The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia

by Philip Sidney

THE THIRD ECLOGUES

Thyrsis not with many painted words nor falsified promises had won the consent of his beloved Kala, but with a true and simple making her know he loved her, not forcing himself beyond his reach to buy her affection, but giving her such pretty presents, as neither could weary him with the giving, nor shame her for the taking. Thus, the first strawberries he could find, were ever in a clean washed dish, sent to Kala; thus posies of the spring flowers were wrapped up in a little green silk, and dedicated to Kala’s breasts; thus sometimes his sweetest cream, sometimes the best cakebread his mother made, were reserved for Kala’s taste. Neither would he stick to kill a lamb when she would be content to come over the way unto him. But then lo, how the house was swept, and rather no fire than any smoke left to trouble her. Then love songs were not dainty, when she would hear them, and as much mannerly silence, when she would not: in going to church great worship to Kala. So that all the parish said, never a maid they knew so well waited on: and when dancing was about the may-pole, nobody taken out but she, and he after a leap or two to show her his own activity, would frame all the rest of his dancing only to grace her. As for her father’s sheep, he had no less care of them than his own: so that she might play her as she would, warranted with Thyrsis’s carefulness. But if he spied Kala favoured any one of the flock more than his fellows, then that was cherished: shearing him so (when shorn he must be) as might most become him: but while the wood was on, wrapped within it some verses, wherein Thyrsis had a special gift, and making the innocent beast his unweeting messenger. Thus constantly continuing, though he were none of the fairest, at length he won Kala’s heart, the honestest wench in all those quarters. And so with consent of both parents, without which neither Thyrsis would ask, nor Kala grant, their marrying day was appointed, which because it fell out in this time I think it shall not be impertinent, to remember a little our shepherds, while the other great persons, are either sleeping or otherwise troubled. Thyrsis’s marriage-time once known, there needed no inviting of the neighbours in that valley, for so well was Thyrsis beloved, that they were all ready to do him credit, neither yet came they like harpies to devour him; but one brought a fat pig, the other a tender kid, the third a great goose; as for cheese, milk and butter, were the gossips’ presents. Thither came of strange shepherds only the melancholy Philisides; for the virtuous Corydon had long since left off all joyful solemnities. And as for Strephon and Claius, they had lost their mistress, which put them into such extreme sorrows, as they could scarcely abide the light of the day, much less the eyes of men. But of the Arcadian born shepherds, thither came good old Geron, young Histor, though unwilling, and upright Dicus, merry Pas, and jolly Nico. As for Dametas, they durst not presume, his pride was such, to invite him, and Dorus they found might not be spared. And thereunder a bower was made of boughs, for Thyrsis’s house was not able to receive them, every one placed according to his age. The women, for such was the manner of the country, kept together to make good cheer among themselves, from which otherwise a certain painful modesty restrains them, and there might the sadder matrons give good counsel to Kala, who poor fool wept for fear of that she desired. But among the shepherds was all honest liberty, no fear of dangerous telltales, who hunt greater preys, nor indeed minds in them to give telltales any occasion, but one questioning with another of the manuring his ground, and governing his flock, the highest point they reached to, was, to talk of the holiness of marriage; to which purpose, as soon as their sober dinner was ended, Dicus instead of thanks, sung this song, with a clear voice and cheerful countenance.

Let mother earth now deck herself in flowers,

To see her offspring, seek a good increase,

Where justest love doth vanquish Cupid’s powers,

And war of thoughts is swallowed up in peace,

Which never may decrease,——

But like the turtles fair,

Live one in two, a well-united pair;

Which that no chance may stain,——

O Hymen, long their coupled joys maintain.

O Heav’n awake, show forth thy stately face,

Let not these slumbering clouds thy beauties hide,

But with thy cheerful presence help to grace

The honest bridegroom and the bashful bride,

Whose loves may ever bide,——

Like to the elm and vine,

With mutual embracements them to twine;

In which delightful pain,——

O Hymen, long their coupled joys maintain.

Ye Muses all which chaste affects allow,

And have to Thyrsis showed your secret skill,

To this chaste love your sacred favours bow,

And so to him and her your gifts distil,

That they all vice may kill.——

And like to lilies pure,——

May please all eyes, and spotless may endure,

Where that all bliss may reign,——

O Hymen, long their coupled joys maintain.

Ye nymphs which in the water’s empire have,

Since Thyrsis’ music oft doth yield your praise,

Grant to the thing which we for Thyrsis crave,

Let one time, but long first, close up their days.

One grave their bodies seize:——

And like two rivers sweet,

When they, thought divers, do together meet,

One stream both streams contain:

O Hymen, long their coupled joys maintain.

Pan, father Pan the God of silly sheep,

Whose care is cause that they in number grow,

Have much more care of them than them do keep,

Since from these good the other’s good doth flow,

And make their issue show——

In number like the herd

Of younglings, which thyself with love hast rear’d;

Or like the drops of rain.

O Hymen, long their coupled joys maintain.

Virtue, if not a God, yet God’s chief part,

Be thou their knot of this their open vow,

That still he be her head, she be his heart;

He lean to her, she unto him do bow:

Each other still allow:——

Like oak and mistletoe,

Her strength from him, his praise from her do grow;

In which most lovely train,——

O Hymen, long their coupled joys maintain.

But thou foul Cupid, sire to lawless lust,

Be thou far hence with thy impoison’d dart,

Which though of glitt’ring gold, shall here take rust.

Where simple love, which chasteness doth impart,

Avoids thy hurtful art,——

Not needing charming skill,

Such minds with sweet affections for to fill,

Which being pure and plain,——

O Hymen, long their coupled joys maintain.

All churlish words, shrewd answers, crabbed looks,

All privateness, self-seeking, inward spite,

All waywardness, which nothing kindly brooks,

All strife for toys, and claiming master’s right.

Be hence, aye put to flight:

All stirring husband’s hate

’Gainst neighbour’s good for womanish debate,

Be fled as things most vain,——

O Hymen, long their coupled joys maintain.

All peacock pride, and fruits of peacock’s pride,

Longing to be with loss of substance gay,

With wretchlessness what may thy house betide,

So that you may on higher slippers stay,

For ever hence away:——

Yet let not sluttery

The sink of filth, be counted housewifery;

But keeping wholesome mean,——

O Hymen, long their coupled joys maintain.

But above all, away vile jealousy,

The evil of evils, just cause to be unjust,

How can he love suspecting treachery?

How can she love where love cannot win trust?

Go snake, hide thee in dust,——

Nay dare once show thy face,

Where open hearts do hold so constant place,

That they thy sting restrain,——

O Hymen, long their coupled joys maintain.

The earth is deck’d with flowers, the heav’ns display’d,

Muses grant gifts, nymphs long and joined life,

Pan store of babes, virtue their thoughts well staid,

Cupid’s lust gone, and gone is bitter strife,

Happy Man, happy Wife,——

No pride shall them oppress,

Nor yet shall yield to loathsome sluttishness,

And jealousy is slain:——

For Hymen will their coupled joys maintain.

“Truly Dicus,” said Nico, “although thou didst not grant me the prize the last day, when undoubtedly I won it, yet must I needs say thou for thy part hast sung well and thriftily.” Pas straight desired all the company they would bear witness that Nico had once in his life spoken wise: “For,” said he, “I will tell it his Father, who will be a glad man when he hears such news.” “Very true,” said Nico, “but indeed so would not thine in like case, for he would look thou should’st live but one hour longer than a discreet word wandered out of thy mouth.” “And I pray thee,” said Pas, “gentle Nico, tell me, what mischance it was that brought thee to taste so fine a meat?” “Marry goodman blockhead,” said Nico, “because he speaks against jealousy, the filthy traitor to true affection, and yet disguising itself in the raiment of love.” “Sentences, sentences,” cried Pas. “Alas, how ripe witted these young folks be nowadays but well counselled shall that husband be, when this man comes to exhort him not to be jealous.” “And so shall he,” answered Nico, “for I have seen a fresh example, though it be not very fit to be known.” “Come, come,” said Pas, “be not so squeamish, I know thou longest more to tell it than we to hear it.” But for all his words, Nico, would not bestow his voice, till he was generally entreated of all the rest. And then with a merry marriage-look he sung this following discourse, for with a better grace he could sing than tell.

A neighbour mine not long ago there was,

But nameless he, for blameless he shall be,

That married had a trick and bonny lass,

As in a summer day a man might see:

But he himself a foul unhandsome groom,

And far unfit to hold so good a room.

Now whether moved with self-unworthiness,

Or with her beauty fit to make a prey;

Fell jealousy did so his brain oppress,

That if he absent were but half a day,

He guessed the worst (you wot what is the worst)

And in himself new doubting causes nurst.

While thus he feared the silly innocent,

Who yet was good, because she knew none ill,

Unto his house a jolly shepherd went,

To whom our prince did bear a great good will;

Because in wrestling, and in a pastoral,

He far did pass the rest of shepherds all.

And therefore he a courtier was be-named,

And as a courtier was with cheer received

(For they have tongues to make a poor man blamed,

If he to them his duty misconceived)

And for this courtier should well like his table,

The good man bade his wife be serviceable.

And so she was, and all with good intent;

But few days past when she good manner used;

But that her husband thought her service bent

To such an end as he might be abased.

Yet like a coward fearing stranger’s pride,

He made the simple wench his wrath abide;

With chumpish looks, hard words, and secret nips,

Grumbling at her when she his kindness sought.

Asking her how she tasted courtier’s lips,

He forced her to think that which she never thought.

In fine, he made her guess, there was some sweet,

In that which he so fear’d that she should meet.

When once this entered was in woman’s heart,

And that it had inflamed a new desire,

There rested then to play a woman’s part;

Fuel to seek, and not to quench the fire,

But (for his jealous eye she well did find)

She studied cunning how the same to blind.

And thus she did. One day to him she came,

And, though against his will, on him she leaned:

And out gan cry, “Ah well away for shame,

If you help not, our wedlock will be stained.”

The good man starting, asked what her did move?

She sigh’d and said, “The bad guest sought her love.”

He little looking that she should complain

Of that, whereto he fear’d she was inclin’d:

Bussing her oft, and in his heart full fain,

He did demand what remedy to find,

How they might get that guest from them to wend,

And yet the prince that lov’d him not offend.

“Husband,” quoth she, “go to him by and by,

And tell him you do find I do him love:

And therefore pray him that of courtesy

He will absent himself, lest he should move

A young girl’s heart, to that were shame for both

Whereto you know his honest heart were loath.

“Thus shall you show that him you do not doubt,

And as for me, sweet husband, I must bear;”

Glad was the man when he heard her out,

And did the same, although with mickle fear.

For fear he did, lest he the young man might

In choler put, with whom he would not fight.

The courtly shepherd much aghast at this,

Not seeing erst such token in the wife,

Though full of scorn, would not his duty miss,

Knowing that ill become a household strife,

Did go his way, but sojourn’d near thereby,

That yet the ground thereof he might espy.

The wife thus having settled husband’s brain,

Who would have sworn his spouse Diana was,

Watched when she a further point might gain,

Which little time did fitly bring to pass.

For to the court her man was called by name;

Whither he needs must go for fear of blame.

Three days before that he must sure depart,

She written had, but in a hand disguised,

A letter such, which might from either part,

Seem to proceed, so well it was devised.

She seal’d it first, then she the sealing brake,

And to her jealous husband did it take.

With weeping eyes (her eyes she taught to weep)

She told him that the courtier had it sent:

“Alas,” quoth she, “thus woman’s shame doth creep.”

The good man read on both sides the content,

It title had, “Unto my only love”:

Subscription was, “Yours most, if you will prove.”

Th’ epistle self such kind of words it had;

“My sweetest joy, the comfort of my sprite,

So may thy flocks increase thy dear heart glad,

So may each thing e’en as thou wishest light,

As thou wilt deign to read, and gently read

This mourning ink in which my heart doth bleed.

“Long have I lov’d, alas thou worthy art,

Long have I lov’d, alas love craveth love,

Long have I lov’d thyself, alas my heart

Doth break, now tongue unto thy name doth move;

And think not that thy answer answer is,

But that it is my doom of bale or bliss.

“The jealous wretch must now to court be gone;

Ne can he fail, for prince hath for him sent:

Now is the time we may be here alone,

And give a long desire a sweet content.

Thus shall you both reward a lover true,

And eke revenge his wrong suspecting you.”

And this was all, and this the husband read

With chafe enough, till she him pacified:

Desiring that no grief in him be bred,

Now that he had her words so truly tried:

But that he would to him the letter show,

That with his fault be might her goodness know.

That straight was done with many a boist’rous threat,

That to the king he would his sin declare;

But now the courtier gan to smell the feat,

And with some words which showed little care:

He stayed until the good man was departed,

Then gave he him the blow which never smarted.

Thus may you see the jealous wretch was made

The pander of the thing he most did fear.

Take heed therefore, how you ensue that trade,

Lest the same marks of jealousy you bear.

For sure, no jealousy can that prevent,

Whereto two parties once be full content.

“Behold,” said Pas, “a whole dicker of wit: he had picked out such a tale with intention to keep a husband from jealousy, which was enough to make a sanctified husband jealous, to see subtilities so much in the feminine gender. But,” said he, “I will strike Nico dead, with the wise words that shall flow out of my gorge.” And without further entreaty thus sang:

Who doth desire that chaste his wife should be,

First be he true, for truth doth truth deserve:

Then such be he, as she his worth may see,

And one man still credit with her preserve.

Not toying kind, nor causelessly unkind,

Not stirring thoughts, nor yet denying right,

Not spying faults, nor in plain errors blind,

Never hard hand, nor ever reins too light.

As far from want, as far from vain expense

(The one doth force, the latter doth entice)

Allow good company, but keep from thence

All filthy mouths that glory in their vice.

This done, thou hast no more, but leave the rest,

To virtue, fortune, time and woman’s breast.

“Well concluded,” said Nico, “when he hath done all, he leaves the matter to his wife’s discretion. Now whensoever thou marriest, let her discretion deck thy head with Actaeon’s ornament.” Pas was so angry with his wish, being indeed towards marriage, that they might perchance have fallen to buffets, but that Dicus desired Philisides, who as a stranger sat among them, revolving in his mind all the tempests of evil fortune he had passed, that he would do so much grace to the company, as to sing one of his country songs. Philisides, knowing it no good manners to be squeamish of his coming, having put himself into their company, without further study began to utter that, wherewith his thoughts were then, as always, most busied: and to show what a stranger he was to himself, spoke of himself, as of a third person in this sort:

The lad Philisides

Lay by a river’s side.

In flow’ry field a gladder eye to please;

His pipe was at his foot,

His lambs were him beside,

A widow turtle near on bared root

Sat wailing without boot.

Each thing both sweet and sad

Did draw his boiling brain

To think, and think with pain

Of Mira’s beams, eclips’d by absence bad,

And thus, with eyes made dim

With tears, he said, or sorrow said for him:

“O earth, once answer give,

So may thy stately grace

By north, or south still rich adorned live,

So Mira long may be

On thy then blessed face

Whose foot doth set a heav’n on cursed thee,

I ask, now answer me:

If th’ author of thy bliss,

Phoebus, that shepherd high,

Do turn from thee his eye,

Doth not thyself, when he long absent is,

Like rogue, all ragged go,

And pine away with daily wasting woe?

Tell me you wanton brook,

So may your sliding race

Shun loathed loving banks with cunning crook:

So in you ever new

Mira may look her face,

And make you fair with shadow of her hue:

So when to pay your due

To mother sea you come,

She chid you not for stay,

Nor beat you for your play,

Tell me if your diverted springs become

Absented quite from you,

Are you not dried? can you yourselves renew?

Tell me you flowers fair,

Cowslip and columbine,

So may you make this wholesome spring-time air

With you embraced lie,

And lately thence untwine:

But with dewdrops engender children high:

So may you never die,

But pull’d by Mira’s hand,

Dress bosom hers, or head.

Or scatter on her bed,

Tell me, if husband spring-time leave your land,

When he from you is sent,

Whither not you, languish’d with discontent?

Tell me, my silly pipe,

So may thee still betide,

A cleanly cloth thy moistness for to wipe:

So may the cherries red

Of Mira’s lips divide

Their sugared selves to kiss thy happy head:

So may her ears be led

Her ears where music lives,

To hear and not despise

Thy lyric-liring cries;

Tell, if that breath, which thee thy sounding gives.

Be absent far from thee,

Absent alone canst thou then piping be?

Tell me my lamb of gold,

So may’st thou long abide

The day well fed, the night in faithful fold:

So grow thy wool of note,

In time that richly dy’d

It may be part of Mira’s petticoat,

Tell me, if wolves the throat

Have caught of thy dear dam,

Or she from thee be stay’d,

Or thou from her be stray’d,

Canst thou poor lamb, become another’s lamb?

