THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE’S
ARCADIA
BY
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
WITH THE ADDITIONS OF SIR WILLIAM
ALEXANDER AND RICHARD BELING,
A LIFE OF THE AUTHOR,
AND AN
INTRODUCTION
BY
ERNEST A. BAKER, M.A.
LONDON
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, Ltd.
New York: E. P. Dutton & Co.
CONTENTS
[TESTIMONIES CONCERNING THE AUTHOR]
ARCADIA
INTRODUCTION
In a broad survey of the early history of English prose fiction three periods mark themselves out with great distinctness. The later centuries of the middle ages were the age of romance, when both poet and proseman worked upon the same mass of legendary material, expanding and embellishing the current stories in precisely the same spirit, the difference between prose romance and metrical romance being simply one of mechanical form. When in the Elizabethan age the literature of tradition gave way to the literature of invention, a decisive step in advance was made; but the novel still retained all the essential features of its poetic ancestry. Then, with the invention of a genuine prose, in the succeeding epoch, came a revolution. Discarding the romantic spirit, as their predecessors had abandoned the romantic legends, the first modern novelists turned themselves to the portrayal and interpretation of actual life, and the history of realism began. Sir Philip Sidney’s Arcadia holds an important place in these three stages of gradual evolution, as the type and culmination of the middle period, the age of poetic invention; how important in the long history of the genesis, the successive transformations, and the final development of English fiction, can be realised only by going back right to the beginnings, when the earliest prose romances took their rise from the chansons de gestes.
In the exordium of his Apologie for Poetrie, Sidney himself lays stress on the priority of the poet in the history of literature. Modern research has found that this rule holds good in the literatures of many more races than Sidney was able to adduce as examples. From free imagination to realism, from mythology to science, from sensuous and passionate rhythms to cold, abstract prose—this is the natural line of progression. And the same course of development is repeated in the evolution of the various literary species. The first Hellenic philosophers wrote in hexameters; history began with epos, and went through the semi-poetic phase of Herodotus before it emerged in the form of abstract prose and the generalising method of science with Thucydides. Scientific and technical literature had its birth in poetry and mythology; and even when it became practical and experimental maintained for a while the fashions of poetry, and sought the inspiration of the muse. In the same way, the novel, whose evolution seems to have culminated in unpoetic days, must have its origins sought in far-off times when authors wrote instinctively in metre.
Narrative or dramatic poetry and the novel must always of course be very nearly related together. A poem and a novel, it might be said, are but two different sorts of fiction. But to make this statement literally true, the word fiction would have to be interpreted in two different senses. For the difference between poetry and prose is not simply one of style, but lies in the circumstance that the imagination of the poet, inspired with emotion and ideality, appeals directly to imagination, whilst prose addresses the understanding. The poet merely asks us to imagine; but the prose-writer has to reason and convince. Writers of such prose fiction as the Elizabethan novels, and the Greek and Latin novels that arose in the decadence of classical literature, did not realise that the mind of the reader is reached in essentially different ways by prose and poetry; that in the one case the imagination is working on a higher plane, and responding to another kind of stimulus. Both accordingly produced something that was really neither prose nor poetry, and both had slight influence on the subsequent development of the novel. It will be worth while a little later to compare the Elizabethan novel with this curious product of an earlier age of culture and decadence. For the novel of Sidney, Lyly, Lodge, and Greene, though it belongs to the Elizabethan era in time, was not a native growth of that age of great beginnings, but rather a final and unproductive efflorescence of the romantic literature that had its roots in times already ancient. Sidney the critic and interpreter of letters looked back, not forward. He did not discern the signs around him of the tremendous birth that was commencing, but would have been proud to be compared with Heliodorus and Longus, and with Sanazzaro and Montemayor, whom he acclaims as genuine poets, preaching with seductive eloquence throughout his Apologie the fallacious doctrine that poetry is the name for all imaginative literature.
The first English examples of fiction in prose were stories from the great chivalric cycles of Arthur, of Charlemagne, and of Troy and Alexander. Some of these were written in prose originally, but the majority were translations, paraphrases, or recensions of metrical narratives. Some were turned into verse again, and again in that form were the material for further prose recensions. And throughout these transformations the matter, the style, and the spirit of the stories underwent hardly any change. It was only now and then that the versifier gave a rein to imagination in his battles and pageants; or was hurried by the swing of the metre into bursts of lyricism, or a more dramatic curtness in the dialogue; or cut short the explication of motive and plot, which the prose-writer was inclined to elaborate. How well the prose sufficed to the minstrel converting it into his own idiom may be seen by comparing such a metrical romance as the Scots poem, Lancelot of the Laik, with the samples of the French prose story from which it was translated, in the edition by the Early English Text Society. There is very little poetical heightening except where the minstrel tacks on a prologue of his own composing; the rest is but the effect of the paraphraser’s occasional impulse to change and invent.[1] Certainly these writers were not embarrassed by any preconceptions of a strict boundary line between prose and the language of poetry, and the uses for which either was especially ordained. The traditional themes were handled, in both verse and prose, in the same traditional manner, and were animated by the same spirit of romantic adventure.
A change of style is almost invariably the result of a change of thought and feeling; but no profound mental and moral revolution like that which underlay the romantic movement of the nineteenth century, was the occasion for turning the mediaeval romances into prose. When all literary compositions were intended for singing and recitation, they naturally took a metrical form; but when books were meant to be read in bower and cloister, it was left to the writer to choose his vehicle. Thus, while there were true poets like Chrestien de Troyes and Wolfram von Eschenbach among those working upon the material of legend, many arrayed themselves in the poetic vesture without having a spark of divine fire; and the style of many of these metrical narratives strikes one as too prosaic for the subject, especially if we base our expectations on Malory, to us the chief exemplar of mediaeval romance, whose prose, though not in the least resembling in structure that bastard thing, prose poetry, is thoroughly epical in its stark simplicity, its sensuous colour, and the haunting suggestion of beauty and ideality. It was not an age of poetry in the way this can be said of the early period of Greek literature, when philosophers, historians, and lawgivers spoke in metre because the muse was in them. Romance is the decadence of poetry; and while the traditional forms survived, the poetic impulse grew weaker and weaker.
By Caxton and his successors the prose romances of the age of chivalry were multiplied and circulated among wider audiences than even those who listened to the mediaeval jongleur: these were the first popular novels of the Tudor age, yet they were already getting out of date, inasmuch as they reflected the manners and the ideals of a bygone period. But there had arisen on the continent two forms of romance that represent another stage in the development of fiction; the Spanish chivalric romance typified in Amadis of Gaul, and the pastoral novel of Sanazzaro and Montemayor. The three great legendary cycles, no matter how wild and fabulous their later excursions, always claimed to be a reading of history; each writer was careful to state his authorities, real or fictitious; and though he added life and circumstance to his narrative, the substance was put forward and accepted as history. In Spain romance had begun exactly as in Britain with poetic chronicles of heroic periods, such as the story of the Cid, round which gathered in the process of time a vast accretion of anonymous legend. But in the Amadis, printed in 1508, but current in oral or manuscript versions for two centuries at least, Spain gave birth to a kind of romance in which such history even as that in the legendary chronicles had no place. Amadis himself, it is true, was connected with the Arthuriad by his lineage; but with this exception, the author or authors let both history and historical tradition go, and in the various knight-errantries of Amadis gave to their imaginative powers their full fling. In the beauty of its ladies, the size of its giants, the valour, constancy, and self-denial of its heroes, the Amadis eclipses all its rivals; and in the Palmerins and Esplandians that were the sequel, these exaggerations are carried to even more ridiculous lengths. The older romances had usually been localised in actual places and countries, though these were often idealised out of all likeness to reality; but Amadis and his successors met with their adventures and performed their feats of arms in a region created by the fancy of their authors. Spenser’s Fairy Land, and Sidney’s Arcadia were no doubt suggested by this romantic geography.
Pastoral romance had a classical origin, for the Eclogues of Baptista Mantuanus, pastoral dialogues satirising allegorically the social and moral vices of the fifteenth century in Italy were avowedly inspired by the bucolic poetry of his countryman Virgil. Longus also, one of the Greek novelists already alluded to, had in his Daphnis and Chloe depicted the life of pastoral simplicity. But if Petrarch, Boccaccio, and others whose works contained germs of the new movement are left out of account as of minor importance in this respect, it is accurate enough to say that the modern pastoral novel began its course with the Arcadia of Jacopo Sanazzaro, a Neapolitan whose aim it was to refresh the minds of his contemporaries, weary of a sophisticated and artificial life, with pictures of a simple existence in fields and woods, the felicities of truth and virtue, and the sentiment of a pure and refined love. Prose and verse are intermingled in his book, as they are in the only example of the style accessible to the modern reader in an English translation, the Galatea of Cervantes. Sanazzaro was surpassed in interest by his Portuguese imitator, Jorge de Montemayor, the author of Diana, who added a pathos and a touch of real life to the pastoral, making a deeper appeal to the imagination of his readers, and securing such a popularity in England, that his novel was translated in 1583 by Bartholomew Young. The pastoral novel and the Amadis cycle of romances were the two direct progenitors of Sidney’s Arcadia, in which the spirit of knightly heroism and the idyllic atmosphere of a sentimental Utopia are blended in fairly equal parts.
The pastoral, however, was only a digression in the slow advance of the English novel towards its goal; and though it furnished perhaps half the inspiration of Sidney’s romance, it does not bear upon the present theme, the significance of the Elizabethan novel as represented by the Arcadia in the evolution of English fiction. The pastoral romance, it should nevertheless be noted, is more closely allied to poetry than to prose fiction proper, not merely because it mingles verse with a flowery and emotional prose, but chiefly because it is an offspring of the free imagination and not of the study of real life. The pastoral impulse has always been something factitious and retrograde in the history of literature and art, something exactly contrary to the return to nature to which Wordsworth gave the strongest impetus, and which exercised such an enormous effect on the advance of realism.
The Elizabethan novel, the general characteristics of which are roughly summed up in the words “poetic invention,” came next to mediaeval romance in a natural order of succession. It did not bring fiction any nearer the type conditioned by the laws of expression in strict prose, of the eighteenth century pattern. In an age of poetry the novel had become more poetic in style and in attitude to life than it had ever been. The Arcadia and Euphues have less than the Morte d’Arthur of the real world of men and women. A superficial view, accordingly, might suggest that with a hybrid and unfruitful type of art like the poetic novel one line of development came to an end, especially as we see that Defoe, in the next age, makes an entirely new beginning, abjuring romance and free imagination, turning directly to actual experience for his material, and using a homespun style, as close as he could make it to the speech of everyday life. Yet the semi-poetic novel represents a definite stage of transition, and it does contain elements that were to be developed later. The masterpieces of Italian story-tellers had made their mark upon the Elizabethans, who acquired the art of constructing a plot, and giving their narratives a beginning, a middle, and an ending. They showed also a more conscious effort to portray individual character; and by Lyly the analysis of motive and feeling was carried to a point that seems to anticipate Richardson. More than this, they came a good step nearer to reality, although they failed so flagrantly to reproduce the atmosphere of the real. They chose their subjects from the sphere of human experience; and they rejected giants, fairies, and witchcraft, together with the
“Forests and enchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the ear,”
which were stock features of the romantic literature; although, on the other hand, they put wild improbabilities in the place of supernatural marvels, and revelled in coincidences and disguises almost as incredible as the Celtic magic of the trouvère.
Sidney the critic expounds in his Apologie for Poetry his view that the novel of his time and of all anterior times, together indeed with all literature having an imaginative and idealistic tendency, was comprehended under his definition of poetry.
“For Xenophon,” says he, “who did imitate so excellently as to give us the portraiture of a just Empire under the name of Cyrus, made therein an absolute heroical poem. So did Heliodorus in his sugared invention of that picture of love in Theagines and Cariclea. And yet both writ in prose: which I speak to show, that it is not riming and versing that maketh a poet, no more than a long gowne maketh an Advocate.”
What his theory of poetry was may be gathered from his description of the poet, who,
“disdayning to be tied to any such subjection (as the natural rules of things), lifted up with the vigor of his owne invention, dooth growe in effect another nature, in making things either better than Nature bringeth forth, or, quite anewe, formes such as never were in Nature, as the Heroes, Demigods, Cyclops, Chimeras, Furies, and such like; so as hee goeth hand in hand with Nature, not inclosed within the narrow warrant of her gifts, but freely ranging onely within the Zodiack of his owne wit. Nature never set the earth in so rich tapestry, as divers Poets have done, neither with so pleasant rivers, fruitful trees, sweet smelling flowers, nor whatsoever els may make the too much loved earth more lovely. Her world is brasen, the Poets only deliver a golden.”
This corresponds to Bacon’s famous account of the nature of poetry, in the Advancement of Learning:—
“Poesy is a part of learning in measure of words for the most part restrained, but in all other points extremely licensed, and doth truly refer to the imagination; which, not being tied to the laws of matter, may at pleasure join that which nature hath severed, and sever that which nature hath joined; and so make unlawful matches and divorces of things; Pictoribus atque poetis, etc. It is taken in two senses in respect of words and matter. In the first sense it is but a character of style, and belongeth to arts of speech, and is not pertinent for the present. In the latter it is (as hath been said) one of the principal parts of learning, and is nothing else but feigned history, which may be styled as well in prose as in verse.
“The use of this feigned history hath been to give some shadow of satisfaction to the mind of man in those points wherein the nature of things doth deny it, the world being in proportion inferior to the soul; by reason whereof there is, agreeable to the spirit of man, a more ample greatness, a more exact goodness, and a more absolute variety, than can be found in the nature of things. Therefore, because the acts or events of true history have not that magnitude which satisfieth the mind of man, poesy feigneth acts and events greater and more heroical. Because true history propoundeth the successes and issues of actions not so agreeable to the merits of virtue and vice, therefore poesy feigns them more just in retribution, and more according to revealed providence. Because true history representeth actions and events more ordinary and less interchanged, therefore poesy endueth them with more rareness, and more unexpected and alternative variations. So as it appeareth that poesy serveth and conferreth to magnanimity, morality, and to delectation. And therefore it was ever thought to have some participation of divineness, because it doth raise and erect the mind, by submitting the shows of things to the desires of the mind; whereas reason doth buckle and bow the mind unto the nature of things. And we see that by these insinuations and congruities with man’s nature and pleasure, joined also with the agreement and consort it hath with music, it hath had access and estimation in rude times and barbarous regions, where other learning stood excluded.”
These definitions are too broad for poetry, and too narrow for imaginative literature in general, though that is what they aimed to define. It was as difficult for Sidney and Bacon as for Aristotle to propound a theory embracing literary forms that were not yet invented; and furthermore it is probable that had they witnessed the birth of naturalism in Defoe, or its ultimate developments in our own age, they would have denied to it the name of literature or art. But there is no place in such a definition for many works that neither Sidney nor Bacon would have hesitated to admit, the novels of George Eliot, for instance, or those of Fielding. Yet a modern explanation of poetry, that of Newman, would not exclude even such prose works as these. He says,
“Moreover, by confining the attention to one series of events and scene of action, it bounds and finishes off the confused luxuriance of real nature; while, by a skilful adjustment of circumstances, it brings into sight the connexion of cause and effect, completes the dependance of the parts one on another, and harmonises the proportions of the whole.”
A stricter analysis, however, demands of poetry not only a distinctive mode of conceiving its subject, but a distinctive mode of utterance. If poetry is the fine art of words, and its aim to give all the sensuous, emotional, and intellectual delight of which words are capable, it is clear that Sidney and Bacon gave full weight to only one side of the truth, and that they included far too much. The poetic novel, to which their definition applied so aptly, is a case in point, since it was a hybrid and transitional form, a thing that was just ceasing to be poetry, but had not yet become the new form of art to which it was the harbinger.
The Arcadia, and the same may be said of the Elizabethan novel generally, shows its near relationship to poetry in both ways, in its style and in the purely imaginative nature of the story, the characters, and the life depicted. In the introduction to Defoe’s Roxana and Moll Flanders, published in this series, I compared the opening of Defoe’s stories, Robinson Crusoe, for instance, so definite as to time and place, so particular in the mention of names and the exact circumstances in which the events occur, with the beginning of the Arcadia, which carries us at once away in imagination to a flowery meadow in a land of Arcady that has no existence save in the fancy of the poets and those under their spell. There is no effort to make the story credible, or the characters real, by attaching them with the bands of verisimilitude to the world of familiar things. Musidorus and Pyrocles, Pamela and Philoclea, Zelmane and Amphialus, are in no way studies from life, but embodiments of Sidney’s chivalrous energy and thirst for action, and of the craving for a life of pastoral simplicity and ideal love, strengthened by his enforced existence amidst the pomps and unrealities of a court. While he was living in retirement at Wilton, where the Arcadia was begun, he gave vent to this feeling in the following lines:—
“Well was I while under shade
Oaten reeds me music made,
Striving with my mates in song;
Mixing mirth our songs among.
Greater was the shepherd’s treasure
Than this false, fine, courtly pleasure.”
How strenuous in his nature was the heroic energy that gave the chivalric strain to his romance, was shown pre-eminently in the closing scenes of his life, when he roused his uncle Leicester out of his sloth, and sacrificed himself on the field to a sense of knightly punctilio. It has been said of him that his whole life was “a true poem, a composition, and pattern of the best and honourablest things”; and not only in his shepherd Philisides, but in all the idealisms of courage, knightly faith and honour, and self-denying affection, that illumine the pages of his Arcadia, and in their splendid deeds of valour and endurance, he poured out the riches of his own nature, as the poet puts all that is best in himself into his verse. His purpose in writing the Arcadia, according to the testimony of his old schoolfellow at Shrewsbury, Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke, was moral and didactic; but “in all these creatures of his making his interest and scope was to turn the barren philosophic precepts into pregnant images of life,” that is, to energize them with poetry.
The prose naturally begotten of such a poetical conception of the novel is well illustrated in the following passage, one of those most charged with humanity and most free from extravagance.
“But the headpiece was no sooner off but that there fell about the shoulders of the overcome knight the treasure of fair golden hair, which, with the face, soon known by the badge of excellency, witnessed that it was Parthenia, the unfortunately virtuous wife of Argalus; her beauty then, even in despite of the past sorrow, or coming death, assuring all beholders that it was nothing short of perfection. For her exceeding fair eyes having with continual weeping gotten a little redness about them; her roundly, sweetly-smelling lips a little trembling, as though they kissed her neighbour death; in her cheeks, the whiteness striving, by little and little, to get upon the rosiness of them; her neck—a neck indeed of alabaster—displaying the wound which with most dainty blood laboured to crown his own beauties; so as here was a river of purest red, there an island of perfectest white, each giving lustre to the other, with the sweet countenance, God knows, full of an unaffected languishing; though these things, to a grossly conceiving sense, might seem disgraces, yet indeed were they but apparelling beauty in a new fashion, which all looking upon through the spectacles of pity, did even increase the lines of her natural fairness, so as Amphialus was astonished with grief, compassion, and shame, detesting his fortune that made him unfortunate in victory.”
In the Apologie for Poetry, Sidney condemned Euphuism, Lyly’s new-fangled speech, which became fashionable in all cultivated circles immediately upon the publication of Euphues, or the Anatomie of Wit, in 1579; but his own affectations are equally alien from purity of style. Both were striving after a prose having a richness, a style of ornament, and an artistic structure, that would furnish some equivalent for the charms to ear and mind of metrical language. In this they were simply repeating the attempt of the late Greek and Latin novelists, whose style anticipated many of the mannerisms of Elizabethan prose, the false antitheses, the word-jingles, the artificial cadences, and alliteration. Phrases like, “Sine pretio pretiosae,” “Amores amare coerceas,” “Atra atria Proserpinae,” in the Golden Ass of Apuleius, are marvellously like the flowers of speech affected by Sidney and Lyly. The scholiasts used to arrange the prose of this author in iambic measures, and would no doubt have applied similar tests to Sidney’s. And the fondness for involved, musical periods, the love of sensuousness and splendour, are features common to both schools of writers. Here are two sentences from Apuleius showing precisely the same effort to maintain the glories of poetry, and the same cloying rhetoric that is the result in Sidney and his contemporaries:—
“Mirus prorsus homo, immo semideus, vel certe Deus, qui magnae artis subtilitate tantum efferavit argentum … ut diem suum sibi domus faciat, licet sole nolente: sic cubicula, sic porticus, sic ipsae valvae fulgurant.”
“Namque saxum immani magnitudine procerum, et inaccessa salebritate lubricum, mediis e faucibus lapidis fontes horridos evomebat: qui statim proni foraminis lacunis editi, perque proclive delapsi, et angusti canalis exerto contecti tramite, proximam convallem latenter incidebant.”
Apuleius might very well have written such a sentence as this:—
“Yet the pitiless sword had such pity of so precious an object that at first it did but hit flatlong. But little availed that, since the lady falling down astonished withal, the cruel villain forced the sword with another blow to divorce the fair marriage of the head and body.”
And in spite of Sidney’s strictures upon the conceits of Euphuism, there was not much to choose between Lyly and such extravagances as this:—
“Exceedingly sorry for Pamela, but exceedingly exceeding that exceedingness in fear for Philoclea.”
The fact is, there are bound to be these freaks and extravagances whilst a style is still in such an inchoate and experimental state as English prose was in from the time of Malory and Berners, and the other early architects of a style unfettered by metre, with whom, as Mr John Dover Wilson has shown in his work on John Lyly, the germs of Euphuism found their way into English long before Guevara was known in this country, although the tendency is nearly always attributed to his influence. The writers of this period could not evolve even a poetic prose without falling into these pitfalls, for the simple reason that they wrote a century before the principles of what may be called a normal prose style had been determined. Mr Watts-Dunton has pointed out that in the present age there is another kind of poetic prose in process of evolution, a prose “which above all other kinds holds in suspense the essential qualities of poetry.” Prose to be truly poetical, he argues, must move far away from the “tremendous perorations of De Quincey, or the sonorous and highly-coloured descriptions of Ruskin,” and must no doubt be something very different from what Sidney and other writers made of Elizabethan prose, noble as their achievement was.
“It must, in a word, have all the qualities of what we technically call poetry except metre. We have, indeed, said before that while the poet’s object is to arouse in the listener an expectancy of caesuric effects, the great goal before the writer of poetic prose is in the very opposite direction; it is to make use of the concrete figures and impassioned diction that are the poet’s vehicle, but at the same time to avoid the expectancy of metrical bars.”
Such a prose as this must be the very latest product of literary effort. Its difference from the poetic prose actually evolved in the transitional age with which we are dealing, is the difference between an art founded on long experience and many attempts and failures, and above all on a sound philosophy of aesthetic causes and effects, and the essays of men who were not yet clear as to the objects they ought to aim at. So uncertain was Sidney even as to the true genius of English poetry that he was one of the most ardent members of the “Areopagus,” who endeavoured to reform English poetry on Italian and classical principles, the results of which attempt may be appraised in the verses inserted in the Arcadia. The indispensable basis for a sound poetic prose, if such a thing is feasible, must be a satisfactory norm of unpoetic prose.
Sidney’s romance did not escape ridicule in his own time; Ben Johnson parodied Arcadianism in Every Man out of his Humour; Dekker poked fun at Arcadian and Euphuised gentlewomen in the Gul’s Horne-book; and the involved and careless construction of the story came in for mild satire in one of the earliest burlesques of chivalrous and pastoral romances, Sorel’s Berger Extravagant, which was translated by John Davies of Kidwelly in a book that may be remembered by its sub-title, the Anti-Romance. The criticism in the passage following is not particularly acute, but is cited because few readers of Sidney are likely to come across such a very rare work as this translation (1648).
“Nor hath England wanted its Arcadia, whereof it is not long since we have had the translation. I find no more order in that than in the rest, and there are many things whereof I am not at all satisfied. At the very beginning you have the complaints of the shepherds Strephon and Claius upon the departure of Urania, without telling us who she was, nor whither she went. Now an author ought never to begin his book but he should mention the persons principally concerned in the history whose actions he is to raise up beyond any of the rest; yet this man makes afterward no more mention of these two shepherds than if he had never named them; and though he bring them in again at some sports before Basilius, yet that signifies nothing, since a man finds no period of their adventures, and that those verses wherein they speak of their loves are so obscure that they may be taken for the oracles of a Sybill. It is true that Sir Philip dying young might have left his work imperfect; but there’s no reason why we should suffer by that misfortune, and be obliged to take a thing for perfect because it might have been made so.”
… Thus Clarimond in his “Oration against Poetry, Fables, and Romances”; Philiris in his “Vindication” replies:—
“As for Sidney’s Arcadia, since it hath crossed the sea to come and see us, I am sorry Clarimond receives it with such poor compliments. If he hears nothing of the loves of Strephon and Claius, he must not quarrel with the author who hath made his book one of the most excellent in the world. There are discourses of love and discourses of state so generous and pleasant that I should never be weary to read them. I should say much in his commendation were I not in haste to speak of Astraea, which Clarimond brings in next, and I am very glad to find that book generally esteemed, which should oblige him to esteem it also.”
Sorel’s Berger Extravagant appeared in 1628. Two French translations of the Arcadia had already been made, one by Baudoin in 1624, and a second by D. Geneviefve, Chappelain, the year following. The book was translated into German in 1629, by Valentinus Theocritus, whose translation was revised by Martin Opitz, and appeared again in 1643 and 1646.
It would be rash to assert that the Arcadia, not published until 1590, though circulated widely in manuscript during the preceding decade, had any influence on the pastorals of Greene and Lodge, who boasted their adherence to the linguistic fashions set in 1579 by Lyly’s Euphues. It is enough to observe that these and the Arcadia have many close resemblances which are proofs of a common ancestry. Robert Greene’s Pandosto (1588), the original of Shakespeare’s Winter’s Tale, his Menaphon (1589), and Philomela (1592); and Lodge’s Rosalynde: Euphues’ golden legacie (1590), whence As you like it was derived, have the Arcadian scenes and the atmosphere of fairy-land, combined with the same strain of chivalrous adventure, and the same complicated love-plots as Sidney’s romance. I venture to quote from Professor Courthope’s History of English Poetry a passage emphasising the strong feminine interest which was such a prominent feature in Lyly, Lodge, and Greene, as well as in Sidney.
“But after all, the element in the Arcadia which produced the greatest effect upon contemporary taste, on account of the dramatic tendencies of the age, was the one which Sidney derived from his study of Montemayor. Perhaps the most noticeable feature in the story is the complete elimination of the magical and supernatural machinery which formed so important a part of the older romances. In imitation of Montemayor, Sidney now concentrated the main interest of his narrative in the complications of the love-plots. The consequence of this device was to bring the exhibition of female character into greater prominence. In the old chivalric poetry and fiction no more than three types of women are represented, the insipid idol of male worship who shows ‘mercy’ and ‘pity’ to her lover, according to the regulation pattern of the Cours d’Amour; the fickle mistress, like Cressida, who is inconstant to one lover, and so violates the code of chivalry; and the unfaithful wife of the class of Guinevere and Iseult. The Arcadia, on the other hand, is full of feminine heroines, martyrs, and monsters, each of whom plays her own distinct part in the development of the action. There is the ideal maiden, Pamela or Philoclea, type of lofty virtue, forerunner of the Clarissas and Belindas of Richardson; the vicious Queen Cecropia recalling the Phaedras and Sthenobaeas of Greek legend; Gynecia, the passion-stricken wife of a respectable elderly husband, a favourite figure in the modern French novel; the clownish Mopsa, the original, perhaps, of Shakespeare’s Audrey; and, above all, the representative of adventurous, unhappy, self-sacrificing love in its various aspects, Helen, Queen of Corinth, Parthenia, and Zelmane, predecessors of Shakespeare’s Viola, Helena, and Imogen.”
The popularity of the book, rivalling that of Euphues, is illustrated by the number of editions, of which a list will be given later. Sidney found writers eager to continue the story, and many imitators. The argument of John Day’s Ile of Guls (1606) was “a little string or rivolet drawne from the full streme of the right worthy gentleman, Sir Phillip Sydney’s well knowne Archadea.” Shirley dramatised many episodes in his Pastorall called the Arcadia (1640); the story of the dispossessed king of Paphlagonia and his son is probably the germ of Shakespeare’s episode of Gloucester and his sons in King Lear, and Mr C. Crawford has found traces of copying in the Duchess of Malfi and other plays of Webster. The author of the Emblemes, Francis Quarles, made a long poem out of the story of Argalus and Parthenia (1622); and other writers linked their compositions to the popularity and prestige of the Arcadia by using Sidney’s name as their advertisement, like the author of Sir Philip Sydney’s Ourania (1606), a philosophical poem dedicated to the Countess of Pembroke, and the Lady Mary Wroath, a niece of Sidney, who produced a slavish imitation in The Countess of Montgomerie’s Urania (1621), and made great play with her pedigree on the title-page. Excerpts and adaptations were published right down to the late seventeenth century.
The first edition of the Arcadia was published in 1590, four years after the author’s death. He did not finish the book, which had been begun for the amusement of his sister, the Countess of Pembroke, while he was in exile from the court and living at Wilton House, the seat of the Pembrokes. It was Sidney’s dying request that the manuscript should be destroyed, and the dedicatory epistle to his sister expresses how little he valued the book as a literary performance:—
“If you keep it to yourself, or to such friends who will weigh error in the balance of good-will, I hope for the father’s sake it will be pardoned, perchance made much of, though in itself it have deformities. For indeed for severer eyes it is not, being a trifle, and that triflingly handled.”
The Arcadia was entered in the Register of the Stationer’s Company in 1588, by William Ponsonbie, the publisher of Spenser’s Fairie Queene; and the first edition saw the light in a thick quarto in 1590. A photo-lithographic reproduction of this handsome first edition was published in 1891 by Dr Oskar Sommer, to whose scholarly bibliographical introduction I am indebted for the following list of the various editions. The fourth and fifth books, and a portion of the third book (57 pages), were added in the second edition, in 1593, a folio, by the same publisher. Beyond this, there are few variations in the text of the two editions. The third edition (1598), also by Ponsonbie, comprised Sidney’s Sonnets, Astrophel and Stella, and the Defence of Poesie; and these works were again included in the fourth edition (misdescribed as the third) by Robert Waldegrave, at Edinburgh, in 1599.[2] Mathew Lownes’ edition (1605), the fifth (miscalled the fourth), is almost a facsimile reprint of the third; but in the next edition, described on the title-page as the fourth (1613), we get some new “additions,” but of small importance compared with those in the seventh (described in the title as the fifth), published in 1621 at Dublin, which included a “Supplement of a defect in the third part of this History, by Sir W. Alexander,” which had been printed separately at Dublin the same year. In the present edition his supplement begins on [page 428] and ends on [page 451], where Sir William’s apologie for the liberty taken is duly quoted. Sir William Alexander of Menstrie, afterwards Earl of Stirling, was a poet and dramatist, and a statesman of genius, who died in 1610. He was a friend of Drummond of Hawthornden. The Dictionary of National Biography states wrongly that he published this continuation of the third book of the Arcadia in 1613, the date of the so-called fourth edition, certain copies of which have extracts from this work inserted. The first London edition, to which Sir William Alexander’s supplement was added, was the eighth, published in 1623; but it is doubtful whether the additional matter was really printed as a part of the volume, or added from the 1621 edition, or some other of which there is no trace, to the only copy of this issue known to Dr Sommer. The pagination, at any rate, is in a confused state pointing to this.
The sixth book of the Arcadia by Richard Beling (see infra [p. 631]), first published at Dublin, in 1624, was added to the ninth edition, miscalled the sixth, in 1627. It is not mentioned on the title, but before this new supplement another title-page is inserted, running as follows, “A Sixth Booke to the Countesse of Pembrokes Arcadia: written by R. B. of Lincolnes Inne Esquire. (Sat, si bene; si male, nimium.) London, printed by H. L. and R. Y. 1628,” thus dating a year later than the title-page proper. After Beling’s continuation come the Sonnets, the Defence of Poesie, Astrophel, etc. This edition was reprinted in exact conformity, except that the new title-page mentions the work of Beling, in 1629; and the five other seventeenth-century editions, appearing in 1633, 1638, 1655, 1662, and 1674, corresponded exactly in all textual respects but the title-page, except that in the twelfth, described as the ninth, edition (1638), an alternative supplement to a defect in the third book is introduced by Mr Ja. Johnstone, “Scoto-Brit,” and in addition to this the 1655 edition contained the forty-eight couplets entitled “A Remedie for Loue,” and an alphabetical table, or clavis, forming an index to the stories in the Arcadia.
Dr Sommer mentions only one edition in the eighteenth century, one in three volumes containing also the poetical works and the Defence of Poesy, and described as the fourteenth edition, although fifteen previous editions have now been enumerated. The title of the first volume is dated 1725, but the other two volumes bear that of the preceding year, the preliminary matter of the first not having, apparently, been completed in 1724. This was a London edition, and Dr Sommer was not aware of another seventeenth century edition, printed at Dublin in 1739, which was a reproduction of this one: it bears the imprint, “Dublin: printed by S. Powell, for T. Moore, at Erasmus’s Head in Dame Street, Bookseller, MDCCXXXIX”; and a copy has been used in preparing the present edition.
The only edition of the Arcadia in the nineteenth century, with the exception of the photographic reproduction of the first edition by Dr Sommer, was published by Sampson Low, Son, and Marston, in 1867, and was preceded by an introductory essay by Hain Friswell, the author of The Gentle Life, who says:—
“The principle on which this edition of the Arcadia has been put through the press perhaps needs some explanation. As the sheets of MS. left the hands of Sidney, after the first book, or perhaps two, had been completed, they were transmitted to his sister the Countess of Pembroke, and some of them mislaid and lost. Hence one great hiatus supplied by Sir William Alexander, others by R(ichard) B(eling) and Mr Johnstone. It is also known that the Countess of Pembroke added to the episodes, adventures, and strange turns, at least in all the later books. Hence there is to be met with an Arcadian undergrowth which needs much careful pruning; and this undertaken, with needful compression, will leave the reader all that he desires of Sidney’s own. Growing like certain fanciful parasites upon forest trees, on the books of the Arcadia are certain eclogues of laboriously-written and fantastical poetry, some in Latin measures, against which Walpole was right to protest, and anent which Pope said:—
‘And Sidney’s verse halts ill on Roman feet.’
“These have been boldly removed without any loss, it is believed, to the romance; lastly, long episodes of no possible use to the book, which we think have been supplied by other hands than Sidney’s have, whilst using their very words and phrases, been cut down. Tedious excrescences have thus been removed, but it is to be hoped with judgment, so that the reader gets all we think is Sidney’s, and without curb put upon his utterance.”
In the edition now offered to the student of Elizabethan literature an opposite method has been adopted. Rather than run any risk of omitting anything that is Sidney’s, it has been thought advisable to give the whole Arcadia, excrescences and all, especially as the additions of those who were fellow-spirits and admirers, and belonged to the same great epoch, cannot be without their interest to readers in the present age, who may, at any rate, skip the contributions of Alexander and Beling if they are so minded. The example of Hain Friswell has been followed, however, so far as the modernisation of the spelling and punctuation is concerned. “A Continuation of Sir P. Sidney’s Arcadia written by a young Gentlewoman” (Mrs A. W. Weames), and published at London, in 1651, and James Johnstone’s “Supplement to a defect in the Third Book,” which is merely an alternative to Alexander’s, are not included.
