“But Plexirtus finding that if nothing else, famine would at last bring him to destruction, thought better by humbleness to creep, where by pride he could not march. For certainly so had Nature formed him, and the exercise of craft conformed him to all turningness of flights, that, though no man had less goodness in his soul than he, no man could better find the places whence arguments might grow of goodness to another; though no man felt less pity, no man could tell better how to stir pity; no man more impudent to deny, where proofs were not manifest; no man more ready to confess with a repenting manner of aggravating his own evil, where denial would but make the fault fouler. Now he took this way, that having gotten a passport for one, that pretended he would put Plexirtus alive into his hands, to speak with the king his brother, he himself (though much against the minds of the valiant brothers, who rather wished to die in brave defence) with a rope about his neck, bare-footed, came to offer himself to the discretion of Leonatus. Where what submission he used, how cunningly in making greater the fault, he made the faultiness the less, how artificially he could set out the torments of his own conscience, with the burdensome cumber he had found of his ambitious desires, how finely seeming to desire nothing but death, as ashamed to live, he begged life in the refusing it, I am not cunning enough to be able to express; but so fell out of it, that though at first sight Leonatus saw him with no other eye than as the murderer of his father, and anger already began to paint revenge in many colours, ere long he had not only gotten pity but pardon; and if not an excuse of the fault past, yet an opinion of a future amendment: while the poor villains (chief ministers of his wickedness, now betrayed by the author thereof) were delivered to many cruel sorts of death; he so handling it, that it rather seemed he had more come into the defence of an unremediable mischief already committed than that they had done it at first by his consent.
“In such sort the princes left these reconciled brothers (Plexirtus in all his behaviour carrying him in far lower degree of service than the ever-noble nature of Leonatus would suffer him) and taking likewise their leaves of their good friend the king of Pontus, who returned to enjoy some benefit, both of his wife and kingdom, they privately went thence, having only with them the two valiant brothers, who would needs accompany them through divers places, they four doing acts more dangerous, though less famous, because they were but private chivalries; till hearing of the fair and virtuous queen Erona of Lycia, besieged by the puissant king of Armenia, they bent themselves to her succour, both because the weaker, and weaker as being a lady, and partly because they heard the king of Armenia had in his company three of the most famous men living, for matters of arms, that were known to be in the world. Whereof one was the prince Plangus whose name was sweetened by your breath, peerless lady, when the last day it pleased you to mention him unto me, the other two were two great princes, though holding of him, Barzanes and Euardes, men of giant-like both hugeness and force; in which two especially, the trust the king had of victory was reposed. And of them, those brothers Tydeus and Telenor, sufficient judges in warlike matters, spoke so high commendations, that the two princes had even a youthful longing to have some trial of their virtue. And therefore as soon as they were entered into Lycia, they joined themselves with them that faithfully served the poor queen, at that time besieged; and ere long animated in such sort their almost overthrown hearts, that they went by force to relieve the town, though they were deprived of a great part of their strength by the parting of the two brothers, who were sent for in all haste to return to their old friend and master Plexirtus, who, willingly hoodwinking themselves from seeing his faults, and binding themselves to believe what he said, often abused the virtue of courage to defend his foul vice of injustice. But now they were sent for to advance a conquest he was about; while Pyrocles and Musidorus pursued the delivery of the queen Erona.”
“I have heard,” said Pamela, “that part of the story of Plangus, when he passed through this country, therefore you may, if you list, pass over that war of Erona’s quarrel, lest if you speak too much of war matters, you should wake Mopsa, which might happily breed a great broil.” He looked, and saw that Mopsa indeed sat swallowing the sleep with open mouth, making such a noise withal, as nobody could lay the stealing of a nap to her charge. Whereupon, willing to use that occasion, he kneeled down, and with humble heartedness, and hearty earnestness printed in his graces; “Alas!” said he, “divine lady, who have wrought such miracles in me, as to make a prince, none of the basest, to think all principalities base in respect of the sheephook which may hold him up in your sight; vouchsafe now at last to hear in direct words my humble suit, while this dragon sleeps that keeps the golden fruit. If in my desire I wish, or in my hopes aspire, or in my imagination fain to myself anything which may be the least spot to that heavenly virtue which shines in all your doings, I pray the eternal powers, that the words I speak may be deadly poisons, while they are in my mouth, and that all my hopes, all my desires, all my imaginations may only work their own confusion. But if love, love of you, love of your virtues, seek only that favour of you, which becometh that gratefulness which cannot misbecome your excellency, O do not—” He would have said further, but Pamela calling aloud Mopsa, she suddenly started up, staggering, and rubbing her eyes, ran first out of the door, and then back to them, before she knew how she went out, or why she came in again: till at length, being fully come to her little self, she asked Pamela why she had called her. For nothing said Pamela, but that ye might hear some tales of your servant’s telling: “and therefore now,” said she, “Dorus go on.”