Or rather till you die,

Still for thy dam, with baa-waymenting cry?

Tell me, O turtle true,

So may no fortune breed

To make thee nor thy better-loved rue:

So may thy blessings swarm,

That Mira may thee feed

With hand and mouth; with laps and breaks keep warm:

Tell me of greedy arm,

Do fondly take away

With traitor lime the one

The other left alone:

Tell me poor wretch, parted from wretched prey

Disdain not you the green,

Wailing till death, shun you not to be seen?

Earth, brook, flow’rs, pipe, lamb, dove,

Say all and I with them,

‘Absence is death or worse, to them that love.’

So I unlucky lad

Whom hills from her do hem,

What fits me now but tears, and sighings sad?

O fortune too too bad,

I rather would my sheep

Th’adst killed with a stroke,

Burnt Caban, lost my cloak,

Then want one hour those eyes which my joys keep.

Oh! what doth wailing win?

Speech without end had better not begin.

My song climb thou the wind,

Which Holland sweet now gently sendeth in,

That on his wings the level thou may’st find

To hit, but kissing hit

Her ears the weights of wit.

If thou know not for whom thy master dies,

These marks shall make thee wise:

She is the herdess fair that shines in dark,

And gives her kids no food, but willow’s bark.”

This said, at length he ended.

His oft sigh-broken ditty,

Then raise, but raise no legs with faintness bended,

With skin in sorrow died,

With face the plot of pity,

With thoughts, which thoughts their own tormentors tried.

He rose, and straight espied

His ram, who to recover

The ewe another loved,

With him proud battle proved.

He envied such a death in sight of lover,

And always westward eyeing,

More envied Phoebus for his western flying.

The whole company would gladly have taken this occasion of requesting Philisides in plainer sort to discover unto them his estate. Which he willing to prevent, as knowing the relation thereof more fit for funerals than the time of a marriage, began to sing this song he had learned before he had ever subjected his thoughts to acknowledge no master, but a mistress.

As I my little flock on Ister bank

(A little flock; but well my pipe they couth)

Did piping lead, the sun already sank

Beyond our world, and ere I got my booth,

Each thing with mantle black the night doth sooth;

Saving the glow-worm which would courteous be

Of that small light oft watching shepherds see.

The welkin had full niggardly enclosed

In coffer of dim clouds his silver groats,

Ycleped stars; each thing to rest disposed,

The caves, were full, the mountains void of goats

The bird’s eye clos’d; closed their chirping notes.

As for the nightingale, wood music’s king:

It August was, he deign’d not then to sing.

Amid my sheep, though I saw naught to fear,

Yet (for I nothing saw) I feared sore;

Then found I which thing is a charge to bear,

As for my sheep I dreaded mickle more

Than ever for myself since I was bore.

I sat me down: for see to go he could.

And sang unto my sheep lest stray they should.

The song I sang old Lanquet had me taught,

Lanquet, the shepherd best swift Ister knew,

For clerkly read, and hating what is naught,

For faithful heart, clean hands, and mouth as true:

With sweet skill my skilless youth he drew,

To have a feeling taste of him that fits

Beyond the heaven, far more beyond your wits.

He said the music best thilk power pleased

Was jump concord between our wit and will;

Where highest notes to godliness are raised,

And lowest sink not down to jot of ill:

With old true tales he wont mine ears to fill.

How shepherds did of yore, how now they thrive,

Spoiling their flock, or while ’twixt them they strive.

He liked me, but pitied lustful youth:

His good strong staff my slipp’ry years upbore:

He still hop’d well because I loved truth:

Till forc’d to part with heart and eyes e’en sore,

To worthy Corydon he gave me o’er,

But thus in oak’s true shade recounted be,

Which now in night’s deep shade sheep heard of me.

Such manner time there was (what time I not)

When all this earth, this dam or mould of ours

Was only won’d with such as beasts begot:

Unknown as then were they that builded towers:

The cattle wild, or tame, in nature’s bowers

Might freely roam, or rest, as seemed them:

Man was not man their dwellings in to hem.

The beasts had sure some beastly policy:

For nothing can endure where order n’is.

For once the lion by the lamb did lie,

The fearful hind the leopard did kiss.

Hurtless was tiger’s paw, and serpent’s hiss.

This think I well the beasts with courage clad,

Like senators a harmless empire had.

At which whether the others did repine,

For envy harb’reth most in feeblest hearts

Or that they all to changing did incline,

As e’en in beasts their dams leave changing parts

The multitude to Jove a suit imparts,

With neighing, blaying, braying, and barking,

Roaring and howling for to have a king.

A king, in language theirs they said they would:

(For then their language was a perfect speech)

The birds likewise with chirps, and puing could

Cackling, and chatt’ring that of Jove beseech.

Only the owl still warn’d them not to seech

So hastily that which they would repent;

But saw they would, and he to deserts went.

Jove wisely said (for wisdom wisely says)

O beasts, take heed what you of me desire.

Rulers will think all things made them to please,

And soon forget the swink due to their hire:

But since you will, part of my heav’nly fire,

I will you lend; the rest yourselves must give,

That it both seen and felt may with you live.

Full glad they were, and took the naked spright,

Which straight the earth clothed in his clay:

The lion heart; the ounce gave active might;

The horse, good shape; the sparrow, lust to play;

Nightingale, voice, enticing songs to say.

Elephant gave a perfect memory:

And parrot, ready tongue, that to apply.

The fox gave craft; the dog gave flattery:

Ass patience; the mole, a working thought;

Eagle, high look; wolf, secret cruelty:

Monkey, sweet breath; the cow, her fair eyes brought;

The ermine, whitest skin, spotted with nought;

The sheep, mild seeming face; climbing, the bear.

The stag did give the harm eschewing fear.

The hare, her sleights; the cat, his melancholy;

Ant, industry; and coney, skill to build;

Cranes, order; storks, to be appearing holy;

Chameleon, ease to change; duck, ease to yield:

Crocodile, tears, which might be falsely spill’d:

Ape, great thing gave, though he did mowing stand,

The instrument of instruments, the hand.

Each other beast likewise his present brings:

And but thy dread their prince they ought should want,

They all consented were to give him wings:

And aye more awe towards him for to plant,

To their own work this privilege they grant,

That from thenceforth to all eternity,

No beast should freely speak, but only he.

Thus man was made; thus man their lord became:

Who at the first, wanting, or biding pride,

He did to beasts’ best use his cunning frame

With water drink, herbs meat, and naked hide.

And fellow like let his dominion slide;

Not in his sayings, saying “I,” but “we”;

As if he meant his lordship common be.

But when his seat so rooted he had found,

That they now skill’d not how from him to wend;

Then gain in guiltless earth full many a wound,

Iron to seek, which ’gainst itself should bend,

To tear the bowels, that good corn should send,

But yet the common dam none did bemoan;

Because, though hurt, they never heard her groan.

Then ’gan the factions in the beasts to breed;

Where helping weaker sort, the nobler beasts

(As tigers, leopards, bears, and lions’ seed)

Disdain’d with this, in deserts sought their rests:

Where famine ravin taught their hungry chests,

That craftily he forc’d them to do ill,

Which being done, he afterwards would kill.

For murders done, which never erst was seen,

By those great beasts, as for the weaker’s good,

He chose themselves his guarders for to been.

’Gainst those of might, of whom in fear they stood,

As horse, and dog, not great, but gentle blood:

Blithe were the common cattle of the field,

Tho’ when they saw their foe’n of greatness kill’d.

But they or spent, or made of slender might,

Then quickly did the meaner cattle find,

The great beams gone, the house on shoulder’s light:

For by and by the horse fair bits did bind:

The dog was in a collar taught his kind.

As for the gentle birds like case might rue,

When falcon they, and goss-hawk saw in mew.

Worst fell to smallest birds, and meanest herd,

Whom now his own, full like his own he used.

Yet first but wool, or feathers off he tear’d:

And when they were well us’d to be abused:

For hungry teeth their flesh with teeth he bruised:

At length for glutton taste he did them kill:

At last for sport their silly lives did spill.

But yet, O man, rage not beyond thy need:

Deem it not glory to swell in tyranny.

Thou art of blood, joy not to see things bleed:

Thou fearest death: think they are loth to die.

A plaint of guiltless hurt doth pierce the sky.

And you poor beasts in patience bide your hell,

Or know your strengths, and then you shall do well.

Thus did I sing and pipe eight sullen hours

To sheep, whom love, not knowledge, made to hear,

Now fancy’s fits, now fortune’s baleful flowers:

But then I homeward call’d my lambkins dear;

For to my dimmed eyes began to appear

The night grown old, her black head waxen grey,

Sure shepherd’s sign, that morn should soon fetch day.

According to the nature of divers ears, divers judgments soon followed: some praising his voice, others his words fit to frame a pastoral style, others the strangeness of the tale, and scanning what he should mean by it. But old Geron, who had borne him a grudge ever since in one of their eclogues he had taken him up over-bitterly, took hold of this occasion to make his revenge, and said, he never saw a thing worse proportioned, than to bring in a tale of he knew not what beasts at such a sport-meeting, when rather some song of love, or matter for joyful melody was to be brought forth. “But,” said he, “this is the right conceit of young men, who think then they speak wiseliest, when they cannot understand themselves.” But little did the melancholic shepherd regard either his dispraises, or the other’s praises, who had set the foundation of his honour there, where he was most despised. And therefore he returning again to the train of his desolate pensiveness, Geron invited Histor to answer him in eclogue-wise; who indeed having been long in love with the fair Kala, and now by Lalus over-gone, was grown into a detestation of marriage. But thus it was.

GERON and HISTOR

GERON

In faith, good Histor, long is your delay,

From holy marriage, sweet and surest mean:

Our foolish lust in honest rules to stay,

I pray you do to Lalus’ sample lean:

Thou seest how frisk, and jolly now he is,

That last day seem’d, he could not chew a bean.

Believe me man, there is no greater bliss,

Than is the quiet joy of loving wife:

Which whoso wants, half of himself doth miss.

Friend without change, playfellow without strife,

Food without fullness, counsel without pride,

Is this sweet doubling of our single life.

HISTOR

No doubt, to whom so good chance did betide,

As for to find a pasture strewed with gold,

He were a fool if there he did not bide.

Who would not have a Phoenix if he could:

The humming wasp if it had not a sting,

Before all flies the wasp accept I would;

But this bad world, few golden fields doth bring;

Phoenix but one, of crows we millions have.

The wasp seems gay, but is a cumbrous thing.

If many Kala’s our Arcadia gave,

Lalus’ example I would soon ensue,

And think, I did myself from sorrow save.

But of such wives we find a slender crew;

Shrewdness so stirs, pride so puffs up the heart,

They seldom ponder what to them is due.

With meagre looks, as if they still did smart

Puling or whimpering, or else scolding flat,

Make home more pain than following of the cart.

Either dull silence, or eternal chat;

Still contrary to what her husband says;

If he do praise the dog, she likes the cat.

Austere she is, when he would honest plays;

And gamesome then, when he thinks on his sheep,

She bids him go, and yet from journey stays,

She war doth ever with his kinsfolk keep,

And makes them fremb’d, who friends by nature are,

Envying shallow toys with malice deep.

And if forsooth there come some new found ware,

The little coin his sweating brows have got,

Must go for that if for her lowers he care:

Or else; Nay faith, mine is the luckiest lot,

That ever fell to honest woman yet:

No wife but I hath such a man, god wot:

Such is their speech, who be of sober wit:

But, who do let their tongues show well their rage,

Lord, what bywords they speak, what spite they spit?

The house is made a very loathsome cage,

Wherein the bird doth never sing, but cry.

With such a will as nothing can assuage.

Dearly their servants do their wages buy,

Revil’d for each small fault, sometimes for none:

They better live that in a jail do lie

Let other fouler sports away be blown,

For I seek not their shame, but still methinks

A better life it is to live alone.

GERON

Who for such fickle fear from virtue shrinks,

Shall in his life embrace no worthy thing:

No mortal man the cup of surety drinks.

The heav’ns do not good haps in handfuls bring,

But let us pick our good from out much bad:

That still our little world may know his king.

But certainly so long we may be glad,

While that we do what nature doth require,

And for th’ event we never ought be sad.

Man oft is plagu’d with air, is burnt with fire,

In water drown’d, in earth his burial is:

And shall we not therefore their use desire?

Nature above all things requireth this,

That we our kind do labour to maintain:

Which drawn-out line doth hold all human bliss.

Thy father justly may of thee complain

If thou do not repay his deeds for thee,

In granting unto him a grandsire’s gain.

Thy Commonwealth may rightly grieved be,

Which must by this immortal be preserved,

If thus thou murder thy posterity.

His very being he hath not deserved,

Who for a self-conceit will that forbear,

Whereby that being, aye must be, conserved.

And God forbid women such cattle were

As you paint them: but well in you I find,

No man doth speak aright who speaks in fear,

Who only sees the ill is worse than blind.

These fifty winters married have I been;

And yet find no such faults in womankind.

I have a wife worthy to be a queen,

So well she can command, and yet obey:

In ruling of a house so well she’s seen.

And yet in all this time betwixt us twa,

We wear our double yoke of such content,

That never passed foul word, I dare well say:

But these are your love toys, which still are spent

In lawless games, and love not as you should,

But with much study learn late to repent.

How well last day before our prince you could

Blind Cupid’s works with wonder testify?

Yet now the root of him abase you would.

Go to, go to, and Cupid now apply,

To that where thou thy Cupid may’st avow,

And thou shalt find in women virtues lie,

Sweet supple minds which soon to wisdom bow

Where they by wisdom’s rule directed are,

And are not forc’d fond thraldom to allow.

As we to get are fram’d, so they to spare:

We made for pain, our pains they made to cherish:

We care abroad, and they of home have care,

O Histor, seek within thyself to flourish:

Thy house by thee must live, or else be gone:

And then who shall the name of Histor nourish?

Riches of children pass a prince’s throne;

Which touch the father’s heart with secret joy,

When without shame he saith, “These be mine own.”

Marry therefore, for marriage will destroy

Those passions which to youthful head do climb,

Mothers and nurses of all vain annoy.

HISTOR

Perchance I will, but now methinks it time

To go unto the bride, and use this day,

To speak with her while freely speak we may.

He spoke these words with such affection, as a curious eye might easily have perceived he liked Thyrsis’ fortune better than he loved his person. But then indeed did all arise, and went to the women, where spending all the day, and good part of the night in dancing, carolling and wassailing; lastly, they left Thyrsis, where he long desired to be left, and with many unfeigned thanks returned every man to his home. But some of them having to cross the way of the two lodges, might see a lady making doleful lamentation over a body which seemed dead unto them. But methinks Dametas cries unto me, if I come not the sooner to comfort him, he will leave off his golden work, that hath already cost him so much labour and longing.

[End of Book III]

ARCADIA
BOOK IV

The almighty wisdom evermore delighting to show the world that by unlikeliest means greatest matters may come to conclusion; that human reason may be the more humbled, and more willingly give place to divine providence; as at the first it brought in Dametas to play a part in this royal pageant, so having continued him still an actor, now that all things were grown ripe for an end, made his folly the instrument of revealing that which far greater cunning had sought to conceal. For so it fell out that Dametas having spent the whole day in breaking up the cumbersome work of the pastor Dorus, and feeling in all his labour no pain so much as that his hungry hopes received any stay, having with the price of much sweat and weariness gotten up the huge stone, which he thought should have such a golden lining, the good man in the great bed that stone had made, found nothing but these two verses written upon a broad piece of vellum.

Who hath his hire, hath well his labour plac’d;

Earth thou didst seek, and store of Earth thou hast.

