persuasion: for that only conjuration had so forcibly bound all her spirits that could her body have seconded her mind, or her mind have strengthened her body, without respect of any worldly thing, but only fear to be again unkind to Pyrocles, she had condescended to go with him. But raising herself a little in her bed, and finding her own inability in any sort to endure the air: “My Pyrocles,” said she, with tearful eyes and a pitiful countenance, such as well witnessed she had no will to deny anything, she had power to perform, “if you can convey me hence in such plight as you see me, I am most willing to make my extremest danger a testimony, that I esteem no danger in regard of your virtuous satisfaction.” But she fainted so fast that she was not able to utter the rest of her conceived speech; which also turned Pyrocles’s thoughts from expecting further answer, to the necessary care of reviving her, in whose fainting, himself was more than overthrown. And that having affected with all the sweet means his wits could devise, though his highest hopes were by this unexpected downfall sunk deeper than any degree of despair: yet lest the appearance of his inward grief might occasion her further discomfort, having wracked his face to a more comfortable semblance, he sought some show of reason, to show she had no reason, either for him, or for herself to be afflicted. Which in the sweet-minded Philoclea, whose consideration was limited by his words, and whose conceit pierced no deeper than his outward countenance, wrought within a while such quietness of mind, and that quietness again such repose of body, that sleep by his harbinger’s weakness, weariness, and watchfulness, had quickly taken up his lodging in all her senses. Then indeed had Pyrocles leisure to sit in judgment on himself, and to hear his reason accuse his rashness, who, without forecast of doubt, without knowledge of his friend, without acquainting Philoclea with his purpose, or being made acquainted with her present estate, had fallen headlong into that attempt, the success whereof he had long since set down to himself as the measure of all his other fortunes. But calling to mind how weakly they do, that rather find fault with what cannot be mended than seek to amend wherein they have been faulty: he soon turned him from remembering what might have been done, to considering what was now to be done, and when that consideration failed, what was now to be expected. Wherein having run over all the thoughts, his reason, called to the strictest accounts, could bring before him, at length he lighted on this. That as long as Gynecia betrayed not the matter, which he thought she would not do, as well for her own honour and safety, as for the hope she might still have of him, which is loth to die in a lover’s heart, all the rest might turn to a pretty merriment, and inflame his lover Basilius, again to cast about for the missed favour. And as naturally the heart stuffed up with woefulness, is glad greedily to suck the thinnest air of comfort, so did he at first embrace this conceit, as offering great hope, if not assurance of well-doing, till looking more nearly into it, and not able to answer the doubts and difficulties he saw therein more and more arising, the night being also far spent, his thoughts even weary of his own burdens, fell to a straying kind of uncertainty; and his mind standing only upon the nature of inward intelligences, left his body to give a sleeping respite to his vital spirits, which he according to the quality of sorrow received with greater greediness than ever in his life before: according to the nature of sorrow, I say, which is past care’s remedy; for care stirring the brains, and making thin the spirits, breaketh rest: but those griefs wherein one is determined there is no preventing, do breed a dull heaviness which easily clothes itself in sleep, so as laid down so near, the beauty of the word, Philoclea, that their necks were subjects each to other’s chaste embracements, it seemed love had come thither to lay a plot in that picture of death, how gladly, if death came, their souls would go together.