The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia

by Philip Sidney

These words pierced much into the minds already inclined that way, insomuch that most part of the nobility confirmed Timautus’s speech, and were ready to execute it: when Philanax came among them, and with a constant, but reverent behaviour, desired them they would not exercise private grudges in so common a necessity. He acknowledged himself a man, and a faulty man: to the clearing or satisfying of which, he would at all times submit himself; since his end was to bring all things to an upright judgment, it should evil fit him to fly the judgment. “But,” said he, “my lords, let not Timautus’s railing speech, who whatsoever he finds evil in his own soul can with ease lay it upon another, make me lose your good favour. Consider that all well-doing stands so in the middle betwixt his two contrary evils that it is a ready matter to cast a slanderous shade upon the most approved virtues. Who hath an evil tongue, can call severity cruelty, and faithful diligence, diligent ambition. But my end is not to excuse myself, nor to accuse him: for both those hereafter will be time enough. There is neither of us, whose purging or punishing may so much import to Arcadia. Now I request you, for your own honour’s sake, and require you by the duty you owe to this estate, that you do presently, according to the laws, take in hand the chastisement of our master’s murderers, and laying order for the government by whomsoever it be done, so it be done, and justly done, I am satisfied. My labour hath been to frame things so that you might determine; now it is in you to determine. For my part, I call the heavens to witness, the care of my heart stands to repay that, wherein both I and most of you were tied to that prince, with whom all my love of worldly action is dead.”

As Philanax was speaking his last words there came one running to him with open mouth and fearful eyes, telling him that there was a great number of the people which were bent to take the young men out of Sympathus’s hands, and as it should seem by their acclamations, were like enough to proclaim them princes. “Nay,” said Philanax, speaking aloud, and looking with a just anger upon the noblemen, “it is no season to hear Timautus’s idle slanders while strangers become our lords, and Basilius’s murderers sit in his throne. But whosoever is a true Arcadian let him follow me.” With that he went toward the place he heard of, followed by those that had ever loved him, and some of the noblemen. Some other remaining with Timautus, who in the meantime was conspiring by strong hands to deliver Gynecia, of whom the weakest guard was had. But Philanax, where he went found them all in an uproar, which thus was fallen out. The greatest multitude of people that were come to the death of Basilius, were the Mantineans, as being the nearest city to the lodges. Among these the chief man both in authority and love was Kalander, he that not long before had been host to the two princes; whom though he knew not so much as by name, yet besides the obligation he stood bound to them in for preserving the lives of his son and nephew, their noble behaviour had bred such love in his heart towards them that both with tears he parted from them when they left him, under promise to return, and did keep their jewels and apparel as the relics of two demi-gods. Among others he had entered the prison and seen them, which forthwith so invested his soul, both with sorrow and desire to help them, whom he tendered as his children, that calling his neighbours the Mantineans unto him, he told them all the praises of these two young men, swearing he thought the gods had provided for them better than they themselves could have imagined. He willed them to consider that when all was done Basilius’s children must enjoy the state, who since they had chosen, and chosen so that all the world could not mend their choice, why should they resist God’s doing, and their princess’s pleasure? this was the only way to purchase quietness without blood, where otherwise they should at one instant crown Pamela with a crown of gold, and a dishonoured title? which whether ever she would forget, he thought it fit for them to weigh: “Such,” said he, “heroical greatness shines in their eyes, such an extraordinary majesty in all their actions, as surely either fortune by parentage, or nature in creation, hath made them princes. And yet a state already we have, we need but a man, who since he is presented unto you by the heavenly providence, embraced by our undoubted princess, worthy for their youth of compassion, for their beauty of admiration, for their excellent virtue to be monarchs of the world; shall we not be content with our own bliss? shall we put out our eyes because another man cannot see? or rather like some men, when too much good happens unto them, they think themselves in a dream and have not spirits to taste their own goods? No, no, my friends, believe me, I am so impartial, that I know not their names, but so overcome with their virtue that I shall then think the destinies have ordained a perpetual flourishing to Arcadia, when they shall allot such a governor unto it.”

This spoken by a grave man in years, great in authority, near allied to the prince, and known honest, prevailed so with all the Mantineans, that with one voice they ran to deliver the two princes. But Philanax came in time to withstand them, both sides standing in arms, and rather wanting a beginning than minds to enter into a bloody conflict. Which Philanax foreseeing, thought best to remove the prisoners secretly, and if need were, rather without form of justice to kill them, than against justice, as he thought, to have them usurp the state. But there again arose a new trouble. For Sympathus, the nobleman that kept them, was so stricken in compassion with their excellent presence, that as he would not falsify his promise to Philanax to give them liberty so yet would he not yield them to himself, fearing he would do them violence. Thus tumult upon tumult arising, the sun, I think, weary to see their discords had already gone down to his western lodging. But yet to know what the poor shepherds did, who were the first discriers of these matters, will not to some ears perchance be a tedious digression.