What an inward discontentment it was to master Dametas, to find his hope of wealth turned to poor verses, for which he never cared much, nothing can describe, but either the feeling in one’s self the state of such a mind Dametas had, or at least the bethinking what was Midas’s fancy, when after the great pride he conceived to be made judge between the Gods, he was rewarded with the ornament of an ass’s ears. Yet the deep apprehension he had received of such riches, could not so suddenly lose the colour that had so thoroughly dyed his thick brain, but that he turned and tossed the poor bowels of the innocent earth, till the coming on of the night, and the tediousness of his fruitless labour made him content rather to exercise his discontentation at home than there. But forced he was, his horse being otherwise burdened with digging instruments, to return as he came, most part of the way on foot, with such grudging lamentations as a nobler mind would, but more nobly, make for the loss of his mistress. For so far had he fed his foolish soul with the expectation of that which he reputed felicity, that he no less accounted himself miserable, than if he had fallen from such an estate his fancy had embraced. So then home again went Dametas, punished in conceit, as in conceit he had erred, till he found himself there from a fancied loss fallen to essential misery: for entering into his house three hours before night, instead of the lightsome countenance of Pamela, which gave such an inward decking to that lodge, as proudest palaces might have cause to envy it, and of the grateful conversation of Dorus, whose witty behaviour made that loneliness to seem full of good company, instead of the loud scolding of Miso, and the busy rumbling up and down of Mopsa, which though they were so short, as quite contrary to the others’ praiseworthiness, yet were they far before them in filling of a house, he found nothing but a solitary darkness, which as naturally it breeds a kind of irksome ghastfulness, so it was to him a most present terror, remembering the charge he had left behind, which he well knew imported no less than his life unto him. Therefore lighting a candle, there was no place a mouse could have dwelled in but that he with quaking diligence sought into. But when he saw he could see nothing of that he most cared for, then became he the right pattern of a wretch dejected with fear: for crying and howling, knocking his head to the wall, he began to make pitiful complaints, where nobody could hear him: and, with too much dread he should not recover her, leave all consideration how to recover her. But at length looking like a she-goat when she casts her kid, for very sorrow he took in his own behalf, out of the lodge he went running as hard as he could, having now received the very form of hanging into his consideration. Thus running, as a man that would gladly have run from himself, it was his foolish fortune to espy, by the glimmering light the moon did then yield him, one standing aloft among the boughs of a fair ash. He that would have asked counsel at that time of a dog, cast up his face, as if his tooth had been drawing; and with much bending his sight, perceived it was Mopsa, fitly seated there for her wit and dignity. There, I will not say with joy, for how could he taste of joy, whose imagination was fallen from a palace to the gallows? But yet with some refreshing of comfort, in hopes he should learn better tidings of her, he began to cry out, “O Mopsa, my beloved chicken, here am I thine own father Dametas, never in such a towardness of hanging if thou canst not help me.” But never a word could his eloquence procure of Mopsa, who indeed was there attending for greater matters. This was yet a new burden to poor Dametas, who thought all the world was conspiring against him, and therefore with a silly choler he began another tune. “Thou vile Mopsa,” said he, “now the vengeance of my fatherly curse overthwart thee if though do not straightways answer me.” But neither blessing nor cursing could prevail. Mopsa, who was now great with child with the expectation of her may-game hopes did long to be delivered with the third time of being named. Which by and by followed, for Dametas rubbing his elbow, stamping and whining, seeing neither of these take place, he began to throw stones at her, and withal to conjure her by the name of hellish Mopsa. But when he had named her the third time, no chime can more suddenly follow the striking of a clock, than she verily thinking it was the god that used her father’s voice, throwing her arms abroad, and not considering that she was muffled upon so high a tree, came fluttering down like a hooded hawk, likely enough to have broken her neck but that the tree full of boughs tossed her from one bough to another, and lastly, well bruised, brought her to receive an unfriendly salutation of the earth. Dametas, as soon as she was down, came running to her, and finding her so close wrapt, pulled off the scarlet cloak, in good time for her, for with the soreness of the fall, if she had not had breath given her, she had delivered a foolish soul to Pluto.

But when Dametas began afresh to desire his daughter not to forget the pains he had taken for her in her childhood, which he was sure she could remember, and to tell where Pamela was. “O good Apollo,” said Mopsa, “if ever thou didst bear love to Phaeton’s mother let me have a king to my husband.” “Alas, what speakest thou of Phaeton?” said Dametas. “If by thy circumspect means I find not out Pamela, thy father will be hanged to-morrow.” “It is no matter though he be hanged,” answered Mopsa, “do but thou make Dorus a king, and let him be my husband, good Apollo, for my courage doth much prick me toward him.” “Ah Mopsa,” cried out Dametas, “where is thy wit? Dost thou not know thy father? How hast thou forgotten thyself?” “I do not ask wit of thee, mine own God,” said she, “but I see thou wouldst have me remember my father, and indeed forget myself. No, no, a good husband.” “Thou shalt have thy fill of husbands,” said Dametas, “and do but answer me my question.” “O I thank thee,” said Mopsa, “with all my heart heartily, but let them be all kings.” Dametas seeing no other way prevail, fell down on his knees, “Mopsa, Mopsa,” said he, “do not thus cruelly torment me; I am already wretched enough, alas! either help me, or tell me thou canst not.” She that would not be behind Apollo in courtesy, kneeled down on the other side; “I will never leave tormenting thee,” said Mopsa, “until thou hast satisfied my longing; but I will proclaim thee a promise-breaker, that even Jupiter shall hear it.” “Now by the fostering thou hast received in this place, save my life,” said Dametas. “Now by the fair ash,” answered Mopsa, “where thou didst receive so great a good turn, grant post haste to my burning fancy.” “O where is Pamela?” said Dametas. “O a lusty husband,” said Mopsa. Dametas, who now verily assured himself his daughter was mad, began utterly to despair of his life; and therefore amazedly catching her in his arms, to see whether he could bring her to herself, he felt the weight of a great cudgel light upon his shoulder, and for the first greeting he knew his wife Miso’s voice, by the calling him ribald villain, and asking him whether she could not serve his turn as well as Charita? For Miso having, according to Dorus’s counsel, gone to Mantinea, and there harboured herself in an old acquaintance’s house of hers, as soon as ten of the clock had stricken (where she had remained closely all that while, I think with such an amiable cheer, as when jealous Juno sat cross-legged to hinder the child-birth of her husband’s love) with open mouth she went to the magistrate appointed over such matters, and there, with the most scolding invective, her rage rather than eloquence could bring forth, she required his aid to take Dametas, who had left his duty to the king and his daughter, to commit adultery in the house of Charita’s uncle, in the Oudemian Street. But neither was the name of Charita remembered, nor any such street known. Yet such was the general mislike all men had of Dametas’s unworthy advancement, that every man was glad to make himself a minister of that which might redound to his shame; and therefore, with panic cries and laughters, there was no suspected place in all the city but was searched for under the title of Dametas, Miso ever foremost, encouraging them with all the shameful blazings of his demeanour, increasing the sport of hunting her husband, with her diligent barking, till at length, having done both him and herself as much infamous shame as such a tongue in such an action might perform, in the end not being able to find a thing that was not, to her mare again she went, having neither suspicion nor rage anything mitigated. But, leaving behind her a sufficient comedy of her tragical fancies, away homeward she came, imputing the not finding her husband, to any chance rather than to his innocency. For her heart being apt to receive and nourish a bitter thought, it had so swallowed up a determinate condemnation, that in the very anatomy of her spirits one should have found nothing but devilish disdain, and hateful jealousy. In this sort grunting out her mischievous spite, she came by the tree, even as Dametas was making that ill-understood intercession to his foolish Mopsa. As soon as she heard her husband’s voice, she verily thought she had her play; and therefore stealing from her mare as softly as she could, she came creeping and halting behind him, even as he (thinking his daughter’s little wits had quite left her great noll) began to take her in his arms, thinking perchance her feeling sense might call her mind’s parts unto her. But Miso, who saw nothing but through the choler of revengeful anger, established upon the fore-judgment of his trespass, undoubtedly resolving that Mopsa was Charita, Dorus had told her of, mumping out her hoarse chafe, she gave him the wooden salutation you heard of; Dametas, that was not so sensible in anything as in blows, turned up his blubbered face like a great lout new whipped: “Alas! thou woman,” said he, “what hath thy poor husband deserved to have his own ill luck loaden with displeasure? Pamela is lost, Pamela is lost.” Miso still holding on the course of her former fancy, “What tellest thou me, naughty varlet, of Pamela; Dost thou think that doth answer me for abusing the laws of marriage? Have I brought thee children, have I been a true wife unto thee, to be despised in mine old age?” And ever among she would sauce her speeches with such bastinadoes, that poor Dametas began now to think, that either a general madding was fallen, or else that all this was but a vision. But as for visions the smart of the cudgel put out of his fancy; and therefore again turning to his wife, not knowing what in the world she meant, “Miso,” said he, “hereafter thou mayest examine me, do but now tell me what is become of Pamela.” “I will first examine this drab,” said she, and withal let fall her staff as hard as she could upon Mopsa, still taking her for Charita. But Mopsa that was already angry, thinking that she had hindered her from Apollo, leaped up and caught her by the throat, like to have strangled her, but that Dametas from a condemned man was fain to become a judge, and part this fray, such a picture of rude discord, where each was out with the other two. And then getting the opportunity of their falling out to hold himself in surety, who was indeed the veriest coward of the three, he renewed his earnest demand of them.

But it was a sport to see, how the former conceits Dorus had printed in their imaginations, kept still such dominion in them, that Miso, though now she found and felt it was her daughter Mopsa, yet did Charita continually pass through her thoughts, which she uttered with such crabbed questions to Dametas, that he not possibly conceiving any part of her doubt, remained astonished, and the astonishment increased her doubt. And as for Mopsa, as first she did assuredly take him to be Apollo, and thought her mother’s coming did but mar the bargain: so now much talking to and fro had delivered so much light into the misty mould of her capacity, as to know him to be her father. Yet remained there such footsteps of the foretaken opinion that she thought verily her father and mother were hasted thither to get the first wish. And therefore to whatsoever they asked of her, she would never answer, but embracing the tree, as if she feared it had been running away, “Nay,” says she, “I will have the first wish, for I was here first;” which they understood no more than Dametas did what Miso meant by Charita; till at length with much urging them, being indeed better able to persuade both, than to meet hand to hand with either, he prevailed so much with them, as to bring them into the lodge to see what loss their negligence had suffered. Then indeed the near neighbourhood they bare to themselves, made them leave other toys, and look into what dangerous plight they were all fallen, as soon as the king should know his daughter’s escape. And as for the women, they began afresh to enter into their brawling, whether were in the fault. But Dametas, who did fear that among his other evils, the thunderbolt of that storm would fall upon his shoulders, slipped away from them, but with so maugre a cheer, as might much sooner engender laughter than pity. “O true Arcadia,” would he say (tearing his hair and beard, and sometime for too much woe, making unwieldy former-faults) “how darest thou bear upon thee such a felonious traitor as I am? And, you false-hearted trees, why would you make no noise to make her ungracious departure known? Ah Pamela, Pamela, how often when I brought thee in fine poesies of all coloured flowers, wouldst thou clap me on the cheek, and say thou wouldst be one day even with me? Was this thy meaning, to bring me to an even pair of gallows? ah ill-taught Dorus, that camest hither to learn good manners of me? did I ever teach thee to make thy master sweat out his heart for nothing, and in the meantime to run away with thy mistress? O my dun cow, I did think some evil was towards me ever since the last day thou didst run away from me, and held up thy tail so pitifully: did I not see an eagle kill a cuckoo, which was a plain foretoken unto me, Pamela should be my destruction? O wise Miso, if I durst say it to thy face, why didst thou suspect thy husband that loveth a piece of cheese better than a woman? and thou little Mopsa, that shall inherit the shame of thy father’s death, was it time for thee to climb trees, which should so shortly be my best burial? O that I could live without death, or die before I were aware! O heart, why hast thou no hands at commandment to dispatch thee? O hands, why want you a heart to kill this villain?” In this sort did he inveigh against everything, sometimes thinking to run away, while it was yet night: but he that had included all the world within his sheep-cote, thought that worse than any death; sometime for dread of hanging he meant to hang himself; finding, as indeed it is, that fear is far more painful to cowardice, than death to a true courage.

But his fingers were nothing nimble in that action, and anything was let enough thereto, he being a true lover of himself without any rival. But, lastly, guided by a far greater constellation than his own, he remembered to search the other lodge, where it might be Pamela that night had retired herself. So thither with trembling hams he carried himself; but employing his double key, which the king for special credit had unworthily bestowed upon him, he found all the gates so barred, that his key could not prevail, saving only one trap door which went down into the vault by the cellar, which as it was unknown of Pyrocles, so had he left it unregarded. But Dametas, that ever knew the buttery better than any other place, got in that way, and passing softly to Philoclea’s chamber, where he thought most likely to find Pamela; the door being left open, he entered in, and by the light of the lamp he might discern one on the bed by her; which although he took to be Pamela, yet thinking no surety enough in a matter touching his neck, he went hard to the bedside of these unfortunate lovers, who at that time being not much before the break of day (whether it were they were so divinely surprised, to bring this whole matter to the destined conclusion, or that the unresistable force of their sorrows had overthrown the wakeful use of their senses) were as then possessed with a mutual sleep, yet not forgetting with viny embracements to give any eye a perfect model of affection. But Dametas looking with the lamp in his hand, but neither with such a face nor mind upon these excellent creatures, as Psyche did upon her unknown lover, and giving every way freedom to his fearful eyes, did not only perceive it was Zelmane, and therefore much different from the lady he sought: but that this same Zelmane did more differ from the Zelmane he and others had ever taken her for, wherein the change of her apparel chiefly confirmed his opinion; satisfied with that, and not thinking it good to awake the sleeping lion, he went down again, taking with him Pyrocles’s sword (wherewith upon his slight under-suit Pyrocles came only apparelled thither) being sure to leave no weapon in the chamber, and so making the doors as fast as he could on the outside, hoping with the revealing of this, as he thought greater fault, to make his own the less, or at least that this injury would so fill the king’s head, that he should not have leisure to chastise his negligence (like a fool, not considering, that the more rage breeds the crueller punishment), he went first into the king’s chamber, and not finding him there, he ran down crying with open mouth, the king was betrayed, and that Zelmane did abuse his daughter. The noise he made, being a man of no few words, joined to the yelping sound of Miso, and his unpleasant inheritrix, brought together some number of the shepherds, to whom he without any regard of reserving it for the king’s knowledge, spattered out the bottom of his stomach, swearing by him that he never knew that Zelmane, whom they had taken all the while to be a woman, was as arrant a man as himself was, whereof he had seen sufficient signs and tokens, and that he was as close as a butterfly with the lady Philoclea.

The poor men jealous of their prince’s honour, were ready with weapons to have entered the lodge; standing yet in some pause, whether it were not best, first to hear some news from the king himself, when by the sudden coming of other shepherds, which with astonished looks ran from the one cry to the other, their griefs were surcharged with the evil tidings of the king’s death. Turning therefore all their minds and eyes that way, they ran to the cave where they said he lay dead, the sun beginning now to send some promises of coming light, making haste, I think, to be a spectator of the following tragedies. For Basilius having passed over the night more happy in contemplation than action, having had his spirits sublimed with the sweet imagination of embracing the most desired Zelmane, doubting lest the cave’s darkness might deceive him in the day’s approach, thought it now season to return to his wedlock-bed, remembering the promises he had made to Zelmane, to observe true orders towards Gynecia. Therefore departing, but not departing without bequeathing by a will of words, sealed with many kisses, a full gift of all his love and life to his misconceived bedfellow, he went to the mouth of the cave, there to apparel himself; in which doing, the motion of his joy could not be bridled from uttering such like words: “Blessed be thou, O night,” said he, “that hast with thy sweet wings shrouded me in the vale of bliss, it is thou that art the first gotten child of time, the day hath been but an usurper upon thy delightful inheritance, thou invitest all living things to comfortable rest, thou art the stop of strife, and the necessary truce of approaching battles.” And therewith he sung these verses to confirm his former praises.

O night, the ease of care, the pledge of pleasure,

Desire’s best mean, harvest of hearts affected,

The seat of peace, the throne which is erected,

Of human life to be the quiet measure.

Be victor still of Phoebus’ golden treasure,

Who hath our sight with too much sight infected,

Whose light is cause we have our lives neglected,

Turning all nature’s courses to self displeasure.

These stately stars in their now shining faces,

With senseless sleep, and silence wisdom’s mother,

Witness his wrong, which by the help is eased.

Thou art therefore of these our desert places

The sure refuge; by thee and by no other

My soul is blest, sense joy’d, and fortune raised.

