BOOK I

{1}

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?’

{2}

“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 {3}

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[b1-01], 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, {4} 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 {5} 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, {6} 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.

{7}

“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 {8} 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 {9} 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 {10} 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.

{11}

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 {12} 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 {13} 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 {14} 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) {15} 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 {16}

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 {17} 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 {18} 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 {19} 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 {20} 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 {21} 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 {22} 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 {23} 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 {24} 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.

{25}

“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 {26} 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, {27} 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 {28} 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 {29} 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[b1-02] in them; therefore sending

to view the camp, and {30} 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.

{31}

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 {32}

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, {33} 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, {34} 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 {35}

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 {36} 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 {37} 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 {38} 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 {39} 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, {40}

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 {41} 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 {42}

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 {43} 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[b1-03] 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 {44} 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.[b1-04] 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 {45} 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 {46} 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 {47} 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 {48} 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 {49}

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: {50} 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 {51} 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 {52}

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 {53} 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 {54} 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 {55} 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 {56} 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. {57} 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, {58} 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 {59} 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 {60} 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 {61} 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 {62} 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 {63} 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 {64} 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 {65} 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 {66} 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 {67} 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 {68} 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

{69} 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

{70} 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 {71} 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,

{72} 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 {73}

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 {74} 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 {75} 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 {76} 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 {77} 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 {78} 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 {79} 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 {80} 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 {81} 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

{82} 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 {83} 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 {84} 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.

{85}

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 {86} 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 {87} 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 {88} 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 {89} 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 {90}

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 {91} 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 {92} 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 {93} 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

{94} 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?

{95}

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, {96} 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

{97} 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 {98} 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

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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.

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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,

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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,

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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 {103} 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;

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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:

DORUS ZELMANE

DORUS

Lady reserved by the heavens to do pastor’s company honour,

Joining your sweet voice to the rural muse of a desert,

Here you fully do find the strange operation of love,

How to the woods love runs as well as rides to the palace,

Neither he bears reverence to a prince, nor pity to a beggar,

But, like a point in midst of a circle, is still of a nearness,

All to a lesson he draws; neither hills nor caves can avoid him.

ZELMANE

Worthy shepherd by my song to myself all favour is happ’ned,

That to the sacred Muse my annoys somewhat be revealed,

Sacred Muse, who in one contains what nine do in all them.

But O happy be you, which safe from fiery reflection

Of Phoebus’ violence in shade of sweet Cyparissus,

Or pleasant myrtle, may teach the unfortunate Echo

In these woods to resound the renowned name of goddess.

Happy be you that may to the saint, your only Idea,

(Although simply attir’d) your manly affection utter.

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Happy be those mishaps which justly proportion holding,

Give right sound to the ears, and enter aright to the judgment:

But wretched be the souls, which veil’d in a contrary subject,

How much more we do love, so the less our loves be believed.

What skill salveth a sore of wrong infirmity judged?

What can justice avail to a man that tells not his own case?

You though fears do abash, in you still possible hopes be:

Nature against we do seem to rebel, seem fools in a vain suit.

But so unheard, condemn’d, kept thence we do seek to abide in,

Self-lost in wand’ring, banished that place we do come from,

What mean is there alas, we can hope our loss to recover?

What place is there left, we may hope our woes to recomfort?

Unto the heav’ns? our wings be too short: earth thinks us a burden,

Air? we do still with sighs increase: to the fire? we do want none,

And yet his outward heat our tears would quench, but an inward

Fire no liquor can cool: Neptune’s realm would not avail us.

Happy shepherd, with thanks to the Gods, still think to be thankful,

That to thy advancement their wisdoms have thee abased.

DORUS

Unto the gods with a thankful heart all thanks I do render,

That to my advancement their wisdoms have me abased.

But yet, alas! O but yet alas! our haps be but hard haps,

Which must frame contempt to the fittest purchase of honour.

Well may a pastor plain, but alas his plaints be not esteem’d:

Silly shepherd’s poor pipe, when his harsh sound testifies anguish,

Into the fair looking on, pastime, not passion, enters.

And to the woods or brooks, who do make such dreary recital?

What be the pangs they bear, and whence those pangs be derived,

Pleas’d to receive that name by rebounding answer of Echo,

May hope thereby to ease their inward horrible anguish,

When trees dance to the pipe, and swift streams stay by the music,

Or when an Echo begins unmov’d to sing them a love-song;

Say then, what vantage do we get by the trade of a pastor?