But as he, who found no so good sacrifice as obedience, was returning to the story of himself, Philoclea came in, and by and by after her, Miso, so as for that time they were fain to let Dorus depart. But Pamela delighted even to preserve in her memory the words of so well a beloved speaker, repeated the whole substance to her sister, till their sober dinner being come and gone, to recreate themselves something, even tired with the noisomeness of Miso’s conversation, they determined to go, while the heat of the day lasted, to bathe themselves, such being the manner of the Arcadian nymphs often to do, in the river of Ladon, and take with them a lute, meaning to delight them under some shadow. But they could not stir, but that Miso, with her daughter Mopsa was after them: and as it lay in their way to pass by the other lodge, Zelmane out of her window espied them, and so stole down after them, which she might the better do, because that Gynecia was sick, and Basilius, that day being his birth-day, according to his manner, was busy about his devotions; and therefore she went after, hoping to find some time to speak with Philoclea: but not a word could she begin, but that Miso would be one of the audience, so that she was driven to recommend thinking, speaking, and all, to her eyes, who diligently performed her trust, till they came to the river’s side, which of all the rivers of Greece had the praise for excellent pureness and sweetness, insomuch as the very bathing in it was accounted exceeding healthful. It ran upon so fine and delicate a ground, as one could not easily judge whether the river did more wash the gravel, or the gravel did purify the river; the river not running forthright, but almost continually winding, as if the lower streams would return to their spring, or that the river had a delight to play with itself. The banks of either side seeming arms of the loving earth that fain would embrace it, and the river a wanton nymph which still would slip from it; either side of the bank being fringed with most beautiful trees, which resisted the sun’s darts from overmuch piercing the natural coldness of the river. There was among the rest a goodly cypress, who bowing her fair head over the water, it seemed she looked into it, and dressed her green locks by that running river.
There the princesses determining to bathe themselves, though it was so privileged a place, upon pain of death, as nobody durst presume to come hither; yet for the more surety, they looked round about, and could see nothing but a water-spaniel, who came down the river, showing that he hunted for a duck, and with a snuffling grace, disdaining that his smelling force could not as well prevail through the water as through the air; and therefore waiting with his eye to see whether he could espy the ducks getting up again, but then a little below them failing of his purpose, he got out of the river, and shaking off the water (as great men do their friends) now he had no further cause to use it, inweeded himself so that the ladies lost the further marking his sportfulness: and inviting Zelmane also to wash herself with them, and she excusing herself with having taken a late cold, they began by piecemeal to take away the eclipsing of their apparel.
Zelmane would have put to her helping hand, but she was taken with such a quivering, that she thought it more wisdom to lean herself to a tree, and look on, while Miso and Mopsa, like a couple of foreswat melters, were getting the pure silver of their bodies out of the ure of their garments. But as the raiments went off to receive kisses of the ground, Zelmane envied the happiness of all, but of the smock was even jealous, and when that was taken away too, and that Philoclea remained, for her Zelmane only marked, like a diamond taken from out of the rock, or rather like the sun getting from under a cloud, and showing his naked beams to the full view, then was the beauty too much for a patient sight, the delight too strong for a stayed conceit, so that Zelmane could not choose but run, to touch, embrace and kiss her. But conscience made her come to herself, and leave Philoclea, who blushing, and withal smiling, making shamefacedness pleasant, and pleasure shamefaced, tenderly moved her feet, unwonted to feel the naked ground, till the touch of the cold water made a pretty kind of shrugging come over her body, like the twinkling of the fairest among the fixed stars. But the river itself gave way unto her, so that she was straight breast high, which was the deepest that thereabout she could be: and when cold Ladon had once fully embraced them, himself was no more so cold to those ladies, but as if his cold complexion had been heated with love, so seemed he to play about every part he could touch.