And yet further would his joys needs break forth. “O Basilius,” said he, “the rest of thy time hath been but a dream unto thee; it is now only thou beginnest to live, now only thou hast entered into the way of blissfulness. Should fancy of marriage keep me from this paradise? or opinion of I know not what promise bind me from paying the right duties to nature and affection? O who would have thought there could have been such difference betwixt women? Be jealous no more, O Gynecia, but yield to the pre-eminence of more excellent gifts, support thyself with such marble pillars as she doth, deck thy breast with those alabaster bowls that Zelmane doth; then accompanied with such a title, perhaps thou mayest recover the possession of my otherwise inclined love. But alas! Gynecia thou canst not show such evidence, therefore thy plea is vain.” Gynecia heard all this he said, who had cast about her Zelmane’s garment, wherein she came thither, and had followed Basilius to the cave entry, full of inward vexation, betwixt the deadly accusation of her own guiltiness, and the spiteful doubt she had Zelmane had abused her. But because of the one side, finding the king did think her to be Zelmane, she had liberty to imagine it might rather be the king’s own unbridled enterprise, which had barred Zelmane, than Zelmane’s cunning deceiving of her; and that of the other, if she should headily seek a violent revenge, her own honour might be as much interested, as Zelmane endangered; she fell to this determination: First with fine handling of the king to settle in him a perfect good opinion of her, and then as she should learn how things had passed, to take into herself new devised counsel: but this being her first action, having given unlooked for attendance to the king, she heard with what partiality he did prefer her to herself, she saw in him how much fancy doth not only darken reason, but beguile sense, she found opinion mistress of the lover’s judgment, which serving as a good lesson to her good conceit, she went out to Basilius, setting herself in a grave behaviour and stately silence before him; until he (who at the first thinking her by so much shadow as he could see to be Zelmane, was beginning his loving ceremonies) did now being helped by the peeping light wherewith the morning did overcome the night’s darkness, know her face and his error, which acknowledging in himself with starting back from her, she thus with a modest bitterness spoke unto him: “Alas! my Lord, well did your words decipher your mind, and well be those words confirmed with this gesture. Very loathsome must that woman be from whom a man hath cause to go back; and little better liked is that wife, before whom the husband prefers them he never knew. Alas! hath my faithful observing my part of duty made you think yourself ever a whit the more exempted? hath that which should claim gratefulness, been a cause of contempt? Is the being mother of Pamela become an odious name unto you? if my life hitherto led have not avoided suspicion, if my violated truth to you be deserving of any punishment, I refuse not to be chastised with the most cruel torment of your displeasure; I refuse not misery, purchased by mine own merit. Hard I must needs say (although till now I never thought I should have had cause to say) is the destiny of womankind, the trial of whose virtue must stand upon the loving of them that employ all their industry not to be beloved. If Zelmane’s young years had not had so much gravity hidden under a youthful face, as your gray hairs have been but the vizor of unfitting youthfulness, your vicious mind had brought some fruits of repentance, and Gynecia might then have been with much more right so basely despised.”

Basilius, that was more ashamed to see himself overtaken, than Vulcan was, when with much cunning he proved himself a cuckold, began to make certain extravagant excuses: but the matter in itself hardly brooking any purgation, with the suddenness of the time, which barred any good conjoined invention, made him sometimes allege one thing, to which by and by, he would bring in a contrary, one time with flat denial, another time with mitigating the fault; now brave, then humble, use such a stammering defensive that Gynecia, the violence of whose sore indeed ran another way, was content thus to fasten up the last stitch of her anger. “Well, well, my Lord,” said she, “it shall well become you to govern yourself, as you may be fit rather to direct me than to be judged of me, and rather to be a wise master of me, that an unskilful pleader before me. Remember the wrong you have done, is not only to me, but to your children whom you had of me: to your country, when they shall find they are commanded by him that cannot command his own indecent appetites: lastly, to yourself, since with these pains you do but build up a house of shame to dwell in: if from those movable goods of nature (wherewith, in my first youth my royal parents bestowed me upon you) bearing you children, and increase of years have withdrawn me, consider I pray you that as you are the cause of the one, so in the other, time hath not left to work his never-failing effects in you. Truly, truly, Sir, very untimely are these fires in you; it is time for us both to let reason enjoy his due sovereignty. Let us not plant anew those weeds, which by nature’s course are content to fade.”

Basilius that would rather than his life the matter had been ended, the best rhetoric he had, was flat demanding pardon of her, swearing it was the very force of Apollo’s destiny which had carried him thus from his own bias; but that now like as far travellers were taught to love their own country, he had such a lesson without book, of affection unto her, as he would repay the debt of this error with the interest of a great deal more true honour than ever before he had done her. “Neither am I to give pardon to you, my Lord,” said she, “nor you to bear honour to me. I have taken this boldness for the unfeigned love I owe unto you, to deliver my sorrow unto you; much more for the care I have of your well-doing, than for any other self-fancy. For well I know that by your good estate my life is maintained, neither, if I would, can I separate myself from your fortune. For my part therefore I claim nothing but that which may be safest for yourself; my life, will, honour, and whatsoever else, shall be but a shadow of that body.” How much Basilius’s own shame had found him culpable, and had already even in soul read his own condemnation, so much did this unexpected mildness of Gynecia captive his heart unto her, which otherwise perchance would have grown to a desperate carelessness. Therefore embracing her, and confessing that her virtue shined in his vice, he did even with a true resolved mind vow unto her, that as long as he, unworthy of her, did live, she should be the furthest and only limit of his affection. He thanked the destinies that had wrought her honour out of his shame, and that made his own striving to go amiss, to be the best means ever after to hold him in the right path. Thus reconciled to Basilius’s great contentation, who began something to mark himself in his own doings his hard hap guided his eye to the cup of gold wherein Gynecia had put the liquor meant for Zelmane, and having failed of that guest, was now carrying it home again. But he whom perchance sorrow, perchance some long disaccustomed pains, had made extremely thirsty, took it out of her hands, although she directly told him both of whom she had it, what the effect of it was, and the little proof she had seen thereof: hiding nothing from him, but that she meant to minister it to another patient. But the king, whose belly had no ears, and much drought kept from the desiring a taster, finding it not unpleasant to his palate, drank it almost off, leaving very little to cover the cup’s bottom. But within a while that from his stomach the drink had delivered to his principal veins his noisome vapours, first with a painful stretching, and forced yawning, then with a dark yellowness dying his skin, and a cold deadly sweat principally about his temples, his body by natural course longing to deliver his heavy burden to his earthly dam, wanting force in his knees, which utterly abandoned him, with a heavy fall gave some proof whether the operation of that unknown potion tended. For, with pang-like groans, and ghastly turning of his eyes, immediately all his limbs stiffened, and his eyes fixed, he having had time to declare his case only in these words: “O Gynecia, I die; have care.” Of what, or how much further he would have spoken, no man can tell: For Gynecia having well perceived the changing of his colour, and those other evil signs, yet had not looked for such a sudden overthrow, but rather had bethought herself what was best for him, when she suddenly saw the matter come to that period, coming to him, and neither with any cries getting a word of him, nor with any other possible means, able to bring any living action from him; the height of all ugly sorrows did so horribly appear before her amazed mind, that at the first it did not only distract all power of speech from her, but almost wit to consider, remaining as it were quick buried in a grave of miseries. Her painful memory had straight filled her with the true shapes of all the fore-past mischiefs; her reason began to cry out against the filthy rebellion of sinful sense, and to tear itself with anguish for having made so weak a resistance, her conscience a terrible witness of the inward wickedness, still nourishing this debateful fire; her complaint now not having an end to be directed unto, from something to disburthen sorrow, but a necessary downfall of inward wretchedness. She saw the rigour of the laws was like to lay a shameful death upon her, which being for that action undeserved, made it the more insupportable, and yet in depth of her soul most deserved, made it more miserable. At length, letting her tongue go as dolorous thoughts guided it, she thus with lamentable demeanour spoke:

“O bottomless pit of sorrow, in which I cannot contain myself, having the firebrands of all furies within me, still falling, and yet by the infiniteness of it never fallen. Neither can I rid myself, being fettered with the everlasting consideration of it. For whither should I recommend the protection of my dishonored fall? to the earth? it hath no life, and waits to be increased by the relics of my shamed carcass: to men? who are always cruel in their neighbour’s faults, and make others’ overthrow become the badge of their ill-masked virtue? to the heavens? O unspeakable torment of conscience, which dare not look unto them. No sin can enter there, O there is no receipt for polluted minds. Whither then wilt thou lead this captive of thine, O snaky despair! Alas, alas, was this the free-holding power that accursed poison hath granted unto me, that to be held the surer it should deprive life? was this the folding in mine arms promised, that I should fold nothing but a dead body, O mother of mine what a dreadful suck have you given me? O Philoclea, Philoclea, well hath my mother revenged upon me my unmotherly hating of thee. O Zelmane, to whom yet, lest any misery should fail me, remain some sparks of my detestable love, if thou hast, as now alas! now my mind assures me thou hast, deceived me, there is a fair stage prepared for thee, to see the tragical end of thy hated lover.” With that word there flowed out two rivers of tears out of her fair eyes, which before were dry, the remembrance of her other mischiefs being dried up in a furious fire of self detestation, love only, according to the tempter of it, melting itself into those briny tokens of passion. Then turning her eyes again upon the body, she remembered a dream she had had some nights before, wherein thinking herself called by Zelmane, passing a troublesome passage; she found a dead body which told her there should be her only rest: This no sooner caught hold of her remembrance, than she determined with herself, it was a direct vision of her fore-appointed end, took a certain resolution to embrace death, as soon as it should be offered unto her, and no way seek the prolonging of her annoyed life. And therefore kissing the cold face of Basilius; “And even so will I rest,” said she, “and join this faulty soul of mine to thee, if so much the angry gods will grant me.”

As she was in this plight, the sun now climbing over the horizon; the first shepherds came by, who seeing the king in that case, and hearing the noise Dametas made of the Lady Philoclea, ran with the doleful tidings of Basilius’s death unto him, who presently with all his company came to the cave’s entry, where the king’s body lay; Dametas for his part more glad for the hope he had of his private escape, than sorry for the public loss of his country received for a prince not to be misliked. But in Gynecia nature prevailed above judgment, and the shame she conceived to be taken in that order, overcame for that instant the former resolution; so that as soon as she saw the foremost of the pastoral troop, the wretched princess ran to have hid her face in the next woods; but with such a mind, that she knew not almost herself what she could wish to be the ground of her safety. Dametas that saw her run away in Zelmane’s upper raiment, and judging her to be so, thought certainly all the spirits in hell were come to play a tragedy in these woods, such strange change he saw every way. The king dead at the cave’s mouth; the queen, as he thought, absent; Pamela fled away with Dorus; his wife and Mopsa in divers frenzies. But of all other things Zelmane conquered his capacity, suddenly from a woman grown to a man; and from a locked chamber gotten before him into the fields, which he gave the rest quickly to understand; for instead of doing anything as the exigent required, he began to make circles, and all those fanatical defences that he had ever heard were fortification against devils. But the other shepherds who hath both better wits, and more faith, forthwith divided themselves, some of them running after Gynecia, and esteeming her running away a great condemnation of her own guiltiness: others going to their prince, to see what service was left for them, either in recovery of his life, or honouring his death. They that went after the queen, had soon overtaken her, in whom now the first fears were staid, and the resolution to die had repossessed his place in her mind. But when they saw it was the queen, to whom besides the obedient duty they owed to her state, they had always carried a singular love, for her courteous liberalities, and other wise and virtuous parts, which had filled all that people with affection and admiration. They were all suddenly stopped, beginning to ask pardon for their following her in that sort; and desiring her to be their good lady, as she had ever been. But the queen, who now thirsted to be rid of herself, whom she hated above all things; with such an assured countenance as they have, who already have dispensed with shame and digested the sorrows of death, she thus said unto them, “Continue, continue, my friends; your doing is better than your excusing; the one argues assured faith, the other want of assurance. If you loved your prince, when he was able and willing to do you much good, which you could not then requite to him; do you now publish your gratefulness, when it shall be seen to the world, there are no hopes left to lead you unto it. Remember, remember you have lost Basilius, a prince to defend you, a father to care for you, a companion in your joys, a friend in your wants. And if you loved him, show you hate the author of his loss. It is I, faithful Arcadians, that have spoiled the country of their protector. I, none but I, was the minister of his unnatural end. Carry therefore my blood in your hands, to testify your own innocency, neither spare for my title’s sake, but consider it was he that so entitled me. And if you think of any benefits by my means, think with it that I was but the instrument and he the spring. What, stay ye, shepherds, whose great shepherd is gone? you need not fear a woman, reverence your lord’s murderer, nor hath pity of her, who hath no pity of herself.”