(Since no estates be so base, but love vouchsafeth his arrow,

Since no refuge doth serve from wounds we do carry about us,

Since outward pleasures be but halted helps to decayed Souls)

Save that daily we may discern what fire we do burn in.

Far more happy be you, whose greatness gets a free access;

Whose fair bodily gifts are fram’d most lovely to each eye,

Virtue you have, of virtue you have left proof to the whole world.

And virtue is grateful, with beauty and richness adorn’d.

Neither doubt you a whit; time will your passion utter.

Hardly remains fire hid where skill is bent to the hiding,

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But in a mind that would his flames should not be repressed,

Nature worketh enough with a small help for the revealing:

Give therefore to the Muse great praise, in whose very likeness

You do approach to the fruit your only desires be to gather.

ZELMANE

First shall fertile grounds not yield increase of a good seed,

First the rivers shall cease to repay their floods to the ocean:

First may a trusty greyhound transform himself to a tiger.

First shall virtue be vice, and beauty be counted a blemish,

Ere that I leave with song of praise her praise to solemnize,

Her praise, whence to the world all praise hath his only beginning:

But yet well I do find each man most wise in his own case.

None can speak of a wound with skill, if he have not a wound felt.

Great to thee my state seems, thy state is bless’d by my judgment:

And yet neither of us great or blest deemeth his own self.

For yet (weigh this alas!) great is not great to the greater.

What judge you doth a hillock show, by the lofty Olympus?

Such my minute greatness, doth seem compar’d to the greatest.

When cedars to the ground fall down by the weight of an emmot,

Or when a rich ruby’s price be the worth of a walnut,

Or to the sun for wonders seem small sparks of a candle:

Then by my high cedar, rich ruby, and only shining sun,

Virtue, riches, beauties of mine shall great be reputed.

Oh, no, no, worthy shepherd, worth can never enter a title,

Where proofs justly do teach, thus match’d, such worth to be nought

worth:

Let not a puppet abuse thy sprite, kings’ crowns do not help them

From the cruel headache, nor shoes of gold do the gout heal:

And precious couches full oft are shak’d with a fever.

If then a bodily ill in a bodily gloze be not hidden,

Shall such morning dews be an ease to the heat of a love’s fire?

DORUS

O glittering miseries of man, if this be the fortune

Of those fortunes’ lulls? so small rests, rest in a kingdom?

What marvel tho’ a prince transform himself to a pastor?

Come from marble bowers many times the gay harbour of anguish,

Unto a silly caban, thought weak, yet stronger against woes.

Now by the words I begin, most famous lady, to gather

Comfort into my soul, I do find what a blessing

Is chanced to my life, that from such muddy abundance

Of carking agonies, to states which still be adherent,

Destiny keeps me aloof, for if all this state to thy virtue

Join’d by thy beauty adorn’d be no means those griefs to abolish:

If neither by that help, thou canst climb up thy fancy,

Nor yet fancy so dress’d do receive more plausible hearing:

Then do I think indeed, that better it is to be private

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In sorrow’s torments, than, tied to the pomps of a palace,

Nurse inward maladies, which have not scope to be breath’d out:

But perforce digest all bitter joys of horror

In silence, from a man’s own self with company robbed.

Better yet do I live, that though by my thoughts I be plunged

Into my life’s bondage, yet may I disburden a passion

(Oppress’d with ruinous conceits) by the help of an out-cry:

Not limited to a whispering note, the lament of a courtier.

But sometimes to the woods, sometimes to the heav’n do decipher

With bold clamour unheard, unmark’d, what I seek, what I suffer:

And when I meet those trees, in the earth’s fair livery clothed,

Ease I do feel, such ease as falls to one wholly diseased,

For that I find in them part of my state represented.

Laurel shows what I seek, by the myrrh is shown how I seek it,

Olive paints me the peace that I must aspire to by conquest:

Myrtle makes my request; my request is crown’d with a willow.

Cypress promiseth help, but a help where comes no recomfort:

Sweet juniper saith this, “Though I burn, yet I burn in a sweet fire.”

Yew doth make me think what kind of bow the boy holdeth,

Which shoots strongly without any noise, and deadly without smart,

Fir-trees great and green, fix’d on a high hill but a barren,

Like to my noble thoughts, still new, well plac’d to me fruitless.

Fig that yields most pleasant fruits, his shadow is hurtful:

Thus be her gifts most sweet, thus more danger to be near her.

Now in a palm when I mark, how he doth rise under a burden,

And may I not, say then, get up though grief be so weighty?

