The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia

by Philip Sidney

The force of love to those poor folk that feel it is many ways very strange, but no way stranger than that it doth so enchain the lover’s judgment upon her that holds the reins of his mind, that whatsoever she doth is ever in his eyes best. And that best, being the continual motion of our changing life, turned by her to any other thing that thing again becometh best. So that nature in each kind suffering but one superlative, the lover only admits no positive. If she sits still, that is best, for so is the conspiracy of her several graces, held best together to make one perfect figure of beauty. If she walk, no doubt that is best, for, besides, the making happy the more places by her steps, the very stirring adds a pleasing life to her native perfections. If she be silent, that without comparison is best, since by that means the untroubled eye most freely may devour the sweetness of his object. But if she speak, he will take it upon his death that is best, the quintessence of each word being distilled down into his affected soul: example of this was well to be seen in the given-over Pyrocles, who with panting breath, and sometimes sighs, not such as sorrow restraining the inward parts doth make them glad to deliver, but such as the impatience of delay, with the unsurety of never so sure hope, is wont to breathe out. Now being at the door, of the one side hearing her voice, which he thought if the philosopher said true of the heavenly seven-sphered harmony, was by her not only represented, but far surmounted, and of the other having his eyes over-filled with her beauty, for the king at his parting had left the chamber open, and she at that time lay, as the heat of that country did well suffer, upon the top of her bed, having her beauties eclipsed with nothing but with a fair smock, wrought all in flames of ash-colour silk and gold lying so upon her right side, that the left thigh down to the foot, yielded his delightful proportion to the full view, which was seen by the help of a rich lamp, which through the curtains a little drawn cast forth a light upon her, as the moon doth when it shines into a thin wood: Pyrocles I say was stopped with the violence of so many darts cast by Cupid altogether upon him, that quite forgetting himself, and thinking therein already he was in the best degree of felicity, he would have lost much of his time, and with too much love omitted the enterprise undertaken for his love, had not Philoclea’s pitiful accusing of him forced him to bring his spirits again to a new bias; for she laying her hand under her fair cheek, upon which there did privily trickle the sweet drops of her delightful, though sorrowful tears, made these words wait upon her moanful song. “And hath that cruel Pyrocles,” said she, “deserved thus much of me, that I should for his sake lift up my voice in my best tunes, and to him continually, with pouring out my plaint, make a disdained oblation? shall my soul still do this honour to his unmerciful tyranny, by my lamenting his loss, to show his worthiness and my weakness? He hears thee not, simple Philoclea, he hears thee not; and if he did, some hearts grow the harder the more they find their advantage. Alas! what a miserable constitution of mind have I! I disdain my fortune, and yet reverence him that disdains me. I accuse his ungratefulness, and have his virtue in admiration. O ye deaf heavens, I would either his injury could blot out mine affection, or my affection could forget his injury.” With that giving a pitiful but sweet shriek, she took again the lute, and began to sing this sonnet, which might serve as an explaining to the other.

The love which is imprinted in my soul

With beauty’s seal, and virtue fair disguis’d,

With inward cries puts up a bitter roll

Of huge complaints, that now it is despis’d.

Thus, thus the more I love, the wrong the more

Monstrous appears, long truth received late,

Wrong stirs remorsed Grief, grief’s deadly sore

Unkindness breeds, unkindness fostereth hate.

But ah, the more I hate, the more I think

Whom I do hate; the more I think on him,

The more his matchless gifts do deeply sink

Into my breast, and loves renewed swim.

What medicine then can such disease remove,

Where love draws hate, and hate engendereth love?

But Pyrocles, that had heard his name accused and condemned by the mouth, which of all the world, and more than all the world, he most loved, had then cause enough to call his mind to his home, and with the most haste he could, for true love fears the accident of an instant, to match the excusing of his fault, with declaration of his errand thither. And therefore blown up and down with as many contrary passions as Aeolus sent out winds upon the Trojan relics guided upon the sea by the valiant Aeneas, he went into her chamber with such a pace as reverend fear doth teach, where kneeling down, and having prepared a long discourse for her, his eyes were so filled with her sight, that as if they would have robbed all their fellows of their services, both his heart fainted, and his tongue failed in such sort that he could not bring forth one word, but referred her understanding to his eyes’ language. But she in extremity amazed to see him there, at so undue a season, and ashamed that her beautiful body made so naked a prospect, drawing in her delicate limbs into the weak guard of the bed, and presenting in her face to him such a kind of pitiful anger, as might show this was only a fault; therefore, because she had a former grudge unto him, turning away her face from him, she thus said unto him:

“O Zelmane or Pyrocles, for whether name I use, it much skills not, since by the one I was first deceived, and by the other now betrayed, what strange motion is the guide of thy cruel mind hither? Dost thou not think the day-torments thou hast given me sufficient, but that thou dost envy me the night’s quiet? Wilt thou give my sorrows no truce, but by making me see before mine eyes how much I have lost, offer me due cause of confirming my plaint? or is thy heart so full of rancour that thou dost desire to feed thine eyes with the wretched spectacle of thine overthrown enemy, and so to satisfy the full measure of thy undeserved rage with the receiving into thy sight the unrelievable ruins of my desolate life! O Pyrocles, Pyrocles, for thy own virtue’s sake, let miseries be no music unto thee, and be content to take to thyself some colour of excuse, that thou didst not know to what extremity thy inconstancy, or rather falsehood hath brought me.”

