The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia

by Philip Sidney

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

[End of Book II]

ARCADIA
BOOK III

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

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

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

Unto a caitiff wretch, whom long affliction holdeth,

And now fully believes help to be quite perished,

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

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

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

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

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

Lest it might thee allure home to thyself to return

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

Gratefulness, sweetness, holy love, hearty regard)

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

Despair most tragical clause to a deadly request)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But finding the approach of death with an inly relenting,

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

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

Bubbling out doth breathe signs of his huge dolours:

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

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

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

Can death beauty become? must I be such monument?

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

Shall prove that fierceness can with a white dove abide?

Shall to the world appear that faith and love be rewarded

With mortal disdain, bent to unendly revenge.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You should those fair eyes have with a veil covered.

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

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

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

Torn you should disperse unto the blasts of a wind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

First let Cimmerian darkness be my only habitation:

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

Ere that I should consent to do so excessive a damage

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

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

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

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

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

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

Passion unto my rage, rage to a hasty revenge,

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

Such faith, so stainless, inviolate, violent?

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

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

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

Unto the man, whom now such miseries you award?

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

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

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

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

Did not a rosed breath from lips rosy proceeding,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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