Pine is a mast to a ship, to my ship shall hope for a mast serve.

Pine is high, hope is as high, sharp leav’d, sharp, yet be my hopes

buds.

Elm embrac’d by a vine, embracing fancy reviveth:

Poplar changeth his hue from a rising sun to a setting:

Thus to my sun do I yield, such looks her beams do afford me.

Old aged oak cut down, of new work serves to the building:

So my desires by my fear cut down, be the frames of her honour.

As he makes spears which shields do resist, her force no repulse

takes.

Palms do rejoice to be join’d by the match of a male to a female,

And shall sensitive things be so senseless as to resist sense?

Thus be my thoughts dispers’d, thus thinking nurseth a thinking.

Thus both trees and each thing else, be the books of a fancy.

But to the cedar, queen of woods, when I left my betear’d eyes,

Then do I shape to myself that form which reigns so within me,

And think there she doth dwell and hear what plaints I do utter:

When that noble top doth nod, I believe she salutes me,

When by the wind it maketh a noise, I do think she doth answer.

Then kneeling to the ground, oft thus do I speak to that image:

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Only jewel, O only jewel, which only deservest,

That men’s hearts be thy seat, and endless fame be thy servant,

O descend for a while, from this great height to behold me,

But nought else to behold, else is nought worth the beholding,

Save what a work by thyself is wrought: and since I am alter’d

Thus by thy work, disdain not that which is by thyself done,

In mean caves oft treasure abides, to an hostry a king comes.

And so behind foul clouds full oft fair stars do lie hidden.

ZELMANE

Hardy shepherd, such as thy merits, such may be her insight

Justly to grant thee reward, such envy I hear to thy fortune.

But to myself what wish can I make for a salve to my sorrows,

Whom both nature seems to debar from means to be helped,

And if a mean were found, fortune th’ whole course of it hinders?

Thus plagu’d how can I frame to my sore any hope of amendment?

Whence may I show to my mind any light of possible escape?

Bound, and bound by so noble bands, as loth to be unbound,

Jailer I am to myself, prison and pris’ner to mine own self.

Yet by my hopes thus plac’d, here fix’d lives all my comfort,

That that dear diamond, where wisdom holdeth a sure seat,

Whose force had such force so to transform, nay to reform me,

Will at length perceive those flames by her beams to be kindled,

And will pity the wound festered so strangely within me.

O be it so, grant such an event, O gods, that event give,

And for a sure sacrifice I do daily oblation offer

Of mine own heart, where thoughts be the temple, sight is an altar.

But cease worthy shepherd, now cease we to weary the hearers

With mournful melodies; for enough our griefs be revealed,

If the parties meant our meanings rightly be marked,

And sorrows do require some respite unto the senses.

What exclaiming praises Basilius gave to this Eclogue any man may

guess that knows love is better than a pair of spectacles to make

everything seem greater which is seen through it: and then is never

tongue-tied where fit commendation, whereof womankind is so liquorish,

is offered unto it. But before any other came in to supply the place,

Zelmane having heard some of the shepherds by chance name Strephon and

Claius, supposing thereby they had been present, was desirous both to

hear them for the fame of their friendly love, and to know them for

their kindness towards her best loved friend. Much grieved was

Basilius, that any desire of his mistress should be unsatisfied, and

therefore to represent them unto her, as well as in their absence it

might be, he commanded one Lamon, who had at large set down their

country pastimes and first love to Urania, to sing the whole discourse

which he did in this manner.

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A shepherd’s tale no height of style desires,

To raise in words what in effect is low:

A plaining song plain singing voice requires,

For warbling notes from cheering spirit flow.

I then whose burd’ned breast but thus aspires

Of shepherds two the silly cause to show.

Need not the stately Muse’s help invoke,

For creeping rhymes, which often sighings choke.

But you, O you, that think not tears too dear,

To spend for harms, although they touch you not:

And deign to deem your neighbours’ mischief near,

Although they be of meaner parents got:

You I invite with easy ear’s to hear

The poor-clad truth of love’s wrong-order’d lot.

Who may be glad, be glad you be not such:

Who share in woe, weigh others have as much.

There was (O seldom blessed word of was!)

A pair of friends, or rather one call’d two,

Train’d in the life which no short-bitten grass

In shine or storm must set the clouted shoe:

He, that the other in some years did pass,

And in those gifts that years distribute do,

Was Claius call’d (ah Claius, woeful weight!)

The latter born, yet too soon Strephon height.