With this she presented her fair neck to some by name, others by signs, desiring them to do justice to the world, duty to their good king, honour to themselves, and favour to her. The poor men looked one upon the other, unused to be arbiters in princes’ matters, and being now fallen into a great perplexity, between a prince dead, and a princess alive. But once for them she might have gone whither she would, thinking it a sacrilege to touch her person, when she finding she was not a sufficient orator to persuade her own death by their hands; “Well,” said she, “it is but so much more time of misery; for my part, I will not give my life so much pleasure from henceforward as to yield to his desire of his own choice of death; since all the rest is taken away, yet let me excel in misery. Lead me therefore whither you will; only happy, because I cannot be more wretched.” But neither so much would the honest shepherds do, but rather with many tears bemoaned this increase of their former loss, till she was fain to lead them with a very strange spectacle, either that a princess should be in the hands of shepherds, or a prisoner should direct her guardians: lastly, before either witness or accuser, a lady condemn herself to death. But in such moanful march they went towards the other shepherds, who in the meantime had left nothing unassayed to revive the king, but all was bootless: and their sorrow increased the more they had suffered any hopes vainly to arise. Among other trials they made to know at least the cause of his end, having espied the unhappy cup, they gave the little liquor that was left to a dog of Dametas, in which within a short time it wrought the like effect; although Dametas did so much to recover him, that for very love of his life he dashed out his brains. But now altogether, and having Gynecia among them, who, to make herself the more odious, did continually record to their minds the access of their loss, they yielded themselves over to all those forms of lamentation, that doleful images do imprint in the honest, but over-tender hearts; especially when they think the rebound of the evil falls to their own smart. Therefore after the ancient Greek manner, some of them remembering the nobility of his birth, continued by being like his ancestors; others his shape, which though not excellent, yet favour and pity drew all things now to the highest point; others his peaceable government, the thing which most pleaseth men, resolved to live of their own; others his liberality, which though it cannot light upon all men, yet all men naturally hoping it may be, they make it a most amiable virtue. Some calling in question the greatness of his power, which increased the comparison to see the present change, having a doleful memory how he had tempered it with such familiar courtesy among them, that they did more feel the fruits than see the pomps of his greatness, all with one consent giving him the sacred titles of good, just, merciful, the father of the people, the life of his country, they ran about his body, tearing their beards and garments; some sending their cries to heaven, others inventing particular howling music; many vowing to kill themselves at the day of his funeral, generally giving a true testimony that men are loving creatures when injuries put them not from their natural course: and how easy a thing it is for a prince by succession, deeply to sink into the souls of his subjects, a more lively monument than Mausolus’s tomb. But as with such hearty lamentation, they dispersed among those words their resounding shrieks, the sun, the perfectest mark of time, having now gotten up two hours’ journey in his daily changing circle, their voice helped with the only answering echo, came to the ears of the faithful and worthy gentleman Philanax: who at that time was coming to visit the king, accompanied with divers of the worthy Arcadian lords, who with him had invited the place adjoining for the more assurance of Basilius’s solitariness, a thing after the late mutiny he had usually done: and since the princess’s return more diligently continued; which having now likewise performed, thinking it as well his duty to see the king, as of a good purpose, being so near, to receive his further direction: accompanied as above-said he was this morning coming unto him, when these unpleasant voices gave his mind an uncertain presage of his near approaching sorrow. For by and by he saw the body of his dearly esteemed prince, and heard Gynecia’s lamenting: not such as the turtle-like dove is wont to make for the over-soon loss of her only beloved mate, but with cursings of her life, detesting her own wickedness, seeming only therefore not to desire death, because she would not show a love of anything. The shepherds, especially Dametas, knowing him to be the second person in authority, gave forthwith relation unto him, what they knew and had proved of this dolorous spectacle, besides the other accidents of his children. But he principally touched with his master’s loss, lighting from his horse with a heavy cheer, came and kneeled down by him, where, finding he could do no more than the shepherds had for his recovery, the constancy of his mind, surprised before he might call together his best rules, could not refrain such like words. “Ah dear master,” said he, “what change it hath pleased the Almighty justice to work in this place. How soon, not to your loss, who having lived long to nature, and to time longer by your well-deserved glory, but longest of all in the eternal mansion you now possess. But how soon I say to our ruin, have you left the frail bark of your estate? O that the words I in most faithful duty delivered unto you, when you first entered this solitary course might have wrought as much persuasion in you, as they sprang from truth in me, perchance your servant Philanax should not now have cause in your loss to bewail his own overthrow.” And therewith taking himself: “And indeed evil fitteth it me,” said he, “to let go my heart to womanish complaints, since my prince being undoubtedly well, it rather shows love of myself, which makes me bewail mine own loss. No, the true love must be proved in the honour of your memory, and that must be showed with seeking just revenge upon your unjust and unnatural enemies, and far more honourable it will be for your tomb to have the blood of your murderers sprinkled upon it than the tears of your friends. And if your soul look down upon this miserable earth, I doubt not it had much rather your death were accompanied with well-deserved punishment of the causers of it, than with the heaping on it more sorrows with the end of them, to whom you vouchsafed your affection: let them lament that have woven the web of lamentation; let their own deaths make them cry out for your death, that were the authors of it.” Therewith carrying manful sorrow and vindicative resolution in his face, he rose up, so looking on the poor guiltless princess transported with an unjust justice, that his eyes were sufficient heralds for him, to denounce a mortal hatred. She, whom furies of love, firebrands of her conscience, shame of the world, with the miserable loss of her husband, towards whom now the disdain of herself bred more love; with the remembrance of her vision, wherewith she resolved assuredly the gods had appointed that shameful end to be her resting place, had set her mind to no other way but to death, used such like speeches, to Philanax, as she had before to the shepherds; willing him not to look upon her as a woman, but a monster; not as a queen, but as a traitor to his prince; not as Basilius’s wife, but as Basilius’s murderer. She told how the world required at his hands, the just demonstration of his friendship; if he now forgot his king, he should show he had never loved but his fortune: like those vermin that suck of the living blood, and leave the body as soon as it is dead; poor queen needlessly seeking to kindle him, who did most deadly detest her, which he uttered in this bitter answer. “Madam,” said he, “you do well to hate yourself, for you cannot hate a worse creature; and though we feel enough your hellish disposition, yet we need not doubt you are of counsel to yourself of much worse than we know. But now fear not; you shall not long be cumbered with being guided by so evil a soul; therefore prepare yourself, that if it be possible you may deliver up your spirit so much purer, as you more wash your wickedness with repentance.” Then having presently given order for the bringing from Mantinea, a great number of tents; for the receipt of the principal Arcadians: the manner of that country being, that where the king died, there should be orders taken for the country’s government, and in the place any murder was committed, the judgment should be given there, before the body was buried, both concurring in this matter, and already great part of the nobility being arrived, he delivered the queen to a gentleman of great trust; and as for Dametas, taking from him the keys of both the lodges, calling him the moth of his king’s estate, and only spot of his judgment, he caused him, with his wife and daughter, to be fettered up in as many chains and clogs as they could bear, and every third hour to be cruelly whipped, till the determinate judgment should be given of all these matters. That done, having sent already at his coming, to all the quarters of the country to seek Pamela, although with small hope of overtaking them, he himself went well accompanied to the lodge, where the two unfortunate lovers were attending a cruel conclusion of their long, painful, and late most painful affection. Dametas’s clownish eyes, having been the only discoverers of Pyrocles’s stratagem, had no sooner taken a full view of them, which in some sights would rather have bred anything, than an accusing mind, and locked the door upon these two young folks, now made prisoners for love, as before they had been prisoners to love; but that immediately upon his going down, whether with noise Dametas made, or with the creeping in of the light, or rather that as extreme grief had procured his sleep, so extreme care had measured his sleep, giving his senses very early salve to come to themselves, Pyrocles awaked, and being up, the first evil handful he had of the ill case wherein he was, was the seeing himself deprived of his sword, from which he had never separated himself in any occasion, and even that night first by the king’s bed, and then there had laid it, as he thought safe: putting great part of the trust of his well-doing in his own courage so armed. For indeed the confidence in one’s self is the chief nurse of magnanimity, which confidence notwithstanding doth not leave the care of necessary furnitures for it: and therefore of all the Grecians, Homer doth ever make Achilles the best armed. But that, as I say, was the first ill token: but by and by he perceived he was a prisoner before any arrest: for the door which he had left open was made so fast of the outside, that for all the force he could employ unto it, he could not undo Dametas’s doing; then went he to the windows, to see if that way there were any escape for him and his dear lady. But as vain he found all his employment there, not having might to break out but only one bar; wherein notwithstanding he strained his sinews to the uttermost: and that he rather took out to use for other service, than for any possibility he had to escape; for even then it was that Dametas having gathered together the first coming shepherds, did blabber out what he had found in the lady Philoclea’s chamber. Pyrocles markingly hearkened to all that Dametas said, whose voice and mind acquaintance had taught him sufficiently to know. But when he assuredly perceived that his being with the Lady Philoclea was fully discovered: and by the folly or malice, or rather malicious folly of Dametas, her honour therein touched in the highest degree: remembering withal the cruelty of the Arcadian laws, which without exception did condemn all to death who were found, as Dametas reported of them, in act of marriage, without solemnity of marriage, assuring himself, besides the law, the king and the queen would use so much the more hate against their daughter, as they had found themselves sotted by him in the pursuit of their love. Lastly, seeing they were not only in the way of death, but fitly incaged for death, looking with a hearty grief upon the honour of love, the fellowless Philoclea, whose innocent soul now enjoying his own goodness did little know the danger of his ever fair, then sleeping harbour, his excellent wit strengthened with virtue, but guided by love, had soon described to himself a perfect vision of their present condition, wherein having presently cast a resolute reckoning of his own part of the misery, not only the chief but sole burden of his anguish consisted in the unworthy case, which was like to fall upon the best deserving Philoclea. He saw the misfortune, not the mismeaning of his work, was like to bring that creature to end, in whom the world, as he thought, did begin to receive honour: he saw the weak judgment of man would condemn that as death deserving vice in her, which had in troth never broken the bonds of a true living virtue: and how oft his eye turned to his attractive adamant, so often did an unspeakable horror strike his noble heart to consider so unripe years, so faultless a beauty, the mansion of so pure goodness, should have her youth so untimely cut off, her natural perfections so unnaturally consumed, her virtue rewarded with shame: sometimes he would accuse himself of negligence, that had not more curiously looked to all the house-entries, and yet could he not imagine the way Dametas was gotten in: and to call back what might have been, to a man of wisdom and courage, carries but a vain shadow of discourse; sometimes he could not choose but with a dissolution of his inward might lamentably consider with what face he might look upon his, till then, joy Philoclea, when the next light waking should deliver unto her, should perchance be the last of her hurtless life. And that the first time she should bend her excellent eyes upon him, she should see the accursed author of her dreadful end, and even this consideration more than any other, did so set itself in his well-disposed mind, that dispersing his thoughts to all the ways that might be of her safety, finding a very small discourse in so narrow limits of time and place, at length in many difficulties he saw none bear any likelihood for her life, but his death. For then he thought it would fall out, that when they found his body dead, having no accuser but Dametas, as by his speech he found there was not, it might justly appear that either Philoclea in defending her honour, or else he himself in despairing of achieving, had left his carcass proof of his intent, but witness of her clearness. Having a small while stayed upon the greatness of his resolution, and looked to the furthest of it: “Be it so,” said the valiant Pyrocles, “never life for better cause, nor to better end was bestowed; for if death be to follow this doing, which no death of mine could make me leave undone, who is to die so justly as myself? and if I must die, who can be so fit executioners as mine own hands, which as they were accessories to the doing, so in killing me they shall suffer their own punishment?” but then arose there a new impediment; for Dametas having carried away anything which he thought might hurt as tender a man as himself, he could find no fit instrument which might give him a final dispatch: at length making the more haste, least his lady should awake, taking the iron bar, which being sharper somewhat at the one end than the other, he hoped, joined to his willing strength, might break off the feeble thread of mortality. “Truly,” said he, “fortune thou hast well preserved mine enemy, that will grant me no fortune but to be unfortunate, nor let me have an easy passage now I am to trouble thee no more. But,” said he, “O bar blessed in that thou hast done service to the chamber of the paragon of life, since thou couldst not help me to make a perfecter escape, yet serve my turn I pray thee, that I may escape from myself,” therewithal yet once looking to fetch the last repass of his eyes, and now again transported with the pitiful case he left her in, kneeling down he thus prayed.

“O great maker and great ruler of this world,” said he, “to Thee do I sacrifice this blood of mine, and suffer, Lord, the errors of my youth to pass away therein, and let not the soul by Thee made, and ever bending unto Thee, be now rejected of Thee, neither be offended that I do abandon this body, to the government of which Thou hadst placed me, without Thy leave; since how can I know but that Thy unsearchable mind is I should so do, since Thou hast taken from me all means longer to abide in it? and since the difference stands but in a short time of dying, Thou that hast taken from me all means longer to abide in it? and since the difference stands but in a short time of dying, Thou that hast framed my soul inclined to do good, how can I in this small space of mine benefit so much all the human kind, as in preserving Thy perfectest workmanship, their chiefest honour? O justice itself, howsoever thou determinest of me, let this excellent innocency not be oppressed? let my life pay her loss, O Lord give me some sign that I may die with this comfort.” (And paused a little as if he had hoped for some token) “and whensoever to the eternal darkness of the earth she doth follow me, let our spirits possess one place, and let them be more happy in that uniting.” With that word striking the bar upon his heart-side, with all the force he had, and falling withal upon it to give the thorougher passage, the bar in troth was too blunt to do the effect, although it pierced his skin, and bruised his ribs very sore, so that his breath was almost past him. But the noise of his fall drove away sleep from the quiet senses of the dear Philoclea, whose sweet soul had an early salutation of a deadly spectacle unto her, with so much more astonishment, as the falling asleep but a little before she had retired herself from the utmost point of woefulness, and saw now again before her eyes the most cruel enterprise that human nature can undertake, without discerning any cause thereof. But the lively print of her affection had soon taught her not to stay long upon deliberation in so urgent a necessity; therefore getting with speed her weak, though well accorded limbs, out of her sweetened bed, as when jewels are hastily pulled out of some rich coffer, she spared not the nakedness of her tender feet, but I think borne as fast with desire as fear carried Daphne, she came running to Pyrocles, and finding his spirits something troubled with the fall, she put by the bar that lay close to him, and straining him in her most beloved embracements: “My comfort, my joy, my life,” said she, “what haste have you to kill your Philoclea with the most cruel torment that ever lady suffered? Do you not yet persuade yourself that any hurt of yours is a death unto me; and that your death should be my hell. Alas! if any sudden mislike of me, for other cause I see none, have caused you to loathe yourself; if any fault or defect of mine hath bred this terrible rage in you, rather let me suffer the bitterness of it, for so shall the deserver be punished, mankind preserved from such a ruin, and I for my part shall have that comfort, that I die by the noblest hand that ever drew sword.” Pyrocles, grieved with his fortune, that he had not in one instant cut off all such deliberation, thinking his life only reserved to be bound to be the unhappy newsteller: “Alas,” said he, “my only star, why do you this wrong to God, yourself, and me, to speak of faults in you? No, no, most faultless, most perfect lady, it is your excellency that makes me hasten my desired end; it is the right I owe to the general nature, that, though against private nature, makes me seek the preservation of all that she hath done in this age, let me, let me die. There is no way to save life, most worthy to be conserved, than that my death be your clearing.” Then did he with far more pain and backward loathness, than the so near killing himself was, but yet driven with necessity to make her yield to that he thought was her safety, make her a short but pithy discourse, what he had heard by Dametas’s speeches, confirming the rest with a plain demonstration of their imprisonment. And then sought he a new means of stopping his breath; but that by Philoclea’s labour, above her force, he was stayed to hear her. In whom a man might perceive what a small difference in the working there is, betwixt a simple voidness of evil and a judicial habit of virtue. For she, not with an unshaken magnanimity, wherewith Pyrocles weighed and despised death, but with an innocent guiltiness, not knowing why she should fear to deliver her unstained soul to God, helped with the true loving of Pyrocles, which made her think no life without him, did almost bring her mind to as quiet attending all accidents, as the unmastered virtue of Pyrocles. Yet having with a pretty paleness, which did leave milken lines upon her rosy cheeks, paid a little duty to human fear, taking the prince by his hand, and kissing the wound he had given himself: “O the only life of my life, and if it fall out so, the comfort of my death,” said she, “far, far from you be the doing of me such wrong as to think I will receive my life as a purchase of your death, but well may you make my death so much more miserable, as it shall anything be delayed after my only felicity. Do you think I can account of the moment of death, like the unspeakable afflictions my soul should suffer, so oft as I call Pyrocles to my mind, which should be as oft as I breathed? Should these eyes guide my steps, that had seen your murderer? Should these hands feed me, that had not hindered such a mischief? Should this heart remain within me, at every pant to count the continual clock of my miseries? O no, if die we must, let us thank death, he hath not divided so true a union. And truly, my Pyrocles, I have heard my father and other wise men say that the killing of one’s self is but a false colour of true courage, proceeding rather of a fear of a further evil, either of torment or shame. For if it were not respecting the harm, that would likewise make him not respect what might be done unto him: and hope, being of all other the most contrary thing to fear; this being an utter banishment of hope, it seems to receive his ground in fear. Whatsoever, would they say, comes out of despair, cannot bear the title of valour, which should be lifted up to such a height, that holding all things under itself, it should be able to maintain his greatness even in the midst of miseries. Lastly, they would say, God had appointed us captains of these our bodily forts, which without treason to that majesty, were never to be delivered over till they were re-demanded.”

Pyrocles, who had that for a law unto him, not to leave Philoclea in anything unsatisfied, although he still remained in his former purpose, and knew that time would grow short for it, yet hearing no noise, the shepherds being as then run to Basilius, with settled and humble countenance, as a man that should have spoken of a thing that did not concern himself, bearing even in his eyes sufficient shows, that it was nothing but Philoclea’s danger which did anything burden his heart, far stronger than fortune, having with vehement embracings of her got yet some fruit of his delayed end, he thus answered the wise innocency of Philoclea. “Lady, most worthy not only of life, but to be the very life of all things; the more notable demonstrations you make of love so far beyond my desert, with which it pleaseth you to overcome fortune, in making me happy: the more am I, even in course of humanity, to leave that love’s force which I neither can nor will leave, bound to seek requital’s witness, that I am not ungrateful to do which, the infiniteness of your goodness being such as I cannot reach unto it, yet doing all I can, and paying my life, which is all I have, though it be far, without measure, short of your desert, yet shall I not die in debt to mine own duty. And truly, the more excellent arguments you made, to keep me from this passage, imagined far more terrible than it is, the more plainly it makes me to see what reason I have, to prevent the loss not only of Arcadia, but all the face of the earth should receive, if such a tree, which even in his first spring, doth not only bear most beautiful blossoms, but most rare fruit, should be so untimely cut off. Therefore, O most truly beloved lady, to whom I desire for both our goods that these may be my last words, give me your consent even out of that wisdom which must needs see, that, besides your unmatched betterness, which perchance you will not see, it is fitter one die than both. And since you have sufficiently showed you love me, let me claim by that love you will be content rather to let me die contentedly than wretchedly, rather with a clear and joyful conscience than with desperate condemnation in myself, that I, accursed villain, should be the means of banishing from the sight of men the true example of virtue. And because there is nothing left me to be imagined, which I so much desire, as that the memory of Pyrocles may ever have an allowed place in your wise judgment, I am content to draw so much breath longer, as by answering the sweet objections you alleged, may bequeath, as I think, a right conceit unto you, that this my doing is out of judgment, and not sprung of passion. Your father, you say, was wont to say, that this like action doth more proceed of fear of further evil or shame than of a true courage: truly first, they put a very guessing case, speaking of them who can never after come to tell with what mind they did it. And as for my part, I call the immortal truth to witness that no fear of torment can appal me; who know it is but diverse manners of apparelling death; and have long learned to set bodily pain but in the second form of my being. And as for shame, how can I be ashamed of that for which my well meaning conscience will answer for me to God, and your unresistable beauty to the world? But to take that argument in his own force, and grant it done for avoiding of further pain or dishonour: (for as for the name of fear, it is but an odious title of a passion, given to that which true judgment performeth) grant, I say, it is to shun a worse case, and truly I do not see but that true fortitude, looking into all human things with a persisting resolution, carried away neither with wonder of pleasing things, nor astonishment of the unpleasant, doth not yet deprive itself of the discerning the difference of evil, but rather is the only virtue, which with an assured tranquility shuns the greater by valiantly entering into the less. Thus for his country’s safety he will spend his life, for the saving of a limb he will not niggardly spare his goods; for the saving of all his body he will not spare the cutting off a limb, where indeed the weak-hearted man will rather die than see the face of a surgeon, who might with as good reason say, that the constant man abides the painful surgery for fear of a further evil: but he is content to wait for death itself, but neither is true; for neither had the one any fear, but a well-chosen judgment: nor the other hath any contentment, but only fear, and not having a heart actively to perform a matter of pain, is forced passively to abide a greater damage. For to do, requires a whole heart; to suffer falleth easiliest in the broken minds. And if in bodily torment thus, much more in shame, wherein since valour is a virtue, and virtue is ever limited, we must not run so infinitely as to think the valiant man is willingly to suffer anything, since the very suffering of some things is a certain proof of want of courage. And if anything unwillingly, among the chiefest may shame go; for if honour be to be held dear, his contrary is to be abhorred, and that not for fear, but of a true election. For which is the less inconvenient, either the loss of some years more or less (when once we know our lives be not immortal) or the submitting ourselves to each unworthy misery which the foolish world may lay upon us? as for their reason, that fear is contrary to hope, neither do I defend fear, nor much yield to the authority of hope, to either of which great inclining shows but a feeble reason which must be guided by his servants; and who builds not upon hope, shall fear no earthquake of despair. Their last alleging of the heavenly powers, as it bears the greatest name, so it is the only thing that at all breeds any combat in my mind, and yet I do not see but that if God had made us masters of anything, it is of our own lives out of which, without doing wrong to anybody, we are to issue at our own pleasure. And the same argument would as much prevail to say we should for no necessity lay away from us any of our joints, since they being made of Him, without His warrant we should not depart from them; or if that may be, for a greater cause we may pass to a greater degree. And if we be lieutenants of God in this little castle, do you not think we must take warning of Him to give over our charge when He leaves us unprovided of good means to tarry in it?” “No certainly do I not,” answered the sorrowful Philoclea, “since it is not for us to appoint that mighty majesty what time He will help us; the uttermost instant is scope enough for Him to revoke everything to one’s own desire. And therefore to prejudicate His determination is but a doubt of goodness in Him Who is nothing but goodness. But when indeed He doth either by sickness, or outward force lay death upon us, then are we to take knowledge that such is His pleasure, and to know that all is well that He doth. That we should be masters of ourselves, we can show at all no title nor claim; since neither we made ourselves, nor bought ourselves, we can stand upon no other right but His gift, which He must limit as it pleaseth Him. Neither is there any proportion betwixt the loss of any other limb, and that, since the one bends to the preserving of all, the other to the destruction of all; the one takes not away the mind from the actions for which it is placed in the world, the other cuts off all possibility of his working. And truly my most dear Pyrocles, I must needs protest unto you, that I cannot think your defence even in rules of virtue sufficient. Sufficient and excellent it were, if the question were of two outward things, wherein a man might by nature’s freedom determine, whether he would prefer shame to pain; present smaller torment, to greater following, or no. But to this, besides the comparison of the matter’s valour, there is added of the one part a direct evil doing, which maketh the balance of that side too much unequal; since a virtuous man without any respect, whether the grief be less or more, is never to do that which he cannot assure himself is allowable before the everliving rightfulness; but rather is to think honours or shames which stand in other men’s true or false judgments, pains or not pains, which yet never approach our souls, to be nothing in regard of an unspotted conscience. And these reasons do I remember, I have heard good men bring in, that since it hath not his ground in an assured virtue, it proceeds rather of some other disguised passion.”