There was a modernised edition of the Arcadia published in 1725, under the title, “Sir Philip Sidney’s Arcadia, Moderniz’d by Mrs Stanley, London, Printed in the Year MDCCXXV”; and there were extracts from the book, like the abstract entitled, “The Famous History of Heroick Acts or the Honour of Chivalry,” London, 1701; and two versions of the episode of Argalus and Parthenia, the first, “The Unfortunate Lovers: the History of Argalus and Parthenia” (fourth edition, 1715), and “The History of Argalus and Parthenia. Being A Choice Flower Gathered out of Sir Philip Sidney’s Rare Garden,” c. 1770 and 1780. Dr Grosart included all the poems occurring in the Arcadia in his edition of “The Complete Poems of Sir Philip Sidney,” in three volumes, in 1877. Students of our old texts owe an immense debt to Dr Sommer for the pains and industry lavished on his sumptuous facsimile editions of Caxton’s Malory and Sidney’s Arcadia, in both of which the comparison of all the extant readings has been carried out with microscopic thoroughness, and done once for all.
E. A. B.
January 1907.
THE LIFE OF
Sir PHILIP SIDNEY, Kt.
[From the Dublin edition, 1739.]
This Marcellus of the English nation, Sir Philip Sidney, the short-lived ornament of his noble family, hath deserved, and, without dispute or envy, enjoyed, the most exalted praises of his own, and of succeeding ages. The poets of his time, especially Spenser, reverenced him, not only as a patron, but a master; and he was almost the only person in any age, I will not except Mecaenas, that could teach the best rules of poetry, and most freely reward the performances of poets. He was a man of a sweet nature, of excellent behaviour, of much, and, withal, of well-digested learning, so that rarely wit, courage, breeding, and other additional accomplishments of conversation, have met in so high a degree in any single person.[3]
Sir Henry Sidney, his father, was a man of excellent natural wit, large heart, sweet conversation; and such a governor as sought not to make an end of the state in himself, but to plant his own ends in the prosperity of his country. Witness his sound establishments, both in Wales and Ireland, where his memory is worthily grateful unto this day.
On the other side, his mother, as she was a woman, by descent, of great nobility (the Lady Mary, eldest daughter of John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland), so was she by nature of a large ingenious spirit.[4] He was born at Penshurst, in the county of Kent, on the 29th day of November, in the year 1554, and had his Christian name given him by his father, from King Philip, then lately married to Queen Mary. While he was very young, he was sent to Christ Church College in Oxford to be improved in all sorts of learning; where continuing till he was about seventeen years of age under the tuition of Dr Tho. Thornton, canon of that house, he was, in June 1572, sent to travel; for on the 24th of August following, when the massacre fell out at Paris, he was then there, and at that time, as I conceive, he, with other Englishmen, did fly to the house of the ambassador from the Queen of England.[5] Thence he went through Lorraine, and by Strasburg and Heidelburg to Frankfort, in September or October following, where he settles, is entertained agent for the Duke of Saxony, and an underhand minister for his own king. Lodged he was in Wechel’s house, the printer of Frankfort.[6] Here he was accompanied by the famous Hubert Languet; and in the next spring, 1573, Languet removed to Vienna, where our author met him again, and stayed with him till September, when he went into Hungary and those parts. Thence he journeyed into Italy, where he continued all the winter following, and most of the summer, 1574, and then he returned into Germany with Languet; and the next spring he returned by Frankfort, Heidelburg, and Antwerp, home into England, about May 1575.
In the year 1576 he was sent by the Queen to Rodolph, the Emperor, to condole the death of Maximilian, and also to other princes of Germany; at which time he caused this inscription to be written under his arms, which he then hung up in all places where he lodged:—
“Illustrissimi et generosissimi viri
Philipi Sidnaei, Angli,
Pro-regis Hiberniae filii, Comitum Warwici
Et Leicestriae Nepotis, serenissimi
Reginae Angliae ad Caesarem legati.”
The next year, 1577, in his return, he saw that gallant Prince Don John de Austria, Viceroy of the low countries for the King of Spain, and William, Prince of Orange; by the former of which, though at first he was lightly esteemed upon the account of his youth, yet, after some discourse, he found himself so stricken with him that the beholders wondered to see what tribute that brave and high-minded prince paid to his worth, giving more honour and respect to him, in his private capacity, than to the ambassadors of mighty princes.
In the year 1579 he, though neither magistrate nor counsellor, did show himself, for several weighty reasons, opposite to the Queen’s matching with the Duke of Anjou, which he very pithily expressed by a due address of his humble reasons to her, as may be fully seen in a book called “Cabala” (Part III., p. 201). The said address was written at the desire of some great personage—his Uncle Robert, I suppose, Earl of Leicester, upon which a great quarrel happened between him and Edward Vere, Earl of Oxford. This, as I conceive, might occasion his retirement from Court next summer, 1580, wherein, perhaps, he wrote that pleasant romance called “Arcadia.”[7]
In 1581 the treaty of marriage was renewed, and our author, Sidney, with Fulke Greville,[8] were two of the tilters at the entertainment of the French Ambassador; and at the departure of the Duke of Anjou from England, in February of the same year, he attended him to Antwerp.[9]
On the 8th of January 1582 he, with Perigrine Bertie, received the honour of knighthood from the Queen, and in the beginning of 1585 he designed an expedition with Sir Francis Drake into America, but being hindered by the Queen (in whose opinion he was so highly prized that she thought the Court deficient without him) he was, in October following, made Governor of Flushing—about that time delivered to the Queen for one of the cautionary towns—and General of the Horse. In both which places of great trust his carriage testified to the world his wisdom and valour, with addition of honour to his country by them; and especially the more, when in July 1586 he surprised Axil, and preserved the lives and honour of the English army at the enterprise of Gravelin: so that whereas (through the fame of his high deserts) he was then, or rather before, in election for the Crown of Poland, the Queen of England refused to further his advancement, not out of emulation, but out of fear to lose the jewel of her times. What can be said more? He was a statesman, soldier, and scholar—a complete master of matter and language, as his immortal pen shows. His pen and his sword have rendered him famous enough: he died by the one, and by the other he will ever live as having been hitherto highly extolled for it by the pens of princes. This is the happiness of art, that although the sword doth achieve the honour, yet the arts do record it, and no pen hath made it better known than his own in that book called “Arcadia.” Certain it is, he was a noble and matchless gentleman, and it may be justly said, without hyperbole or fiction, as it was of Cato Uticensis, that “he seemed to be born to that only which he went about.” His written works are these:—
The Countess of Pembroke’s “Arcadia,”[10] which being the most celebrated romance that was ever written, was consecrated to his noble, virtuous, and learned sister Mary, the wife of Henry, Earl of Pembroke, who, having lived to a very fair age, died in her house in Aldersgate Street, in London, the 25th of September 1621, whereupon her body was buried in the cathedral church of Salisbury, among the graves of the Pembrochian family. This “Arcadia,” though then, and since, it was, and is, taken into the hands of all ingenious men, and said by one living at, or near, the time when first published, to be “a book most famous for rich conceits and splendour of courtly expressions.” This work was first printed in the year 1613 in quarto; it hath been translated into French, Dutch, and other languages in 1624.
Besides Astrophel and Stella,[11] A Remedy for Love, The Defence of Poesy,[12] Sonnets, etc., Sir Philip also turned the Psalms of David into English verse, which are in manuscript in the library of the Earl of Pembroke at Wilton, curiously bound in a crimson velvet cover, left thereunto by his sister Mary, Countess of Pembroke.[13]
The following dialogue, composed by our author, was spoken between two shepherds in a pastoral entertainment before several gentlemen and ladies at the seat of the noble family above mentioned.
Will. Dick, since we cannot dance, come, let a cheerful voice
Show that we do not grudge at all, when others do rejoice.
Dick. Ah, Will, though I grudge not, I count it feeble glee,
With sight made dim with daily tears, another’s sport to see.
Whoever lambkins saw (yet lambkins love to play)
To play when that their loved dams are stoll’n or gone astray?
If this in them be true, as true in men, think I,
A lustless song, forsooth, thinks he, that hath more lust to cry.
Will. A time there is for all, my mother often says,
When she, with skirts tuck’d very high, with girls at stoolball plays.
When thou hast mind to weep, seek out some smoky room:
Now let those lightsome sights we see, thy darkness overcome.
Dick. What joy the joyful sun gives unto bleared eyes,
That comfort in these sports you like, my mind his comfort tries.
Will. What! is thy bagpipe broke? or are thy lambs miswent?
Thy wallet or thy tar-box lost? or thy new raiment rent?
Dick. I would it were but thus, for thus it were too well.
Will. Thou seest my ears do itch at it; good Dick, thy sorrow tell.
Dick. Hear then, and learn to sigh; a mistress I do serve,
Whose wages make me beg the more, who feeds me till I starve,
Whose livery is such, as most I freeze apparelled most,
And look! so near unto my cure, that I must needs be lost.
Will. What? these are riddles sure; art thou then bound to her?
Dick. Bound as I neither power have, nor would have power to stir.
Will. Who bound thee?
Dick. Love, my lord.
Will. What witnesses thereto?
Dick. Faith in myself, and worth in her, which no proof can undo.
Will. What seal?
Dick. My heart deep graven.
Will. What made the band so fast?
Dick. Wonder, that by two so black eyes the glittering stars be past.
Will. What keepeth safe thy band?
Dick. Remembrance is the chest
Lock’d fast with knowing that she is of worldly things the best.
Will. Thou late of wages ’plainst: what wages mayst thou have?
Dick. Her heav’nly looks, which more and more do give me cause to crave.
Will. If wages make you want, what food is that she gives?
Dick. Tear’s drink, sorrow’s meat, wherewith, not I, but in me my death lives.
Will. What living get you then?
Dick. Disdain; but just disdain:
So have I cause myself to plain, but no cause to complain.
Will. What care takes she for thee?
Dick. Her care is to prevent
My freedom with show of her beams, with virtue my content.
Will. God shield us from such dames. If so our downs be sped
The shepherds will grow lean, I trow, their sheep will be ill fed;
But, Dick, my counsel mark: run from the place of woe;
The arrow being shot from far doth give the smaller blow.
Dick. Good Will, I cannot lack the good advice, before
That foxes leave to steal, because they find they die therefore.
Will. Then, Dick, let us go hence, lest we great folks annoy;
For nothing can more tedious be, than ’plaint in time of joy.
Dick. Oh, hence! O cruel word! which even dogs do hate;
But hence, even hence, I must needs go—such is my dogged fate.
To return again to Sir Philip.
In the year 1586,[14] when that unfortunate stand was made against the Spaniards before Zutphen, the 22nd of September, while he was getting upon the third horse, having had two slain under him before, he was wounded with a musket shot out of the trenches, which broke the bone of his thigh. The horse he rode upon was rather furiously choleric than bravely proud, and so forced him to forsake the field, but not his back, as the noblest and fittest bier to carry a martial commander to his grave. In which sad progress, passing along by the rest of the army, where his uncle,[15] the general, was, and, being thirsty with excess of bleeding, he called for drink, which was presently brought him; but, as he was putting the bottle to his mouth, he saw a poor soldier carried along, who had eaten his last at the same feast, ghastly casting up his eyes at the bottle, which Sir Philip perceiving, took it from his head before he drank, and delivered it to the poor man, with these words: “Thy necessity is yet greater than mine.” And when he had pledged this poor soldier, he was presently carried to Arnheim, where the principal surgeons of the camp attended for him. When they began to dress his wounds, he, both by way of charge and advice, told them that, while his strength was yet entire, his body free from fever, and his mind able to endure, they might freely use their art, cut, and search to the bottom; but if they should neglect their art, and renew torments in the declination of nature, their ignorance, or overtenderness, would prove a kind of tyranny to their friend, and, consequently, a blemish to their reverend science. With love and care well mixed they began the cure, and continued it some sixteen days, with such confidence of his recovery as the joy of their hearts overflowed their discretion, and made them spread the intelligence of it to the Queen, and all his noble friends here in England, where it was received, not as private, but public good news.
At the same time Count Hollock was under the care of a most excellent surgeon for a wound in his throat by a musket shot, yet did he neglect his own extremity to save his friend, and to that end had sent him to Sir Philip. This surgeon, notwithstanding, out of love to his master, returning one day to dress his wound, the Count cheerfully asked him how Sir Philip did? and he answered, with a heavy countenance, that he was not well. At these words the worthy prince, as having more sense of his friend’s wound than his own, cries out: “Away, villain! never see my face again, till thou bring better news of that man’s recovery, for whose redemption many such as I were happily lost.”
Now, after the sixteenth day was passed, and the very shoulder-bones of this delicate patient worn through his skin with constant and obedient posturing of his body to the surgeon’s art, he, judiciously observing the pangs his wound stang him with by fits, together with many other symptoms of decay, few or none of recovery, began rather to submit his body to these artists than any farther to believe in them. He called the ministers unto him, who were all excellent men, of divers nations, and before them made such a confession of Christian faith as no book, but the heart, can truly and feelingly deliver. Then, calling for his will, and settling his worldly affairs, the last scene of this tragedy was the parting between the two brothers: the weaker showing infinite strength in suppressing sorrow, and the stronger, infinite weakness in expressing of it. And to stop the natural torrent of affection in both, Sir Philip took his leave, with these admonishing words: “Love my memory, cherish my friends; their faith to me may assure you they are honest. But, above all, govern your will and affections by the will and word of your Creator; in me, beholding the end of this world, with all her vanities.” And with this farewell, desired the company to lead him away.
After his death, which happened on the 16th of October, the states of Zealand became suitors to her majesty and his noble friends, that they might have the honour of burying his body at the public expense of their government.[16] This was not permitted; for soon after his body was brought to Flushing, and, being embarked with great solemnity on the 1st of November, landed at Tower Wharf on the 6th day of the same month. Thence it was conveyed to the Minories without Aldgate, where it lay in state for some time, till his magnificent funeral in St Paul’s Cathedral, the 16th of February following, which, as many princes have not exceeded in the solemnity, so few have equalled in the sorrow for his loss. He was buried near to that place which his father-in-law, Sir Francis Walsingham, had designed (as I have heard) to be entombed in, without any monument or inscription. King James honoured him with an epitaph of his composition, and the Muses, both of Oxford and Cambridge, lamenting much for his loss, composed verses to his memory. Besides, several private persons did also exercise their fancies upon this occasion; for, so general was the lamentation, that it was accounted a sin for any gentleman of quality, for many months after, to appear at court or city in any light or gaudy apparel.
No monument hath since been erected over him, whereof this reason is assigned, that “He is his own monument, whose memory is eternised in his writings, and who was born into the world to show unto our age a sample of ancient virtues.”[17]
He left behind him a daughter named Elizabeth, who was born in 1585. She married Roger Mannours, Earl of Rutland, but died without issue.[18]
I confess it is commonly reported that Sir Philip,[19] some hours before his death, enjoined a near friend to consign these his works to the flames, whereby posterity had been deprived of much pleasure and profit accruing thereby. What promise his friend returned herein is uncertain; but if he broke his word to be faithful to the public good, posterity will absolve him, without doing any penance, for being guilty of such a meritorious offence, wherewith he hath obliged so many ages. Hear the excellent epigrammatist, Owen, hereon:—
“Ipse tuam moriens, vel conjuge teste, jubebas
Arcadiam saevis ignibus esse cibum.
Si meruit mortem, quia flammam accendit amoris;
Mergi, non Uri debuit iste liber.
In librum quaecunque cadat sententia; nullâ
Debuit ingenium morte perire tuum.”
As the ancient Egyptians presented secrets under their mystical hieroglyphics, so that an easy figure was exhibited to the eye, and a higher notion tendered under it to the judgment, so all the “Arcadia” is a continual grove of morality, shadowing moral and politic results under the plain and easy emblems of lovers, so that the reader may be deceived, but not hurt thereby, when surprised on a sudden to more knowledge than he expected.
I will not here endeavour to offer the reader a key to unfold what persons were intended under the fictitious denominations: herein must men shoot at the wild rovers of their own conjectures. And many have forged keys of their own fancies, all pretended to be the right, though unlike one to another. But, besides, it is an injury to impose guesses for truths on any belief; such applications, rather made than meant, are not without reflections on families, as may justly give distaste. I dare confidently aver that the wards of this lock are grown so rusty with time that a modern key will scarce unlock it, seeing in above a hundred years many criticisms of time, place, and person, wherein the life and lustre of this story did consist, are utterly lost, and unknown in our age.
Vita Philippi Sidnei.
“Qui dignos ipsi vitâ scripsere libellos
Illorum vitam scribere non opus est.
Sidnei in tumulo est, corpus non vita: Philippi
Producit vitam gloria, longa brevem.”
—Owen.
TESTIMONIES CONCERNING THE
AUTHOR
Gulielmus Camdenus de Praelio inter Anglos et Hispanos prope Zutphaniam in Geldriâ.
Anno Dom. 1586.
“Ex Anglis pauci desiderati; sed qui instar plurimorum, Sidneius, equo perfosso dum alterum ascendit, glande femur trajectus,[20] vicesimo quinto post die, magno sui desiderio bonis relicto, in flore aetatis exspiravit, vix quatuor menses patri superstes. Cui Leicestrius avunculus in Angliam reversus, exequias, magno apparatu, et militari ritu, in Templo Sti. Pauli Londini solvit, Jacobus Rex Scotorum epitaphio parentavit: utraque Academia lacrymas consecravit, et Novum Oxoniae Collegium elegantissimum[21] Peplum contexuit. Haec et ampliora viri virtus, ingenium splendidissimum, eruditio politissima, moresque suavissimi meruerunt.”
Mr Carew, in his “Survey of Cornwall,” p. 102.
“Being a scholar at Oxford at fourteen years of age, and three years standing upon a wrong-conceived opinion touching my sufficiency, I was then called to dispute extempore with the matchless Sir Philip Sidney, in presence of the Earls of Leicester and Warwick, and divers other great personages.”[22]
Dr Heylin, in his “Cosmography.”
“Arcadia in Greece is a country whose fitness for pasturage and grazing hath made it the subject of many worthy and witty discourses, especially that of Sir Philip Sidney, of whom I cannot but make honourable mention. A book, which, besides its excellent language, rare contrivances, and delectable stories, hath in it all the strains of poesy, comprehendeth the universal art of speaking, and, to them who can discern, and will observe, affordeth notable rules for demeanour, both private and public.”
Mr Lloyd, in his “State Worthies.”
“His romance was but policy played with Machiavel in jest, and state maxims sweetened to a courtier’s palate. He writ men as exactly as he studied them; and discerned humours in the court with the same deep insight he described them in his book. All were pleased with his ‘Arcadia’ but himself, whose years advanced him so much beyond himself as his parts did beyond others. He condemned his ‘Arcadia,’ in his more retired judgment, to the fire, which wise men think will continue to the last conflagration. It was he whom Queen Elizabeth called her Philip,[23] the Prince of Orange his master, and whose friendship my Lord Brooks was so proud of that he would have no other epitaph on his grave than this:—
‘Here lieth Sir Philip Sidney’s friend.’”
Sir William Temple, in his “Essay on Poetry.”
“The true spirit or vein of ancient poetry, under the name of romance, seems to shine most in Sir Philip Sidney, whom I esteem both the greatest poet and the noblest genius of any that have left writings behind them, and published in ours, or any other modern language. A person born capable, not only of forming the greatest ideas, but of leaving the noblest examples, if the length of his life had been equal to the excellence of his wit and his virtues.”
Mr Lee, in his “Dedication of Caesar Borgia.”
To the Right Honourable Philip, Earl of Pembroke and Montgomery.
“My lord,—Your illustrious forefathers and, indeed, all your eminent relations, have always been of the first-rate nobility, patrons of wit and arms, magnificently brave, true old stampt Britons, and ever foremost in the race of glory. Not to unravel half your honourable records, I challenge all the men of fame to show an equal to the immortal Sidney, even when so many contemporary worthies flourished. I mean Sir Philip, true rival of your honour; one that could match your spirit; so most extravagantly great that he refused to be a king. He was at once a Caesar and a Virgil, the leading soldier, and the foremost poet. All after this must fail: I have paid just veneration to his name, and, methinks, the spirit of Shakespear pushed the commendation.”
Mr Philips, in his “Sixth Pastoral.”
“Full fain, O blest Eliza! would I praise
Thy maiden rule, and Albion’s golden days.
Then gentle Sidney liv’d, the shepherd’s friend;
Eternal blessings on his shade attend!”
[SIDNEY’S DEDICATION]
To
My Dear Lady and Sister,
THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE.
Here now have you (most dear, and most worthy to be most dear lady!) this idle work of mine, which, I fear, like the spider’s web, will be thought fitter to be swept away, than worn to any other purpose. For my part, in very truth (as the cruel fathers among the Greeks were wont to do to the babes they would not foster), I could well find in my heart to cast out, in some desert of forgetfulness, this child, which I am loth to father. But you desired me to do it, and your desire to my heart is an absolute commandment. Now, it is done only for you, only to you: if you keep it to yourself, or commend it to such friends who will weigh errors in the balance of goodwill, I hope, for the father’s sake, it will be pardoned, perchance, made much of, though in itself it have deformities. For indeed, for severer eyes it is not, being but a trifle, and that triflingly handled. Your dear self can best witness the manner, being done in loose sheets of paper, most of it in your presence; the rest by sheets sent unto you, as fast as they were done. In sum, a young head, not so well stayed as I would it were, and shall be when God will, having many fancies begotten in it, if it had not been in some way delivered, would have grown a monster, and more sorry might I be that they came in, than that they gat out. But this chief safety shall be the not walking abroad; and his chief protection, the bearing the livery of your name, which, if much goodwill do not deceive me, is worthy to be a sanctuary for a greater offender. This say I, because I know thy virtue so, and this say I, because it may be ever so, or, to say better, because it will be ever so. Read it, then, at your idle times, and the follies your good judgment will find in it blame not, but laugh at. And so, looking for no better stuff than as in a haberdasher’s shop, glasses, or feathers, you will continue to love the writer, who doth exceedingly love you, and most heartily prays you may long live to be a principal ornament to the family of the Sidneys. Your loving brother,
PHILIP SIDNEY.
ARCADIA
BOOK I
It was in the time that the earth begins to put on her new apparel against the approach of her lover, and that the sun, running a most even course, becomes an indifferent arbiter between the night and the day, when the hopeless shepherd Strephon was come to the sands, which lie against the island of Cithera; where viewing the place with a heavy kind of delight, and sometimes casting his eyes to the isleward, he called his friendly rival the pastor Claius unto him; and setting first down in his darkened countenance a doleful copy of what he would speak, “O my Claius,” said he, “hither we are now come to pay the rent, for which we are so called unto by over-busy remembrance, remembrance, restless remembrance, which claims not only this duty of us, but for it will have us forget ourselves. I pray you, when we were amid our flock, and that of other shepherds some were running after their sheep, strayed beyond their bounds; some delighting their eyes with seeing them nibble upon the short and sweet grass; some medicining their sick ewes; some setting a bell for an ensign of a sheepish squadron; some with more leisure inventing new games of exercising their bodies, and sporting their wits; did remembrance grant us any holiday, either for pastime or devotion, nay either for necessary food, or natural rest, but that still it forced our thoughts to work upon this place, where we last (alas! that the word last should so long last) did graze our eyes upon her ever-flourishing beauty, did it not still cry within us? ‘Ah, you base-minded wretches!—are your thoughts so deeply bemired in the trade of ordinary worldings, as for respect of gain some paltry wool may yield you, to let so much time pass without knowing perfectly her estate, especially in so troublesome a season; to leave that shore unsaluted from whence you may see to the island where she dwelleth; to leave those steps unkissed wherein Urania printed the farewell of all beauty?’
“Well, then, remembrance commanded, we obeyed, and here we find that as our remembrance came ever clothed unto us in the form of this place, so this place gives new heat to the fever of our languishing remembrance. Yonder, my Claius, Urania lighted; the very horse, methought, bewailed to be so disburdened: and as for thee, poor Claius, when thou wentest to help her down, I saw reverence and desire so divide thee, that thou didst at one instant both blush and quake, and instead of bearing her wert ready to fall down thyself. There she sat, vouchsafing my cloak (then most gorgeous) under her: at yonder rising of the ground she turned herself, looking back towards her wonted abode, and because of her parting, bearing much sorrow in her eyes, the lightsomeness whereof had yet so natural a cheerfulness that it made even sorrow seem to smile; at that turning she spake to us all, opening the cherry of her lips, and Lord how greedily mine ears did feed upon the sweet words she uttered! And here she laid her hand over thine eyes, when she saw the tears springing in them, as if she would conceal them from other, and yet herself feel some of thy sorrow. But woe is me, yonder, yonder, did she put her foot into the boat, at that instant, as it were, dividing her heavenly beauty between the earth and the sea. But when she was embarked, did you not mark how the winds whistled and the seas danced for joy, how the sails did swell with pride, and all because they had Urania? O Urania, blessed be thou Urania, the sweetest fairness, and fairest sweetness!”
With that word his voice brake so with sobbing, that he could say no further; and Claius thus answered:
“Alas my Strephon,” said he, “what needs this score to reckon up only our losses? What doubt is there, but that the sight of this place doth call our thoughts to appear at the court of affection, held by that racking steward remembrance? As well may sheep forget to fear when they spy wolves, as we can miss such fancies when we see any place made happy by her treading. Who can choose that saw her, but think where she stayed, where she walked, where she turned, where she spoke? But what is all this? truly no more, but as this place served us to think of those things, so those things serve as places to call to memory more excellent matters. No, no, let us think with consideration, and consider with acknowledging, and acknowledge with admiration, and admire with love, and love with joy in the midst of all woes. Let us in such sort think, I say, that our poor eyes were so enriched as to behold and our low hearts so exalted as to love a maid who is such, that as the greatest thing the world can shew is her beauty, so the least thing that may be praised in her is her beauty. Certainly as her eye-lids are more pleasant to behold than two white kids climbing up a fair tree, and browsing on its tenderest branches, and yet are nothing comparing to the day-shining stars contained in them; and as her breath is more sweet than a gentle south-west wind, which comes creeping over flowery fields and shadowed waters in the extreme heat of summer; and yet is nothing, compared to the honey-flowing speech that breath doth carry: no more all that our eyes can see of her (though when they have seen her, what else they shall ever see is but dry stubble after clover-grass) is to be matched with the flock of unspeakable virtues laid up delightfully in that best-builded fold. But indeed, as we can better consider the sun’s beauty by marking how he gilds these waters and mountains than by looking upon his own face, too glorious for our weak eyes: so it may be our conceits (not able to bear her sun-staining excellency) will better weigh it by her works upon some meaner subject employed. And alas, who can better witness that than we, whose experience is grounded upon feeling? Hath not the only love of her made us (being silly ignorant shepherds) raise up our thoughts above the ordinary level of the world, so that great clerks do not disdain our conference? Hath not the desire to seem worthy in her eyes made us, when others were sleeping, to sit viewing the course of the heavens; when others were running at Base[1], to run over learned writings; when others mark their sheep, we to mark ourselves? Hath not she thrown reason upon our desires, and, as it were, given eyes unto Cupid? Hath in any but in her love-fellowship maintained friendship between rivals, and beauty taught the beholders chastity?”
He was going on with his praises, but Strephon bade him stay and look: and so they both perceived a thing which floated, drawing nearer and nearer to the bank; but rather by the favourable working of the sea than by any self-industry. They doubted a while what it should be till it was cast up even hard before them, at which time they fully saw that it was a man. Whereupon running for pity’s sake unto him, they found his hands (as it should appear, constanter friends to his life than his memory) fast gripping upon the edge of a square small coffer which lay all under his breast: else in himself no show of life, so that the board seemed to be but a bier to carry him to land to his sepulchre. So drew they up a young man of goodly shape, and well-pleasing favour, that one would think death had in him a lovely countenance; and that, though he were naked, nakedness was to him an apparel. That sight increased their compassion, and their compassion called up their care; so that lifting his feet above his head, making a great deal of salt water come out of his mouth, they laid him upon some of their garments, and fell to rub and chafe him, till they brought him to recover both breath, the servant, and warmth, the companion, of living. At length opening his eyes, he gave a great groan (a doleful note, but a pleasant ditty, for by that they found not only life but strength of life in him). They therefore continued on their charitable office until, his spirits being well returned, he—without so much as thanking them for their pains—gat up, and looking round about to the uttermost limits of sight, and crying upon the name of Pyrocles, nor seeing nor hearing cause of comfort, “What,” said he, “and shall Musidorus live after Pyrocles’s destruction?”
Therewithal he offered wilfully to cast himself again into the sea: a strange sight to the shepherds, to whom it seemed that before being in appearance dead, had yet saved his life, and now coming to his life, should be a cause to procure his death; but they ran unto him, and pulling him back (then too feeble for them) by force stickled that unnatural fray.
“I pray you,” said he, “honest men, what such right have you in me, as not to suffer me to do with myself what I list, and what policy have you to bestow a benefit where it is counted an injury?”
They hearing him speak in Greek (which was their natural language) became the more tender-hearted towards him, and considering by his calling and looking that the loss of some dear friend was great cause of his sorrow, told him, they were poor men that were bound, by course of humanity, to prevent so great a mischief; and that they wished him, if opinion of some body’s perishing bred such desperate anguish in him, that he should be comforted by his own proof, who had lately escaped as apparent danger as any might be.
“No, no,” said he, “it is not for me to attend so high a blissfulness: but since you take care of me, I pray you find means that some barque may be provided, that will go out of the haven that if it be possible we may find the body, far, far too precious food for fishes: and for that hire I have within this casket of value sufficient to content them.”
Claius presently went to a fisherman, and having agreed with him, and provided some apparel for the naked stranger, he embarked, and the shepherds with him: and were no sooner gone beyond the mouth of the haven, but that some way into the sea they might discern, as it were, a stain of the water’s colour, and by times some sparks and smoke mounting thereout. But the young man no sooner saw it, but that beating his breast he cried that there was the beginning of his ruin, entreating them to bend their course as near unto it as they could; telling, how that smoke was but a small relique of a great fire which had driven both him and his friend rather to commit themselves to the cold mercy of the sea than to abide the hot cruelty of the fire; and that therefore, though they both had abandoned the ship, that he was (if any were) in that course to be met withal. They steered therefore as near thitherward as they could: but when they came so near that their eyes were full masters of the object, they saw a sight full of piteous strangeness: a ship, or rather the carcase of the ship, or rather some few bones of the carcase hulling there, part broken, part burned, part drowned: death having used more than one dart to that destruction. About it floated great store of very rich things and many chests which might promise no less. And amidst the precious things were a number of dead bodies, which likewise did not only testify both elements’ violence, but that the chief violence was grown of human inhumanity: for their bodies were full of grisly wounds, and their blood had (as it were) filled the wrinkles of the sea’s visage; which it seemed the sea would not wash away, that it might witness that it is not always its fault when we do condemn its cruelty. In sum, a defeat where the conquered kept both field and spoil: a shipwreck without storm or ill-footing: and a waste of fire in the midst of the water.
But a little way off they saw the mast, whose proud height now lay along; like a widow having lost her mate of whom she held her honour: but upon the mast they saw a young man (at least if he were a man) bearing show of about eighteen years of age, who sat (as on horse-back) having nothing upon him but his shirt, which being wrought with blue silk and gold had a kind of resemblance to the sea: on which the sun (then near his western home) did shoot some of his beams. His hair (which the young men of Greece used to wear very long) was stirred up and down with the wind, which seemed to have a sport to play with it, as the sea had to kiss his feet; himself full of admirable beauty, set forth by the strangeness both of his seat and gesture. For, holding his head up full of unmoved majesty he held a sword aloft with his fair arm, which often he waved about his crown, as though he would threaten the world in that extremity. But the fishermen, when they came so near him that it was time to throw out a rope by which hold they might draw him, their simplicity bred such amazement, and their amazement such superstition that (assuredly thinking it was some God begotten between Neptune and Venus that had made all this terrible slaughter), as they went under sail by him, held up their hands and made their prayers. Which when Musidorus saw, though he were almost as much ravished with joy as they with astonishment, he leaped to the mariner, and took the cord out of his hand, and (saying, “Dost thou live, and art thou well,” who answered, “Thou canst tell best, since most of my well-being stands in thee,”) threw it out, but already the ship was passed beyond Pyrocles: and therefore Musidorus could do no more but persuade the mariners to cast about again, assuring them that he was but a man, although of most divine excellencies, and promising great rewards for their pains.
And now they were already come upon the stays; when one of the sailors descried a galley which came with sails and oars directly in the chase of them; and straight perceived it was a well-known pirate who hunted not only for goods but for bodies of men, which he employed either to be his galley-slaves or to sell at the best market. Which when the matter understood, he commanded forthwith to set on all the canvas he could and fly homeward, leaving in that fort poor Pyrocles so near to be rescued. But what did not Musidorus say, what did he not offer to persuade them to venture to fight; but fear standing at the gates of their ears, put back all persuasions: so that he had nothing whatever to accompany Pyrocles but his eyes, nought to succour him but his wishes. Therefore praying for him, and casting a long look that way, he saw the galley leave the pursuit of them and turn to take up the spoils of the other wreck: and lastly he might well see them lift up the young man; and “alas,” said he to himself, “dear Pyrocles, shall that body of thine be enchained, shall those victorious hands of thine be commanded to base offices, shall virtue become a slave to those that be slaves to viciousness, alas, better had it been thou hadst ended nobly thy noble days: what death is so evil as unworthy servitude?”
But that opinion soon ceased when he saw the galley setting upon another ship, which held long and strong fight with her: for then he began afresh to fear the life of his friend, and to wish well to the pirates whom before he hated, lest in their ruin he might perish. But the fishermen made such speed into the haven, that they absented his eyes from beholding the issue: where being entered, he could not procure neither them, or any other as then, to put themselves into the sea: so that being so full of sorrow for being unable to do anything as void of counsel how to do anything, besides that sickness grew something upon him, the honest shepherds Strephon and Claius (who being themselves true friends did the more perfectly judge the justness of his sorrow) advise him that he should mitigate somewhat of his woe, since he had gotten an amendment in fortune, being come from assured persuasion of his death to have no cause to despair of his life: as one that had lamented the death of his sheep should after know they were but strayed would receive pleasure, though readily he knew not where to find them.
“Now, Sir,” said they, “thus for ourselves it is; we are in profession but shepherds, and in this country of Laconia little better than strangers, and therefore neither in skill nor ability of power greatly to stead you. But what we can present unto you is this: Arcadia, of which country we are, is but a little way hence; and even upon the next confines there dwelleth a gentleman, by name Kalander, who vouchsafest much favour unto us: a man who for his hospitality is so much haunted that no news stir but comes to his ears; for his upright dealings so beloved of his neighbours, that he hath many ever ready to do him their uttermost service; and by the great goodwill our prince bears him may soon obtain the use of his name and credit, which hath a principal sway, not only in his own Arcadia, but in all these countries of Peloponnesus: and (which is worth all) all these things give him not so much power, as his nature gives him will to benefit: so that it seems no music is so sweet to his ears as deserved thanks. To him we will bring you, and there you may recover again your health, without which you cannot be able to make any diligent search for your friend; and therefore you must labour for it. Besides, we are sure the comfort of courtesy and ease of wise counsel shall not be wanting.”