Epirus high was honest Claius’s nest,

To Strephon Aeoles’s land first breathing lent:

But east and west were join’d by friendship’s hest.

As Strephon’s ear and heart to Claius bent,

So Claius’s soul did in his Strephon rest.

Still both their flocks flocking together went,

As if they would of owners’ humour be,

As eke their pipes did well, as friends agree.

Claius for skill of herbs and shepherd’s art,

Among the wisest was accounted wise,

Yet not so wise, as of unstained heart:

Strephon was young, yet marked with humble eyes

How elder rul’d their flocks and cur’d their smart,

So that the grave did not his words despise.

Both free of mind, both did clear dealing love,

And both had skill in verse their voice to move.

Their cheerful minds, ’till poison’d was their cheer,

The honest sports of earthly lodging prove;

Now for a clod-like hare in form they peer,

Now bolt and cudgel squirrels’ leap do move:

Now the ambitious lark with mirror clear

They catch, while he (fool!) to himself makes love:

And now at keels they try a harmless chance,

And now their cur they teach to fetch and dance.

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When merry May first early calls the morn,

With merry maids a maying they do go:

Then do they pull from sharp and niggard thorn

The plenteous sweets (can sweets so sharply grow?)

Then some green gowns are by the lasses worn

In chastest plays, ’till home they walk arow,

Whilst dance about the may-pole is begun,

When, if need were, they could at Quintain[b1-05] run:

While thus they ran a low, but levell’d race,

While thus they liv’d, this was indeed a life,

With nature pleas’d, content with present case,

Free of proud fears, brave begg’ry, smiling strife,

Of climb-fall court, the envy hatching place:

While those restless desires in great men rise,

To visit so low of folks did much disdain,

This while, though poor, they in themselves did reign.

One day (O day, that shin’d to make them dark!)

While they did ward sun-beams with shady bay,

And Claius taking for his youngling cark,

(Lest greedy eyes to them might challenge lay)

Busy with ochre did their shoulders mark,

(His mark a pillar was devoid of stay,

As bragging that free of all passions’ moan,

Well might he others bear, but lean to none:)

Strephon with leafy twigs of laurel tree,

A garland made on temples for to wear,

For he then chosen was, the dignity

Of village lord, that Whitsuntide to bear:

And full, poor fool, of boyish bravery,

With triumph’s shows would show he nought did fear.

But fore-accounting oft makes builders miss:

They found, they felt, they had no lease of bliss.

For ere that either had his purpose done,

Behold, beholding well it doth deserve,

They saw a maid who thitherward did run,

To catch her Sparrow which from her did swerve,

As she a black-silk cap on him begun

To set for foil of his milk-white to serve,

She chirping ran, he peeping flew away,

’Till hard by them both he and she did stay.

Well for to see, they kept themselves unseen,

And saw this fairest maid of fairer mind:

By fortune mean; in nature born a queen,

How well apaid she was her bird to find:

How tenderly her tender hands between

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In ivory cage she did the micher bind:

How rosy moist’ned lips about his beak

Moving, she seem’d at once to kiss, and speak.

Chast’ned but thus, and thus his lesson taught,

The happy wretch she put into her breast,

Which to their eyes the bowels of Venus brought,

For they seem’d made even of sky metal best,

And that the bias of her blood was wrought.

Betwixt them two the peeper took his nest,

Where snugging well he well appear’d content,

So to have done amiss, so to be shent.

This done, but done with captive-killing grace,

Each motion seeming shot from beauty’s bow,

With length laid down, she deck’d the lovely place.

Proud grew the grass that under her did grow,

The trees spread out their arms to shade her face,

But she on elbow lean’d, with sighs did show

No grass, no trees, nor yet her sparrow might

The long-perplexed mind breed long delight.

She troubled was (alas that it might be!)

With tedious brawlings of her parents dear,

Who would have her in will and word agree

To wed Antaxius their neighbour near.

A herdman rich, of much account was he,

In whom no evil did reign, nor good appear.

In some such one she lik’d not his desire,

Fain would be free, but dreadeth parents’ ire.

Kindly (sweet soul!) she did unkindness take

That bagged baggage of a miser’s mud,

Should price of her, as in a market, make;

But gold can gild a rotten piece of wood;

To yield she found her noble heart to ache,

To strive she fear’d how it with virtue stood,

Thus doubtings clouds o’ercasting heav’nly brain,

At length in rows of kiss-cheeks tears they rain.