Pyrocles was not so much persuaded as delighted, by her well-conceived and sweetly pronounced speeches: but when she had closed her pitiful discourse, and as it were sealed up her delightful lips, with the moistness of her tears, which followed still one another like a precious rope of pearl, now thinking it high time: “Be it as you say,” said he, “most virtuous beauty, in all the rest, but never can God himself persuade me that Pyrocles’s life is not well lost, for to preserve the most admirable Philoclea. Let that be, if it be possible, written on my tomb, and I will not envy Codrus’s honour.” With that he would again have used the bar, meaning if that failed, to leave his brains upon the wall, when Philoclea now brought to that she most feared, kneeled down unto him, and embracing so his legs, that without hurting her (which for nothing he would have done) he could not rid himself from her, she did with all the conjuring words, which the authority of love may lay, beseech him he would not now so cruelly abandon her, he would not leave her comfortless in that misery to which he had brought her. That then indeed she would even in her soul accuse him to have most foully betrayed her; that then she would have cause to curse the time that ever the name of Pyrocles came to her ears, which otherwise no death could make her do. “Will you leave me,” said she, “not only dishonoured, as supposed unchaste with you, but as a murderer of you? Will you give mine eyes such a picture of hell, before my near approaching death, as to see the murdered body of him I love more than all the lives nature can give?” With that she swore by the highest cause of all devotions, that if he did persevere in that cruel resolution, she would, though untruly, not only confess to her father that with her consent this act had been committed, but if that would not serve (after she had pulled out her own eyes made accursed by such a sight) she would give herself so terrible a death, as she might think the pain of it would countervail the never dying pain of her mind. “Now therefore kill yourself to crown this virtuous action with infamy: kill yourself to make me, whom you say you love, as long as I after live, change my loving admiration of you to a detestable abhorring your name. And so indeed you shall have the end you shoot at: for instead of one death, you shall give me a thousand, and yet in the meantime, deprive me of the help God may send me.” Pyrocles, even over-weighed with her so wisely uttered affection, finding her determination so fixed that his end should but deprive them both of a present contentment, and not avoid a coming evil (as a man that ran not into it by a sudden qualm of passion, but by a true use of reason, preferring her life to his own) now that wisdom did manifest unto him that way would not prevail, he retired himself with as much tranquility from it as before he had gone unto it. Like a man that had set the keeping or leaving of the body as a thing without himself, and so had thereof a freed and untroubled consideration. Therefore throwing away the bar from him, and taking her up from the place, where he thought the consummating of all beauties, very worthily lay, suffering all his senses to devour up their chiefest food, which he assured himself they should shortly after for ever be deprived of: “Well,” said he, “most dear lady, whose contentment I prefer before mine own, and judgment esteem more than mine own, I yield unto your pleasure. The gods send you have not won your own loss. For my part they are my witnesses that I think I do more at your commandment in delaying my death than another would in bestowing his life. But now,” said he, “as thus far I have yielded unto you, so grant me in recompense thus much again, that I may find your love in granting, as you have found your authority in obtaining. My humble suit is, you will say I came in by force into your chamber, for so am I resolved now to affirm, and that will be the best for us both, but in no case name my name that, whatsoever come of me, my house be not dishonoured.”

Philoclea fearing lest refusal would turn him back again to his violent refuge, gave him a certain countenance that might show she did yield to his request, the latter part whereof indeed she meant for his sake to perform. Neither could they spend more words together: for Philanax with twenty of the noblest personages of Arcadia after him, were come into the lodge, Philanax making the rest to stay below, for the reverence he bare to womanhood, as stilly as he could came up to the door, and opening it, drew the eyes of these two doleful lovers upon him. Philoclea closing again for modesty’s sake, within her bed the riches of her beauties, but Pyrocles took hold of his bar, minding at least to die, before the excellent Philoclea should receive any outrage. But Philanax rested a while upon himself, stricken with admiration at the goodly shape of Pyrocles, whom before he had never seen, and withal remembering, besides others, the notable act he had done, when with his courage and eloquence, he had saved Basilius, perchance the whole state from utter ruin, he felt a kind of relenting mind towards him. But when that same thought came waited on with the remembrance of his master’s death, which he by all probabilities thought he had been of council unto with the queen, compassion turned to hateful passion, and left in Philanax a strange medley, betwixt pity and revenge, betwixt liking and abhorring. “O lord,” said he to himself, “what wonders doth nature in our time to set wickedness so beautifully garnished? and that which is strangest, out of one spring to make wonderful effects both of virtue and vice to issue?” Pyrocles seeing him in such a muse, neither knowing the man, nor the cause of coming, but assuring himself it was for no good, yet thought best to begin with him in this sort. “Gentleman,” said he, “what is the cause of your coming to my lady Philoclea’s chamber? is it to defend her from such violence as I might go about to offer unto her? if it be so, truly your coming is vain, for her own virtue hath been a sufficient resistance; there needs no strength to be added to so inviolate chastity, the excellency of her mind makes her body impregnable. Which for my own part I had soon yielded to confess, with going out of this place, where I found but little comfort being so disdainfully received, had I not been, I know not by whom presently upon my coming hither, so locked into this chamber that I could never escape hence; where I was fettered in the most guilty shame that ever man was, seeing what a paradise of unspotted goodness, my filthy thoughts sought to defile. If for that therefore you come, already I assure you your errand is performed; but if it be to bring me to any punishment whatsoever, for having undertaken so inexcusable presumption; truly I bear such an accuser about me in mine own conscience, that I willingly submit myself unto it. Only thus much let me demand of you, that you will be a witness unto the king what you hear me say, and oppose yourself, that neither his sudden fury, nor any other occasion may offer any hurt to this lady; in whom you see nature hath accomplished so much that I am fain to lay mine own faultiness as a foil of her purest excellency. I can say no more, but look upon her beauty, remember her blood, consider her years, and judge rightly of her virtues, and I doubt not a gentleman’s mind will then be a sufficient instructor unto you, in this, I may term it miserable chance, happened unto her by my unbridled audacity.”

Philanax was content to hear him out, not for any favour he owed him, but to see whether he would reveal anything of the original cause and purpose of the king’s death. But finding it so far from that, that he named Basilius unto him, as supposing him alive, thinking it rather cunning than ignorance: “Young man,” said he, “whom I have cause to hate before I have mean to know, you use but a point of skill by confessing the manifest smaller fault, to be believed hereafter in the denial of the greater. But for that matter, all passeth to one end, and hereafter we shall have leisure by torments to seek the truth, if the love of the truth itself will not bring you unto it. As for my Lady Philoclea, if it so fall out as you say, it shall be the more fit for her years, and comely for the great house that she is come of, that an ill-governed beauty hath not cancelled the rules of virtue. But howsoever it be, it is not for you to teach an Arcadian what reverend duty we owe unto any of that progeny. But,” said he, “come you with me without resistance, for the one cannot avail, and the other may procure pity.” “Pity!” said Pyrocles, with a bitter smiling, disdaining with so currish an answer, “no, no, Arcadian, I can quickly have pity of myself, and would think my life most miserable, which should be a gift of thine. Only I demand this innocent lady’s security, which until thou hast confirmed unto me by an oath, assure thyself the first that lays hands upon her shall leave his life for a testimony of his sacrilege.” Philanax, with an inward scorn, thinking it most manifest they were both, he at least, of council with the king’s death: “Well,” said he, “you speak much to me of the king: I do here swear unto you, by the love I have ever borne him, she shall have no worse howsoever it fall out than her own parents.” “And upon that word of yours I yield,” said the poor Pyrocles, deceived by him that meant not to deceive him. Then did Philanax deliver him into the hands of a nobleman in the company, everyone desirous to have him in his charge, so much did his goodly presence, wherein true valour shined, breed a delightful admiration in all the beholders. Philanax himself stayed with Philoclea, to see whether of her he might learn some disclosing of his former conclusion. But she, sweet lady, whom first a kindly shamefulness had separated from Pyrocles, having been left in a more open view than her modesty would well bear, then the attending her father’s coming, and studying how to behave herself towards him for both their safeties, had called her spirits all within her; now that upon a sudden Pyrocles was delivered out of the chamber from her, at the first she was so surprised with the extreme stroke of the woeful sight, that, like those that in their dreams are taken with some ugly vision, they would fain cry for help but have no force, so remained she a while quite deprived not only of speech but almost of any other lively action. But when indeed Pyrocles was quite drawn from her eyes, and that her vital strength began to return unto her, now not knowing what they did to Pyrocles, but, according to the nature of love, fearing the worst, wringing her hands, and letting abundance of tears be the first part of her eloquence, bending her amber crowned head over her bedside to the hard-hearted Philanax. “O Philanax, Philanax,” said she, “I know how much authority you have with my father: there is no man whose wisdom he so much esteems, nor whose face he so much reposes upon. Remember how oft you have promised your service unto me, how oft you have given me occasion to believe that there was no lady in whose favour you more desired to remain: and if the remembrance be not unpleasant to your mind, or the rehearsal unfitting for my fortune, remember there was a time when I could deserve it. Now my chance is turned, let not your truth turn. I present myself unto you, the most humble and miserable suppliant living, neither shall my desire be great: I seek for no more life than I shall be found worthy of. If my blood may wash away the dishonour of Arcadia, spare it not, although through me it hath indeed never been dishonoured. My only suit is, you will be a mean for me, that while I am suffered to enjoy this life, I may not be separated from him, to whom the gods have joined me, and that you determine nothing of him more cruelly than you do of me. If you rightly judge of what hath passed, wherein the gods, that should have been of our marriage, are witnesses of our innocencies, then procure, we may live together. But if my father will not so conceive of us, as the fault, if any were, was united, so let the punishment be united also.” There was no man that ever loved either his prince, or anything pertaining to him, with a truer zeal than Philanax did. This made him, even to the depth of his heart, receive a most vehement grief, to see his master made as it were more miserable after death. And for himself, calling to mind in what sort his life had been preserved by Philoclea, what time taken by Amphialus, he was like to suffer a cruel death, there was nothing could have kept him from falling to all tender pity but the perfect persuasion he had that all this was joined to the pack of his master’s death, which the misconceived speech of marriage made him the more believe. Therefore first muttering to himself such like words: “The violence the gentleman spoke of, is now turned to marriage: he alleged Mars, but she speaks of Venus: O unfortunate master! this hath been that fair devil Gynecia; sent away one of her daughters, prostituted the other, impoisoned thee, to overthrow the diadem of Arcadia.” But at length thus unto herself he said: “If your father, Madam, were now to speak unto, truly there should nobody be found a more ready advocate for you than myself. For I would suffer this fault, though very great, to be blotted out of my mind, by your former led life, your benefit towards myself, and being daughter to such a father. But since among yourselves you have taken him away, in whom was the only power to have mercy, you must be clothed in your own working, and look for none other than that which dead pitiless laws may allot unto you. For my part, I loved you for your virtue, but now where is that? I loved you in respect of a private benefit, what is that in comparison of the public loss? I loved you for your father, unhappy folks you have robbed the world of him.” These words of her father were so little understood by the only well-understanding Philoclea, that she desired him to tell her, what he meant to speak in such dark sort unto her of her lord and father, whose displeasure was more dreadful unto her than her punishment: that she was free in her own conscience, she had never deserved evil of him, no not in this last fact: wherein, if it pleased him to proceed with patience, he should find her choice had not been unfortunate. He that saw her words written in the plain table of her fair face, thought it impossible there should therein be contained deceit: and therefore so much the more abashed: “Why,” said he, “Madam, would you have me think, you are not of conspiracy with the Princess Pamela’s flight, and your father’s death?” With that word the sweet lady gave a pitiful cry, having straight in her face and breast abundance of witnesses that her heart was far from any such abominable consent. “Ah of all sides utterly ruined Philoclea,” said she, “now indeed I may well suffer all conceit of hope to die in me. Dear father, where was I that might not do you my last service before, soon after miserably following you?” Philanax, perceived the demonstration so lively and true in her that he easily acquitted her in his heart of that fact, and the more was moved to join with her in most hearty lamentation. But remembering him, that the burden of the state, and punishment of his master’s murderers, lay all upon him: “Well,” said he, “Madam, I can do nothing, without all the states of Arcadia: what they will determine of you, I know not: for my part your speeches would much prevail with me, but that I find not how to excuse your giving over your body to him that for the last proof of his treason lent his garments to disguise your miserable mother, in the most vile fact she hath committed. Hard sure will it be to separate your causes, with whom you have so nearly joined yourself.” “Neither do I desire it,” said the sweetly weeping Philoclea: “Whatsoever you determine of him, do that likewise to me, for I know from the fountain of virtue nothing but virtue could ever proceed, only as you find him faultless, let him find you favourable, and build not my dishonour upon surmises.” Philanax, feeling his heart more and more mollifying unto her, renewed the image of his dead master in his fancy, and using that for the spurs of his revengeful choler, went suddenly without any more speech from the desolate lady, to whom now fortune seemed to threaten unripe death, and undeserved shame among her least evils. But Philanax leaving good guard upon the lodge, went himself to see the order of his other prisoners, whom even then as he issued, he found increased by this unhoped means.