Musidorus (who, besides he was merely unacquainted in the country, had his wits astonished with sorrow) gave easy consent to that from which he saw no reason to disagree: and therefore (defraying the mariners with a ring bestowed upon them) they took their journey together through Laconia; Claius and Strephon by course carrying his chest for him, Musidorus only bearing in his countenance evident marks of a sorrowful mind, supported with a weak body; which they perceiving, and knowing that the violence of sorrow is not, at the first, to be striven withal (being like a mighty beast, sooner tamed with following than overthrown by withstanding), they gave way unto it, for that day and the next; never troubling him, either with asking questions or finding fault with his melancholy; but rather fitting to his dolour, dolorous discourses of their own and other folks’ misfortunes. Which speeches, though they had not a lively entrance to his senses shut up in sorrow, yet like one half asleep he took hold of much of the matter spoken unto him, for that a man may say, ere sorrow was aware, they made his thoughts bear away something else beside his own sorrow, which wrought so in him, that at length he grew content to mark their speeches, then to marvel at such wit in shepherds, after to like their company, and lastly to vouchsafe conference: so that the third day after, in the time that the morning did strew roses and violets in the heavenly floor against the coming of the sun, the nightingales (striving one with the other which could in most dainty variety recount their wrong-caused sorrow) made them put off their sleep, and rising from under a tree (which that night had been their pavilion) they went on their journey, which by and by welcomed Musidorus’s eyes (wearied with the wasted soil of Laconia) with delightful prospects.
There were hills which garnished their proud heights with stately trees; humble valleys whose base estate seemed comforted with the refreshing of silver rivers; meadows, enamelled with all sorts of eye-pleasing flowers; thickets, which, being lined with most pleasant shade, were witnessed so too by the cheerful disposition of many well-tuned birds; each pasture stored with sheep feeding with sober security, while the pretty lambs with bleating oratory craved the dams’ comfort; here a shepherd’s boy piping, as though he should never be old; there a young shepherdess knitting, and withal singing, and it seemed that her voice comforted her hands to work and her hands kept time to her voice-music. As for the houses of the country (for many houses came under their eye) they were all scattered, no two being one by the other, and yet not so far off as that it barred mutual succour: a show, as it were, of an accompanable solitariness and of a civil wildness. “I pray you,” said Musidorus, then first unsealing his long silent lips: “what countries be these we pass through, which are so divers in show, the one wanting no store, the other having no store but of want?”
“The country,” answered Claius, “where you were cast ashore and now are passed through is Laconia, not so poor by the barrenness of the soil (though in itself not passing fertile) as by a civil war, which being these two years within the bowels of that estate, between the gentlemen and the peasants (by them named Helots), hath in this fort as it were disfigured the face of nature, and made it so unhospitable as now you have found it: the towns neither of the one side nor the other willingly opening their gates to strangers, nor strangers willingly entering for fear of being mistaken.
“But this country where now you set your foot is Arcadia: and even hard by is the house of Kalander, whither we lead you. This country being thus decked with peace and (the child of peace) good husbandry, these houses you see so scattered are of men, as we two are, that live upon the commodity of their sheep; and therefore in the division of the Arcadian estate are termed shepherds: a happy people, wanting little, because they desire not much.”
“What cause then,” said Musidorus, “made you venture to leave this sweet life, and put yourself in yonder unpleasant and dangerous realm?” “Guarded with poverty,” answered Strephon, “and guided with love.” “But now,” said Claius, “since it hath pleased you to ask anything of us, whose baseness is such as the very knowledge is darkness, give us leave to know something of you, and of the young man you so much lament, that at least we may be the better instructed to inform Kalander, and he the better know how to proportion his entertainment.”
Musidorus, according to the agreement between Pyrocles and him to alter their names answered that he called himself Palladius and his friend Daiphantus; “but till I have him again,” said he, “I am indeed nothing, and therefore my story is of nothing; his entertainment (since so good a man he is) cannot be so low as I account my estate; and in sum, the sum of all his courtesy may be to help me by some means to seek my friend.”
They perceived he was not willing to open himself further, and therefore without further questioning brought him to the house; about which they might see (with fit consideration both of the air, the prospect, and the nature of the ground) all such necessary additions to a great house as might well show Kalander knew that provision is the foundation of hospitality and thrift the fuel of magnificence. The house itself was built of fair and strong stone, not affecting so much any extraordinary kind of fineness as an honourable representing of a firm stateliness. The lights, doors and stairs rather directed to the use of the guest than to the eye of the artificer; and yet as the one chiefly heeded, so the other not neglected; each place handsome without curiosity, and homely without loathsomeness; not so dainty as not to be trod on, nor yet slubbered up with good fellowship; all more lasting than beautiful, but that the consideration of the exceeding lastingness made the eye believe it was exceeding beautiful. The servants not so many in number as cleanly in apparel and serviceable in behaviour, testifying even in their countenances that their master took as well care to be served as of them that did serve. One of them was forthwith ready to welcome the shepherds as men whom though they were poor their master greatly favoured; and understanding by them that the young man with them was to be much accounted of, for that they had seen tokens of more than common greatness, howsoever now eclipsed with fortune, he ran to his master, who came presently forth, and pleasantly welcoming the shepherds, but especially applying him to Musidorus, Strephon privately told him all what he knew of him, and particularly that he found this stranger was loth to be known.
“No,” said Kalander speaking aloud, “I am no herald to inquire of men’s pedigrees; it sufficeth me if I know their virtues; which (if this young man’s face be not a false witness) do better apparel his mind, than you have done his body.” While he was thus speaking, there came a boy in show like a merchant’s prentice, who, taking Strephon by the sleeve delivered him a letter, written jointly both to him and Claius, from Urania, which they no sooner had read but that with short leave taking of Kalander (who quickly guessed and smiled at the matter) and once again (though hastily) recommending the young man unto him, they went away, leaving Musidorus even loth to part with them, for the good conversation he had had of them and obligation he accounted himself tied in unto them: and therefore, they delivering his chest unto him, he opened it, and would have presented them with two very rich jewels, but they absolutely refused them, telling him that they were more than enough rewarded in the knowing of him, and without hearkening unto a reply (like men whose hearts disdained all desires but one) gat speedily away, as if the letter had brought wings to make them fly. But by that sight Kalander soon judged that his guest was of no mean calling; and therefore the more respectfully entertaining him, Musidorus found his sickness (which the fight, the sea and late travel had laid upon him) grow greatly, so that, fearing some sudden accident, he delivered the chest to Kalander, which was full of most precious stones gorgeously and cunningly set in divers manners, desiring him he would keep those trifles, and if he died, he would bestow so much of it as was needful, to find out and redeem a young man, naming himself Daiphantus, as then in the hands of Laconian pirates.
But Kalander seeing him faint more and more, with careful speed conveyed him to the most commodious lodging in his house, where being possessed with an extreme burning fever he continued some while with no great hope of life; but youth at length got the victory of sickness, so that in six weeks the excellency of his returned beauty was a credible ambassador of his health, to the great joy of Kalander, who, as in his time he had by certain friends of his that dwelt near the sea in Messenia set forth a ship and a galley to seek and succour Daiphantus, so at home did he omit nothing which he thought might either profit or gratify Palladius.
For, having found in him (besides his bodily gifts beyond the degree of admiration) by daily discourses, which he delighted himself to have with him, a mind of most excellent composition, a piercing wit, quite void of ostentation, high erected thought seated in a heart of courtesy, an eloquence as sweet in the uttering as slow to come to the uttering, a behaviour so noble as gave a majesty to adversity; and all in a man whose age could not be above one and twenty years; the good old man was even enamoured with a fatherly love towards him, or rather became his servant by the bonds such virtue laid upon him; once, he acknowledged himself so to be by the badge of diligent attendance.
But Palladius having gotten his health, and only staying there to be in place where he might hear answer of the ships set forth, Kalander one afternoon led him abroad to a well-arrayed ground he had behind his house, which he thought to show him before his going as the place himself more than in any other delighted in. The backside of the house was neither field, garden nor orchard; or rather it was both field, garden and orchard: for as soon as the descending of the stairs had delivered them down, they came into a place cunningly set with trees of the most taste-pleasing fruits: but scarcely they had taken that into their consideration but that they were suddenly stept into a delicate green; of each side of the green a thicket, and behind the thickets again new beds of flowers, which being under the trees the trees were to them a pavilion, and they to the trees a mosaical floor, so that it seemed that Art therein would needs be delightful, by counterfeiting his enemy Error and making order in confusion.
In the midst of all the place was a fair pond whose shaking crystal was a perfect mirror to all the other beauties, so that it bare show of two gardens; one in deed, the other in shadows. And in one of the thickets was a fine fountain made thus: a naked Venus of white marble, wherein the graver had used such cunning that the natural blue veins of the marble were framed in fit places to set forth the beautiful veins of her body. At her breast she had her babe Aeneas, who seemed, having begun to suck, to leave that to look upon her fair eyes, which smiled at the babe’s folly, meanwhile the breast running.
Hard by was a house of pleasure built for a summer-retiring place; whither Kalander leading him he found a square room full of delightful pictures made by the most excellent workmen of Greece. There was Diana when Actaeon saw her bathing; in whose cheeks the painter had set such a colour as was mixed between shame and disdain, and one of her foolish nymphs, who weeping, and withal lowering, one might see the workman meant to set forth tears of anger. In another table was Atalanta, the posture of whose limbs was so lively expressed, that if the eyes were only judges, as they be the only seers, one would have sworn the very picture had run. Besides many more, as of Helena, Omphale, Iole: but in none of them all beauty seemed to speak so much as in a large table, which contained a comely old man, with a lady of middle-age, but of excellent beauty, and more excellent would have been deemed, but that there stood between a young maid, whose wonderfulness took away all beauty from her, but that which it might seem she gave her back again by her very shadow. And such difference (being known that it did indeed counterfeit a person living) was there between her and all the other, though goddesses, that it seemed the skill of the painter bestowed nothing on the other new beauty, but that the beauty of her bestowed new skill on the painter. Though he thought inquisitiveness an uncomely guest he could not choose but ask who she was, that bearing show of one being indeed could with natural gifts go beyond the reach of invention. Kalander answered, that it was made by Philoclea, the younger daughter of his prince, who also with his wife were contained in that table: the painter meaning to represent the present condition of the young lady, who stood watched by an over-curious eye of her parents; and that he would also have drawn her eldest sister, esteemed her match for beauty, in her shepherdish attire, but that rude clown her guardian would not suffer it; neither durst he ask leave of the prince, for fear of suspicion. Palladius perceived that the matter was wrapped up in some secrecy, and therefore would, for modesty, demand no further; but yet his countenance could not but with dumb eloquence desire it. Which Kalander perceiving, “Well,” said he, “my dear guest, I know your mind, and I will satisfy it: neither will I do it like a niggardly answerer, going no further than the bounds of the question; but I will discover unto you as well that wherein my knowledge is common with others as that which by extraordinary means is delivered unto me; knowing so much in you (though not long acquainted) that I shall find your ears faithful treasurers.” So then sitting down in two chairs, and sometimes casting his eye to the picture, he thus spake:
“This country Arcadia among all the provinces of Greece, hath ever been had in singular reputation; partly for the sweetness of the air and other natural benefits, but principally for the well-tempered minds of the people who (finding that the shining title of glory, so much affected by other nations, doth indeed help little to the happiness of life) are the only people which, as by their justice and providence give neither cause nor hope to their neighbours to annoy, so are they not stirred with false praise to trouble others’ quiet, thinking it a small reward for the wasting of their own lives in ravening, that their posterity should long after say they had done so. Even the Muses seem to approve their good determination by choosing this country for their chief repairing place, and by bestowing their perfections so largely here that the very shepherds have their fancies lifted to so high conceits that the learned of other nations are content both to borrow their names and imitate their cunning.
“Here dwelleth and reigneth this prince (whose picture you see) by name Basilius; a prince of sufficient skill to govern so quiet a country, where the good minds of the former princes had set down good laws, and the well-bringing up of the people doth serve as a most sure bond to hold them. But to be plain with you, he excels in nothing so much as the zealous love of his people, wherein he doth not only pass all his own foregoers but, as I think, all the princes living. Whereof the cause is, that though he exceed not in the virtues which get admiration, as depth of wisdom, height of courage, and largeness of magnificence, yet is he notable in those which stir affection, as truth of word, meekness, courtesy, mercifulness, and liberality.
“He, being already well stricken in years, married a young princess, named Gynecia, daughter to the king of Cyprus, of notable beauty, as by her picture you see: a woman of great wit, and in truth of more princely virtues than her husband; of most unspotted chastity; but of so working a mind and so vehement spirits that a man may say, it was happy she took a good course for otherwise it would have been terrible.
“Of these two are brought into the world two daughters, so beyond measure excellent in all the gifts allotted to reasonable creatures that we may think they were born to show that nature is no stepmother to that sex, how much soever some men (sharp-witted only in evil speaking) have sought to disgrace them. The elder is named Pamela; by many men not deemed inferior to her sister: for my part, when I marked them both, methought there was (if at least such perfections may receive the word of more) more sweetness in Philoclea but more majesty in Pamela: methought love played in Philoclea’s eyes, and threatened in Pamela’s; methought Philoclea’s beauty only persuaded, but so persuaded as all hearts must yield; Pamela’s beauty used violence, and such violence as no heart could resist. And it seems that such proportion is between their minds: Philoclea so bashful, as though her excellencies had stolen into her before she was aware; so humble, that she will put all pride out of countenance; in sum, such proceeding as will stir hope but teach hope good manners. Pamela of high thoughts who avoids not pride with not knowing her excellencies, but by making that one of her excellencies to be void of pride; her mother’s wisdom, greatness, nobility, but (if I can guess aright) knit with a more constant temper. Now then, our Basilius being so publicly happy as to be a prince, and so happy in that happiness as to be a beloved prince; and so in his private estate blessed as to have so excellent a wife and so over-excellent children, hath of late taken a course which yet makes him more spoken of than all these blessings. For having made a journey to Delphos, and safely returned, within short space, he brake up his court, and retired himself, his wife and children, into a certain forest hereby which he called his desert; wherein (besides an house appointed for stables and lodgings for certain persons of mean calling who do all household services) he hath builded two fine lodges: in the one of them himself remains with his younger daughter Philoclea (which was the cause they three were matched together in this picture) without having any other creature living in that lodge with him.
“Which though it be strange, yet not strange as the course he hath taken with the princess Pamela whom he hath placed in the other lodge: but how think you accompanied? Truly with none other but one Dametas, the most arrant doltish clown that I think ever was without the privilege of a bauble, with his wife Miso and daughter Mopsa, in whom no wit can devise anything wherein they may pleasure her but to exercise her patience and to serve for a foil of her perfections. This loutish clown is such that you never saw so ill-favoured a vizor; his behaviour such that he is beyond the degree of ridiculous; and for his apparel, even as I would with him: Miso his wife so handsome a beldam, that only her face and her splay-foot have made her accused for a witch; only one good point she hath, that she observes decorum, having a forward mind in a wretched body. Between these two personages (who never agreed in any humour, but in disagreeing) is issued forth mistress Mopsa, a fit woman to participate of both their perfections: but because a pleasant fellow of my acquaintance set forth her praises in verse, I will only repeat them, and spare mine own tongue, since she goes for a woman. The verses are these, which I have so often caused to be sung, that I have them without book.
What length of verse can serve, brave Mopsa’s good to show?
When virtues strange, and beauties such, as no man them may know:
Thus shrewdly burden’d then, how can my Muse escape?
The Gods must help, and precious things must serve, to shew her shape,
Like great God Saturn fair, and like fair Venus chaste:
As smooth as Pan, as Juno mild, like Goddess Iris fac’t,
With Cupid she forsees, and goes God Vulcan’s pace:
And for a taste of all these gifts, she steals God Momus’ grace.
Her forehead Jacinth-like, her cheeks of Opal hue,
Her twinkling eyes bedeck’d with Pearl, her lips a Sapphire blue:
Her hair like Crapal stone; her mouth O heav’nly wide!
Her skin like burnished gold, her hands like silver ore untry’d.
As for her parts unknown, which hidden sure are best:
Happy be they which will believe, and never seek the rest.
“Now truly having made these descriptions unto you, methinks you should imagine that I rather feign some pleasant device than recount a truth that a prince (not banished from his own wits) could possibly make so unworthy a choice. But truly (dear guest) so it is that princes (whose doings have been often smoothed with good success) think nothing so absurd, which they cannot make honourable. The beginning of his credit was by the prince’s straying out of the way, one time he hunted, where meeting this fellow, and asking him the way; and so falling into other questions, he found some of his answers (as a dog sure, if he could speak, had wit enough to describe his kennel) not unsensible, and all uttered with such rudeness, which he interpreted plainness (though there be great difference between them) that Basilius, conceiving a sudden delight, took him to his court, with apparent show of his good opinion: where the flattering courtier had no sooner taken the prince’s mind, but that there were straight reasons to confirm the prince’s doing, and shadows of virtues found for Dametas. His silence grew wit, his bluntness integrity, his beastly ignorance virtuous simplicity, and the prince (according to the nature of great persons, in love with what he had done himself) fancied that his weakness with his presence would much be mended. And so like a creature of his own making, he liked him more and more; and thus having first given him the office of principal herdsman; lastly, since he took this strange determination, he hath in a manner put the life of himself and his children into his hands. Which authority (like too great a sail for so small a boat) doth so oversway poor Dametas, that, if before he was a good fool in a chamber, he might be allowed it now in a comedy, so as I doubt me (I fear me indeed) my master will in the end (with his cost) find that his office is not to make men, but to use men as men are, no more than a horse will be taught to hunt, or an ass to manage. But in sooth I am afraid I have given your ears too great a surfeit with gross discourses of that heavy piece of flesh. But the zealous grief I conceive to see so great an error in my lord hath made me bestow more words than I confess so base a subject deserveth.
“Thus much now that I have told you is nothing more than in effect any Arcadian knows. But what moved him to this strange solitariness hath been imparted (as I think) but to one person living. Myself can conjecture, and indeed more than conjecture by this accident that I will tell you: I have an only son, by name Clitophon, who is now absent, preparing for his own marriage, which I mean shortly shall be here celebrated. This son of mine (while the prince kept his court) was of his bed-chamber: now since the breaking up of thereof returned home, and showed me (among other things he had gathered) the copy which he had taken of a letter: which when the prince had read, he had laid in a window, presuming nobody durst look in his writings: but my son not only took a time to read it, but to copy it. In truth I blamed Clitophon for the curiosity which made him break his duty in such a kind, whereby kings’ secrets are subject to be revealed, but since it was done, I was content to take so much profit as to know it. Now here is the letter that I ever since, for my good liking, have carried about me: which before I read unto you, I must tell you from whom it came. It is a nobleman of his country, named Philanax, appointed by the prince regent, in this time of his retiring, and most worthy so to be: for, there lives no man whose excellent wit more simply embraceth integrity, beside his unfeigned love to his master, wherein never yet any could make question, saving whether he loved Basilius, or the prince better: a rare temper, while most men either servilely yield to all appetites, or with an obstinate austerity looking to that they fancied good, in effect neglect the prince’s person. This then being the man, whom of all other (and most worthy) the prince chiefly loves, it should seem (for more than the letter I have not to guess by) that the prince upon his return from Delphos (Philanax then lying sick) had written unto him his determination, rising (as evidently appears) upon some oracle he had there received: whereunto he wrote this answer:
Philanax’s letter to Basilius.
Most redoubted and beloved prince! if as well it had pleased you at your going to Delphos, as now, to have used my humble service, both I should in better season, and to better purpose have spoken; and you (if my speech had prevailed) should have been at this time, as no way more in danger, so much more in quietness? I would then have said that wisdom and virtue be the only destinies appointed to man to follow; whence we ought to seek all our knowledge, since they be such guides as cannot fail; which, besides their inward comfort, do lead so direct a way of proceeding, as either prosperity must ensue; or, if the wickedness of the world should oppress it, it can never be said that evil happeneth to him who falls accompanied with virtue: I would then have said the heavenly powers ought to be reverenced and searched into, and their mercies rather by prayers to be fought than their hidden counsels by curiosity. These kinds of sooth-sayings (since they have left us in ourselves sufficient guides) be nothing but fancy, wherein there must either be vanity, or infallibleness, and so either not to be respected, or not to be prevented. But since it is weakness too much to remember what should have been done, and that your commandment stretched to know what is to be done, I do (most dear Lord!) with humble boldness say that the manner of your determination doth in no sort better please me than the cause of your going. These thirty years you have so governed this region, that neither your subjects have wanted justice in you, nor you obedience in them; and your neighbours have found you so hurtlessly strong, that they thought it better to rest in your friendship, than to make new trial of your enmity. If this then have proceeded out of the good constitution of your state, and out of a wise providence generally to prevent all those things which might encumber your happiness, why should you now seek new courses, since your own example comforts you to continue, and that it is to me most certain (though it please you not to tell me the very words of the oracle) that yet no destiny nor influence whatsoever can bring man’s wit to a higher point than wisdom and goodness: why should you deprive yourself of government for fear of losing your government, like one that should kill himself for fear of death? Nay, rather, if this oracle be to be accounted of, arm up your courage the more against it: for who will stick to him that abandons himself: let your subjects have you in their eyes, let them see the benefits of your justice daily more and more, and so much they needs rather like of present sureties than uncertain changes. Lastly, whether your time call you to live or die, do both like a prince. Now for your second resolution, which is to suffer no worthy prince to be a suitor to either of your daughters, but while you live to keep them both unmarried, and, as it were, to kill the joy of posterity, which in your time you may enjoy, moved perchance by a misunderstood oracle? what shall I say, if the affection of a father to his own children cannot plead sufficiently against such fancies? once, certain it is, the God which is God of nature doth never teach unnaturalness; and even the same mind hold I touching your banishing them from company, lest I know not what strange loves should follow. Certainly, Sir, in my ladies, your daughters, nature promiseth nothing but goodness, and their education by your fatherly care hath been hitherto such as hath been most fit to restrain all evil, giving their minds virtuous delights, and not grieving them for want of well-ruled liberty. Now to fall to a sudden straightening them, what can it do but argue suspicion? a thing no more unpleasant than unsure for the preserving of virtue. Leave women’s minds the most untamed that way of any: see whether a cage can please a bird; or whether a dog grow not fiercer with tying? what doth jealousy but stir up the mind to think what it is from which are restrained? for they are treasures or things of great delight, which men use to hide for the aptness they have to each man’s fancy: and the thoughts once awaked to that, harder sure it is to keep those thoughts from accomplishment than had been before to have kept the mind (which being the chief part, by this means is defiled) from thinking. Lastly, for the recommending of so principal a charge of the princess Pamela (whose mind goes beyond the governing of many thousand such) to such a person as Dametas is (besides that the thing in itself is strange) it comes of a very ill ground that ignorance should be the mother of faithfulness. Oh no, he cannot be good that knows not why he is good; but stands so far good as his fortune may keep him unassayed; but coming once to that, his rude simplicity is either easily changed, or easily deceived: and so grows that to be the last excuse of his fault, which seemed to have been the foundation of his faith. Thus far hath your commandment and my zeal drawn me; which I, like a man in a valley that may discern hills, or like a poor passenger that may spy a rock, so humbly submit to your gracious consideration, beseeching you again to stand wholly upon your own virtue, as the surest way to maintain you in that you are, and to avoid any evil which may be imagined.
“By the contents of this letter you may perceive, that the cause of all hath been the vanity which possesseth many who (making a perpetual mansion of this poor baiting-place of man’s life) are desirous to know the certainty of things to come, wherein there is nothing so certain as our continual uncertainty. But what in particular points the oracle was, in faith I know not, neither (as you may see by one place of Philanax’s letter) he himself distinctly knew. But this experience shews us that Basilius’s judgment, corrupted with a prince’s fortune, hath rather heard than followed the wise (as I take it) counsel of Philanax. For having left the stern of his government with much amazement to the people, among whom many strange bruits are received for current, with some appearance of danger in respect of the valiant Amphialus his nephew, and much envying the ambitious number of the nobility against Philanax, to see Philanax so advanced, though (to speak simply) he deserve more than as many of us as there be in Arcadia: the prince himself hath hidden his head, in such sort as I told you, not sticking plainly to confess that he means not (while he breathes) that his daughters shall have any husband, but keep them thus solitary with him: where he gives no other body leave to visit him at any time but a certain priest, who being excellent in poetry, he makes him write out such things as he best likes, he being no less delightful in conversation than needful for devotion, and about twenty specified shepherds, in whom (some for eclogues) he taketh greater recreation.
“And now you know as much as myself: wherein if I have held you over-long, lay hardly the fault upon my old age, which in the very disposition of it is talkative, whether it be (said he smiling) that nature loves to exercise that part most, which is least decayed, and that is our tongue, or, that knowledge being the only thing whereof we poor old men can brag, we cannot make it known but by utterance: or, that mankind by all means seeking to eternize himself so much the more, as he is near his end, doth it not only by the children that come of him, but by speeches and writings recommended to the memory of hearers and readers. And yet thus much I will say for myself, that I have not laid these matters either so openly or largely to any as to yourself: so much (if I much fail not) do I see in you which makes me both love and trust you.”
“Never may he be old,” answered Palladius, “that doth not reverence that age, whose heaviness, if it weigh down the frail and fleshly balance, it as much lifts up the noble and spiritual part; and well might you have alleged another reason, that their wisdom makes them willing to profit others. And that have I received of you, never to be forgotten, but with ungratefulness. But among many strange conceits you told me, which have shewed effects in your prince, truly even the last, that he should conceive such pleasure in shepherds’ discourses would not seem the least unto me, saving that you told me at the first that this country is notable in those wits, and that indeed myself having been brought not only to this place, but to my life by Strephon and Claius in their conference found wits as might better become such shepherds as Homer speaks of, that be governors of people, than such senators who hold their council in a sheep-cote.”
“For them two (said Kalander), especially Claius, they are beyond the rest by so much as learning commonly doth add to nature: for, having neglected their wealth in respect of their knowledge, they have not so much impaired the meaner, as they bettered the better. Which all notwithstanding, it is a sport to hear how they impute to love which hath indued their thoughts (say they) with such a strength. But certainly all the people of this country, from high to low, are given to those sports of the wit, so as you would wonder to hear how soon even children will begin to versify. Once, ordinary it is amongst the meanest sort, to make songs and dialogues in metre, either love whetting their brain, or long peace having begun it, example and emulation amending it. Not so much, but the clown Dametas will stumble sometimes upon some songs that might become a better brain: but no sort of people are so excellent in that kind as the pastors, for their living standing but upon the looking to their beasts, they have ease, the nurse of poetry. Neither are our shepherds such as (I hear) they be in other countries, but they are the very owners of the sheep, to which either themselves look, or their children give daily attendance. And then truly, it would delight you under some tree, or by some river’s side (when two or three of them meet together) to hear their rural muse, how prettily it will deliver out, sometimes joys, sometimes lamentations, sometimes challengings one of the other, sometimes under hidden forms, uttering such matters as otherwise they durst not deal with. Then have they most commonly one who judgeth the prize to the best doer, of which they are no less glad than great princes are of triumphs: and his part is to set down in writing all that is said, save that it may be his pen with more leisure doth polish the rudeness of an unthought-on song. Now the choice of all (as you may well think) either for goodness of voice, or pleasantness of wit, the prince hath: among whom also there are two or three strangers, who, inward melancholies having made weary of the world’s eyes, have come to spend their lives among the country people of Arcadia, and their conversation being well approved, the prince vouchsafeth them his presence, and not only by looking on, but by great courtesy and liberality animates the shepherds the more exquisitely to labour for his good liking. So that there is no cause to blame the prince for sometimes hearing them; the blame-worthiness is, that to hear them, he rather goes to solitariness than makes them come to company. Neither do I accuse my master for advancing a country-man, Dametas is, since God forbid, but where worthiness is as truly it is among divers of that fellowship, any outward lowness should hinder the highest rising; but that he would needs make election of one, the baseness of whose mind is such, that it sinks a thousand degrees lower than the basest body could carry the most base fortune: which although it might be answered for the prince, that it is rather a trust he hath in his simple plainness than any great advancement, but being chief herdman; yet all honest hearts feel that the trust of their lord goes beyond all advancement. But I am ever too long upon him, when he crosseth the way of my speech, and by the shadow of yonder tower I see it is a fitter time with our supper to pay the duties we owe to our stomachs, than to break the air with my idle discourses: and more wit I might have learned of Homer (whom even now you mentioned) who never entertained either guests or hosts with long speeches, till the mouth of hunger be thoroughly stopped.” So withal he rose, leading Palladius through the garden again to the parlour where they used to sup; Palladius assuring him that he had already been more fed to his liking than he could be by the skilfullest trencher-men of Media.
But being come to the supping-place, one of Kalander’s servants rounded in his ear, at which (his colour changing) he retired himself into his chamber, commanding his men diligently to wait upon Palladius, and to excuse his absence with some necessary business he had presently to dispatch: which they accordingly did, for some few days forcing themselves to let no change appear: but, though they framed their countenances never so cunningly, Palladius perceived there was some ill-pleasing accident fallen out. Whereupon, being again set alone at supper, he called to the steward, and desired him to tell him the matter of his sudden alteration: who, after some trifling excuses, in the end confessed unto him that his master had received news that his son before the day of his near marriage, chanced to be at a battle which was to be fought between the gentlemen of Lacedaemon and the Helots: who, winning the victory, he was there made prisoner going to deliver a friend of his taken prisoner by the Helots; that the poor young gentlemen had offered great ransom for his life; but that the hate those peasants conceived against all gentlemen was such that every hour he was to look for nothing but some cruel death, which hitherto had only been delayed by the captain’s vehement dealing for him, who seemed to have a heart of more manly pity than the rest. Which loss had stricken the old gentleman with such sorrow, that, as if abundance of tears did not seem sufficiently to witness it, he was alone retired, tearing his beard and hair, and cursing his old age, that had not made his grave to stop his ears from such advertisements: but that his faithful servants had written in his name to all his friends, followers, and tenants (Philanax the governor refusing to deal in it as a private cause, but yet giving leave to seek their best redress, so as they wronged not the state of Lacedaemon) of whom there were now gathered upon the frontiers good forces, that he was sure would spend their lives by any way to redeem or revenge Clitophon. “Now Sir,” said he, “this is my master’s nature, though his grief be such, as to live is a grief unto him, and that even his reason is darkened with sorrow; yet the laws of hospitality (long and holily observed by him) gave still such a sway to his proceeding that he will no way suffer the stranger lodged under his roof to receive (as it were) any infection of his anguish, especially you, towards whom I know not whether his love or admiration be greater.” But Palladius could scarce hear out his tale with patience, so was his heart torn in pieces with compassion of the case, liking of Kalander’s noble behaviour, kindness for his respect to him-ward, and desire to find some remedy, besides the image of his dearest friend Daiphantus, whom he judged to suffer either alike or worse fortune. Therefore rising from the board, he desired the steward to tell him particularly the ground and event of this accident, because by knowledge of many circumstances, there might perhaps some way of help be opened. Whereunto the steward easily in this sort condescended.
“My Lord,” said he, “when our good king Basilius, with better success than expectation, took to wife (even in his more than decaying years) the fair young princess Gynecia, there came with her a young lord, cousin-german to herself, named Argalus, led hither partly with the love and honour of his noble kinswoman, partly with the humour of youth, which ever thinks that good, whose goodness he sees not. And in this court he received so good increase of knowledge, that after some years spent, he so manifested a most virtuous mind in all his actions, that Arcadia gloried such a plant was transported unto them, being a gentleman indeed most rarely accomplished, excellently learned, but without all vain glory: friendly without factiousness; valiant, so as for my part I think the earth hath no man that hath done more heroical acts than he; howsoever now of late the fame flies of the two princes of Thessalia and Macedon, and hath long done of our noble prince Amphialus, who indeed in our parts is only accounted likely to match him: but I say for my part, I think no man, for valour of mind, and ability of body, to be preferred, if equalled to Argalus; and yet so valiant, as he never durst do anybody injury: in behaviour, some will say, ever sad, surely sober, and somewhat given to musing, but never uncourteous; his word ever led by his thought, and always followed by his deed; rather liberal than magnificent, though the one wanted not, and the other had ever good choice of the receiver; in sum (for I perceive I shall easily take a great draught of his praises, whom both I and all this country love so well) such a man was (and I hope is) Argalus, as hardly the nicest eye can find a spot in, if the over-vehement constancy of yet spotless affection may not in hard-wrested constructions be counted a spot: which in this manner began that work in him, which hath made both him, and itself in him, over all this country famous. My master’s son Clitophon (whose loss gives the cause to this discourse, and yet gives me cause to begin with Argalus, since his loss proceeds from Argalus) being a young gentleman as of great birth (being our king’s sister’s son) so truly of good nature and one that can see good and love it, haunted more the company of this worthy Argalus, than of any other; so as if there were not a friendship (which is so rare, as it is to be doubted whether it be a thing indeed, or but a word) at least there was such a liking and friendliness as hath brought forth the effects which you shall hear. About two years since, it so fell out that he brought him to a great lady’s house, sister to my master, who had with her her only daughter, the fair Parthenia, fair indeed (fame, I think, itself not daring to call any fairer, if it be not Helena, queen of Corinth, and the two incomparable sisters of Arcadia) and that which made her fairness much the fairer was, that it was but a fair ambassador of a most fair mind; full of wit, and a wit which delighted more to judge itself than to shew itself: her speech being as rare, as precious; her silence without fullness; her modesty without affectation; her shamefacedness without ignorance: in sum, one that to praise well, one must first set down with himself what it is to be excellent: for so she is.
“I think you think that these perfections meeting could not choose but find one another, and delight in what they found; for likeness of manners is likely in reason to draw liking with affection; men’s actions do not always cross with reason: to be short, it did so indeed. They loved, although for a while the fire thereof (hope’s wings being cut off) were blown by the bellows of despair upon this occasion.
“There had been a good while before, and so continued, a suitor to this same lady, a great noble man, though of Laconia, yet near neighbour to Parthenia’s mother, named Demagoras; a man mighty in riches and power, and proud thereof, stubbornly stout, loving nobody but himself, and, for his own delight’s sake, Parthenia: and pursuing vehemently his desire, his riches had so gilded over all his other imperfections that the old lady (though contrary to my lord her brother’s mind) had given her consent; and using a mother’s authority upon her fair daughter had made her yield thereunto, not because she liked her choice, but because her obedient mind had not yet taken upon it to make choice. And the day of their assurance drew near, when my young lord Clitophon brought this noble Argalus, perchance principally to see so rare a sight, as Parthenia by all well-judging eyes was judged.