Cupid the wag, that lately conquer’d had

Wise counsellors, stout captains, puissant kings,

And tied them fast to lead his triumph had,

Glutted with them, now plays with meanest things:

So oft in feasts with costly changes clad

To crammed maws a sprat new stomach brings.

So lords with sport of stag and heron full,

Sometimes we see small birds from nests do pull.

So now for prey those shepherds two he took,

Whose metal stiff he knew he could not bend

With hear-say pictures, or a window-look;

With one good dance, or letter finely penn’d

That were in court a well proportion’d hook,

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Where piercing wits do quickly apprehend,

Their senses rude plain objects only move,

And so must see great cause before they love.

Therefore love arm’d in her now takes the field,

Making her beams his bravery and might:

Her hands which pierc’d the soul’s sev’n double shield,

Were now his darts leaving his wonted fight.

Brave crest to him her scorn gold hair did yield,

His complete harness was her purest white.

But fearing lest all white might seem too good,

In cheeks and lips the tyrant threatens blood.

Besides this force, within her eyes he kept

A fire, to burn the prisoners he gains,

Whose boiling heart increased as she wept:

For ev’n in forge, cold water fire maintains.

Thus proud and fierce unto the hearts he stepp’d

Of them poor souls: and cutting reason’s reins,

Made them his own before they had it wist.

But if they had, could sheep-hooks thus resist?

Claius straight felt, and groaned at the blow,

And call’d, now wounded, purpose to his aid:

Strephon, fond boy, delighted did not know

That it was love that shin’d in shining maid:

But lick’rous, poison’d, fain to her would go,

If him new learned manners had not stay’d.

For then Urania homeward did arise,

Leaving in pain their well-fed hungry eyes.

She went, they stay’d, or rightly for to say,

She stay’d with them, they went in thought with her:

Claius indeed would fain have pull’d away

This mote from out his eye, this inward bur,

And now proud rebel ’gan for to gainsay

The lesson which but late he learn’d too far:

Meaning with absence to refresh the thought

To which her presence such a fever brought.

Strephon did leap with joy and jollity,

Thinking it just more therein to delight,

Than in good dog, fair field, or shading tree.

So have I seen trim-books in velvet dight,

With golden leaves, and painted babery

Of silly boys, please unacquainted sight:

But when the rod began to play his part,

Fain would, but could not, fly from golden smart.

He quickly learn’d Urania was her name,

And straight, for failing, grav’d it in his heart:

He knew her haunt, and haunted in the same,

And taught his sheep her sheep in food to thwart,

Which soon as it did hateful question frame,

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He might on knees confess his faulty part,

And yield himself unto her punishment,

While nought but game, the self-hurt wanton meant.

Nay, even unto her home he oft would go,

Where bold and hurtless many play he tries,

Her parents liking well it should be so,

For simple goodness shined in his eyes.

There did he make her laugh in spite of woe,

So as good thoughts of him in all arise,

While into none doubt of his love did sink,

For not himself to be in love did think.

But glad desire, his late embosom’d guest

Yet but a babe, with milk of sight he nurst

Desire the more he suck’d, more sought the breast,

Like dropsy-folk still drink to be a thirst,

’Till one fair ev’n an hour ere sun did rest,

Who then in lion’s cave did enter first,

By neighbours pray’d she went abroad thereby,

At Barley-break[b1-06] her sweet swift foot to try.

Never the earth on his round shoulders bare

A maid train’d up from high or low degree,

That in her doings better could compare

Mirth with respect, from words with courtesy,

A careless comliness with comely care.

Self-guard with mildness, sport with majesty:

Which made her yield to deck this shepherd’s band,

And still, believe me, Strephon was at hand.

Afield they go, where many lookers be,

And thou seek-sorrow Claius them among:

Indeed thou said’st it was thy friend to see

Strephon, whose absence seem’d unto thee long,

While most with her he less did keep with thee.

No, no, it was in spite of wisdom’s song

Which absence wish’d: love play’d a victor’s part:

The heav’n-love load-stone drew thy iron heart.

Then couples there, be straight allotted there,

They of both ends the middle two do fly,

They two that in mid-place, hell called were,

Must strive with waiting foot, and watching eye

To catch of them, and them to hell to bear,

That they, as well as they, hell may supply:

Like some which seek to salve their blotted name

With others’ blot, ’till all do taste of shame.

There may you see, soon as the middle two

Do coupled towards either couple make,

They false and fearful do their hands undo,

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Brother his brother, friend doth friend forsake,

Heeding himself, cares not how fellow do,

But of a stranger mutual help doth take:

As perjur’d cowards in adversity

With sight of fear, from friends, to friend, do fly.