The noble Pamela having delivered over the burden of her fearful cares, to the natural ease of a well-refreshing sleep, reposed both mind and body upon the trusted support of her princely shepherd, when with the braying cries of a rascal company she was robbed of her quiet, so that at one instant she opened her eyes, and the enraged Musidorus rose from her, enraged betwixt the doubt, he had what these men would go about, and the spite he conceived against their ill-pleasing presence. But the clowns having with their hideous noise brought them both to their feet, had soon knowledge what guests they had found, for indeed these were the scummy remnants of those rebels, whose naughty minds could not trust so much to the goodness of their prince, as to lay their hangworthy necks upon the constancy of his promised pardon. Therefore when the rest, who as sheep had but followed their fellows, so sheepishly had submitted themselves, these only committed their safety to the thickest part of these desert woods, who as they were in the constitution of their minds little better than beasts, so were they apt to degenerate to a beastly kind of life, having now framed their gluttonish stomachs to have for food the wild benefits of nature, the uttermost end they had being but to draw out as much as they could the line of a tedious life. In this sort vagabonding in those untrodden places, they were guided by the everlasting justice, using themselves to be punishers of their faults, and making their own actions the beginning of their chastisements, unhappily both for him and themselves, to light on Musidorus. Whom as soon as they saw turned towards them, they full well remembered it was he, that, accompanied with Basilius, had come to the succour of Zelmane, and had left among some of them bloody tokens of his valour. As for Pamela, they had many times seen her. Thus first stirred up with a rustical revenge against him, and then desire of spoil to help their miserable wants, but chiefly thinking it was the way to confirm their own pardon, to bring the princess back unto her father, whom they were sure he would never have sent so far so slightly accompanied without any other denouncing of war, set all together upon the worthy Musidorus. Who being beforehand as much inflamed against them, gave them so brave a welcome, that the smart of some made the rest stand further off, crying and prating against him, but like bad curs, rather barking than closing: he, in the meantime, placing his trembling lady to one of the pine trees, and so setting himself before her, as might show the cause of his courage grew in himself, but the effect was only employed in her defence; the villains that now had a second proof, how ill-wards they had for such a sword, turned all the course of their violence into throwing darts and stones, indeed the only way to overmaster the valour of Musidorus. Who finding them some already touched, some fall so near his chiefest life Pamela, that in the end some one or other might hap to do an unsuccourable mischief, setting all his hope in despair, ran out from his lady among them. Who straight like so many swine when a hardy mastiff sets upon them, dispersed themselves. But the first he overtook as he ran away, carrying his head as far before him, as those manner of runnings are wont to do, with one blow struck it so clean off, that it falling betwixt the hands, and the body falling upon it, it made a show as though the fellow had had great haste to gather up his head again. Another the speed he made to run for the best game, bare him full butt against a tree, so that tumbling back with a bruised face, and a dreadful expectation, Musidorus was straight upon him, and parting with his sword one of his legs from him, left him to make a roaring lamentation that his mortar-treading was marred for ever. A third finding his feet too slow, as well as his hands too weak, suddenly turned back, beginning to open his lips for mercy. But before he had well entered a rudely compiled oration, Musidorus’s blade was come between his jaws into his throat, and so the poor man rested there for ever with a very evil mouth full of an answer. Musidorus in this furious chase would have followed some other of these hateful wretches, but that he heard his lady cry for help, whom three of this villainous crew had, whilst Musidorus followed their fellows, compassing about some trees, suddenly come upon and surprised, threatening to kill her if she cried, and meaning to convey her out of sight, whilst the prince was making his bloodthirsty chase. But she that was resolved no worse thing could fall unto her than the being deprived of him, on whom she had established all her comfort, with a pitiful cry fetched his eyes unto her: who then thinking so many weapons thrust into his eyes, as with his eyes he saw bent against her, made all hearty speed to her succour. But one of them wiser than his companions, set his dagger to her alabaster throat, swearing if he threw not away his sword, he would kill her presently. There was never poor scholar, that having instead of his book some playing toy about him, did more suddenly cast it from him, at the child-feared presence of a cruel schoolmaster, than the valiant Musidorus discharged himself of his only defence, when he saw it stood upon the instant point of his lady’s life. And holding up his noble hands to so unworthy audience, “O Arcadians, it is I that have done you the wrong, she is your princess,” said he, “she never had will to hurt you, and you see she hath no power. Use your choler upon me that have better deserved it, do not yourselves the wrong to do her any hurt, which in no time or place will ever be forgiven you.”

They that yet trusted not to his courtesy, bid him stand further off from his sword, which he obediently did. So far was love above all other thoughts in him. Then did they call together the rest of their fellows, who though they were few, yet according to their number, possessed many places. And then began these savage senators to make a consultation what they should do: some wishing to spoil them of their jewels and let them go on their journey, for that if they carried them back, they were sure they should have least part of their prey, others preferring their old homes to anything, desired to bring them to Basilius as pledges of their surety. And there wanted not which cried, the safest way was to kill them both; to such an unworthy thraldom were these great and excellent personages brought. But the most part resisted to the killing of the princes, foreseeing their lives would never be safe after such a fact committed: and began to wish rather the spoil than death of Musidorus: when the villain that had his leg cut off came crawling towards them, and being helped to them by one of the company, began with a groaning voice, and a disfigured face, to demand the revenge of his blood, which since he had spent with them in their defence, it were no reason he should be suffered by them to die discontented. The only contentment he required was, that by their help with his own hands he might put his murderer to some cruel death: he would fain have cried more against Musidorus, but that the much loss of blood helped on with this vehemency, choked up the spirits of his life, leaving him to make betwixt his body and soul an ill-favoured partition. But they seeing their fellow in that sort die before their faces, did swell in new mortal rages: all resolved to kill him, but now only considering what manner of terrible death they should invent for him. Thus was a while the agreement of his slaying broken by disagreement of the manner of it; and extremity of cruelty. At length they were resolved every one to have a piece of him, and to become all as well hangmen as judges: when Pamela tearing her hair, and falling down among them, sometimes with all the sort of humble prayers, mixed with promises of great good turns, which they knew her state was able to perform, sometimes threatening them, that if they killed him and not her, she would not only revenge it upon them, but upon all their wives and children: bidding them consider that though they might think she was come away in her father’s displeasure, yet they might be sure he would ever show himself a father; that the gods would never, if she lived, put her in so base estate but that she should have ability to plague such as they were: returning afresh to prayers and promises, and mixing the same again with threatenings, brought them who were now grown colder in their fellow’s cause, who was past aggravating the matter with his cries, to determine with themselves there was no way, but either to kill them both, or save them both, as for the killing, already they having answered themselves that that was a way to make them citizens of the woods for ever, they did in fine conclude they would return them back again to the king, which they did not doubt would be cause of a great reward, besides their safety from their fore-deserved punishment.

Thus having either by fortune or the force of these two lovers’ inward working virtue, settled their cruel hearts to this gentler course, they took the two horses, and having set upon them their princely prisoners, they returned towards the lodge. The villains having decked all their heads with laurel branches, as thinking they had done a notable act, singing and shouting, ran by them, in hope to have brought them the same day again to the king. But the time was so far spent that they were forced to take up that night’s lodging in the midst of the woods. Where while the clowns continued their watch about them, now that the night, according to his dark nature, did add a kind of desolation to the pensive hearts of these two afflicted lovers, Musidorus taking the tender hand of Pamela, and bedewing it with his tears, in this sort gave an issue to the swelling of his heart’s grief. “Most excellent lady,” said he, “in what case think you am I with myself, how unmerciful judgments do I lay upon my soul, now that I know not what god hath so reversed my well-meaning enterprise, that, instead of doing you that honour which I hoped, and not without reason hoped, Thessalia should have yielded unto you, am now like to become a wretched instrument of your discomfort? alas! how contrary an end have all the inclinations of my mind taken: my faith falls out a treason unto you, and the true honour I bear you is the field wherein your dishonour is like to be sown! but I invoke that universal and only wisdom, which examining the depth of hearts, hath not his judgment fixed upon the event, to bear testimony with me that my desire, though in extremest vehemency, yet did not so overcharge my remembrance, but that as far as man’s will might be extended I sought to prevent all things that might fall to your hurt. But now that all the evil fortunes of evil fortune have crossed my best framed intent, I am most miserable in that, that I cannot only not give you help, but, which is worst of all, am barred from giving you counsel. For how should I open my mouth to counsel you in that, wherein by my counsel you are most undeservedly fallen?” The fair and wise Pamela, although full of cares of the unhappy turning of this matter, yet seeing the grief of Musidorus only stirred for her, did so tread down all other motions with the true force of virtue that she thus answered him, having first kissed him, which before she had never done, love commanding her, which doubted how long they should enjoy one another, or of a lively spark of nobleness, to descend in most favour to one when he is lowest in affliction. “My dear and ever dear Musidorus,” said she, “a greater wrong do you to yourself, that will torment you thus with grief for the fault of fortune. Since a man is bound no further to himself than to do wisely: chance is only to trouble them that stand upon chance. But greater is the wrong, at least, if anything that comes from you may bear the name of wrong, you do unto me, to think me either so childish as not to perceive your faithful faultlessness, or perceiving it, so basely disposed as to let my heart be overthrown, standing upon itself in so unspotted a pureness. Hold for certain, most worthy Musidorus, it is yourself I love, which can no more be diminished by these showers of evil hap than flowers are marred with the timely rains of April. For how can I want comfort that have the true living comfort of thy unblemished virtue? And how can I want honour, as long as Musidorus, in whom indeed honour is, doth honour me? Nothing bred from myself can discomfort me; and fools’ opinions I will not reckon as dishonour.” Musidorus looking up to the stars, “O mind of mine!” said he, “the living power of all things, which dost with all these eyes behold our ever-varying actions, accept into thy favourable ears this prayer of mine: if I may any longer hold out this dwelling on the earth, which is called a life, grant me ability to deserve at this lady’s hands the grace she hath showed unto me: grant me wisdom to know her wisdom, and goodness so to increase my love of her goodness, that all mine own chosen desires, be to myself but second to her determination. Whatsoever I be let it be to her service: let me herein be satisfied, that for such infinite favours of virtue I have some way wrought her satisfaction. But if my last time approacheth, and that I am no longer to be amongst mortal creatures, make yet my death serve her to some purpose, that hereafter she may not have cause to repent herself that she bestowed so excellent a mind upon Musidorus.”

Pamela could not choose but accord the conceit of their fortune to these passionate prayers, in so much that their constant eyes yielded some tears, which wiping from her face with Musidorus’s hand, speaking softly unto him, as if she had feared more anybody should be witness of her weakness, than of anything else she had said, “You see,” said she, “my prince and only lord, what you work in me by your too much grieving for me. I pray you think I have no joy but in you, and if you fill that with sorrow, what do you leave for me? What is prepared for us we know not, but that with sorrow we cannot prevent it, we know. Now let us turn from these things, and think you how you will have me behave myself towards you in this matter.” Musidorus finding the authority of her speech confirmed with direct necessity, the first care came to his mind was of his dear friend and cousin Pyrocles; with whom long before he had concluded what names they should bear, if upon any occasion they were forced to give themselves out for great men, and yet not make themselves fully known. Now fearing, lest if the princess should name him for Musidorus, the fame of their two being together would discover Pyrocles; holding her hand betwixt his hands a good while together: “I did not think, most excellent princess,” said he, “to have made any further request unto you, for having been already unto you so unfortunate a suitor, I know not what modesty can bear any further demand. But the state of one young man, whom, next to you, far above myself, I love more than all the world, one worthy of all well-being for the notable constitution of his mind, and most unworthy to receive hurt by me, whom he doth in all faith and constancy love, the pity of him only goes beyond all resolution to the contrary.” Then did he, to the princess’s great admiration, tell her the whole story as far as he knew of it, and that when they made the grievous disjunction of their long combination, they had concluded Musidorus should entitle himself Palladius, prince of Iberia, and Pyrocles should be Daiphantus of Lycia.

“Now,” said Musidorus, “he keeping a woman’s habit, is to use no other name than Zelmane; but I that find it best of the one side for your honour, you went away with a prince, and not with a shepherd; of the other side, accounting my death less evil than the betraying of that sweet friend of mine, will take this mean betwixt both, and using the name of Palladius, if the respect of a prince will stop your father’s fury, that will serve as well as Musidorus, until Pyrocles’s fortune being some way established, I may freely give good proof that the noble country of Thessalia is mine; and if that will not mitigate your father’s opinion to me-wards, nature, I hope, working in your excellency, will make him deal well with you: for my part the image of death is nothing fearful unto me, and this good I shall have reaped by it, that I shall leave my most esteemed friend in no danger to be disclosed by me. And besides, since I must confess I am not without a remorse of her case, my virtuous mother shall not know her son’s violent death hid under the fame will go of Palladius. But as long as her years, now of good number, be counted among the living, she may joy herself with some possibility of my return.” Pamela promising him upon no occasion ever to name him, fell into extremity of weeping, as if her eyes had been content to spend all their seeing moistness, now that there was a speech of the loss of that which they held as their chiefest light. So that Musidorus was forced to repair her good counsels with sweet consolations, which continued betwixt them till it was about midnight, that sleep having stolen into their heavy senses, and now absolutely commanding in their vital powers, left them delicately wound one in another’s arms, quietly to wait for the coming of the morning; which as soon as she appeared to play her part, laden, as you have heard, with so many well occasioned lamentations, their lobbish guard, who all night had kept themselves awake, with prating how valiant deeds they had done when they ran away; and how fair a death their fellow had died, who at his last gasp sued to be a hangman, awaked them, and set them upon their horses, to whom the very shining force of excellent virtue, though in a very harrish subject, had wrought a kind of reverence in them: Musidorus as he rode among them, of whom they had no other hold but of Pamela, thinking it want of a well-squared judgment to leave any means unassayed of saving their lives, to this purpose spoke to his unseemly guardians, using a plain kind of phrase to make his speech the more credible.

“My masters,” said he, “there is no man that is wise but hath, in whatsoever he doth, some purpose whereto he directs his doings, which so long he follows till he see that either that purpose is not worth the pains, or that another doing carries with it a better purpose. That you are wise in what you take in hand, I have to my cost learned; that makes me desire you tell me what is your end in carrying the princess and me back to her father.” “Pardon,” said one; “reward,” cried another. “Well,” said he, “take both, although I know you are so wise to remember that hardly they both will go together, being of so contrary a making; for the ground of pardon is an evil, neither any man pardons but remembers an evil done: the cause of reward is the opinion of some good act, and whoso rewardeth, that holds the chief place of his fancy. Now one man of one company, to have the same consideration of good and evil, but that the conceit of pardoning, if it be pardoned, will take away the mind of rewarding, is very hard, if not impossible. For either even in justice will he punish the fault, as well as reward the desert, or else in mercy balance the one by the other: so that the not chastising shall be a sufficient satisfying. Thus then you may see that in your own purpose rests great uncertainty. But I will grant that by this your deed you shall obtain your double purpose. Yet consider, I pray you, whether by another means that may not better be obtained, and then I doubt not your wisdom will teach you to take hold of the better. I am sure you know, anybody were better have no need of a pardon than enjoy a pardon; for as it carries with it the surety of a preserved life, so bears it a continual note of a deserved death. This therefore, besides the danger you may run into, my Lady Pamela being the undoubted inheritrix of this state, if she shall hereafter seek to revenge the wrong done her shall be continually cast in your teeth, as men dead by the law: the honester sort will disdain your company, and your children shall be the more basely reputed of, and you yourselves in every slight fault hereafter, as men once condemned, aptest to be overthrown. Now if you will, I doubt not but you will, for you are wise, turn your course, and guard my Lady Pamela thitherward, whither she was going: first, you need not doubt to adventure your fortune where she goes, and there shall you be assured in a country as good and rich as this is, of the same manners and language to be so far from the conceit of a pardon, as we both shall be forced to acknowledge we have received by your means whatsoever we hold dear in this life. And so for reward, judge you whether it be not more likely, you shall there receive it where you have done no evil, but singular and undeserved goodness; or here, where this service of yours shall be diminished by your duty, and blemished by your former fault. Yes I protest and swear unto you, by the fair eyes of that lady, there shall no gentleman in all that country be preferred: you shall have riches, ease, pleasure, and that which is best to such worthy minds, you shall not be forced to cry mercy for a good fact. You only, of all the Arcadians shall have the praise, in continuing in your late valiant attempt, and not be basely brought under a halter for seeking the liberty of Arcadia.”

