The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia

by Philip Sidney

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

GERON and MASTIX

GERON

Down, down Melampus, what? your fellow bite?

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

Them to defend, not with yourselves to fight.

Do you not think this will the wolves remove

From former fear, they had of your good minds,

When they shall such divided weakness prove?

What if Lelaps a better morsel find

Than you erst knew? rather take part with him

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

And then Lelaps let not pride make thee brim;

Because thou hast thy fellow overgone,

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

Here Lelaps, here indeed, against the foe

Of my good sheep, thou never truce him took:

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

For though Melampus like a wolf do look

(For age doth make him of a wolfish hue)

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

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

Come near good Mastix, ’tis now full twa score

Of years, alas, since I good Mastix knew.

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

Because I read him, as I would my son.

Youth will have will; age must to age therefore.

MASTIX

What marvel if in youth such fault be done,

Since that we see our saddest shepherds out,

Who have their lesson so long time begun?

Quickly secure, and easily in doubt,

Either asleep be all, if not assail,

Or all abroad if but a cub start out.

We shepherds are like them that under sail

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

Yet to a passenger will bonnet vail.

I con thee thank to whom thy dogs be dear,

But commonly like curs we them treat,

Save when great need of them perforce appear,

Then him we kiss, whom late before we beat

With such intemperance, that each way grows

Hate of the first, contempt of latter feat.

And such discord ’twixt greatest shepherds flows,

That sport it is to see with how great art,

By justice work they their own faults disclose:

Like busy boys to win their tutor’s heart.

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

The third his lesson missed, till all do smart.

As for the rest, how shepherds spend their days,

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

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

So small account of time the shepherd feels,

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

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

To age thus do they draw their youthful prime,

Knowing no more, than what poor trial shows,

As fish sure trial hath of muddy slime.

This pattern good, unto our children goes,

For what they see their parents love or hate,

Their first-caught sense prefers to teachers’ blows.

Those cocklings cocker’d we bewail too late,

When that we see our offspring gaily bent,

Women man-wood, and men effeminate.

GERON

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

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

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

We oft are angrier than the feeble fly

For business, where it appertains him not,

Than with the poisonous toads that quiet lie.

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

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

A cage, gilded perchance, is all his lot,

Who of his tongue the liquor gladly pours,

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

But even for that shall suffer mighty lowers.

Let swan’s example siker serve for thee,

Who once all birds, in sweetly singing passed,

But now to silence turn’d his minstrelsy,

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

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

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

The Falcon’s fierceness, Sparrow’s lechery,

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

Even Turtle touch’d he with hypocrisy,

And worse of other more, till by assent

Of all the birds, but namely those were grieved,

Of fowls there call’d was a Parliament:

There was the Swan of dignity deprived,

And statute made he never should have voice:

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

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

Let not thy tongue become a fiery match;

No sword so bites, as that evil tool annoys.

Let our unpartial eyes a little watch

Our own demean, and soon we wonder shall,

That hunting faults, ourselves we did not catch.

Into our minds let us a little fall,

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

Then who makes us, such Judges over all?

But farewell now, thy fault is no great sin,

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

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

PHILISIDES and ECHO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My muse, what ails this ardor

To blaze my only secrets?

Alas it is no glory

To sing mine own decayed state.

Alas it is no comfort,

To speak without an answer,

Alas it is no wisdom

To show the wound without cure.

My muse, what ails this ardor?

Mine eyes be dim, my limbs shake,

My voice is hoarse, my throat scorch’d,

My tongue to this my roof cleaves,

My fancy amaz’d, my thoughts dull’d,

My heart doth ache, my life faints,

My soul begins to take leave.

So great a passion all feel,

To think a sore so deadly

I should so rashly rip up.

My muse, what ails this ardor?

If that to sing thou art bent,

Go sing the fall of old Thebes,

The wars of ugly centaurs,

The life, the death of Hector:

So may the song be famous:

Or if to love thou art bent,

Recount the rape of Europa,

Adonis’ end, Venus’ net,

The sleepy kiss the moon stale:

So may the song be pleasant.

My muse, what ails this ardor?

To blaze my only secrets?

Wherein do only flourish

The sorry fruits of anguish.

The song thereof a last will,

The tunes be cries, the words plaints,

The singer is the song’s theme,

Wherein no ear can have joy.

Nor eye receive due object

Ne pleasure here, ne fame gat.

My muse, what ails this ardor?

“Alas,” she saith “I am thine,

So are thy pains my pains too.

Thy heated heart my seat is

Wherein I burn: thy breath is

My voice, too hot to keep in.

Besides, lo here the author

Of all thy harms: lo here she,

That only can redress thee,

Of her will I demand help.”

My muse I yield, my muse I sing,

But all thy song herein knit.

The life we lead is all love:

The love we hold is all death,

Nor ought I crave to feed life,

Nor ought I seek to shun death,

But only that my goddess,

My life my death do count hers.

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

Reason, tell me thy mind, if here be reason

In this strange violence, to make resistance,

Where sweet graces erect the stately banner

Of virtue’s regiment, shining in harness

Of fortune’s diadems, by beauty mustered:

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

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

Scouts each motion is, the hands be horsemen,

Her lips are the riches the wars to maintain,

Where well couched abides a coffer of pearl,

Her legs carriage is of all the sweet camp:

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

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

Which at first volley gave too open entry,

Nor rampier did abide; my brain was up blown,

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

Thus weakened by myself, no help remaineth;

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

And now fame the herald of her true honour,

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

That nature sovereign of earthly dwellers,

Commands all creatures to yield obeisance

Under this, this her own, her only darling.

Say then reason; I say what is thy counsel?

Reason sighs, but in end he thus doth answer:

“Nought can reason avail in heavenly matters.”

Thus nature’s diamond receive thy conquest,

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

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

Reason look to thyself, I serve a goddess.

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

O sweet woods the delight of solitariness!

O how much I do like your solitariness!

Where man’s mind hath a freed consideration

Of goodness to receive lovely direction.

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

And wise thoughts do behold what the creator is:

Contemplation here holdeth his only seat:

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

Climbs even unto the stars, nature is under it.

Nought disturbs thy quiet, all to thy service yields,

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

Sweet birds kindly do grant harmony unto thee,

Fair trees’ shade is enough fortification,

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

O sweet woods the delight of solitariness!

O how much do I like your solitariness!

Here nor treason is hid, veiled in innocence,

Nor envy’s snaky eye finds any harbour here,

Nor flatterers’ venomous insinuations,

Nor coming humourists’ puddled opinions,

Nor courteous ruin of proffered usury,

Nor time prattled away, cradle of ignorance,

Nor causeless duty, nor cumber of arrogance,

Nor trifling title of vanity dazzleth us,

Nor golden manacles stand for a paradise.

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

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

What man grafts in a tree dissimulation?

O sweet woods the delight of solitariness!

O how well I do like your solitariness!

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

As sweet as violets, fair as a lily is,

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

Whose shade safely doth hold, danger avoideth her;

Such wisdom, that in her lives speculation:

Such goodness, that in her simplicity triumphs:

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

Slander wants a pretext, flattery gone beyond:

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

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

And think not she doth hurt our solitariness,

For such company decks such solitariness.