Pyrocles, to whom every syllable she pronounced was a thunderbolt to his heart, equally distracted betwixt amazement and sorrow, abashed to see such a stop of his desires, grieved with her pain, but tormented to find himself the author of it, with quaking lips, and pale cheer, “Alas! divine lady,” said he, “your displeasure is so contrary to my desert, and your words so far beyond all expectations that I have least ability now I have most need to speak in the cause upon which my life dependeth. For my troth is so undoubtedly constant unto you, my heart is so assured a witness to itself, of his unspotted faith, that having no one thing in me, whereout any such sacrilege might arise; I have likewise nothing in so direct a thing to say for myself, but sincere and vehement protestations; for in truth there may most words be spent, where there is some probability to breed of both sides conjectural allegations. But so perfect a thing as my love is of you, as it suffers no question, so it seems to receive injury by any addition of any words unto it. If my soul could have been polluted with treachery it would likewise have provided for itself due furniture of colourable answers, but as it stood upon the naked conscience of his untouched duty, so I must confess it is altogether unarmed against so unjust a violence as you lay upon me. Alas! let not the pains I have taken to serve you, be now accounted injurious unto you, let not the dangerous cunning I have used to please you, be deemed a treason against you: since I have deceived them whom you fear for your sake, do not you destroy me for their sake; what can I without you further do? or to what more forwardness can any counsel bring our desired happiness? I have provided whatsoever is needful for our going, I have rid them both out of the lodge, so that there is none here to be hinderers or knowers of our departure, but only the almighty powers, whom I invoke as triers of mine innocency, and witnesses of my well-meaning. And if ever my thoughts did receive so much as a fainting in their affections, if they have not continually with more and more ardour from time to time pursued the possession of your sweetest favour, if ever in that possession they received either spot or falsehood, then let their most horrible plagues fall upon me, let mine eyes be deprived of the light, which did abase the heavenly beams that struck them, let my falsified tongue serve to no use but to bemoan mine own wretchedness, let my heart impoisoned with detestable treason, be the seat of infernal sorrow, let my soul with the endless anguish of his conscience become his own tormentor.” “O false mankind!” cried out the sweet Philoclea. “How can an imposthumed heart but yield forth evil matter by his mouth? are oaths there to be believed, where vows are broken? No, no, who doth wound the eternal justice of the gods, cares little for abusing their names, and who in doing wickedly doth not fear due recompensing plagues, doth little fear that invoking of plagues will make them come ever a whit the sooner. But alas! what aileth this new conversation, have you yet another sleight to pay, or do you think to deceive me in Pyrocles’s form, as you have done in Zelmane’s: or rather, now you have betrayed me in both, is some third sex left you, to transform yourself into, to inveigle my simplicity? enjoy, enjoy the conquest you have already won: and assure yourself you are to come to the farthest point of your cunning. For my part, unkind Pyrocles, my only defence shall be belief of nothing, my comfort my faithful innocency, and the punishment I desire of you, shall be your own conscience.”