These words in their minds, who did nothing for any love of goodness, but only as their senses presented greater shows of profit, began to make them waver, and some to clap their hands and scratch their heads, and swear it was the best way. Others that would seem wiser than the rest, to capitulate what tenements they should have, what subsidies they should pay; others to talk of their wives, in doubt whether it were best to send for them, or to take new where they went: most, like fools, not readily thinking what was next to be done, but imagining what cheer they would make when they came there, one or two of the last discoursers beginning to turn their faces towards the woods which they had left. But being now come within the plain, near to the lodges, unhappily they espied a troop of horsemen. But then their false hearts had quickly, for the present fear, forsaken their last hopes: and therefore keeping on the way toward the lodge, with songs and cries of joy, the horsemen, who were some of them Philanax had sent out to the search of Pamela, came galloping unto them, marvelling who they were that in such a general mourning durst sing joyful tunes, and in so public a ruin wear the laurel token of victory. And that which seemed strangest, they might see two among them unarmed like prisoners, but riding like captains. But when they came nearer, they perceived the one was a lady, and the Lady Pamela. Then glad they had by hap found that which they so little hoped to meet withal, taking these clowns, who first resisted them, for the desire they had to be the deliverers of the two excellent prisoners, learning that they were of those rebels which had made the dangerous uproar, as well under colour to punish that, as this their last withstanding them, but indeed their principal cause being, because they themselves would have the only praise of their own quest, they suffered not one of them to live. Marry three of the stubbornest of them they left their bodies hanging upon the trees, because their doing might carry the likelier form of judgment. Such an unlooked-for end did the life of justice work for the naughty-minded wretches, by subjects to be executed, that would have executed princes: and to suffer that without law, which by law they had deserved. And thus these young folks twice prisoners, before any due arrest, delivered of their jailors, but not of their jail, had rather change than respite of misery; these soldiers that took them with very few words of entertainment, hasting to carry them to their lord Philanax, to whom they came, even as he, going out of the Lady Philoclea’s chamber, had overtaken Pyrocles, whom before he had delivered to the custody of a nobleman of that country. When Pyrocles, led towards his prison, saw his friend Musidorus, with the noble Lady Pamela in that unexpected sort returned, his grief, if any grief were in a mind which had placed everything according to his natural worth, was very much augmented; for besides some small hope he had, if Musidorus had once been clear of Arcadia, by his dealing and authority to have brought his only gladsome desires to a good issue: the hard estate of his friend did no less, nay rather more vex him than his own. For so indeed it is ever found, where valour and friendship are perfectly coupled in one heart; the reason being that the resolute man having once digested in his judgment the worst extremity of his own case, and having either quite expelled or at least repelled all passion which ordinarily follows an overthrown fortune, not knowing his friend’s mind so well as his own, nor with what patience he brooks his case, which as it were the material cause of making a man happy or unhappy, doubts whether his friend accounts not himself more miserable, and so indeed be more lamentable. But as soon as Musidorus was brought by the soldiers near unto Philanax, Pyrocles not knowing whether ever after he should be suffered to see his friend, and determining there could be no advantage by dissembling a not-knowing of him, leaped suddenly from their hands that held him, and passing, with a strength strengthened with a true affection, through them that encompassed Musidorus, he embraced him as fast as he could in his arms. And kissing his cheeks, “O my Palladius,” said he, “let not our virtue now abandon us; let us prove our minds are no slaves to fortune, but in adversity can triumph over adversity.” “Dear Daiphantus,” answered Musidorus, seeing by his apparel his being a man was revealed, “I thank you for this best care of my best part: but fear not, I have kept too long company with you to want now a thorough determination of these things; I well know, there is nothing evil but within us, the rest is either natural or accidental.” Philanax, finding them of so near acquaintance, began presently to examine them apart: but such resolution he met with in them, that by no such means he could learn further than it pleased them to deliver. So that he thought best to put them both in one place, with espial of their words and behaviour, that way to sift out the more of these surpassed mischiefs. And for that purpose gave them both unto the nobleman, who before had the custody of Pyrocles, by name Sympathus, leaving a trusty servant of his own to give diligent watch to what might pass betwixt them. No man that hath ever passed through the school of affection, needs doubt what a tormenting grief it was to the noble Pamela, to have the company of him taken from her, to whose virtuous company she had bound her life. But weighing with herself, it was fit for her honour, till her doings were clearly manifested, that they should remain separate, kept down the rising tokens of grief; showing passion in nothing but her eyes, which accompanied Musidorus even unto the tent, whither he and Pyrocles were led. Then, with a countenance more princely than she was wont, according to the wont of highest hearts, like the palm tree striving most upwards, when he is most burdened, she commanded Philanax to bring her to her father and mother, that she might render them an account of her doings. Philanax showing a sullen kind of reverence unto her, as a man that honoured her as his master’s heir, but much misliked her for her, in his conceit, dishonourable proceedings, told her what was past, rather to answer her, than that he thought she was ignorant of it. But her good spirit did presently suffer a true compassionate affliction of those hard adventures, which, with crossing her arms, looking a great while upon the ground, with those eyes which let fall many tears, she well declared. But in the end, remembering how necessary it was for her, not to lose herself in such an extremity, she strengthened her well-created heart, and stoutly demanded Philanax, what authority then they had to lay hands on her person, who being the undoubted heir, was then the lawful princess of that kingdom? Philanax answered, her grace knew the ancient laws of Arcadia bare, she was to have no sway of government till she came to one and twenty years of age, or were married. “And married I am,” replied the wise princess, “therefore I demand your due allegiance.” “The gods forbid,” said Philanax, “Arcadia should be a dowry of such marriages.” Besides, he told her all the states of her country were evil satisfied touching her father’s death, which likewise according to the statutes of Arcadia, was even that day to be judged of, before the body were removed to receive his princely funeral. After that passed, she should have such obedience, as by the laws were due unto her, desiring God she would show herself better in public government than she had done in private. She would have spoken to the gentlemen and people gathered about her, but Philanax fearing lest thereby some commotion might arise, or at least a hinderance of executing his master’s murderers, which he longed after more than anything, hasted her up to the lodge, where her sister was, and there was a chosen company of soldiers to guard the place, left her with Philoclea, Pamela protesting they laid violent hands on her, and that they entered into rebellious attempts against her. But high time it was for Philanax so to do, for already was all the whole multitude fallen into confused and dangerous divisions.

There was a notable example, how great dissipations monarchical government is subject unto. For now their prince and guide had left them, they had not experience to rule, and had not whom to obey. Public matters had ever been privately governed, so that they had no lively taste what was good for themselves. But everything was either vehemently desireful, or extremely terrible. Neighbours’ invasions, civil dissention, cruelty of the coming prince, and whatsoever in common sense carries a dreadful show, was in all men’s heads, but in few how to prevent: hearkening on every rumour, suspecting everything, condemning them whom before they had honoured, making strange and impossible tales of the king’s death, while they thought themselves in danger, wishing nothing but safety; as soon as persuasion of safety took them, desiring further benefits, as amendment of fore-passed faults, which faults notwithstanding none could tell either the grounds or effects of, all agreeing in the universal names of liking or misliking, but of what in especial points, infinitely disagreeing. Altogether like a falling steeple, the parts whereof, as windows, stones, and pinnacles were well, but the whole mass ruinous. And this was the general cause of all, wherein notwithstanding was an extreme medley of diversified thoughts, the great men looking to make themselves strong by factions, the gentlemen some bending to them, some standing upon themselves, some desirous to overthrow those few which they thought were over them; the soldiers desirous of trouble, as the nurse of spoil, and not much unlike to them though in another way, were all the needy sort, the rich fearful, the wise careful. This composition of conceits brought forth a dangerous tumult, which yet would have been more dangerous, but that it had so many parts that nobody well knew against whom chiefly to oppose themselves. For some there were that cried to have the state altered, and governed no more by a prince; marry, in the alteration, many would have the Lacedaemonian government of a few chosen senators, others the Athenian, where the people’s voice held the chief authority. But these were rather the discoursing sort of men, than the active, being a matter more in imagination than practice. But they that went nearest to the present case, as in a country that knew no government without a prince, were they that strove whom they should make. Whereof a great number there were that would have the Princess Pamela presently to enjoy it: some disdaining that she had as it were abandoned her own country, inclining more to Philoclea; and there wanted not of them, which wished Gynecia were delivered, and made regent till Pamela were worthily married. But great multitudes there were, which having been acquainted with the just government of Philanax, meant to establish him as lieutenant of the state; and these were the most popular sort, who judged by the commodities they felt. But the principal men in honour and might, who had long before envied his greatness with Basilius, did much more spurn against any such preferment of him. For yet before their envy had some kind of breathing out his rancour, by laying his greatness as a fault to the prince’s judgment, who showed in Dametas he might easily be deceived in men’s value: but now if the prince’s choice, by so many mouths should be confirmed, what could they object to so rightly esteemed an excellency, they therefore were disposed sooner to yield to any thing than to his raising; and were content, for to cross Philanax, to stop those actions, which otherwise they could not but think good. Philanax himself as much hindered by those that did immoderately honour him, which brought both more envy and suspicion upon him, as by them that did manifestly resist him: but, standing only upon a constant desire of justice, and a clear conscience went forward stoutly in the action of his master’s revenge, which he thought himself particularly bound to. For the rest, as the ordering of the government, he accounted himself but as one wherein notwithstanding he would employ all his loyal endeavour.

But among the noblemen, he that most openly set himself against him was named Timautus, a man of middle age, but of extreme ambition, as one that had placed his uttermost good in greatness, thinking small difference by what means he came by it. Of commendable wit, if he had not made it a servant to unbridled desires. Cunning to creep into men’s favours, which he prized only as they were serviceable unto him. He had been brought up in some soldiery, which he knew how to set out with more than deserved ostentation. Servile, though envious, to his betters: and no less tyrannically minded to them he had advantage of. Counted revengeful, but indeed measuring both revenge and reward, as the party might either help or hurt him. Rather shameless than bold, and yet more bold in practice than in personal adventures. In some, a man that could be as evil as he listed, and listed as much as any advancement might thereby be gotten. As for virtue he counted it but a school-name. He even at the first assembling together, finding the great stroke Philanax carried among the people, thought it his readiest way of ambition to join with him: which though his pride did hardly brook, yet the other vice carrying with it a more apparent object prevailed over the weaker, so that with those liberal protestations of friendship, which men that care not for their word are wont to bestow, he offered unto him the choice in marriage of either the sisters, so he would likewise help him to the other, and make such a partition of the Arcadian estate. Wishing him that since he loved his master, because he was his master, which showed the love began in himself, he should rather now occasion was presented seek his own good substantially than affect the smoke of a glory by showing an untimely fidelity to him that could not reward it: and have all the fruit he could get, in men’s opinions, which would be as divers as many; few agreeing to yield him due praise of his true heart. But Philanax, who had limited his thoughts in that he esteemed good, to which he was neither carried by the vain tickling of uncertain fame, nor from which he would be transported by enjoying anything, whereto the ignorant world gives the excellent name of goods, with great mislike of his offer, he made him so peremptory an answer, not without threatening, if he found him foster any such fancy, that Timautus went with an inward spite from him, whom before he had never loved: and measuring all men’s marches by his own pace, rather thought it some further fetch of Philanax, as that he would have all to himself alone, than was any way taken with the lovely beauty of his virtue, whose image he had so quite defaced in his own soul that he had left himself no eyes to behold it, but stayed waiting fit opportunity to execute his desires both for himself and against Philanax, which by the bringing back of Pamela, the people being divided into many motions, which both with murmuring noises, and putting themselves in several troops, they well showed, he thought apt time was laid before him, the waters being, as the proverb saith, troubled, and so the better for his fishing. Therefore going among the chiefest lords, whom he knew principally to repine at Philanax, and making a kind of convocation of them, he inveighed against his proceeding, drawing everything to the most malicious interpretation, that malice itself could instruct him to do. He said, it was season for them to look to such a weed, that else would over-grow them all. It was not now time to consult of the dead, but of the living: since such a sly wolf was entered among them, that could make justice the cloak of tyranny, and love of his late master the destruction of his now being children. “Do you not see,” said he, “how far his corruption hath stretched, that he hath such a number of rascals’ voices to declare him lieutenant, ready to make him prince, but that he instructs them, matters are not yet ripe for it? as for us, because we are too rich to be bought, he thinks us the fitter to be killed. Hath Arcadia bred no man but Philanax? is she become a stepmother to all the rest, and hath given all her blessings to Philanax? or if there be men amongst us, let us show we disdain to be servants to a servant. Let us make him know we are far worthier not to be slaves than he to be a master. Think you he hath made such haste in these matters to give them over to another man’s hand? think you he durst become the jailor of his princess, but either meaning to be her master, or her murderer? and all this for the dear goodwill, forsooth, he bears to the king’s memory, whose authority as he abused in his life, so he would now persevere to abuse his name after his death. O notable affection, for the love of the father to kill the wife and disinherit the children! O single-minded modesty, to aspire to no less than to the princely diadem, no, no, he hath veered all this while, but to come the sooner to his affected end. But let us remember what we be, in quality his equals, in number far before him: let us deliver the queen and our natural princesses, and leave them no longer under his authority, whose proceedings would rather show that he himself had been the murderer of the king, than a fit guardian of his posterity.”

These words pierced much into the minds already inclined that way, insomuch that most part of the nobility confirmed Timautus’s speech, and were ready to execute it: when Philanax came among them, and with a constant, but reverent behaviour, desired them they would not exercise private grudges in so common a necessity. He acknowledged himself a man, and a faulty man: to the clearing or satisfying of which, he would at all times submit himself; since his end was to bring all things to an upright judgment, it should evil fit him to fly the judgment. “But,” said he, “my lords, let not Timautus’s railing speech, who whatsoever he finds evil in his own soul can with ease lay it upon another, make me lose your good favour. Consider that all well-doing stands so in the middle betwixt his two contrary evils that it is a ready matter to cast a slanderous shade upon the most approved virtues. Who hath an evil tongue, can call severity cruelty, and faithful diligence, diligent ambition. But my end is not to excuse myself, nor to accuse him: for both those hereafter will be time enough. There is neither of us, whose purging or punishing may so much import to Arcadia. Now I request you, for your own honour’s sake, and require you by the duty you owe to this estate, that you do presently, according to the laws, take in hand the chastisement of our master’s murderers, and laying order for the government by whomsoever it be done, so it be done, and justly done, I am satisfied. My labour hath been to frame things so that you might determine; now it is in you to determine. For my part, I call the heavens to witness, the care of my heart stands to repay that, wherein both I and most of you were tied to that prince, with whom all my love of worldly action is dead.”

As Philanax was speaking his last words there came one running to him with open mouth and fearful eyes, telling him that there was a great number of the people which were bent to take the young men out of Sympathus’s hands, and as it should seem by their acclamations, were like enough to proclaim them princes. “Nay,” said Philanax, speaking aloud, and looking with a just anger upon the noblemen, “it is no season to hear Timautus’s idle slanders while strangers become our lords, and Basilius’s murderers sit in his throne. But whosoever is a true Arcadian let him follow me.” With that he went toward the place he heard of, followed by those that had ever loved him, and some of the noblemen. Some other remaining with Timautus, who in the meantime was conspiring by strong hands to deliver Gynecia, of whom the weakest guard was had. But Philanax, where he went found them all in an uproar, which thus was fallen out. The greatest multitude of people that were come to the death of Basilius, were the Mantineans, as being the nearest city to the lodges. Among these the chief man both in authority and love was Kalander, he that not long before had been host to the two princes; whom though he knew not so much as by name, yet besides the obligation he stood bound to them in for preserving the lives of his son and nephew, their noble behaviour had bred such love in his heart towards them that both with tears he parted from them when they left him, under promise to return, and did keep their jewels and apparel as the relics of two demi-gods. Among others he had entered the prison and seen them, which forthwith so invested his soul, both with sorrow and desire to help them, whom he tendered as his children, that calling his neighbours the Mantineans unto him, he told them all the praises of these two young men, swearing he thought the gods had provided for them better than they themselves could have imagined. He willed them to consider that when all was done Basilius’s children must enjoy the state, who since they had chosen, and chosen so that all the world could not mend their choice, why should they resist God’s doing, and their princess’s pleasure? this was the only way to purchase quietness without blood, where otherwise they should at one instant crown Pamela with a crown of gold, and a dishonoured title? which whether ever she would forget, he thought it fit for them to weigh: “Such,” said he, “heroical greatness shines in their eyes, such an extraordinary majesty in all their actions, as surely either fortune by parentage, or nature in creation, hath made them princes. And yet a state already we have, we need but a man, who since he is presented unto you by the heavenly providence, embraced by our undoubted princess, worthy for their youth of compassion, for their beauty of admiration, for their excellent virtue to be monarchs of the world; shall we not be content with our own bliss? shall we put out our eyes because another man cannot see? or rather like some men, when too much good happens unto them, they think themselves in a dream and have not spirits to taste their own goods? No, no, my friends, believe me, I am so impartial, that I know not their names, but so overcome with their virtue that I shall then think the destinies have ordained a perpetual flourishing to Arcadia, when they shall allot such a governor unto it.”

This spoken by a grave man in years, great in authority, near allied to the prince, and known honest, prevailed so with all the Mantineans, that with one voice they ran to deliver the two princes. But Philanax came in time to withstand them, both sides standing in arms, and rather wanting a beginning than minds to enter into a bloody conflict. Which Philanax foreseeing, thought best to remove the prisoners secretly, and if need were, rather without form of justice to kill them, than against justice, as he thought, to have them usurp the state. But there again arose a new trouble. For Sympathus, the nobleman that kept them, was so stricken in compassion with their excellent presence, that as he would not falsify his promise to Philanax to give them liberty so yet would he not yield them to himself, fearing he would do them violence. Thus tumult upon tumult arising, the sun, I think, weary to see their discords had already gone down to his western lodging. But yet to know what the poor shepherds did, who were the first discriers of these matters, will not to some ears perchance be a tedious digression.