THE FOURTH ECLOGUES

The shepherds finding no place for them in these garboils, to which their quiet hearts, whose highest ambition was in keeping themselves up in goodness, had at all no aptness, retired themselves from among the clamorous multitude: and as sorrow desires company, went up together to the western side of an hill, whose prospect extended it so far that they might well discern many of Arcadia’s beauties. And there looking upon the sun’s as then declining race, the poor men sat pensive of their present miseries, as if they found a weariness of their woeful words: till at last good old Geron, who as he had longest tasted the benefits of Basilius’s government, so seemed to have a special feeling of the present loss, wiping his eyes and long white beard, bedewed with great drops of tears, began in this sort to complain: “Alas! poor sheep,” said he, “which hitherto have enjoyed your fruitful pasture in such quietness, as your wool among other things hath made this country famous, your best days are now past: now you must become the victual of an army, and perchance an army of foreign enemies, you are now not only to fear home-wolves, but alien lions: now, I say, now that our right Basilius is deceased. Alas! sweet pastures, shall soldiers that know not how to use you, possess you? shall they that cannot speak the Arcadian language be lords over your shepherds? for alas with good cause may we look for any evil, since Basilius our only strength is taken from us.”

To that all the other shepherds present uttered pitiful voices, especially the very born Arcadians. For as for the other, though humanity moved them to pity human cases, especially in a prince under whom they had found a refuge of their miseries, and justice equally administered, yet could they not so naturally feel the lively touch of sorrow. Nevertheless, of that number one Agelastus notably noted among them as well for his skill in poetry as for an austerely maintained sorrowfulness, wherewith he seemed to despise the works of nature, framing an universal complaint in that universal mischief, uttered it in this Sestine.

Since wailing is a bud of causeful sorrow,

Since sorrow is the follower of evil fortune,

Since no evil fortune equals public damage;

Now prince’s loss hath made our damage public,

Sorrow pay we to thee the rights of nature,

And inward grief seal up with outward wailing.

Why should we spare our voice from endless wailing,

Who justly make our hearts the seat of sorrow?

In such a case where it appears that nature

Doth add her force unto the sting of fortune:

Choosing alas, this our theatre public,

Where they would leave trophies of cruel damage.

Then, since such powers conspired unto our damage

(Which may be known, but never help with wailing)

Yet let us leave a monument in public

Of willing tears, torn hairs, and cries of sorrow,

For lost, lost is by blow of cruel fortune

Arcadia’s gem, the noblest child of nature.

O nature doting old, O blind dead nature,

How hast thou torn thyself, sought thine own damage

In granting such a scope to filthy fortune,

By thy imp’s loss to fill the world with wailing.

Cast thy step-mother eyes, upon our sorrow,

Public our loss: so, see, thy shame is public.

O that we had, to make our woes more public,

Seas in our eyes, and brazen tongues by nature,

A yelling voice, and hearts compos’d of sorrow,

Breath made of flames, wits knowing naught but damage,

Our sports murd’ring ourselves, our musics wailing,

Our studies fixed upon the falls of fortune.

No, no, our mischief grows in this vile fortune,

That private pains cannot breathe out in public

The furious inward griefs with hellish wailing:

But forced are to burden feeble nature

With secret sense of our eternal damage,

And sorrow feed, feeding our souls with sorrow.

Since sorrow then concluded all our fortune,

With all our deaths show we this damage public:

His nature fears to die who lives still wailing.

It seemed that this complaint of Agelastus had awaked the spirits of the Arcadians, astonished before with the exceedingness of sorrow. For he had scarcely ended when divers of them offered to follow his example in bewailing the general loss of that country which had been as well a nurse to strangers as a mother to Arcadians. Among the rest one accounted good in that kind, and made the better by the true feeling of sorrow, roared out a song of lamentation, which, as well as might be, was gathered up in this form:

Since that to death is gone the shepherd high,

Who most the silly shepherd’s pipe did prize,

Your doleful tunes sweet Muses now apply.

And you O trees, if any life there lies

In trees, now through your porous barks receive

The strange resound of these my causeful cries:

And let my breath upon your branches cleave,

My breath distinguished into words of woe,

That so I may signs of my sorrow leave.

But if among yourselves some one tree grow,

That aptest is to figure misery,

Let it embassage bear your griefs to show,

The weeping myrrh I think will not deny

Her help to this, this justest cause of plaint.

Your doleful tunes sweet Muses now apply.

And thou, poor earth, whom fortune doth attaint,

In nature’s name to suffer such a harm,

As for to lose thy gem, and such a saint,

Upon thy face let coaly ravens swarm:

Let all the sea thy tears accounted be;

Thy bowels will all killing metals arm.

Let gold now rust, let diamonds waste in thee:

Let pearls be wan with woe their dam doth bear!