These sports shepherds devis’d such faults to show.

Geron, though old, yet gamesome, kept one end

With Cosma, for whose love Pas passed in woe.

Fair Nous with Pas the lot to hell did send:

Pas thought it hell, while he was Cosma fro.

At other end Uran did Strephon lend

Her happy making hand, of whom one look

From Nous and Cosma all their beauty took.

The play began: Pas durst not Cosma chase,

But did intend next bout with her to meet,

So he with Nous to Geron turn’d their race,

With whom to join, fast ran Urania sweet:

But light legg’d Pas had got the middle space.

Geron strove hard, but aged were his feet,

And therefore finding force now faint to be,

He thought gray hairs afforded subtlety.

And so when Pas’s hand reached him to take,

The fox on knees and elbows tumbled down;

Pas could not stay, but over him did rake,

And crown’d the earth with his first touching crown:

His heels grown proud did seem at heav’n to shake,

But Nous that slipp’d from Pas, did catch the clown.

So laughing all, yet Pas to ease some dell

Geron with Uran were condemn’d to hell.

Cosma this while to Strephon safely came,

And all to second Barley-break are bent:

The two in hell did toward Cosma frame;

Who should to Pas, but they would her prevent.

Pas mad with fall, and madder with the shame,

Most mad with beams which we thought Cosma sent,

With such mad haste he did to Cosma go,

That to her breast he gave a noisome blow.

She quick, and proud, and who did Pas despise,

Up with her fist, and took him on the face,

“Another time,” quoth she, “become more wise.”

Thus Pas did kiss her hand with little grace,

And each way luckless, yet in humble guise

Did hold her fast for fear of more disgrace,

While Strephon might with pretty Nous have met,

But all this while another course be set.

For as Urania after Cosma ran;

He ravished with sight how gracefully

She mov’d her limbs, and drew the aged man,

{115}

Left Nous to coast the loved beauty nigh:

Nous cry’d and chaf’d, but he no other can.

’Till Uran seeing Pas to Cosma fly,

And Strephon single, turn’d after him:

Strephon so chas’d did seem in milk to swim.

He ran, but ran with eye o’er shoulder cast,

More marking her, than how himself did go,

Like Numid lions by the hunters chas’d,

Though they do fly, yet backwardly do glow

With proud aspect, disdaining greatest haste:

What rage in them, that love in him did show.

But God gives them instinct the man to shun,

And he by law of Barley-break must run.

But as his heat with running did augment,

Much more his sight increas’d his hot desire:

So is in her the best of nature spent,

The air her sweet race mov’d doth blow the fire,

Her feet be pursuivants from Cupid sent,

With whose fine steps all loves and joys conspire.

The hidden beauties, seem’d in wait to lie,

To down proud hearts that would not willing die.

That, fast he fled from her he follow’d sore,

Still shunning Nous to lengthen pleasing race,

’Till that he spied old Geron could no more,

Than did he stack his love-instructed pace.

So that Uran, whose arm old Geron bore,

Laid hold on him with most lay-holding grace.

So caught, him seem’d he caught of joys the bell,

And thought it heav’n so to be drawn to hell:

To hell he goes, and Nous with him must dwell,

Nous sware it was no right; for his default

Who would be caught, that she should go to hell:

But so she must. And now the third assault

Of Barley-break among the six befell,

Pas Colma match’d, yet angry with his fault,

The other end Geron with guard:

I think you think Strephon bent thitherward.

Nous counsell’d Strephon Geron to pursue,

For he was old, and easy would be caught:

But he drew her as love his fancy drew,

And so to take the gem Urania sought,

While Geron old came safe to Cosma true,

Though him to meet at all she stirred nought.

For Pas, whether it were for fear or love,

Mov’d not himself, nor suffer’d her to move.

So they three did together idly stay,

While dear Uran, whose course was Pas to meet,

(He staying thus) was fain abroad to stray

{116}

With larger round, to shun the following feet.

Strephon, whose eyes on her back parts did play,

With love drawn on so fast with pace unmeet,

Drew dainty Nous, that she not able so

To run, brake forth his hands, and let him go,

He single thus hop’d soon with her to be,

Who nothing earthly, but of fire and air,

Though with soft legs did run as fast as he.

He thrice reach’d, thrice deceiv’d, when her to bear

He hopes, with dainty turns she doth him flee.