“Ah sweet, now sweetest Ladon,” said Zelmane, “why dost thou not stay thy course to have more full taste of thy happiness? but the reason is manifest, the upper streams make such haste to have their part of embracing, that the nether, though lothly, must needs give place unto them. O happy Ladon, within whom she is, upon whom her beauty falls, through whom her eye pierceth. O happy Ladon, which art now an unperfect mirror of all perfection, can’st thou ever forget the blessedness of this impression? if thou do, then let thy bed be turned from fine gravel to weeds and mud; if thou do, let some unjust niggards make wares to spoil thy beauty; if thou do, let some greater river fall into thee, to take away the name of Ladon, O! Ladon, happy Ladon, rather slide than run by her, lest thou should’st make her legs slip from her, and then, O happy Ladon, who would then call thee, but the most cursed Ladon?” But as the ladies played then in the water, sometimes striking it with their hands, the water, making lines in his face, seemed to smile at such beating, and with twenty bubbles not to be content to have the picture of their face in large upon him, but he would in each of these bubbles set forth the miniature of them.
But Zelmane, whose sight was gain-said by nothing but the transparent veil of Ladon (like a chamber where a great fire is kept, though the fire be at one stay, yet with the continuance continually hath his heat increased) had the coals of her affection so kindled with wonder, and blown with delight, that now all her parts grudged, that her eyes should do more homage, than they, to the princes of them. Insomuch that taking up the lute, her wit began to be with a divine fury inspired; her voice would in so beloved an occasion second her wit; her hands accorded the lute’s music to the voice; her panting heart danced to the music; while I think her feet did beat the time; while her body was the room where it should be celebrated; her soul the queen which should be delighted. And so together went the utterance and invention, that one might judge, it was Philoclea’s beauty which did speedily write it in her eyes; or the sense thereof, which did word by word indite it in her mind, whereto she, but as an organ, did only lend utterance. The song was to this purpose:
What tongue can her perfection tell,
In whose each part all tongues may dwell?
Her hair fine threads of finest gold,
In curled knots man’s thought to hold:
But that her forehead says, “in me
A whiter beauty you may see”;
Whiter indeed, more white than snow,
Which on cold winter’s face doth grow:
That doth present those even brows,
Whose equal line their angles bows;
Like to the moon when after change
Her horned head abroad doth range:
And arches be two heavenly lids,
Whose wink each bold attempt forbids.
For the black stars those spheres contain,
The matchless pair, even praise doth stain.
No lamp whose light by art is got,
No sun which shines, and seeth not,
Can liken them without all peer,
Save one as much as other clear:
Which only thus unhappy be,
Because themselves they cannot see.
Her cheeks with kindly claret spread,
Aurora-like new out of bed;
Or like the fresh queen-apple’s side,
Blushing at sight of Phoebus’ pride.
Her nose, her chin pure ivory wears:
No purer than the pretty ears.
So that therein appears some blood
Like wine and milk that mingled stood:
In whose incirclets if ye gaze,
Your eyes may tread a lover’s maze.
But with such turns the voice to stray,
No talk untaught can find the way.
The tip no jewel needs to wear;
The tip is jewel of the ear.
But who those ruddy lips can miss,
Which blessed still themselves to kiss?
Rubies, cherries, and roses new,
In worth, in taste, in perfect hue:
Which never part, but that they show
Of precious pearl the double row;
The second-sweetly fenced ward,
Her heavenly-dewed tongue to guard,
Whence never word in vain did flow.
Fair under those doth stately grow,
The handle of this precious work,
The neck in which strange graces lurk.
Such be I think the sumptuous towers,
Which skill doth make in princes’ bowers.
So good assay invites the eye,
A little downward to espy,
The lively clusters of her breasts,
Of Venus’ babe the wanton nests:
Like pommels round of marble clear;
Where azur’d veins well mix’d appear,
With dearest tops of porphyry.
Betwixt these two a way doth lie,
A way more worthy beauty’s fame,
Than that which bears the Milky name.
This leads into the joyous field,
Which only still doth lilies yield:
But lilies such whose native smell,
The Indians’ odors doth excel.
Waist it is called, for it doth waste
Men’s lives, until it be embrac’d.
There may one see, and yet not see
Her ribs in white all armed be,
More white than Neptune’s foamy face,
When struggling rocks he would embrace.
In those delights the wand’ring thought
Might of each side astray be brought,
But that her navel doth unite,
In curious circle busy sight;
A dainty seal of virgin-wax,
Where nothing but impression lacks.
Her belly their glad sight doth fill,
Justly entitled Cupid’s hill.
A hill most fit for such a master,
A spotless mine of alabaster.
Like alabaster fair and sleek,
But soft and supple, satin-like,
In that sweet seat the boy doth sport:
Loth, I must leave his chief resort.
For such a use the world hath gotten,
The best things still must be forgotten.
