The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia

by Philip Sidney

Now was our heavenly vault deprived of the light,

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

Did light those beamy stars which greater light did dark:

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

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

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

A silence sweet each where with one consent embrac’d

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

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

A dull desire to kiss the image of our death:

When I, disgraced wretch, not wretched then did give

My senses such relief, as they which quiet live,

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

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

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

Who under courtly pomps do hatch a base desire.

Free all my powers were from those captivating snares,

Which heav’nly purest gifts defile with muddy cares.

Nay could my soul itself accuse of such a fault,

As tender conscience might with furious pangs assault.

But like the feeble flower, whose stalk cannot sustain

His weighty top, his top downward doth drooping lean:

Or as the silly bird in well-acquainted nest

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

So I in simple course, and unentangled mind,

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

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

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

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

A living corpse I lay: but ah my wakeful mind

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

Flew up with freer wings of fleshly bondage free;

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

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

Of Samothea land, a land which whilom stood

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The ever turning spheres, the never moving ground;

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

Whence our immortal souls to mortal earth do flow:

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

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

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

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

When lo with hugest noise, such noise a tower makes

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

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

Or cannons thunder-like, all shot together lend.

The moon asunder rent, whereout with sudden fall

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

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

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

I wretch astonished was, and thought the deathful doom,

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

But straight there issued forth two ladies, ladies sure

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

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

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

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

Her right arm naked was, discovered was her breast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The waiting nymph, a nymph that did excel as far

All things that erst I saw, as orient pearls exceed

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

Indeed a perfect hew, indeed a sweet consent,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Be silent therefore now, and so be silent still

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

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

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

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

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

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

And hither now, vouchsafe to take with willing ear.

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

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

Both our estates, while each the other did deprave,

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

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

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

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

Those thousand altars fair now in the dust to lie?

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

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

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

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

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

While we for mutual spite, a striving passion fed.

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

So much more strong again let fastest concord make,

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

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

Although we be divine, our grandsire Saturn is

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

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

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

Let us a perfect peace between us two resolve;

Which least the ruinous want of government dissolve,

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

For vain equality is but contention’s field.

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

In her let beauty both, and chasteness fully reign.

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

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

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

To whom precedence shall of both accorded be,

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

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

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

Becometh us: in us fortune determines not.

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

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

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

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

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

She had chief goddesses in beauty overcome.

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

Diana dear, my mind to love and not to hate

Was ever apt: but you my pastimes did despise.

I never spited you, but thought you overwise.

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

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

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

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

For both together spoke, each loath to be behind,

That they by solemn oath their deities would bind,

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

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

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

For near acquaintance doth diminish reverent fear.

And having bound them fast by Styx, they should obey

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her beauty kindle shall within thy foolish mind,

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

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

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

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

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

And with that cursed curse away to heaven they fled,

First having all their gifts upon fair Mira spread.

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

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

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

That I things erst unseen should first in dreaming see?

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

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

O coward Cupid, thus dost thou thy honour keep,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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