“But though few days were before the time of assurance appointed, yet love, that saw he had a great journey to make in short time, hasted so himself that before her word could tie her to Demagoras, her heart hath vowed her to Argalus with so grateful a receipt in mutual affection that if she desired above all things to have Argalus, Argalus feared nothing but to miss Parthenia. And now Parthenia had learned both liking and misliking, loving and loathing, and out of passion began to take the authority of judgment; insomuch that when the time came that Demagoras (full of proud joy) thought to receive the gift of herself; she, with words of resolute refusal (though with tears showing she was sorry she must refuse) assured her mother she would first be bedded in her grave than wedded to Demagoras. The change was no more strange than unpleasant to the mother who being determinately (lest I should say of a great lady, wilfully) bent to marry her to Demagoras, tried all ways, which a witty and hard-hearted mother could use upon so humble a daughter in whom the only resisting power was love. But the more she assaulted, the more she taught Parthenia to defend; and the more Parthenia defended, the more she made her mother obstinate in the assault: who at length finding that Argalus standing between them, was it that most eclipsed her affection from shining upon Demagoras, she sought all means how to remove him, so much the more as he manifested himself an unremovable suitor to her daughter: first by employing him in as many dangerous enterprises as ever the evil step-mother Juno recommended to the famous Hercules: but the more his virtue was tried, the more pure it grew, while all the things she did to overthrow him, did set him up upon the height of honour; enough to have moved her heart, especially to a man every way so worthy as Argalus; but the struggling against all reason, because she would have her will, and shew her authority in matching her with Demagoras, the more virtuous Argalus was the more she hated him, thinking herself conquered in his conquests, and therefore, still employing him in more and more dangerous attempts: in the meanwhile she used all extremities possible upon her fair daughter to make her give over herself to her direction. But it was hard to judge whether he in doing, or she in suffering, shewed greater constancy of affection: for, as to Argalus the world sooner wanted occasions than he valour to go through them: so to Parthenia malice sooner ceased than her unchanged patience. Lastly, by treasons Demagoras and she would have made away with Argalus, but he with providence and courage so passed over all that the mother took such a spiteful grief at it that her heart brake withal, and she died.
“But then Demagoras assuring himself that now Parthenia was her own she would never be his, and receiving as much by her own determinate answer, not more desiring his own happiness, than envying Argalus, whom he saw with narrow eyes, even ready to enjoy the perfection of his desires, strengthening his conceit with all the mischievous counsels which disdained love and envious pride could give unto him, the wicked wretch (taking a time that Argalus was gone to his country to fetch some of his principal friends to honour the marriage, which Parthenia had most joyfully consented unto) the wicked Demagoras, I say, desiring to speak with her, with unmerciful force (her weak arms in vain resisting) rubbed all over her face a most horrible poison: the effect whereof was such, that never leper looked more ugly than she did: which done, having his men and horses ready, departed away in spite of her servants, as ready to revenge as could be, in such an unexpected mischief. But the abominableness of this fact being come to my L. Kalander, he made such means, both by our king’s intercession and his own, that by the king and senate of Lacedaemon, Demagoras was, upon pain of death, banished the country: who hating the punishment, where he should have hated the fault, joined himself, with all the power he could make, unto the Helots, lately in rebellion against that state: and they (glad to have a man of such authority among them) made him their general, and under him have committed divers the most outrageous villanies that a base multitude (full of desperate revenge) can imagine.
“But within a while after this pitiful fact committed upon Parthenia, Argalus returned (poor Gentleman!) having her fair image in his heart, and already promising his eyes the uttermost of his felicity when they (nobody else daring to tell it him) were the first messengers to themselves of their own misfortune. I mean not to move passion with telling you the grief of both, when he knew her, for at first he did not; nor at first knowledge could possibly have virtue’s aid so ready, as not even weakly to lament the loss of such a jewel, so much the more, as that skilful men in that art assured it was unrecoverable: but within a while, truth of love (which still held the first face in his memory) a virtuous constancy, and even a delight to be constant, faith given, and inward worthiness shining through the foulest mists, took so full hold of the noble Argalus, that not only in such comfort which witty arguments may bestow upon adversity, but even with the most abundant kindness that an eye-ravished lover can express, he laboured both to drive the extremity of sorrow from her, and to hasten the celebration of their marriage: whereunto he unfeignedly shewed himself no less cheerfully earnest than if she had never been disinherited of that goodly portion which nature had so liberally bequeathed unto her; and for that cause deferred his intended revenge upon Demagoras, because he might continually be in her presence, shewing more humble serviceableness and joy to content her than ever before.
“But as he gave this rare example, not to be hoped for of any other, but of another Argalus, so of the other side, she took as strange a course in affection: for where she desired to enjoy him more than to live yet did she overthrow both her own desire and his, and in no sort would yield to marry him: with a strange encounter of love’s affects and effects; that he by an affection sprung from excessive beauty should delight in horrible foulness; and she of a vehement desire to have him should kindly build a resolution never to have him; for truth it is, that so in heart she loved him, as she could not find in her heart he should be tied to what was unworthy of his presence.
“Truly, Sir, a very good orator might have a fair field to use eloquence in, if he did but only repeat the lamentable, and truly affectionate speeches, while he conjured her by remembrance of her affection, and true oaths of his own affection, not to make him so unhappy, as to think he had not only lost her face, but her heart; that her face, when it was fairest, had been but a marshal to lodge the love of her in his mind, which now was so well placed that it needed no further help of any outward harbinger; beseeching her, even with tears, to know that his love was not so superficial as to go no further than the skin, which yet now to him was most fair since it was hers: how could he be so ungrateful as to love her the less for that which she had only received for his sake; that he never beheld it, but therein he saw the loveliness of her love towards him; protesting unto her that he would never take joy of his life if he might not enjoy her, for whom principally he was glad he had life. But (as I heard by one that overheard them) she (wringing him by the hand) made no other answer but this. ‘My Lord,’ said she, ‘God knows I love you; if I were princess of the whole world, and had, withal, all the blessings that ever the world brought forth, I should not make delay to lay myself and them under your feet; or if I had continued but as I was, though (I must confess) far unworthy of you, yet would I (with too great a joy for my heart now to think of) have accepted your vouchsafing me to be yours, and with faith and obedience would have supplied all other defects. But first let me be much more miserable than I am ere I match Argalus to such a Parthenia. Live happy, dear Argalus, I give you full liberty, and I beseech you to take it; and I assure you I shall rejoice (whatsoever become of me) to see you so coupled, as may be fit both for your honour and satisfaction.’ With that she burst out crying and weeping, not able longer to control herself from blaming her fortune, and wishing her own death.
“But Argalus, with a most heavy heart still pursuing his desire, she fixed of mind to avoid further intreaty, and to fly all company which (even of him) grew unpleasant unto her, one night she stole away: but whither as yet it is unknown or indeed what is become of her.
“Argalus sought her long, and in many places; at length (despairing to find her, and the more he despaired, the more enraged) weary of his life, but first determining to be revenged of Demagoras, he went alone disguised into the chief town held by the Helots, where coming into his presence, guarded about by many of his soldiers, he could delay his fury no longer for a fitter time, but setting upon him, in despite of a great many that helped him, gave him divers mortal wounds, and himself (no question) had been there presently murdered, but that Demagoras himself desired he might be kept alive: perchance with intention to feed his own eyes with some cruel execution to be laid upon him; but death came sooner than he looked for; yet having had leisure to appoint his successor, a young man, not long before delivered out of the prison of the king of Lacedaemon, where he should have suffered death for having slain the king’s nephew, but him he named, who at that time was absent, making inroads upon the Lacedaemonians; but being returned, the rest of the Helots, for the great liking they conceived of that young man, especially because they had none among themselves to whom the others would yield, were content to follow Demagoras’s appointment. And well hath it succeeded with them, he having since done things beyond the hope of the youngest heads; of whom I speak the rather, because he hath hitherto preserved Argalus alive, under pretence to have him publicly, and with exquisite torments executed after the end of these wars, of which they hope for a soon and prosperous issue.
“And he hath likewise hitherto kept my young lord Clitophon alive, who (to redeem his friend) went with certain other noble men of Laconia, and forces gathered by them, to besiege this young and new successor: but he issuing out (to the wonder of all men) defeated the Laconians, slew many of the noblemen, and took Clitophon prisoner, whom with much ado he keepeth alive, the Helots being villainously cruel; but he tempereth them so, sometimes by following their humour, sometimes by striving with it, that hitherto he hath saved both their lives, but in different estates; Argalus being kept in a close and hard prison, Clitophon at some liberty. And now, Sir, though (to say the truth) we can promise ourselves little of their safeties while they are in the Helots’ hands, I have delivered all I understand touching the loss of my lord’s son, and the cause thereof: which though it was not necessary to Clitophon’s case, to be so particularly told, yet the strangeness of it made me think it would not be unpleasant unto you.”
Palladius thanked him greatly for it, being even passionately delighted with hearing so strange an accident of a knight so famous over the world as Argalus, with whom he had himself a long desire to meet: so had fame poured a noble emulation in him towards him.
But then (well bethinking himself) he called for armour, desiring them to provide him of horse and guide, and armed all saving the head, he went up to Kalander, whom he found lying upon the ground, having ever since banished both sleep and food as enemies to the mourning, which passion persuaded him was reasonable. But Palladius raised him up, saying unto him: “No more, no more of this, my L. Kalander; let us labour to find, before we lament the loss: you know myself miss one, who though he be not my son, I would disdain the favour of life after him: but while there is a hope left, let not the weakness of sorrow make the strength of it languish: take comfort, and good success will follow.” And with those words, comfort seemed to lighten in his eyes, and in his face and gesture was painted victory. Once, Kalander’s spirits were so revived withal, that (receiving some sustenance, and taking a little rest) he armed himself and those few of his servants he had left unsent, and so himself guided Palladius to the place upon the frontiers, where already there were assembled between three and four thousand men, all well disposed (for Kalander’s sake) to abide any peril: but like men disused with a long peace, more determinate to do than skilful how to do: lusty bodies, and braver armours; with such courage as rather grew of despising their enemies, whom they knew not, than of any confidence for anything which in themselves they knew: but neither cunning use of their weapons, nor art showed in their marching or encamping. Which Palladius soon perceiving, he desired to understand (as much as could be delivered unto him) the estate of the Helots.
And he was answered by a man well acquainted with the affairs of Laconia, that they were a kind of people who, having been of old freemen and possessioners, the Lacedaemonians had conquered them, and laid not only tribute, but bondage upon them, which they had long borne, till of late the Lacedaemonians, through greediness growing more heavy than they could bear, and through contempt growing less careful how to make them bear, they had with a general consent (rather springing by the generalness of the cause than of any artificial practice) set themselves in arms, and whetting their courage with revenge, and grounding their resolution upon despair, they had proceeded with unlooked-for success, having already taken divers towns and castles, with the slaughter of many of the gentry: for whom no sex nor age could be accepted for an excuse. And that although at the first they had fought rather with beastly fury than any soldiery discipline, practice had now made them comparable to the best of the Lacedaemonians, and more of late than ever; by reason, first of Demagoras, a great lord, who had made himself of their party, and since his death, of another captain they had gotten, who had brought up their ignorance, and brought down their fury to such a mean of good government, and withal led them so valorously that (besides the time wherein Clitophon was taken) they had the better in some other great conflicts: in such wise that the estate of Lacedaemon had sent unto them, offering peace with most reasonable and honourable conditions. Palladius having gotten this general knowledge of the party against whom, as he had already of the party for whom he was to fight, he went to Kalander, and told him plainly that by plain force there was small appearance of helping Clitophon; but some device was to be taken in hand, wherein no less discretion than valour was to be used.
Whereupon, the counsel of the chief men was called, and at last this way Palladius (who by some experience, but especially by reading histories, was acquainted with stratagems) invented, and was by all the rest approved, that all the men there should dress themselves like the poorest sort of the people in Arcadia, having no banners, but bloody shirts hanged upon long staves, with some bad bag-pipes instead of drum and fife: their armour they should, as well as might be, cover, or at least make them look so rustily and ill-favouredly as might well become such wearers, and this the whole number should do, saving two hundred of the best chosen gentlemen for courage and strength, whereof Palladius himself would be one, who should have their arms chained, and be put in carts like prisoners. This being performed according to the agreement, they marched on towards the town of Cardamila where Clitophon was captive; and being come two hours before sunset within view of the walls, the Helots already descrying their number, and beginning to sound the alarm, they sent a cunning fellow (so much the cunninger as that he could mask it under rudeness) who with such a kind of rhetoric as weeded out all flowers of rhetoric, delivered unto the Helots assembled together, that they were country-people of Arcadia, no less oppressed by their lords, and no less desirous of liberty than they, and therefore had put themselves in the field, and had already (besides a great number slain) taken nine or ten score gentlemen prisoners, whom they had there well and fast chained. Now because they had no strong retiring place in Arcadia, and were not yet of number enough to keep the field against the prince’s forces, they were come to them for succour; knowing that daily more and more of their quality would flock unto them, but that in the meantime, lest their prince should pursue them, or the Lacedaemonian king and nobility (for the likeness of the cause) fall upon them, they desired that if there were not room enough for them in the town, that yet they might encamp under the walls, and for surety have their prisoners (who were such men as were able to make their peace) kept within the town.
The Helots made but a short consultation, being glad that their contagion had spread itself into Arcadia, and making account that if the peace did not fall out between them and their king, that it was the best way to set fire in all the parts of Greece; besides their greediness to have so many gentlemen in their hands, in whose ransoms they already meant to have a share; to which haste of concluding, two things well helped; the one, that their captain, with the wisest of them, was at that time absent about confirming or breaking the peace with the state of Lacedaemon: the second, that over-many good fortunes began to breed a proud recklessness[2] in them; therefore sending to view the camp, and finding that by their speech they were Arcadians, with whom they had had no war, never suspecting a private man’s credit could have gathered such a force, and that all other tokens witnessed them to be of the lowest calling (besides the chains upon the gentlemen) they granted not only leave for the prisoners, but for some others of the company, and to all, that they might harbour under the walls. So opened they the gates, and received in the carts, which being done, and Palladius seeing fit time, he gave the sign, and shaking off their chains (which were made with such art, that though they seemed most strong and fast, he that wore them might easily loose them) drew their swords hidden in the carts, and so setting upon the ward, made them to fly either from the place, or from their bodies, and so give entry to all the force of the Arcadians before the Helots could make any head to resist them.
But the Helots, being men hardened against dangers, gathered (as well as they could) together in the market-place, and thence would have given a shrewd welcome to the Arcadians, but that Palladius (blaming those that were slow, heartening them that were forward, but especially with his own example leading them) made such an impression into the squadron of the Helots that at first the great body of them beginning to shake and stagger, at length every particular body recommended the protection of his life to his feet. Then Kalander cried to go to the prison where he thought his son was; but Palladius wished him (first scouring the streets) to house all the Helots, and make themselves masters of the gates.
But ere that could be accomplished, the Helots had gotten new heart, and with divers sorts of shot from corners of streets and house-windows, galled them; which courage was come unto them by the return of their captain; who, though he brought not many with him (having dispersed most of his companies to other of his holds) yet meeting a great number running out of the gate, not yet possessed by the Arcadians, he made them turn face, and with banners displayed, his trumpet giveth the loudest testimony he could of his return; which once heard, the rest of the Helots, which were otherwise scattered, bent thitherward with a new life of resolution, as if their captain had been a root, out of which (as into branches) their courage had sprung. Then began the fight to grow most sharp, and the encounters of more cruel obstinacy: the Arcadians fighting to keep what they had won; the Helots to recover what they had lost; the Arcadians as in an unknown place, having no succour but in their hands; the Helots as in their own place, fighting for their lives, wives, and children. There was victory and courage against revenge and despair: safety of both besides being no otherwise to be gotten, but by destruction.
At length, the left wing of the Arcadians began to lose ground; which Palladius feeling, he straight thrust himself with his choice band against the throng that oppressed them with such an overflowing of valour that the captain of the Helots (whose eyes soon judged of that wherewith themselves were governed) saw that he alone was worth all the rest of the Arcadians: which he so wondered at, that it was hard to say whether he more liked his doings, or misliked the effects of his doings: but determining that upon that cast the game lay, and disdaining to fight with any other, fought only to join with him: which mind was no less in Palladius, having easily marked that he was the first mover of all the other hands. And so their thoughts meeting in one point, they consented (though not agreed) to try each other’s fortune: and so drawing themselves to be the uttermost of the one side, they began a combat, which was so much inferior to the battle in noise and number, as it was surpassing it in bravery of fighting, and, as it were, delightful terribleness. Their courage was guided with skill, and their skill was armed with courage; neither did their hardiness darken their wit, nor their wit cool their hardiness: both valiant, as men despising death, both confident, as unwonted to be overcome: yet doubtful by their present feeling, and respectful by what they had already seen. Their feet steady, their hands diligent, their eyes watchful, and their hearts resolute. The parts either not armed, or weakly armed, were well known, and according to the knowledge should have been sharply visited, but that the answer was as quick as the objections. Yet some lightning, the smart bred rage, and the rage bred smart again: till both sides beginning to wax faint, and rather desirous to die accompanied, than hopeful to live victorious, the captain of the Helots with a blow, whose violence grew of fury, not of strength, or of strength proceeding of fury, struck Palladius upon the side of the head, that he reeled astonished: and withal the helmet fell off, he remaining bare-headed, but other of the Arcadians were ready to shield him from any harm might rise of that nakedness.
But little needed it, for his chief enemy, instead of pursuing that advantage, kneeled down, offering to deliver the pommel of his sword, in token of yielding; withal speaking aloud unto him, that he thought it more liberty to be his prisoner, than any other’s general. Palladius standing upon himself, and misdoubting some craft, and the Helots that were next their captain, wavering between looking for some stratagem, or fearing treason; “What,” said the captain, “hath Palladius forgotten the voice of Daiphantus?”
By that watch-word Palladius knew that it was his only friend Pyrocles, whom he had lost upon the sea, and therefore both most full of wonder so to be met, if they had not been fuller of joy than wonder, caused the retreat to be sounded, Diaphantus by authority, and Palladius by persuasion, to which helped well the little advantage that was of either side: and that of the Helots’ party, their captain’s behaviour had made as many amazed as saw or heard of it: and of the Arcadian side the good old Kalander, striving more than his old age could achieve, was newly taken prisoner. But indeed the chief parter of the fray was the night, which with her black arms pulled their malicious sights one from the other. But he that took Kalander, meant nothing less than to save him, but only so long, as the captain might learn the enemies’ secrets, towards whom he led the old gentleman, when he caused the retreat to be sounded; looking for no other delivery from that captivity, but by the painful taking away of all pain: when whom should he see next to the captain (with good tokens how valiantly he had fought that day against the Arcadians) but his son Clitophon? But now the captain had caused all the principal Helots to be assembled, as well to deliberate what they had to do, as to receive a message from the Arcadians, among whom Palladius’s virtue (besides the love Kalander bare him) having gotten principal authority, he had persuaded them to seek rather by parley to recover the father and the son, than by the sword; since the goodness of the captain assured him that way to speed, and his value (wherewith he was of old acquainted) made him think any other way dangerous. This therefore was done in orderly manner, giving them to understand that as they came but to deliver Clitophon, so offering to leave the footing they already had in the town, to go away without any further hurt, so that they might have the father and the son without ransom delivered. Which conditions being heard and conceived by the Helots, Diaphantus persuaded them without delay to accept them. “For first,” said he, “since the strife is within our own home, if you lose, you lose all that in this life can be dear unto you: if you win, it will be a bloody victory with no profit, but the flattering in ourselves that same bad humour of revenge. Besides, it is like to stir Arcadia upon us, which now, by using these persons well, may be brought to some amity. Lastly, but especially, lest the king and nobility of Laconia (with whom now we have made a perfect peace) should hope by occasion of this quarrel to join the Arcadians with them, and so break off the profitable agreement already concluded: in sum, as in all deliberations (weighing the profit of the good success with the harm of the evil success) you shall find this way most safe and honourable.”
The Helots, as much moved by his authority, as persuaded by his reasons, were content therewith. Whereupon Palladius took order that the Arcadians should presently march out of town, taking with them their prisoners, while the night with mutual diffidence might keep them quiet, and ere day came, they might be well on their way, and so avoid those accidents which in late enemies, a look, a word, or a particular man’s quarrel might engender. This being on both sides concluded on, Kalander and Clitophon, who now with infinite joy did know each other, came to kiss the hands and feet of Daiphantus: Clitophon telling his father how Daiphantus, not without danger to himself, had preserved him from the furious malice of the Helots: and even that day going to conclude the peace (lest in his absence he might receive some hurt) he had taken him in his company, and given him armour, upon promise he should take the part of the Helots; which he had in this fight performed, little knowing that it was against his own father; “But,” said Clitophon, “here is he, who as a father, hath now begotten me, and, as a god, hath saved me from many deaths which already laid hold on me,” which Kalander with tears of joy acknowledged, besides his own deliverance, only his benefit. But Daiphantus, who loved doing well for itself and not for thanks, broke off those ceremonies, desiring to know how Palladius, for so he called Musidorus, was come into that company, and what his present estate was; whereof receiving a brief declaration of Kalander, he sent him word by Clitophon that he should not as now come unto him, because he held himself not so sure a master of the Helots’ minds that he would adventure him in their power, who was so well known with an unfriendly acquaintance; but that he desired him to return with Kalander, whither also he within few days, having dispatched himself of the Helots, would repair. Kalander would needs kiss his hand again for that promise, protesting he would esteem his house more blessed than a temple of the gods, if it had once received him. And then desiring pardon for Argalus, Diaphantus assured them that he would die but he would bring him (though till then kept in close prison, indeed for his safety, the Helots being so animated against him as else he could not have lived) and so taking their leave of him, Kalander, Clitophon, Palladius, and the rest of the Arcadians swearing that they would no further in any sort molest the Helots, they straightway marched out of the town, carrying both their dead and wounded bodies with them; and by morning were already within the limits of Arcadia.
The Helots of the other side shutting their gates, gave themselves to bury their dead, to cure their wounds, and rest their wearied bodies; till (the next day bestowing the cheerful use of the light upon them) Daiphantus, making a general convocation spake unto them in this manner: “We are first,” said he, “to thank the gods, that (further than we had either cause to hope, or reason to imagine) have delivered us out of this gulf of danger, wherein we were already swallowed. For all being lost (had they not directed my return so just as they did), it had been too late to recover that, which being had, we could not keep. And had I not happened to know one of the principal men among them, by which means the truce began between us, you may easily conceive what little reason we have to think but that either by some supply out of Arcadia, or from the nobility of this country, (who would have made fruits of wisdom grow out of this occasion) we should have had our power turned to ruin, our pride to repentance and sorrow. But now, the storm as it fell, so it ceased: and the error committed, in retaining Clitophon more hardly than his age or quarrel deserved, becomes a sharply learned experience, to use, in other times, more moderation.
“Now have I to deliver unto you the conclusion between the kings with the nobility of Lacedaemon and you; which is in all points as ourselves desired: as well for that you would have granted, as for the assurance of what is granted. The towns and forts you presently have, are still left unto you, to be kept either with, or without garrison, so as you alter not the laws of the country, and pay such duties as the rest of the Laconians do; yourselves are made, by public decree, freemen, and so capable both to give and receive voice in election of magistrates. The distinction of names between Helots and Lacedaemonians to be quite taken away, and all indifferently to enjoy both names and privileges of Laconians. Your children to be brought up with theirs in the Spartan discipline: and so you (framing yourselves to be good members of that estate) to be hereafter fellows and no longer servants.
“Which conditions you see, carry in themselves no more contention than assurance; for this is not a peace which is made with them; but this a piece by which you are made of them. Lastly a forgetfulness decreed of all what is past, they showing themselves glad to have so valiant men as you are joined with them, so that you are to take minds of peace, since the cause of war is finished; and as you hated them before like oppressors, so now to love them as brothers; to take care of their estate, because it is yours; and to labour by virtuous doing, that posterity may not repent your joining. But now one article only they stood upon, which in the end I with your commissioners have agreed unto that I should no more tarry here, mistaking perchance my humour, and thinking me as seditious as I am young; or else it is the king Amiclas procuring, in respect that it was my ill hap to kill his nephew Eurileon, but howsoever it be, I have condescended.” “But so will not we,” cried almost the whole assembly, counselling one another rather to try the uttermost event than lose him by whom they had been victorious. But he as well with general orations as particular dealing with the men of most credit, made them see how necessary it was to prefer such an opportunity before a vain affection; but could not prevail till openly he sware that he would (if at any time the Lacedaemonians brake this treaty) come back again, and be their captain.
So, then, after a few days, setting them in perfect order, he took his leave of them, whose eyes bade him farewell with tears, and mouths with kissing the places where he stepped, and after making temples unto him, as to a demi-god, thinking it beyond the degree of humanity to have a wit so far over-going his age, and such dreadful terror proceed from so excellent beauty. But he for his sake obtained free pardon for Argalus, whom also (upon oath never to bear arms against the Helots) he delivered; and taking only with him certain principal jewels of his own, he would have parted alone with Argalus (whose countenance well showed, while Parthenia was lost, he counted not himself delivered, but that the whole multitude would needs guard him into Arcadia, where again leaving them all to lament his departure, he by enquiry got to the well-known house of Kalander. There was he received with loving joy of Kalander, with joyful love of Palladius, with humble, though doleful, demeanour of Argalus (whom specially both he and Palladius regarded with grateful serviceableness of Clitophon) and honourable admiration of all. For being now well viewed to have no hair on the face, to witness him a man, who had done acts beyond the degree of a man, and to look with a certain almost bashful kind of modesty, as if he feared the eyes of men, who was unmoved by the sight of the most horrible countenances of death; and as if nature had mistaken her work to have a Mars’s heart in a Cupid’s body: all that beheld him (and all that might behold him, did behold him) made their eyes quick messengers to their mind, that there they had seen the uttermost that in mankind might be seen. The like wonder Palladius had before stirred, but that Diaphantus, as younger and newer come, had gotten now the advantage in the moist and fickle impression of eye-sight. But while all men, saving poor Argalus, made the joy of their eyes speak for their hearts towards Daiphantus; fortune (that belike was bid to that banquet, and meant to play the good-fellow) brought a pleasant adventure among them. It was that as they had newly dined, there came in to Kalander a messenger, that brought him word, a young noble lady, near kinswoman to the fair Helen, queen of Corinth, was come thither, and desired to be lodged in his house. Kalander (most glad of such an occasion) went out, and all his other worthy guests with him, saving only Argalus, who remained in his chamber, desirous that this company were once broken up, that he might go in his solitary quest after Parthenia. But when they met this lady, Kalander straight thought he saw his niece Parthenia, and was about in such familiar sort to have spoken unto her, but she, in grave and honourable manner, giving him to understand that he was mistaken; he, half ashamed, excused himself with the exceeding likeness was between them, though indeed it seemed that this lady was of the more pure and dainty complexion, she said, it might very well be, having been many times taken one for another. But as soon as she was brought into the house, before she would rest her, she desired to speak with Argalus publicly, who she heard was in the house. Argalus came hastily, and as hastily thought as Kalander had done, with sudden change of to sorrow. But she, when she had stayed her thoughts with telling them her name and quality, in this sort spake unto him. “My Lord Argalus,” said she, “being of late left in the court of queen Helen of Corinth, as chief in her absence, she being upon some occasion gone thence, there came unto me the lady Parthenia, so disfigured, as I think Greece hath nothing so ugly to behold. For my part, it was many days, before, with vehement oaths, and some good proofs, she could make me think that she was Parthenia. Yet at last finding certainly it was she, and greatly pitying her misfortune, so much the more as that all men had even told me, as now you do, of the great likeness between us, I took the best care I could of her, and of her understood the whole tragical history of her undeserved adventure: and therewithal of that most noble constancy in you my lord Argalus, which whosoever loves not, shows himself to be a hater of virtue, and unworthy to live in the society of mankind. But no outward cherishing could salve the inward sore of her mind; but a few days since she died; before her death earnestly desiring, and persuading me to think of no husband but of you, as of the only man in the world worthy to be loved. Withal she gave me this ring to deliver you, desiring you, and by the authority of love commanding you that the affection you bare her, you should turn to me; assuring you, that nothing can please her soul more than to see you and me matched together. Now my lord, though this office be not, perchance, suitable to my estate nor sex, who should rather look to be desired; yet, an extraordinary desert requires an extraordinary proceeding, and therefore I am come, with faithful love built upon your worthiness, to offer myself, and to beseech you to accept the offer: and if these noble gentlemen present will say it is great folly, let them withal say, it is great love.” And then she stayed, earnestly attending Argalus’s answer; who, first making most hearty sighs, doing such obsequies as he could to Parthenia, thus answered her.
“Madame,” said he, “infinitely am I bound to you, for this no more rare than noble courtesy; but much bound for the goodness I perceive you showed to the lady Parthenia (with that the tears ran down his eyes, but he followed on) and as much as so unfortunate a man, fit to be the spectacle of misery, can do you a service; determine you have made a purchase of a slave, while I live, never to fail you. But this great matter you propose unto me, wherein I am not so blind as not to see what happiness it should be unto me, excellent lady, know that if my heart were mine to give, you before all others should have it; but Parthenia’s it is, though dead: there I began, there I end all matter of affection: I hope I shall not long tarry after her, with whose beauty if I only had been in love, I should be so with you, who have the same beauty; but it was Parthenia’s self I loved, and love, which no likeness can make one, no commandment dissolve, no foulness defile, nor no death finish.” “And shall I receive,” said she, “such disgrace as to be refused?” “Noble lady,” said he, “let not that hard word be used; who know your exceeding worthiness far beyond my desert? but it is only happiness I refuse, since of the only happiness I could and can desire, I am refused.”
He had scarce spoken those words, when she ran to him and embracing him, “Why then Argalus,” said she, “take thy Parthenia:” and Parthenia it was indeed. But because sorrow forbade him too soon to believe, she told him the truth, with all circumstances: how being parted alone, meaning to die in some solitary place, as she happened to make her complaint, the queen Helen of Corinth (who likewise felt her part of miseries) being then walking alone in that lovely place, heard her, and never left, till she had known the whole discourse. Which the noble queen greatly pitying, she sent to her a physician of hers, the most excellent man in the world, in hope he could help her: which in such sort as they saw he had performed, and the taking with her one of the queen’s servants, thought yet to make this trial, whether he would quickly forget his true Parthenia, or no. Her speech was confirmed by the Corinthian gentlemen, who before had kept her counsel, and Argalus easily persuaded to what more than ten thousand years of life he desired: and Kalander would needs have the marriage celebrated in his house, principally the longer to hold his dear guest, towards whom he was now, besides his own habits of hospitality, carried with love and duty: and therefore omitted no service that his wit could invent and power minister.
But no way he saw he could so much pleasure them as by leaving the two friends alone, who being shrunk aside to the banqueting-house, where the pictures were; there Palladius recounted unto him, that after they had both abandoned the burning ship (and either of them taking something under him, the better to support him to the shore) he knew not how, but either with over-labouring in the fight, and sudden cold, or the too much receiving of salt-water, he was past himself: but yet holding fast, as the nature of dying men is to do, the chest that was under him, he was cast on the sands, where he was taken up by a couple of shepherds, and by them brought to life again, and kept from drowning himself, when he despaired of his safety. How after having failed to take him into the fisher-boat, he had by the shepherds’ persuasion come to this gentleman’s house; where being dangerously sick, he had yielded to seek the recovery of health, only for that he might the sooner go seek the delivery of Pyrocles; to which purpose Kalander by some friends of his in Messenia, had already set a ship or two abroad, when this accident of Clitophon’s taking had so blessedly procured their meeting. Then did he set forth unto him the noble entertainment and careful cherishing of Kalander towards him, and so upon occasion of the pictures present, delivered with the frankness of a friend’s tongue, as near as could be, word by word what Kalander had told him touching the strange story, with all the particularities belonging, of Arcadia; which did in many sorts so delight Pyrocles to hear, that he would needs have much of it again repeated, and was not contented till Kalander himself had answered him divers questions.
But first at Musidorus’s request, though in brief manner, his mind much running upon the strange story of Arcadia, he did declare by what course of adventures he was come to make up their mutual happiness in meeting. “When, cousin,” said he, “we had stripped ourselves, and were both leaped into the sea, and swam a little towards the shore, I found, by reason of some wounds I had, that I should not be able to get the land, and therefore returned back again to the mast of the ship, where you found me, assuring myself, that if you came alive to shore, you would seek me; if you were lost, as I thought it as good to perish as to live, so that place as good to perish in as another. There I found my sword among some of the shrouds, wishing, I must confess, if I died, to be found with that in my hand, and withal waving it about my head, that sailors by might have the better glimpse of me. There you missing me, I was taken up by pirates, who putting me under board prisoner, presently set upon another ship and maintaining a long fight, in the end put them all to the sword. Amongst whom I might hear them greatly praise one young man, who fought most valiantly, who (as love is careful, and misfortune subject to doubtfulness) I thought certainly to be you. And so holding you as dead, from that time to the time I saw you, in truth I sought nothing more than a noble end, which perchance made me more hardy than otherwise I would have been. Trial whereof came within two days after; for the kings of Lacedaemon having set out some galleys under the charge of one of their nephews, to scour the sea of the pirates, they met with us, where our captain wanting men, was driven to arm some of his prisoners, with promise of liberty for well fighting: among whom I was one; and being boarded by the admiral, it was my fortune to kill Eurileon the king’s nephew: but in the end they prevailed, and we were all taken prisoners, I not caring much what became of me (only keeping the name of Daiphantus, according to the resolution you know is between us:) but being laid in the jail of Tenaria, with special hate to me for the death of Eurileon, the popular sort of that town conspired with the Helots, and so by night opened them the gates; where entering and killing all of the genteel and rich faction, for honesty-sake brake open all prisons, and so delivered me: and I, moved with gratefulness, and encouraged with carelessness of life, so behaved myself in some conflicts they had within few days, that they barbarously thinking unsensible wonders of me, as they heard I was hated of the king of Lacedaemon, their chief captain being slain, as you know, by the noble Argalus (who helped thereunto by his persuasion) having borne a great affection unto me, and to avoid the dangerous emulation which grew among the chief, who should have the place, and also affected, as rather to have a stranger than a competitor, they elected me (God wot little proud of that dignity;) restoring unto me such things of mine as being taken first by the pirates, and then by the Lacedaemonians, they had gotten in the sack of the town. Now being in it, so good was my success with many victories, that I made a peace for them, to their own liking, the very day that you delivered Clitophon, whom I, with much ado, had preserved. And in my peace the king Amiclas of Lacedaemon would needs have me banished, and deprived of the dignity, whereunto I was exalted: which (and you may see how much you are bound to me) for your sake I was content to suffer, a new hope rising in me, that you were not dead: and so meaning to travel over the world to seek you; and now here, my dear Musidorus! you have me.” And with that, embracing and kissing each other, they called Kalander, of whom Daiphantus desired to hear the full story, which before he had recounted to Palladius, and to see the letter of Philanax, which he read and well marked.
But within some days after, the marriage between Argalus and the fair Parthenia being to be celebrated, Daiphantus and Palladius, selling some of their jewels, furnished themselves of very fair apparel, meaning to do honour to their loving host, who, as much for their sakes as for the marriage, set forth each thing in most gorgeous manner. But all the cost bestowed did not so much enrich, nor all the fine decking so much beautify, nor all the dainty devices so much delight, as the fairness of Parthenia, the pearl of all the maids of Mantinea, who as she went to the temple to be married, her eyes themselves seemed a temple, wherein love and beauty were married. Her lips, though they were kept close with modest silence, yet with a pretty kind of natural swelling, they seemed to invite the guests that looked on them; her cheeks blushing, and withal, when she was spoken unto, a little smiling, were like roses when their leaves are with a little breath stirred; her hair being laid at the full length down her back, bare she was, if the voward failed, yet that would conquer. Daiphantus marking her, “O Jupiter! (quoth he speaking to Palladius) how happens it, that beauty is only confined to Arcadia?” But Palladius not greatly attending his speech, some days were continued in the solemnizing the marriage, with all conceits that might deliver delight to men’s fancies.