Yet never shall my song omit
Her thighs for Ovid’s song more fit;
Which flanked with two sugared flanks,
Lift up her stately swelling banks;
That Albion cliffs in whiteness pass;
With haunches smooth as looking-glass.
But bow all knees, now of her knees
My tongue doth tell what fancy sees.
The knots of joy, the gems of love,
Whose motion makes all graces move.
Whose bough incav’d doth yield such sight,
Like cunning painter shadowed white.
The gartring place with child-like sign,
Shows easy print in metal fine.
But then again the flesh doth rise
In her brave calves like crystal skies.
Whose Atlas is a smallest small,
More white than whitest bone of all.
Thereout steals out that round clean foot
This noble cedar’s precious root:
In show and scent pale violets,
Whose step on earth all beauty sets.
But back unto her back, my Muse,
Where Leda’s swan his feathers mews,
Along whose ridge such bones are met,
Like comfits round in marchpane set.
Her shoulders be like to white doves,
Perching within square royal rooves,
Which leaded are with silver skin,
Passing the hate-spot, emerlin.
And thence those arms derived are;
The Phoenix wings are not so rare
For faultless length, and stainless hue.
Ah woe is me, my woes renew.
Now course doth lead me to her hand
Of my first love the fatal band.
Where whiteness doth for ever sit:
Nature herself enamell’d it.
For therewith strange compact doth lie
Warm snow, moist pearl, soft ivory.
There fall those sapphire-coloured brooks,
Which conduit-like with curious crooks,
Sweet islands make in that sweet land,
As for the fingers of the hand,
The bloody shafts of Cupid’s war,
With amethysts they beaded are.
Thus hath each part his beauty’s part:
But how the graces do impart,
To all her limbs a special grace,
Becoming every time and place,
Which doth even beauty beautify,
And most bewitch the wretched eye.
How all this is but a fair inn
Of fairer guests, which dwell therein.
Of whose high praise, and praiseful bliss,
Goodness the pen, and Heaven paper is:
The ink immortal fame doth lend:
As I began, so must I end.
No tongue can her perfection tell,
In whose each part all tongues may dwell.
But as Zelmane was coming to the latter end of her song, she might see the same water-spaniel which before had hunted, come and fetch away one of Philoclea’s gloves, whose fine proportion, showed well what a dainty guest was wont there to be lodged. It was a delight to Zelmane, to see that the dog was therewith delighted, and so let him go a little way withal, who quickly carried it out of sight among certain trees and bushes, which were very close together. But by and by he came again, and amongst the raiment. Miso and Mopsa being preparing sheets against their coming out, the dog lighted of a little book of four or five leaves of paper, and was bearing that away too. But when Zelmane, not knowing what importance it might be of, ran after the dog, who going straight to those bushes, she might see the dog deliver it to a gentleman, who secretly lay there. But she hastily coming in, the gentleman rose up, and with a courteous, though sad, countenance presented himself unto her. Zelmane’s eyes straight willed her mind to mark him, for she thought in herself, she had never seen a man of a more goodly presence, in whom strong making took not away delicacy, nor beauty fierceness: being indeed such a right man-like man, as nature often erring, yet shows she would fain make. But when she had a while, not without admiration, viewed him, she desired him to deliver back the glove and paper, because they were the lady Philoclea’s, telling him withal, that she would not willingly let them know of his close lying in that prohibited place, while they were bathing themselves, because she knew they would be mortally offended withal. “Fair lady,” answered he, “the worst of the complaint is already passed, since I feel of my fault in myself the punishment. But for these things, I assure you, it was my dog’s wanton boldness, not my presumption. With that he gave her back the paper: but for the glove,” said he, “since it is my lady Philoclea’s, give me leave to keep it, since my heart cannot persuade itself to part from it. And I pray you tell the lady, lady indeed of all my desires, that owns it, that I will direct my life to honour this glove with serving her.” “O villain,” cried out Zelmane, maddened with finding an unlooked-for rival, and that he would make her a messenger, “dispatch,” said she, “and deliver it, or by the life of her that owns it, I will make thy soul, though too base a price, pay for it”: and with that drew out her sword, which, Amazon-like, she ever wore about her. The gentleman retired himself into an open place from among the bushes, and then drawing out his too, he offered to deliver it unto her, saying, withal, “God forbid I should use my sword against you, sith, if I be not deceived, you are the same famous Amazon, that both defended my lady’s just title of beauty against the valiant Phalantus, and saved her life in killing the lion, therefore I am rather to kiss your hands, with acknowledging myself bound to obey you.”