Philoclea’s hard persevering in this unjust condemnation of him, did so overthrow all the might of Pyrocles’s mind, who saw that time would not serve to prove by deeds, and that the better words he used, the more they were suspected of deceitful cunning. That void of all counsel, and deprived of all comfort, finding best deserts punished, and nearest hopes prevented, he did abandon the succour of himself, and suffered grief so to close his heart, that his breath failing him with a dreadful shutting of his eyes, he fell down at her bedside. Having had time to say no more but, “oh! whom dost thou kill Philoclea?” she that little looked for such an extreme event of her doings, started out of her bed, like Venus rising from her mother the sea, not so much stricken down with amazement and grief of her fault, as lifted up with the force of love, and desire to help, she laid her fair body over his breast, and throwing no other water in his face, but the stream of her tears, not giving him other blows, but the kissing of her well-formed mouth, her only cries were these lamentations: “O unfortunate suspicion,” said she, “the very mean to lose what we most suspect to lose. O unkind kindness of mine, which returns an imagined wrong with an effectual injury. O fool to make quarrel my supplication, or to use hate as the mediator of love: childish Philoclea, hast thou thrown away the jewel wherein all thy pride consisted? Hast thou with too much haste over-run thyself?” Then would she renew her kisses, and yet not finding the life return, redouble her plaints in this manner. “O divine soul,” said she, “whose virtue can possess no less than the highest place in heaven, if for mine eternal plague thou hast utterly left this most sweet mansion, before I follow thee with Thisbe’s punishment for my rash unweariness, hear this protestation of mine: that as the wrong I have done thee proceeded of a most sincere, but unresistable affection, so led with this pitiful example, it shall end in the mortal hate of myself, and, if it may be, I will make my soul a tomb of thy memory.” At that word with anguish of mind and weakness of body increased one by the other, and both augmented by this fearful accident, she had fallen down in a swoon, but that Pyrocles, then first severing his eyelids and quickly apprehending her danger, to him more than death, beyond all powers striving to recover the commandment of all his powers, stayed her from falling, and then lifting the sweet burden of her body in his arms, laid her again in her bed. So that she, but then the physician, was now become the patient, and he to whom her weakness had been serviceable, was now enforced to do service to her weakness, which performed by him with that hearty care which the most careful love on the best loved subject in greatest extremity could employ, prevailed so far, that ere long she was able, though in strength exceedingly dejected, to call home her wandering senses, to yield attention to that her beloved Pyrocles had to deliver. But he lying down on the bed by her, holding her hand in his, with so kind an accusing her of unkindness, as in accusing her he condemned himself, began from point to point to discover unto her all that had passed between his loathed lovers and him. How he had entertained, and by entertaining deceived, both Basilius and Gynecia; and that with such a kind of deceit, as either might see the cause in the other, but neither espy the effect in themselves. That all his favours to them had tended only to make them strangers to this his action; and all his strangeness to her, to the final obtaining of her long promised, and now to be performed favour. Which device seeing it had so well succeeded to the removing all other hindrances, that only her resolution remained for the taking their happy journey, he conjured her by all the love she had ever borne him, she would make no longer delay to partake with him whatsoever honours the noble king of Macedon, and all other Euarchus’s dominions might yield him, especially since in this enterprise he had now waded so far, as he could not possibly retire himself back, without being overwhelmed with danger and dishonour: he needed not have used further persuasion: for that only conjuration had so forcibly bound all her spirits that could her body have seconded her mind, or her mind have strengthened her body, without respect of any worldly thing, but only fear to be again unkind to Pyrocles, she had condescended to go with him. But raising herself a little in her bed, and finding her own inability in any sort to endure the air: “My Pyrocles,” said she, with tearful eyes and a pitiful countenance, such as well witnessed she had no will to deny anything, she had power to perform, “if you can convey me hence in such plight as you see me, I am most willing to make my extremest danger a testimony, that I esteem no danger in regard of your virtuous satisfaction.” But she fainted so fast that she was not able to utter the rest of her conceived speech; which also turned Pyrocles’s thoughts from expecting further answer, to the necessary care of reviving her, in whose fainting, himself was more than overthrown. And that having affected with all the sweet means his wits could devise, though his highest hopes were by this unexpected downfall sunk deeper than any degree of despair: yet lest the appearance of his inward grief might occasion her further discomfort, having wracked his face to a more comfortable semblance, he sought some show of reason, to show she had no reason, either for him, or for herself to be afflicted. Which in the sweet-minded Philoclea, whose consideration was limited by his words, and whose conceit pierced no deeper than his outward countenance, wrought within a while such quietness of mind, and that quietness again such repose of body, that sleep by his harbinger’s weakness, weariness, and watchfulness, had quickly taken up his lodging in all her senses. Then indeed had Pyrocles leisure to sit in judgment on himself, and to hear his reason accuse his rashness, who, without forecast of doubt, without knowledge of his friend, without acquainting Philoclea with his purpose, or being made acquainted with her present estate, had fallen headlong into that attempt, the success whereof he had long since set down to himself as the measure of all his other fortunes. But calling to mind how weakly they do, that rather find fault with what cannot be mended than seek to amend wherein they have been faulty: he soon turned him from remembering what might have been done, to considering what was now to be done, and when that consideration failed, what was now to be expected. Wherein having run over all the thoughts, his reason, called to the strictest accounts, could bring before him, at length he lighted on this. That as long as Gynecia betrayed not the matter, which he thought she would not do, as well for her own honour and safety, as for the hope she might still have of him, which is loth to die in a lover’s heart, all the rest might turn to a pretty merriment, and inflame his lover Basilius, again to cast about for the missed favour. And as naturally the heart stuffed up with woefulness, is glad greedily to suck the thinnest air of comfort, so did he at first embrace this conceit, as offering great hope, if not assurance of well-doing, till looking more nearly into it, and not able to answer the doubts and difficulties he saw therein more and more arising, the night being also far spent, his thoughts even weary of his own burdens, fell to a straying kind of uncertainty; and his mind standing only upon the nature of inward intelligences, left his body to give a sleeping respite to his vital spirits, which he according to the quality of sorrow received with greater greediness than ever in his life before: according to the nature of sorrow, I say, which is past care’s remedy; for care stirring the brains, and making thin the spirits, breaketh rest: but those griefs wherein one is determined there is no preventing, do breed a dull heaviness which easily clothes itself in sleep, so as laid down so near, the beauty of the word, Philoclea, that their necks were subjects each to other’s chaste embracements, it seemed love had come thither to lay a plot in that picture of death, how gladly, if death came, their souls would go together.

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.