But such a change was grown in Daiphantus that (as if cheerfulness had been tediousness, and good entertainment were turned to discourtesy) he would ever get himself alone, though almost when he was in company, he was alone, so little attention he gave to any that spake unto him: even the colour and figure of his face began to receive some alteration, which he shewed little to heed: but every morning early going abroad, either to the garden, or to some woods towards the desert, it seemed his only comfort was to be without a comforter. But long it could not be hid from Palladius, whom true love made ready to mark, and long knowledge able to mark; and therefore being now grown weary of his abode in Arcadia, having informed himself fully of the strength and riches of the country, of the nature of the people, and manner of their laws; and seeing the court could not be visited, prohibited to all men, but to certain shepherdish people, he greatly desired a speedy return to his own country, after the many mazes of fortune he had trodden. But perceiving this great alteration in his friend, he thought first to break with him thereof, and then to hasten his return; whereto he found him but smally inclined: whereupon one day taking him alone with certain graces and countenances, as if he were disputing with the trees, began in this manner to say unto him.
“A mind well trained and long exercised in virtue, my sweet and worthy cousin doth not easily change any course it once undertakes, but upon well-grounded and well-weighed causes; for being witness to itself of its own inward good, it finds nothing without it of so high a price for which it should be altered. Even the very countenance and behaviour of such a man doth shew forth images of the same constancy, by maintaining a right harmony betwixt it and the inward good, in yielding itself suitable to the virtuous resolution of the mind. This speech I direct to you, noble friend Pyrocles, the excellency of whose mind and well chosen course in virtue, if I do not sufficiently know, having seen such rare demonstrations of it, it is my weakness, and not your unworthiness: but as indeed I know it, and knowing it, most dearly love both it and him that hath it, so must I needs say that since our late coming into this country, I have marked in you, I will not say an alteration, but a relenting truly, and a slacking of the main career you had so notably begun and almost performed, and that in such sort, as I cannot find sufficient reason in my great love toward you how to allow it: for (to leave off other secreter arguments which my acquaintance with you makes me easily find) this in effect to any man may be manifest, that whereas you were wont in all places you came to give yourself vehemently to the knowledge of those things which might better your mind, to seek the familiarity of excellent men in learning and soldiery, and lastly, to put all these things in practice, both by continual wise proceeding, and worthy enterprises as occasion fell for them; you now leave all these things undone: you let your mind fall asleep: beside your countenance troubled, which surely comes not of virtue; for virtue, like the clear heaven, is without clouds: and lastly, you subject yourself to solitariness, the sly enemy that doth most separate a man from well doing.”
Pyrocles’s mind was all this while so fixed upon another devotion, that he no more attentively marked his friend’s discourse than the child that hath leave to play marks the last part of his lesson; or the diligent pilot in a dangerous tempest doth attend the unskilful words of a passenger: yet the very sound having imprinted the general points of his speech in his heart, pierced with any mislike of so dearly an esteemed friend, and desirous by degrees to bring him to a gentler consideration of him, with a shame-faced look (witnessing he rather could not help, than did not know his fault) answered him to this purpose: “Excellent Musidorus! in the praise you gave me in the beginning of your speech, I easily acknowledge the force of your good will unto me; for neither could you have thought so well of me, if extremity of love had not made your judgment partial, nor could you have loved me so entirely if you had not been apt to make so great, though undeserved, judgments of me; and even so much I say to those imperfections to which, though I have ever through weakness been subject, yet you by the daily mending of your mind have of late been able to look into them, which before you could not discern; so that the change you speak of falls not out by my impairing, but by your bettering. And yet under the leave of your better judgment, I must needs say thus much (my dear cousin!) that I find not myself wholly to be condemned because I do not with continual vehemency follow those knowledges, which you call the bettering of my mind; for both the mind itself must, like other things, sometimes be unbent, or else it will be either weakened, or broken, and these knowledges, as they are of good use, so are they not all the mind may stretch itself unto: who knows whether I feed not my mind with higher thoughts? Truly, as I know not all the particularities, so yet I see the bounds of all these knowledges: but the workings of the mind I find much more infinite than can be led unto by the eye, or imagined by any that distract their thoughts without themselves. And in such contemplation, or, as I think, more excellent, I enjoy my solitariness, and my solitariness perchance is the nurse of these contemplations. Eagles we see fly alone, and they are but sheep which always herd together; condemn not therefore my mind sometimes to enjoy itself; nor blame not the taking of such times as serve most fit for it. And alas, dear Musidorus! if I be sad who knows better than you the just causes I have of sadness?” And here Pyrocles suddenly stopped, like a man unsatisfied in himself, though his wit might well have served to have satisfied another. And so looking with a countenance as though he desired he should know his mind without hearing him speak, and yet desirous to speak, to breathe out some part of his inward evil, sending again new blood to his face, he continued his speech in this manner: “And lord, dear cousin,” said he, “doth not the pleasantness of this place carry in itself sufficient reward for any time lost in it? do you not see how all things conspire together to make this country a heavenly dwelling? do you not see the grass, how in colour they excel the emeralds, every one striving to pass his fellow, and yet they are all kept of an equal height? and see you not the rest of these beautiful flowers, each of which would require a man’s wit to know, and his life to express? do not these stately trees seem to maintain their flourishing old age with the only happiness of their seat, being clothed with a continual spring, because no beauty here should ever fade? doth not the air breathe health, which the birds, delightful both to ear and eye, do daily solemnize with the sweet consent of their voices? is not every echo thereof a perfect music? And these fresh and delightful brooks how slowly they slide away, as loth to leave the company of so many things united in perfection? and with how sweet a murmur they lament their forced departure? certainly, certainly, cousin, it must needs be that some goddess inhabiteth this region, who is the soul of this soil: for neither is any less than a goddess worthy to be shrined in such a heap of pleasures, nor any less than a goddess could have made it so perfect a plot of the celestial dwellings.” And so ended with a deep sigh, ruefully[3] casting his eyes upon Musidorus, as more desirous of pity than pleading. But Musidorus had all this while held his look fixed upon Pyrocles’s countenance; and with no less loving attention marked how his words proceeded from him: but in both these he perceived such strange diversities, that they rather increased new doubts than gave him ground to settle any judgment: for besides his eyes sometimes even great with tears, the oft changing of his colour, with a kind of shaking unsteadiness over all his body, he might see in his countenance some great determination mixed with fear; and might perceive in him store of thoughts, rather stirred than digested; his words interrupted continually with sighs, which served as a burden to each sentence, and the tenour of his speech, though of his wanted phrase, not knit together to one constant end, but rather dissolved in itself, as the vehemency of the inward passion prevailed: which made Musidorus frame his answer nearest to that humour, which should soonest put out the secret. For having in the beginning of Pyrocles’s speech, which defended his solitariness, framed in his mind a reply against it in the praise of honourable action, in showing that such a kind of contemplation is but a glorious title to idleness; that in action a man did not only better himself, but benefit others; that the gods would not have delivered a soul into the body which had arms and legs, only instruments of doing, but that it were intended the mind should employ them, and that the mind should best know his own good or evil by practice; which knowledge was the only way to increase the one, and correct the other; besides many other arguments, which the plentifulness of the matter yielded to the sharpness of his wit. When he found Pyrocles leave that, and fall into such an affected praising of the place, he left it likewise, and joined with him therein: because he found him in that humour utter more store of passion; and even thus kindly embracing him, he said, “Your words are such, noble cousin, so sweetly and strongly handled in the praise of solitariness, as they would make me likewise yield myself up into it, but that the same words make me know it is more pleasant to enjoy the company of him that can speak such words than by such words to be persuaded to follow solitariness. And even so do I give you leave, sweet Pyrocles, ever to defend solitariness, so long as to defend it, you ever keep company. But I marvel at the excessive praises you give to this country; in truth it is not unpleasant, but yet if you would return into Macedon you should either see many heavens, or find this no more than earthly. And even Tempe in my Thessalia (where you and I, to my great happiness, were brought up together) is nothing inferior unto it. But I think you will make me see that the vigour of your wit can show itself in any subject: or else you feed sometimes your solitariness with the conceits of the poets, whose liberal pens can as easily travel over mountains as molehills, and so like well-disposed men, set up everything to the highest note; especially, when they put such words in the mouths of one of these fantastical, mind-infected people, that children and musicians call ‘Lovers.’” This word “Lover,” did no less pierce poor Pyrocles, than the right tune of music toucheth him that is sick of the Tarantula.[4] There was not one part of his body that did not feel a sudden motion, while his heart with panting seemed to dance to the sound of that word; yet after some pause (lifting up his eyes a little from the ground, and yet not daring to place them in the eyes of Musidorus) armed with the very countenance of the poor prisoner at the bar, whose answer is nothing but guilty: with much ado he brought forth this question. “And alas,” said he, “dear cousin, what if I be not so much the poet (the freedom of whose pen can exercise itself in any thing) as even that miserable subject of his cunning whereof you speak?” “Now the eternal gods forbid,” mainly cried out Musidorus, “that ever my ear should be poisoned with so evil news of you. O let me never know that any base affection should get any lordship in your thoughts.” But as he was speaking more, Kalander came and brake off their discourse with inviting them to the hunting of a goodly stag, which being harboured in a wood thereby, he hoped would make them good sport, and drive away some part of Daiphantus’s melancholy. They condescended, and so going to their lodgings, furnished themselves as liked them, Diaphantus writing a few words which he sealed in a letter against their return.
Then went they together abroad, the good Kalander entertaining them with pleasant discoursing, how well he loved the sport of hunting when he was a young man, how much, in the comparison thereof, he disdained all chamber-delights, that the fun (how great a journey soever he had to make) could never prevent him with earliness, nor the moon, with her sober countenance, dissuade him from watching till midnight for the deer feeding. “O,” said he, “you will never live to my age, without you keep yourselves in breath with exercise, and in heart with joyfulness. Too much thinking doth consume the spirits, and oft it falls out that while one thinks too much of his doing, he leaves to do the effect of his thinking.” Then spared he not to remember how much Arcadia was changed since his youth: activity and good fellowship being nothing in the price it was then held in; but, according to the nature of the old growing world, still worse and worse. Then would he tell them stories of such gallants as he had known: and so with pleasant company beguiled the time’s haste, and shortened the way’s length, till they came to the side of the wood, where the hounds were in couples staying their coming, but with a whining accent craving liberty, many of them in colour and marks so resembling, that it shewed they were of one kind. The huntsmen handsomely attired in their green liveries as though they were children of summer, with staves in their hands to beat the guiltless earth when the hounds were at a fault, and with horns about their necks to sound an alarm upon a silly fugitive: the hounds were straight uncoupled, and ere long the stag thought it better to trust to the nimbleness of his feet than to the slender fortification of his lodging: but even his feet betrayed him, for howsoever they went, they themselves uttered themselves to the scent of their enemies, who one taking it of another, and sometimes believing the wind’s advertisement, sometimes the view of their faithful counsellors, the huntsmen, with open mouths then denounced war, when the war was already begun; their cry being composed of so well-sorted mouths, that any man would perceive therein some kind of proportion, but the skilful woodmen did find a music. Then delight, and variety of opinion, drew the horsemen sundry ways, yet cheering their hounds with voice and horn, kept still, as it were, together. The wood seemed to conspire with them against his own citizens, dispersing their noise through all his quarters, and even the nymph Echo left to bewail the loss of Narcissus, and become a hunter. But the stag was in the end so hotly pursued that, leaving his flight, he was driven to make courage of despair, and so, turning his head, made the hounds, with change of speech, to testify that he was at a bay, as if from hot pursuit of their enemy, they were suddenly come to a parley.
But Kalander, by his skill of coasting the country, was amongst the first that came into the besieged deer; whom when some of the younger sort would have killed with their swords, he would not suffer, but with a cross-bow sent a death to the poor beast, who with tears showed the unkindness he took of man’s cruelty.
But by the time that the whole company was assembled, and that the stag had bestowed himself liberally among them that had killed him, Daiphantus was missed, for whom Palladius carefully inquiring, no news could be given him, but by one that said he thought he was returned home; for that he marked him in the chief of the hunting, take a byway which might lead to Kalander’s house. That answer for the time satisfying, and they having performed all duties, as well for the stag’s funeral as the hounds’ triumph, they returned; some talking of the fatness of the deer’s body; some of the fairness of his head; some of the hounds’ cunning; some of their speed, and some of their cry; till coming home, about the time that the candles begin to inherit the sun’s office, they found Daiphantus was not to be found. Whereat Palladius greatly marvelling, and a day or two passing, while neither search nor inquiry could help him to knowledge, at last he lighted upon the letter which Pyrocles had written before he went a-hunting, and left in his study among other of his writings: The letter was directed to Palladius himself, and contained these words:
My only friend! violence of love leads me into such a course, whereof your knowledge may much more vex you, than help me. Therefore pardon my concealing it from you, since, if I wrong you, it is in the respect I bear you. Return into Thessalia, I pray you, as full of good fortune as I am of desire; and if I live, I will in a short time follow you; if I die, love my memory.
This was all, and this Palladius read twice or thrice over. “Ah,” said he, “Pyrocles what means this alteration? what have I deserved of thee to be thus banished of thy counsels? Heretofore I have accused the sea, condemned the pirates, and hated my evil fortune that deprived me of thee; but now thyself is the sea which drowns my comfort; thyself is the pirate that robs thyself from me; thy own will becomes thy evil fortune.” Then turned he his thoughts to all forms of guesses that might light upon the purpose and course of Pyrocles, for he was not so sure by his words that it was love, as he was doubtful where the love was. One time he thought some beauty in Laconia had laid hold of his eyes; another time he feared that it might be Parthenia’s excellency which had broken the bands of all former resolution; but the more he thought the more he knew not what to think, armies of objections rising against any accepted opinion.
Then as careful he was what to do himself: at length determined never to leave seeking him till his search should be either by meeting accomplished, or by death ended. Therefore (for all the unkindness bearing tender respect that his friend’s secret determination should be kept from any suspicion in others) he went to Kalander, and told him that he had received a message from his friend, by which he understood he was gone back again into Laconia about some matters greatly importing the poor men, whose protection he had undertaken, and that it was in any sort fit for him to follow him, but in such private wise, as not to be known, and that therefore he would as then bid him farewell; arming himself in a black armour, as either a badge, or prognostication of his mind, and taking only with him a good store of money and a few choice jewels, leaving the greatest number of them, and most of his apparel with Kalander, which he did partly to give the more cause to Kalander to expect their return, and so to be the less curiously inquisitive after them—and partly to leave those honourable thanks unto him for his charge and kindness, which he knew he would not other way receive. The good old man having neither reason to dissuade nor hope to persuade, received the things with mind of a keeper, not of an owner; but, before he went, desired he might have the happiness fully to know what they were, which, he said, he had ever till then delayed, fearing to be importune: but now he would not be so much an enemy to his desires as any longer to imprison them in silence. Palladius told him that the matter was not so secret but that so worthy a friend deserved the knowledge, and should have it as soon as he might speak with his friend, without whose consent (because their promise bound him otherwise) he could not reveal it; but bade him hold for most assured that if they lived but a while he should find that they which bore the names of Diaphantus and Palladius would give him and his cause to think his noble courtesy well employed. Kalander would press him no further, but desiring that he might have leave to go, or at least to send his son and servants with him: Palladius brake off all ceremonies by telling him his case stood so that his greatest favour should be in making least ado of his parting. Wherewith Kalander knowing it to be more cumber than courtesy to strive, abstained from further urging him, but not from hearty mourning the loss of so sweet a conversation.
Only Clitophon by vehement importunity obtained to go with him to come again to Diaphantus, whom he named and accounted his lord. And in such private guise departed Palladius, though having a companion to talk withal, yet talking much more with unkindness. And first they went to Mantinea; whereof because Parthenia was, he suspected there might be some cause of his abode. But, finding there no news of him, he went to Tegea, Ripa, Enispae, Stimphalus, and Phineus, famous for the poisonous Stygian water, and through all the rest of Arcadia, making their eyes, their ears, and their tongues serve almost for nothing but that inquiry. But they could know nothing but that in none of those places he was known. And so went they, making one place succeed to another in like uncertainty to their search, many times encountering strange adventures worthy to be registered in the rolls of fame: but this may not be omitted. As they passed in a pleasant valley (on either side of which high hills lifted up their beetle-brows, as if they would overlook the pleasantness of their under-prospect) they were by the daintiness of the place, and the weariness of themselves, invited to light from their horses, and pulled off their bits that they might something refresh their mouths upon the grass (which plentifully grew, brought up under the care of those well-shading trees), they themselves laid them down hard by the murmuring music of certain waters which spouted out of the side of the hills, and in the bottom of the valley made of many springs a pretty brook, like a commonwealth of many families; but when they had a while hearkened to the persuasion of sleep, they rose and walked onward in that shady place till Clitophon espied a piece of armour, and not far off another piece; and so the sight of one piece teaching him to look for more, he at length found all, with head-piece and shield, by the device whereof he straight knew it to be the armour of his cousin, the noble Amphialus. Whereupon (fearing some inconvenience happened unto him) he told both his doubt and cause of doubt to Palladius, who, considering thereof, thought best to make no longer stay, but to follow on, lest perchance some violence were offered to so worthy a knight, whom the fame of the world seemed to set in balance with any knight living. Yet with a sudden conceit, having long borne great honour to the name of Amphialus, Palladius thought best to take that armour, thinking thereby to learn by them that should know that armour some news of Amphialus, and yet not hinder him in the search of Diaphantus too. So he, by the help of Clitophon, quickly put on that armour, whereof there was no one piece wanting, though hacked in some places, betraying some fighting not long since passed. It was something too great, but yet served well enough. And so, getting on their horses, they travelled but a little way when in the opening of the mouth of the valley into a fair field they met with a coach drawn with four milk-white horses, furnished all in black with a black-a-moor boy upon every horse, they all apparelled in white, the coach itself very richly furnished in black and white. But before they could come so near as to discern what was within, there came running upon them above a dozen horsemen, who cried to them to yield themselves prisoners or else they should die. But Palladius, not accustomed to grant over the possession of himself upon so unjust titles, with sword drawn gave them so rude an answer that divers of them never had breath to reply again: for, being well backed by Clitophon, and having an excellent horse under him, when he was overpressed by some he avoided them, and ere the other thought of it, punished in him his fellow’s faults, and so either with cunning or with force, or rather with a cunning force, left none of them either living or able to make his life serve to others’ hurt. Which being done, he approached the coach, assuring the black boys they should have no hurt, who were else ready to have run away; and looking in the coach, he found in the one end a lady of great beauty, and such a beauty as showed forth the beams both of wisdom and good nature, but all as much darkened as might be, with sorrow. In the other, two ladies (who by their demeanour showed well they were but her servants) holding before them a picture in which was a goodly gentleman whom he knew not, painted, having in their faces a certain waiting sorrow, their eyes being infected with their mistress’s weeping. But the chief lady having not so much as once heard the noise of this conflict (so had sorrow closed up all the entries of her mind, and love tied her senses to that beloved picture), now the shadow of him falling upon the picture made her cast up her eye, and seeing the armour which too well she knew, thinking him to be Amphialus, the lord of her desires (blood coming more freely into her cheeks, as though it would be bold, and yet there growing new again pale for fear) with a pitiful look, like one unjustly condemned. “My Lord Amphialus,” said she, “you have enough punished me; it is time for cruelty to leave you, and evil fortune me; if not, I pray you (and to grant my prayer fitter time nor place you cannot have) accomplish the one even now, and finish the other.” With that, sorrow impatient to be slowly uttered in her often staying speeches, poured itself so fast into tears, that Palladius could not hold her longer in error, but pulling off his helmet, “Madam,” said he, “I perceive you mistake me; I am a stranger in these parts, set upon without any cause given by me by some of your servants, whom, because I have in my just defence evil intreated, I came to make my excuse to you, whom seeing such as I do, I find greater cause why I should crave pardon of you.” When she saw his face and heard his speech she looked out of the coach, and seeing her men, some slain, some lying under their dead horses and striving to get from under them, without making more account of the matter; “Truly,” said she, “they are well served that durst lift up their arms against that armour. But, Sir Knight,” said she, “I pray you tell me, how came you by this armour? for if it be by the death of him that owned it, then have I more to say unto you.” Palladius assured her it was not so, telling her the true manner how he found it. “It is like enough,” said she, “for that agrees with the manner he hath lately used. But I beseech you, Sir,” said she, “since your prowess hath bereft me of my company, let it yet so far heal the wounds itself hath given as to guard me to the next town.” “How great soever my business be, fair lady,” said he, “it shall willingly yield to so noble a cause: but first, even by the favour you bear to the lord of this noble armour, I conjure you to tell me the story of your fortune herein, lest, hereafter, when the image of so excellent a lady in so strange a plight come before mine eyes, I condemn myself of want of consideration in not having demanded thus much. Neither ask I it without protestation that wherein my sword and faith may avail you they shall bind themselves to your service.” “Your conjuration, fair knight,” said she, “is too strong for my poor spirit to disobey, and that shall make me (without any other hope, my ruin being but by one unrelievable) to grant your will herein, and to say the truth, a strange niceness were it in me to refrain that from the ears of a person representing so much worthiness, which I am glad even to rocks and woods to utter. Know you then that my name is Helen, queen by birth, and hitherto possessed of the fair city and territory of Corinth. I can say no more of myself but that I am beloved of my people, and may justly say beloved, since they are content to bear with my absence and folly. But I being left by my father’s death, and accepted by my people in the highest degree that country could receive; as soon, or rather, before that my age was ripe for it, my court quickly swarmed full of suitors: some, perchance, loving my estate, others my person; but once, I know all of them, however my possessions were in their heart, my beauty, such as it is, was in their mouths, many strangers of princely and noble blood, and all of mine own country, to whom either birth or virtue gave courage to avow so high a desire.
“Among the rest, or rather, before the rest, was the lord Philoxenus, son and heir to the virtuous nobleman, Timotheus, which Timotheus was a man both in power, riches, parentage, and, which passed all these, goodness; and, which followed all these, love of the people, beyond any of the great men of my country. Now, this son of his, I must say truly, not unworthy of such a father, bending himself by all means of serviceableness to me, and setting forth of himself to win my favour, won thus far of me that in truth I less misliked him than any of the rest, which, in some proportion, my countenance delivered unto him. Though, I must confess, it was a very false ambassador if it delivered at all any affection whereof my heart was utterly void, I as then esteeming myself born to rule, and thinking foul scorn willingly to submit myself to be ruled.
“But while Philoxenus in good sort pursued my favour, and perchance nourished himself with overmuch hope, because he found I did in some sort acknowledge his virtue; one time among the rest he brought with him a dear friend of his.” With that she looked upon the picture before her, and straight sighed, and straight tears flowed, as if the idol of duty ought to be honoured with such oblations; and then her speech stayed the tale, having brought her to that look, but that look having quite put her out of her tale.
But Palladius greatly pitying so sweet a sorrow in a lady, whom by fame he had already known and honoured, besought for her promise sake to put silence so long unto her moaning till she had recounted the rest of this story. “Why,” said she, “this is the picture of Amphialus: what need I say more unto you? What ear is so barbarous but hath heard of Amphialus? Who follows deeds of arms, but everywhere finds monuments of Amphialus? Who is courteous, noble, liberal, but he hath the example before his eyes of Amphialus? Where are all heroical parts but in Amphialus? O Amphialus, I would thou wert not so excellent, or I would I thought thee not so excellent, and yet would I not that I would so.” With that she wept again; till he again soliciting the conclusion of her story: “Then you must,” said she, “know the story of Amphialus, for his will is my life, his life my history: and indeed in what can I better employ my lips than in speaking of Amphialus.
“This knight, then, whose figure you see, but whose mind can be painted by nothing but by their true shape of virtue, is brother’s son to Basilius, King of Arcadia, and in his childhood esteemed his heir, till Basilius, in his old years, marrying a young and fair lady, had of her those two daughters, so famous for their perfection in beauty, which put by their young cousin from that expectation. Whereupon his mother (a woman of an haughty heart, being daughter to the King of Argos) either disdaining or fearing that her son should live under the power of Basilius, sent him to that lord Timotheus (between whom and her dead husband there had passed straight bands of mutual hospitality) to be brought up in company with his son Philoxenus.
“A happy resolution for Amphialus, whose excellent nature was by this means trained on with as good education as any prince’s son in the world could have, which otherwise it is thought his mother, far unworthy of such a son, would not have given him: the good Timotheus no less loving him than his own son. Well, they grew in years, and shortly occasions fell aptly to try Amphialus, and all occasions were but steps for him to climb fame by. Nothing was so hard but his valour overcame; which yet still he so guided with true virtue that although no man was in our parts spoken of but he for his manhood, yet, as though therein he excelled himself, he was commonly called the courteous Amphialus. An endless thing it were for me to tell how many adventures, terrible to be spoken of, he achieved, what monsters, what giants, what conquests of countries, sometimes using policy, sometimes force, but always virtue well followed, and but followed by Philoxenus, between whom and him so fast a friendship by education was knit that at last Philoxenus having no greater matter to employ his friendship in than to win me, therein desired, and had his uttermost furtherance: to that purpose brought he him to my court, where truly I may justly witness with him that what his wit could conceive (and his wit can conceive as far as the limits of reason stretch) was all directed to the setting forward the suit of his friend Philoxenus: mine ears could hear nothing from him but touching the worthiness of Philoxenus, and of the great happiness it would be unto me to have such a husband; with many arguments, which God knows I cannot well remember, because I did not much believe. For why should I use many circumstances to come to that where already I am, and ever while I live must continue? in few words, while he pleaded for another, he won me for himself: if at least,” with that she sighed, “he would account it a winning, for his fame had so framed the way to my mind that his presence, so full of beauty, sweetness and noble conversation, had entered there before he vouchsafed to call for the keys. O lord, how did my soul hang at his lips while he spake! O when he in feeling manner would describe the love of his friend, how well, thought I, doth love between those lips! when he would with daintiest eloquence stir pity in me toward Philoxenus, ‘Why sure,’ said I to myself, ‘Helen, be not afraid, this heart cannot want pity:’ and when he would extol the deeds of Philoxenus, who indeed had but waited of him therein, alas, thought I, good Philoxenus, how evil doth it become thy name to be subscribed to his letter? what should I say? nay, what should I not say (noble knight! who am not ashamed, nay am delighted, thus to express my own passions?
“Days passed, his eagerness for his friend never decreased, my affection to him ever increased. At length, in way of ordinary courtesy, I obtained of him, who suspected no such matter, this his picture, the only Amphialus, I fear, that I shall ever enjoy; and grown bolder, or madder, or bold with madness, I discovered my affection unto him. But lord, I shall never forget how anger and courtesy at one instant appeared in his eyes when he heard that motion; how with his blush he taught me shame. In sum, he left nothing unassayed which might disgrace himself to grace his friend, in sweet terms making me receive a most resolute refusal of himself. But when he found that his presence did far more persuade for himself than his speech could do for his friend, he left my court, hoping that forgetfulness, which commonly waits upon absence, would make room for his friend, to whom he would not utter thus much, I think, for a kind fear not to grieve him, or perchance, though he cares little for me, of a certain honourable gratefulness, not yet to discover so much of my secrets: but, as it should seem, meant to travel into far countries, until his friend’s affection either ceased or prevailed. But within a while, Philoxenus came to see how onward the fruits were of his friend’s labour, when (as in truth I cared not much how he took it) he found me sitting, beholding this picture, I know not with how affectionate countenance, but I am sure with a most affectionate mind. I straight found jealousy and disdain took hold of him, and yet the froward pain of mine own heart made me so delight to punish him whom I esteemed to be the chiefest let in my way; that when he with humble gesture, and vehement speeches sued for my favour, I told him that I would hear him more willingly if he would speak for Amphialus as well as Amphialus had done for him: he never answered me, but pale and quaking, went straight away; and straight my heart misgave me some evil success: and yet, though I had authority enough to have stayed him (as in these fatal things it falls out that the high-working powers make second causes unwittingly accessory to their determinations) I did no further, but sent a footman of mine (whose faithfulness to me I well knew) from place to place to follow him and bring me word of his proceedings, which (alas!) have brought forth that which I fear I must ever rue.
“For he had travelled scarce a day’s journey out of my country, but that, not far from this place, he overtook Amphialus, who, by succouring a distressed lady, had been here stayed, and by and by called him to fight with him, protesting that one of them two should die. You may easily judge how strange it was to Amphialus, whose heart could accuse itself of no fault but too much affection toward him, which he, refusing to fight with him, would fain have made Philoxenus understand, but, as my servant since told me, the more Amphialus went back, the more he followed, calling him traitor and coward, yet never telling the cause of this strange alteration. ‘Ah Philoxenus,’ said Amphialus, ‘I know I am no traitor, and thou well knowest I am no coward: but I pray thee content thyself with this much, and let this satisfy thee that I love thee, since I bear thus much of thee.’ But he, leaving words, drew his sword and gave Amphialus a great blow or two, which, but for the goodness of his armour, would have slain him: and yet so far did Amphialus contain himself, stepping aside, and saying to him, ‘Well, Philoxenus, and thus much villainy am I content to put up, not any longer for thy sake (whom I have no cause to love since thou dost injure me, and wilt not tell me the cause) but for thy virtuous father’s sake to whom I am so much bound, I pray thee go away, and conquer thy own passions and thou shalt make me soon yield to be thy servant.’ But he would not attend to his words, but still struck so fiercely at Amphialus that in the end (nature prevailing above determination) he was fain to defend himself, and withal so to offend him that by an unlucky blow the poor Philoxenus fell dead at his feet, having had time only to speak some few words, whereby Amphialus knew it was for my sake: which when Amphialus saw, he forthwith gave such tokens of true-felt sorrow that, as my servant said, no imagination could conceive greater woe. But that by and by an unhappy occasion made Amphialus pass himself in sorrow: for Philoxenus was but newly dead, when there comes to the same place the aged and virtuous Timotheus; who (having heard of his son’s sudden and passionate manner of parting from my court) had followed him as speedily as he could, but alas not so speedily but that he found him dead before he could overtake him. Though my heart be nothing but a stage of tragedies, yet, I must confess, it is even unable to bear the miserable representation thereof, knowing Amphialus and Timotheus as I have done. Alas, what sorrow, what amazement, what shame was in Amphialus when he saw his dear foster-father find him the killer of his only son? In my heart, I know he wished mountains had lain upon him to keep him from that meeting. As for Timotheus, sorrow for his son, and, I think principally, unkindness of Amphialus so devoured his vital spirits that, able to say no more, but ‘Amphialus, Amphialus, have I?’ he sank to the earth, and presently died.
“But not my tongue, though daily used to complaints, no, nor if my heart, which is nothing but sorrow, were turned to tongues, durst it undertake to show the unspeakableness of his grief. But, because this serves to make you know my fortune, he threw away his armour, even this which you have now upon you, which at the first sight I vainly hoped he had put on again; and then, as ashamed of the light, he ran into the thickest of the woods, lamenting, and even crying out so pitifully that my servant, though of a fortune not used to much tenderness, could not refrain weeping when he told it me. He once overtook him; but Amphialus drawing his sword, which was the only part of his arms, God knows to what purpose, he carried about him, threatened to kill him if he followed him, and withal bade him deliver this bitter message, that he well enough found I was the cause of all this mischief, and that if I were a man, he would go over the world to kill me, but bade me assure myself that of all creatures in the world he most hated me. Ah, Sir knight, whose ears I think by this time are tired with the rugged ways of these misfortunes, now weigh my case, if at least you know what love is. For this cause have I left my country, putting in hazard how my people will in time deal by me, adventuring what perils or dishonours might ensue, only to follow him who proclaimeth hate against me, and to bring my neck unto him, if that may redeem my trespass, and assuage his fury. And now, Sir,” said she, “you have your request, I pray you take pains to guide me to the next town, that there I may gather such of my company again as your valour hath left me.”
Palladius willingly condescended, but ere they began to go, there came Clitophon who, having been something hurt by one of them, had pursued him a good way: at length overtaking him, and ready to kill him, understood they were servants to the fair queen Helen, and that the cause of this enterprise was for nothing but to make Amphialus prisoner, whom they knew their mistress sought; for she concealed her sorrow, nor cause of her sorrow from nobody. But Clitophon, very sorry for this accident, came back to comfort the queen, helping such as were hurt in the best sort that he could, and framing friendly constructions of this rashly undertaken enmity, when in comes another, till that time unseen, all armed, with his beaver down, who first looking round about upon the company, as soon as he espied Palladius, he drew his sword, and making no other prologue, let fly at him. But Palladius, sorry for so much harm as had already happened, fought rather to retire and ward, thinking he might be someone that belonged to the fair queen, whose case in his heart he pitied. Which Clitophon seeing, stepped between them, asking the new-come knight the cause of this quarrel, who answered him, that he would kill that thief who had stolen away his master’s armour, if he did not restore it. With that Palladius looked upon him and saw that he of the other side had Palladius’s own armour upon him. “Truly,” said Palladius “if I have stolen this armour, you did not buy that; but you shall not fight with me upon such a quarrel; you shall have this armour willingly, which I did only put on to do honour to the owner.” But Clitophon straight knew by his words and voice that it was Ismenus, the faithful and diligent page of Amphialus; and, therefore, telling him that he was Clitophon, and willing him to acknowledge his error to the other, who deserved all honour, the young gentleman pulled off his head-piece, and, lighting, went to kiss Palladius’s hands, desiring him to pardon his folly, caused by extreme grief, which easily might bring forth anger. “Sweet gentleman,” said Palladius, “you shall only make me this amends, that you shall carry this your lord’s armour from me to him, and tell him from an unknown knight, who admires his worthiness, that he cannot cast a greater mist over his glory than by being so unkind to so excellent a princess as this queen is.” Ismenus promised he would as soon as he durst find his master: and with that went to do his duty to the queen, whom in all these encounters astonishment made hardy: but as soon as she saw Ismenus, looking to her picture, “Ismenus,” said she, “here is my lord, where is yours? or come you to bring me some sentence of death from him? if it be so, welcome be it. I pray you speak, and speak quickly.” “Alas! Madam,” said Ismenus, “I have lost my lord;” with that tears came into his eyes, “for as soon as the unhappy combat was concluded, with the death both of father and son, my master, casting off his armour, went his way, forbidding me upon pain of death to follow him. Yet divers days I followed his steps, till lastly I found him, having newly met with an excellent spaniel belonging to his dead companion Philoxenus. The dog straight fawned on my master, for old knowledge, but never was there thing more pitiful than to hear my master blame the dog for loving his master’s murderer, renewing afresh his complaints with the dumb counsellor, as if they might comfort one another in their miseries. But my lord having espied me, rose up in such rage that in truth I feared he would kill me: yet as then he said only, if I would not displease him, I should not come near him till he sent for me: too hard a commandment for me to disobey: I yielded, leaving him only waited on by his dog, and as I think seeking out the most solitary places that this or any other country can grant him: and I, returning where I had left his armour, found another instead thereof, and (disdaining I must confess that any should bear the armour of the best knight living) armed myself therein to play the fool, as even now I did.” “Fair Ismenus,” said the queen, “a fitter messenger could hardly be to unfold my tragedy, I see the end, I see my end.”