So on the Downs we see, near Wilton fair,

A hasten’d hare from greedy greyhound go,

And past all hope his chaps to frustrate so.

But this strange race more strange conceits did yield;

Who victor seem’d, was to his ruin brought:

Who seem’d o’erthrown was mistress of the field:

She fled, and took; he followed and was caught.

She have I heard to pierce pursuing shield,

By parents train’d the Tartars wild are taught,

With shafts shot out from their back-turned bow.

But ah! her darts did far more deeply go.

As Venus’s bird, the white, swift, lovely Dove,

(O happy Doves that are compar’d to her!)

Doth on her wings her utmost swiftness prove,

Finding the gripe of Falcon fierce not furr:

So did Uran: the nar, the swifter move,

(Yet beauty still as fast as she did stir)

’Till with long race dear she was breathless brought,

And then the Phoenix feared to be caught.

Among the rest that there did take delight

To see the sports of double shining day:

And did the tribute of their wond’ring sight

To nature’s heir, the fair Urania pay,

I told you Claius was the hapless wight,

Who earnest found what they accounted play.

He did not there do homage of his eyes,

But on his eyes his heart did sacrifice.

With gazing looks, short sighs, unsettled feet,

He stood, but turn’d, as Gyrosol, to sun:

His fancies still did her in half-way meet,

His soul did fly as she was seen to run.

In sum, proud Boreas never ruled fleet

(Who Neptune’s web on danger’s distaff spun)

With greater power, than she did make them wend

Each way, as she that ages praise, did bend.

’Till ’spying well, she well nigh weary was,

And surely taught by his love-open eye,

His eye, that ev’n did mark her trodden grass,

{117}

That she would fain the catch of Strephon fly,

Giving his reason passport for to pass

Whither it would, so it would let him die;

He that before shunn’d her, to shun such harms:

Now runs, and takes her in his clipping arms.

For with pretence from Strephon her to guard,

He met her full, but full of warefulness,

Within bow’d-bosom well for her prepar’d,

When Strephon cursing his own backwardness,

Came to her back, and so with double ward

Imprison’d her who both them did possess

As heart-bound slaves: and happy then embrace

Virtue’s proof, fortune’s victor, beauty’s place.

Her race did not her beauty’s beams augment,

For, they were ever in the best degree,

But yet a setting forth it someway lent,

As rubies lustre when they rubbed be.

The dainty dew on face and body went

As on sweet flowers, when morning’s drops we see.

Her breath then short, seem’d loth from home to pass,

Which more it mov’d, the more it sweeter was.

Happy, O happy! if they so might bide

To see their eyes, with how true humbleness,

They looked down to triumph over pride:

With how sweet sauce she blam’d their sauciness,

To feel the panting heart, which through her side,

Did beat their hands, which durst so near to press,

To see, to feel, to hear, to taste, to know

More, than besides her, all the earth could show.

But never did Medea’s golden weed

On Creon’s child his poison sooner throw,

Than those delights through all their sinews breed,

A creeping serpent like of mortal woe,

’Till she broke from their arms (although indeed

Going from them, from them she could not go)

And fare-welling the flock, did homeward wend,

And so that even the Barley-break did end.

It ended, but the other woe began,

Began at least to be conceiv’d as woe,

For then wise Claius found no absence can

Help him who can no more her sight forego.

He found man’s virtue is but part of man,

And part must follow where whole man doth go.

He found that reason’s self now reasons found

To fasten knots, which fancy first had bound.

So doth he yield, so takes he on his yoke,

Not knowing who did draw with him therein;

Strephon, poor youth, because he saw no smoke,

{118}

Did not conceive what fire he had within:

But after this to greater rage it broke,

’Till of his life it did full conquest win,

First killing mirth, then banishing all rest,

Filling his eyes with tears, with sighs his breast,

Then sports grow pains, all talking tedious:

On thoughts he feeds, his looks their figure change,

The day seems long, but night is odious,

No sleeps, but dreams; no dreams, but visions strange,

’Till finding still his evil increasing thus,

One day he with his flock abroad did range:

And coming where he hop’d to be alone,

Thus on a hillock set, he made his moan:

“Alas! what weights are these that load my heart!

I am as dull as winter-starved sheep,

Tir’d as a jade in over-laden cart,

Yet thoughts do fly, though I can scarcely creep.

All visions seem, at every bush I start:

Drowsy am I, and yet can rarely sleep.

Sure I bewitched am, it is even that,

Late near a cross, I met an ugly cat.