Thyself henceforth the light do never see,

And you, O flowers, which sometimes princes wear,

Tell these strange alt’rings you did hap to try,

Of princes’ loss yourselves for tokens rear.

Lily in mourning black thy whiteness die:

O Hyacinth let “Ai” be on thee still,

Your doleful tunes sweet Muses now apply.

O Echo, all these woods with roaring fill,

And do not only mark the accents last,

But all, for all reach out my wailful will:

One Echo to another Echo cast

Sound of my griefs, and let it never end,

Till that it hath all words and waters passed,

Nay to the heav’ns your just complaining send,

And stay the stars’ inconstant constant race,

Till that they do unto our dolours bend:

And ask the reason of that special grace,

That they which have no lives should live so long,

And virtuous souls so soon should lose their place?

Ask, if in great men good men do so throng,

That he for want of elbow-room must die?

Or if that they be scant, if this be wrong?

Did Wisdom this our wretched time espy

In one true chest to rob all virtue’s treasure?

Your doleful tunes sweet Muses now apply.

And if that any counsel you to measure

Your doleful tunes, to them still plaining say,

“To well felt grief plaint is the only pleasure.”

O light of sun, which is entitled day:

O well thou dost that thou no longer bidest;

For mourning night her black weeds may display,

O Phoebus with good cause thy face thou hidest,

Rather than have thy all-beholding eye

Fouled with this sight, while thou thy chariot guidest,

And well methinks becomes this vaulty sky

A stately tomb to cover him deceased.

Your doleful tunes sweet Muses now apply.

O Philomela with thy breast oppressed

By shame and grief, help, help me to lament

Such cursed harms as cannot be redressed.

Or if thy mourning notes be fully spent,

Then give a quiet ear unto my plaining:

For I to teach the world complaint am bent.

You dimmy clouds, which well employ your staining.

This cheerful air with your obscured cheer,

Witness your woeful tears with daily raining.

And if, O sun, thou ever didst appear,

In shape, which by man’s eye might be perceived:

Virtue is dead, now set thy triumph here.

Now set thy triumph in this world, bereaved

Of what was good, where now no good doth lie:

And by the pomp our loss will be conceived,

O notes of mine yourselves together tie:

With too much grief methinks you are dissolved.

Your doleful tunes sweet Muses now apply.

Time ever old, and young is still revolved

Within itself, and never tasteth end:

But mankind is for aye to nought resolved,

The filthy snake her aged coat can mend,

And getting youth again, in youth doth flourish:

But unto man age ever death doth send,

The very trees with grafting we can cherish,

So that we can long time produce their time:

But man which helpeth them, helpless must perish.

Thus, thus the minds which over all do climb,

When they by years’ experience get best graces,

Must finish then by death’s detested crime.

We last short while, and build long lasting places:

Ah let us all against foul nature cry:

We nature’s works do help, she us defaces;

For how can nature unto this reply:

That she her child, I say, her best child killeth?

Your doleful tunes sweet Muses now apply.

Alas methinks my weakened voice but spilleth

The vehement course of his just lamentation:

Methinks, my sound no place with sorrow filleth.

I know not I, but once in detestation

I have myself, and all what life containeth,

Since death on virtue’s fort hath made invasion

One word of woe another after traineth:

Nor do I care how rude by my invention,

So it be seen what sorrow in me reigneth.

O elements, by whose, men say, contention,

Our bodies be in living power maintained,

Was this man’s death the fruit of your dissention?

O physic’s power, which some say, hath restrained

Approach of death, alas, thou helpest meagrely,

When once one is for Atropos distrained,

Great be physicians’ brags, but aid is beggarly,

When rooted moisture fails or groweth dry,

They leave off all, and say, death comes too eagerly.

They are but words therefore that men do buy

Of any, since god Aesculapius ceased,

Your doleful tunes sweet Muses now apply.

Justice, justice is now, alas, oppressed:

Bountifulness hath made his last conclusion:

Goodness for best attire in dust is dressed.

Shepherds bewail your uttermost confusion;

And see by this picture to you presented,

Death is our home, life is but a delusion,

For see, alas, who is from you absented,

Absented? nay I say for ever banished

For such as were to die for him contented?

Out of her sight in turn of hand is vanished

Shepherd of shepherds, whose well settled order

Private with wealth, public with quiet garnished

While he did live, far, far was all disorder,

Example more prevailing than direction,

Far was home-strife, and far was foe from border,

His life a law, his look a full correction:

As in his health we healthful were preserved,

So in his sickness grew our sure infection.

His death our death. But ah, my muse hath swerved,

For such deep plaint as should such woes descry,

Which he of us for ever hath deserved.

The style of heavy heart can never fly

So high, as should make such a pain notorious:

Cease Muse therefore: thy dart O death apply,

And farewell prince, whom goodness hath made glorious.

Many were ready to have followed this course, but the day was so wasted, that only this rhyming Sestine delivered by one of great account among them, could obtain favour to be heard.