With that, sobbing, she desired to be conducted to the next town, where Palladius left her to be waited on by Clitophon, at Palladius’s earnest entreaty, who desired alone to take that melancholy course of seeking his friend; and therefore changing armour again with Ismenus, who went withal to a castle belonging to his master, he continued his quest for his friend Daiphantus.
So directed he his course to Laconia, as well among the Helots, as Spartans: there indeed he found his fame flourishing, his monuments engraved in marble, and yet more durably in men’s memories; but the universal lamenting his absented presence, assured him of his present absence. Thence into the Elean province, to see whether at the Olympian games there celebrated he might in such concourse bless his eyes with so desired an encounter: but that huge and sportful assembly grew to him a tedious loneliness, esteeming nobody found, since Diaphantus was lost. Afterwards he passeth through Achaia and Sicyonia, to the Corinthians, proud of their two seas, to learn whether by the straight of that Isthmus it were possible to know of his passage. But finding every place more dumb than other to his demands, and remembering that it was late-taken love which had wrought this new course, he returned again, after two months travel in vain, to make a fresh search in Arcadia; so much the more as then first he bethought himself of the picture of Philoclea, which resembling her he had once loved, might perhaps awake again that sleeping passion. And having already passed over the greatest part of Arcadia, one day coming under the side of the pleasant mountain Maenalus, his horse, nothing guilty of his inquisitiveness, with flat tiring taught him, that discreet stays make speedy journeys: and therefore lighting down, and unbridling his horse, he himself went to repose himself in a little wood he saw thereby. Where lying under the protection of a shady tree, with intention to make forgetting sleep comfort a sorrowful memory, he saw a sight which persuaded and obtained of his eyes that they would abide yet a while open. It was the appearing of a lady, who because she walked with her side toward him, he could not perfectly see her face, but so much he might see of her, that was a surety for the rest, that all was excellent.
Well might he perceive the hanging of her hair in fairest quantity, in locks some curled, and some as it were forgotten, with such a careless care, and an art so hiding art, that she seemed she would lay them for a pattern, whether nature simply, or nature helped by cunning, be the more excellent: the rest whereof was drawn into a coronet of gold richly set with pearl, and so joined all over with gold wires and covered with feathers of divers colours that it was not unlike to an helmet, such a glittering show it bare, and so bravely it was held up from the head. Upon her body she wore a doublet of sky-coloured satin, covered with plates of gold, and, as it were, nailed with precious stones, that in it she might seem armed; the nether part of her garment was full of stuff, and cut after such a fashion that though the length of it reached to the ankles, yet in her going one might sometimes discern the small of her leg, which with the foot was dressed in a short pair of crimson velvet buskins, in some places open, as the ancient manner was, to show the fairness of the skin. Over all this she wore a certain mantle, made in such manner, that coming under her right arm and covering most of that side, it had no fastening on the left side, but only upon the top of her shoulder, where the two ends met, and were closed together with a very rich jewel: the device whereof, as he after saw, was this: a Hercules made in little form, but set with a distaff in his hand, as he once was by Omphale’s commandment, with a word in Greek, but thus to be interpreted, “Never more valiant.” On the same side on her thigh she wore a sword, which as it witnessed her to be an Amazon, or one following that profession, so it seemed but a needless weapon, since her other forces were without withstanding. But this lady walked out-right till he might see her enter into a fine close arbour: it was of trees, whose branches so lovingly interlaced one the other that it could resist the strongest violence of eye-sight, but she went into it by a door she opened, which moved him, as warily as he could, to follow her; and by and by he might hear her sing this song, with a voice no less beautiful to his ears than her goodliness was full of harmony to his eyes:
Transform’d in shew, but more transform’d in mind,
I cease to strive with double conquest foil’d:
For, woe is me, my powers all I find
With outward force, and inward treason, spoil’d.
For from without came to mine eyes the blow,
Whereto my inward thoughts did faintly yield:
Both these conspir’d poor reason’s overthrow;
False in myself, thus have I lost the field.
Thus are my eyes still captive to one sight,
Thus all my thoughts are slaves to one thought still:
Thus reason to his servants yields his right,
Thus is my power transformed to your will:
What marvel then, I take a woman’s hue,
Since what I see, think, know, is all but you?
This ditty gave him some suspicion, but the voice gave him almost assurance who the singer was. And therefore boldly thrusting open the door and entering into the arbour, he perceived indeed that it was Pyrocles thus disguised; wherewith not receiving so much joy to have found him as grief so to have found him, amazedly looking upon him (as Apollo is painted when he saw Daphne suddenly turned into a laurel) he was not able to bring forth a word. So that Pyrocles, (who had as much shame as Musidorus had sorrow) rising to him, would have formed a substantial excuse, but his insinuation being of blushing, and his division of sighs, his whole oration stood upon a short narration what was the cause of this metamorphosis. But by that time Musidorus had gathered his spirits together, and yet casting a ghastful countenance upon him, as if he would conjure some strange spirit, he thus spake unto him:
“And is it possible that this is Pyrocles, the only young prince in the world formed by nature, and framed by education to the true exercise of virtue? or is it indeed some Amazon that hath counterfeited the face of my friend in this sort to vex me? for likelier sure I would have thought it that any outward face might have been disguised than that the face of so excellent a mind could have been thus blemished. O sweet Pyrocles, separate yourself a little, if it be possible, from yourself, and let your own mind look upon your own proceedings; so shall my words be needless, and you best instructed. See with yourself how fit it will be for you in this your tender youth, born so great a prince, and of so rare not only expectation, but proof, desired of your old father, and wanted of your native country, now so near your home, to divert your thoughts from the way of goodness, to lose, nay, to abuse your time. Lastly, to overthrow all the excellent things you have done, which have filled the world with your fame; as if you should drown your ship in the long desired haven; or, like an ill player, should mar the last act of his tragedy. Remember, for I know you know it, that if we will be men the reasonable part of our soul is to have absolute commandment, against which, if any sensual weakness arise, we are to yield all our sound forces to the overthrowing of so unnatural a rebellion, wherein how can we want courage, since we are to deal against so weak an adversary that in itself is nothing but weakness? nay, we are to resolve that if reason direct it we must do it; and if we must do it, we will do it: for, to say ‘I cannot,’ is childish; and ‘I will not,’ womanish. And see how extremely every way you can endanger your mind; for, to take this womanish habit, without you frame your behavior accordingly, is wholly vain: your behaviour can never come kindly from you, but as the mind is proportioned unto it. So that you must resolve if you will play your part to any purpose, whatsoever peevish imperfections are in that sex to soften your heart to receive them, the very first down-step to all wickedness: for do not deceive yourself, my dear cousin, there is no man suddenly either excellently good or extremely evil, but grows either as he holds himself up in virtue, or lets himself slide to viciousness. And let us see what power is the author of all these troubles; forsooth love, love, a passion, and the basest and fruitlessest of all passions: fear breedeth wit; anger is the cradle of courage; joy openeth and enableth the heart; sorrow, as it closeth, so it draweth it inward to look to the correcting of itself; and so all of them generally have power towards some good by the direction of reason. But this bastard Love (for indeed the name of love is most unworthily applied to so hateful a humour) as it is engendered betwixt lust and idleness, as the matter it works upon is nothing but a certain base weakness which some gentle fools call a gentle heart; as his adjoined companions be unquietness, longings, fond comforts, faint discomforts, hopes, jealousies, ungrounded rages, causeless yielding, so is the highest end it aspires unto, a little pleasure with much pain before and great repentance after. But that end, how endless it runs into infinite evils, were fit enough for the matter we speak of, but not for your ears, in whom, indeed, there is so much true disposition to virtue; yet this much of his worthy effects in yourself is to be seen, that (besides your breaking laws of hospitality with Kalander, and of friendship with me) it utterly subverts the course of nature in making reason give place to sense, and man to woman. And truly I think hereupon it first got the name of love: for indeed the true love hath that excellent nature in it, that it doth transform the very essence of the lover into the thing loved, uniting, and as it were, incorporating it with a secret and inward working. And herein do these kinds of loves imitate the excellent: for, as the love of heaven makes one heavenly, the love of virtue, virtuous, so doth the love of the world make one become worldly: and this effeminate love of a woman doth so womanize a man, that, if he yield to it, it will not only make him an Amazon, but a launder, a distaff, a spinner, or whatsoever other vile occupation their idle heads can imagine and their weak hands perform. Therefore to trouble you no longer with my tedious, but loving words, if either you remember what you are, what you have been, or what you must be, if you consider what it is that moved you, or by what kind of creature you are moved, you shall find the cause so small, the effect so dangerous, yourself so unworthy to run into the one, or to be driven by the other, that I doubt not I shall quickly have occasion rather to praise you for having conquered it, than to give you further counsel how to do it.”
But in Pyrocles this speech wrought no more but that he, who before he was espied was afraid, after being perceived, was ashamed, now being hardly rubbed upon, left both fear and shame, and was moved to anger. But the exceeding goodwill he bore to Musidorus striving with it, he thus partly to satisfy him, but principally to loose the reins to his own motions, made him answer: “Cousin! whatsoever good disposition nature hath bestowed upon me, or however that disposition hath been by bringing up confirmed, this I must confess, that I am not yet come to that degree of wisdom to think light of the sex of whom I have my life, since if I be anything, which your friendship rather finds than I acknowledge, I was, to come to it, born of a woman, and nursed of a woman. And certainly, for this point of your speech doth nearest touch me, it is strange to see the unmanlike cruelty of mankind, who, not content with their tyrannous ambition to have brought the other’s virtuous patience under them, like childish masters, think their masterhood nothing without doing injury to them, who, if we will argue by reason, are framed of nature with the same parts of the mind for the exercise of virtue as we are. And for example, even this estate of Amazons, which I now for my greatest honour do seek to counterfeit, doth well witness that if generally the sweetness of their disposition did not make them see the vainness of these things which we account glorious, they neither want valour of mind, nor yet doth their fairness take away their force. And truly we men, and praisers of men, should remember that if we have such excellencies, it is reason to think them excellent creatures, of whom we are: since a kite never brought forth a good flying hawk. But to tell you true, as I think it superfluous to use any words of such a subject which is so praised in itself as it needs no praises; so withal, I fear, lest my conceit, not able to reach unto them, bring forth words which for their unworthiness may be a disgrace to them I so inwardly honour. Let this suffice that they are capable of virtue, and virtue, you yourselves say, is to be loved, and I too, truly: but this I willingly confess, that it likes me much better when I find virtue in a fair lodging than when I am bound to seek it in an ill-favoured creature, like a pearl in a dunghill. As for my fault of being an uncivil guest to Kalander, if you could feel what an inward guest myself am host unto, ye would think it were excusable, in that I rather perform the duties of an host than the ceremonies of a guest. And for my breaking the laws of friendship with you, which I would rather die than effectually do, truly I could find it in my heart to ask you pardon for it, but that your now handling of me gives me reason to confirm my former dealing.”
And here Pyrocles stayed, as to breathe himself, having been transported with a little vehemency, because it seemed him Musidorus had over-bitterly glanced against the reputation of womankind: but then quieting his countenance, as well as out of an unquiet mind it might be, he thus proceeded on: “And poor love,” said he, “dear cousin, is little beholding unto you, since you are not content to spoil it of the honour of the highest power of the mind which notable men have attributed unto it; but you deject it below all other passions, in truth somewhat strangely, since, if love receive any disgrace, it is by the company of these passions you prefer before it. For those kinds of bitter objections as that lust, idleness, and a weak heart should be, as it were, the matter and form of love, rather touch me, dear Musidorus, than love; but I am good witness of my own imperfections, and therefore will not defend myself: but herein I must say you deal contrary to yourself: for if I be so weak, then can you not with reason stir me up as you did by remembrance of my own virtue; or if indeed I be virtuous, then must ye confess that love hath his working in a virtuous heart; and so no doubt hath it, whatsoever I be: for, if we love virtue, in whom shall we love it but in a virtuous creature? without your meaning be, I should love this word Virtue, where I see it written in a book. Those troublesome effects you say it breeds be not the faults of love, but of him that loves, as an unable vessel to bear such a liquor, like evil eyes not able to look on the sun; or like a weak brain, soonest overthrown with the best wine. Even that heavenly love you speak of is accompanied in some hearts with hopes, griefs, longings, and despairs. And in that heavenly love, since there are two parts, the one the love itself, the other the excellency of the thing loved: I, not able at the first leap to frame both in me, do now, like a diligent workman, make ready the chief instrument and first part of that great work, which is love itself; which when I have a while practised in this sort, then you shall see me turn it to greater matters. And thus gently you may, if it please you, think of me. Neither doubt ye, because I wear a woman’s apparel, I will be the more womanish, since I assure you, for all my apparel, there is nothing I desire more than fully to prove myself a man in this enterprise. Much might be said in my defence, much more for love, and most of all for that divine creature which hath joined me and love together. But these disputations are fitter for quiet schools than my troubled brains, which are bent rather in deeds to perform than in words to defend the noble desire that possesseth me.” “O lord,” said Musidorus, “how sharp-witted you are to hurt yourself.” “No,” answered he, “but it is the hurt you speak of which makes me so sharp-witted.” “Even so,” said Musidorus, “as every base occupation makes one sharp in that practice and foolish in all the rest.” “Nay rather,” answered Pyrocles, “as each excellent thing once well-learned serves for a measure of all other knowledges.” “And is that become,” said Musidorus, “a measure for other things which never received measure in itself?” “It is counted without measure,” answered Pyrocles, “because the workings of it are without measure, but otherwise, in nature it hath measure, since it hath an end allotted unto it.” The beginning, being so excellent, I would gladly know the end. “Enjoying,” answered Pyrocles, with a sigh, “I speak of the end to which it is directed which end ends not, no sooner than the life.” “Alas! let your own brain disenchant you,” said Musidorus. “My heart is too far possessed,” said Pyrocles. “But the head gives you direction, and the heart gives me life,” answered Musidorus.
But Musidorus was so grieved to see his well-beloved friend obstinate, as he thought, to his own destruction, that it forced him with more than accustomed vehemency to speak these words. “Well, well,” said he, “you list to abuse yourself; it was a very white and red virtue, which you could pick out of a painterly glose of a visage. Confess the truth, and you shall find the utmost was but beauty, a thing, which though it be in as great excellency in yourself as may be in any, yet I am sure you make no further reckoning of it than of an outward fading benefit nature bestowed upon you. And yet such is your want of a true grounded virtue, which must be like itself in all points, that what you wisely account a trifle in yourself, you fondly become a slave unto in another. For my part I now protest I have left nothing unsaid which my wit could make me know, or my most entire friendship to you requires of me. I do not beseech you, even for the love betwixt us, if this other love hath left any in you towards me, and for the remembrance of your old careful father (if you can remember him that forgot yourself) lastly, for Pyrocles’ own sake, who is now upon the point of falling or rising, to purge yourself of this vile infection: otherwise give me leave to leave off this name of friendship as an idle title of a thing which cannot be where virtue is not established.”
The length of these speeches before had not so much cloyed Pyrocles, though he were very impatient of long deliberations, as this last farewell of him he loved as his own life did wound his soul. For thinking himself afflicted, he was the apter to conceive unkindness deeply, insomuch that shaking his head, and delivering some show of tears, he thus uttered his grief: “Alas!” said he, “Prince Musidorus, how cruelly you deal with me; if you seek the victory, take it; and, if ye list, the triumph. Have you all the reason of the world, and with me remain all the imperfections; yet such as I can no more lay from me, than the crow can be persuaded by the swan to cast off all his black feathers. But truly you deal with me like a physician who, seeing his patient in a pestilent fever, should chide him instead of ministering help, and bid him be sick no more; or rather like such a friend, that visiting his friend condemned to perpetual prison, and laden with grievous fetters, should will him to shake off his fetters, or he would leave him. I am sick, and sick to the death; I am prisoner, neither is there any redress but by her to whom I am a slave. Now, if you list, leave him that loves you in the highest degree: but remember ever to carry this with you, that you abandon your friend in his greatest extremity.”
And herewith the deep wound of his love being rubbed afresh with this new unkindness, began, as it were, to bleed again in such sort that he was unable to bear it any longer, but gushing out abundance of tears, and crossing his arms over his woeful heart, he sunk down to the ground, which sudden trance went so to the heart of Musidorus, that falling down by him, and kissing the weeping eyes of his friend, he besought him not to make account of his speech, which if it had been over-vehement, yet was it to be borne withal, because it came out of a love much more vehement, that he had not thought fancy could have received so deep a wound; but now finding in him the force of it, he would no further contrary it but employ all his service to medicine it in such sort as the nature of it required. But even this kindness made Pyrocles the more to melt in the former unkindness, which his manlike tears well shewed, with a silent look upon Musidorus, as who should say: “And is it possible that Musidorus should threaten to leave me?” and this struck Musidorus’s mind and senses so dumb, too, that for grief being not able to say anything, they rested with their eyes placed one upon the other, in such sort as might well paint out the true passion of unkindness to be never aright, but betwixt them that most dearly love.
And thus remained they a time, till at length Musidorus embracing him, said “And will you thus shake off your friend?” “It is you that shake me off,” said Pyrocles, “being for my unperfectness unworthy of your friendship.” “But this,” said Musidorus, “shows you more unperfect to be cruel to him that submits himself unto you. But since you are unperfect,” said he, smiling, “it is reason you be governed by us wise and perfect men. And that authority will I begin to take upon me, with three absolute commandments: the first, that you increase not your evil with further griefs: the second, that you love her with all the powers of your mind: and the last commandment shall be, you command me to do what service I can towards the attaining of your desires.” Pyrocles’s heart was not so oppressed with the two mighty passions of love and unkindness but that it yielded to some mirth at this commandment of Musidorus that he should love, so that something clearing his face from his former shows of grief: “Well,” said he, “dear cousin! I see by the well choosing of your commandments that you are far fitter to be a prince than a counsellor, and therefore I am resolved to employ all my endeavour to obey you, with this condition, that the commandments ye command me to lay upon you shall only be, that you continue to love me, and look upon my imperfections with more affection than judgment.” “Love you,” said he, “alas! how can my heart be separated from the true embracing of it without it burst by being too full of it?” “But,” said he, “let us leave off these flowers of new begun friendship: and now I pray you again tell me, but tell it me fully, omitting no circumstance, the story of your affections, both beginning and proceeding, assuring yourself, that there is nothing so great which I will fear to do for you, nor nothing so small which I will disdain to do for you. Let me, therefore, receive a clear understanding, which many times we miss, while those things we account small, as a speech or a look, are omitted, like as a whole sentence may fail of his congruity by wanting one particle. Therefore between friends all must be laid open, nothing being superfluous nor tedious.” “You shall be obeyed,” said Pyrocles, “and here are we in as fit a place for it as may be; for this arbour nobody offers to come into but myself, I using it as my melancholy retiring place, and therefore that respect is borne unto it: yet if by chance any should come, say that you are a servant sent from the queen of the Amazons to seek me, and then let me alone for the rest.” So sat they down, and Pyrocles thus said:
“Cousin!” said he, “then began the fatal overthrow of all my liberty when, walking among the pictures in Kalander’s house, you yourself delivered unto me what you had understood of Philoclea, who much resembling (though I must say much surpassing) the lady Zelmane, whom so well I loved: there were mine eyes, infected, and at your mouth did I drink the poison. Yet alas! so sweet was it unto me, that I could not be contented, till Kalander had made it more and more strong with his declaration. Which the more I questioned, the more pity I conceived of her unworthy fortune; and when with pity once my heart was made tender, according to the aptness of the humour, it received quickly a cruel impression of that wonderful passion, which to be defined is impossible, because no words reach to the strange nature of it: they only know it, which inwardly feel it; it is called love. Yet did I not (poor wretch!) at first know my disease, thinking it only such a wonted kind of desire to see rare sights, and my pity to be no other but the fruits of a gentle nature. But even this arguing with myself came of further thoughts, and the more I argued the more my thoughts increased. Desirous I was to see the place where she remained, as though the architecture of the lodges would have been much for my learning, but more desirous to see herself, to be judge, forsooth, of the painter’s cunning. For thus at the first did I flatter myself, as though my wound had been no deeper: but when within short time I came to the degree of uncertain wishes, and that those wishes grew to unquiet longings, when I could fix my thoughts upon nothing but that within little varying they should end with Philoclea; when each thing I saw seemed to figure out some part of my passions; when even Parthenia’s fair face became a lecture to me of Philoclea’s imagined beauty; when I heard no word spoken, but that methought it carried the sound of Philoclea’s name; then indeed, then I did yield to the burden, finding myself prisoner, before I had leisure to arm myself: and that I might well, like the spaniel, gnaw upon the chain that ties him; but I should sooner mar my teeth, than procure liberty: yet I take to witness the eternal spring of virtue, that I had never read, heard, nor seen anything: I had never any taste of philosophy, nor inward feeling in myself, which for a while I did not call to my succour. But, alas! what resistance was there, when ere long my very reason was, you will say, corrupted, I must confess, conquered, and that methought even reason did assure me that all eyes did degenerate from their creation which did not honour such beauty? nothing in truth could hold any plea with it but the reverend friendship I bear unto you. For as it went against my heart to break anyway from you, so did I fear, more than any assault, to break it to you: finding, as it is indeed, that to a heart fully resolute, counsel is tedious, but reprehension is loathsome: and that there is nothing more terrible to a guilty heart, than the eye of a respected friend. This made me determine with myself, thinking it a less fault in friendship to do a thing without your knowledge, than against your will, to take this secret course, which conceit was most builded up in me the last day of my parting and speaking with you, when upon your speech with me, and my but naming love, when else perchance I would have gone further, I saw your voice and countenance so change, as it assured me my revealing it should but purchase your grief with my cumber, and therefore (dear Musidorus!) even ran away from my well-known chiding: for having written a letter, which I know not whether you found or no, and taking my chief jewels with me, while you were in the midst of your sport, I got a time, as I think, unmarked by any, to steal away I cared not whither, so I might escape you, and so came I to Ithonia, in the province of Messenia, where, lying secret, I put this in practice, which before I had devised. For remembering by Philanax’s letter and Kalander’s speech, how obstinately Basilius was determined not to marry his daughters, and therefore fearing lest any public dealing should rather increase her captivity than further my love; love (the refiner of invention) had put in my head thus to disguise myself, that under that mask I might, if it were possible, get access, and what access could bring forth commit to fortune and industry, determining to bear the countenance of an Amazon. Therefore in the closest manner I could, naming myself Zelmane, for that dear lady’s sake, to whose memory I am so much bound, I caused this apparel to be made, and bringing it near the lodges, which are hard at hand, by night thus dressed myself, resting till occasion might make me to be found by them whom I sought; which the next morning happened as well as mine own plot could have laid it. For after I had run over the whole pedigree of my thoughts, I gave myself to sing a little, which, as you know, I ever delighted in, so now especially, whether it be the nature of this clime to stir up poetical fancies, or rather as I think, of love, whose scope being pleasure, will not so much as utter his griefs, but in some form of pleasure.
“But I had sung very little, when (as I think, displeased with my bad music) comes master Dametas with a hedging bill in his hand, chafing and swearing by the pantoffle of Pallas, and such other oaths as his rustical bravery could imagine; and when he saw me, I assure you, my beauty was no more beholding to him than my harmony; for leaning his hands upon his bill, and his chin upon his hands, with the voice of one that playeth Hercules in a play, but never had his fancy in his head, the first word he spake unto me, was, ‘Am not I Dametas? why am not I Dametas?’ He needed not to name himself, for Kalander’s description had let such a note upon him as made him very notable unto me; and therefore the height of my thoughts would not descend so much as to make him answer, but continued on my inward discourses; which he (perchance witness of his own unworthiness, and therefore the apter to think himself contemned) took in so heinous a manner, that standing upon his tiptoes, and staring as if he would have had a mote pulled out of his eye. ‘Why,’ said he, ‘thou woman or boy, or both, whatsoever thou be, I tell thee here is no place for thee, here is no place for thee, get thee gone, I tell thee it is the prince’s pleasure, it is Dametas’s pleasure.’ I could not choose but smile at him, seeing him look so like an ape that had newly taken a purgation; yet taking myself with the manner, spake these words to myself: ‘O spirit,’ said I, ‘of mine, how canst thou receive any mirth in the midst of thine agonies? and thou mirth, how darest thou enter into a mind so grown of late thy professed enemy?’ ‘Thy spirit,’ said Dametas, ‘dost thou think me a spirit? I tell thee I am Basilius’s officer, and have charge of him and his daughters.’ ‘O only pearl,’ said I sobbing, ‘that so vile an oyster should keep thee?’ ‘By the comb case of Diana,’ sware Dametas, ‘this woman is mad: oysters and pearls? dost thou think I will buy oysters? I tell thee once again, get thee packing,’ and with that lifted up his bill to hit me with the blunt end of it; but indeed that put me quite out of my lesson; so that I forgot all Zelmaneship, and drawing out my sword, the baseness of the villain yet made me stay my hand, and he (who as Kalander told me, from his childhood ever feared the blade of a sword) ran back, backward, with his hands above his head at least twenty paces, gaping and staring with the very grace, I think, of the clowns that by Latona’s prayers were turned into frogs.
“At length staying, finding himself without the compass of blows, he fell to a fresh scolding, in such mannerly manner, as might well show he had passed thro’ the discipline of a tavern; but seeing me walk up and down without marking what he said, he went his way, as I perceived after, to Basilius: for within a while he came unto me, bearing indeed shows in his countenance of an honest and well-minded gentleman, and with as much courtesy as Dametas with rudeness saluting me: ‘Fair lady,’ said he, ‘it is nothing strange that such a solitary place as this should receive solitary persons, but much do I marvel how such a beauty as yours is should be suffered to be thus alone.’ I, that now knew it was my part to play, looking with a grave majesty upon him, as if I found in myself cause to be reverenced. ‘They are never alone,’ said I, ‘that are accompanied with noble thoughts.’ ‘But those thoughts,’ replied Basilius, ‘cannot in this your loneliness neither warrant you from suspicion in others, nor defend you from melancholy in yourself:’ I then showing a mislike that he pressed me so far; ‘I seek no better warrant,’ said I, ‘than my own conscience, nor no greater pleasure than my own contentation.’ ‘Yet virtue seeks to satisfy others,’ said Basilius. ‘Those that be good,’ said I, ‘and they will be satisfied as long as they see no evil.’ ‘Yet will the best in this country,’ said Basilius, ‘suspect so excellent beauty being so weakly guarded.’ ‘Then are the best but stark naught,’ answered I, ‘for open suspecting others, comes of secret condemning themselves: but in my country, whose manners I am in all places to maintain and reverence, the general goodness which is nourished in our hearts makes every one think the strength of virtue in another, whereof they find the assured foundation in themselves.’ ‘Excellent lady,’ said he, ‘you praise so greatly, and yet so wisely, your country that I must needs desire to know what the nest is out of which such birds do fly.’ ‘You must first deserve it,’ said I, ‘before you may obtain it.’ ‘And by what means,’ said Basilius, ‘shall I deserve to know your estate?’ ‘By letting me first know yours,’ answered I. ‘To obey you,’ said he, ‘I will do it, although it were so much more reason yours should be known first, as you do deserve in all points to be preferred. Know you, fair lady, that my name is Basilius, unworthily lord of this country: the rest, either fame hath already brought to your ears, or (if it please you to make this place happy by your presence) at more leisure you shall understand of me.’ I that from the beginning assured myself it was he, but would not seem I did so, to keep my gravity the better, making a piece of reverence unto him; ‘Mighty prince,’ said I, ‘let my not knowing you serve for the excuse of my boldness, and the little reverence I do you impute to the manner of my country, which is the invincible land of the Amazons: myself niece to Senicia, queen thereof, lineally descended of the famous Penthesilea, slain by the bloody hand of Pyrrhus: I having, in this my youth determined to make the world see the Amazons’ excellencies, as well in private as in public virtue, have passed some dangerous adventures in divers countries, till the unmerciful sea deprived me of my company; so that shipwreck casting me not far hence, uncertain wandering brought me to this place.’ But Basilius (who now began to taste of that, which since he had swallowed up, as I will tell you) fell to more cunning intreating my abode, than any greedy host should use to well-paying passengers. I thought nothing could shoot righter at the mark of my desires; yet had I learned already so much, that it was against my womanhood to be forward in my own wishes. And therefore he (to prove whether intercessions in fitter mouths might better prevail) commanded Dametas to bring forthwith his wife and daughters thither; three ladies, although of diverse, yet of excellent beauty.
“His wife in grave matron-like attire, with countenance and gesture suitable, and of such fairness, being in the strength of her age, as, if her daughters had not been by, might with just price have purchased admiration: but they being there, it was enough that the most dainty eye would think her a worthy mother of such children. The fair Pamela, whose noble heart I find doth greatly disdain that the trust of her virtue is reposed in such a lout’s hands as Dametas, had yet, to show an obedience, taken on shepherdish apparel, which was but of russet-cloth cut after their fashion, with a straight body, open breasted, the nether part full of plaits, with long and wide sleeves: but believe me she did apparel her apparel, and with the preciousness of her body made it most sumptuous. Her hair at the full length, wound about with gold lace, only by the comparison to show how far her hair doth excel in colour: betwixt her breasts (which sweetly rose like two fair mountainets in the pleasant vale of Tempe) there hung a very rich diamond set but in a black horn; the word I have since read is this, ‘Yet still myself.’ And thus particularly have I described them because you may know that mine eyes are not so partial but that I marked them too. But when the ornament of the earth, the model of heaven, the triumph of nature, the life of beauty, the queen of love, young Philoclea appeared in her nymph-like apparel, so near nakedness as one might well discern part of her perfections, and yet so apparelled as did show she kept best store of her beauty to herself: her hair (alas too poor a word, why should I not rather call them her beams) drawn up into a net, able to have caught Jupiter when he was in the form of an eagle; her body (O sweet body!) covered with a light taffeta garment, so cut as the wrought smock came through it in many places, enough to have made your restrained imagination have thought what was under it: with the cast of her black eyes, black indeed, whether nature so made them, that we might be the more able to behold and bear their wonderful shining, or that she, goddess-like, would work this miracle with herself in giving blackness the price above all beauty. Then, I say, indeed methought the lilies grew pale for envy; the roses methought blushed to see sweeter roses in her cheeks; and the apples methought fell down from the trees to do homage to the apples of her breast; then the clouds gave place, that the heavens might more freely smile upon her, at the least the clouds of my thought quite vanished, and my sight, then more clear and forcible than ever, was so fixed there, that, I imagine, I stood like a well-wrought image with some life in show but none in practice. And so had I been like enough to have stayed long time but that Gynecia stepping between my sight and the only Philoclea, the change of object made me recover my senses, so that I could with reasonable good manner receive the salutation of her, and of the Princess Pamela, doing them yet no further reverence than one princess useth to another. But when I came to the never enough praised Philoclea, I could not but fall down on my knees, and taking by force her hand, and kissing it, I must confess with more than womanly ardency, ‘Divine lady,’ said I, ‘let not the world, nor those great princesses, marvel to see me, contrary to my manner, do this special honour unto you, since all both men and women, do owe this to the perfection of your beauty.’ But, she blushing like a fair morning in May at this my singularity, and causing me to rise, ‘Noble lady,’ said she, ‘it is no marvel to see your judgment much mistaken in my beauty since you begin with so great an error as to do more honour unto me than to them, to whom I myself owe all service.’ ‘Rather,’ answered I, with a bowed down countenance, ‘that shows the power of your beauty which forced me to do such an error, if it were an error.’ ‘You are so well acquainted,’ said she sweetly, most sweetly smiling, ‘with your own beauty, that it makes you easily fall into the discourse of beauty.’ ‘Beauty in me?’ (said I, truly sighing) ‘alas! if there be any it is in my eyes, which your blessed presence hath imparted unto them.’
“But then, as I think Basilius willing her so to do, ‘Well,’ said she, ‘I must needs confess I have heard that it is a great happiness to be praised of them that are most praiseworthy: and well I find that you are an invincible Amazon since you will overcome, though in a wrong matter. But if my beauty be anything, then let it obtain thus much of you, that you will remain some while in this company to ease your own travel and our solitariness.’ ‘First let me die,’ said I, ‘before any word spoken by such a mouth should come in vain.’ And thus with some other words of entertaining was my staying concluded, and I led among them to the lodge; truly a place for pleasantness, not unfit to flatter solitariness, for, it being set upon such an unsensible rising of the ground as you are come to a pretty height before almost you perceive that you ascend, it gives the eye lordship over a good large circuit, which according to the nature of the country, being diversified between hills and dales, woods and plains, one place more clear, another more darksome, it seems a pleasant picture of nature, with lovely lightsomeness and artificial shadows. The lodge is of a yellow stone, built in the form of a star, having round about a garden framed into like points; and beyond the garden ridings cut out, each answering the angles of the lodge: at the end of one of them is the other smaller lodge, but of like fashion, where the gracious Pamela liveth; so that the lodge seemeth not unlike a fair comet, whose tail stretcheth itself to a star of less greatness.
“So Gynecia herself bringing me to my lodging, anon after I was invited and brought down to sup with them in the garden, a place not fairer in natural ornaments than artificial inventions, where, in a banqueting-house, among certain pleasant trees, whose heads seemed curled with the wrappings about of vine branches, the table was set near to an excellent water-works; for, by the casting of the water in most cunning manner, it makes, with the shining of the sun upon it, a perfect rainbow, not more pleasant to the eye than to the mind, so sensibly to see the proof of the heavenly Iris. There were birds also made so finely that they did not only deceive the sight with their figure, but the hearing with their songs, which the watery instruments made their gorge deliver. The table at which we sat was round, which being fast to the floor whereon we sat, and that divided from the rest of the buildings, with turning a vice, which Basilius at first did to make me sport, the table, and we about the table, did all turn round by means of water which ran under and carried it about as a mill. But alas! what pleasure did it to me to make divers times the full circle round about, since Philoclea, being also set, was carried still in equal distance from me, and that only my eyes did overtake her? which, when the table was stayed, and we began to feed, drank much more eagerly of her beauty than my mouth did of any other liquor. And so was my common sense deceived, being chiefly bent to her, that as I drank the wine, and withal stole a look on her, meseemed I tasted her deliciousness. But alas! the one thirst was much more inflamed than the other quenched. Sometimes my eyes would lay themselves open to receive all the darts she did throw; sometimes close up with admiration, as if with a contrary fancy, they would preserve the riches of that sight they had gotten, or cast my lids as curtains over the image of beauty her presence had painted in them. True it is, that my reason, now grown a servant to passion, did yet often tell his master that he should more moderately use his delight. But he, that of a rebel was become a prince, disdained almost to allow him the place of a counsellor; so that my senses’ delights being too strong for any other resolution, I did even loose the reins unto them, hoping that, going for a woman, my looks would pass either unmarked or unsuspected.