For, but by charms, how fall these things on me,

That from those eyes, where heav’nly apples been,

Those eyes, which nothing like themselves can see,

Of fair Urania, fairer than a green,

Proudly bedeck’d in April’s livery,

A shot unheard gave me a wound unseen;

He was invincible that hurt me so,

And none invisible, but spirits can go.

When I see her, my sinews shake for fear,

And yet, dear soul, I know she hurteth none:

Amid my flock with woe my voice I tear,

And, but bewitch’d, who to his flock would moan?

Her cherry lips, milk hands, and golden hair

I still do see, though I be still alone.

Now make me think that there is not a fiend,

Who hid in angel’s shape my life would end.

The sports wherein I wonted to do well,

Come she, and sweet the air with open breast,

Then so I fail, when most I would do well,

That at my so amaz’d my fellows jest:

Sometimes to her news of myself to tell

I go about, but then is all my best

Wry words, and stammering, or else doltish dumb;

Say then, can this but of enchantment come?

Nay each thing is bewitched to know my case:

The Nightingales for woe their songs refrain:

In river as I look’d my pining face,

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As pin’d a face as mine I saw again,

The courteous mountains griev’d at my disgrace

Their snowy hair tear off in melting pain.

And now the dropping trees do weep for me,

And now fair evenings blush my shame to see.

But you my pipe whilom my chief delight,

’Till strange delight, delight to nothing wear,

And you my flock, care of my careful sight,

While I was I, and so had cause to care:

And thou my dog, whose truth and valiant might

Made wolves, not inward wolves, my ewes to spare.

Go you not from your master in his woe,

Let it suffice that he himself forego.

For though like wax this magic makes me waste,

Or like a lamb, whose Dam away is set,

(Stolen from her young by Thieves’ unchosing haste)

He treble baa’s for help, but none can get,

Though thus, and worse, though now I am at last,

Of all the games that here ere now I met,

Do you remember still you once were mine,

’Till mine eyes had their curse from blessed eye.

Be you with me while I unheard do cry,

While I do score my losses on the wind,

While I in heart my will write ere I die.

In which, by will, my will and wits I bind,

Still to be hers, about her aye to fly.

As this same sprite about my fancies blind

Doth daily haunt, but so, that mine become

As much more loving, as less cumbersome.

Alas! a cloud hath overcast mine eyes:

And yet I see her shine amid the cloud.

Alas! of ghosts I hear the ghastly cries:

Yet there, meseems, I hear her singing loud.

This song she sings in most commanding wise:

‘Come shepherd’s boy, let now thy heart be bow’d

To make itself to my least look a slave:

Leave sleep, leave all, I will no piecing have.’

I will, I will, alas, alas, I will:

Wilt thou have more? more have, if more I be.

Away ragg’d rams, care I what murrain kill?

Our shrieking pipe, made of some witched tree:

Go bawling cur, thy hungry maw go fill

On your foul flock, belonging not to me.”

With that his dog he henc’d, his flock he curs’d,

With that, yet kissed first, his pipe he burst.

This said, this done, he rose, even tir’d with rest,

With heart as careful, as with careless grace,

With shrinking legs, but with a swelling breast,

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With eyes which threat’ned they would drown his face.

Fearing the worst, not knowing what were best,

And giving to his sight a wand’ring race,

He saw behind a bush where Claius sat:

His well-known friend, but yet his unknown mate.

Claius the wretch, who lately yielden was

To bear the bonds which time nor wit could break,

(With blushing soul at sight of judgment’s glass,

While guilty thoughts accus’d his reason weak)

This morn alone to lovely walk did pass,

Within himself of her dear self to speak,

’Till Strephon’s plaining voice him nearer drew,

Where by his words his self-like case he knew.

For hearing him so oft with words of woe

Urania name, whose force he knew so well,

He quickly knew what witchcraft gave the blow,

Which made his Strephon think himself in hell.

Which when he did in perfect image show

To his own wit, thought upon thought, did swell,

Breeding huge storms within his inward part,

Which thus breath’d out, with earth-quake of his heart.

As Lamon would have proceeded, Basilius knowing, by the wasting of the

torches that the night also was far wasted, and withal remembering

Zelmane’s hurt, asked her whether she thought it not better to reserve

the complaint of Claius till another day. Which she, perceiving the

song had already worn out much time, and not knowing when Lamon would

end, being even now stepping over to a new matter, though much

delighted with what was spoken, willingly agreed unto. And so of all

sides they went to recommend themselves to the elder brother of death.

[End of Book I]

ARCADIA