“Now thus I had, as methought, well played my first act, assuring myself that under that disguisement I should find opportunity to reveal myself to the owner of my heart. But who would think it possible, though I feel it true, that in almost eight weeks’ space I have lived here, having no more company but her parents, and I being a familiar, as being a woman, and watchful, as being a lover, yet could never find opportunity to have one minute’s leisure of private conference: the cause whereof is as strange as the effects are to me miserable. And (alas!) this it is.
“At the first sight that Basilius had of me, I think Cupid having headed his arrows with my misfortune, he was stricken, taking me to be such as I profess, with great affection towards me, which since is grown to such a doting love that till I was fain to get this place sometimes to retire unto freely, I was even choked with his tediousness. You never saw four score years dance up and down more lively in a young lover; now, as fine in his apparel, as if he would make me in love with a cloak, and verse for verse with the sharpest-witted lover in Arcadia. Do you not think that is a sallet of wormwood; while mine eyes feed upon the Ambrosia of Philoclea’s beauty? but this is not all; no, this is not the worst: for he, good man, were easy enough to be dealt with, but, as I think, love and mischief having made a wager which should have most power in me, have set Gynecia also on such a fire toward me, as will never, I fear, be quenched but with my destruction. For, she being a woman of excellent wit and of strong working thoughts, whether she suspected me by my over-vehement shows of affection to Philoclea (which love forced me unwisely to utter, while hope of my mask foolishly encouraged me) or that she hath taken some other mark of me, that I am not a woman; or what devil it is hath revealed it unto her, I know not: but so it is, that all her countenances, words, and gestures are even miserable portraitures of a desperate affection. Whereby a man may learn that these avoidings of company do but make the passions more violent when they meet with fit subjects. Truly it were a notable dumb show of Cupid’s kingdom, to see my eyes, languishing with over-vehement longing, direct themselves to Philoclea; and Basilius, as busy about me as a bee, and indeed as cumbersome, making such vehement suits to me, who neither could if I would, nor would if I could, help him, while the terrible wit of Gynecia, carried with the beer of violent love, runs through us all. And so jealous is she of my love to her daughter that I could never yet begin to open my mouth to the unevitable Philoclea but that her unwished presence gave my tale a conclusion before it had a beginning. And surely, if I be not deceived, I see such shows of liking, and, if I be acquainted with passions, of almost a passionate liking in the heavenly Philoclea towards me, that I may hope her ears would not abhor my discourse. And for good Basilius, he thought it best to have lodged us together, but that the eternal hatefulness of my destiny made Gynecia’s jealousy stop that, and all other my blessings. Yet must I confess that one way her love doth me pleasure, for since it was my foolish fortune, or unfortunate folly, to be known by her, that keeps her from betraying me to Basilius. And thus, my Musidorus, you have my tragedy played unto you by myself, which I pray the gods may not indeed prove a tragedy.” And therewith he ended, making a full point of a hearty sigh.
Musidorus recommended to his best discourse, all which Pyrocles had told him. But therein he found such intricateness that he could see no way to lead him out of the maze; yet perceiving his affection so grounded that striving against it did rather anger than heal the wound, and rather call his friendship in question than give place to any friendly counsel: “Well,” said he, “dear cousin! since it hath pleased the gods to mingle your other excellencies with this humour of love, yet happy it is, that your love is employed upon so rare a woman: for certainly a noble cause doth ease much a grievous case. But as it stands now, nothing vexeth me, as that I cannot see wherein I can be serviceable unto you.” “I desire no greater service of you,” answered Pyrocles, “than that you remain secretly in this country, and sometimes come to this place, either late in the night or early in the morning, where you shall have my key to enter, because as my fortune either amends or impairs, I may declare it unto you, and have your counsel and furtherance: and hereby I will of purpose lead her, that is the praise, and yet the stain of all womankind, that you may have so good a view, as to allow my judgment; and as I can get the most convenient time, I will come unto you; for, though by reason of yonder wood you cannot see the lodge, it is hard at hand. But now,” said she, “it is time for me to leave you, and towards evening we will walk out of purpose hitherward, therefore keep yourself close till that time.” But Musidorus, bethinking himself that his horse might happen to betray him, thought it best to return for that day to a village not far off, and dispatching his horse in some sort, the next day early to come afoot thither, and so to keep that course afterward which Pyrocles very well liked of. “Now farewell, dear cousin,” said he, “from me, no more Pyrocles nor Daiphantus now, but Zelmane: Zelmane is my name, Zelmane is my title, Zelmane is the only hope of my advancement.” And with that word going out, and seeing that the coast was clear, Zelmane dismissed Musidorus, who departed as full of care to help his friend as before he was to dissuade him.
Zelmane returned to the lodge, where (inflamed by Philoclea, watched by Gynecia, and tired by Basilius) she was like a horse desirous to run, and miserably spurred, but so short reined as he cannot stir forward. Zelmane sought occasion to speak with Philoclea; Basilius with Zelmane; and Gynecia hindered them all. If Philoclea happened to sigh, and sigh she did often, as if that sigh were to be waited on, Zelmane sighed also, whereto Basilius and Gynecia soon made up four parts of sorrow. Their affection increased their conversation, and their conversation increased their affection. The respect borne bred due ceremonies, but the affection shined so through them, that the ceremonies seemed not ceremonies. Zelmane’s eyes were (like children before sweetmeat) eager, but fearful of their ill-pleasing governors. Time, in one instant, seeming both short and long unto them: short, in the pleasingness of such presence; long, in the stay of their desires.
But Zelmane failed not to entice them all many times abroad because she was desirous her friend Musidorus, near whom of purpose she led them, might have full sight of them. Sometimes angling to a little river near hand, which, for the moisture it bestowed upon the roots of flourishing trees, was rewarded with their shadow. There would they sit down, and pretty wagers be made between Pamela and Philoclea, which could soonest beguile silly fishes, while Zelmane protested that the fit prey for them was hearts of princes. She also had an angle in her hand, but the taker was so taken that she had forgotten taking. Basilius in the meantime would be the cook himself of what was so caught, and Gynecia sit still, but with no still pensiveness. Now she brought them to see a seeled dove, who, the blinder she was, the higher she strove. Another time a kite, which having a gut cunningly pulled out of her, and so let fly, caused all the kites in that quarter, who, as oftentimes the world is deceived, thinking her prosperous when indeed she was wounded, made the poor kite find that opinion of riches may well be dangerous.
But these recreations were interrupted by a delight of more gallant show; for one evening, as Basilius returned from having forced his thoughts to please themselves in such small conquest, there came a shepherd who brought him word that a gentleman desired leave to do a message from his lord unto him. Basilius granted, whereupon the gentleman came, and after the dutiful ceremonies observed in his master’s name, told him that he was sent from Phalantus of Corinth to crave licence that, as he had done in many other courts, so he might in his presence defy all Arcadian knights in the behalf of his mistress’s beauty who would besides herself in person be present to give evident proof what his lance should affirm. The conditions of his challenge were that the defendant should bring his mistress’s picture, which being set by the image of Artesia, so was the mistress of Phalantus named, who in six courses should have the better of the other in the judgment of Basilius, with him both the honours and the pictures should remain. Basilius (though he had retired himself into that solitary dwelling, with intention to avoid, rather than to accept any matters of drawing company, yet because he would entertain Zelmane that she might not think the time so gainful to him loss to her) granted him to pitch his tent for three days not far from the lodge, and to proclaim his challenge that what Arcadian knight, for none else but upon his peril was licensed to come, would defend what he honoured against Phalantus, should have the like freedom of access and return.
This obtained and published, Zelmane being desirous to learn what this Phalantus was, having never known him further than by report of his good jousting, in so much as he was commonly called, “The fair man of arms”; Basilius told her that he had had occasion by one very inward with him to know in part the discourse of his life, which was, that he was a bastard brother to the fair Helen queen of Corinth, and dearly esteemed of her for his exceeding good parts, being honourably courteous, and wronglessly valiant, considerately pleasant in conversation, and an excellent courtier without unfaithfulness, who, finding his sister’s unpersuadable melancholy, through the love of Amphialus, had for a time left her court, and gone into Laconia, where, in the war against the Helots, he had gotten the reputation of one that both durst and knew. But as it was rather choice than nature that led him to matters of arms, so as soon as the spur of honour ceased, he willingly rested in peaceable delights, being beloved in all companies for his lovely qualities, and, as a man may term it, winning cheerfulness; whereby to the prince and court of Laconia, none was more agreeable than Phalantus: and he not given greatly to struggle with his own disposition, followed the gentle current of it, having a fortune sufficient to content, and he content with a sufficient fortune. But in that court he saw, and was acquainted with this Artesia, whose beauty he now defends, became her servant, said himself, and perchance thought himself her lover. “But certainly,” said Basilius, “many times it falls out that these young companions make themselves believe they love at their first liking of a likely beauty; loving, because they will love for want of other business, not because they feel indeed that divine power which makes the heart find a reason in passion, and so, God knows, as inconstantly leave upon the next chance that beauty casts before them. So therefore taking love upon him like a fashion, he courted this lady Artesia, who was as fit to pay him in his own money as might be: for she thinketh she did wrong to her beauty if she were not proud of it, called her disdain of him chastity, and placed her honour in little setting by his honouring her, determining never to marry but him whom she thought worthy of her, and that was one in whom all worthinesses were harboured. And to this conceit not only nature had bent her, but the bringing-up she received at by her sister-in-law Cecropia had confirmed her, who having in her widowhood taken this young Artesia into her charge, because her father had been a dear friend of her dear husband’s, had taught her to think that there is no wisdom but in including both heaven and earth in oneself; and that love, courtesy, gratefulness, friendship, and all other virtues are rather to be taken on than taken in oneself. And so good a disciple she found of her that, liking the fruits of her own planting, she was content if so her son could have liked of it, to have wished her in marriage to my nephew Amphialus. But I think that desire hath lost some of his heat since she hath known that such a queen as Helen is, doth offer so great a price as a kingdom, to buy his favour; for, if I be not deceived in my good sister Cecropia, she thinks no face so beautiful, as that which looks under a crown. But Artesia indeed liked well of my nephew Amphialus: For I can never deem that love, which in haughty hearts proceeds of a desire only to please, and, as it were, peacock themselves; but yet she hath showed vehemency of desire that way, I think because all her desires be vehement, insomuch that she hath both placed her only brother, a fine youth, called Ismenus, to be his ’squire, and herself is content to wait upon my sister till she may see the uttermost what she may work in Amphialus; who being of a melancholy (though, I must say, truly courteous and noble) mind, seems to love nothing less than love, and of late, having through some adventure, or inward miscontentment, withdrawn himself from anybody’s knowledge, where he is; Artesia the easier condescended to go to the court of Laconia, whither she was sent for by the king’s wife, to whom she is somewhat allied.
“And there, after the war of the Helots, this knight Phalantus, at least for tongue-delight, made himself her servant, and she, so little caring as not to show mislike thereof, was content only to be noted to have a notable servant. For truly one in my court, nearly acquainted with him, within these few days made me a pleasant description of their love, while he with cheerful looks would speak sorrowful words, using the phrase of his affection in so high a style, that Mercury would not have wooed Venus with more magnificent eloquence; but else, neither in behaviour, nor action, accusing in himself any great trouble in mind whether he sped or no. And she, on the other side, well finding how little it was, and not caring for more, yet taught him that often it falleth out but a foolish witness to speak more than one thinks.
“For she made earnest benefit of his jest, forcing him in respect of his profession to her such services as were both cumbersome and costly unto him, while he still thought he went beyond her because his heart did not commit the idolatry. So that lastly, she, I think, having mind to make the fame of her beauty an orator for her to Amphialus (persuading herself, perhaps, that it might fall out in him as it doth in some that have delightful meat before them, and have no stomach to it, before other folks praise it) she took the advantage one day, upon Phalantus’s unconscionable praising of her, and certain cast-away vows how much he would do for her sake, to arrest his word as soon as it was out of his mouth, and by the virtue thereof to charge him to go with her thro’ all the courts of Greece, and with the challenge now made to give her beauty the principality over all other. Phalantus was entrapped, and saw round about him, but could not get out. Exceedingly perplexed he was, as he confessed to him that told me the tale, not for doubt he had of himself (for indeed he had little cause, being accounted, with his lance especially, whereupon the challenge is to be tried as perfect as any that Greece knoweth) but because he feared to offend his sister Helen, and withal, as he said, he could not so much believe his love but that he must think in his heart, whatsoever his mouth affirmed, that both she, my daughters, and the fair Parthenia (wife to a most noble gentleman, my wife’s near kinsman) might far better put in their claim for that prerogative. But his promise had bound him prentice, and therefore it was now better with willingness to purchase thanks than with a discontented doing to have the pain and not the reward; and therefore went on as his faith, rather than love, did lead him. And now hath he already passed the courts of Laconia, Elis, Argos, and Corinth: And, as many times it happens that a good pleader makes a bad cause to prevail, so hath his lance brought captives to the triumph of Artesia’s beauty, such, as though Artesia be among the fairest, yet in that company were to have the pre-eminence: For in those courts many knights that had been in other far countries defended such as they had seen and liked in their travel: But their defence had been such that they had forfeited the pictures of their ladies to give a forced false testimony to Artesia’s excellency. And now, lastly, is he come hither, where he hath leave to try his fortune. But I assure you, if I thought it not in due and true consideration an injurious service and churlish courtesy to put the danger of so noble a title in the deciding of such a dangerless combat, I would make young master Phalantus know that your eyes can sharpen a blunt lance, and that age, which my gray hairs, only gotten by the loving care of others, makes seem more than it is, hath not diminished in me the power to protect an undeniable verity.” With that he bustled up himself, as though his heart would fain have walked abroad. Zelmane with an inward smiling gave him outward thanks, desiring him to reserve his force for worthier causes.
So passing their time according to their wont, they waited for the coming of Phalantus, who the next morning having already caused his tents to be pitched near to a fair tree hard by the lodge, had upon the tree made a shield to be hanged up, which the defendant should strike that would call him to the maintaining his challenge. The impresa in the shield was a heaven full of stars, with a speech signifying that it was the beauty which gave the praise. Himself came in next after a triumphant chariot made of carnation-velvet, enriched with purple and pearl, wherein Artesia sat, drawn by four winged horses with artificial flaming mouths and fiery wings, as if she had newly borrowed them of Phoebus. Before her marched, two after two, certain footmen pleasantly attired, who between them held one picture after another of them, that by Phalantus’ well running had lost the prize in the race of beauty, and at every pace they stayed, turned the pictures to each side so leisurely that with perfect judgment they might be discerned. The first that came in, following the order of the time wherein they had been won, was the picture of Andromana, queen of Iberia, whom a Laconian knight, having some time, and with special favour, served, though some years since returned home, with more gratefulness than good fortune defended. But therein Fortune had borrowed wit; for indeed she was not comparable to Artesia, not because she was a good deal older, for time had not yet been able to impoverish her store thereof, but an exceeding red hair with small eyes, did, like ill companions, disgrace the other assembly of most commendable beauties.
Next after her was borne the counterfeit of the Princess of Elis, a lady that taught the beholders no other point of beauty, but this: That as liking is not always the child of beauty, so whatsoever liketh is beautiful; for in that visage there was neither majesty, grace, favour, nor fairness; yet she wanted not a servant that would have made her fairer than the fair Artesia. But he wrote her praises with his helmet in the dust, and left her picture to be a true witness of his overthrow, as his running was of her beauty.
After her was the goodly Artaxia, great queen of Armenia, a lady upon whom nature bestowed and well placed her most delightful colours, and, withal, had proportioned her without any fault, quickly to be discovered by the senses, yet altogether seemed not to make up that harmony that Cupid delights in, the reason whereof might seem a mannish countenance, which overthrew that lovely sweetness, the noblest power of womankind, far fitter to prevail by parley than by battle.
Of a far contrary consideration was the representation of her that next followed, which was Erona queen of Lycia, who though of so brown a hair as no man should have injured it to have called it black, and that in the mixture of her cheeks the white did so much overcome the red, tho’ what was, was very pure, that it came near to paleness, and that her face was a thought longer than the exact Symetrians perhaps would allow; yet love played his part so well in every part that it caught hold of the judgment before it could judge, making it first love, and after acknowledge it fair; for there was a certain delicacy, which in yielding conquered, and with a pitiful look made one find cause to crave help himself.
After her came two ladies, of noble, but not of royal birth: The former was named Baccha, who though very fair, and of a fatness rather to allure, than to mislike, yet her breasts overfamiliarly laid open, with a made countenance about her mouth, between simpering and smiling, her head bowed somewhat down, seemed to languish with over-much idleness, and with an inviting look cast upward, dissuaded with too much persuading, while hope might seem to over-run desire.
The other, whose name was written Leucippe, was of a fine daintiness of beauty, her face carrying in it a sober simplicity, like one that could do much good and meant no hurt, her eyes having in them such a cheerfulness as nature seemed to smile in them, though her mouth and cheeks obeyed to that pretty demureness which the more one marked the more one would judge the poor soul apt to believe, and therefore the more pity to deceive her.
Next came the queen of Laconia, one that seemed born in the confines of beauty’s kingdom: For all her lineaments were neither perfect possessioners thereof, nor absolute strangers thereto: But she was a queen, and therefore beautiful.
But she that followed, conquered indeed with being conquered, and might well have made all the beholders wait upon her triumph, while herself were led captive. It was the excellently fair queen Helen, whose jacinth-hair curled by nature, but intercurled by art, like a fine brook through golden sands, had a rope of fair pearl, which now hiding, now hidden by the hair, did as it were play at fast and loose each with other, mutually giving and receiving richness. In her face so much beauty and favour expressed as, if Helen had not been known, some would rather have judged it the painter’s exercise to show what he could do than the counterfeiting of any living pattern; for no fault the most fault-finding wit could have found, if it were not that to the rest of the body the face was somewhat too little, but that little was such a spark of beauty as was able to inflame a world of love; for everything was full of a choice fineness, that if we wanted anything in majesty it supplied it with increase in pleasure; and if at the first it struck not with admiration, it ravished with delight. And no indifferent soul there was, which if it could resist from subjecting itself to make it his princess, that would not long to have such a playfellow. As for her attire, it was costly and curious, though the look, fixed with more sadness than it seemed nature had bestowed to any that knew her fortune, betrayed that as she used those ornaments not for herself, but to prevail with another, so she feared that all would not serve. Of a far differing, though esteemed equal, beauty, was the fair Parthenia, who next waited on Artesia’s triumph, tho’ far better she might have sat on the throne. For in her everything was goodly and stately, yet so that it might seem that great-mindedness was but the ensign-bearer to the humbleness. For her great grey eye, which might seem full of her own beauty; a large and exceedingly fair forehead, with all the rest of her face and body cast in the mould of nobleness, was yet so attired as might show the mistress thought it either not to deserve, or not to need any exquisite decking, having no adorning but cleanliness; and so far from all art, that it was full of carelessness, unless that carelessness itself, in spite of itself, grew artificial. But Basilius could not abstain from praising Parthenia as the perfect picture of a womanly virtue and wifely faithfulness, telling withal Zelmane how he had understood that when in the court of Laconia her pictures maintained by a certain Sicyonian knight, was lost through want rather of valour than justice, her husband, the famous Argalus, would in a chafe have gone and redeemed it with a new trial. But she, more sporting than sorrowing for her undeserved champion, told her husband she desired to be beautiful in nobody’s eye but his, and that she would rather mar her face as evil as ever it was than that it should be a cause to make Argalus put on armour. Then would Basilius have told Zelmane that which he already knew, of the rare trial of that coupled affection: but the next picture made their mouths give place to their eyes.
It was of a young maid which sat pulling out a thorn out of a lamb’s foot, with her look so attentive upon it, as if that little foot could have been the circle of her thoughts; her apparel so poor, as it had nothing but the inside to adorn it; a sheep-hook lying by her with a bottle upon it. But with all that poverty, beauty played the prince and commanded as many hearts as the greatest queen there did. Her beauty and her estate made her quickly to be known to be the fair shepherdess Urania, whom a rich knight called Lacemon, far in love with her, had unluckily defended.
The last of all in place, because last in the time of her being captive, was Zelmane, daughter to the King Plexirtus, who at the first sight seemed to have some resembling of Philoclea, but with more marking, comparing it to the present Philoclea, who indeed had no paragon but her sister, they might see it was but such a likeness as an unperfect glass doth give, answerable enough in some features and colours, but erring in others. But Zelmane sighing, turning to Basilius, “Alas! Sir,” said she, “here be some pictures which might better become the tombs of their mistresses than the triumph of Artesia.” “It is true sweetest lady,” said Basilius, “some of them be dead, and some other captive; but that hath happened so late, as it may be the knights that defended their beauty knew not so much: without we will say, as in some other hearts I know it would fall out, that death itself could not blot out the image which love hath engraven in them. But divers besides those,” said Basilius, “hath Phalantus, won, but he leaves the rest, carrying only such who either for greatness of estate, or of beauty, may justly glorify the glory of Artesia’s triumph.”
Thus talked Basilius with Zelmane, glad to make any matter subject to speak of with his mistress, while Phalantus, in this pompous manner, brought Artesia with her gentlewoman into one tent, by which he had another, where they both waited who would first strike upon the shield, while Basilius the judge appointed sticklers and trumpets, to whom the other should obey. But none that day appeared, nor the next, till already it had consumed half his allowance of light; but then there came in a knight, protesting himself as contrary to him in mind, as he was in apparel. For Phalantus was all in white, having in his bases and caparison embroidered a waving water, at each side whereof he had nettings cast over, in which were divers fishes naturally made, and so prettily that as the horse stirred, the fishes seemed to strive and leap in the net.
But the other knight, by name Nestor, by birth an Arcadian, and in affection vowed to the fair shepherdess, was all in black, with fire burning both upon his armour and horse. His impresa in his shield was a fire made of juniper, with this word, “More easy and more sweet.” But this hot knight was cooled with a fall, which at the third course he received of Phalantus, leaving his picture to keep company with the other of the same stamp; he going away remedilessly chafing at his rebuke. The next was Polycetes, greatly esteemed in Arcadia for deeds he had done in arms, and much spoken of for the honourable love he had long borne to Gynecia, which Basilius himself was content not only to suffer, but to be delighted with, he carried it in so honourable and open plainness, setting to his love no other mark than to do her faithful service. But neither her fair picture, nor his fair running, could warrant him from overthrow, and her from becoming as then the last of Artesia’s victories, a thing Gynecia’s virtues would little have reckoned at another time, nor then, if Zelmane had not seen it. But her champion went away as much discomforted, as discomfited. Then Telamon for Polixena, and Eurileon for Elpine, and Leon for Zoana, all brave knights, all fair ladies, with their going down, lifted up the balance of his praise for activity, and hers for fairness.
Upon whose loss, as the beholders were talking, there comes into the place where they ran, a shepherd stripling (for his height made him more than a boy, and his face would not allow him a man) brown of complexion, whether by nature or by the sun’s familiarity, but very lovely withal, for the rest so perfect proportioned that nature showed she doth not like men who slubber up matters of mean account. And well might his proportion be judged, for he had nothing upon him but a pair of slops, and upon his body a goat skin which he cast over his shoulder, doing all things with so pretty a grace that it seemed ignorance could not make him do amiss, because he had a heart to do well; holding in his right hand a long staff, and so coming with a look full of amiable fierceness, as in whom choler could not take away the sweetness, he came towards the king, and making a reverence (which in him was comely, because it was kindly). “My liege lord,” said he, “I pray you hear a few words, for my heart will break if I say not my mind to you: I see here the picture of Urania, which I cannot tell how nor why these men when they fall down, they say is not so fair as yonder gay woman. But pray God I may never see my old mother alive, if I think she be any more matched to Urania, than a goat is to a fine lamb; or than the dog that keeps our flock at home, is like your white greyhound that pulled down the stag last day.
“And therefore I pray you let me be dressed as they be, and my heart gives me I shall tumble him on the earth: for indeed he might as well say that a cowslip is as white as a lily: or else I care not, let him come with his great staff, and I with this in my hand, and you shall see what I can do to him.” Basilius saw it was the fine shepherd Lalus, whom once he had afore him in pastoral sports, and had greatly delighted in his wit full of pretty simplicity, and therefore laughing at his earnestness, he bade him be content, since he saw the pictures of so great queens were fain to follow their champions’ fortune. But Lalus, even weeping ripe, went among the rest, longing to see somebody that would revenge Urania’s wrong; and praying heartily for everybody that ran against Phalantus, then beginning to feel poverty that he could not set himself to that trial. But by and by, even when the sun, like a noble heart, began to show his greatest countenance in his lowest estate, there came in a knight, called Phebilus, a gentleman of that country, for whom hateful fortune had borrowed the dart of love, to make him miserable by the sight of Philoclea. For he had even from her infancy loved her, and was stricken by her before she was able to know what quiver of arrows her eyes carried; but he loved and despaired, and the more he despaired, the more he loved. He saw his own worthiness, and thereby made her excellency have more terrible aspect upon him: he was so secret therein, as not daring to be open, that to no creature he ever spoke of it, but his heart made such silent complaints within itself that, while all his senses were attentive thereto, cunning judges might perceive his mind, so that he was known to love, though he denied, or rather was the better known, because he denied it. His armour and his attire was for a sea colour; his impresa, the fish called Sepia, which being in the net, casts a black ink about itself, that in the darkness thereof it may escape: his word was, “Not so.” Philoclea’s picture with almost an idolatrous magnificence was borne in by him. But straight jealousy was a harbinger for disdain in Zelmane’s heart, when she saw any but herself should be avowed a champion for Philoclea, insomuch that she wished his shame, till she saw him shamed. For at the second course he was stricken quite from out of the saddle, so full of grief and rage withal that he would fain with the sword have revenged it, but that being contrary to the order set down, Basilius would not suffer: so that wishing himself in the bottom of the earth, he went his way, leaving Zelmane no less angry with his loss than she would have been with his victory. For if she though before a rival’s praise would have angered her, her lady’s disgrace did make her much more forget what she then thought, while that passion reigned so much the more as she saw a pretty blush in Philoclea’s cheeks betray a modest discontentment. But the night commanded truce for those sports, and Phalantus, though entreated, would not leave Artesia, who in no case would come into the house, having, as it were, sucked of Cecropia’s breath a mortal mislike against Basilius.
But the night, measured by the short ell of sleep, was soon passed over, and the next morning had given the watchful stars leave to take their rest, when a trumpet summoned Basilius to play his judge’s part, which he did, taking his wife and daughters with him; Zelmane having locked her door, so as they could not trouble her for that time: for already there was a knight in the field, ready to prove Helen of Corinth had received great injury, both by the erring judgment of the challenger, and the unlucky weakness of her former defender. The new knight was quickly known to be Clitophon, Kalander’s son of Basilius’s sister, by his armour which, all gilt, was so well handled that it showed like a glittering sand and gravel interlaced with silver rivers. His device he had put in the picture of Helen which he defended; it was the Ermion with a speech that signified, “Rather dead than spotted.” But in that armour since he had parted from Helen, who would no longer his company, finding him to enter into terms of affection, he had performed so honourable actions, still seeking for his two friends by the names of Palladius and Daiphantus, that though his face were covered, his being was discovered, which yet Basilius, who had brought him up in his court, would not seem to do, but glad to see the trial of him, of whom he had heard very well, he commanded the trumpets to sound, to which the two brave knights obeying, they performed their courses, breaking their six staves, with so good, both skill in the hitting and grace in the manner, that it bred some difficulty in the judgment. But Basilius in the end gave sentence against Clitophon, because Phalantus had broken more staves, upon the head, and that once Clitophon had received such a blow that he had lost the reins of his horse with his head well-nigh touching the crupper of the horse. But Clitophon was so angry with the judgment, wherein he thought he had received wrong, that he omitted his duty to his prince, and uncle, and suddenly went his way still in the quest of them, whom as then he had left seeking, and so yielded the field to the next comer.
Who, coming in about two hours after, was no less marked than all the rest before, because he had nothing worth the marking. For he had neither picture nor device, his armour of as old a fashion, besides the rusty poorness, that it might better seem a monument of his grandfather’s courage: about his middle he had, instead of bases, a long cloak of silk, which as unhandsomely, as it needs must, became the wearer, so that all that looked on, measured his length on the earth already, since he had to meet one who had been victorious of so many gallants. But he went on towards the shield, and with a sober grace struck it, but as he let his sword fall upon it, another knight, all in black, came rustling in, who struck the shield almost as soon as he, and so strongly that he broke the shield in two: the ill-apparelled knight, for so the beholders called him, angry with that, as he accounted, insolent injury to himself, hit him such a sound blow that they that looked on said it well became a rude arm. The other answered him again in the same case, so that lances were put to silence, the swords were so busy.
But Phalantus, angry of this defacing shield, came upon the black knight, and with the pommel of his sword set fire to his eyes, which presently was revenged, not only by the black, but the ill-apparelled knight, who disdained another should enter into his quarrel, so as, who ever saw a matachin dance to imitate fighting, this was a fight that did imitate the matachin: for they being but three that fought, everyone had two adversaries, striking him, who struck the third, and revenging perhaps that of him which he had received of the other. But Basilius rising himself came to part them, the stickler’s authority scarcely able to persuade choleric hearers; and part them he did.
But before he could determine, comes in a fourth, halting on foot, who complained to Basilius, demanding justice on the black knight, for having by force taken away the picture of Pamela from him, which in little form he wore in a tablet, and covered with silk had fastened it to his helmet, purposing, for want of a bigger, to paragon the little one with Artesia’s length, not doubting but even in that little quantity, the excellency of that would shine through the weakness of the other, as the smallest star doth through the whole element of fire. And by the way he had met with this black knight, who had, as he said, robbed him of it. The injury seemed grievous, but when it came fully to be examined, it was found that the halting knight meeting the other, asking the cause of his going thitherward, and finding it was to defend Pamela’s divine beauty against Artesia’s, with a proud jollity commanded him to leave that quarrel only for him, who was only worthy to enter into it. But the black knight obeying no such commandments, they fell to such a bickering that he got a halting, and lost his picture. This understood by Basilius, he told him he was now fitter to look to his own body than another’s picture, and so, uncomforted therein, sent him away to learn of Aesculapius that he was not fit for Venus. But then the question arising, who should be the former against Phalantus, of the black or the ill-apparelled knight, who now had gotten the reputation of some sturdy lout, he had so well defended himself; of the one side, was alleged the having a picture which the other wanted; of the other side, the first striking the shield, but the conclusion was, that the ill-apparelled knight should have the precedence, if he delivered the figure of his mistress to Phalantus, who asking him for it, “Certainly,” said he, “her liveliest picture, if you could see it, is in my heart, and the best comparison I could make of her is of the sun and all the other heavenly beauties. But because perhaps all eyes cannot taste the divinity of her beauty, and would rather be dazzled than taught by the light, if it be not clouded by some meaner thing, know ye then, that I defend that same lady, whose image Phebilus so feebly lost yesternight, and, instead of another, if you overcome me, you shall have me your slave to carry that image in your mistress’ triumph.” Phalantus easily agreed to the bargain, which readily he made his own.
But when it came to the trial, the ill-apparelled knight, choosing out the greatest staves in all the store, at the first course gave his head such a remembrance that he lost almost his remembrance, he himself receiving the encounter of Phalantus, without any extraordinary motion; and at the second, gave him such a counterbuff, that because Phalantus was so perfect a horseman, as not to be driven from the saddle, the saddle with broken girths was driven from the horse; Phalantus remaining angry and amazed, because now being come almost to the last of his promised enterprise, that disgrace befell him, which he had never before known.
But the victory being by the judges given, and the trumpets witnessed to the ill-apparelled knight; Phalantus’ disgrace was ingrieved in lieu of comfort of Artesia, who telling him she never looked for other, bade him seek some other mistress. He excusing himself, and turning over the fault to fortune, “Then let that be your ill fortune too,” said she, “that you have lost me.”
“Nay, truly madam,” said Phalantus, “it shall not be so, for I think the loss of such a mistress will prove a great gain,” and so concluded, to the sport of Basilius, to see young folks’ love, that came in masked with so great pomp, go out with so little constancy. But Phalantus first professing great service to Basilius for his courteous intermitting his solitary course for his sake, would yet conduct Artesia to the castle of Cecropia, whither she desired to go, vowing in himself that neither heart nor mouth love should ever any more entangle him, and with that resolution he left the company. Whence all being dismissed (among whom the black knight went away repining at his luck that had kept him from winning the honour, as he knew he should have done to the picture of Pamela) the ill-apparelled knight (who was only desired to stay, because Basilius meant to show him to Zelmane) pull’d off his helmet, and then was known himself to be Zelmane, who that morning, as she told, while the others were busy, had stolen out of the prince’s stable, which was a mile off from the lodge, had gotten a horse, they knowing it was Basilius’s pleasure she should be obeyed, and borrowing that homely armour for want of a better, had come upon the spur to redeem Philoclea’s picture, which, she said, she could not bear, being one of that little wilderness-company, should be in captivity, if the cunning she had learned in her country of the noble Amazons, could withstand it; and under that pretext fain she would have given a secret passport to her affection. But this act painted at one instant redness in Philoclea’s face, and paleness in Gynecia’s, but brought forth no other countenances but of admiration, no speeches but of commendations: all those few, besides love, thinking they honoured themselves in honouring so accomplished a person as Zelmane, whom daily they fought with some or other sports to delight; for which purpose Basilius had, in a house not far off, servants, who though they came not uncalled, yet at call were ready.
And so many days were spent, and many ways used, while Zelmane was like one that stood in a tree waiting a good occasion to shoot, and Gynecia a blancher, which kept the dearest deer from her. But the day being come, on which according to an appointed course, the shepherds were to assemble and make their pastoral sports before Basilius, Zelmane, fearing lest many eyes, and coming divers ways, might hap to espy Musidorus, went out to warn him thereof.
But before she could come to the arbour, she saw walking from her-ward, a man in shepherdish apparel, who being in the sight of the lodge, it might seem he was allowed there. A long cloak he had on, but that cast under his right arm, wherein he held a sheep hook so finely wrought, that it gave a bravery to poverty, and his raiments though they were mean, yet received they handsomeness by the grace of the wearer, though he himself went but a kind of languishing pace, with his eyes sometimes cast up to heaven as though his fancies strove to mount higher; sometimes thrown down to the ground, as if the earth could not bear the burden of his sorrows; at length, with a lamentable tune, he sung those few verses.
Come shepherd’s weeds, become your master’s mind:
Yield outward show, what inward change he tries:
Nor be abash’d, since such a guest you find,
Whose strongest hope in your weak comfort lies.
Come shepherd’s weeds, attend my woeful cries:
Disuse yourselves from sweet Menalcas’ voice:
For other be those tunes which sorrow ties,
From those clear notes which freely may rejoice.
Then pour out plaint, and in one word say this:
Helpless is plaint, who spoils himself of bliss.
And having ended, he struck himself on the breast, saying, “O miserable wretch, whither do thy destinies guide thee?” The voice made Zelmane hasten her pace to overtake him, which having done, she plainly perceived that it was her dear friend Musidorus; whereat marvelling not a little, she demanded of him whether the goddess of those woods had such a power to transform every body, or whether, as in all enterprises else he had done, he meant thus to match her in this new alteration. “Alas,” said Musidorus, “what shall I say, who am loth to say, and yet fain would have said? I find indeed, that all is but lip-wisdom, which wants experience. I now, woe is me, do try what love can do. O Zelmane, who will resist it must either have no wit, or put out his eyes: can any man resist his creation? certainly by love we are made, and to love we are made. Beasts only cannot discern beauty, and let them be in the roll of beasts that do not honour it.” The perfect friendship Zelmane bare him, and the great pity she, by good trial, had of such cases, could not keep her from smiling at him, remembering how vehemently he had cried out against the folly of lovers; and therefore a little to punish him, “Why how now dear cousin,” said she, “you that were last day so high in the pulpit against lovers, are you now become so mean an auditor? remember that love is a passion, and that a worthy man’s reason must ever have the masterhood.” “I recant, I recant,” cried Musidorus, and withal falling down prostrate, “O thou celestial or infernal spirit of love, or what other heavenly or hellish title thou list to have, for effects of both I find in myself, have compassion of me and let thy glory be as great in pardoning them that be submitted to thee as in conquering those that were rebellious.” “No, no,” said Zelmane, “I see you well enough; you make but an interlude of my mishaps, and do but counterfeit thus to make me see the deformity of my passions; but take heed, that this jest do not one day turn to earnest.” “Now I beseech thee,” said Musidorus, taking her fast by the hand, “even for the truth of our friendship, of which, if I be not altogether an unhappy man, thou has some remembrance, and by those secret flames which I know have likewise nearly touched thee, make no jest of that which hath so earnestly pierced me through, nor let that be light unto thee, which is to me so burdenous, that I am not able to bear it.” Musidorus, both in words and behaviour, did so lively deliver out his inward grief that Zelmane found indeed he was throughly wounded: but there rose a new jealousy in her mind, lest it might be with Philoclea, by whom, as Zelmane thought, in right, all hearts and eyes should be inherited. And therefore desirous to be cleared of that doubt, Musidorus shortly, as in haste and full of passionate perplexedness, thus recounted his case unto her.
“The day,” said he, “I parted from you, I being in mind to return to a town from whence I came hither, my horse being before tired, would scarce bear me a mile hence, where being benighted, the sight of a candle, I saw a good way off, guided me to a young shepherd’s house, by name Menalcas, who seeing me to be a straying stranger, with the right honest hospitality which seems to be harboured in the Arcadian breasts, and, though not with curious costliness, yet cleanly sufficiency entertained me; and having by talk with him found the manner of the country something more in particular than I had by Kalander’s report, I agreed to sojourn with him in secret, which he faithfully promised to observe. And so hither to your arbour divers times repaired, and here by your means had the fight, O that it had never been so, nay, O that it might ever be so, of the goddess, who in a definite compass can set forth infinite beauty.” All this while Zelmane was racked with jealousy. But he went on, “For,” said he, “I lying close, and in truth thinking of you, and saying thus to myself, ‘O sweet Pyrocles, how art thou bewitched? where is thy virtue? where is the use of thy reason? how much am I inferior to thee in that state of mind? and yet know I that all the heavens cannot bring me such a thraldom.’ Scarcely, think I, had I spoken this word, when the ladies came forth; at which sight, I think the very words returned back again to strike my soul; at least, an unmeasurable sting I felt in myself that I had spoken such words.” “At which sight,” said Zelmane, not able to bear him any longer. “O,” said Musidorus, “I know your suspicion; No, no, banish all such fear, it was, it is, and must be Pamela.” “Then all is safe,” said Zelmane, “proceed dear Musidorus.” “I will not,” said he, “impute it to my late solitary life, which yet is prone to affections, nor to the much thinking of you (though that called the consideration of love into my mind, which before I ever neglected) not to the exaltation of Venus, nor revenge of Cupid, but even to her, who is the planet, nay, the goddess, against which the only shield must be my sepulchre. When I first saw her I was presently stricken, and I (like a foolish child, that when anything hits him, will strike himself again upon it) would needs look again, as though I would persuade mine eyes, that they were deceived. But alas, well have I found, that love to a yielding heart is a king; but to a resisting, is a tyrant. The more with arguments I shaked the stake, which he had planted in the ground of my heart, the deeper still it sank into it. But what mean I to speak of the causes of my love, which is as impossible to describe, as to measure the back-side of heaven? let this word suffice, I love.
“And that you may know I do so, it was I that came in black armour to defend her picture, where I was both prevented and beaten by you. And so, I that waited here to do you service, have now myself most need of succour.” “But whereupon got you yourself this apparel?” said Zelmane. “I had forgotten to tell you,” said Musidorus, “though that were one principal matter of my speech; so much am I now master of my own mind. But thus it happened: being returned to Menalcas’ house, full of tormenting desire, after a while fainting under the weight, my courage stirred up my wit to seek for some relief before I yielded to perish. At last this came into my head, that every evening, that I had to no purpose last used my horse and armour. I told Menalcas, that I was a Thessalian gentleman, who by mischance having killed a great favourite of the prince of that country, was pursued so cruelly, that in no place but either by favour or corruption, they would obtain my destruction, and that therefore I was determined, till the fury of my persecutors might be assuaged, to disguise myself among the shepherds of Arcadia, and, if it were possible, to be one of them that were allowed the prince’s presence, because if the worst should fall that I were discovered, yet having gotten the acquaintance of the prince, it might happen to move his heart to protect me. Menalcas, being of an honest disposition, pitied my case, which my face, thro’ my inward torment, made credible; and so, I giving him largely for it, let me have this raiment, instructing me in all particularities, touching himself, or myself, which I desired to know; yet not trusting so much to his constancy as that I would lay my life, and life of my life upon it, I hired him to go into Thessalia to a friend of mine, and to deliver him a letter from me; conjuring him to bring me as speedy an answer as he could, because it imported me greatly to know whether certain of my friends did yet possess any favour, whose intercessions I might use for my restitution. He willingly took my letter, which being well sealed, indeed contained other matter. For I wrote to my trusty servant Calodoulus, whom you know as soon as he had delivered the letter, he should keep him prisoner in his house, not suffering him to have conference with any body, till he knew my further pleasure, in all other respects that he should use him as my brother. And is Menalcas gone, and I here a poor shepherd; more proud of this estate than of any kingdom, so manifest it is, that the highest point outward things can bring one unto, is the contentment of the mind, with which no estate; without which, all estates be miserable. Now have I chosen this day, because, as Menalcas told me, the other shepherds are called to make their sports, and hope that you will with your credit find means to get me allowed among them.” “You need not doubt,” answered Zelmane, “but that I will be your good mistress: marry, the best way of dealing must be by Dametas, who since his blunt brain hath perceived some favour the prince doth bear unto me (as without doubt the most servile flattery is lodged most easily in the grossest capacity, for their ordinary conceit draweth a yielding to their greater, and then have they not wit to discern the right degrees of duty) is much more serviceable unto me, than I can find any cause to wish him. And therefore despair not to win him, for every present occasion will catch his senses, and his senses are masters of his silly mind; only reverence him, and reward him, and with that bridle and saddle you shall well ride him.” “O heaven and earth,” said Musidorus, “to what a pass are our minds brought that from the right line of virtue are wried to these crooked shifts? but O love, it is thou that doest it; thou changest name upon name; thou disguisest our bodies, and disfigurest our minds. But indeed thou hast reason; for though the ways be foul, the journey’s end is most fair and honourable.”
“No more sweet Musidorus,” said Zelmane, “of these philosophies; for here comes the very person of Dametas.” And so he did indeed, with a sword by his side, a forest-bill on his neck, and a chopping-knife under his girdle: in which well provided sort, he had ever gone since the fear Zelmane had put him in. But he no sooner saw her, but with head and arms he laid his reverence afore her, enough to have made any man forswear all courtesy. And then in Basilius’s name he did invite her to walk down to the place where that day they were to have the pastorals.
But when he espied Musidorus to be none of the shepherds allowed in that place he would fain have persuaded himself to utter some anger, but that he durst not; yet muttering and champing, as though his cud troubled him, he gave occasion to Musidorus to come near him, and feign his tale of his own life: that he was a younger brother of the shepherd Menalcas, by name Dorus, sent by his father in his tender age to Athens, there to learn some cunning more than ordinary, that he might be the better liked of the prince; and that after his father’s death, his brother Menalcas lately gone thither to fetch him home, was also deceased, where, upon his death, he had charged him to seek the service of Dametas, and to be wholly and ever guided by him, as one in whose judgment and integrity the prince had singular confidence. For token whereof, he gave to Dametas a good sum of gold in ready coin: which Menalcas had bequeathed unto him, upon condition he should receive this poor Dorus into his service, that his mind and manners might grow the better by his daily example. Dametas, that of all manners of style could best conceive of golden eloquence, being withal tickled by Musidorus’s praises, had his brain so turned, that he became slave to that which he that sued to be his servant offered to give him, yet, for countenance sake, he seemed very squeamish, in respect of the charge he had of the princess Pamela. But such was the secret operation of the gold, helped with the persuasion of the Amazon, Zelmane (who said it was pity so handsome a young man should be anywhere else than with so good a master) that in the end he agreed (if that day he behaved himself so to the liking of Basilius, as he might be contented) that then he would receive him into his service.
And thus went they to the lodge, where they found Gynecia and her daughters ready to go to the field, to delight themselves there a while until the shepherds coming: whither also taking Zelmane with them, as they went, Dametas told them of Dorus, and desired he might be accepted there that day instead of his brother Menalcas. As for Basilius, he stayed behind to bring the shepherds, with whom he meant to confer, to breed the better Zelmane’s liking, which he only regarded, while the other beautiful band came to the fair field appointed for the shepherdish pastimes. It was indeed a place of delight; for through the midst of it there ran a sweet brook which did both hold the eye open with her azure streams, and yet seek to close the eye with the purling noise it made upon the pebble stones it ran over: the field itself being set in some places with roses, and in all the rest constantly preserving a flourishing green: the roses, added such a ruddy show unto it, as though the field were bashful at his own beauty: about it, as if it had been to enclose a theatre, grew such sort of trees as either excellency of fruit, stateliness of growth, continual greenness, or poetical fancies, have made at any time famous. In most part of which there had been framed by art such pleasant arbours, that, one answering another, they became a gallery aloft from tree to tree almost round about, which below gave a perfect shadow; a pleasant refuge then from the choleric look of Phoebus.
In this place while Gynecia walked hard by them, carrying many unquiet contentions about her, the ladies sat them down, enquiring divers questions of the shepherd Dorus; who keeping his eye still upon Pamela, answered with such a trembling voice, and abashed countenance, and oftentimes so far from the matter, that it was some sport to the young ladies, thinking it want of education which made him so discountenanced with unwonted presence. But Zelmane that saw in him the glass of her own misery, taking the hand of Philoclea, and with burning kisses setting it close to her lips (as if it should stand there like a hand in the margin of a book, to note some saying worthy to be marked) began to speak those words: “O love, since thou art so changeable in men’s estates, how art thou so constant in their torments?” when suddenly there came out of a wood a monstrous lion, with a she-bear not far from him, of a little less fierceness, which, as they guessed, having been hunted in forests far off, were by chance come thither, where before such beast had never been seen. Then care, not fear, or fear, not for themselves, altered something the countenances of the two lovers; but so, as any man might perceive, was rather an assembling of powers, than dismayedness of courage. Philoclea no sooner espied the lion, but, that obeying the commandment of fear, she leaped up, and ran to the lodge-ward, as fast as her delicate legs could carry her, while Dorus drew Pamela behind a tree, where she stood quaking like a partridge on which the hawk is even ready to seize. But the lion, seeing Philoclea run away, bent his race to her-ward, and was ready to seize himself on the prey when Zelmane (to whom danger then was a cause of dreadlessness, all the composition of her elements being nothing but fiery) with swiftness of desire crossed him, and with force of affection struck him such a blow upon his chine, that she opened all his body: wherewith the valiant beast turning her with open jaws, she gave him such a thrust through his breast, that all the lion could do, was with his paw to tear off the mantle and sleeve of Zelmane with a little scratch, rather than a wound, his death-blow having taken away the effect of his force: but therewithal he fell down, and gave Zelmane leisure to take off his head, to carry it for a present to her lady Philoclea, who all this while, not knowing what was done behind her, kept on her course like Arethusa when she ran from Alpheus; her light apparel being carried up with the wind, that much of those beauties she would at another time have willingly hidden, was presented to the sight of the twice wounded Zelmane. Which made Zelmane not follow her over-hastily, lest she should too soon deprive herself of that pleasure, but carrying the lion’s head in her hand, did not fully overtake her till they came to the presence of Basilius. Neither were they long there, but that Gynecia came thither also, who had been in such a trance of musing that Zelmane was fighting with the lion, before she knew of any lion’s coming: but then affection resisting, and the soon ending of the fight preventing all extremity of fear she marked Zelmane’s fighting: and when the lion’s head was off, as Zelmane ran after Philoclea, so she could not find in her heart but run after Zelmane: so that it was a new sight Fortune had prepared to those woods, to see those great personages thus run one after the other, each carried forward with an inward violence; Philoclea with such fear that she thought she was still in the lion’s mouth; Zelmane with an eager and impatient delight; Gynecia with wings of love, flying she neither knew nor cared to know whither. But now being all come before Basilius, amazed with this sight, and fear having such possession in the fair Philoclea that her blood durst not yet come to her face to take away the name of paleness from her most pure whiteness, Zelmane kneeled down and presented the lion’s head unto her: “Only lady,” said she, “here see you the punishment of that unnatural beast, which contrary to his own kind would have wronged prince’s blood, guided with such traitorous eyes, as durst rebel against your beauty.” “Happy am I, and my beauty both (answered the sweet Philoclea then blushing, for fear had bequeathed his room to his kinsman bashfulness) that you, excellent Amazon, were there to teach him good manners.” “And even thanks to that beauty,” answered Zelmane, “which can give an edge to the bluntest swords.”
There Philoclea told her father how it had happened; but as she had turned her eyes in her tale to Zelmane she perceived some blood upon Zelmane’s shoulder, so that starting with the lovely grace and pity she showed it to her father and mother, who, as the nurse sometimes with over-much kissing may forget to give the babe suck, so had they with too much delighting, in beholding and praising Zelmane, left off to mark whether she needed succour. But then they ran both unto her, like a father and mother to an only child, and, though Zelmane assured them it was nothing, would needs see it, Gynecia having skill in chirurgery, an art in those days much esteemed because it served to virtuous courage, which even ladies would, ever with the contempt of cowards, seem to cherish. But looking upon it (which gave more inward bleeding wounds to Zelmane, for she might sometimes feel Philoclea’s touch while she helped her mother) she found it was indeed of no importance; yet applied she a precious balm unto it of power to heal a greater grief.
But even then, and not before, they remembered Pamela, and therefore Zelmane, thinking of her friend Dorus, was running back to be satisfied, when they might all see Pamela coming between Dorus and Dametas, having in her hand the paw of a bear, which the shepherd Dorus had newly presented unto her, desiring her to accept it, as of such a beast, which though she deserved death for her presumption, yet was her wit to be esteemed, since she could make so sweet a choice. Dametas for his part came piping and dancing, the merriest man in a parish: but when he came so near as he might be heard of Basilius, he would needs break through his ears with this joyful song of their good success.
Now thanked be the great god Pan,
Which thus preserves my loved life:
Thanked be I that keep a man,
Who ended hath this bloody strife:
For if my Man must praises have,
What then must I, that keep the knave?
For as the Moon the eye doth please,
With gentle beams not hurting sight:
Yet hath sir Sun the greatest praise,
Because from him doth come her light:
So if my man must praises have,
What then must I, that keep the knave?
Being all now come together, and all desirous to know each other’s adventures, Pamela’s noble heart would needs gratefully make known the valiant means of her safety, which, directing her speech to her mother, she did in this manner: “As soon,” said she, “as ye were all run away, and that I hoped to be in safety, there came out of the same woods a horrible foul bear, which (fearing belike to deal while the lion was present as soon as he was gone) came furiously towards the place where I was, and this young shepherd left alone by me, I truly (not guilty of any wisdom, which since they lay to my charge, because they say it is the best refuge against that beast, but even pure fear bringing forth that effect of wisdom) fell down flat on my face, needing not counterfeit being dead, for indeed I was little better. But this young shepherd with a wonderful courage, having no other weapon but that knife you see, standing before the place where I lay, so behaved himself that the first sight I had, when I thought myself already near Charon’s ferry, was the shepherd showing me his bloody knife in token of victory.” “I pray you (said Zelmane speaking to Dorus, whose valour she was careful to have manifested) in what sort, so ill weaponed, could you achieve this enterprise?” “Noble lady,” said Dorus, “the manner of those beasts fighting with any man, is to stand up upon their hinder feet, and so this did, and being ready to give me a shrewd embracement, I think the god Pan, ever careful of the chief blessing of Arcadia, guided my hand so just to the heart of the beast that neither she could once touch me nor (which is the only matter in this worthy remembrance) breed any danger to the princess. For my part, I am rather, with all subjected humbleness, to thank her excellencies, since the duty thereunto gave me heart to save myself than to receive thanks for a deed which was her only aspiring.” And this Dorus spoke, keeping affection as much as he could back from coming into his eyes and gestures. But Zelmane, that had the same character in her heart, could easily decipher it, and therefore to keep him the longer in speech, desired to understand the conclusion of the matter, and how the honest Dametas was escaped. “Nay,” said Pamela, “none shall take that office from myself, being so much bound to him as I am for my education.” And with that word, scorn borrowing the countenance of mirth, somewhat she smiled, and thus spoke on: “When,” said she, “Dorus made me assuredly perceive that all cause of fear was passed, the truth is, I was ashamed to find myself alone with this shepherd, and therefore looking about me, if I could see anybody, at length we both perceived the gentle Dametas, lying with his head and breast as far as he could thrust himself into a bush, drawing up his legs as close unto him as he could: for, like a man of a very kind nature, soon to take pity on himself, he was fully resolved not to see his own death. And when this shepherd pushed him, bidding him to be of good cheer, it was a great while ere we could persuade him that Dorus was not the bear, so that he was fain to pull him out by the heels, and show him the beast as dead as he could wish it: which, you may believe me, was a very joyful sight unto him. But then he forgot all courtesy, for he fell upon the beast, giving it many a manful wound, swearing by much, it was not well such beasts should be suffered in a commonwealth. And then my governor, as full of joy, as before of fear, came dancing and singing before, as even now you saw him.” “Well, well,” said Basilius, “I have not chosen Dametas for his fighting, nor for his discoursing but for his plainness and honesty, and therein I know he will not deceive me.” But then he told Pamela (not so much because she should know it, as because he would tell it) the wonderful act Zelmane had performed, which Gynecia likewise spoke of, both in such extremity of praising, as was easy to be seen, the construction of their speech might best be made by the grammar rules of affection. Basilius told with what a gallant grace she ran with the lion’s head in her hand, like another Pallas with the spoils of Gorgon. Gynecia swore she saw the very face of the young Hercules killing the Nemean lion; and all with a grateful assent confirmed the same praises; only poor Dorus (though of equal desert, yet not proceeding of equal estate) should have been less forgotten, had not Zelmane again with great admiration begun to speak of him; asking whether it were the fashion or no in Arcadia that shepherds should perform such valorous enterprises.
This Basilius, having the quick sense of a lover, took, as though his mistress had given him a secret reprehension, that he had not showed more gratefulness to Dorus; and therefore as nimbly as he could, enquired of his estate, adding promise of great rewards, among the rest, offering to him, if he would exercise his courage in soldiery, he would commit some charge unto him under his lieutenant Philanax. But Dorus, whose ambition climbed by another stair, having first answered touching his estate that he was brother to the shepherd Menalcas, who among other was wont to resort to the prince’s presence, and excused his going to soldiery by the unaptness he found in himself that way, he told Basilius that his brother in his last testament had willed him to serve Dametas, and therefore, for due obedience thereunto, he would think his service greatly rewarded if he might obtain by that means to live in the sight of the prince and yet practice his own chosen vocation. Basilius, liking well his goodly shape and handsome manner, charged Dametas to receive him like a son into his house, saying, that his valour, and Dametas’s truth would be good bulwarks against such mischiefs, as, he sticked not to say, were threatened to his daughter Pamela.
Dametas, no whit out of countenance with all that had been said, because he had no worse to fall into than his own, accepted Dorus; and withal telling Basilius that some of the shepherds were come, demanded in what place he would see their sports, who first was curious to know whether it were not more requisite for Zelmane’s hurt to rest than sit up at those pastimes: and she, that felt no wound but one, earnestly desired to have the pastorals. Basilius commanded it should be at the gate of the lodge, where the throne of the prince being, according to the ancient manner, he made Zelmane sit between him and his wife therein, who thought herself between drowning and burning, and the two young ladies of either side the throne, and so prepared their eyes and ears to be delighted by the shepherds.
But, before all of them were assembled to begin their sports, there came a fellow who being out of breath, or seeming so to be for haste, with humble hastiness told Basilius, that his mistress, the lady Cecropia, had sent him to excuse the mischance of her beast ranging in that dangerous sort, being happened by the folly of the keeper, who thinking himself able to rule them, had carried them abroad, and so was deceived: whom yet, if Basilius would punish for it, she was ready to deliver. Basilius made no other answer, but that his mistress, if she had any more such beasts, should cause them to be killed: and then he told his wife and Zelmane of it, because they should not fear those woods, as though they harboured such beasts where the like had never been seen. But Gynecia took a further conceit of it, mistrusting greatly Cecropia, because she had heard much of the devilish wickedness of her heart, and that particularly she did her best to bring up her son Amphialus, being brother’s son to Basilius, to aspire to the crown as next heir male after Basilius, and therefore saw no reason but that she might conjecture, it proceeded rather of some mischievous practice, than of misfortune. Yet did she only utter her doubt to her daughters, thinking, since the worst was past, she would attend a further occasion, lest overmuch haste might seem to proceed of the ordinary mislike between sisters-in-law only they marvelled that Basilius looked no further into it, who, good man, thought so much of his late conceived commonwealth, that all other matters were but digressions unto him. But the shepherds were ready, and with well handling themselves, called their senses to attend their pastimes.
Basilius, because Zelmane so would have it, used the artificial day of torches, to lighten the sports their invention could minister: and because many of the shepherds were but newly come, he did in a gentle manner chastise their negligence, with making them, for that night the torch bearers; and the others he willed with all freedom of speech and behaviour to keep their accustomed method, which while they prepared to do, Dametas, who much disdained, since his late authority, all his old companions, brought his servant Dorus in good acquaintance and allowance of them, and himself stood like a director over them, with nodding, gaping, winking, or stamping, showing how he did like or mislike those things he did not understand. The first sports the shepherds showed were full of such leaps and gambols as being according to the pipe which they bore in their mouths, even as they danced, made a right picture of their chief god Pan, and his companions the Satyrs. Then would they cast away their pipes, and holding hand in hand dance as it were in a brawl, by the only cadence of their voices, which they would use in singing some short couplets, whereto the one half beginning, the other half should answer as the one half, saying:
We love, and have our loves rewarded.
The other would answer,
We love, and are no whit regarded.
The first again,
We find most sweet affection’s snare.
With like tune it should be as in a choir sent back again,
That sweet, but sour, despairful care.
A third time likewise thus:
Who can despair, whom hope doth bear?
The answer,
And who can hope that feels despair?
Then joining all their voices, and dancing a faster measure, they would conclude with some such words:
As without breath no pipe doth move,
No music kindly without love.
Having thus varied both their song and dances into divers sorts of inventions, their last sport was, one of them to provoke another to a more large expressing of his passions: which Thyrsis (accounted one of the best singers amongst them) having marked in Dorus’s dancing, no less good grace and handsome behaviour than extreme tokens of a troubled mind, began first with his pipe, and then with his voice, thus to challenge Dorus, and was by him answered in the under-written sort.
THE FIRST ECLOGUES
THYRSIS and DORUS
THYRSIS
Come Dorus, come, let songs thy sorrows signify,
And if for want of use thy mind ashamed is,
That very shame with love’s high title dignify.
No style is held for base where love well named is:
Each ear sucks up the words a true-love scattereth,
And plain speech oft, than quaint phrase better framed is.
DORUS
Nightingales seldom sing, the pie still chattereth,
The wood cries most, before it thoroughly kindled be,
Deadly wounds inward bleed, each slight sore mattereth.
Hardly they heard, which by good hunters singled be:
Shallow brooks murmur most, deep, silent slide away,
Nor true-love, his love with others mingled be.
THYRSIS
If thou wilt not be seen, thy face go hide away,
Be none of us, or else maintain our fashion:
Who frowns at others’ feasts, doth better bide away.
But if thou hast a love, in that love’s passion,
I challenge thee by show of her perfection,
Which of us two deserveth most compassion.
DORUS
Thy challenge great, but greater my protection:
Sing then, and see (for now thou hast inflamed me)
Thy health too mean a match for my infection.
No, though the heaven’s for high attempts have blamed me,
Yet high is my attempt. O Muse historify
Her praise, whose praise to learn your skill hath framed me.
THYRSIS
Muse hold your peace, but thou my god Pan glorify
My Kala’s gifts, who with all good gifts filled is.
Thy pipe, O Pan, shall help, though I sing sorrily.
A heap of sweets she is, where nothing spilled is;
Who though she be no Bee, yet full of honey is:
A Lily-field, with plough of Rose which tilled is:
Mild as a lamb, more dainty than a coney is:
Her eyes my eye-sight is, her conversation
More glad to me than to a miser money is.
What coy account she makes of estimation?
How nice to touch? how all her speeches poised be?
A nymph thus turned, but mended in translation.
DORUS
Such Kala is: but ah my fancies raised be
In one, whose name to name were high presumption,
Since virtue’s all, to make her title pleased be.
O happy gods, which by inward assumption
Enjoy her soul, in body’s fair possession,
And keep it join’d, fearing your seat’s consumption.
How oft with rain of tears skies make confession,
Their dwellers wrapt with sight of her perfection,
From heav’nly throne to her heav’n use digression?
Of best things then what world shall yield confection
To liken her? deck yours with your comparison:
She is herself of best things the collection.
THYRSIS
How oft my doleful sire cry’d to me, “Tarry son,”
When first he spied my love! how oft he said to me,
“Thou art no soldier fit for Cupid’s garrison?
My son keep this, that my long toil hath laid to me:
Love well thine own, methinks wool’s whiteness passeth all:
I never found long love such wealth hath paid to me.”
This wind he spent: but when my Kala glasseth all
My sight in her fair limbs, I then assure myself,
Not rotten sheep, but high crowns she surpasseth all.
Can I be poor, that her gold hair procure myself?
Want I white wool, whose eyes her white skin garnished?
’Till I get her, shall I to keep inure myself?
DORUS
How oft, when reason saw, love of her harnessed
With armour of my heart, he cried, “O vanity!
To set a pearl in steel so meanly varnished?
Look to thyself, reach not beyond humanity.
Her mind, beams, state, far from the weak wings banished;
And love which lover hurts is inhumanity.”
Thus reason said: but she came, reason vanished;
Her eyes so mastering me, that such objection
Seem’d but to spoil the food of thoughts long famished.
Her peerless height my mind to high erection
Draws up; and if hope-failing end life’s pleasure,
Of fairer death how can I make election?
THYRSIS
Once my well-waiting eyes espy’d my treasure,
With sleeves turn’d up, loose hair, and breasts enlarged,
Her father’s corn, moving her fair limbs, measure.
“O,” cried I, “if so mean work be discharged:
Measure my case how by thy beauty’s filling,
With seed of woes my heart brim-full is charg’d.
Thy father bids thee save, and chides for spilling;
Save then my soul, spill not my thoughts well heap’d,
No lovely praise was ever got by killing.”
Those bold words she did bear, this fruit I reaped,
That she whose look alone might make me blessed,
Did smile on me, and then away she leaped.
DORUS
Once, O sweet once, I saw with dread oppressed
Her whom I dread, so that with prostrate lying
Her length, the earth in love’s chief clothing dressed,
I saw that riches fall, and fell a crying:
“Let not dead earth enjoy so dear a cover,
But deck therewith my soul for your sake dying:
Lay all your fear upon your fearful lover:
Shine eyes on me that both our lives be guarded;
So I your sight, you shall yourselves recover.”
I cry’d, and was with open eyes rewarded:
But straight they fled summon’d by cruel honour,
Honour, the cause desert is not regarded.
THYRSIS
This maid, thus made for joys, O Pan! bemoan her,
That without love she spends her years of love:
So fair a field would well become an owner.
And if enchantment can a hard heart move,
Teach me what circle may acquaint her sprite,
Affection’s charms in my behalf to prove.
The circle is my, round about her, sight,
The power I will invoke dwells in her eyes:
My charm should be, she haunt me day and night.
DORUS
Far other case, O Muse, my sorrow tries,
Bent to such one in whom myself must say,
Nothing can mend one point that in her lies.
What circle then in so rare force bears sway?
Whose sprite all sprites can foil, raise, damn, or save:
No charm holds her, but well possess she may,
Possess she doth, and makes my soul her slave,
My eyes the bands, my thoughts the fatal knot.
No thrall like them that inward bondage have.
THYRSIS
Kala, at length conclude my ling’ring lot:
Disdain me not, although I be not fair,
Who is an heir of many hundred sheep,
Doth beauties keep which never sun can burn,
Nor storms do turn: fairness serves oft to wealth,
Yet all my health I place in your good will:
Which if you will, O do, bestow on me
Such as you see; such still you shall me find,
Constant and kind, my sheep your food shall breed,
Their wool your weed, I will you music yield
In flow’ry field; and as the day begins
With twenty gins we will the small birds take,
And pastimes make, as nature things hath made.
But when in shade we meet of myrtle boughs,
Then love allows our pleasures to enrich,
The thought of which doth pass all worldly pelf.
DORUS
Lady yourself whom neither name I dare,
And titles are but spots to such a worth,
Here plaints come forth from dungeon of my mind,
The noblest kind rejects not others’ woes.
I have no shows of wealth: my wealth is you,
My beauties hue your beams, my health your deeds;
My mind for weeds your virtue’s livery wears.
My food is tears, my tunes lamenting yield,
Despair my field, the flowers spirit’s wars:
My day new cares, my gins my daily sight,
In which do light small birds of thoughts o’erthrown:
My pastimes none: time passeth on my fall:
Nature made all, but me of dolours made,
I find no shade, but where my sun doth burn:
No place to turn; without, within it fries:
Nor help by life or death, who living dies.
THYRSIS
But if my Kala thus my suit denies,
Which so much reason bears:
Let crows pick out mine eyes, which too much saw.
If she still hate love’s law,
My earthly mould doth melt in wat’ry tears.
DORUS
My earthly mould doth melt in wat’ry tears,
And they again resolve
To air of sighs, sighs to the heart fire turn,
Which doth to ashes burn.
Thus doth my life within itself dissolve.
THYRSIS
Thus doth my life within itself dissolve
That I grow like the beast,
Which bears the bit a weaker force doth guide,
Yet patient must abide.
Such weight it hath, which once is full possess’d.
DORUS
Such weight it hath, which once is full possess’d,
That I become a vision,
Which hath in others held his only being,
And lives in fancy’s seeing,
O wretched state of man in self-division!
THYRSIS
O wretched state of man in self-division!
O well thou say’st! a feeling declaration!
Thy tongue hath made, of Cupid’s deep incision.
But now hoarse voice, doth fail this occupation,
And others long to tell their loves’ condition:
Of singing thou hast got the reputation.
DORUS
Of singing thou hast got the reputation,
Good Thyrsis mine, I yield to thy ability;
My heart doth seek another estimation.
But ah, my Muse, I would thou had’st facility
To work my Goddess so by thy invention,
On me to cast those eyes where shine nobility:
Seen and unknown; heard, but without attention.
Dorus did so well in answering Thyrsis that everyone desired to hear him sing something alone. Seeing therefore a lute lying under the Princess Pamela’s feet, glad to have such an errand to approach her, he came, but came with a dismayed grace, all his blood stirred betwixt fear and desire, and playing upon it with such sweetness, as everybody wondered to see such skill in a shepherd, he sung unto it with a sorrowing voice, these elegiac verses:
DORUS
Fortune, Nature, Love, long have contended about me,
Which should most miseries cast on a worm that I am,
Fortune thus gan say, “Misery and misfortune is all one,
And of misfortune, Fortune hath only the gift
With strong foes on land, on sea with contrary tempests,
Still do I cross this wretch, what so he taketh in hand.”
“Tush, tush,” said Nature, “this is all but a trifle, a man’s self
Gives haps or mishaps, even as he ordereth his heart.
But so his humour I frame, in a mould of choler adusted,
That the delights of life shall be to him dolorous.”
Love smiled, and thus said: “Want join’d to desire is unhappy:
But if he nought do desire, what can Heraclitus ail?
None but I work by desire: by desire have I kindled in his soul
Infernal agonies into a beauty divine:
Where thou poor nature left’st all thy due glory, to Fortune
Her virtue’s sovereign, Fortune a vassal of hers.”
Nature abash’d went back: Fortune blush’d: yet she replied thus:
“And even in that love shall I reserve him a spite.”
Thus, thus, alas! woeful by Nature, unhappy by Fortune,
But most wretched I am, now Love awakes my desire.
Dorus when he had sung this, having had all the while a free beholding of the fair Pamela (who could well have spared such honour; and defended the assault he gave unto her face with bringing a fair stain of shamefacedness unto it) let fall his arms, and remained so fastened in his thoughts as if Pamela had grafted him there to grow in continual imagination. But Zelmane espying it, and fearing he should too much forget himself, she came to him, and took out of his hand the lute, and laying fast hold of Philoclea’s face with her eyes, she sung these sapphics, speaking as it were to her own hope:
If mine eyes can speak to do hearty errand,
Or mine eyes’ language she do hap to judge of,
So that eyes’ message be of her received,
Hope we do live yet.
But if eyes fail then, when I most do need them,
Or if eyes’ language be not unto her known,
So that eyes’ message do return rejected,
Hope we do both die.
Yet dying, and dead, do we sing her honour;
So becomes our tombs monuments of our praise;
So becomes our loss the triumph of her gain;
Hers be the glory.
If the spheres senseless do yet hold a music,
If the swan’s sweet voice be not heard, but as death,
If the mute timber when it hath the life lost
Yieldeth a lute’s tune.
Are then human lives privileg’d so meanly,
As that hateful death can abridge them of power
With the vow of truth to record to all worlds
That we be her spoils?
Thus not ending, ends the due praise of her praise:
Fleshly veil consumes; but a soul hath his life,
Which is held in love; love it is, that hath join’d
Life to this our soul.
But if eyes can speak to hearty errand,
Or mine eyes’ language she doth hap to judge of,
So that eyes’ message be of her received
Hope we do live yet.
Great was the pleasure of Basilius, and greater would have been Gynecia’s but that she found too well it was intended to her daughter. As for Philoclea, she was sweetly ravished withal. When Dorus, desiring in a secret manner to speak of their cases, as perchance the parties intended might take some light of it, making low reverence to Zelmane, began this provoking song in Hexameter verse unto her. Whereunto she soon finding whether his words were directed, in like tune and verse, answered as followeth: