part I know too well their cunning, who leave no money unoffered that

may buy mine honour, to believe any word they say, but, my dear

Pyrocles, even look for the worst, and prepare thyself for the same.

Yet I must confess, I was content to rob from death, and borrow of my

misery the sweet comfort of seeing my sweet sister, and most sweet

comfort of thee my Pyrocles. And so having leave, I came stealing into

your chamber: where, O Lord, what a joy it was unto me, to hear you

solemnize the funerals of the poor Philoclea. That I myself might live

to hear my death bewailed? And by whom? By my dear Pyrocles. That I

saw death was not strong enough to divide thy love from me? O my

Pyrocles, I am too well paid for my pains. I have suffered; joyful is

my woe for so noble a cause; and welcome be all my miseries, since to

thee I {408} am so welcome. Alas how I pitied to hear thy pity of me;

and yet a great while I could not find in my heart to interrupt thee,

but often had even pleasure to weep with thee: and so kindly came

forth thy lamentations, that they forced me to lament too, as if

indeed I had been a looker-on, to see poor Philoclea die. Till at last

I spoke with you, to try whether I could remove thee from sorrow, till

I had almost procured myself a beating.”

And with that she prettily smiled; which mingled with her tears; one

could not tell whether it was a mourning pleasure, or a delightful

sorrow: but like when a few April drops are scattered by a gentle

Zephirus among fine coloured flowers. But Pyrocles, who had felt, with

so small distance of time, in himself the overthrow both of hope and

despair, knew not to what key he should frame his mind, either of joy

or sorrow. But finding perfect reason in neither, suffered himself to

be carried by the tide of his imagination, and his imaginations to be

raised even by the sway which hearing or seeing might give unto them:

he saw her alive, he was glad to see her alive; he saw her weep, he

was sorry to see her weep; he heard her comfortable speeches, nothing

more gladsome; he heard her prognosticating her own destruction,

nothing more doleful. But when he had a little taken breath from the

panting motion of such contraries in passions, he fell to consider

with her of her present estate, but comforting her, that certainly the

worst of this storm was past, since already they had done the worst,

which man’s wit could imagine; and that if they had determined to have

killed her, now they would have done it, and also earnestly

counselling her, and enabling his counsels with vehement prayers, that

she would so far second the hopes of Amphialus, as that she might but

procure him liberty; promising then as much to her, as the liberality

of loving courage durst promise to himself.

But who could lively describe the manner of these speeches, should

paint out the lightsome colours of affection, shaded with the deepest

shadows of sorrow, finding them between hope and fear, a kind of

sweetness in tears; till Philoclea content to receive a kiss, and but

a kiss of Pyrocles, sealed up his moving lips, and closed them up in

comfort: and herself, for the passage was left between them open, went

to her sister; with whom she had stayed but a while, fortifying one

another while Philoclea tempered Pamela’s just disdain, and Pamela

ennobled Philoclea’s sweet humbleness, when Amphialus came unto them:

who never since he had heard Philoclea named, could be quiet in

himself, although none of them about him (fearing more his mother’s

violence than his power) would discover what had passed: and many

messengers he sent to know her estate, which brought answer back,

according as it pleased Cecropia to indite them, till his heart full

of unfortunate {409} affection, more and more misgiving him, having

impatiently borne the delay of the night’s unfitness, this morning he

got up, and though full of wounds, which not without danger could

suffer such exercise, he apparelled himself, and with the countenance

that showed strength in nothing but in grief, he came where the

sisters were, and weakly kneeling down, he besought them to pardon

him: if they had not been used in that castle according to their

worthiness, and his duty, beginning to excuse small matters, poor

gentleman, not knowing in what sort they had been handled.

But Pamela’s high heart, having conceived mortal hatred for the injury

offered to her and her sister, could scarcely abide his sight, much

less hear out his excuses, but interrupted him with these words:

“Traitor,” said she, “to thine own blood, and false to the profession

of so much love as thou hast vowed, do not defile our ears with thy

excuses, but pursue on thy cruelty, that thou and thy godly mother

have used towards us: for my part, assure thyself, and so do I answer

for my sister, whose mind I know, I do not more desire mine own safety

than thy destruction.” Amazed with this speech, he turned his eye full

of humble sorrowfulness, to Philoclea: “And is this, most excellent

lady, your doom of me also.” She, sweet lady, sat weeping; for as her

most noble kinsman she had ever favoured him, and loved his love,

though she could not be in love with his person; and now partly

unkindness of his wrong, partly pity of his case, made her sweet mind

yield some tears before she could answer; and her answer was no other,

but that she had the same cause as her sister had. He replied no

further, but delivering from his heart two or three untaught sighs,

rose, and with most low reverence went out of their chamber, and

straight, by threatening torture, learned of one of the women in what

terrible manner these princesses had been used. But when he heard it,

crying out, “O God!” and then not able to say any more, for his speech

went back to rebound woe upon his heart, he needed no judge to go upon

him; for no man could ever think any other worthy of greater

punishment than he thought himself. Full therefore of the horriblest

despair, which a most guilty conscience could breed, with wild looks,

promising some terrible issue, understanding his mother was upon the

top of the leads, he caught one of his servant’s swords from him, and

none of them daring to stay him, he went up, carried by fury instead

of strength, where she was at that time, musing how to go through with

this matter, and resolving to make much of her nieces in show, and

secretly to impoison them; thinking since they were not to be won, her

son’s love would no otherwise be mitigated.

{410}

But when she saw him come in with a sword drawn, and a look more

terrible than the sword, she straight was stricken with the guiltiness

of her own conscience: yet the well-known humbleness of her son

somewhat animated her, till he coming near her, and crying to her,

“Thou damnable creature, only fit to bring forth such a monster of

unhappiness as I am;” she fearing he would have stricken her, though

indeed he meant it not, but only intended to kill himself in her

presence, went back so far, till ere she were aware, she overthrew

herself from over the leads, to receive her death’s kiss at the

ground: and yet was she not so happy as presently to die, but that she

had time with hellish agony to see her son’s mischief, whom she loved

so well, before her end, when she confessed, with most desperate but

not repenting mind, the purpose she had to impoison the princesses,

and would then have had them murdered. But everybody seeing, and glad

to see her end, had left obedience to her tyranny.

And, if it could be, her ruin increased woe in the noble heart of

Amphialus, who when he saw her fall, had his own rage stayed a little

with the suddenness of her destruction: “And was I not miserable

enough before,” said he, “but that before my end I must be the death

of my mother? Who, how wicked soever, yet I would she had received her

punishment by some other: O Amphialus, wretched Amphialus, thou hast

lived to be the death of thy most dear companion and friend

Philoxenus, and of his father, thy most careful foster-father. Thou

hast lived to kill a lady with thine own hands, and so excellent and

virtuous a lady as the fair Parthenia was; thou hast lived to see thy

faithful Ismenus slain in succouring thee, and thou not able to defend

him; thou hast lived to show thyself such a coward, as that one

unknown knight could overcome thee in thy lady’s presence: thou hast

lived to bear arms against thy rightful prince, thine own uncle: thou

hast lived to be accounted, and justly accounted a traitor, by the

most excellent persons that this world holdeth: thou hast lived to be

the death of her that gave thee life. But ah wretched Amphialus, thou

hast lived for thy sake, and by thy authority, to have Philoclea

tormented. O heavens, in Amphialus’s castle, where Amphialus

commanded, tormented, tormented. Torment of my soul, Philoclea

tormented, and thou hast had such comfort in thy life, as to live all

this while. Perchance this hand, used only to mischievous acts, thinks

it were too good a deed to kill me: or else filthy hand, only worthy

to kill women, thou art afraid to strike a man. Fear not cowardly

hand, for thou shalt kill but a cowardly traitor: and do it gladly,

for thou shalt kill him whom Philoclea hateth.” With that furiously he

tore open his doublet, and setting the pommel of the sword to the

ground, and the point to his breast, he fell upon {411} it. But the

sword more merciful than he to himself, with the slipping of the

pommel the point swerved, and razed him but upon the side: yet with

the fall his other wounds opened so that he bled in such extremity,

that Charon’s boat might very well be carried in that flood: which yet

he sought so hasten by this means. As he opened his doublet, and fell,

there fell out Philoclea’s knives which Cecropia at the first had

taken from her, and delivered to her son; and he had ever worn them

next his heart, as the only relic he had of his saint: now seeing them

by him, his sword being so, as weakness could not well draw it out

from his doublet, he took the knives, and pulling one of them out, and

many times kissing it, and then, first with the passions of kindness

and unkindness melting in tears. “O dear knives, you are come in good

time to revenge the wrong I have done you all this while, in keeping

you from her blessed side; and wearing you without your mistress’s

leave. Alas! be witness with me, yet before I die, and well you may,

for you have lain next my heart, that but my consent, your excellent

mistress should have had as much honour as this poor place could have

brought forth for so high an excellency; and now I am condemned to die

by her mouth. Alas! other, far other hope would my desire often have

given me; but other event it hath pleased her to lay upon me. Ah

Philoclea,” with that his tears gushed out as though they would strive

to overflow his blood, “I would yet thou knowest how I love thee.

Unworthy I am, unhappy I am, false I am; but to thee alas! I am not

false. But what a traitor am I, any way to excuse him, whom she

condemneth? since there is nothing left me wherein I may do her

service, but in punishing him who hath so offended her. Dear knife,

then do your noble mistress’s commandment.” With that, he stabbed

himself into divers places of his breast and throat, until these

wounds, with the old, freshly bleeding, brought him to the senseless

gate of death. By which time, his servants, having, with fear of his

fury, abstained a while from coming unto him, one of them, preferring

dutiful affection before fearful duty, came in and there found him

swimming in his own blood, giving a pitiful spectacle, where the

conquest was the conqueror’s overthrow, and self-ruin the only triumph

of a battle, fought between him and himself. The time full of danger,

the person full of worthiness, the manner full of horror, did greatly

astonish all the beholders: so as by and by all the town was full of

it, and they of all ages came running up to see the beloved body;

everybody thinking their safety bled in his wounds, and their honour

died in his destruction.

But when it came, and quickly it came to the ears of his proud friend

Anaxius, who by that time was grown well of his wound, but never had

come abroad, disdaining to abase himself to the {412} company of any

other but of Amphialus, he was exceedingly vexed either with kindness

or, if a proud heart be not capable thereof, with disdain, that he,

who had the honour to be called the friend of Anaxius, should come to

such an unexpected ruin. Therefore then coming abroad, with a face red

in anger, and engrained in pride, with lids raised, and eyes levelled

from top to toe of them that met him, treading as though he thought to

make the earth shake under him, with his hand upon his sword; short

speeches, and disdainful answers, giving straight order to his two

brothers, to go take the oath of obedience, in his name, of all the

soldiers and citizens in the town: and withal to swear them to revenge

the death of Amphialus upon Basilius; he himself went to see him,

calling for all the surgeons and physicians there, spending some time

in viewing the body, and threatening them all to be hanged, if they

did not heal him. But they, taking view of his wounds, and falling

down at Anaxius’s feet, assured him that they were mortal, and no

possible means to keep him above two days alive: and he stood partly

in doubt, to kill, or save them, between his own fury, and their

humbleness. But vowing with his own hands to kill the two sisters, as

causers of his friend’s death: when his brothers came to him, and told

him they had done his commandment, in having received the oath of

allegiance, with no great difficulties, the most part terrified by

their valour, and force of their servants; and many that had been

forward actors in the rebellion, willing to do anything, rather than

come under the subjection of Basilius again; and such few as durst

gainsay, being cut off by present slaughter.

But withal, as the chief matter of their coming to him, they told

Anaxius, that the fair queen Helen was come, with an honourable

retinue, to the town: humbly desiring leave to see Amphialus, whom she

had sought in many places of the world; and lastly, being returned

into her own country, she heard together of the late siege, and of his

combat with the strange knight, who had dangerously hurt him.

Whereupon full of loving care (which she was content even to publish

to the world, how ungratefully soever he dealt with her) she had

gotten leave of Basilius, to come by his frontiers, to carry away

Amphialus with her, to the excellentest surgeon then known, whom she

had in her country, but so old, as not able to travel: but had given

her sovereign anointments, to preserve his body withal, till he might

be brought unto him: and that Basilius had granted leave; either

natural kindness prevailing over all the offences done, or rather glad

to make any passage which might lead him out of his country, and from

his daughters. This discourse Lycurgus understanding of Helen,

delivered to his brother, with her vehement desire to see the {413}

body, and take her last farewell of him. Anaxius, though he were

fallen out with all womankind, in respect of the hate he bore the

sisters, whom he accounted murderers of Amphialus, yet at his

brother’s request, granted her leave. And she, poor lady, with

grievous expectation, and languishing desire, carried her faint legs

to the place where he lay, either not breathing, or in all appearance

breathing nothing but death.

In which piteous plight when she saw him, though sorrow had set before

her mind the pitifullest conceit thereof that it could paint, yet the

present sight went beyond all the former apprehensions: so that

beginning to kneel by the body, her sight ran from her service, rather

than abide such a sight; and she fell in a swoon upon him, as if she

could not choose but die of his wounds. But when her breath, aweary to

be closed up in woe, broke the prison of her fair lips, and brought

memory with his servant senses to his natural office, she made yet the

breath convey these doleful words with it. “Alas!” said she,

“Amphialus, what strange disasters be these, that having sought thee

so long, I should be now sorry to find thee? that these eyes should

look upon Amphialus, and be grieved withal? that I should have thee in

my power without glory, and embrace thee without comfort? how often

have I blest the means that might bring me near thee? now woe worth

the cause that brings me so near thee. Often, alas! often hast thou

disdained my tears: but now, my dear Amphialus, receive them: these

eyes can serve for nothing else but to weep for thee: since thou

wouldst never vouchsafe them thy comfort, yet disdain not them thy

sorrow. I would they had been more dear unto thee; for then hadst thou

lived. Woe is me that thy noble heart could love who hated thee, and

hate who loved thee. Alas why should not my faith to thee cover my

other defects, who only sought to make my crown thy footstool, myself

thy servant, that was all my ambition; and alas thou disdainest it, to

serve them, by whom thy incomparable self wert disdained. Yet, O

Philoclea, wheresoever you are, pardon me if I speak in the bitterness

of my soul, excellent may you be in all other things, and excellent

sure you are since he loved you, your want of pity, where the fault

only was infiniteness of desert, cannot be excused. I would, O God, I

would that you had granted his deserved suit of marrying you, and that

I had been your serving-maid, to have made my estate the foil of your

felicity, so he had lived. How many weary steps have I trodden after

thee, while my only complaint was, that thou wert unkind? alas! I

would now thou wert to be unkind. Alas, why wouldst thou not command

my service, in persuading Philoclea to love thee? who could, or if

everyone could, who would have recounted thy perfection so well {414}

as I? who with such kindly passions could have stirred pity for thee

as I? who should have delivered not only the words, but the tears I

had of thee: and so shouldst thou have exercised thy disdain in me,

and yet used my service for thee.”

With that the body moving somewhat, and giving a groan, full of

death’s music, she fell upon his face, and kissed him, and withal

cried out; “O miserable I, that have only favour by misery;” and then

would she have returned to a fresh career of complaints, when an aged

and wise gentleman came to her, and besought her to remember what was

fit for her greatness, wisdom, and honour: and withal, that it was

fitter to show her love in carrying the body to her excellent surgeon,

first applying such excellent medicines as she had received of him for

that purpose, rather than only show herself a woman-lover in fruitless

lamentations. She was straight warned with the obedience of an

overthrown mind, and therefore leaving some surgeons of her own to

dress the body, went herself to Anaxius, and humbling herself to him,

as low as his own pride could wish, besought him, that since the

surgeons there had utterly given him over, that he would let her carry

him away in her litter with her, since the worst he could have should

be to die, and to die in her arms that loved him above all things; and

where he should have such monuments erected over him, as were fit for

her love, and his worthiness: beseeching him withal, since she was in

a country of enemies, where she trusted more to Anaxius’s valour, than

Basilius’s promise, that he would convey them safely out of these

territories. Her reasons something moved him, but nothing thoroughly

persuaded him, but the last request of his help; which he straight

promised: warranting all security, as long as that sword had his

master alive. She as happy therein as unhappiness could be, having

received as small comfort of her own surgeons as of the others, caused

yet the body to be easily conveyed into the litter: all the people

then beginning to roar and cry, as though never till then they had

lost their lord. And if the terror of Anaxius had not kept them under,

they would have mutinied, rather than suffered his body to be carried

away.

But Anaxius himself riding before the litter, with the choice men of

that place, they were afraid even to cry, though they were ready to

cry for fear; but because that they might do, everybody forced, even

with harming themselves, to do honour to him: some throwing themselves

upon the ground; some tearing their clothes, and casting dust upon

their heads, and some even wounding themselves, and sprinkling their

own blood in the air.

The general consort of whose mourning performed so the natural tunes

of sorrow, that even to them, if any such were, that felt not the

loss, yet others’ grief taught them grief; having before {415} both

their compassionate sense so passionate a spectacle of a young man, of

great beauty, beautified with great honour, honoured by great valour,

made of inestimable value by the noble using of it, to lie there

languishing under the arrest of death, and a death where the manner

could be no comfort to the discomfortableness of the matter. But when

the body was carried through the gate, and the people, saving such as

were appointed, not suffered to go further, then was such an universal

cry, as if they had all had but one life, and all received but one

blow.

Which so moved Anaxius to consider the loss of his friend, that, his

mind apter to revenge than tenderness, he presently giving order to

his brothers to keep the prisoners safe, and unvisited till his return

from conveying Helen, he sent a messenger to the sisters to tell them

this courteous message: that at his return, with his own hands, he

would cut off their heads, and send them for tokens to their father.

This message was brought unto the sisters, as they sat at that time

together with Zelmane, conferring how to carry themselves, having

heard of the death of Amphialus. And as no expectation of death is so

painful, as where the resolution is hindered by the intermixing of

hopes, so did this new alarm, though not remove, yet move somewhat the

constancy of their minds, which were so unconstantly dealt with. But

within a while, the excellent Pamela had brought her mind again to his

old acquaintance: and then as careful for her sister, whom she most

dearly loved, “Sister,” said she, “you see how many acts our tragedy

hath: fortune is not yet aweary of vexing us: but what? a ship is not

counted strong by biding one storm: it is but the same trumpet of

death, which now perhaps gives the last sound: and let us make that

profit of our former miseries, that in them we learned to die

willingly.” “Truly,” said Philoclea, “dear sister, I was so beaten

with the evils of life, that though I had not virtue enough to despise

the sweetness of it, yet my weakness bred that strength to be weary of

the pains of it: only I must confess that little hope, which by these

late accidents was awakened in me, was at the first angry withal. But

even in the darkness of that horror, I see a light of comfort appear;

and how can I tread amiss, that see Pamela’s steps? I would only, O

that my wish might take place, that my school-mistress might live, to

see me say my lesson truly.” “Were that a life, my Philoclea?” said

Pamela. “No, no,” said she, “let it come, and put on his worst face:

for at the worst it is but a bugbear. Joy it is to me to see you so

well resolved, and since the world will not have us, let it lose us.

Only,” with that she stayed a little and sighed, “only my Philoclea,”

then she bowed down, and whispered in her ear, “only Musidorus, my

shepherd, comes between me and death, and {416} makes me think I

should not die, because I know he would not I should die.” With that

Philoclea sighed also, saying no more, but looking upon Zelmane, who

was walking up and down the chamber, having heard this message from

Anaxius, and having in time past heard of his nature, thought him like

enough to perform it, which winded her again into the former maze of

perplexity. Yet debating with herself of the manner how to prevent it,

she continued her musing humour, little saying, or indeed, little

finding in her heart to say, in a case of such extremity, where

peremptorily death was threatened: and so stayed they; having yet that

comfort, that they might tarry together. Pamela nobly, Philoclea

sweetly, and Zelmane sadly and desperately; none of them entertaining

sleep, which they thought should shortly begin never to awake.

But Anaxius came home, having safely conducted Helen; and safely he

might well do it; for though many of Basilius’s knights would have

attempted something upon Anaxius, by that means to deliver the ladies,

yet Philanax having received his master’s commandment, and knowing his

word was given, would not consent unto it. And the black knight, who

by then was able to carry abroad his wounds, did not know thereof; but

was bringing force, by force to deliver his lady. So as Anaxius,

interpreting it rather fear than faith, and making even chance an

argument of his virtue, returned: and as soon as he was returned, with

a felon heart calling his brothers up with him, he went into the

chamber, where they were all three together, with full intention to

kill the sisters with his own hands, and send their heads for tokens

to their father, though his brothers, who were otherwise inclined,

dissuaded him; but his reverence stayed their persuasions. But when he

was come into the chamber, with the very words of choleric threatening

climbing up his throat, his eyes first lighted upon Pamela; who

hearing he was coming, and looking for death, thought she would keep

her own majesty in welcoming it; but the beams thereof so struck his

eyes, with such a counterbuff upon his pride, that if his anger could

not so quickly love, nor his pride so easily honour, yet both were

forced to find a worthiness.

Which while it bred a pause in him, Zelmane, who had already in her

mind both what and how to say, stepped out unto him, and with a

resolute steadiness, void either of anger, kindness, disdain, or

humbleness, spoke in this sort. “Anaxius,” said she, “if fame hath not

been over-partial to thee, thou art a man of exceeding valour.

Therefore I do call thee even before that virtue, and will make it the

judge between us. And now I do affirm, that to the eternal blot of all

the fair acts that thou hast done, thou dost weakly, in seeking

without danger to revenge his death, whose life with danger thou

mightest perhaps have preserved: thou dost cowardly {417} in going

about by the death of these excellent ladies, to prevent the just

punishment that hereafter they by the powers, which they better than

their father, or any other could make, might lay upon thee, and dost

most basely, in once presenting thyself as an executioner, a vile

office upon men, and in a just cause; beyond the degree of any vile

word, in so unjust a cause, and upon ladies, and such ladies. And

therefore, as a hangman, I say, thou art unworthy to be counted a

knight, or to be admitted into the company of knights. Neither for

what I say, will I allege other reasons of wisdom, or justice, to

prove my speech, because I know thou dost disdain to be tied to their

rules, but even in thine own virtue, whereof thou so much gloriest, I

will make my trial: and therefore defy thee, by the death of one of us

two, to prove or disprove these reproaches. Choose thee what arms thou

likest: I only demand that these ladies, whom I defend, may in liberty

see the combat.”

When Zelmane began her speech, the excellency of her beauty and grace

made him a little content to hear. Besides that, a new lesson he had

read in Pamela, had already taught him some regard. But when she

entered into a bravery of speech, he thought at first, a mad and

railing humour possessed her; till finding the speeches hold well

together, and at length come to a flat challenge of combat, he stood

leaning back with his body and head, sometimes with bent brows looking

upon the one side of her, sometimes of the other, beyond marvel

marvelling, that he, who had never heard such speeches from any

knight, should be thus rebuffed by a woman, and that marvel made him

hear out her speech: which ended, he turned his head to his brother

Zoilus, and said nothing, but only lifting up his eyes, smiled. But

Zelmane finding his mind, “Anaxius,” said she, “perchance thou

disdainest to answer me, because, as a woman, thou thinkest me not fit

to be fought withal. But I tell thee that I have been trained up in

martial matters, with so good success, that I have many times overcome

braver knights than thyself: and am well known to be equal in feats of

arms to the famous Pyrocles, who slew thy valiant uncle, the giant

Euardes.” The remembrance of his uncle’s death something nettled him,

so as he answered thus.

“Indeed,” said he, “any woman may be as valiant as that coward and

traitorly boy, who slew my uncle traitorously, and after ran from me

in the plain field. Five thousand such could not have overcome

Euardes, but by falsehood. But I sought him all over Asia, following

him still from one of his coney-holes to another, till coming into

this country, I heard of my friend being besieged, and so came to blow

away the wretches that troubled him. But wheresoever the miserable boy

fly, heaven, nor {418} hell shall keep his heart from being torn by

these hands.” “Thou liest in thy throat,” said Zelmane, “that boy,

wherever he went, did so noble acts, as thy heart, as proud as it is,

dares not think of, much less perform. But to please thee the better

with my presence, I tell thee, no creature can be nearer of kin to him

than myself: and so well we love, that he would not be sorrier for his

own death than for mine: I being begotten by his father, of an Amazon

lady. And therefore, thou canst not devise to revenge thyself more

upon him, than by killing me: which if thou darest do, manfully do it,

otherwise, if thou harm these incomparable ladies, or myself without

daring to fight with me, I protest before these knights, and before

heaven and earth, that will reveal thy shame, that thou art the

beggarliest dastardly villain that dishonoureth the earth with his

steps: and if thou lettest me over-live them, so will I blaze thee.”

But all this could not move Anaxius, but that he only said, “Evil

should it become the terror of the world to fight, much worse to scold

with thee.”

“But,” said he, “for the death of these same,” pointing to the

princesses, “of my grace I give them life.” And withal going to

Pamela, and offering to take her by the chin, “And as for you,

minion,” said he, “yield but gently to my will, and you shall not only

live, but live so happily:” he would have said further, when Pamela,

displeased both with words, matter and manner, putting him away with

her fair hand; “proud beast,” said she, “yet thou playest worse thy

comedy, than thy tragedy. For my part, assure thyself, since my

destiny is such, that each moment my life and death stand in equal

balance, I had rather have thee, and think thee far fitter to be my

hangman, than my husband.” Pride and anger would fain have cruelly

revenged so bitter an answer, but already Cupid had begun to make it

his sport to pull his plumes: so that unused to a way of courtesy, and

put out of his bias of pride, he hastily went away, grumbling to

himself: between threatening and wishing; leaving his brothers with

them: the elder of whom Lycurgus, liked Philoclea, and Zoilus would

needs love Zelmane, or at least entertain themselves with making them

believe so. Lycurgus more bragged, and near his brother’s humour,

began, with setting forth their blood, their deeds, how many they had

despised of most excellent women; how much they were bound to them,

that would seek that of them. In sum, in all his speeches, more like

the bestower than the desirer of felicity. Whom it was an excellent

pastime, to those that would delight in the play of virtue, to see

with what a witty ignorance she would not understand: and how

acknowledging his perfections, she would make that one of his

perfections, not to be injurious to ladies. But when he knew not how

to reply, then {419} would he fall to touching and toying, still

viewing his graces in no glass but self-liking. To which Philoclea’s

shamefacedness and humbleness were as strong resisters as choler and

disdain: for though she yielded not, he thought she was to be

overcome: and that thought a while stayed him from further violence.

But Zelmane had eye to his behaviour, and set it in her memory upon

the score of revenge, while she herself was no less attempted by

Zoilus; who less fond of brags was forwardest in offering, indeed,

dishonourable violence.

But when after their fruitless labours they had gone away, called by

their brother, who began to be perplexed between new conceived

desires, and disdain to be disdained, Zelmane, who with most assured

quietness of judgment looked into their present estate, earnestly

persuaded the two sisters, that to avoid the mischiefs of proud

outrage, they would only so far suit their behaviour to their estates,

as they might win time, which, as it could not bring them to worse

case than they were, so it might bring forth unexpected relief. “And

why,” said Pamela, “shall we any longer flatter adversity? why should

we delight to make ourselves any longer balls to injurious fortune,

since our own parents are content to be tyrants over us, since our own

kin are content traitorously to abuse us? certainly in mishap it may

be some comfort to us that we are lighted in these fellows’ hands, who

yet will keep us from having cause of being miserable by our friend’s

means. Nothing grieves me more than that you, noble lady Zelmane, to

whom the world might have made us able to do honour, should receive

only hurt by the contagion of our misery. As for me and my sister,

undoubtedly it becomes our birth to think of dying nobly, while we

have done or suffered nothing which might make our soul ashamed at the

parture from these bodies. Hope is the fawning traitor of the mind,

while under colour of friendship it robs it of his chief force of

resolution.” “Virtuous and fair lady,” said Zelmane, “What you say is

true, and that truth may well make up a part in the harmony of your

noble thoughts. But yet the time, which ought always to be one, is not

tuned for it, while that may bring forth any good, do not bar yourself

thereof: for then will be the time to die nobly, when you cannot live

nobly.” Then so earnestly she persuaded with them both, to refer

themselves to their father’s consent, in obtaining whereof they knew

some while would be spent, and by that means to temper the minds of

their proud wooers; that in the end Pamela yielded to her, because she

spoke reason, and Philoclea yielded to her reason, because she spoke

it.

And so when they were again solicited in that little pleasing

petition, Pamela forced herself to make answer to Anaxius, that if

{420} her father gave his consent she would make herself believe, that

such was the heavenly determination, since she had no means to avoid

it. Anaxius who was the most frank promiser to himself of success,

nothing doubted of Basilius’s consent, but rather assured himself, he

would be his orator in that matter; and therefore he chose out an

officious servant, whom he esteemed very wise, because he never found

him but just of his opinion, and willed him to be his ambassador to

Basilius, and to make him know, that if he meant to have his daughters

both safe and happy, and desired himself to have such a son-in-law, as

would not only protect him in his quiet course, but, if he listed to

accept it, would give him the monarchy of the world, that then he

should receive Anaxius, who never before knew what it was to pray

anything. That if he did not, he would make him know that the power of

Anaxius was in everything beyond his will, and yet his will not to be

resisted by any other power. His servant, with smiling and cast-up

look, desired God to make his memory able to contain the treasure of

that wise speech: and therefore besought him to repeat it again, that

by the oftener hearing it his mind might be the better acquainted with

the divineness thereof; and that being graciously granted he then

doubted not by carrying with him in his conceit the grace wherewith

Anaxius spoke it, to persuade rocky minds to their own harm; so little

doubted he to win Basilius to that, which he thought would make him

think the heavens opened when he heard but the proffer thereof.

Anaxius gravely allowed the probability of his conjecture; and

therefore sent him away, promising him he should have the bringing up

of his second son by Pamela.

The messenger with speed performed his lord’s commandment to Basilius;

who by nature quiet, and by superstition made doubtful, was loth to

take any matter of arms in hand, wherein already he had found so slow

success; though Philanax vehemently urged him thereunto, making him

see that his retiring back did encourage injuries. But Basilius,

betwixt the fear of Anaxius’s might, the passion of his love, and

jealousy of his estate, was so perplexed, that not able to determine,

he took the common course of men, to fly only then to devotion, when

they want resolution: therefore detaining the messenger with delays,

he deferred the directing of his course to the counsel of Apollo,

which because himself at that time could not go well to require, he

entrusted the matter to his best trusted Philanax; who, as one in whom

obedience was a sufficient reason unto him, went with diligence to

Delphos, where being entered into the secret place of the temple, and

having performed the sacrifices usual, the spirit that possessed the

prophesying woman, with a sacred fury attended not his {421} demand,

but as if it would argue him of incredulity, told him, not in dark

wonted speeches, but plainly to be understood, what he came for, and

that he should return to Basilius, and will him to deny his daughters

to Anaxius and his brothers; for that they were reserved for such as

were better beloved of the Gods, that he should not doubt, for they

should return unto him safely and speedily; and that he should keep on

his solitary course till both Philanax and Basilius fully agreed in

the understanding of the former prophecy: withal commanding Philanax

from thence forward to give tribute, but not oblation to human wisdom.

Philanax then finding that reason cannot show itself more reasonable

than to leave reasoning in things above reason, returns to his lord,

and like one that preferred truth before the maintaining of an

opinion, hid nothing from him, nor from thenceforth durst any more

dissuade him from that which he found by the celestial providence

directed; but he himself looking to repair the government, as much as

in so broken an estate by civil dissention he might, and fortifying

with notable art both the lodges, so that they were almost made

unapproachable, he left Basilius to bemoan the absence of his

daughters, and to bewail the imprisonment of Zelmane: yet wholly given

holily to obey the oracle, he gave a resolute negative unto the

messenger of Anaxius, who all this while had waited for it; yet in

good terms desiring him to show himself in respect of his birth and

profession, so princely a knight, as without forcing him to seek the

way of force, to deliver in noble sort these ladies unto him, and so

should the injury have been by Amphialus, and the benefit in him.

The messenger went back with this answer, yet having ever used to

sugar anything which his master was to receive, he told him, that when

Basilius first understood his desires, it did over-reach so far all

his most hopeful expectations that he thought it were too great a

boldness to hearken to such a man, in whom the heavens had such

interest, without asking the God’s counsel; and therefore had sent his

principal counsellor to Delphos, who although he kept the matter ever

so secret, yet his diligence inspired by Anaxius’s privilege over all

worldly things, had found out the secret, which was, that he should

not presume to marry his daughter to one who already was enrolled

among the demi-gods, and yet much less he should dare the attempting

to take them out of his hands.

Anaxius, who till then had made fortune his creator, and force his

god, now began to find another wisdom to be above, that judged so

rightly of him: and where in this time of his servant’s waiting for

Basilius’s resolution, he and his brothers had courted their ladies,

as whom they vouchsafed to have for their wives; he {422} resolved now

to dally no longer in delays, but to make violence his orator, since

he had found persuasions had gotten nothing but answers. Which

intention he opened to his brothers, who having all this while wanted

nothing to take that away but his authority, gave spurs to his

runnings; and, worthy men, neither feeling virtue in themselves, nor

tendering it in others, they went headlong to make that evil consort

of love and force, when Anaxius had word, that from the tower there

were descried some companies of armed men, marching towards the town,

wherefore he gave present order to his servants and soldiers to go to

the gates and walls, leaving none within but himself and his brothers:

his thoughts then so full of their intended prey, that Mars his

loudest trumpet could scarcely have awaked him.

But while he was directing what he would have done, his youngest

brother Zoilus, glad that he had the commission, went in the name of

Anaxius to tell the sisters, that since he had answer from their

father, that he and his brother Lycurgus should have them in what sort

it pleased them, that they would now grant them no longer time, but

presently to determine whether they thought it more honourable comfort

to be compelled or persuaded. Pamela made him answer, that in a matter

whereon the whole state of her life depended, and wherein she had ever

answered she would not lead, but follow her parents’ pleasure, she

thought it reason she should either by letter, or particular

messenger, understand something from themselves, and not have their

belief bound to the report of their partial servant: and therefore as

to their words, she and her sister had ever a simple and true

resolution, so against their unjust force, God, they hoped, would

either arm their lives, or take away their lives. “Well, ladies,” said

he, “I will leave my brothers, who by and by will come unto you to be

their own ambassadors: for my part I must now do myself service.” And

with that turning up his mustaches, and marching as if he would begin

a paven[b3-07], he went toward Zelmane. But Zelmane having heard all

this while of the messenger’s being with Basilius, had much to do to

keep these excellent ladies from seeking by the passport of death to

escape these base dangers whereunto they found themselves subject,

still hoping that Musidorus would find some means to deliver them; and

therefore had often, both by her own example and comfortable reasons,

persuaded them to overpass many insolent indignities of their proud

suitors, who thought it was a sufficient favour not to do the

uttermost injury, now come again to the strait she most feared for

them, either of death or dishonour, if heroical courage would have let

her, she had been beyond herself amazed: but that yet held up her wit,

to attend {423} the uttermost occasion, which even then brought his

hairy forehead unto her: for Zoilus smacking his lips, as for the

prologue of a kiss, and something advancing himself, “Darling,” said

he, “let thy heart be full of joy, and let thy fair eyes be of counsel

with it, for this day thou shalt have Zoilus, whom many have longed

for, but none shall have him but Zelmane. And oh! how much glory I

have to think what a race will be between us? The world, by the

heavens, the world will be too little for them.” And with that he

would have put his arm about her neck; but she withdrawing herself

from him, “My lord,” said she, “much good may your thoughts do you:

but that I may not dissemble with you, my nativity being cast by one

that never failed in any of his prognostications, I have been assured

that I should never be apt to bear children; but since you will honour

me with so high a favour, I must only desire that I may perform a vow,

which I made among my countrywomen, the famous Amazons, that I would

marry none, but such one as was able to withstand me in arms:

therefore, before I make mine own desire serviceable to yours, you

must vouchsafe to lend me armour and weapons, that at least with a

blow or two of the sword I may not find myself perjured to myself.”

But Zoilus, laughing with a hearty loudness, went by force to embrace

her; making no other answer, but since she had a mind to try his

knighthood, she should quickly know what a man of arms he was; and so

without reverence to the ladies, began to struggle with her.

But in Zelmane then disdain became wisdom, and anger gave occasion.

For abiding no longer abode in the matter, she that had not put off,

though she had disguised Pyrocles, being far fuller of stronger

nimbleness, tripped up his feet so that he fell down at hers. And

withal, meaning to pursue what she had begun, pulled out his sword

which he wore about him: but before she could strike him withal, he

got up, and ran to a fair chamber, where he had left his two brethren,

preparing themselves to come down to their mistresses. But she

followed at his heels, and even as he came to throw himself into their

arms for succour, she hit him with his own sword such a blow upon the

waist that she almost cut him asunder: once she sundered his soul from

his body, sending it to Proserpina, an angry goddess against

ravishers. But Anaxius, seeing before his eyes the miserable end of

his brother, fuller of despite than wrath, and yet fuller of wrath

than sorrow, looking with a woeful eye upon his brother Lycurgus;

“Brother,” said he, “chastise this vile creature, while I go down and

take order lest further mischief arise:” and so went down to the

ladies, whom he visited, doubting there had been some further practice

than yet he conceived. But finding them only {424} strong in patience,

he went and locked a great iron gate, by which only anybody might

mount to that part of the castle; rather to conceal the shame of his

brother, slain by a woman, than for doubt of any other annoyance: and

then went up to receive some comfort of the execution, he was sure his

brother had done of Zelmane. But Zelmane no sooner saw these brothers,

of whom reason assured her she was to expect revenge, but that she

leaped to a target, as one that well knew the first mark of valour to

be defence. And then accepting the opportunity of Anaxius going away,

she waited not the pleasure of Lycurgus, but without any words, which

she ever thought vain, when resolution took the place of persuasion,

gave her own heart the contentment to be the assailer. Lycurgus, who

was in the disposition of his nature hazardous, and by the lucky

passing through many dangers, grown confident in himself, went toward

her, rather as to a spoil than to fight; so far from fear, that his

assuredness disdained to hope. But when her sword made demonstrations

above all flattery of arguments, and that he found she pressed so upon

him, as showed that her courage sprang not from blind despair, but was

guarded both with cunning and strength; self-love then first in him

divided itself from vainglory, and made him find that the world of

worthiness had not his whole globe comprised in his breast, but that

it was necessary to have strong resistance against so strong

assailing. And so between them, for a few blows, Mars himself might

have been delighted to look on. But Zelmane, who knew that in her

case, slowness of victory was little better than ruin, with the

bellows of hate blew the fire of courage; and he striking a main blow

at her head, she warded it with the shield, but so warded, that the

shield was cut in two pieces while it protected her: and withal she

ran in to him, and thrusting at his breast, which he put by with his

target, as he was lifting up his sword to strike again, she let fall

the piece of her shield, and with her left hand catching his sword on

the inside of the pommel, with nimble and strong slight she had gotten

his sword out of his hand, before his sense could convey to his

imagination what was to be doubted. And having now two swords against

one shield, meaning not foolishly to be ungrateful to good fortune,

while he was no more amazed with his being unweaponed, than with the

suddenness thereof, she gave him such a wound upon his head, in

despite of the shield’s over-weak resistance, that withal he fell to

the ground astonished with the pain, and aghast with fear. But seeing

Zelmane ready to conclude her victory in his death, bowing up his head

to her with a countenance that had forgotten all pride, “Enough,

excellent lady,” said he, “the honour is yours; whereof you shall want

the best witness if you kill me. {425} As you have taken from men the

glory of manhood, return so now again to your own sex for mercy. I

will redeem my life of you with no small services; for I will

undertake to make my brother obey all your commandments. Grant life, I

beseech you, for your own honour, and for the person’s sake that you

love best.”

Zelmane repressed a while her great heart, either disdaining to be

cruel or pitiful, and therefore not cruel; and now the image of the

human condition began to be an orator unto her of compassion, when she

saw, as if he lifted up his arms with a suppliant’s grace about one of

them, unhappily tied a garter with a jewel, which, given to Pyrocles

by his aunt of Thessalia, and greatly esteemed by him, he had

presented to Philoclea, and with inward rage promising extreme hatred,

had seen Lycurgus with a proud force, and not without some hurt to

her, pull away from Philoclea, because at entreaty she would not give

it him. But the sight of that was like a cypher, signifying all the

injuries which Philoclea had of him suffered, and that remembrance

feeding upon wrath, trod down all conceits of mercy. And therefore

saying no more, but, “No, villain, die: it is Philoclea that sends

thee this token for thy love.” With that she made her sword drink the

blood of his heart, though he wresting his body, and with a

countenance prepared to excuse, would fain have delayed the receiving

of death’s ambassadors. But neither stayed Zelmane’s hand, nor yet

Anaxius’s cry unto her; who having made fast the iron gate, even then

came to the top of the stairs, when contrary to all his imaginations,

he saw his brother lie at Zelmane’s mercy. Therefore crying,

promising, and threatening to her to hold her hand: the last groan of

his brother was the only answer he could get to his unrespected

eloquence. But then pity would fain have drawn tears, which fury in

their spring dried; and anger would fain have spoken, but that disdain

sealed up his lips; but in his heart he blasphemed heaven, that it

could have such a power over him, no less ashamed of the victory he

should have of her, than of his brother’s overthrow: and no more

spited that it was yet unrevenged, than that the revenge should be no

greater than a woman’s destruction. Therefore with no speech, but such

a groaning cry as often is the language of sorrowful anger, he came

running at Zelmane; use of fighting then serving instead of patient

consideration what to do. Guided wherewith, though he did not with

knowledge, yet he did according to knowledge, pressing upon Zelmane in

such a well-defended manner, that in all the combats that ever she had

fought, she had never more need of quick senses, and ready virtue. For

being one of the greatest men of stature then living; as he did fully

answer that stature in greatness of might; so did he exceed both in

greatness of {426} courage, which with a countenance formed by the

nature both of his mind and body, to an almost horrible fierceness,

was able to have carried fear to any mind that was not privy to itself

of a true and constant worthiness. But Pyrocles, whose soul might well

be separated from his body, but never alienated from the remembering

of what was comely, if at the first he did a little apprehend the

dangerousness of his adversary, whom once before he had something

tried, and now perfectly saw as the very picture of forcible fury; yet

was that apprehension quickly stayed in him, rather strengthening than

weakening his virtue by that wrestling, like wine growing the stronger

by being moved. So that they both prepared in hearts, and able in

hands, did honour solitariness there with such a combat, as might have

demanded, as a right of fortune, whole armies of beholders. But no

beholders needed there, where manhood blew the trumpet, and

satisfaction did whet as much as glory. There was strength against

nimbleness: rage against resolution; fury against virtue; confidence

against courage; pride against nobleness: love in both breeding mutual

hatred, and desire of revenging the injuries of his brother’s

slaughter, to Anaxius, being like Philoclea’s captivity to Pyrocles.

Who had seen the one, would have thought nothing could have resisted:

who had marked the other, would have marvelled that the other had so

long resisted. But like two contrary tides, either of which are able

to carry worlds of ships and men upon them, with such swiftness that

nothing seems able to withstand them, yet meeting one another, with

mingling their watery forces, and struggling together, it is long to

say, whether stream gets the victory; so between these, if Pallas had

been there, she could scarcely have told, whether she had nursed

better in the feats of arms. The Irish greyhound against the English

mastiff; the sword-fish against the whale; the rhinoceros against the

elephant, might be models, and but models of this combat. Anaxius was

better armed defensively: for (besides a strong casque bravely

covered, wherewith he covered his head) he had a huge shield, such

perchance, as Achilles showed to the pale walls of Troy, wherewithal

that great body was covered. But Pyrocles utterly unarmed for defence,

to offend had the advantage, for, in either hand he had a sword, and

with both hands nimbly performed that office. And according as they

were diversely furnished, so they did differ in the manner of

fighting: for Anaxius most by warding, and Pyrocles oftenest by

avoiding, resisted the adversary’s assault. Both hasty to end, yet

both often staying for advantage. Time, distance and motion, custom

made them so perfect in, that as if they had been fellow counsellors,

and not enemies, each knew the other’s mind, and knew how to prevent

it. So as their {427} strength failed them sooner than their skill,

and yet their breath failed them sooner than their strength. And

breathless indeed they grew, before either could complain of any loss

of blood.

So that consenting by the meditation of necessity to a breathing time

of truce, being withdrawn a little one from the other, Anaxius stood

leaning upon his sword with his grim eye so settled upon Zelmane, as

is wont to be the look of an earnest thought. Which Zelmane marking,

and according to the Pyroclean nature, fuller of gay bravery in the

midst than in the beginning of danger: “What is it,” said she,

“Anaxius, that thou so deeply musest on? doth thy brother’s example

make thee think of thy fault past, or of thy coming punishment?” “I

think,” said he, “what spiteful god it should be, who envying my

glory, hath brought me to such a wayward case, that neither thy death

can be a revenge, nor thy overthrow a victory.” “Thou dost well

indeed,” said Zelmane, “to impute thy case to the heavenly providence,

which will have thy pride find itself, even in that whereof thou art

most proud, punished by the weak sex which thou most contemnest.”

But then having sufficiently rested themselves, they renewed again

their combat far more terrible than before: like nimble vaulters, who

at the first and second leap do but stir, and, as it were, awake the

fiery and airy parts, which after in the other leaps they do with more

excellency exercise. For in this pausing, each had brought to his

thoughts the manner of the other’s fighting, and the advantages, which

by that, and by the quality of their weapons they might work

themselves, and so again repeated the lesson they had said before,

more perfectly by the using of it; Anaxius oftener used blows, his

huge force, as it were, more delighting therein, and the large

protection of his shield animating him unto it. Pyrocles, of a more

fine and deliberate strength, watching his time, when to give fit

thrusts, as, with the quick obeying of his body, to his eye’s quick

commandment, he shunned any harm Anaxius could do to him: so would he

soon have made an end of Anaxius, if he had not found him a man of

wonderful and almost matchless excellency in matters of arms. Pyrocles

used divers feignings to bring Anaxius on into some inconvenience, but

Anaxius keeping a sound manner of fighting, never offered but seeing

fair cause, and then followed it with well-governed violence. Thus

spent they a great time, striving to do, and with striving to do,

wearying themselves more than with the very doing. Anaxius finding

Zelmane so near unto him, that with little motion he might reach her,

knitting all his strength together, at that time mainly foiled at her

face. But Zelmane strongly putting it by with her right-hand sword,

coming in with her left foot and hand, would {428} have given a sharp

visitation to his right side, but that he was fain to leap away.

Whereat ashamed, as having never done so much before in his life.

* * *[b3-08]

The fire of rage then burning contempt out of his breast, did burst

forth in flames through his eyes, and in smoke from his mouth; so that

he was returning with a terrible madness (all the strength of his

whole body transferred to the one hand for a singular service) which

the resolute Zelmane did earnestly observe with a providently all

despising courage, whilst the ears of Anaxius were suddenly arrested

by a sound, whereof they were only capable, which, in consort with his

own humour, could only of him with authority have challenged a due

attendance: straight a martial noise (raised by the violence of

invaders; and distractedness of others, dreadfully tumultuous) giving

him intelligence what a bloody scene was acting without in the court

of the castle, where he was expected as a special actor; though his

eye, as harbinger of his blow, had already marked the room, where his

bended arm threatened to lodge it; yet his feet did so suddenly ravish

away the rest of his body, that even his own thoughts, much more

Zelmane’s, were prevented by the suddenness of his flight, a flight

indeed, not from the fighting with one, but to the fighting with many,

where he did not look for an object worthy of the wrath of Anaxius. So

that vanishing away, as carried in a cloud of whirlwind, Zelmane

either could not, or else would not reach him: as disdaining the base

advantage of these dishonourable wounds, which though greatest shame

to the flying receiver, can give no glory to the unresisted giver.

The impetuous storm that transported the spirit of Anaxius, had

quickly blown him down the stairs, and up the door, his sword ushering

his way, till his eyes were encountered with the beams of the

lightning weapons of a small number, which rather seemed surprised

within the castle, than to have surprised the castle. Yet they had

speedily purchased a great room for so small a company, challenging as

their own all the bounds that their swords could compass: and in

effect their enemies proved their fewness many, reckoning the black

knight and his second (as cyphers are esteemed when valued by others,

over which they are raised) not for the number which indeed they were,

but for the number which they were worth. These three were quickly

known by their wonted arms; but more by their wonted valour. The court

had been a fitter list for two, than a field for so many, where the

narrowness of the place, not giving place to sleight, there was no way

but by plain force; so that the greatest cowards were as forward as

the most courageous, fear making them bold, who saw no refuge but

{429} by fighting; which made the conflict exceeding cruel, either of

the parties having more spurs than one to draw blood.

The Amphialians, besides their rage for being abused by an unexpected

stratagem, and their desire to defend the place, being bound both by

private interest and public vows; they had added further, to make up

the accomplishment of a just wrath, the means of revenge, as they

thought, on their master’s murderer; looking no otherwise on the black

knight than as on him who had buried all their hopes in the ruins of

Amphialus, whereof to their further grief, they had been idle

witnesses. All this made them desperately endeavour that the eyes of

Anaxius might be entertained with their victory, before his ears could

be burdened with their error; chiefly at his coming, those of his own

train kindled their courage at the torches of his eyes, prodigious

comets of a deluge of blood. As for the pursued pursuers, like those

who landing to make war in an island burn the ships which brought them

thither, by the impossibility of their return to show the desperate

necessity of their victory; they were assured they could neither

advance nor retire, but over the bellies of their enemies; yet were

they not so desperate of their retreat, as confident of their victory.

The black knight, though all the giants that fought against the gods

had been there, he thought they could not hinder him from going where

his heart was already, nor from prevailing where the prize was the

delivery of his lady, and friend, the double treasures of his soul,

whereof any was valued above his life, yea, both were balanced with

his honour; so that he did show not only the height of valour, but a

ravishing of his soul, and a transportation of magnanimity, far from

the level of ordinary aims, and even scarce within the prospect of

more lofty thoughts. Yet neither love nor courage could blind his

judgment, in seeing his advantage: marching with his company ever the

next wall, to prevent being compassed: though sometimes making brave

sallies. Which Anaxius at his first approach espying, upbraided his

own troop as unworthy of his attendance, and all as traitors in

receiving, or dastards in not expelling that, in his eyes, contemned

crew, oftentimes urging them by their retiring to make way for him,

and he alone would either beat them over the walls, or in the walls:

for the truth is, they seemed all too small a sacrifice to appease his

high indignation. It was superfluous labour for Alecto to inflame his

soul with poisonous inspirations; for his soul might have furnished

all the infernal furies with fury, and yet have continued the most

furious of all itself. Rage and disdain, burning his bosom, made him

utter a roaring voice, as if his breath had been able to have blown

away the world, which for the sound that his sword made, could not

distinctly be understood.

{430}

The first whom he encountered, lifting up his hand to strike, and

withal opening his mouth, as if intending some speech, his proposition

was prevented by an active answer, cutting him from the lips to the

ears, so by opening his mouth, restraining his speech. The knight of

the sheep succeeding in his place, a vindictive heir, was exchanging

blows with Anaxius with no disadvantage, when suddenly a dart, none

knew to whose hand the honour of it was due, did wound him in the

thigh, which he doubtful to whom he stood debtor, did pay back to

many, an extraordinary interest, with the death of someone striving to

defray every drop of his blood.

The black knight, black indeed to all his adversaries, when viewing

the wonderful valour of Anaxius, with whom then rival in fame he

entertained a terrible emulation, what bred terror in others, bred in

him contentment; that his conquest, whereof he never doubted, might be

endeared by the difficulty, and his victory be honoured by so

honourable an enemy, with whom, above all others, he laboured to meet,

by the ruin of many making a room where they might fight.

But in the meantime the torrent of the violence of Anaxius was

interrupted by a sudden tumult; seeming to proceed from an ambushment

broken forth from the houses behind them. And no wonder though all

thought so: the two swords of Zelmane being riotous in their charges,

were so covetous to extend their confines. She following, or rather,

as a falcon in an earnest chase, flying down the stairs after him, did

not overtake Anaxius but with her eyes till he was walled about with

the armed multitude, and then, like a lioness lately enraged, that had

been long famished in prison, she ranged over all for her prey: but

yet like a cunning hound, that out of a whole herd of deer, doth only

single him out with whom she had entered first in hostility (a little

drop of his blood having betrayed all the rest) she disdained to fight

with any other, but would be resisted by none till she might unbend

all her forces on Anaxius, whose sight as soon as her eyes had

greedily swallowed, she burst forth: “Base dastard, who hast abused

the world with shadows of worth, yet art void of all valour, having

doubly forfeited the usurped title of honour, in offering injurious

violence to a woman, and yet flying the just violence of a woman, to

hide thyself (being protected by the shield of some trusted attender)

where the sufficiency of others may conceal thy cowardice: but all

this shall not defraud my wrath, nor prevent thy punishment.”

Anaxius, more troubled with these words, than if all the swords of the

enemies had lighted upon him (whom for the highest of all his wishes,

would have but wished her a man, yea an army of men) {431} looked over

his shoulder with an eye burning with disdain, as if one of his looks

might have served to consume a woman, and at the same instant,

uttering his rage another way, with a blow worthy of his arm, he did

cleave one before him through the helmet to the shoulders, making him

so, by being two headed, headless. But seeing Zelmane press near him,

though he hoped for no honour from her, yet to prevent dishonour from

her (shame kindling rage, and rage quenching reason) he commanded

Armagines his nephew, a youth of great valour, to take these foolish

fellows prisoners who durst adventure within that castle without his

leave, and to shut all the gates, that none of them might escape; and

therewith whirling about, and casting a sideward look on Zelmane, made

an imperious sign with a threatening allurement (a disinviting

inviting of her) to follow, which she performed with a countenance

witnessing as great contentment, as ever Venus did to most with Mars;

Mars and Venus at the same time having met within her mind, to make,

though a less loving, yet a more martial meeting.

The crowds of people in their way were quickly dispersed by the

tempestuous breath of Anaxius, so that they had no hindrance: he being

feared of all, and she hated of none. Neither was their solitary

retiring, in respect of their different seeming sex, suspiciously

censured by any: the disdainfulness of their countenance bearing

witness, that they were led by hate to honour, and not by love to the

contrary.

The place appointed by fortune to be famous by the famousness of this

combat, was a back court, which they found out at that time emptied of

inhabitants; the stronger being gone to pursue others, and the weaker

run to hide themselves: mediocrity being no more a virtue, where all

was at height, to make excellency eminent in extremity.

They two came here alone, for they would have no seconds, or rather

were so far first as they could have no seconds, and every one of them

being confident in his own worth could not mistrust another’s. As if

words had been too weak messengers of their wrath, and swords only

worthy to utter their minds, they began with that wherewith they hoped

to end; none of them now could flatter himself so far against the

proof of his own experienced knowledge, as to contemn his fellow.

Anaxius at the first, rioting in rage, and burning with a voluptuous

appetite of blood, did abandon his hands to their accustomed

prodigality, which contrary to the nature of that vice, was hurtful to

the receiver, and profitable for the spender. But Zelmane, well

weighing with whom she had to deal, was more wary in her charges, and

circumspectly managing the treasure {432} of her strength, would not

idly bestow it, but was liberal when occasion offered. It was hard to

say, whether the one was more frank, or the other more thankful: the

guerdon never deferred, oft preventing the gift, above the desire of

the receiver, yet short of the giver’s mind. Their thought, eye, hand,

and foot seemed chained to one motion, as all being tuned by violence,

to make up a harmony in horror. Never was courage better supported by

skill and strength nor skill and strength better accompanied by

courage; the blows of every one of them seemed not only to strive with

the others, but even among themselves, for singularity; the latter

still (by being more observable) seeking to bury the remembrance of

the former.

It seemed that these two were not retired from the battle, but that

the battle was transferred where they were. The eye might well have

taken them to be two, but the ear would never have been persuaded that

so mighty sounds could be sent but from the weapons of a number; the

environing windows with a sad solitariness seemed to bewail their want

of eyes, which defrauded them the entertainment of that delectable

terror, transporting sports.

Anaxius more angry with himself than with his enemy, that he should be

so long in vanquishing, where, when victorious, he would be but

ashamed of the victory, all his active powers being highly bended,

both by choler and courage, he thus discharged his tongue: “What

spiteful god, jealous of my greatness, or envying my glory, hath sent

this devil in a woman’s shape (as a cloud for Juno to Ixion) to mock

me? but all this is one: though thou be a devil in a woman, or all the

devils in one devil, I swear by this blow, I will beat thee hence to

the hells, to the eternal terror of all the dark region;” and with

that lighted on Zelmane with such a huge force, that all she could

procure by the mediation of one of her swords, was, that what was

intended wholly at her head, by the wrying of her body, did but wound

her a little on the shoulder. This was so far from dismaying her, that

it did confirm, increase it could not, her resolution already at a

height: Yet, though not more courage, she pretended more fury,

compassing him about to espy advantages, and oft giving him feigned

alarms, as bragging to make a breach in his breast, advanced her

right-hand sword, which Anaxius beat down, and withal encroached to

usurp a room in her right side: but Zelmane suddenly inclining to the

left, gave him a flat blow with that hand’s sword, which returned back

clad with the spoils of that part of the body which it had forced.

Both thus being already allied by blood, yet did strive for a more

strict affinity: wounds, in regard of their frequency, being no more

respected than blows were before. Though they met in {433} divers

colours, now both were clad in one livery, as most suitable to their

present estate: being servants to one master, and rivals in

preferment. Neither could showers of blood quench the winds of their

wrath, which did blow it forth in great abundance, till faintness

would have fain persuaded both that they were mortal, and though

neither of them by another, yet both overcomable by death. Then

despair came to reinforce the fight, joining with courage, not as a

companion, but as a servant: for courage never grew desperate, but

despair grew courageous; both being resolved, if not conquering, none

of them should survive the other’s conquest, nor owe trophy but to

death.

The greatest grief of the one was to die by a woman; and of the other,

to die as a woman: both in respect of her apparel, and, as she

thought, action; being matched by one man, who had o’ermatched

multitudes of men. At last the great storm of blows being past, she

rested one of her swords on the earth, either forced by faintness, or

intending art, offering a thrust with the other, which Anaxius

perceiving, did speedily repel: and with that (gathering his

distressed strength together, as ready to remove, but first bent to

give a gallant farewell) ran forward with such a violent violence on

Zelmane (nought being able to resist his unresistable force) that she

presently interposing her reposed sword, though it ran him through the

heart, or rather he his heart upon it, it could not hinder him from

running her through the body, and both to the earth, a brave flash of

a dying light! a mighty thunder of a quenched lightning! Thus did he

overthrow his overthrower: not falling till none was able to stand

before him; whilst though he were vanquished, none could vaunt of the

victory. His breast fell above the hand with the sword, as if he would

needs die embracing it, even after death adoring that idol of his

life, and his dead weight striving with Zelmane’s weak life, whilst

she struggling to rise did break the sword, a part remaining under

him, and the rest within her: thus hard it was to force Anaxius,

though he was dead, and impossible while he lived.

Zelmane, after her rising, did draw the other sword out of him, as

bent to return not interested in anything. She was stepping forward

with a sword in each hand, and a part of one in her breast: a trophy

of victory, yet a badge of ruin; never better weaponed, never more

unfit for fighting; when lo all the followers of Anaxius, discomforted

by his absence, but more by the black knight’s presence, Armagines

having his death honoured by his hand, the rest were quickly

discomfited, and, despairing to save the castle, sought to save

themselves.

The black knight committed the following of their flight to others, as

a dangerless action, and therefore not worthy of him; {434} then

fearing that elsewhere for another which he could no more find there

for himself, he went by the direction of his eyes, and the information

of his ears, to seek out the two retired champions, when suddenly he

encountered his other self, marching like Pallas from the giant’s

overthrow.

As soon as the eyes of Pyrocles, no, his soul was ravished with the

sight of Musidorus, it having infused a fresh vigour in his feeble

members, and that physic applied to his mind, triumphing over the

infirmity of his body; he threw away his swords, only conquerable by

kindness, and pulled out that which was in his body, that nothing

might hinder him from embracing the image of his soul, which reflected

his own thoughts. Their souls by a divine sympathy did first join,

preventing the elemental masses of the bodies: but ah! whilst they

were clasped in each other’s arms (like two grafts grafted in one

stock) the high tide of over-flowing affection restraining their

tongues with astonishment, as unable to express an unexpressible

passion.

Pyrocles weakened with the loss of blood, the effects of hate, and in

that weakness surcharged with kindness, the fruits of love, not able

to abide the interchoking of such extremities, the paleness of his

face witnessed the parting of his spirits, so that not able to stand,

Musidorus was forced to fall with him, or else would not stand after

him. And at the suddenness of his unexpected adventure, or vehemently

respectable misadventure; like one (who unawares slipping from a great

height) is choked betwixt the height and the lowness, ere he can

consider, either whence he fell, or where he falls. Being thrown from

the top of contentment, to be drowned in the depths of misery, he had

his reasonable part so hastily overwhelmed with confusion, that he

remained dead alive, as the other was living in death. At last,

re-assembling his confounded senses from the rocks of ruin, grief had

gathered so much strength through weakness, as to attempt an

impossibility in manifesting itself.

“O what a monster of misery am I! even when most fortunate, most

unfortunate, who never had a lightning of comfort, but that it was

suddenly followed with a thunder of confusion. Twice was my felicity

by land (that it might be washed for ever away) made a prey to the

inexorable waves, whilst the relenting destinies pitying the rigour of

their own decrees, to prevent their threatened effects, would have

drowned me in (respecting the ocean of sorrow prepared to swallow me)

that little drop of the sea. And, O thrice happy I, if I had perished

whilst I was altogether unhappy; then, when a dejected shepherd

offensive to the perfection of the world, I could hardly, being

oppressed by contempt, make myself worthy to be disdained, disdain to

be despised, being a degree of grace. {435} O would to God that I had

died obscurely, whilst my life might still have lived famous with

others, and my death have died with myself; whilst my not being known

might have kept my dishonour unknown, even then when matched, matched

by one, and in the presence of many fighting for one who was more dear

to me than all the world. Ah me! most miserable, in not being more

miserable. Such a pestilentious influence poisoned the time of my

nativity, that I have had a spark of happiness, to clear me the way to

destruction. I was carried high to be fit for a precipice, and that

from that height I might behold how low the dungeons were wherein I

was to fall. Even now I was so far from fear, that I was higher than

hope, being in imagination master of all my wishes; yet at an instant,

as if all that could be inflicted on myself were not sufficient to

afflict me, being armed with resolution, both to brave the terrors of

death, and to contemn the flatteries of life, I am tormented in

another, whose sufferings could only make me tenderly sensible. And

with that, sorrow, as it were sorry to be interrupted by utterance,

did damn itself up to swell higher, feeding on the contemplation of

itself within: where, when absolute tyrant of the breast, it might

rather burst him, than burst out.”

Then he was lying down senselessly on his senseless friend, as in all

estates striving to be still like him, when lo he felt his breast

beat, and thereafter saw his unclouded eyes weakly strive to shine

again; thus first re-saluting the light, “Oh where am I?” Musidorus

replied: “With him who is hasting to die with you.” “No,” said he, “I

have hastened to live with you.” “Death or life,” said Musidorus,

“either of them must join us, but neither of them is able to part us.”

With that Pyrocles, weakly rising, entrusted his feet with their own

burden, but Musidorus, jealous of the carriage of so precious a

treasure, would needs aid them with his arm, his strength

strengthening Pyrocles, and the weakness of Pyrocles weakening him.

Thus, whilst guided by one, who was acquainted with the castle, they

were seeking out a room, where Pyrocles reposing might cause take a

trial of the estate of his body, and repair the bloody breaches of the

late battery; it being, though evil fortified, yet well defended: as

they were walking along a gallery, they heard, from a chamber

neighbouring the side of it, a dolorous sound, but so heavily

delivered with a disorderly convoy, that choked with sobs, else

drowned with tears, the pains of the bearer had so spoiled the birth

that it could not be known; yet a secret sympathy, by an unexpressible

working, did more wound the mind of Pyrocles, than it was wounded by

all the wounds of his body, he pitying his complaint, though not

knowing from whom, nor for what: “O how the soul, apt for all

impressions transcending {436} reason, can comprehend unapprehensible

things;” this was the lamentation of the lamentable Philoclea.

The ladies after the departure of Zelmane, by the inundation in their

ears of horrible sounds, were violently invited to come fearfully to a

window overlooking the court, where they beheld the bloody effects of

that, whereof they were the innocent causes. At first the lilies of

their cheeks overgrowing the roses, paleness had almost displaced

beauty, were it not beauty was so powerful as to make paleness

beautiful; yet their often travelled memory instructed their judgment,

that misery being at a height, could not but of force either work the

end of itself, or a beginning of comfort, and they could expect no

worse estate than that in which they were.

Pamela would fain have flattered herself to think that it was

Musidorus come to deliver her, but she had rather have still remained

captive than to have drawn him to such a danger for her delivery; and

having once apprehended that he was there, never a blow was given but

that she was wounded with it, being ever sorry for the overthrown,

never glad for the overthrower; either pity prevailing with the

tenderness of her sex, or because she knew no danger could come by

overcoming.

As for Philoclea, she who through the gentleness of her own nature

would have smarted for any other who had been in danger, when she

remembered the hazard of her treasure Zelmane, who, as she knew, did

not use to be an idle spectator of so earnest a game, a multitude of

thoughts, without art artificial, did paint fear in her face, and

engrave grief in her bosom. Whilst they continued thus, Pamela, in

vain striving to match majesty with affection, stood with a distracted

stateliness, and with a stately astonishment, where grief and fear in

Philoclea made easily a consort in sorrow, with watery eyes, like the

sun shining in a shower, weakly clearing a cloudy countenance; when

suddenly they heard one cry, since the castle was won to set the

ladies at liberty; but they who were well acquainted both with the

frowns and smiles of fortune, as they had ever triumphed over the one,

would not suffer themselves to be led captives by the other; neither

could this accomplish their contentment, till they had the lords of

that pleasant bondage, which they did value more than unvaluable

liberty; the constrained activity of the body having nothing

diminished the voluntary thraldom of the mind.

But ah! this smooth calm came only to make them the more sensible of

the succeeding tempest, which the breath of one from below, roaring

forth the death of Zelmane, did thunder up upon them. Pamela (like a

rock amidst the sea, beaten both with the winds and with the waves,

yet itself immoveable) did receive this rigorous {437} charge with a

constant, though sad countenance, and with fixed eyes witnessing the

moving of her mind, yet neither uttering word, nor tear, as disdaining

to employ their weakness in so great a grief. Such might have been the

gesture of Niobe hearing the news of her children’s death, ere she was

metamorphosed into a stone; like one, majesty triumphing over misery,

who would rather burst strongly within than be disburdened by bursting

out in an abject manner.

But, ah me, the confounded Philoclea, who, being the weaker, had

received the sharpest assault, an affectionate fury forcing from her

an absolute passion, which a dutiful kindness through compassion only

provoked in her sister, she, smothered with so monstrous a weight, did

sink down under it to the earth.

This made Pamela forget her other grief without any comfort,

transferring her affection from her friend to her more than friendly

sister; for whom she saw at that time her care might be more

serviceable, wherewith she brought her to herself, and she herself to

sorrow. At first the tongue and the eyes being too feeble instruments

for so violent a passion, she used her hands, beating that breast

which the most barbarous creature else in the world could not have

done; offering those torn hairs as oblations to him after death, which

had been the delights of his life; and deforming that face, the

register of nature’s wonders, confirmed by the admiration of men.

Which when Pamela, of a patient became a physician, sought to hinder,

she thus said: “Alas! sister, you do not know what a treasure I have

lost, even a treasure more worth than all the world was worthy to

enjoy. Ah, pardon me thou, whom even death is not able to kill in my

soul: pardon me, who have ever concealed thy secret, now to discover

mine own, for while my life lasts, short may it be, and long it shall

not be, I will show to all the world that, which, whilst thou livedst,

I would have been ashamed to have shown to thyself even thy perfection

and mine affection. Neither do I regard how the conceits of others

censure my carriage in this; for there is no eye now, wherein I desire

to appear precious, nor no opinion, whereof I crave to make a

purchase; death may end my life, but not my love, which, as it is

infinite, must be immortal. I would gladly use means to dispatch this

miserable life; but it were a shame for me, if, after so great a

disaster, sorrow only were not sufficient to kill me.” And with that

beauty in the heaven of her face, two suns eclipsed, being wrapped up

in paleness, she fell down grovelling on the ground.

Pyrocles, imagining what report might be made, and not doubting what

effect it would work, bent to furnish physic for her mind, ere he

sought any for his own body, came in at the door, whom Pamela, {438}

her arms and her tongue rivals in kindness, embracing, said, “Never

more welcome, though ever welcome, Zelmane; thou who ever art

victorious, hast thou likewise brought thyself away a trophy from

death?” “Sweet ladies,” replied she, “who would faint to fight for

such divine creatures as you are? and who could have force to fight

against you?”

Philoclea, who at first, either dull through excessive dolour, did not

conceive her sister’s words; or else suspecting, as she thought, her

impossible desire to please her, all being doubtful to trust what they

do extremely affect, did misconceive her meaning. She was raising her

eyes to examine her ears: but the most trusty of her senses preventing

both, by a palpable proof, gave her an absolute assurance; so that ere

she could think Zelmane was at all to be embraced, finding herself

embraced by Zelmane, she was lifted up to a heaven of joy, as before

she had been sunk down in a hell of grief; never absolutely her own;

but either ravished or ruined. Spying the blood on Zelmane’s garment,

not knowing whether her own, or her enemy’s, she grew pale; and then,

looking on her sister, she blushed, suspecting that she suspected the

cause of her paleness, conferring it with her former plaints, to be

more than a friendly kindness; but Zelmane, fearing what might be the

effects of her fear, said, that she expected a congratulation of her

victory, and not condoling of past danger, which was acquitted with

the speechless answer of an affectionate look, and a passionate

pressing of her hand.

Then Pamela, inquiring the perilous course of her short progress, she

told how fortified with their fortune, trusting more to it than to her

own valour, which, like their beauty, could not but prevail, she had

first overthrown the two brethren of Anaxius; and thereafter, fighting

with himself, it was her chance, God strengthening her weakness to

punish his injustice, to kill him; she could not say overcome him, no,

she was not ashamed to affirm, that though he was killed, she thought

him not overcome, seeing both he died with opinion, and in action of

victory; death preventing the knowledge of his last success. A rare

happiness, his life and fortune having both but one bound.

Both highly praising her valour, and admiring her modesty, and glad of

their own delivery, whereof they thought her the author, thoughts

striving to express themselves the more powerfully without words, they

were acknowledging the fame with a grateful countenance, and kindly

affecting looks, when Zelmane, not complementally hunting that which

she fled, but like one who with a glass reflects the force of the sun

somewhere else, earnestly protested that she would be loth to usurp

that which was due to another, especially in the owner’s presence.

And, turning towards {439} the black knight, who all the time stood

aside as her attender, though armed, trembling for fear of one

unarmed, who unarmed, would not have been so afraid of an army in

arms, she freely affirmed, “There is the deliverer of us all, from

whom we receive our liberty, to whom we owe ourselves, since it is

that which makes us ourselves.”

Then the black knight, invited by the willing countenance of the

princess, abasing his helmet, advanced more fearfully than to a

battle, to kiss her hand: when Zelmane, courteously retired Philoclea

a little distance from thence, as glad to confer with her, as to give

her friend occasion to confer with Pamela, who presently, whilst the

roses of his lips made a flower of affection with the lilies of her

hands, knowing her own Dorus, at the suddenness of the assault, the

moving of her mind was betrayed by the changes of her countenance, the

blood of her face ebbing and flowing according to the tide of

affection; yet borrowing a mask from hate, wherewith to hide love, she

thus charged him, who already had yielded: “How durst you thus presume

to present yourself in my presence, being discharged it, when you

deserved the uttermost that reason could devise, or fury execute? Hath

my dejected estate emboldened you to exalt yourself against me?” Then

he, gathering courage from the extremity of despair, thus cleared his

intention: “True it is, lady of my life, and shall be of my death, I

was worthy then to have been banished from the world. But what of a

world of worlds? I was banished from your sight, and, which is worst

of all, deservedly. Neither come I now of contempt, but only to

testify my obedience, which otherwise at this time might have been

construed to a cowardice. Such a love as mine, wedded to virtue, can

never be so adulterated by any accident, no, nor yet ravished by

passion, as to bring forth a bastard disobedience, whereof my very

conscience not being able to accuse my thoughts, I come to clear

myself. But now, having performed all that was within the compass of

my power, a part of my blood witnessing my affection, which I wish

were confirmed by the rest: you may see, directness of my destiny,

that no force can force me to anything, much less from your sight,

save only your own will, which is unto me a law, yea, an oracle. And

now when you see I do it not for fear of others, but only out of a

reverence to you; if not for your satisfaction, yet for my punishment,

so to persecute him whom you hate, I will go waste the remnant of my

wretched days in some remote wilderness as not worthy to be seen of

any, since odious in your sight: having, I hope, by many proofs

prevailed thus much with your opinion, that after my death you will

think there was some worth in me; though not worthy of your love.”

When he, full of humble affection, was retiring himself with a

courtesy as low {440} as his thoughts; she, thinking enough done to

try him, yet without seeming to trust him, whilst, though guilty of

grief, her countenance could accuse her of no care, as out of a fresh

remembrance, said, “That she would not have Dametas to lose a servant,

nor Mopsa a suitor, by her means; and if he would needs return towards

the lodges, that he should first expect some employment homewards from

her.” Then he, as one, who fallen in the bottom of some deep water,

coming to float above, in sight of land, receiveth some comfort,

though still in danger, began to re-assemble his dispersed spirits

again, looking more cheerfully. But ere his thoughts, every one of

them overflowing another, could settle themselves in words, she,

preventing the violence of so sudden a change, did call to her sister,

by accusing their indiscretion, in holding these two so long by

talking with them, from looking to themselves. Which Philoclea

allowed, trembling with an earnest fear, to know in what estate

Zelmane stood.

They two, injured by this courtesy, with an unwilling obedience

accepted of it; more respecting the pleasure of others, than their own

necessity. Pamela as only affecting Zelmane, offered her either all,

or a part of their chamber: and she, her tongue rebelling against her

heart, refused what she desired, pretending a lothness to trouble

them. Then the sisters offered to accompany them; but, after they had

a while coloured true kindness with ordinary compliments, Zelmane

prevailed against herself, to go accompanied as she came: yet both

looking as if they would have left their eyes behind them, as well as

their hearts; as soon as they were by themselves in a chamber, Zelmane

disapparelling herself, the black knight, though better skilled in

giving, than in curing of wounds, yet lately experienced by passing

the like danger, he would needs prove a surgeon: and after he had

purchased the things necessary, having considered his wounds, he found

none, save the last that went through the body, dangerous; and yet not

deadly: thereafter melting their minds in discourses, either of them

had his own contentment doubled by hearing of the others.

Then the black knight, taking leave for a while, locking the door

behind him, went down to the court, to try if any spark of the late

fire remained as yet to quench. For after the opposite party, as if

their arms were not sufficient to arm them, unless their arms were

armed with walls, ran to fortify themselves within houses, which had

no strength save that which men were to afford them: he, who thought

his own good fortune no better than a misfortune, till he was assured

that his friend had the like, without whom no happiness of his could

be accomplished, recommending the remnant of the adversary’s ruins to

his two {441} companions, had gone to learn if he were alike happy in

all places: and they, fear freezing the courage, and dissolving the

hearts of their scattered enemies, found quickly more throwing

themselves weaponless at their feet, than they could have leisure

severally to raise, so that they were more weary, though more

contented with pardoning than they had been with punishing.

Some more crafty, or more fearful, cried out at the windows that they

would surrender upon security of pardon. But they, scorning to

capitulate with fugitives, who would not have done it with them when

fighters: and disdaining all that, by the most large construction,

could be wrested to the sense of constraint, they would not equal them

with those who were already humble till they submitted in a more

submissive manner, depending only on their free disposition. Which

they, either trusting to the virtue of others, or mistrusting their

own, having done the knight of the sheep was constrained, his wound

bleeding in great abundance, which being made by an impoisoned dart,

had inflamed all his body, to retire. The other, having received the

keys of the gate, committed the chief captives to keepers, till the

black knight’s coming, who presently thereafter exacting what

conditions he pleased, did discharge them all. Then sentinels were set

on the wall, and a company appointed to watch all night: when suddenly

one came from their friend, to desire them to come and take their last

farewell of him: a request wonderfully grieving them, yet quickly

granted; yea, performed ere answered.

Being met, and all others retired, he with these words deeply wounded

their souls. “Dear friends, whom I may justly call so, though none of

us as yet doth know another; You see, I have acted my part, and the

curtain must quickly be drawn. Death, the only period of all respects,

doth dispense with a free speech. At a tilting in Iberia, where I was

born, dedicated to the memory of the queen Andromana’s marriage, a

novice in arms, amongst others, I ran in a pastoral show against the

Corinthian knights, whom the success had preferred in the opinion of

the beholders: till the worthily admirable princes, Musidorus and

Pyrocles, drawn forth by the young prince Palladius, brought back the

reputation to our party, and there did such things as might have

honoured Mars, if he had been in any of their places, and made either

of them worthy of his. Thereafter being drawn away from that country

by an accident, the report whereof craves a longer time, and a

stronger breath than the heavens are like to afford me, their glory

tyrannizing over my rest, did kindle such flames in my bosom, that,

burning with a generous ardour, I did resolve leaving my own country,

as too strict a bound for my thoughts, to try my fortune, where I

might either live famous, or die {442} unknown; vowing withal to

travel, till these princes were either the subject or witnesses of my

valour. What passed in my way I pass over: perchance others may

remember. At last, invited by fame, I came to this fatal country, it

the band of my heart was, and now must be of my body: where first

carried with curiosity, the fever of youth, I went to the Arcadian

pastorals for my recreation, but found the ruin of my rest. There,

blinded with beholding, and tormented with delight, my earnest eyes

surfeited on the excellencies of the pattern of perfection, the

quintessence of worth, even the most divinely divine Philoclea. Ah too

adventurous eyes! Neither could this content them, but they would

needs offer up her picture on the altar of my heart; where, by my

thoughts their choice might be allowed, yea, and idolatrously

advanced. For they, scorning the simple rudeness of the eyes, as

easily defrauded of their too forwardly affected object, would

securely entreasure it in a more precious place, by a piercing

apprehension sinking it in the soul for ever. For a time, suffered as

a stranger, and a shepherd, known as you know, by the name of

Philisides, amongst the rest, I had the means to pour forth my plaints

before her, but never to her, and, though overthrown, not rendered, I

had concluded never to have thrown the dice betwixt hope and despair,

so betraying my estate to the tyranny of another’s will. No, I was

resolved she should never know her power in me, till I had known her

mind of me: so that, if she would not raise me, she should not have

means to insult over me. Thus if I had not procured pity, I should not

have exposed myself to disdain.

“In the haughtiness of my heart, thinking nothing impossible, I durst

promise myself, that, my deeds having purchased reputation, with words

worthy of respect, I might venture the process of my affection. In the

meantime I joined joyful with you in this late war now ended: though

professing a general desire of glory, yet for a particular end, and

happy end, since I send for her. But since whilst I lived, I had not

the means, as I wished, to content her. I crave not, by the knowledge

of this, after death to discontent her. It shall satisfy me, that I

die before my hopes; and she cannot grieve for the loss of that which

she never knew to be hers.”

With this, the other sliding apart to bear and bury his sorrow

privately, the black knight, weeping, embraced him in his arms, and

told him what he was, saying, he was glad that his vow was performed;

he being a benefitted witness, not the endangered subject of his

valour. Then contentment, budding forth in his countenance, flourished

in a smile, and having kissed his friends, desiring to live in their

memory, wished them as contented lives, {443} as his was a death. He

died as joyful as he left them sorrowful, who had known him a mirror

of courage and courtesy, of learning and arms; so that it seemed that

Mars had begotten him upon one of the Muses.

Musidorus, exceedingly sorrowful for this irreparable loss, was yet

more sorrowful when he remembered himself to be in danger of a

greater; and recommending the direction of all below to the knight of

the pole, he went himself up to visit his patient, whom he found,

though lying, yet resting; and though not sleeping, yet dreaming. As

soon as he heard Musidorus, starting as one awakened out of a slumber,

he looked on his face, grieved to see the impression of grief in it,

he not knowing the cause, with an inquisitive amazement. But the other

preventing that threatened tempest, did blow away the clouds that were

gathered in his countenance; telling him that he had no interest in

the anguish which then did afflict him. “What,” said Pyrocles, being

passionately moved, “can Musidorus have anything wherein I have no

interest?” “Aye,” said he, “and for the present a greater wonder; my

grief may breed you joy, I having lost a friend, and you a rival.”

Then he began to discourse unto him what was past. And beside that,

which was justly deserved, pity adorning praise and praise augmenting

pity, a generous passion so conquered the unconquerable Pyrocles, that

he lamented him dead, whom he had not known; no, nor would never have

loved alive, and undoubtedly would have wished him no better success

than he had. Yea the very thing which before might have most

discontented him, did then most content him; having his judgment

confirmed by the like, in one of such worth.

After that, laid down in one bed together, friendship making them

free, and solitariness bold, whilst their minds began to be delivered

of all, wherewith they had a long time travelled, a maid came to the

door, sent by the two sisters, to visit Zelmane, who hearing two,

where she expected but one, and the one by the manner of his speech

likely to be a man, did presently return, and reported to the ladies,

who were lying together, that whereof her ears had given her

sufficient assurance. At which news Pamela, burning within, sparkled

forth these words to her sister: “What wonder though strangers ever

wandering, wander from all things. Chiefly those of our sex, who being

born to be bounded within houses, when they cannot be bounded within

kingdoms, how can they be bounded by modesty? Yet, though I hate the

deed, the respect of the doer, but more of us whose company she hath

haunted, left her reproach, by the commentary of fame, be too largely

extended, binds me to conceal her shame, that {444} we blush not at

it. But we must either free ourselves from her, or she herself from

this slander.”

“Oh,” but answered the ever (and now more than ever) mild Philoclea,

“we must not, sister, rashly condemn those whom we have oftentimes

considerately approved, lest the change be in our judgment, and not in

them. No doubt, because of the indisposition of her body, it was

necessary that she should have someone to accompany her; perchance a

woman mistaken, and if a man, who knows for what end? She, who being

sound would acquaint herself with none, in this estate could not be

acquainted with any.”

“It is an easy matter,” replied Pamela, “for one who can deceive to

dissemble; neither is this a new acquaintance. You might have seen her

use that knight who did come in with her, rather kindly than

courteously; a preceding friendship overpassing present respects: for

where a great familiarity is, no ceremonial duty can be observed.”

Then Philoclea, having found her, could hardly restrain the violence

of a just laughter. “As for that which you affirm last,” said she, “I

cannot deny it: no, I dare assure you, and assure yourself I will

assure nothing without assurance, that knight is the man of the world

whom Zelmane most dearly loves, and yet I know, that neither would he

offer nor she suffer her honour to be wronged, as you imagine.” This

last wound was too deep for Pamela to speak after it: so that she,

abandoning her heart to throw itself over the rock of unkindness, in

danger to be drowned with her own tears, was thus prevented by

Philoclea: “Dear sister, and if any word can express more dearness

more dear than that, your using me not only as a sister, but as a

friend in the highest degree of trust, would make me ashamed to

mistrust you, or that you should be beholden to any other than to me

for my secret. So might my strangeness justify your unkindness, though

you should discover and condemn that which I know you will conceal,

perchance approve, and further being by my imparting of it to you,

made of the party, ere the report of others make you a judge; be bold

my tongue: though my cheeks blush, yet they cover you. Be not ashamed,

nay even glory to tell that Zelmane is the prince Pyrocles: he, whom

you have heard so oft, yet ever to his honour named; and, to define

him unto you more particularly, the friend of Musidorus, over whom

with him you are jealous; they lying now in one bed, with no less love

than I told you. Why he goes disguised with others, and why I am plain

with you I need not tell; you may imagine. One God hath metamorphosed

both, the one in a shepherd, the other in a woman; and we only can

restore them to themselves, and themselves to the world, that they may

grace it with the glory of their actions as they were wont to do.”

{445}

Then Philoclea, exchanging estates with her sister, words arrested by

thoughts, she became sad, and the other joyful; who thinking herself

well revenged of the past scorn, and having a sufficient pledge of her

sister’s secrecy, began to complain of their father’s strict using of

them, by surmisings of his own minding to mar their fortunes, so that

where he should rejoice at such an occasion, if coming to the

knowledge thereof, he would not fail to disappoint it, perchance with

the ruin of the princes; which would not only prove a particular loss

for them, but, which she lamented more, a general loss for all the

world; depriving it of these patterns of virtue, who in all their

actions did but point out the height of perfection, and encourage

others to follow their footsteps in the way of worth. Therefore it

behoved them to regard themselves, and seriously to consider a matter

of so great importance. Then, both beginning to muse, night did cast

the nets of sleep over their eyes, yet could not hinder their earnest

thoughts from prosecuting the course of their own fancies: for what

they were thinking when waking, they still dreamed when sleeping.

But ere the morning star began to retire, as giving place to a greater

light, whose coming, it, as a forerunner, had only warned the world to

attend, both awaked complaining of the night’s length, and having with

passionate discourses worn away darkness, as weary of them, they arose

and hastily apparelled themselves, though not in a curious, yet in a

comely manner. Then, with a pretended charity, they would needs go

visit the diseased patient, being themselves impatient. A little

before their coming, Musidorus being gone to give order for the burial

of Philisides, and, at the earnest desire of Pyrocles, of Anaxius,

whose valour now had the full praise, from which his own presumption

had derogated much whilst he lived: as they approached to his chamber

door, they heard Pyrocles preparing his voice for the convoy of a

sadly conceived, and weakly delivered song, which they resolved not to

interrupt, attending the letter which followed.

More dangerous darts than death, love throws I spy,

Who by experience now know both their wounds:

Death pierc’d me all, yet could not make me die:

Love with a thought me in effect confounds.

The power of death, art sometimes may restrain,

Where love, I find, can never physic find:

Death only plagues the body but with pain,

Where love with pleasure doth torment the mind.

Death still to all alike none free doth leave;

Where partial love shafts but at some doth send:

{446}

Death with more mercy kills than love doth save:

Death’s end breeds rest, love never rests to end.

Death doth enlarge, where love imprisons still;

Death forc’d by fates; love willingly doth kill.

As soon as this song was ended, Pamela opened the door, saluting him

still (so to disguise her knowledge) by the name of Zelmane; and asked

in what estate she was with herself, who returned this answer; “How

can I smart having such angels to give me comfort? Or how can I feel

pain in their presence, whose faces are heavens of pleasure?” “Since,”

said Pamela, “being only unfortunate by falling in our company, the

hazard of your life hath procured our liberty, so that accidentally,

though far from our intention, we have been the causes of all your

trouble, how can we think of your pain, but as of our own? Or have any

delight whilst you rest grieved?” “Wonders of worth,” said Zelmane, “I

shall ever, whilst I live, reckon for my highest happiness my being

honoured by your company; and as for my travels in this, they are by

the success abundantly rewarded, since I could aspire to no higher

good than I have compassed, having purchased you any contentment.”

Whilst that passionate Zelmane, with an animated fervency, did

incorporate her hand with Philoclea’s, whose speaking looks, however

some time out of modesty obliquely moving, had a continual revolution

about his face; the black knight’s coming in drew Pamela’s spirits

from her thoughts to her eyes. A gentleman followed him, directed from

Basilius; who after his duty done to the ladies, having shown them

that their father and mother were in good health, invited by their

enquiring attendants, told how the first, whom prodigal fame had

breathed forth with news, hastened by himself, as who carried an

acceptable message in hope of benefit or thanks, certified the king

how the castle was won, and his daughters delivered by the black

knight, who before had put a period to the victories of Amphialus. At

this Pamela looking on Musidorus, blushed; and he, though by no

gesture betraying his joy, rejoiced, not because he heard himself

praised, but because she heard him praised, and that Anaxius in a

single combat was killed by Zelmane, she not long over-living the

victory.

The king hearing this, who of his gracious nature would rather save

one friend than destroy all his enemies, as if the delivery of his

daughters had been a matter of small moment, and a gain too light to

counterpoise so great a loss, did abandon his soul to the tyranny of

sorrow, even more than majesty in a prince, or virtue in affliction,

in the balances of reason, would have allowed of such weight. At this

Zelmane’s smile was accompanied with Philoclea’s. {447} But when he

spoke of Gynecia’s griefs overgrowing the other, they grew pale, being

afraid of the fountain from whence her tears did flow, lest it should

drown them.

But whilst Gynecia (the messenger insisted) as run mad with anguish,

enclosed in a chamber, would suffer none to come unto her; all

wondered that her children being safe, a stranger’s death, or her

husband’s grief, could weaken the known strength of her mind so much.

The next messenger came, being the latter, and thereby the better

informed, who sugared the first news with the assurance of Zelmane’s

safety. Then the queen coming forth as after a great tempest, the sky

of her countenance cleared, looking brighter than before. The king

would have come himself here in person, but he was persuaded to send

Philanax with a number of chosen men, to receive the castle and

ladies; eftsoons being curious to know who cured Zelmane; when it was

told him that the knight who won the castle would trust none with that

save himself, he was sorry that one of his worth should be put to such

trouble, and would needs have an ordinary surgeon sought out to

undertake the charge. “In the meantime the queen came and brought out

of a box a sovereign balm, which she hath sent by me to be applied to

your wounds, fair Zelmane, not doubting but they will quickly become

sound if her direction be observed, which is only that you rest and

keep yourself quiet from company now, and by the way till she herself

may use other remedies. And for this effect she entreats you, miracles

of nature, her daughters, to forbear her company during this time:

that your example, whose authority abused might embolden the

indiscretion of inferiors, may be a law for others: and she assured me

that she would by a secret spy learn how she were obeyed in this. Such

a care hath she of this sweet lady’s health.”

By the end of this commission well did Zelmane and Philoclea know at

whom in particular those general injunctions did only aim. This

enjoined abstinence did give Zelmane a surfeit in sorrow, who had

rather have continued still infirm, than to have recovered by so cruel

a physic. And yet her misery was multiplied when she remembered the

cause, whereof this, in respect of that which she did expect, was a

slender issue, and but a little fury, sent to afflict her out of that

hell of Gynecia’s breast, into whose company she was shortly to enter.

Now the black knight, purposing to depart before Philanax arrived,

brought his companion, the knight of the pole, as a partner of his

victory, to kiss the ladies’ hands extenuating his own part, and

preferring his: Those who have true worth in themselves, can never

envy it in another. Thereafter advising him privately to have their

little company in a readiness, he went with an uncounterfeited {448}

reverence, humbling himself before the idol of his soul, to know her

will: telling her what he had done, being only done for her, he would

attend thanks from no other; neither would he be known till he might

be known for hers: and she, her countenance rather lightening courtesy

than affection, desired him to return to his old master, and he should

be restored to the estate which by his fault he had before justly

forfeited; wishing that he would carry himself more moderately

hereafter, if he would not incur her indignation, and raise all regard

of him out of her memory.

Then Musidorus, as contented as one who had been brought from hell to

heaven, with many vehement attestations to win trust with her, and

imprecations against himself in case of perjury, wished, if ever his

mind were so unhappy as to be surprised by any purpose tending in the

least degree to grieve her, that he might never live till it took

effect, but die ere it were discovered. And like a wary gamester, who

having once advantage is loth to adventure again, willing to seal up

his ears with the acceptable sounds which they had received, he took

leave, leaving his heart with her, and taking hers with him. Then went

he towards Pyrocles, the joy of his heart shining through his face,

and acquainted him with his unwilling absenting himself, referring all

further conference till their meeting at the arbour. And having in a

complimental manner craved, but not desired employment from Philoclea,

in any service after the funerals were performed, he marched with his

troop away, the most part thinking that he went to meet Philanax:

whilst Pamela from a window followed with her eyes, till clouds of

dust did bury their object in the air.

Soon after their departure from the castle, about this time, Philanax

arrived, who, immediately after he had received the castle in the

king’s name, sought for the knight, whose gift, though not given by

him, he esteemed it to be. For he, being generously judicious, thought

it more fit that princes should defray obligations by rewards, every

man being inferior to him to whom he stands indebted, than to be

behind with any by being beholden; and hearing that he was gone by

public enquiry for him, and praises of him, he witnessed to the world

how highly his valour was valued. After he had saluted the princesses,

he visited Zelmane, and told her how careful his master was to have

those wounds cured, which in his service had been procured, that

thereafter he might otherwise express his gratefulness. But Zelmane

affirmed that though that blood which was shed had been followed by

all the rest of her body; with the king’s former courtesies towards

her, the deserving by the recompense was both preceded and exceeded.

Then Philanax, loth to strive with deeds in words, {449} desired her,

if her health might serve, to provide for her removing with the rest

to-morrow, otherwise, that should be done for her which she herself

would direct.

Immediately after his departure Zelmane arose; and having apparelled

herself, began to walk, not so much to try how she might comport with

the intended journey, as that she might pretend any means which might

afford her the satisfaction of Philoclea’s presence; where, violently

carried by her thoughts, she came soon, but not so soon as she wished,

and was wished: where Pamela apart entertaining her thoughts, she thus

entered with Philoclea: “Dear love, Oh in what an ocean of troubles

doth our estate continually float, yet hath never so much as attained

the sight of any secure port. I see that this freedom will but bring

us to a greater bondage: we are led from captivity, only to become

captives. For where before those senseless walls were thought

sufficient to guard us, we shall be watched now by one more jealous

than Juno, with more eyes than ever Argus had. I would willingly

convey you where I might enjoy you, and you a kingdom: but this, my

infirmity first hindered, and the coming of Philanax hath altogether

prevented. In the meantime, till for performing of that, a longed for

occasion come, I must arm myself against your father’s folly, and your

mother’s fury. The one’s might easily be deluded, but the other’s

cannot be resisted, but by a show of yielding, which I must cunningly

counterfeit: and therefore trust no external show; for whoever have my

countenance, you have my heart.” Philoclea’s words were, that she

cared not where she went, so it were with him, nor what she did, so it

were warranted by his direction, as bent rather to burn her breast,

than to let it lodge any thought which durst but doubt of the

sufficiency of his intentions, since whatever circle they made, having

always for their centre the excellency of his own worth. So parting,

as if they had been to go to live in sundry kingdoms; though going to

live in one company, night invited them to repose.

The next morning being saluted by the trumpet’s sounds, and all ready

to remove, they were quickly transported over the lake; and as

quickly, when landed, mounted by the provident care of Philanax, to

finish their journey. But ere they came two or three miles off the

lodges, Basilius met them, who embraced his daughters; not that he

would go first to them, but that he would be last with Zelmane, whom

he had kissed with his eyes, ere his lips were drawn from his

daughters. And as soon as he had shown as much affection, encountering

her, as his state before so many would permit: he said, that

notwithstanding her countenance was the treasure in the world whereof

he was most covetous, {450} yet it grieved him that another should be

so happy as to have procured her liberty rather than himself; and that

it was his purpose, as a private adventurer, to have manifested his

affection, fighting as a knight, not as a king, for her delivery.

Zelmane replying, that it had been against all reason, that so great a

prince, on whom the lives of so many did depend, should have been

hazarded for the life of one whose fall could extend no further than

to her own ruin: “Your ruin,” said he, “I wish that mine were first;

for it could not but follow after. And do not think that the black

knight, or any other durst do more for you than I: yet such is the

miserable estate of us kings, that we cannot prove men, but are

compelled to move in our own sphere.”

The journey’s end cutting off their discourse, Gynecia was waiting on

their alighting, and having first duty--tyrannizing over

affection--carelessly kissed Pamela, disdainfully Philoclea, and

vehemently Zelmane, thereafter enquiring of her wounds, thanks (though

bestowing nothing defraying much) were courteously returned for the

balm which was sent; she protesting that if no other thing could help,

she would pull out her own heart, when Basilius interrupted them,

coming to have lightened his heart, by burdening his body with his

mistress’s alighting.

Dametas came starting and leaping like a giddy kid to meet with

Pamela; and as soon as she was alighted, for the first salutation,

told her how much she was beholden to him, having shown his manhood

and goodwill as much as the best fellow in these bounds could have

done, swearing that he had ventured more for her than he would do for

all the world again, and for his own life too; “Aye,” quoth he, “and

when my man Dorus durst not be seen, who was thought a brave fellow,

yet he feigned a business far from the noise of war, to seek sheep;

but the truth is, to hide himself, whilst my deeds made all our army

laugh for joy: so that during all that time of trouble, which I

tremble yet to think upon, I never heard of him, till even now he sent

me word by a shepherd, whom he met on the way, that he had found the

ewes which had strayed, with great difficulty, and was driving them at

leisure, for fear they should miscarry. But when he comes, I promise I

will make his cowardice be known for leaving me, when I would fain

have left myself for fear.” “O but,” said Pamela, “you must not be

offended, though every man be not so stout as you are; he may be an

evil soldier, but yet a good shepherd: and I hope you keep him that he

may keep sheep, not that he may kill men.” “Now in good faith,” said

he, “I see you are not changed, for you were ever wise, and so you do

continue still. I may well chide the fellow, but I will not beat him.”

{451}

Then all entering the lodge with Basilius, though the supper was

ready, Gynecia would dress Zelmane’s wounds first, and Basilius would

see them dressed; so by his despised importunateness restraining the

torrent of Gynecia’s passions, which would but burst forth more

furiously thereafter. This freeing Zelmane’s ears at that time, was

but a relief to her, as they find who expel poison by counterpoison,

she being as weary of him, as afraid of the other.

Then sitting down to the supper, more curious of a surfeit to their

eyes, than for their sustenance to the rest of the body: the eyes of

Basilius were ever feeding on the face of Zelmane with a fearful

earnestness, save sometimes when they were constrained to retire by

the violence of his wife’s looks, thinking that they with a jealous

anger had upbraided his error, which she, otherwise busied, had never

so much as observed. The one of her eyes was settled like a fixed star

on Zelmane, the other like a wandering comet threatening confusion

where it shined, strayed betwixt Zelmane, and her daughter Philoclea,

watching and chastising with her look her stolen looks. Zelmane’s

languishing lights made the table envied, whilst her dejected looks

did only bless it, as scorning to look on any, since she might not

look where she liked. Philoclea chained by thoughts to Zelmane, did

imitate her being pensive, because she was pensive: yet like a cunning

painter, who having fully fed his eyes with the affected object, turns

back within himself, that his imagination may engrave it the more

exactly within his memory, she would sometimes with a thievishly

adventurous look spy Zelmane’s gesture, that she might the better

counterfeit it in her countenance. As for Pamela, she kept her

accustomed majesty, being absent where she was, and present where she

was not. Then, the supper being ended, after some ambiguous speeches,

which might, for fear of being mistaken, be taken in two senses, or

else were altogether estranged from the speaker’s mind; speaking as in

a dream, not what they thought, but what they would be thought to

think: everyone retired to the lodge where they had used afore to lie;

Basilius having first invited them the next morning to see a pastoral

represented by the ordinary shepherds, to congratulate their

prosperous return.

* * *[b3-09]

{452}

After that Basilius, according to the oracle’s promise, had received

home his daughters, and settled himself again in his solitary course

and accustomed company, there passed not many days ere the now fully

recomforted Dorus, having waited a time of Zelmane’s walking alone

towards her little arbour took leave of his master Dametas’s husbandry

to follow her. Near whereunto overtaking her, and sitting down

together among the sweet flowers, whereof that place was very

plentiful, under the pleasant shade of a broad leaved sycamore, they

recounted one to another their strange pilgrimage of passions,

omitting nothing which open hearted friendship is wont to lay forth,

where there is cause to communicate both joys and sorrows, for indeed

there is no sweeter taste of friendship than the coupling of souls in

this mutuality, either of condoling or comforting; where the oppressed

mind finds itself not altogether miserable, since it is sure of one

which is feelingly sorry for his misery: and the joyful spends not his

joy, either alone, or there where it may be envied; but may freely

send it to such a well-grounded object, from whence he shall be sure

to receive a sweet reflection of the same joy, and, as in a clear

mirror of sincere goodwill, see a lively picture of his own gladness.

But after much discourse on either part, Dorus, his heart scarce

serving him to come to the point whereunto his then coming had been

wholly directed, as loth in the kindest sort to discover to his friend

his own unkindness, at length, one word emboldening another, made

known to Zelmane, how Pamela upon his vehement oath to offer no force

unto her, till he had invested her in the duchy of Thessalia, had

condescended to his stealing her away to the next seaport. That

besides the strange humours she saw her father more and more falling

into, and unreasonable restraint of her liberty, whereof she knew no

cause but light-grounded jealousies, added to the hate of that manner

of life, and confidence she had in his virtue, the chiefest reason had

won her to this was the late danger she stood in of losing him, the

like whereof, not unlike to fall if this course were continued, she

chose rather to die than again to undergo. That now they waited for

nothing else but some fit time for their escape, by the absence of

their three loathsome companions, in whom folly engendered suspicion.

“And therefore now,” said Dorus, “my dear cousin, to whom nature began

my friendship, education confirmed it, and virtue hath made it

eternal; here have I discovered the very foundation whereupon my life

is built: be you the judge betwixt me and my fortune. The violence of

love is not unknown to you, and I know my case shall never want pity

in your consideration. How all the joys of my heart do leave me, in

thinking I must for a time be absent from you, the eternal truth is

witness unto me, I know I {453} should not so sensibly feel the pangs

of my last departure. But this enchantment of my restless desire hath

such authority in myself above myself, that I am become a slave unto

it, I have no more freedom in mine own determination. My thoughts are

now all bent how to carry away my burdenous bliss. Yet, most beloved

cousin, rather than you should think I do herein violate that holy

band of true friendship wherein I unworthy am knit unto you, command

me stay. Perchance the force of your commandment may work such

impression into my heart that no reason of mine own can imprint into

it. For the gods forbid, the foul word of abandoning Pyrocles might

ever be objected to the faithful Musidorus. But if you can spare my

presence, whose presence no way serves you, and by the division of

those two lodges is not oft with you: nay, if you can think my absence

may, as it shall, stand you in stead, by bringing such an army hither,

as shall make Basilius, willing or unwilling, to know his own hap, in

granting you Philoclea, then I will cheerfully go about this my most

desired enterprise, and shall think the better half of it already

achieved, being begun in the fortunate hour of my friend’s

contentment.”

These words, as they were not knit together with such a constant

course of flowing eloquence as Dorus was wont to use, so was his voice

interrupted with sighs, and his countenance with interchanging colour

dismayed. So much his own heart did find him faulty to unbend any way

the continual use of their dear friendship. But Zelmane, who had all

this while gladly hearkened to the other tidings of their friends

happy success, when this last determination of Dorus struck her

attentive ears, she stayed a great while oppressed with a dead

amazement. There came straight before her mind, made tender with woes,

the images of her own fortune, her tedious longings, her causes to

despair, the cumbersome folly of Basilius, the enraged jealousy of

Gynecia, herself a prince without retinue; a man annoyed with the

troubles of womankind, loathsomely loved, and dangerously loving. And

now for the perfecting of all, her friend to be taken away by himself,

to make the loss the greater by the unkindness. But within a while she

resolutely passed over all inward objections; and preferring her

friend’s profit to her own desire, with a quiet, but heavy look, she

thus answered him: “If I bear thee this love, virtuous Musidorus, for

mine own sake, and that our friendship grew, because I, for my part,

might rejoice to enjoy such a friend, I should now so thoroughly feel

my own loss, that I should call the heavens and earth to witness how

cruelly you rob me of my greatest comfort, measuring the breach of

friendship by mine own passion. But because indeed I love thee for

thyself, and in my judgment judge of thy worthiness to be loved, I am

content to {454} build my pleasure upon thy comfort, and then will I

deem my hap in friendship great when I shall see thee, whom I love,

happy. Let me be only sure thou lovest me still, the only price of

true affection: go therefore on, worthy Musidorus, with the guide of

virtue and service of fortune. Let thy love be loved, thy desires

prosperous, thy escape safe, and thy journey easy. Let everything

yield his help to thy desert, for my part absence shall not take thee

from mine eyes, nor affliction shall bar me from gladding in thy good,

nor a possessed heart shall keep thee from the place it hath for ever

allotted unto thee.”

Dorus would fain have replied again, to have made a liberal confession

that Zelmane had of her side the advantage of well-performing

friendship: but partly his own grief of parting from one he loved so

dearly, partly the kind care in what state she should leave Zelmane,

bred such a conflict in his mind, that many times he wished he had

either never attempted, or never revealed his secret enterprise. But

Zelmane, who had now looked to the utmost of it, and established her

mind upon an assured determination: “My only friend,” said she, “since

to so good towardness your courteous destinies have conducted you, let

not a ceremonial consideration of our mutual love be a bar unto it. I

joy in your presence, but I joy more in your good: that friendship

brings forth the fruits of enmity which prefers his own tenderness

before his friend’s damage. For my part, my greatest grief herein

shall be, I can be no further serviceable unto you.” “O Zelmane,” said

Dorus, with his eyes even covered with water, “I did not think so soon

to have displayed my determination unto you, but to have made my way

first in your loving judgment. But alas! as your sweet disposition

drew me so far, so doth it now strengthen me in it. To you therefore

be the due commendation given; who can conquer me in love, and love in

wisdom. As for me, then shall goodness turn to evil, and

ungratefulness be the token of a true heart, when Pyrocles shall not

possess a principal seat in my soul, when the name of Pyrocles shall

not be held of me in devout reverence.”

They would never have come to the cruel instant of parting, nor to the

ill-faring word of farewell, had not Zelmane seen afar off the old

Basilius, who having performed a sacrifice to Apollo, for his

daughters’, but principally for his mistress’s happy return, had since

been everywhere to seek her. And now being come within compass of

discerning her, he began to frame the loveliest countenance he could,

stroking up his legs, setting his beard in due order, and standing

bolt upright. “Alas!” said Zelmane, “behold an evil fore-token of your

sorrowful departure. Yonder see I one of my furies, which doth daily

vex me, farewell, farewell {455} my Musidorus, the gods make fortune

to wait on thy virtues, and make me wade through this lake of

wretchedness.” Dorus burst out into a flood of tears, wringing her

fast by the hand. “No, no,” said he, “I go blindfold whither the

course of my ill hap carries me: for now, too late, my heart gives me

this our separating can never be prosperous. But if I live, attend me

here shortly with an army.” Thus both apparelled with the grievous

renting of their first combination, having first resolved with

themselves that whatsoever fell upon them, they should never upon any

occasion utter their names, for the conserving the honour of their

royal parentage, but keep the names of Daiphantus and Palladius, as

before had been agreed between them, they took divers ways: Dorus to

the lodge-ward, where his heavy eyes might be something refreshed;

Zelmane towards Basilius, saying to herself, with a scornful smiling,

“Yet hath not my friendly fortune deprived me of a pleasant

companion.” But he, having with much search come to her presence,

doubt and desire bred a great quarrel in his mind. For his former

experience had taught him to doubt; and true feeling of love made

doubts dangerous, but the working of his desire had ere long won the

field. And therefore, with the most submissive manner his behaviour

could yield, “O goddess,” said he, “towards whom I have the greatest

feeling of religion, be not displeased at some show of devotion I have

made to Apollo, since he, if he knew anything, knows that my heart

bears far more awful reverence to yourself, than to his, or any other

the like deity.” “You will ever be deceived in me,” answered Zelmane;

“I will make myself no competitor with Apollo, neither can blasphemies

to him be duties to me.” With that Basilius took out of his bosom

certain verses he had written, and kneeling down, presented them to

her. They contained this:

Phoebus, farewell, a sweeter saint I serve,

The high conceits, thy heav’nly wisdom’s breed,

My thoughts forget: my thoughts which never swerve

From her in whom is sown their freedom’s seed,

And in whose eyes my daily doom I read.

Phoebus, farewell, a sweeter saint I serve,

Thou art far off, thy kingdom is above;

She heav’n on earth with beauties doth preserve,

Thy beams I like, but her clear rays I love:

Thy force I fear, her force I still do prove.

Phoebus yield up thy title in my mind;

She doth possess, thy image is defac’d,

But if thy rage some brave revenge will find,

On her, who hath in me thy temple raz’d,

Employ thy might, that she my fires may taste,

And how much more her worth surmounteth thee,

Make her as much more base by loving me.

{456}

“This is my hymn to you,” said he, “not left me by my ancestors, but

begun in myself. The temple wherein it is daily sung is my soul; and

the sacrifice I offer to you withal is all whatsoever I am.” Zelmane,

who ever thought she found in his speeches the ill taste of a

medicine, and the operation of a poison, would have suffered a

disdainful look to have been the only witness of her good acceptation

but that Basilius began afresh to lay before her many pitiful prayers

and in the end to conclude that he was fully of opinion it was only

the unfortunateness of that place that hindered the prosperous course

of his desires. And therefore since the hateful influence, which made

him embrace this solitary life was now passed over him, as he doubted

not the judgment of Philanax would agree with his, and his late

mishaps had taught him how perilous it was to commit a prince’s state

to a place so weakly guarded, he was now inclined to return to his

palace in Mantinea, and there he hoped he should be better able to

show how much he desired to make all he had hers: with many other such

honey words, which my pen grows almost weary to set down. This indeed

nearly pierced Zelmane: for the good beginning she had obtained of

Philoclea made her desire to continue the same trade, till the more

perfecting of her desires; and to come to any public place she did

deadly fear, lest her mask by many eyes might the sooner be

discovered, and so her hopes stopped, and the state of her joys

endangered. Therefore a while she rested, musing at the daily changing

labyrinth of her own fortune, but in herself determined it was her

only best to keep him there, and with favours to make him love the

place where the favours were received, as disgraces had made him apt

to change the soil.

Therefore, casting a kind of corner-look upon him, “It is truly said,”

said she, “that age cooleth the blood. How soon, good man, you are

terrified before you receive any hurt? Do you not know that daintiness

is kindly unto us? And that hard obtaining, is the excuse of woman’s

granting? Yet speak I not as though you were like to obtain, or I to

grant. But because I would not have you imagine I am to be won by

courtly vanities, or esteem a man the more because he hath handsome

men to wait on him, when he is afraid to live without them.” You might

have seen Basilius humbly swell, and, with a lowly look, stand upon

his tiptoes; such diversity her words delivered unto him. “O

Hercules,” answered he, “Basilius afraid? Or his blood cold that boils

in such a furnace? Care I who is with me while I enjoy your presence?

Or is any place good or bad to me, but as it pleaseth you to bless or

curse it? O let me be but armed in your good grace, and I defy

whatsoever there is or can be against me. No, no, your love is

forcible, and my age is not without vigour.”

{457}

Zelmane thought it not good for his stomach to receive a surfeit of

too much favour, and therefore thinking he had enough for the time to

keep him from any sudden removing, with a certain gracious bowing down

of her head towards him, she turned away, saying she would leave him

at this time to see how temperately he could use so bountiful a

measure of her kindness. Basilius, that thought every drop a flood

that bred any refreshment, durst not further press her, but with

ancient modesty left her to the sweet repast of her own fancies.

Zelmane, as soon as he was departed, went toward Pamela’s lodge in

hope to have seen her friend Dorus, to have pleased herself with

another painful farewell, and further to have taken some advice with

him touching her own estate, whereof before sorrow had not suffered

her to think. But being come even near the lodge, she saw the mouth of

a cave, made as it should seem by nature in despite of art, so fitly

did the rich growing marble serve to beautify the vault of the first

entry. Under foot the ground seemed mineral, yielding such a

glistering show of gold in it as they say the river Tagus carries in

his sandy bed. The cave framed out into many goodly spacious rooms,

such as self-liking men have with long and learned delicacy found out

the most easeful: there ran through it a little sweet river, which had

left the face of the earth to drown herself for a small way in this

dark but pleasant mansion. The very first show of the place enticed

the melancholy mind of Zelmane, to yield herself over there to the

flood of her own thoughts. And therefore, sitting down in the first

entry of the cave’s mouth, with a song she had lately made, she gave a

doleful way to her bitter affects, and sung to this effect:

Since that the stormy rage of passions dark

(Of passions dark, made dark by beauty’s light)

With rebel force, hath clos’d in dungeon dark

My mind, ere now led forth by reason’s light.

Since all the things which give mine eyes their light.

Do foster still the fruits of fancies dark:

So that the windows of my inward light

Do serve to make my inward powers dark.

Since, as I say, both mind and senses dark

Are hurt, not help’d, with piercing of the light:

While that the light may show the horrors dark,

But cannot make resolved darkness light:

I like this place, where at the least the dark

May keep my thoughts from thought of wonted light.

{458}

Instead of an instrument, her song was accompanied with the wringing

of her hands, the closing of her weary eyes, and even sometimes cut

off with the swelling of her sighs, which did not suffer the voice to

have his free and native passage. But, as she was a while musing upon

her song, raising up her spirits, which were something fallen into the

weakness of lamentation, considering solitary complaints do no good to

him whose help stands without himself, she might afar off first hear a

whispering sound, which seemed to come from the inmost part of the

cave, and being kept together with the close hollowness of the place,

had, as in a trunk, the more liberal access to her ears, and by and by

she might perceive the same voice deliver itself into musical tunes,

and with a base Lyra give forth this song:

Hark, plaintful ghosts, infernal furies, hark

Unto my woes the hateful heavens do send,

The heavens conspir’d to make my vital spark

A wretched wreck, a glass of ruin’s end.

Seeing, alas, so mighty powers bend

Their ireful shot against so weak a mark,

Come cave, become my grave, come death, and lend

Receipt to me, within thy bosom dark.

For what is life to daily dying mind,

Where, drawing breath, I suck the air of woe:

Where too-much sight makes all the body blind,

And highest thoughts downward most headlong throw?

Thus then my form, and thus my state I find,

Death wrapp’d in flesh, to living grave assign’d.

And pausing but a little, with mournful melody it continued this

octave:

Like those sick folks in whom strange humours flow,

Can taste no sweets, the sower only please,

So to my mind, while passions daily grow,

Whose fiery chains, upon his freedom seize;

Joys strangers seem, I cannot bide their show,

Nor brook aught else but well-acquainted woe.

Bitter griefs taste best, pain is my ease,

Sick to the death, still loving my disease.

“O Venus,” said Zelmane, “who is this so well acquainted with me, that

can make so lively a portraiture of my miseries? It is surely the

spirit appointed to have care of me, which doth now, in this dark

place, bear part with the complaint of his unhappy charge. For if it

be so, that the heavens have at all times a measure of their wrathful

harms, surely so many have come to my {459} blissless lot that the

rest of the world hath too small a portion to make with cause so

wailful a lamentation. But,” said she, “whatsoever thou be, I will

seek thee out, for thy music well assures me we are at least-hand

fellow-prentices to one ungracious master.” So rose she and went,

guiding herself by the still plaining voice, till she saw upon a stone

a little wax-light set, and under it a piece of paper, with these

verses very lately, as it should seem, written in it:

How is my sun, whose beams are shining bright,

Become the cause of my dark ugly night?

Or how do I, captiv’d in this dark plight,

Bewail the case, and in the cause delight?

My mangled mind huge horrors still do fright,

With sense possessed, and claim’d by reason’s right:

Betwixt which two in me I have this fight:

Where who so wins, I put myself to flight.

Come cloudy fears, close up my dazzled sight,

Sorrows suck up the marrow of my might,

Due sighs blow out all sparks of joyful light,

Tire on despair upon my tired spright.

An end, an end, my dull’d pen cannot write,

Nor maz’d head think, nor falt’ring tongue recite.

And hard underneath the sonnet were these words written:

This cave is dark, but it had never light.

This wax doth waste itself, yet painless dies.

These words are full of woes, yet feel they none.

I darkened am, who once had clearest sight.

I waste my heart, which still new torments tries.

I plain with cause, my woes are all mine own.

No Cave, no wasting wax, no words of grief,

Can hold, show, tell my pains without relief.

She did not long stay to read the words, for not far off from the

stone she might discern in a dark corner, a lady lying with her face

so prostrate upon the ground that she could neither know nor be known.

But, as the general nature of man is desirous of knowledge, and sorrow

especially glad to find fellows, she went, as softly as she could

convey her feet, near unto her, where she heard these words come with

vehement sobbings from her. “O darkness,” said she, “which dost

lightsomely, methinks, make me see the picture of my inward darkness:

since I have chosen thee to be {460} the secret witness of my sorrows,

let me receive a false receipt in thee; and esteem them not tedious,

but, if it be possible, let the uttering them be some discharge to my

over-laden breast. Alas! sorrow, now thou hast the full sack of my

conquered spirits, rest thyself awhile, and set not still new fire to

thy own spoils: O accursed reason, how many eyes thou hast to see thy

evils, and how dim, nay blind thou art in perceiving them? Forlorn

creature that I am! I would I might be freely wicked, since wickedness

doth prevail: but the footsteps of my overtrodden virtue lie still as

bitter accusations against me. I am divided in myself, how can I

stand? I am overthrown in myself, who shall raise me? Vice is but a

nurse of new agonies, and the virtue I am divorced from, makes the

hateful comparison the more manifest. No, no, virtue, either I never

had but a shadow of thee, or thou thyself are but a shadow. For how is

my soul abandoned? How are all my powers laid waste? My desire is

pained because it cannot hope, and if hope came, his best should be

but mischief. O strange mixture of human minds; only so much good

left, as to make us languish in our own evils. Ye infernal furies, for

it is too late for me to awake my dead virtue, or to place my comfort

in the angry gods, ye infernal furies, I say, aid one that dedicates

herself unto you; let my rage be satisfied, since the effect of it is

fit for your service. Neither be afraid to make me too happy, since

nothing can come to appease the smart of my guilty conscience, I

desire but to assuage the sweltering of my hellish longing dejected

Gynecia.”

Zelmane no sooner heard the name of Gynecia, but that, with a cold

sweat all over her, as if she had been ready to tread upon a deadly

stinging adder, she would have withdrawn herself, but her own passion

made her yield more unquiet motions than she had done in coming. So

that she was perceived, and Gynecia suddenly risen up, for indeed it

was Gynecia, gotten into the cave, the same cave wherein Dametas had

safely kept Pamela in the late uproar, to pass her pangs, with change

of places. And as her mind ran still upon Zelmane, her piercing

lover’s eye had soon found it was she. And seeing in her countenance

to fly away, she fell down at her feet, and catching fast hold of her:

“Alas!” said she, “whither, or from whom dost thou fly away? The

savagest beasts are won with service, and there is no flint but may be

mollified: how is Gynecia so unworthy in thine eyes? or whom cannot

abundance of love make worthy? O think not that cruelty, or

ungratefulness can flow from a good mind! O weigh, alas! weigh with

thyself the new effects of this mighty passion, that I, unfit for my

estate, uncomely for my sex, must become a suppliant at thy feet! By

the happy woman that bare thee, by all the joys of thy {461} heart,

and success of thy desire, I beseech thee turn thyself to some

consideration of me, and rather show pity in now helping me, than in

too late repenting my death, which hourly threatens me.” Zelmane

imputing it to one of her continual mishaps, thus to have met with

this lady, with a full weary countenance; “Without doubt, Madam,” said

she, “where the desire is such as may be obtained, and the party well

deserving as yourself, it must be a great excuse that may well colour

a denial: but when the first motion carries with it a direct

impossibility, then must the only answer be, comfort without help, and

sorrow to both parties; to you not obtaining, to me not able to

grant.” “O,” said Gynecia, “how good leisure you have to frame these

scornful answers? Is Gynecia thus to be despised? Am I so vile a worm

in your sight? No, no, trust to it hard-hearted tiger, I will not be

the only actor of this tragedy: since I must fall, I will press down

some others with my ruins; since I must burn, my spiteful neighbours

shall feel my fire. Dost thou not perceive that my diligent eyes have

pierced through the cloudy mask of thy disguisement? Have I not told

thee, O fool (if I were not much more fool) that I knew thou wouldst

abuse us with thy outward show? wilt thou still attend the rage of

love in a woman’s heart? The girl, thy well-chosen mistress, perchance

shall defend thee when Basilius shall know how thou hast sotted his

mind with falsehood, and falsely sought the dishonour of his house.

Believe it, believe it, unkind creature, I will end my miseries with a

notable example of revenge, and that accursed cradle of mine shall

feel the smart of my wound, thou of thy tyranny, and lastly (I

confess) myself of mine own work.”

Zelmane that had long before doubted herself to be discovered by her,

and now plainly finding it was, as the proverb saith, like them that

hold the wolf by the ears, bitten while they hold, and slain if they

loose. If she held her off in these wonted terms, she saw rage would

make her love work the effects of hate; to grant unto her, her heart

was so bound upon Philoclea, it had been worse than a thousand deaths.

Yet found she it was necessary for her to come to a resolution, for

Gynecia’s sore could bide no leisure, and once discovered, besides the

danger of Philoclea, her desires should be for ever utterly stopped.

She remembered withal the words of Basilius, how apt he was to leave

this life, and return to his court, a great bar to her hopes. Lastly,

she considered Dorus’s enterprise might bring some strange alteration

of this their well-liked fellowship. So that encompassed with these

instant difficulties, she bent her spirits to think of a remedy, which

might at once both save her from them, and serve her to the

accomplishment of her only pursuit. Lastly, she {462} determined thus,

that there was no way but to yield to the violence of their desires,

since striving did the more chafe them. And that following their own

current, at length of itself it would bring her to the other side of

her burning desires.

Now in the meanwhile, the divided Dorus, long divided between love and

friendship, and now for his love divided from his friend, though

indeed without prejudice of friendship’s loyalty, which doth never bar

the mind from his free satisfaction: yet still a cruel judge over

himself, thought he was some ways faulty, and applied his mind how to

amend it with a speedy and behoveful return. But then was his first

study, how to get away, whereto already he had Pamela’s consent

confirmed and concluded under the name of Mopsa in her own presence:

Dorus taking this way, that whatsoever he would have of Pamela he

would ask her, whether in such a case it were not best for Mopsa so to

behave herself, in that sort making Mopsa’s envy an instrument of that

she did envy. So having passed over his first and most feared

difficulty, he busied his spirits how to come to the harvest of his

desires, whereof he had so fair a show. And thereunto (having gotten

leave for some days of his master Dametas, who now accounted him as

his son-in-law) he roamed round about the desert, to find some unknown

way that might bring him to the next seaport, as much as might be out

of all course of other passengers: which all very well succeeding him,

and he having hired a barque for his life’s traffic, and provided

horses to carry her thither, returned homeward, now come to the last

point of his care, how to go beyond the loathsome watchfulness of

these three uncomely companions, and therein did wisely consider how

they were to be taken with whom he was to deal, remembering that in

the particularities of everybody’s mind and fortune, there are

particular advantages, by which they are to be held. The muddy mind of

Dametas he found most easily stirred with covetousness. The cursed

mischievous heart of Miso, most apt to be tickled with jealousy, as

whose rotten brain could think well of nobody. But young mistress

Mopsa, who could open her eyes upon nothing that did not all to

be-wonder her, he thought curiosity the fittest bait for her. And

first for Dametas, Dorus having employed a whole day’s work, about a

ten mile off from the lodge, quite contrary way to that he meant to

take with Pamela, in digging and opening the ground under an ancient

oak that stood there, in such sort as he might longest hold Dametas’s

greedy hopes in some show of comfort, he came to his master with a

countenance mixed between cheerfulness and haste, and taking him by

the right hand, as if he had a great matter of secrecy to reveal unto

him: “Master,” said he, “I did never think that the gods had appointed

my mind freely brought up to have so {463} longing a desire to serve

you, but that they minded thereby to bring some extraordinary fruit to

one so beloved of them as your honesty makes me think you are. This

binds me even in conscience to disclose that which I persuade myself

is allotted unto you, that your fortune may be of equal balance with

your deserts.” He said no further, because he would let Dametas play

upon the bit a while, who not understanding what his words intended,

yet well finding they carried no evil news, was so much the more

desirous to know the matter, as he had free scope to imagine what

measure of good hap himself would. Therefore putting off his cap to

him, which he never had done before, and assuring him he should have

Mopsa, though she had been all made of cloth of gold, he besought

Dorus not to hold him long in hope, for that he found a thing his

heart was not able to bear. “Master,” answered Dorus, “you have so

satisfied me with promising me the utmost of my desired bliss, that if

my duty bound me not, I were in it sufficiently rewarded. To you

therefore shall my good hap be converted, and the fruit of my labour

dedicated.” Therewith he told him, how under an ancient oak (the place

he made him easily understand by sufficient marks he gave to him) he

had found digging but a little depth, scatteringly lying a great

number of rich medals, and that, piercing further into the ground he

had met with a great stone, which, by the hollow sound it yielded,

seemed to be the cover of some greater vault, and upon it a box of

cypress, with the name of the valiant Aristomenes, graven upon it: and

that within the box he found certain verses, which signified that some

depth again under that all his treasures lay hidden, what time for the

discord fell out in Arcadia, he lived banished. Therewith he gave

Dametas certain medals of gold he had long kept about him, and asked

him, because it was a thing much to be kept secret, and a matter one

man in twenty hours might easily perform, whether he would have him go

and seek the bottom of it, which he refrained to do till he knew his

mind, promising he would faithfully bring him what he found, or else

that he himself would do it, and be the first beholder of that

comfortable spectacle; no man need doubt which part Dametas would

choose, whose fancy had already devoured all this great riches, and

even now began to grudge at a partner, before he saw his own share.

Therefore taking a strong jade, laden with spades and mattocks, which

he meant to bring back otherwise laden, he went in all speed

thitherward, taking leave of nobody, only desiring Dorus he would look

well to the princess Pamela, promising him mountains of his own

labour, which nevertheless he little meant to perform, like a fool,

not considering, that no man is to be moved with part, that neglects

the whole. Thus away went Dametas, {464} having already made an image

in his fancy, what palaces he would build, how sumptuously he would

fare, and among all other things imagined what money to employ in

making coffers to keep his money; his ten miles seemed twice so many

leagues, and yet contrary to the nature of it, though it seemed long,

it was not wearisome. Many times he cursed his horse’s want of

consideration, that in so important a matter would make no greater

speed: many times he wished himself the back of an ass to help to

carry away the new sought riches (an unfortunate wisher, for if he had

as well wished the head, it had been granted him). At length being

come to the tree, which he hoped should bear so golden acorns, down

went all his instruments, and forthwith to the renting up of the

hurtless earth, where by and by he was caught with the lime of a few

promised medals, which was so perfect a pawn unto him of his further

expectation that he deemed a great number of hours well employed in

groping further into it, which with logs and great stones was made as

cumbersome as might be, till at length, with sweaty brow, he came to

the great stone. A stone, God knows, full unlike to the cover of a

monument, but yet there was the cypress box with “Aristomenes” graven

upon it, and these verses written in it.

A banish’d man, long barr’d from his desire

By inward lets, of them his state possessed,

Hid here his hopes, by which he might aspire

To have his harms with wisdom’s help redressed.

Seek then and see what man esteemeth best,

All is but this, this is our labour’s hire:

Of this we live, in this we find our rest;

Who holds this fast no greater wealth require,

Look further then, so shalt thou find at least,

A bait most fit for hungry minded guest.

He opened the box, and to his great comfort read them, and with fresh

courage went about to lift up that stone. But in the meantime, ere

Dametas was half-a-mile gone to the treasure-ward, Dorus came to Miso,

whom he found sitting in the chimney’s end, babbling to herself, and

showing by all her gestures that she was loathsomely weary of the

world, not for any hope of a better life, but finding no one good,

neither in mind nor body, whereout she might nourish a quiet thought,

having long since hated each thing else, began now to hate herself.

Before this sweet humoured dame Dorus set himself, and framed towards

her such a smiling countenance, as might seem to be mixed between a

tickled mirth and a forced pity. Miso, to whom cheerfulness in others

was ever a sauce of envy in herself, took quickly mark of his

behaviour, {465} and with a look full of forworn spite: “Now the

devil,” said she, “take these villains that can never leave grinning,

because I am not so fair as mistress Mopsa, to see how this skipjack

looks at me.” Dorus, that had the occasion he desired, “Truly

mistress,” answered he, “my smiling is not at you, but at them that

are from you, and indeed I must needs a little accord my countenance

with others’ sport.” And therewithal took her in his arms, and rocking

her to and fro, “In faith mistress,” said he, “it is high time for you

to bid us good night for ever, since others can possess your place in

your own time.” Miso, that was never void of malice enough to suspect

the uttermost evil, to satisfy a further shrewdness, took on a present

mildness, and gently desired him to tell her what he meant; “For,”

said she, “I am like enough to be knavishly dealt with by that churl

my husband.” Dorus fell off from the matter again, as if he had meant

no such thing, till by much refusing her entreaty, and vehemently

stirring up her desire to know, he had strengthened a credit in her to

that he should say. And then with a formal countenance, as if the

conscience of the case had touched himself. “Mistress,” said he, “I am

much perplexed in mine own determination, for my thoughts do ever will

me to do honestly, but my judgment fails me what is honest, betwixt

the general rule, that entrusted secrecies are holily to be deserved,

and the particular exception, that the dishonest secrecies are to be

revealed; especially there, where by revealing they may either be

prevented, or at least amended. Yet in this balance your judgment

weighs me down, because I have confidence in it, that you will use

what you know moderately, and rather take such faults as advantage to

your own good desert, than by your bitter using it be contented to be

revenged on others with your own harms. So it is, mistress,” said he,

“that yesterday driving my sheep up to the stately hill which lifts

his head over the fair city of Mantinea, I happened upon the side of

it, in a little falling of the ground, which was a rampier against the

sun’s rage, to perceive a young maid, truly of the finest stamp of

beauty; and that which made her beauty the more admirable, there was

at all no art added to the helping of it: for her apparel was but such

as shepherds’ daughters are wont to wear; and as for her hair, it hung

down at free liberty of his goodly length, but that sometimes falling

before the clear stars of her sight, she was forced to put it behind

her ears, and so open again the treasures of her perfection, which

that for a while had in part hidden. In her lap there lay a shepherd

so wrapped up in that well-liked place, that I could discern no piece

of his face, but as mine eyes were intent in that, her angel-like

voice struck mine ears with this song.

{466}

My true love hath my heart, and I have his,

By just exchange, one for the other giv’n:

I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss;

There never was a bargain better driv’n.

His heart in me, keeps me and him in one,

My heart in him, his thoughts and senses guide:

He loves my heart, for once it was his own,

I cherish his, because in me it bides.

His heart his wound received from my sight:

My heart was wounded with his wounded heart,

For as from me, on him his hurt did light;

So still me thought in me his heart did smart:

Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss,

My true love hath my heart, and I have his.

“But as if the shepherd that lay before her had been organs, which

were only to be blown by her breath, she had no sooner ended with the

joining her sweet lips together, but that he recorded to her music

this rural poesy.

O words which fall like summer dew on me,

O breath more sweet, than is the growing bean;

O tongue in which all honeyed liquors be,

O voice that doth the thrush in shrillness strain;

Do you say still, this is her promise due,

That she is mine, as I to her am true.

Gay hair, more gay than straw when harvest lies,

Lips red and plump, as cherry’s ruddy side,

Eyes fair and great like fair great ox’s eyes;

O breast in which two white sheep swell in pride:

Join you with me, to seal this promise due,

That she be mine, as I to her am true.

But thou white skin, as white as curds well pressed,

So smooth as sleek stone, like it smooths each part:

And thou dear flesh, as soft as wool new dressed,

And yet as hard as brawn, made hard by art:

First four but say, next four their saying seal,

But you must pay the gage of promis’d weal.

“And with the conclusion of his song he embraced her about the knees.

‘O sweet Charita,’ said he, ‘when shall I enjoy the rest of my toiling

thoughts; and when shall your blissful promise, now due, be verified

with just performance?’ With that I drew nearer to them and saw, for

now he had lifted up his face {467} to glass himself in her fair eyes,

that it was my master Dametas”; but here Miso interrupted his tale

with railing at Dametas, with all those exquisite terms, which I was

never good scold enough to imagine. But Dorus, as if he had been much

offended with her impatiency, would proceed no further till she had

vowed more stillness: “For,” said he, “if the first drum thus chafe

you, what will you be when it comes to the blows.” Then he told her,

how after many familiar entertainments betwixt them, Dametas, laying

before her his great credit with the king, and withal giving her very

fair presents, with promise of much more, had at length concluded

together to meet that night at Mantinea in the Oudemian Street, at

Charita’s uncle’s house, about ten of the clock. After which bargain

Dametas had spied Dorus, and, calling him to him, had with great

bravery told him all his good hap, willing him in any case to return

to the old witch Miso; “for so indeed, mistress of liveliness, and not

of ill-will, he termed you, and to make some honest excuse of his

absence. ‘For,’ said he, kissing Charita, ‘if thou didst know what a

life I lead with that drivel, it would make thee even of pity receive

me into thy only comfort.’ ‘Now mistress,’ said he, ‘exercise your

discretion, which if I were well assured of, I would wish you to go

yourself to Mantinea, and (lying secret in some one of your gossip’s

houses till the time appointed come) so may you find them together,

and using mercy reform my master from his evil ways.’”

There had nothing more enraged Miso than the praises Dorus gave to

Charita’s beauty, which made her jealousy swell the more with the

poison of envy. And that being increased with the presents she heard

Dametas had given her, which all seemed torn out of her bowels, her

hollow eyes yielded such wretched looks, as one might well think Pluto

at that time might have had her soul, very good, cheap. But when the

fire of spite had fully caught hold of all her inward parts, then

whosoever would have seen the picture of Alecto, or with what manner

of countenance Medea killed her own children, needed but take Miso for

the full satisfaction of that point of his knowledge. She that could

before scarce go but supported by crutches, now flew about the house,

borne up by the wings of anger; there was no one sort of mortal

revenge that had ever come to her ears, but presented itself now to

her gentle mind. At length with few words, for her words were choked

up with the rising of her revengeful heart, she ran down, and with her

own hands saddled a mare of hers; a mare that seven years before had

not been acquainted with the saddle, and so to Mantinea she went,

casting with herself how she might couple shame with the punishment of

her accursed husband: but the person is not worthy in whose passion I

should too long stand.

{468}

Therefore now must I tell you that mistress Mopsa, who was the last

party Dorus was to practice his cunning withal, was at the parting of

her parents attending upon the princess Pamela, whom, because she

found to be placed in her father’s house, she knew it was for

suspicion the king had of her. This made Mopsa with a right base

nature, which joys to see any hard hap happen to them they deem happy,

grow proud over her, and use great ostentation of her own diligence,

in prying curiously into each thing that Pamela did. Neither is there

anything sooner overthrows a weak heart than opinion of authority,

like too strong a liquor for so feeble a glass; which joined itself to

the humour of envying Pamela’s beauty, so far that oft she would say

to herself, if she had been born a princess as well as Pamela, her

perfections then should have been as well seen as Pamela’s. With this

manner of woman, and placed in these terms, had Dorus to play his last

part, which he would have quickly dispatched in tying her up in such a

manner that she should little have hindered his enterprise. But that

the virtuous Pamela, when she saw him so minded, by countenance

absolutely forbid it, resolutely determining she would not leave

behind her any token of wrong: since the wrong done to herself was the

best excuse of her escape: so that Dorus was compelled to take her in

the manner he first thought of, and accordingly Pamela sitting musing

at the strange attempt she had condescended unto, and Mopsa hard by

her (looking in a glass with very partial eyes) Dorus put himself

between them, and casting up his face to the top of the house,

struggling all over his body, and stamping sometimes upon the ground,

gave Mopsa occasion (who was as busy as a bee to know anything) to ask

her lover Dorus what ailed him, that made him use so strange a

behaviour: he, as if his spirits had been ravished with some

supernatural contemplation, stood still mute, sometimes rubbing his

forehead, sometimes starting in himself, that he set Mopsa in such an

itch of inquiry that she would have offered her maidenhead, rather

than be long kept from it. Dorus not yet answering to the purpose,

still keeping his amazement: “O Hercules,” said he, “resolve me in

this doubt. A tree to grant one’s wishes! Is this the cause of the

king’s solitary life? which part shall I take? happy in either,

unhappy because I cannot know which were my best hap.” These doubtful

self-speeches, made Mopsa yet in a further longing of knowing the

matter: so that the pretty pig, laying her sweet burden about his

neck, “My Dorus,” said she, “tell me these words, or else I know not

what will befall me, honey Dorus, tell them me.” Dorus having

stretched her mind upon a right last: “Extremely loved Mopsa,” said

he, “the matters be so great, as my heart fails me in the telling

them: but since {469} you hold the greatest seat in it, it is reason

your desire should add life unto it.” Therewith he told her a

far-fetched tale; how that many millions of years before, Jupiter

fallen out with Apollo, had thrown him out of heaven, taking from him

the privilege of a god. So that poor Apollo was fain to lead a very

miserable life, unacquainted to work, and never used to beg, that in

this order having in time learned to be Admetus’s herdsman, he had

upon occasion of fetching a certain breed of beasts out of Arcadia,

come to that very desert, where wearied with travel, and resting

himself in the boughs of a pleasant ash tree, which stood a little off

from the lodge, he had with pitiful complaints, gotten his father

Jupiter’s pardon, and so from that tree was received again to his

golden sphere. But having that right nature of a god, never to be

ungrateful, to Admetus he had granted a double life: and because that

tree was the chapel of his prosperous prayers, he had given it this

quality, that whatsoever of such estate, and in such manner as he then

was, sat down in that tree, they should obtain whatsoever they wished.

This Basilius having understood by the oracle, was the only cause

which had made him try, whether framing himself to the state of an

herdsman, he might have the privilege of wishing only granted to that

degree; but that having often in vain attempted it, because indeed he

was not such, he had now opened the secret to Dametas, making him

swear he should wish according to his direction. “But because,” said

Dorus, “Apollo was at that time with extreme grief, muffled round

about his face, with a scarlet cloak Admetus had given him, and

because they that must wish, must be muffled in like sort, and with

like stuff, my master Dametas is gone I know not whither, to provide

him a scarlet cloak, and to-morrow doth appoint to return with it. My

mistress, I cannot tell how, having gotten some inkling of it, is

trudged to Mantinea, to get herself a cloak before him, because she

would have the first wish. My master at his parting, of great trust

told me this secret, commanding me to see nobody should climb that

tree. But now Mopsa,” said he, “I have here the like cloak of mine

own, and am not so very a fool, as though I keep his commandments in

others, to bar myself. I rest only extremely perplexed, because having

nothing in the world I wish for, but the enjoying you and your favour,

I think it a much pleasanter conquest to come to it by your own

consent, than to have it by such a charming force as this is. Now

therefore choose, since have you I will, in what sort I shall have

you.” But never child was so desirous of a gay puppet, as Mopsa was to

be in the tree, and therefore without squeamishness, promising all he

would, she conjured him by all her precious loves that she might have

the first possession of the wishing tree, assuring him that for the

{470} enjoying her, he would never need to climb far. Dorus, to whom

time was precious, made no great ceremonies with her; but helping her

up to the top of the tree, from whence likewise she could ill come

down without help, he muffled her round about the face, so truly, that

she herself could not undo it. And so he told her the manner was, she

should hold her mind in continual devotion to Apollo, without making

at all any noise, till at the farthest within twelve hours’ space, she

should hear a voice call her by name three times, and that till the

third time she must in no wise answer; “and then you shall not need to

doubt your coming down, for at that time,” said he, “be sure to wish

wisely, and in what shape soever he come unto you, speak boldly unto

him, and your wish shall have as certain effects as I have a desire to

enjoy your sweet love.” In this plight did he leave Mopsa, resolved in

her heart to be the greatest lady in the world, and never after to

feed on worse than frumenty.

Thus Dorus having delivered his hands of his three tormentors, took

speedily the benefit of his device, and mounting the gracious Pamela

upon a fair horse he had provided for her, he thrust himself forthwith

into the wildest part of the desert, where he had left marks to guide

him from place to place to the next seaport, disguising her very fitly

with scarfs; although he rested assured he should meet that way with

nobody, till he came to his bark, into which he meant to enter by

night. But Pamela, who all this while transported with desire and

troubled with fear, had never free scope of judgment to look with

perfect consideration into her own enterprise, but even by the laws of

love, had bequeathed the care of herself upon him, to whom she had

given herself; now that the pang of desire, with evident hope was

quieted, and most part of the fear passed, reason began to renew his

shining in her heart, and make her see herself in herself; and weigh

with what wings she flew out of her country; and upon what ground she

built so strong a determination. But love, fortified with her lover’s

presence, kept still his own in her heart; so that as they rode

together, with her hand upon her faithful servant’s shoulder, suddenly

casting her bashful eyes to the ground, and yet binding herself

towards him (like the client that commits the cause of all his worth

to a well-trusted advocate) from a mild spirit said unto him these

sweetly delivered words: “Prince Musidorus, for so my assured hope is

I may justly call you, since with no other my heart would ever have

yielded to go; and if so I do not rightly term you, all other words

are as bootless, as my deeds miserable, and I as unfortunate, as you

wicked, my prince Musidorus, I say now that the vehement shows of your

faithful love towards me have brought my mind to answer it in so due a

proportion, that contrary to {471} all general rules of reason, I have

laid in you my estate, my life, my honour: it is your part to double

your former care, and make me see your virtue no less in preserving,

than in obtaining: and your faith to be a faith as much in freedom, as

bondage. Tender now your own workmanship, and so govern your love

towards me, that I may still remain worthy to be loved. Your promise

you remember, which here by the eternal givers of virtue I conjure you

to observe, let me be your own as I am, but by no unjust conquest; let

not our joys which ought ever to last, be stained in our own

consciences, let no shadow of repentance steal into the sweet

consideration of our mutual happiness; I have yielded to be your wife,

stay then till the time that I may rightly be so; let no other defiled

name burden my heart, what should I more say? if I have chosen well,

all doubt is past, since your action only must determine, whether I

have done virtuously or shamefully in following you.”

Musidorus, that had more abundance of joy in his heart than Ulysses

had what time with his own industry he stole the fatal Palladium,

imagined to be the only relic of Troy’s safety, taking Pamela’s hand,

and many times kissed it. “What I am,” said he, “the gods I hope will

shortly make your own eyes judge; and of my mind towards you, the

meantime shall be my pledge unto you; your contentment is dearer to me

than mine own, and therefore doubt not of his mind, whose thoughts are

so thralled unto you, as you are to bend or slack them as it shall

seem best unto you. You do wrong to yourself, to make any doubt that

a base estate could ever undertake so high an enterprise or a spotted

mind be able to behold your virtues. Thus much only I confess, I can

never do, to make the world see you have chosen worthily, since all

the world is not worthy of you.” In such delightful discourses, kept

they on their journey, maintaining their hearts in that right harmony

of affection, which doth interchangeable deliver each to other the

secret workings of their souls, till with the unusual travel, the

princess being weary, they alighted down in a fair thick wood, which

did entice them with the pleasantness of it to take their rest there.

It was all of pine trees, whose broad heads meeting together, yielded

a perfect shade to the ground, where their bodies gave a spacious and

pleasant room to walk in, they were set in so perfect an order that

every way the eye being full, yet no way was stopped. And even in the

midst of them, were there many sweet springs which did lose themselves

upon the face of the earth. Here Musidorus drew out such provisions of

fruits and other cates, as he had brought for that day’s repast, and

laid it down upon the fair carpet of the green grass. But Pamela had

much more pleasure to walk under {472} those trees, making in their

barks pretty knots, which tied together the names of Musidorus and

Pamela, sometimes intermixedly changing them, to Pammidorus and

Musimela, with twenty other flowers of her travelling fancies, which

had bound themselves to a greater restraint than they could without

much pain well endure: and to one tree more beholding to her than the

rest, she entrusted the treasure of her thoughts in these verses:

Do not disdain, O straight up-raised pine,

That wounding thee, my thoughts in thee I grave:

Since that my thoughts as straight as straightness thine,

No smaller wound, alas! far deeper have.

Deeper engraved, which salve nor time can save,

Giv’n to my heart, by my forewounded eyne:

Thus cruel to myself how canst thou crave

My inward hurt should spare thy outward rine?

Yet still fair tree, lift up thy stately line,

Live long, and long witness my chosen part,

Which barr’d desires, barr’d by myself, impart,

And in this growing-bark grow verses mine.

My heart my word, my word hath giv’n my heart;

The giver giv’n from gift shall never part.

Upon a root of the tree, that the earth had left something barer than

the rest, she wrote this couplet:

Sweet root say thou, the root of my desire

Was virtue clad in constant love’s attire.

Musidorus, seeing her fancies drawn up to such pleasant

contemplations, accompanied her in them, and made the trees as well

bear badges of his passions, as this song engraved in them did

testify:

You goodly pines, which still with brave ascent,

In nature’s pride your heads to heav’nward heave;

Though you besides such graces earth hath lent,

Of some late grace a greater grace receive.

By her who was (O blessed you) content

With her fair hand, your tender barks to cleave,

And so by you (O blessed you) hath sent,

Such piercing words as no thoughts else conceive.

Yet yield your grant, a baser hand may leave

His thoughts in you, where so sweet thoughts were spent,

For how would you the mistress’s thoughts bereave

Of waiting thoughts all to her service meant.

{473}

Nay higher thoughts (though thralled thoughts) I call

My thoughts then hers, who first your rind did rent:

Than hers, to whom my thoughts a lonely thrall

Rising from low, are to the highest bent;

Where hers, whom worth makes highest over all

Coming from her, cannot but downward fall.

While Pamela sitting her down under one of them, and making a poesy of

the fair undergrowing flowers, filled Musidorus’s ears with the

heavenly sound of her music, which before he had never heard, so that

it seemed unto him a new assault given to the castle of his heart,

already conquered: which to signify, and withal reply to her sweet

notes, he sung in a kind of still, but ravishing tune, a few verses:

her song was this, and his reply follows.

PAMELA

Like divers flowers, whose divers beauties serve

To deck the earth with his well-coloured weed,

Though each of them, his private form preserve,

Yet joining forms one sight of beauty breed.

Right so my thoughts, whereon my heart I feed:

Right so my inward parts, and outward glass,

Though each possess a divers working kind;

Yet all well knit to one fair end do pass:

That he to whom these sundry gifts I bind,

All what I am, still one, his own, do find.

MUSIDORUS

All what you are still one, his own to find,

You that are born to be the world’s eye;

What were it else but to make each thing blind:

And to the sun with waxen wings to fly.

No, no, such force with my small force to try,

Is not my skill, or reach of mortal mind:

Call me but yours, my title is most high:

Hold me most yours, then my long suit is sign’d.

You none can claim but you yourself aright,

For you do pass yourself, in virtue’s might.

So both are yours: I bound with gaged heart:

You only yours, too far beyond desert.

{474}

In this virtuous wantonness, suffering their minds to descend to each

tender enjoying their united thoughts, Pamela having tasted of the

fruits, and growing extreme sleepy, having been long kept from it with

the perplexity of her dangerous attempt, laying her head in his lap,

was invited by him to sleep with these softly uttered verses:

Look up, fair lids, the treasure of my heart,

Preserve those beams, this age’s only light:

To her sweet sense, sweet sleep some ease impart,

Her sense too weak to bear her spirit’s might.

And while, O sleep, thou closest up her sight,

Her sight where love did forge his fairest dart,

O harbour all her parts in easeful plight:

Let no strange dream make her fair body start.

But, O dream, if thou wilt not depart

In this rare subject from thy common right:

But wilt thyself in such a seat delight,

Then take my shape, and play a lover’s part:

Kiss her from me, and say unto her sprite,

Till her eyes shine, I live in darkest night.

The sweet Pamela was brought into a sweet sleep with this song, which

gave Musidorus opportunity at leisure to behold her excellent

beauties. He thought her fair forehead was a field where all his

fancies fought, and every hair of her head seemed a strong chain that

tied him. Her fairer lids then hiding her fairer eyes, seemed unto him

sweet boxes of mother-of-pearl, rich in themselves, but containing in

them far richer jewels. Her cheeks with their colour most delicately

mixed, would have entertained his eyes some while, but that the roses

of her lips, whose separating was wont to be accompanied with most

wise speeches, now by force drew his sight to mark how prettily they

lay one over the other, uniting their divided beauties: and through

them the eye of his fancy delivered to his memory the lying, as in

ambush, under her lips of those armed ranks, all armed in most pure

white, and keeping the most precise order of military discipline. And

lest this beauty might seem the picture of some excellent artificer,

forth there stole a soft breath, carrying good testimony of her inward

sweetness: and so stealing it came out, as it seemed loath to leave

his contentful mansion, but that it hoped to be drawn in again to that

well-closed paradise, which did so tyrannize over Musidorus’s effects,

that he was compelled to put his face as low to hers, as he could,

sucking the breath with such joy that he did determine in himself

there had been no life {475} to a Chameleon’s if he might be suffered

to enjoy that food. But long he was not suffered, being within a while

interrupted by the coming of a company of clownish villains, armed

with divers sorts of weapons, and for the rest both in face and

apparel so forewasted that they seemed to bear a great conformity with

the savages; who, miserably in themselves, taught to increase their

mischiefs in other bodies’ harms, came with such cries that they both

awaked Pamela, and made Musidorus turn unto them full of a most

violent rage, with the look of a she-tiger when her whelps are stolen

away.

But Zelmane, whom I left in the cave hardly bestead, having both great

wits and stirring passions to deal with, makes me lend her my pen a

while to see with what dexterity she could put by her dangers. For

having in one instant both to resist rage, and go beyond wisdom, being

to deal with a lady that had her wits awake in everything but in

helping her own hurt, she saw now no other remedy in her case, but to

qualify her rage with hope, and to satisfy her wit with plainness: Yet

lest too abrupt falling into it, should yield too great advantage unto

her, she thought good to come to it by degrees with this kind of

insinuation. “Your wise, but very dark speeches, most excellent lady,

are woven up in so intricate a manner that I know not how to

proportion mine answer unto them: so are your prayers mixed with

threats, and so is the show of your love hidden with the name of

revenge, the natural effect of mortal hatred; you seem displeased with

the opinion you have of my disguising, and yet if I be not disguised,

you must needs be much more displeased. Hope then, the only succour of

perplexed minds, being quite cut off, you desire my affection, and yet

you yourself think my affection already bestowed. Your pretend

cruelty, before you have the subjection, and are jealous of keeping

that which as yet you have not gotten. And that which is strangest in

your jealousy, is both the injustice of it, in being loth that should

come to your daughter, which you deem good; and the vainness, since

you two are so in divers respects, that there is no necessity one of

you should fall to be a bar to the other. For neither, if I be such as

you fancy, can I marry you, which must needs be the only end I can

aspire to in her: neither need the marrying of her keep me from a

grateful consideration, how much you honour me in the love you

vouchsafe to bear me.” Gynecia, to whom the fearful agonies she still

lived in made any small reproval sweet, did quickly find her words

falling to a better way of comfort, and therefore, with a mind ready

to show nothing could make it rebellious against Zelmane but too

extreme tyranny, she thus said: “Alas, too much beloved Zelmane, the

thoughts are but overflowings of the mind, and the {476} tongue is but

a servant of the thoughts; therefore marvel not that my words suffer

contrarieties, since my mind doth hourly suffer in itself whole armies

of mortal adversaries. But, alas, if I had the use of mine own reason,

then should I not need, for want of it, to find myself in this

desperate mischief: but because my reason is vanished, so have I

likewise no power to correct my unreasonableness. Do you therefore

accept the protection of my mind which hath no other resting place,

and drive it not, by being unregarded, to put itself into unknown

extremities. I desire but to have my affection answered, and to have a

right reflection of my love in you. That granted, assure yourself mine

own love will easily teach me to seek your contentment; and make me

think my daughter a very mean price to keep still in mine eyes the

food of my spirits. But take heed that contempt drive me not into

despair, the most violent cause of that miserable effect.”

Zelmane who already saw some fruit of her last determined fancy, so

far as came to a mollifying of Gynecia’s rage, seeing no other way to

satisfy suspicion which was held open with the continual pricks of

love, resolved now with plainness to win trust, which trust she might

after deceive with a greater subtlety. Therefore looking upon her with

a more relenting grace than ever she had done before, pretending a

great bashfulness before she could come to confess such a fault, she

thus said unto her: “Most worthy lady, I did never think till now,

that pity of another could make me betray myself, nor that the sound

of words could overthrow any wise body’s determination. But your

words, I think, have charmed me, and your grace bewitched me. Your

compassion makes me open my heart to you, and leave unharboured my own

thoughts; for proof of it, I will disclose my greatest secret, which

well you might suspect, but never know, and so have your wandering

hope in a more painful wilderness, being neither way able to be lodged

in a perfect resolution. I will, I say, unwrap my hidden estate, and

after make you judge of it, perchance director. The truth is, I am a

man: nay, I will say further to you, I am born a prince. And to make

up your mind in a thorough understanding of me since I came to this

place, I may not deny I have had some sprinkling of I know not what

good liking to my lady Philoclea. For how could I ever imagine the

heavens would have rained down so much of your favour upon me, and of

that side there was a show of possible hope, the most comfortable

counsellor of love. The cause of this my changed attire, was a journey

two years ago I made among the Amazons, where, having sought to try my

unfortunate valour, I met not one in all the country but what was too

hard for me, till in the end, in the presence of their queen {477}

Marpesia, I hoping to prevail against her, challenged an old woman of

fourscore years, to fight on horseback to the uttermost with me. Who

having overthrown me, for the saving of my life, made me swear I

should go like an unarmed Amazon, till the coming of my beard did,

with the discharge of my oath deliver me of that bondage.”

Here Zelmane ended, not coming to a full conclusion, because she would

see what it wrought in Gynecia’s mind, having in her speech sought to

win a belief of her, and, if it might be, by disgrace of herself to

diminish Gynecia’s affection. For the first it had much prevailed: but

Gynecia, whose end of loving her was not her fighting, neither could

her love, too deeply grounded, receive diminishment; and besides, she

had seen herself sufficient proofs of Zelmane’s admirable prowess.

Therefore slightly passing over that point of her feigned dishonour,

but taking good hold of the confessing her manly sex, with the

shamefaced look of that suitor, who having already obtained much, is

yet forced by want to demand more, put forth her sorrowful suit in

these words: “The gods,” said she, “reward thee for thy virtuous pity

of my over-laden soul, who yet hath received some breath of comfort,

by finding thy confession to maintain some possibility of my

languishing hope. But alas! as they who seek to enrich themselves by

mineral industry, the first labour is to find the mine, which to their

cheerful comfort being found, if after any unlooked for stop, or

casual impediment keep them from getting the desired ore, they are so

much the more grieved, as the late conceived hope adds torment to

their former want. So falls it out with me happy or hapless woman, as

it pleaseth you to ordain, who am now either to receive some guerdon

of my most woeful labours, or to return into a more wretched darkness,

having had some glimmering of my blissful sun. O Zelmane, tread not

upon a soul that lies under your foot: let not the abasing of myself

make me more base in your eyes, but judge of me according to that I

am, and have been, and let my errors be made excusable by the immortal

name of love.” With that, under a feigned rage, tearing her clothes,

she discovered some parts of her fair body, which if Zelmane’s heart

had not been so fully possessed that there was no place left for any

new guest, no doubt it would have yielded to that gallant assault. But

Zelmane so much the more arming her determination, as, she saw such

force threatened, yet still remembering she must wade betwixt

constancy and courtesy, embracing Gynecia, and once or twice kissing

her, “Dear lady,” said she, “he were a great enemy to himself, that

would refuse such an offer, in the purchase of which a man’s life were

blessedly bestowed. Nay, how can I ever yield due recompense for so

excessive a favour? but having {478} nothing to give you but myself,

take that: I must confess a small but a very free gift: what other

affection so ever I have had shall give place to as great perfection,

working besides upon the bond of gratefulness. The gods forbid I

should be so foolish as not to see, or so wicked, as not to remember,

how much my small deserts are over-balanced by your unspeakable

goodness. Nay, happy may I well account my mishap among the Amazons,

since that dishonour hath been so true a path to my greatest honour,

and the changing of my outward raiment hath clothed my mind in such

inward contention. Take therefore, noble lady, as much comfort to your

heart, as the full commandment of me can yield you: wipe your fair

eyes, and keep them for nobler services. And now I will presume thus

much to say unto you, that you make much of yourself for my sake, that

my joys of my new obtained riches may be accomplished in you. But let

us leave this place, lest you be too long missed, and henceforward

quiet your mind from any further care, for I will now, to my too much

joy, take the charge upon me, within few days to work your

satisfaction, and my felicity.” Thus much she said, and withal led

Gynecia out of the cave, for well she saw the boiling mind of Gynecia

did easily apprehend the fitness of that lonely place. But indeed this

direct promise of a short space, joined with the cumbersome

familiarness of womankind, I mean modesty, stayed so Gynecia’s mind

that she took thus much at that present for good payment, remaining

with a painful joy, and a wearisome kind of comfort, not unlike to the

condemned prisoner, whose mind still running upon the violent arrival

of his death, hears that his pardon is promised, but not yet signed.

In this sort they both issued out of that obscure mansion: Gynecia

already half persuaded in herself, O weakness of human conceit, that

Zelmane’s affection was turned towards her. For such, alas! we are

all, in such a mould are we cast, that with the too much love we bear

ourselves, being first our own flatterers, we are easily hooked with

others’ flattery, we are easily persuaded of others’ love.

But Zelmane, who had now to play her prize, seeing no way things could

long remain in that state, and now finding her promise had tied her

trial to a small compass of time, began to throw her thoughts into

each corner of her invention, how she might achieve her life’s

enterprise: for well she knew deceit cannot otherwise be maintained

but by deceit: and how to deceive such heedful eyes, and how to

satisfy, and yet not satisfy such hopeful desires, it was no small

skill. But both their thoughts were called from themselves with the

sight of Basilius, who then lying down by his daughter Philoclea, upon

the fair, though natural, bed of green grass, seeing the sun what

speed he made to leave our west {479} to do his office in the other

hemisphere, his inward muses made him in his best music, sing this

Madrigal.

Why dost thou haste away

O Titan fair, the giver of the day?

It is not to carry news

To western wights, what stars in east appear?

Or dost thou think that here

Is left a sun, whose beams thy place may use?

Yet stay and well peruse,

What be her gifts, that make her equal thee,

Bend all thy light to see

In earthly clothes enclos’d a heavenly spark:

Thy running course cannot such beauties mark.

No, no, thy motions be

Hastened from us with bar of shadow dark,

Because that thou the author of our sight

Disdain’st we see thee stain’d with others’ light.

And having ended; “Dear Philoclea,” said he, “sing something that may

divert my thoughts from the continual task of their ruinous harbour:”

she, obedient to him, and not unwilling to disburden her secret

passion, made her sweet voice be heard in these words.

O stealing time, the subject of delay

(Delay, the rack of unrestrain’d desire)

What strange design hast thou my hopes to stay,

My hopes which do but to mine own aspire?

Mine own? O word on whose sweet sound doth prey

My greedy soul, with gripe of inward fire:

Thy title great I justly challenge may,

Since in such phrase his faith he did attire.

O time, become the chariot of my joys,

As thou drawest on, so let my bliss draw near,

Each moment lost, part of my hap destroys.

Thou art the father of occasion dear:

Join with thy son to ease my long annoys,

In speedy help, thank-worthy things appear.

Philoclea broke off her song as soon as her mother with Zelmane came

near unto them, rising up with a kindly bashfulness, being not

ignorant of the spite her mother bare her, and stricken with the sight

of that person, whose love made all those troubles seem fair flowers

of her dearest garland, nay, rather all those troubles made the love

increase. For as the arrival of enemies makes a town to fortify itself

as ever after it remains stronger, so that {480} a man may say,

enemies were no small cause of the town’s strength: so to a mind once

fixed in a well-pleased determination, who hopes by annoyance to

overthrow it, does but teach it to knit together all his best grounds,

and so perchance of a chanceable purpose, make an unchangeable

resolution. But no more did Philoclea see the wonted signs of

Zelmane’s affection towards her, she thought she saw another light in

her eyes, with a bold and careless look upon her, which was wont to be

dazzled with her beauty; and the framing of her courtesies rather

ceremonious than affectionate, and that which worst liked her, was,

that it proceeded with such quiet settledness, that it rather

threatened a full purpose than any sudden passion. She found her

behaviour bent altogether to her mother, and presumed in herself she

discerned the well-acquainted face of his fancies now turned to

another subject. She saw her mother’s worthiness, and too well knew

her affection. These joining their divers working powers together in

her mind, but yet a prentice in the painful mystery of passions,

brought Philoclea into a new traverse of her thoughts, and made her

keep her careful look the more attentive upon Zelmane’s behaviour, who

indeed, though with much pain, and condemning herself to commit a

sacrilege against the sweet saint that lived in her inmost temple, yet

strengthening herself in it; being the surest way to make Gynecia bite

of her other baits, did so quite over-rule all wonted shows of love to

Philoclea, and convert them to Gynecia, that the part she played did

work in both a full and lively persuasion: to Gynecia, such excessive

comfort, as the being preferred to a rival doth deliver to swelling

desire, but to the delicate Philoclea, whose calm thoughts were unable

to nourish any strong debate, it gave so stinging a hurt, that,

fainting under the force of her inward torment, she withdrew herself

to the lodge, and there, weary of supporting her own burden, cast

herself upon her bed, suffering her sorrow to melt itself into

abundance of tears; at length closing her eyes, as if each thing she

saw was a picture of her mishap, and turning upon her heart-side,

which, with vehement panting did summon her to consider her fortune,

she thus bemoaned herself.

“Alas! Philoclea, is this the price of all thy pains? is this the

reward of thy given-way liberty? hath too much yielding bred cruelty?

or can too great acquaintance make me held for a stranger? hath the

choosing of a companion made me left alone; or doth granting desire,

cause the desire to be neglected? alas! despised Philoclea, why didst

thou not hold thy thoughts in their simple course, and content thyself

with the love of thine own virtue, which would never have betrayed

thee? Ah, silly fool, didst thou look for truth in him that with his

own mouth confessed {481} his falsehood? for plain proceeding in him

that still goes disguised? They say the falsest men will yet bear

outward shows of a pure mind. But he that even outwardly bears the

badge of treachery, what hells of wickedness must needs in the depth

be contained? But O wicked mouth of mine, how darest thou thus

blaspheme the ornament of the earth, the vessel of all virtue? O

wretch that I am, that will anger the gods in dispraising their most

excellent work: O no, no, there was no fault but in me, that could

ever think so high eyes would look so low, or so great perfections

would stain themselves with my unworthiness. Alas! why could I not see

I was too weak a band to tie so heavenly an heart? I was not fit to

limit the infinite course of his wonderful destinies. Was it ever like

that upon only Philoclea his thoughts should rest? Ah silly fool, that

couldst please thyself with so impossible an imagination! an universal

happiness is to flow from him. How was I so inveigled to hope, I might

be the mark of such a mind? He did thee no wrong, O Philoclea, he did

thee no wrong, it was thy weakness to fancy the beams of the sun

should give light to no eyes but to thine! And yet, O Prince Pyrocles,

for whom I may well begin to hate myself, but can never leave to love

thee, what triumph canst thou make of this conquest? What spoils wilt

thou carry away of this my undeserved overthrow? could thy force find

out no fitter field than the feeble mind of a poor maid, who at the

first sight did wish thee all happiness? Shall it be said, the mirror

of mankind hath been employed to destroy a hurtless gentlewoman? O

Pyrocles, Pyrocles, let me yet call thee before the judgment of thy

virtue, let me be accepted for a plaintiff in cause which concerns my

life: what need hadst thou to arm thy face with the enchanting mask of

thy painted passions? what need hadst thou to fortify thy excellencies

with so exquisite a cunning, in making our own arts betray us? what

needest thou descend so far from thy incomparable worthiness, as to

take on the habit of weak womankind. Was all this to win the

undefended castle of a friend, which being won, thou wouldst after

raze? Could so small a cause allure thee? or did not so unjust a cause

stop thee? O me, what say I more? this is my case, my love hates me,

virtue deals wickedly with me, and he does me wrong, whose doings I

can never account a wrong.” With that the sweet lady turning herself

upon her weary bed she happily saw a lute, upon the belly of which

Gynecia had written this song, what time Basilius imputed her jealous

motions to proceed of the doubt she had of his untimely loves. Under

which veil she, contented to cover her never ceasing anguish, had made

the lute a monument of her mind, which Philoclea had never much

marked, till now the fear of a competitor more stirred her, than

before the care of a mother. {482} The verses were these:

My lute within thyself thy tunes enclose,

Thy mistress’s song is now a sorrow’s cry,

Her hand benumb’d with fortune’s daily blows,

Her mind amaz’d can neither’s help apply.

Wear these my words as mourning weeds of woes,

Black ink becomes the state wherein I die,

And though my moans be not in music bound,

Of written griefs, yet be the silent ground.

The world doth yield such ill-consorted shows,

With circled course, which no wise stay can try,

That childish stuff which knows not friends from foes,

(Better despis’d) bewonder gazing eye.

Thus noble gold, down to the bottom goes,

When worthless cork, aloft doth floating lie.

Thus in thyself least strings are loudest found,

And lowest stops do yield the highest sound.

Philoclea read them, and throwing down the lute, “Is this the legacy

you have bequeathed me, O kind mother of mine?” said she, “did you

bestow the light upon me for this? or did you bear me to be the author

of my burial? a trim purchase you have made of your own shame, robbed

your daughter to ruin yourself? the birds unreasonable, yet use so

much reason, as to make nests for their tender young ones; my cruel

mother turns me out of mine own harbour; alas, plaint boots not, for

my case can receive no help; for who should give me help? shall I fly

to my parents? they are my murderers: shall I go to him, who already

being won and lost, must needs have killed all pity? alas! I can bring

no new intercessions; he knows already what I am is his. Shall I come

home again to myself? O me, contemned wretch; I have given away

myself.” With that the poor soul beat her breast, as if that had been

guilty of her faults, neither thinking of revenge, nor studying for

remedy, but, sweet creature, gave grief a free dominion, keeping her

chamber a few days after, not needing to feign herself sick, feeling

even in her soul the pangs of extreme pain.

But little did Gynecia reck that, neither when she saw her go away

from them, neither when she after found that sickness made her hide

her fair face, so much had fancy prevailed against nature. But O you

that have ever known, how tender to every motion love makes the

lover’s heart, how he measures all his joys upon her contentment: and

doth with respectful eye hang his behaviour upon her eyes: judge I

pray you now of Zelmane’s troubled thoughts when she saw Philoclea,

with an amazed kind of sorrow, {483} carry away her sweet presence,

and easily found, so happy a conjecture unhappy affection hath, that

her demeanour was guilty of that trespass. There was never foolish

soft-hearted mother, that, forced to beat her child, did weep first

for his pains, and doing that she was loth to do, did repent before

she began, did find half that motion in her weak mind that Zelmane

did, now that she was forced by reason to give an outward blow to her

passions, and for the lending of a small time, to seek the usury of

her desires. The unkindness she conceived Philoclea might conceive,

did wound her soul, each tear she doubted she spent, drowned all her

comfort. Her sickness was a death unto her. Often would she speak to

the image of Philoclea, which lived and ruled in the highest of her

inward part, and use vehement oaths, and protestations unto her; that

nothing should ever falsify the free chosen vow she had made. Often

would she desire her, that she would look well to Pyrocles’s heart,

for as for her she had no more interest in it to bestow it any way:

“Alas!” would she say, “only Philoclea hast thou not so much feeling

of thine own force as to know no new conqueror can prevail against thy

conquests? Was ever any dazzled with the moon that used his eyes to

the beams of the sun? Is he carried away with a greedy desire of

acorns that hath had his senses ravished with a garden of most

delightful fruits? O Philoclea, Philoclea, be thou but as merciful a

princess to my mind as thou art a true possessor, and I shall have as

much cause of gladness, as thou hast no cause of misdoubting? O no,

no, when a man’s own heart is the gage of his debt, when a man’s own

thoughts are willing witnesses to his promise; lastly, when a man is

the jailor over himself; there is little doubt of breaking credit, and

less doubt of such an escape.”

In this combat of Zelmane’s doubtful imaginations, in the end reason,

well-backed with the vehement desire to bring her matter soon to the

desired haven, did over-rule the boiling of her inward kindness,

though as I say with such a manifest strife, that both Basilius and

Gynecia’s well-waiting eyes, had marked her muses had laboured in

deeper subjects than ordinary: which she likewise perceiving they had

perceived, awaking herself out of those thoughts, and principally

caring how to satisfy Gynecia, whose judgment and passion she stood

most in regard of, bowing her head to her attentive ears. “Madam,”

said she, “with practice of my thoughts, I have found out a way, by

which your contentment shall draw on my happiness.” Gynecia delivering

in her face as thankful a joyfulness as her heart could hold, said,

“It was then time to retire themselves to their rest, for what with

riding abroad the day before, and late sitting up for eclogues, their

bodies had {484} dearly purchased that night’s quiet.” So went they

home to their lodge, Zelmane framing of both sides bountiful measures

of loving countenances to either’s joy, and neither’s jealousy, to the

special comfort of Basilius, whose weaker bowels were straight full

with the least liquor of hope. So that still holding her by the hand,

and sometimes tickling it, he went by her with the most gay conceits

that ever had entered his brains, growing now so hearted in his

resolution that he little respected Gynecia’s presence. But with a

lustier note than wonted, clearing his voice, and cheering his

spirits, looking still upon Zelmane, whom now the moon did beautify

with her shining almost at the full, as if her eyes had been his

song-book, he did the message of his mind in singing these verses.

When two suns do appear,

Some say it doth betoken wonders near,

As prince’s loss or change:

Two gleaming suns of splendour like I see,

And seeing feel in me

Of prince’s heart quite lost the ruin strange.

But now each where doth range

With ugly cloak the dark envious night:

Who full of guilty spite,

Such living beams should her black seat assail,

Too weak for them our weaker sight doth veil.

“No,” says fair moon, “my light

Shall bar that wrong, and though it not prevail

Like to my brother’s rays, yet those I send

Hurt not the face, which nothing can amend.”

And by that time being come to the lodge, and visited the sweet

Philoclea, with much less than natural care of the parents, and much

less than wanted kindness of Zelmane, each party full fraught with

diversly working fancies, made their pillows weak props of their

over-laden heads. Yet of all other were Zelmane’s brain most

turmoiled, troubled with love both active and passive; and lastly, and

especially with care, how to use her short limited time to the best

purpose, by some wise and happy diverting her two lovers’ unwelcome

desires. Zelmane having had the night, her only counsellor in the busy

enterprise she was to undertake, and having all that time mused, and

yet not fully resolved, how she might join prevailing with preventing,

was offended with the day’s bold entry into her chamber, as if he had

now by custom grown an assured bringer of evil news. Which she taking

a cittern to her, did lay to Aurora’s charge, with these well-sung

verses:

{485}

Aurora now thou showest thy blushing light,

Which oft to hope lays out a guileful bait,

That trusts in time to find the way aright,

To ease those pains, which on desire do wait.

Blush on for shame: that still with thee do light

On pensive souls (instead of restful bait)

Care upon care (instead of doing right)

To over pressed breasts, more grievous weight.

As oh! myself, whose woes are never light

(Tied to the stake of doubt) strange passion’s bait.

While thy known course observing nature’s right,

Stirs me to think what dangers lie in wait,

For mischiefs great, day after day doth show,

Make me still fear, thy fair appearing show.

“Alas!” said she, “am I not run into a strange gulf, that am fain for

love to hurt her I love? and because I detest the others, to please

them I detest? O only Philoclea, whose beauty is matched with nothing

but with the unspeakable beauty of thy fairest mind, if thou didst see

upon what rack my tormented soul is set, little would you think I had

any scope now to leap to any new change.” With that with hasty hands

she got herself up, turning her sight to everything, as if change of

objects might help her invention. So went she again to the cave, where

forthwith it came into her head that should be the fittest place to

perform her exploit, of which she had now a kind of confused conceit,

although she had not set down in her fancy, the meeting with each

particularity that might fall out. But as the painter doth at the

first but show a rude proportion of the thing he imitates, which after

with more curious hand he draws to the representing each lineament, so

had her thoughts, beating about it continually, received into them a

ground-plot of her device, although she had not in each part shaped it

according to a full determination. But in this sort having early

visited the morning’s beauty in those pleasant deserts, she came to

the king and queen, and told them that for the performance of certain

country devotions, which only were to be exercised in solitariness,

she did desire their leave she might for a few days lodge herself in

the cave, the fresh sweetness of which did greatly delight her in that

hot country; and that for that small space they would not otherwise

trouble themselves in visiting her, but at such times as she would

come to wait upon them, which should be every day at certain hours;

neither should it be long, she would desire this privileged absence of

them. They, whose minds had already taken out that lesson, perfectly

to yield a willing obedience {486} to all her desires, with consenting

countenance made her soon see her pleasure was a law unto them. Both

indeed inwardly glad of it, Basilius hoping that her dividing herself

from them, might yet give him some fitter occasion of coming in secret

to her, whose favourable face had lately strengthened his fainting

courage. But Gynecia of all other most joyous, holding herself assured

that this was but a prologue to the play she had promised her.

Thus both flattering themselves with diversly grounded hopes, they

rang a bell, which served to call certain poor women which ever lay in

cabins not far off, to do the household services of both lodges, and

never came to either but being called for, and commanded them to carry

forthwith Zelmane’s bed and furniture of her chamber into the pleasant

cave, and to deck it up as finely as it was possible for them, that

their soul’s rest might rest her body to her best pleasing manner:

that was with all diligence performed of them, and Zelmane already in

possession of her new-chosen lodging; where she like one of Vesta’s

nuns, entertained herself for a few days in all show of straightness,

yet once a day coming to her duty to the king and queen, in whom the

seldomness of the sight increased the more unquiet longing, though

somewhat qualified, as her countenance was decked to either of them

with more comfort than wonted; especially to Gynecia, who seeing her,

wholly neglected her daughter Philoclea, had now promised herself a

full possession of Zelmane’s heart, still expecting the fruit of the

happy and hoped for invention. But both she and Basilius kept such a

continual watch about the precincts of the cave, that either of them

was a bar to the other from having any secret communing with Zelmane.

While in the meantime the sweet Philoclea forgotten of her father,

despised of her mother, and in appearance left of Zelmane, had yielded

up her soul to be a prey to sorrow and unkindness, not with raging

conceit of revenge, as had passed through the wise and stout heart of

her mother, but with a kindly meekness taking upon her the weight of

her own woes, and suffering them to have so full a course, as it did

exceedingly weaken the estate of her body; as well for which cause, as

for that she could not see Zelmane, without expressing, more than she

would, how far now her love was imprisoned in extremity of sorrow, she

bound herself first to the limits of her own chamber, and after (grief

breeding sickness) of her bed. But Zelmane having now a full liberty

to cast about every way how to bring her conceived attempt to a

desired success, was oft so perplexed with the manifold difficulty of

it, that sometimes she would resolve by force to take her away, though

it were with the death of her parents, sometimes to go away with

Musidorus, and bring both their forces, so to win her. {487} But

lastly, even the same day that Musidorus by feeding the humour of his

three loathsome guardians, had stolen away the princess Pamela

(whether it were that love meant to match them every way, or that her

friend’s example had helped her invention, or that indeed Zelmane

forbare to practise her device till she found her friend had passed

thro’ his): the same day, I say, she resolved on a way to rid out of

the lodge her two cumbersome lovers, and in the night to carry away

Philoclea: whereunto she was assured her own love no less than her

sister’s, would easily win her consent; hoping that although their

abrupt parting had not suffered her to demand of Musidorus which way

he meant to direct his journey; yet either they should by some good

fortune find him; or if that course failed, yet they might well

recover some town of the Helots, near the frontiers of Arcadia, who

being newly again up in arms against the nobility, she knew would be

as glad of her presence, as she of their protection. Therefore having

taken order for all things requisite for their going, and first put on

a slight under-suit of man’s apparel, which before for such purposes

she had provided, she curiously trimmed herself to the beautifying of

her beauties, that being now at her last trial she might come unto it

in her bravest armour. And so putting on that kind of mild

countenance, which doth encourage the looker on to hope for a gentle

answer, according to her received manner, she left the pleasant

darkness of her melancholy cave, to go take her dinner of the King and

Queen, and give unto them both a pleasant food of seeing the owner of

their desires. But even as the Persians were anciently wont to leave

no rising-sun unsaluted, but as his fair beams appeared clearer unto

them, would they more heartily rejoice, laying upon them a great

foretoken of their following fortune: so was there no time that

Zelmane encountered their eyes with her beloved presence, but that it

bred a kind of burning devotion in them, yet so much the more gladding

their greedy souls, as her countenance was cleared with more favour

unto them; which now being determinately framed to the greatest

descent of kindness, it took such hold of her unfortunate lovers, that

like children about a tender father from a long voyage returned, with

lovely childishness hang about him, and yet with simple fear measure

by his countenance, how far he accepts their boldness, so were these

now thrown into so serviceable an affection, that the turning of

Zelmane’s eyes was a strong stern enough to all their motions, winding

no way but as the enchanting force of it guided them. But having made

a light repast of the pleasant fruits of that country, interlarding

their food with such manner of general discourses as lovers are wont

to cover their passion, when respect of a third person keeps them from

plain particulars, at the {488} earnest entreaty of Basilius, Zelmane

first saluting the Muses with a base viol hung hard by her, sent this

ambassage in versified music to both her ill-requited lovers.

Beauty hath force to catch the human sight;

Sight doth bewitch the fancy evil awaked,

Fancy we feel includes all passion’s might,

Passion rebell’d oft reason’s strength hath shaked.

No wonder then, though sight my sight did taint,

And though thereby my fancy was infected,

Though, yoked so, my mind with sickness faint,

Had reason’s weight for passion’s ease rejected.

But now the fit is past; and time hath giv’n

Leisure to weigh what due desert requireth.

All thoughts so sprung, are from their dwelling driv’n,

And wisdom to his wonted seat aspireth;

Crying in me: “Eye-hopes deceitful prove;

Things rightly priz’d: love is the band of love.”

And after her song with an affected modesty she threw down her eye, as

if the conscience of a secret grant her inward mind made, and suddenly

cast a bashful veil over her. Which Basilius finding, and thinking now

was the time to urge his painful petition, beseeching his wife with

more careful eye to accompany his sickly daughter Philoclea, being rid

for that time of her; who was content to grant him any scope, that she

might after have the like freedom; with a gesture governed by the

force of his passions, making his knees best supporters, he thus said

unto her: “If either,” said he, “O lady of my life, my deadly pangs

could bear delay, or that this were the first time the same were

manifested unto you, I would now but maintain still the remembrance of

my misfortune, without urging any further reward, than time and pity

might procure for me. But, alas! since my martyrdom is no less painful

than manifest, and that I no more feel the miserable danger, than you

know the assured truth thereof, why should my tongue deny his service

to my heart? Why should I fear the breath of my words, who daily feel

the flame of your works? Embrace in your sweet consideration, I

beseech you, the misery of my case, acknowledge yourself to be the

cause, and think it is reason for you to redress the effects. Alas!

let no certain imaginative rules whose truth stands but upon opinion,

keep so wise a mind from gratefulness and mercy, whose never failing

laws nature hath planted in us. I plainly lay my death unto you, the

death of him that loves you, the death of him whose life you {489} may

save; say your absolute determination, for hope itself is a pain,

while it is over-mastered with fear; and if you do resolve to be

cruel, yet is the speediest condemnation, as in evils, most welcome.”

Zelmane, who had fully set to herself the train she should keep, yet

knowing that who soonest means to yield, doth well to make the bravest

parley, keeping countenance aloft; “Noble prince,” said she, “your

words are too well couched to come out of a restless mind, and thanked

be the Gods, your face threatens no danger of death. These are but

those swelling speeches which give the uttermost name to every trifle,

which all were worth nothing, if they were not enamelled with the

goodly outside of love. Truly love were very unlovely if it were half

so deadly, as you lovers, still living, term it. I think well it may

have a certain childish vehemency, which for the time to one desire

will engage all the soul, so long as it lasteth. But with what

impatience you yourself show, who confess the hope of it a pain, and

think your own desire so unworthy that you would fain be rid of it;

and so with over-much love sue hard for a hasty refusal.” “A refusal!”

cried out Basilius, amazed with all, but pierced with the last, “Now

assure yourself whensoever you use that word definitively it will be

the undoubted doom of my approaching death. And then shall your own

experience know in me, how soon the spirits dried up with anguish

leave the performance of their ministry, whereupon our life dependeth.

But alas! what a cruelty is this, not only to torment but to think the

torment slight? The terriblest tyrants would say by no man they

killed, he died not; nor by no man they punished, that he escaped

free: for of all other, there is least hope of mercy where there is no

acknowledging of the pain; and with like cruelty are my words breathed

out from a flamy heart, accounted as messengers of a quiet mind. If I

speak nothing I choke myself, and am in no way of relief; if simply,

neglected: if confusedly, not understood: if by the bending together

all my inward powers, they bring forth any lively expressing of that

they truly feel, that is a token, forsooth, the thoughts are at too

much leisure. Thus is silence desperate, folly punished, and wit

suspected: but indeed it is vain to try any more, for words can bind

no belief. Lady, I say, determine of me, I must confess I cannot bear

this battle in my mind, and therefore let me soon know what I may

account of myself; for it is a hell of dolours when the mind still in

doubt for want of resolution, can make no resistance.”

“Indeed,” answered Zelmane, “if I should grant to your request, I

should show an example in myself that I esteem the holy band of

chastity to be but an imaginative rule, as you termed it, and not the

truest observance of nature, the most noble commandment {490} that

mankind can have over themselves, as indeed both learning teacheth,

and inward feeling assureth. But first shall Zelmane’s grave become

her marriage bed, before my soul shall consent to his own shame,

before I will leave a mark in myself of an unredeemable trespass. And

yet must I confess that if ever my heart were stirred, it hath been

with the manifest and manifold shows of the misery you live in for me.

For in truth so it is, nature gives not to us her degenerate children

any more general precept than one to help the other, one to feel a

true compassion of the other’s mishap. But yet if I were never so

contented to speak with you (for further, never, O Basilius, never

look for at my hands) I know not how you can avoid your wife’s jealous

attendance but that her suspicion shall bring my honour into

question.” Basilius, whose small sails the least wind did fill, was

forthwith as far gone into a large promising himself his desire, as

before he was stricken down with a threatened denial. And therefore

bending his brows, as though he were not a man to take the matter as

he had done; “What,” said he, “shall my wife become my mistress? Think

you not that thus much time hath taught me to rule her? I will mew the

gentlewoman till she have cast all her feathers if she rouse herself

against me.” And with that he walked up and down, nodding his head, as

though they mistook him much that thought he was not his wife’s

master. But Zelmane now seeing it was time to conclude: “Of your

wisdom and manhood,” said she, “I doubt not, but that sufficeth not

me, for both they can hardly tame a malicious tongue, and impossibly

bar the freedom of thought, which be the things that must be only

witnesses of honour or judges of dishonour. But that you may see I do

not set light your affection, if to-night after your wife be assuredly

asleep, whereof by your love I conjure you to have a most precise

care, you will steal handsomely to the cave unto me, there do I grant

you as great proportion as you will take of free conference with me,

ever remembering you seek no more, for so shall you but deceive

yourself, and for ever lose me.”

Basilius, who was old enough to know that women are wont to not

appoint secret night meetings for the purchasing of land, holding

himself already an undoubted possessor of his desires, kissing her

hand, and lifting up his eyes to heaven, as if the greatness of the

benefit did go beyond all measure of thanks, said no more, lest

stirring of more words might bring forth some, perhaps, contrary

matter. In which trance of joy Zelmane went from him, saying she would

leave him to the remembrance of their appointment, and for her, she

would go visit the Lady Philoclea, into whose chamber being come,

keeping still her late taken-on gravity, and asking her how she did,

rather in the way of {491} dutiful honour than in any special

affection, with extreme inward anguish to them both, she turned from

her, and taking the Queen Gynecia, led her into a bay window of the

same chamber, determining in herself, not to utter to so excellent a

wit as Gynecia had, the uttermost point of her pretended device, but

to keep the clause of it for the last instant, when the shortness of

the time should not give her spirits leisure to look into all those

doubts that easily enter to an open invention. But with smiling eyes,

and with a delivered over grace, feigning as much love to her, as she

did counterfeit little love to Philoclea, she began with more

credible, than eloquent speech, to tell her, that with much

consideration of a matter so nearly importing her own fancy, and

Gynecia’s honour, she had now concluded that the night following

should be the fittest time for the joining together their several

desires, what time sleep should perfectly do his office upon the king

her husband, and that the one should come to the other into the cave:

which place as it was the first receipt of their promised love, so it

might have the first honour of the due performance. That the cause why

those few days past, she had not sought the like, was, lest the new

change of her lodging might make the king more apt to mark any sudden

event; which now the use of it would take out of his mind. “And

therefore most excellent lady,” said she, “there resteth nothing, but

that quickly after supper, you train up the king to visit his daughter

Philoclea, and then feigning yourself not well at ease, by your going

to bed, draw him not long to be after you. In the meantime I will be

gone home to my lodging, where I will attend you, with no less

devotion, but as I hope with better fortune than Thisbe did the too

much loving, and too much loved Pyramus.” The blood that quickly came

into Gynecia’s fair face, was the only answer she made, but that one

might easily see, contentment and consent were both to the full in

her; which she did testify with the wringing Zelmane fast by the hand,

closing her eyes, and letting her head fall, as if she would give her

to know, she was not ignorant of her fault, although she were

transported with the violence of her evil.

But in this triple agreement did the day seem tedious of all sides,

till his never erring course had given place to the night’s

succession: and the supper by each hand hasted, was with no less speed

ended, when Gynecia presenting a heavy sleepiness in her countenance,

brought up both Basilius and Zelmane to see Philoclea, still keeping

her bed, and far more sick in mind than body, and more grieved than

comforted with any such visitation. Thence Zelmane wishing easeful

rest to Philoclea, did seem to take that night’s leave of this

princely crew, when Gynecia likewise seeming somewhat diseased,

desired Basilius to stay a while with {492} his daughter, while she

recommended her sickness to her bed’s comfort, indeed desirous to

determine again of the manner of her stealing away; to no less comfort

to Basilius, who the sooner she was asleep, the sooner hoped to come

by his long pursued prey. Thus both were bent to deceive each other,

and to take the advantage of either other’s disadvantage. But Gynecia

having taken Zelmane into her bed-chamber, to speak a little with her

of their sweet determination; Zelmane upon a sudden, as though she had

never thought of it before. “Now the Gods forbid,” said she, “so great

a lady as you are should come to me; or that I should leave it to the

hands of fortune, if by either the ill-governing of your passion, or

your husband’s sudden waking, any danger might happen unto you: no, if

there be any superiority in the points of true love, it shall be

yours; if there be any danger, since myself am the author of this

device, it is reason it should be mine. Therefore do you but leave

with me the keys of the gate, and upon yourself take my upper garment,

that if any of Dametas’s house see you they may think you be myself,

and I will presently lie down in your place, so muffled for your

supposed sickness, as the king shall nothing know me. And then as soon

as he is asleep, will I, as it much better becomes me, wait upon you.

But if the uttermost of mischiefs should happen, I can assure you the

king’s life shall sooner pay for it than your honour.” And with the

ending of her words she threw off her mantle, not giving Gynecia any

space to take the full image of this new change into her fancy. But

seeing no ready objection against it in her heart, and knowing that

there was no time then to stand long disputing; besides remembering

the giver was to order the manner of his gift, yielded quickly to this

conceit, indeed not among the smallest causes tickled thereunto by a

certain wanton desire that her husband’s deceit might be the more

notable. In this sort did Zelmane nimbly disarraying herself, possess

Gynecia’s place hiding her head in such a close manner, as grievous

and over watched sickness is wont to invite to itself the solace of

sleep. And of the other side the queen putting on Zelmane’s outmost

apparel, went first into her closet, there quickly to beautify herself

with the best and sweetest night-deckings. But there casting an hasty

eye over her precious things, which ever since Zelmane’s coming, her

head otherwise occupied, had left unseen, she happened to see a bottle

of gold, upon which down along were graved these verses:

Let him drink this, whom long in arms to fold

Thou dost desire, and with free power to hold.

She remembered the bottle, for it had been kept of long time by the

kings of Cyprus, as a thing of rare virtue, and given to {493} her by

her mother, when she being very young married to her husband of much

greater age, her mother persuaded it was of property to force love

with love effects, had made a precious present of it to this her

beloved child, though it had been received rather by tradition to have

such a quality than by any approved experiment. This Gynecia

(according to the common disposition, not only, though especially of

wives, but of all other kinds of people, not to esteem much one’s own,

but to think the labour lost employed about it) had never cared to

give her husband, but suffered his affection to run according to his

own scope. But now that love of her particular choice had awakened her

spirits, and perchance the very unlawfulness of it had a little blown

the coal, among her other ornaments with glad mind she took most part

of this liquor, putting it into a fair cup all set with diamonds: for

what dares not love undertake armed with the night, and provoked with

lust? And thus down she went to the cave-ward, guided only by the

moon’s fair shining, suffering no other thought to have any

familiarity with her brains, but that which did present under her a

picture of her approaching contentment. She that had long disdained

this solitary life her husband had entered into, now wished it much

more solitary, so she might only obtain the private presence of

Zelmane. She that before would not have gone so far, especially by

night, and to so dark a place, now took a pride in the same courage,

and framed in her mind a pleasure out of the pain itself. Thus with

thick doubled paces she went to the cave, receiving to herself, for

her first contentment, the only lying where Zelmane had done; whose

pillow she kissed a thousand times, for having born the print of that

beloved head. And so keeping with panting heart her travelling fancies

so attentive that the wind could stir nothing, but that she stirred

herself, as if it had been the space of the longed for Zelmane, she

kept her side of the bed, descending only and cherishing the other

side with her arms, till after a while waiting, counting with herself

how many steps were betwixt the lodge and the cave, and of accusing

Zelmane of more curious stay than needed, she was visited with an

unexpected guest.

For Basilius, after his wife was departed to her feigned repose, as

long as he remained with his daughter, to give his wife time of

unreadying herself, it was easily seen it was a very thorny abode he

made there: and the discourses with which he entertained his daughter,

not unlike to those of earnest players, when in the midst of their

game, trifling questions be put unto them, his eyes still looking

about, and himself still changing places, beginning to speak of a

thing, and breaking it off before it were half done. To any speech

Philoclea ministered unto him, {494} with a sudden starting and

casting up his head, made an answer far out of all grammar; a certain

deep musing, and by and by out of it: uncertain motions, unstayed

graces. Having borne out the limit of a reasonable time, with as much

pain as might be, he came darkling into his chamber, forcing himself

to tread as softly as he could. But the more curious he was, the more

he thought everything creaked under him; and his mind being out of the

way with another thought, and his eyes not serving his turn in that

dark place, each coffer or cupboard he met, one saluted his shins,

another his elbows; sometimes ready in revenge to strike them again

with his face. Till at length, fearing his wife were not fully asleep,

he came lifting up the clothes as gently as I think poor Pan did,

when, instead of Ioles’s bed, he came into the rough embracing of

Hercules; and laying himself down, as tenderly as a new bride, rested

a while with a very open ear, to mark each breath of his supposed

wife. And sometimes he himself would yield a long-fetched sigh, as

though that had been a music to draw on another to sleep, till within

a very little while, with the other party’s well-counterfeit sleep,

who was as willing to be rid of him as he was to be gone thence,

assuring himself he left all safe there, in the same order stole out

again, and putting on his night gown, with much groping and scrambling

he got himself out of the little house, and then did the moonlight

serve to guide his feet. Thus, with a great deal of pain, did Basilius

go to her whom he fled, and with much cunning left the person for whom

he had employed all his cunning. But when Basilius was once gotten, as

he thought, into a clear coast, what joy he then made, how each thing

seemed vile in his sight, in comparison of his fortune, how far

already he deemed himself in the chief towers of his desires, it were

tedious to tell: once his heart could not choose but yield this song,

as a fairing of his contentment.

Get hence, foul grief, the canker of the mind:

Farewell complaint, the miser’s only pleasure.

Away vain cares, by which few men do find

Their sought-for treasure.

Ye helpless sighs, blow out your breath to nought,

Tears drown yourselves, for woe, your cause is wasted;

Thought, think to end, too long the fruit of thought

My mind hath tasted.

But thou, sure hope, tickle my leaping heart:

Comfort, step thou in place of wonted sadness,

Fore-felt desire, begin to favour part

Of coming gladness.

{495}

Let voice of sighs into clear music run;

Eyes, let your tears with gazing now be mended,

Instead of thought, true pleasure be begun,

And never ended.

Thus imagining as then with himself, his joys so held him up, that he

never touched ground. And like a right old beaten soldier, that knew

well enough the greatest captains do never use long orations, when it

comes to the very point of execution, as soon as he was gotten into

the cave, to the joyful, though silent, expectation of Gynecia, come

close to the bed, never recking his promise to look for nothing but

conference, he leaped in that side reserved for a more welcome guest.

And laying his loving’st hold upon Gynecia: “O Zelmane,” said he,

“embrace in your favour this humble servant of yours: hold within me

my heart, which pants to leave his master to come unto you.” In what

case poor Gynecia was, when she knew the voice, and felt the body of

her husband, fair ladies, it is better to know by imagination than

experience. For straight was her mind assaulted, partly with the being

deprived of her unquenched desire, but principally with the doubt that

Zelmane had betrayed her to her husband, besides the renewed sting of

jealousy, what in the meantime might befall her daughter. But of the

other side her love with a fixed persuasion she had taught her to seek

all reason of hopes. And therein thought best before discovering of

herself, to mark the behaviour of her husband; who, both in deeds and

words still using her, as taking her to be Zelmane, made Gynecia hope

that this might be Basilius’s own enterprise, which Zelmane had not

stayed, lest she should discover the matter which might be performed

at another time. Which hope accompanied with Basilius’s manner of

dealing, he being at that time fuller of livelier fancies than many

years before he had been, besides the remembrance of her daughter’s

sickness, and late strange countenance betwixt her and Zelmane, all

coming together into her mind, which was loth to condemn itself of an

utter overthrow, made her frame herself, not truly with a sugared joy,

but with a determinate patience to let her husband think he had found

a very gentle and supple-minded Zelmane; which he good man making full

reckoning of, did melt in as much gladness as she was oppressed with

divers ungrateful burdens.

But Pyrocles, who had at this present no more to play the part of

Zelmane, having so naturally measured the manner of his breathing,

that made no doubt of his sound sleeping, and lain a pretty while with

the quiet unquietness to perform his intended enterprise, as soon as

by the debate between Basilius’s shins and the unregarding forms, he

perceived that he had fully left the {496} lodge: after him went he

with his stealing steps, having his sword under his arm, still

doubting lest some mischance might turn Basilius back again, down to

the gate of the lodge. Which not content to lock fast, he barred and

fortified with as many devices, as his wit and haste would suffer him,

that so he might have full time both for making ready Philoclea, and

conveying her to her horse, before any might come in to find them

missing. For further ends of those ends, and what might ensue of this

action, his love and courage well-matched never looked after, holding

for an assured ground, that “whatsoever in great things will think to

prevent all objections must lie still and do nothing.” This

determination thus weighed, the first part was thus performed, up to

Philoclea’s chamber door when Pyrocles, rapt from himself with the

excessive fore-feeling of his, as he assured himself, near-coming

contentment. Whatever pains he had taken, what dangers he had run

into, and especially those saucy pages of love, doubts, griefs,

languishing hopes, and threatening despairs, came all now to his mind,

in one rank to beautify his expected blissfulness, and to serve for a

most fit sauce, whose sourness might give a kind of life to the

delightful cheer his imagination fed upon. All the great estate of his

father, all his own glory, seemed unto him but a trifling pomp, whose

good stands in other men’s conceit, in comparison of the true comfort

he found in the depth of his mind, and the knowledge of any misery

that might ensue his joyous adventure, was recked of but as a slight

purchase of possessing the top of happiness; for so far were his

thoughts passed through all perils, that already he conceived himself

safely arrived with his lady at the stately palace of Pella, among the

exceeding joys of his father, and infinite congratulations of his

friends, giving order for the royal entertaining of Philoclea, and for

sumptuous shows and triumphs, against their marriage. In the thought

whereof as he found extremity of joy, so well found he that the

extremity is not without a certain joyful pain, by extending the heart

beyond his wonted limits, and by so forcible a holding all the senses

to one object, that it confounds their mutual working, not without a

charming kind of ravishing them from the free use of their own

function. Thus grieved only with too much gladness, being come to the

door which should be the entry to his happiness, he was met with the

latter end of a song, which Philoclea like a solitary nightingale,

bewailing her guiltless punishment, and helpless misfortune, had newly

delivered over, meaning none should be judge of her passion, but her

own conscience. The song having been accorded to a sweetly played on

lute, contained these verses, which she had lately with some art

curiously written, to enwrap her secret and resolute woes.

{497}

Virtue(1), beauty(2), and speech(3), did strike(1), wound(2),

charm(3),[b3-10]

My heart(1), eyes(2), ears(3), with wonder(1), love(2), delight(3):

First(1), second(2), last(3), did bind(1), enforce(2) and arm(3),

His works(1), shows(2), suits(3), with wit(1), grace(2) and vows’(3)

might,

Thus honour(1), liking(2), trust(3), much(1), far(2), and deep(3),

Held(1), pierc’d(2), possess’d(3), my judgment(1), sense(2) and

will(3).

Till wrong(1), contempt(2), deceit(3) did grow(1), steal(2), creep(3),

Bands(1), favour(2), faith(3), to break(1), defile(2) and kill(3),

Then grief(1), unkindness(2), proof(3), took(1), kindled(2),

taught(3),

Well(1)-grounded, noble(2), due(3), spite(1), rage(2), disdain(3)

But(1) ah(2), alas(3)! (in vain) my mind(1), sight(2), thought(3),

Doth him(1), his face(2), his words(3), leave(1), shun(2), refrain(3),

For no thing(1), time(2), nor place(3), can lose(1), quench(2),

ease(3),

Mine own(1), embraced(2), sought(3), knot(1), fire(2), disease(3).

The force of love to those poor folk that feel it is many ways very

strange, but no way stranger than that it doth so enchain the lover’s

judgment upon her that holds the reins of his mind, that whatsoever

she doth is ever in his eyes best. And that best, being the continual

motion of our changing life, turned by her to any other thing that

thing again becometh best. So that nature in each kind suffering but

one superlative, the lover only admits no positive. If she sits still,

that is best, for so is the conspiracy of her several graces, held

best together to make one perfect figure of beauty. If she walk, no

doubt that is best, for, besides, the making happy the more places by

her steps, the very stirring adds a pleasing life to her native

perfections. If she be silent, that without comparison is best, since

by that means the untroubled eye most freely may devour the sweetness

of his object. But if she speak, he will take it upon his death that

is best, the quintessence of each word being distilled down into his

affected soul: example of this was well to be seen in the given-over

Pyrocles, who with panting breath, and sometimes sighs, not such as

sorrow restraining the inward parts doth make them glad to deliver,

but such as the impatience of delay, with the unsurety of never so

sure hope, is {498} wont to breathe out. Now being at the door, of the

one side hearing her voice, which he thought if the philosopher said

true of the heavenly seven-sphered harmony, was by her not only

represented, but far surmounted, and of the other having his eyes

over-filled with her beauty, for the king at his parting had left the

chamber open, and she at that time lay, as the heat of that country

did well suffer, upon the top of her bed, having her beauties eclipsed

with nothing but with a fair smock, wrought all in flames of

ash-colour silk and gold lying so upon her right side, that the left

thigh down to the foot, yielded his delightful proportion to the full

view, which was seen by the help of a rich lamp, which through the

curtains a little drawn cast forth a light upon her, as the moon doth

when it shines into a thin wood: Pyrocles I say was stopped with the

violence of so many darts cast by Cupid altogether upon him, that

quite forgetting himself, and thinking therein already he was in the

best degree of felicity, he would have lost much of his time, and with

too much love omitted the enterprise undertaken for his love, had not

Philoclea’s pitiful accusing of him forced him to bring his spirits

again to a new bias; for she laying her hand under her fair cheek,

upon which there did privily trickle the sweet drops of her

delightful, though sorrowful tears, made these words wait upon her

moanful song. “And hath that cruel Pyrocles,” said she, “deserved thus

much of me, that I should for his sake lift up my voice in my best

tunes, and to him continually, with pouring out my plaint, make a

disdained oblation? shall my soul still do this honour to his

unmerciful tyranny, by my lamenting his loss, to show his worthiness

and my weakness? He hears thee not, simple Philoclea, he hears thee

not; and if he did, some hearts grow the harder the more they find

their advantage. Alas! what a miserable constitution of mind have I! I

disdain my fortune, and yet reverence him that disdains me. I accuse

his ungratefulness, and have his virtue in admiration. O ye deaf

heavens, I would either his injury could blot out mine affection, or

my affection could forget his injury.” With that giving a pitiful but

sweet shriek, she took again the lute, and began to sing this sonnet,

which might serve as an explaining to the other.

The love which is imprinted in my soul

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

With inward cries puts up a bitter roll

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

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

Monstrous appears, long truth received late,

Wrong stirs remorsed Grief, grief’s deadly sore

Unkindness breeds, unkindness fostereth hate.

{499}

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

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

The more his matchless gifts do deeply sink

Into my breast, and loves renewed swim.

What medicine then can such disease remove,

Where love draws hate, and hate engendereth love?

But Pyrocles, that had heard his name accused and condemned by the

mouth, which of all the world, and more than all the world, he most

loved, had then cause enough to call his mind to his home, and with

the most haste he could, for true love fears the accident of an

instant, to match the excusing of his fault, with declaration of his

errand thither. And therefore blown up and down with as many contrary

passions as Aeolus sent out winds upon the Trojan relics guided upon

the sea by the valiant Aeneas, he went into her chamber with such a

pace as reverend fear doth teach, where kneeling down, and having

prepared a long discourse for her, his eyes were so filled with her

sight, that as if they would have robbed all their fellows of their

services, both his heart fainted, and his tongue failed in such sort

that he could not bring forth one word, but referred her understanding

to his eyes’ language. But she in extremity amazed to see him there,

at so undue a season, and ashamed that her beautiful body made so

naked a prospect, drawing in her delicate limbs into the weak guard of

the bed, and presenting in her face to him such a kind of pitiful

anger, as might show this was only a fault; therefore, because she had

a former grudge unto him, turning away her face from him, she thus

said unto him:

“O Zelmane or Pyrocles, for whether name I use, it much skills not,

since by the one I was first deceived, and by the other now betrayed,

what strange motion is the guide of thy cruel mind hither? Dost thou

not think the day-torments thou hast given me sufficient, but that

thou dost envy me the night’s quiet? Wilt thou give my sorrows no

truce, but by making me see before mine eyes how much I have lost,

offer me due cause of confirming my plaint? or is thy heart so full of

rancour that thou dost desire to feed thine eyes with the wretched

spectacle of thine overthrown enemy, and so to satisfy the full

measure of thy undeserved rage with the receiving into thy sight the

unrelievable ruins of my desolate life! O Pyrocles, Pyrocles, for thy

own virtue’s sake, let miseries be no music unto thee, and be content

to take to thyself some colour of excuse, that thou didst not know to

what extremity thy inconstancy, or rather falsehood hath brought me.”

Pyrocles, to whom every syllable she pronounced was a thunderbolt to

his heart, equally distracted betwixt amazement and sorrow, abashed to

see such a stop of his desires, grieved {500} with her pain, but

tormented to find himself the author of it, with quaking lips, and

pale cheer, “Alas! divine lady,” said he, “your displeasure is so

contrary to my desert, and your words so far beyond all expectations

that I have least ability now I have most need to speak in the cause

upon which my life dependeth. For my troth is so undoubtedly constant

unto you, my heart is so assured a witness to itself, of his unspotted

faith, that having no one thing in me, whereout any such sacrilege

might arise; I have likewise nothing in so direct a thing to say for

myself, but sincere and vehement protestations; for in truth there may

most words be spent, where there is some probability to breed of both

sides conjectural allegations. But so perfect a thing as my love is of

you, as it suffers no question, so it seems to receive injury by any

addition of any words unto it. If my soul could have been polluted

with treachery it would likewise have provided for itself due

furniture of colourable answers, but as it stood upon the naked

conscience of his untouched duty, so I must confess it is altogether

unarmed against so unjust a violence as you lay upon me. Alas! let not

the pains I have taken to serve you, be now accounted injurious unto

you, let not the dangerous cunning I have used to please you, be

deemed a treason against you: since I have deceived them whom you fear

for your sake, do not you destroy me for their sake; what can I

without you further do? or to what more forwardness can any counsel

bring our desired happiness? I have provided whatsoever is needful for

our going, I have rid them both out of the lodge, so that there is

none here to be hinderers or knowers of our departure, but only the

almighty powers, whom I invoke as triers of mine innocency, and

witnesses of my well-meaning. And if ever my thoughts did receive so

much as a fainting in their affections, if they have not continually

with more and more ardour from time to time pursued the possession of

your sweetest favour, if ever in that possession they received either

spot or falsehood, then let their most horrible plagues fall upon me,

let mine eyes be deprived of the light, which did abase the heavenly

beams that struck them, let my falsified tongue serve to no use but to

bemoan mine own wretchedness, let my heart impoisoned with detestable

treason, be the seat of infernal sorrow, let my soul with the endless

anguish of his conscience become his own tormentor.” “O false

mankind!” cried out the sweet Philoclea. “How can an imposthumed heart

but yield forth evil matter by his mouth? are oaths there to be

believed, where vows are broken? No, no, who doth wound the eternal

justice of the gods, cares little for abusing their names, and who in

doing wickedly doth not fear due recompensing plagues, doth little

fear that invoking of plagues will make them come {501} ever a whit

the sooner. But alas! what aileth this new conversation, have you yet

another sleight to pay, or do you think to deceive me in Pyrocles’s

form, as you have done in Zelmane’s: or rather, now you have betrayed

me in both, is some third sex left you, to transform yourself into, to

inveigle my simplicity? enjoy, enjoy the conquest you have already

won: and assure yourself you are to come to the farthest point of your

cunning. For my part, unkind Pyrocles, my only defence shall be belief

of nothing, my comfort my faithful innocency, and the punishment I

desire of you, shall be your own conscience.”

Philoclea’s hard persevering in this unjust condemnation of him, did

so overthrow all the might of Pyrocles’s mind, who saw that time would

not serve to prove by deeds, and that the better words he used, the

more they were suspected of deceitful cunning. That void of all

counsel, and deprived of all comfort, finding best deserts punished,

and nearest hopes prevented, he did abandon the succour of himself,

and suffered grief so to close his heart, that his breath failing him

with a dreadful shutting of his eyes, he fell down at her bedside.

Having had time to say no more but, “oh! whom dost thou kill

Philoclea?” she that little looked for such an extreme event of her

doings, started out of her bed, like Venus rising from her mother the

sea, not so much stricken down with amazement and grief of her fault,

as lifted up with the force of love, and desire to help, she laid her

fair body over his breast, and throwing no other water in his face,

but the stream of her tears, not giving him other blows, but the

kissing of her well-formed mouth, her only cries were these

lamentations: “O unfortunate suspicion,” said she, “the very mean to

lose what we most suspect to lose. O unkind kindness of mine, which

returns an imagined wrong with an effectual injury. O fool to make

quarrel my supplication, or to use hate as the mediator of love:

childish Philoclea, hast thou thrown away the jewel wherein all thy

pride consisted? Hast thou with too much haste over-run thyself?” Then

would she renew her kisses, and yet not finding the life return,

redouble her plaints in this manner. “O divine soul,” said she, “whose

virtue can possess no less than the highest place in heaven, if for

mine eternal plague thou hast utterly left this most sweet mansion,

before I follow thee with Thisbe’s punishment for my rash unweariness,

hear this protestation of mine: that as the wrong I have done thee

proceeded of a most sincere, but unresistable affection, so led with

this pitiful example, it shall end in the mortal hate of myself, and,

if it may be, I will make my soul a tomb of thy memory.” At that word

with anguish of mind and weakness of body increased one by the other,

and both augmented by this fearful accident, she had fallen down in a

swoon, but that Pyrocles, {502} then first severing his eyelids and

quickly apprehending her danger, to him more than death, beyond all

powers striving to recover the commandment of all his powers, stayed

her from falling, and then lifting the sweet burden of her body in his

arms, laid her again in her bed. So that she, but then the physician,

was now become the patient, and he to whom her weakness had been

serviceable, was now enforced to do service to her weakness, which

performed by him with that hearty care which the most careful love on

the best loved subject in greatest extremity could employ, prevailed

so far, that ere long she was able, though in strength exceedingly

dejected, to call home her wandering senses, to yield attention to

that her beloved Pyrocles had to deliver. But he lying down on the bed

by her, holding her hand in his, with so kind an accusing her of

unkindness, as in accusing her he condemned himself, began from point

to point to discover unto her all that had passed between his loathed

lovers and him. How he had entertained, and by entertaining deceived,

both Basilius and Gynecia; and that with such a kind of deceit, as

either might see the cause in the other, but neither espy the effect

in themselves. That all his favours to them had tended only to make

them strangers to this his action; and all his strangeness to her, to

the final obtaining of her long promised, and now to be performed

favour. Which device seeing it had so well succeeded to the removing

all other hindrances, that only her resolution remained for the taking

their happy journey, he conjured her by all the love she had ever

borne him, she would make no longer delay to partake with him

whatsoever honours the noble king of Macedon, and all other Euarchus’s

dominions might yield him, especially since in this enterprise he had

now waded so far, as he could not possibly retire himself back,

without being overwhelmed with danger and dishonour: he needed not

have used further persuasion: for that only conjuration had so

forcibly bound all her spirits that could her body have seconded her

mind, or her mind have strengthened her body, without respect of any

worldly thing, but only fear to be again unkind to Pyrocles, she had

condescended to go with him. But raising herself a little in her bed,

and finding her own inability in any sort to endure the air: “My

Pyrocles,” said she, with tearful eyes and a pitiful countenance, such

as well witnessed she had no will to deny anything, she had power to

perform, “if you can convey me hence in such plight as you see me, I

am most willing to make my extremest danger a testimony, that I esteem

no danger in regard of your virtuous satisfaction.” But she fainted so

fast that she was not able to utter the rest of her conceived speech;

which also turned Pyrocles’s thoughts from expecting further answer,

to the necessary care of reviving her, in {503} whose fainting,

himself was more than overthrown. And that having affected with all

the sweet means his wits could devise, though his highest hopes were

by this unexpected downfall sunk deeper than any degree of despair:

yet lest the appearance of his inward grief might occasion her further

discomfort, having wracked his face to a more comfortable semblance,

he sought some show of reason, to show she had no reason, either for

him, or for herself to be afflicted. Which in the sweet-minded

Philoclea, whose consideration was limited by his words, and whose

conceit pierced no deeper than his outward countenance, wrought within

a while such quietness of mind, and that quietness again such repose

of body, that sleep by his harbinger’s weakness, weariness, and

watchfulness, had quickly taken up his lodging in all her senses. Then

indeed had Pyrocles leisure to sit in judgment on himself, and to hear

his reason accuse his rashness, who, without forecast of doubt,

without knowledge of his friend, without acquainting Philoclea with

his purpose, or being made acquainted with her present estate, had

fallen headlong into that attempt, the success whereof he had long

since set down to himself as the measure of all his other fortunes.

But calling to mind how weakly they do, that rather find fault with

what cannot be mended than seek to amend wherein they have been

faulty: he soon turned him from remembering what might have been done,

to considering what was now to be done, and when that consideration

failed, what was now to be expected. Wherein having run over all the

thoughts, his reason, called to the strictest accounts, could bring

before him, at length he lighted on this. That as long as Gynecia

betrayed not the matter, which he thought she would not do, as well

for her own honour and safety, as for the hope she might still have of

him, which is loth to die in a lover’s heart, all the rest might turn

to a pretty merriment, and inflame his lover Basilius, again to cast

about for the missed favour. And as naturally the heart stuffed up

with woefulness, is glad greedily to suck the thinnest air of comfort,

so did he at first embrace this conceit, as offering great hope, if

not assurance of well-doing, till looking more nearly into it, and not

able to answer the doubts and difficulties he saw therein more and

more arising, the night being also far spent, his thoughts even weary

of his own burdens, fell to a straying kind of uncertainty; and his

mind standing only upon the nature of inward intelligences, left his

body to give a sleeping respite to his vital spirits, which he

according to the quality of sorrow received with greater greediness

than ever in his life before: according to the nature of sorrow, I

say, which is past care’s remedy; for care stirring the brains, and

making thin the spirits, breaketh rest: but those griefs wherein one

is determined there is no preventing, {504} do breed a dull heaviness

which easily clothes itself in sleep, so as laid down so near, the

beauty of the word, Philoclea, that their necks were subjects each to

other’s chaste embracements, it seemed love had come thither to lay a

plot in that picture of death, how gladly, if death came, their souls

would go together.

THE THIRD ECLOGUES

Thyrsis not with many painted words nor falsified promises had won

the consent of his beloved Kala, but with a true and simple making her

know he loved her, not forcing himself beyond his reach to buy her

affection, but giving her such pretty presents, as neither could weary

him with the giving, nor shame her for the taking. Thus, the first

strawberries he could find, were ever in a clean washed dish, sent to

Kala; thus posies of the spring flowers were wrapped up in a little

green silk, and dedicated to Kala’s breasts; thus sometimes his

sweetest cream, sometimes the best cakebread his mother made, were

reserved for Kala’s taste. Neither would he stick to kill a lamb when

she would be content to come over the way unto him. But then lo, how

the house was swept, and rather no fire than any smoke left to trouble

her. Then love songs were not dainty, when she would hear them, and as

much mannerly silence, when she would not: in going to church great

worship to Kala. So that all the parish said, never a maid they knew

so well waited on: and when dancing was about the may-pole, nobody

taken out but she, and he after a leap or two to show her his own

activity, would frame all the rest of his dancing only to grace her.

As for her father’s sheep, he had no less care of them than his own:

so that she might play her as she would, warranted with Thyrsis’s

carefulness. But if he spied Kala favoured any one of the flock more

than his fellows, then that was cherished: shearing him so (when shorn

he must be) as might most become him: but while the wood was on,

wrapped within it some verses, wherein Thyrsis had a special gift, and

making the innocent beast his unweeting messenger. Thus constantly

continuing, though he were none of the fairest, at length he won

Kala’s heart, the honestest wench in all those quarters. And so with

consent of both parents, without which neither Thyrsis would ask, nor

Kala grant, their marrying day was appointed, which because it fell

out in this time I think it shall not be impertinent, to remember a

little our shepherds, while the other great persons, are either

sleeping or otherwise troubled. Thyrsis’s marriage-time once known,

there needed no inviting of the neighbours in that valley, for so well

was {505} Thyrsis beloved, that they were all ready to do him credit,

neither yet came they like harpies to devour him; but one brought a

fat pig, the other a tender kid, the third a great goose; as for

cheese, milk and butter, were the gossips’ presents. Thither came of

strange shepherds only the melancholy Philisides; for the virtuous

Corydon had long since left off all joyful solemnities. And as for

Strephon and Claius, they had lost their mistress, which put them into

such extreme sorrows, as they could scarcely abide the light of the

day, much less the eyes of men. But of the Arcadian born shepherds,

thither came good old Geron, young Histor, though unwilling, and

upright Dicus, merry Pas, and jolly Nico. As for Dametas, they durst

not presume, his pride was such, to invite him, and Dorus they found

might not be spared. And thereunder a bower was made of boughs, for

Thyrsis’s house was not able to receive them, every one placed

according to his age. The women, for such was the manner of the

country, kept together to make good cheer among themselves, from which

otherwise a certain painful modesty restrains them, and there might

the sadder matrons give good counsel to Kala, who poor fool wept for

fear of that she desired. But among the shepherds was all honest

liberty, no fear of dangerous telltales, who hunt greater preys, nor

indeed minds in them to give telltales any occasion, but one

questioning with another of the manuring his ground, and governing his

flock, the highest point they reached to, was, to talk of the holiness

of marriage; to which purpose, as soon as their sober dinner was

ended, Dicus instead of thanks, sung this song, with a clear voice and

cheerful countenance.

Let mother earth now deck herself in flowers,

To see her offspring, seek a good increase,

Where justest love doth vanquish Cupid’s powers,

And war of thoughts is swallowed up in peace,

Which never may decrease,----

But like the turtles fair,

Live one in two, a well-united pair;

Which that no chance may stain,----

O Hymen, long their coupled joys maintain.

O Heav’n awake, show forth thy stately face,

Let not these slumbering clouds thy beauties hide,

But with thy cheerful presence help to grace

The honest bridegroom and the bashful bride,

Whose loves may ever bide,----

Like to the elm and vine,

With mutual embracements them to twine;

In which delightful pain,----

O Hymen, long their coupled joys maintain.

{506}

Ye Muses all which chaste affects allow,

And have to Thyrsis showed your secret skill,

To this chaste love your sacred favours bow,

And so to him and her your gifts distil,

That they all vice may kill.----

And like to lilies pure,----

May please all eyes, and spotless may endure,

Where that all bliss may reign,----

O Hymen, long their coupled joys maintain.

Ye nymphs which in the water’s empire have,

Since Thyrsis’ music oft doth yield your praise,

Grant to the thing which we for Thyrsis crave,

Let one time, but long first, close up their days.

One grave their bodies seize:----

And like two rivers sweet,

When they, thought divers, do together meet,

One stream both streams contain:

O Hymen, long their coupled joys maintain.

Pan, father Pan the God of silly sheep,

Whose care is cause that they in number grow,

Have much more care of them than them do keep,

Since from these good the other’s good doth flow,

And make their issue show----

In number like the herd

Of younglings, which thyself with love hast rear’d;

Or like the drops of rain.

O Hymen, long their coupled joys maintain.

Virtue, if not a God, yet God’s chief part,

Be thou their knot of this their open vow,

That still he be her head, she be his heart;

He lean to her, she unto him do bow:

Each other still allow:----

Like oak and mistletoe,

Her strength from him, his praise from her do grow;

In which most lovely train,----

O Hymen, long their coupled joys maintain.

But thou foul Cupid, sire to lawless lust,

Be thou far hence with thy impoison’d dart,

Which though of glitt’ring gold, shall here take rust.

Where simple love, which chasteness doth impart,

Avoids thy hurtful art,----

Not needing charming skill,

Such minds with sweet affections for to fill,

Which being pure and plain,----

O Hymen, long their coupled joys maintain.

{507}

All churlish words, shrewd answers, crabbed looks,

All privateness, self-seeking, inward spite,

All waywardness, which nothing kindly brooks,

All strife for toys, and claiming master’s right.

Be hence, aye put to flight:

All stirring husband’s hate

’Gainst neighbour’s good for womanish debate,

Be fled as things most vain,----

O Hymen, long their coupled joys maintain.

All peacock pride, and fruits of peacock’s pride,

Longing to be with loss of substance gay,

With wretchlessness what may thy house betide,

So that you may on higher slippers stay,

For ever hence away:----

Yet let not sluttery

The sink of filth, be counted housewifery;

But keeping wholesome mean,----

O Hymen, long their coupled joys maintain.

But above all, away vile jealousy,

The evil of evils, just cause to be unjust,

How can he love suspecting treachery?

How can she love where love cannot win trust?

Go snake, hide thee in dust,----

Nay dare once show thy face,

Where open hearts do hold so constant place,

That they thy sting restrain,----

O Hymen, long their coupled joys maintain.

The earth is deck’d with flowers, the heav’ns display’d,

Muses grant gifts, nymphs long and joined life,

Pan store of babes, virtue their thoughts well staid,

Cupid’s lust gone, and gone is bitter strife,

Happy Man, happy Wife,----

No pride shall them oppress,

Nor yet shall yield to loathsome sluttishness,

And jealousy is slain:----

For Hymen will their coupled joys maintain.

“Truly Dicus,” said Nico, “although thou didst not grant me the prize

the last day, when undoubtedly I won it, yet must I needs say thou for

thy part hast sung well and thriftily.” Pas straight desired all the

company they would bear witness that Nico had once in his life spoken

wise: “For,” said he, “I will tell it his Father, who will be a glad

man when he hears such news.” “Very true,” said Nico, “but indeed so

would not thine in like case, for he would look thou should’st live

but one hour longer {508} than a discreet word wandered out of thy

mouth.” “And I pray thee,” said Pas, “gentle Nico, tell me, what

mischance it was that brought thee to taste so fine a meat?” “Marry

goodman blockhead,” said Nico, “because he speaks against jealousy,

the filthy traitor to true affection, and yet disguising itself in the

raiment of love.” “Sentences, sentences,” cried Pas. “Alas, how ripe

witted these young folks be nowadays but well counselled shall that

husband be, when this man comes to exhort him not to be jealous.” “And

so shall he,” answered Nico, “for I have seen a fresh example, though

it be not very fit to be known.” “Come, come,” said Pas, “be not so

squeamish, I know thou longest more to tell it than we to hear it.”

But for all his words, Nico, would not bestow his voice, till he was

generally entreated of all the rest. And then with a merry

marriage-look he sung this following discourse, for with a better

grace he could sing than tell.

A neighbour mine not long ago there was,

But nameless he, for blameless he shall be,

That married had a trick and bonny lass,

As in a summer day a man might see:

But he himself a foul unhandsome groom,

And far unfit to hold so good a room.

Now whether moved with self-unworthiness,

Or with her beauty fit to make a prey;

Fell jealousy did so his brain oppress,

That if he absent were but half a day,

He guessed the worst (you wot what is the worst)

And in himself new doubting causes nurst.

While thus he feared the silly innocent,

Who yet was good, because she knew none ill,

Unto his house a jolly shepherd went,

To whom our prince did bear a great good will;

Because in wrestling, and in a pastoral,

He far did pass the rest of shepherds all.

And therefore he a courtier was be-named,

And as a courtier was with cheer received

(For they have tongues to make a poor man blamed,

If he to them his duty misconceived)

And for this courtier should well like his table,

The good man bade his wife be serviceable.

{509}

And so she was, and all with good intent;

But few days past when she good manner used;

But that her husband thought her service bent

To such an end as he might be abased.

Yet like a coward fearing stranger’s pride,

He made the simple wench his wrath abide;

With chumpish looks, hard words, and secret nips,

Grumbling at her when she his kindness sought.

Asking her how she tasted courtier’s lips,

He forced her to think that which she never thought.

In fine, he made her guess, there was some sweet,

In that which he so fear’d that she should meet.

When once this entered was in woman’s heart,

And that it had inflamed a new desire,

There rested then to play a woman’s part;

Fuel to seek, and not to quench the fire,

But (for his jealous eye she well did find)

She studied cunning how the same to blind.

And thus she did. One day to him she came,

And, though against his will, on him she leaned:

And out gan cry, “Ah well away for shame,

If you help not, our wedlock will be stained.”

The good man starting, asked what her did move?

She sigh’d and said, “The bad guest sought her love.”

He little looking that she should complain

Of that, whereto he fear’d she was inclin’d:

Bussing her oft, and in his heart full fain,

He did demand what remedy to find,

How they might get that guest from them to wend,

And yet the prince that lov’d him not offend.

“Husband,” quoth she, “go to him by and by,

And tell him you do find I do him love:

And therefore pray him that of courtesy

He will absent himself, lest he should move

A young girl’s heart, to that were shame for both

Whereto you know his honest heart were loath.

“Thus shall you show that him you do not doubt,

And as for me, sweet husband, I must bear;”

Glad was the man when he heard her out,

And did the same, although with mickle fear.

For fear he did, lest he the young man might

In choler put, with whom he would not fight.

{510}

The courtly shepherd much aghast at this,

Not seeing erst such token in the wife,

Though full of scorn, would not his duty miss,

Knowing that ill become a household strife,

Did go his way, but sojourn’d near thereby,

That yet the ground thereof he might espy.

The wife thus having settled husband’s brain,

Who would have sworn his spouse Diana was,

Watched when she a further point might gain,

Which little time did fitly bring to pass.

For to the court her man was called by name;

Whither he needs must go for fear of blame.

Three days before that he must sure depart,

She written had, but in a hand disguised,

A letter such, which might from either part,

Seem to proceed, so well it was devised.

She seal’d it first, then she the sealing brake,

And to her jealous husband did it take.

With weeping eyes (her eyes she taught to weep)

She told him that the courtier had it sent:

“Alas,” quoth she, “thus woman’s shame doth creep.”

The good man read on both sides the content,

It title had, “Unto my only love”:

Subscription was, “Yours most, if you will prove.”

Th’ epistle self such kind of words it had;

“My sweetest joy, the comfort of my sprite,

So may thy flocks increase thy dear heart glad,

So may each thing e’en as thou wishest light,

As thou wilt deign to read, and gently read

This mourning ink in which my heart doth bleed.

“Long have I lov’d, alas thou worthy art,

Long have I lov’d, alas love craveth love,

Long have I lov’d thyself, alas my heart

Doth break, now tongue unto thy name doth move;

And think not that thy answer answer is,

But that it is my doom of bale or bliss.

“The jealous wretch must now to court be gone;

Ne can he fail, for prince hath for him sent:

Now is the time we may be here alone,

And give a long desire a sweet content.

Thus shall you both reward a lover true,

And eke revenge his wrong suspecting you.”

{511}

And this was all, and this the husband read

With chafe enough, till she him pacified:

Desiring that no grief in him be bred,

Now that he had her words so truly tried:

But that he would to him the letter show,

That with his fault be might her goodness know.

That straight was done with many a boist’rous threat,

That to the king he would his sin declare;

But now the courtier gan to smell the feat,

And with some words which showed little care:

He stayed until the good man was departed,

Then gave he him the blow which never smarted.

Thus may you see the jealous wretch was made

The pander of the thing he most did fear.

Take heed therefore, how you ensue that trade,

Lest the same marks of jealousy you bear.

For sure, no jealousy can that prevent,

Whereto two parties once be full content.

“Behold,” said Pas, “a whole dicker of wit: he had picked out such a

tale with intention to keep a husband from jealousy, which was enough

to make a sanctified husband jealous, to see subtilities so much in

the feminine gender. But,” said he, “I will strike Nico dead, with the

wise words that shall flow out of my gorge.” And without further

entreaty thus sang:

Who doth desire that chaste his wife should be,

First be he true, for truth doth truth deserve:

Then such be he, as she his worth may see,

And one man still credit with her preserve.

Not toying kind, nor causelessly unkind,

Not stirring thoughts, nor yet denying right,

Not spying faults, nor in plain errors blind,

Never hard hand, nor ever reins too light.

As far from want, as far from vain expense

(The one doth force, the latter doth entice)

Allow good company, but keep from thence

All filthy mouths that glory in their vice.

This done, thou hast no more, but leave the rest,

To virtue, fortune, time and woman’s breast.

“Well concluded,” said Nico, “when he hath done all, he leaves the

matter to his wife’s discretion. Now whensoever thou marriest, let her

discretion deck thy head with Actaeon’s ornament.” Pas {512} was so

angry with his wish, being indeed towards marriage, that they might

perchance have fallen to buffets, but that Dicus desired Philisides,

who as a stranger sat among them, revolving in his mind all the

tempests of evil fortune he had passed, that he would do so much grace

to the company, as to sing one of his country songs. Philisides,

knowing it no good manners to be squeamish of his coming, having put

himself into their company, without further study began to utter that,

wherewith his thoughts were then, as always, most busied: and to show

what a stranger he was to himself, spoke of himself, as of a third

person in this sort:

The lad Philisides

Lay by a river’s side.

In flow’ry field a gladder eye to please;

His pipe was at his foot,

His lambs were him beside,

A widow turtle near on bared root

Sat wailing without boot.

Each thing both sweet and sad

Did draw his boiling brain

To think, and think with pain

Of Mira’s beams, eclips’d by absence bad,

And thus, with eyes made dim

With tears, he said, or sorrow said for him:

“O earth, once answer give,

So may thy stately grace

By north, or south still rich adorned live,

So Mira long may be

On thy then blessed face

Whose foot doth set a heav’n on cursed thee,

I ask, now answer me:

If th’ author of thy bliss,

Phoebus, that shepherd high,

Do turn from thee his eye,

Doth not thyself, when he long absent is,

Like rogue, all ragged go,

And pine away with daily wasting woe?

Tell me you wanton brook,

So may your sliding race

Shun loathed loving banks with cunning crook:

So in you ever new

Mira may look her face,

And make you fair with shadow of her hue:

So when to pay your due

To mother sea you come,

She chid you not for stay,

Nor beat you for your play,

Tell me if your diverted springs become

{513}

Absented quite from you,

Are you not dried? can you yourselves renew?

Tell me you flowers fair,

Cowslip and columbine,

So may you make this wholesome spring-time air

With you embraced lie,

And lately thence untwine:

But with dewdrops engender children high:

So may you never die,

But pull’d by Mira’s hand,

Dress bosom hers, or head.

Or scatter on her bed,

Tell me, if husband spring-time leave your land,

When he from you is sent,

Whither not you, languish’d with discontent?

Tell me, my silly pipe,

So may thee still betide,

A cleanly cloth thy moistness for to wipe:

So may the cherries red

Of Mira’s lips divide

Their sugared selves to kiss thy happy head:

So may her ears be led

Her ears where music lives,

To hear and not despise

Thy lyric-liring cries;

Tell, if that breath, which thee thy sounding gives.

Be absent far from thee,

Absent alone canst thou then piping be?

Tell me my lamb of gold,

So may’st thou long abide

The day well fed, the night in faithful fold:

So grow thy wool of note,

In time that richly dy’d

It may be part of Mira’s petticoat,

Tell me, if wolves the throat

Have caught of thy dear dam,

Or she from thee be stay’d,

Or thou from her be stray’d,

Canst thou poor lamb, become another’s lamb?

Or rather till you die,

Still for thy dam, with baa-waymenting cry?

Tell me, O turtle true,

So may no fortune breed

To make thee nor thy better-loved rue:

So may thy blessings swarm,

That Mira may thee feed

With hand and mouth; with laps and breaks keep warm:

Tell me of greedy arm,

{514}

Do fondly take away

With traitor lime the one

The other left alone:

Tell me poor wretch, parted from wretched prey

Disdain not you the green,

Wailing till death, shun you not to be seen?

Earth, brook, flow’rs, pipe, lamb, dove,

Say all and I with them,

‘Absence is death or worse, to them that love.’

So I unlucky lad

Whom hills from her do hem,

What fits me now but tears, and sighings sad?

O fortune too too bad,

I rather would my sheep

Th’adst killed with a stroke,

Burnt Caban, lost my cloak,

Then want one hour those eyes which my joys keep.

Oh! what doth wailing win?

Speech without end had better not begin.

My song climb thou the wind,

Which Holland sweet now gently sendeth in,

That on his wings the level thou may’st find

To hit, but kissing hit

Her ears the weights of wit.

If thou know not for whom thy master dies,

These marks shall make thee wise:

She is the herdess fair that shines in dark,

And gives her kids no food, but willow’s bark.”

This said, at length he ended.

His oft sigh-broken ditty,

Then raise, but raise no legs with faintness bended,

With skin in sorrow died,

With face the plot of pity,

With thoughts, which thoughts their own tormentors tried.

He rose, and straight espied

His ram, who to recover

The ewe another loved,

With him proud battle proved.

He envied such a death in sight of lover,

And always westward eyeing,

More envied Phoebus for his western flying.

The whole company would gladly have taken this occasion of requesting

Philisides in plainer sort to discover unto them his estate. Which he

willing to prevent, as knowing the relation thereof more fit for

funerals than the time of a marriage, began to sing this song he had

learned before he had ever subjected his thoughts to acknowledge no

master, but a mistress.

{515}

As I my little flock on Ister bank

(A little flock; but well my pipe they couth)

Did piping lead, the sun already sank

Beyond our world, and ere I got my booth,

Each thing with mantle black the night doth sooth;

Saving the glow-worm which would courteous be

Of that small light oft watching shepherds see.

The welkin had full niggardly enclosed

In coffer of dim clouds his silver groats,

Ycleped stars; each thing to rest disposed,

The caves, were full, the mountains void of goats

The bird’s eye clos’d; closed their chirping notes.

As for the nightingale, wood music’s king:

It August was, he deign’d not then to sing.

Amid my sheep, though I saw naught to fear,

Yet (for I nothing saw) I feared sore;

Then found I which thing is a charge to bear,

As for my sheep I dreaded mickle more

Than ever for myself since I was bore.

I sat me down: for see to go he could.

And sang unto my sheep lest stray they should.

The song I sang old Lanquet had me taught,

Lanquet, the shepherd best swift Ister knew,

For clerkly read, and hating what is naught,

For faithful heart, clean hands, and mouth as true:

With sweet skill my skilless youth he drew,

To have a feeling taste of him that fits

Beyond the heaven, far more beyond your wits.

He said the music best thilk power pleased

Was jump concord between our wit and will;

Where highest notes to godliness are raised,

And lowest sink not down to jot of ill:

With old true tales he wont mine ears to fill.

How shepherds did of yore, how now they thrive,

Spoiling their flock, or while ’twixt them they strive.

He liked me, but pitied lustful youth:

His good strong staff my slipp’ry years upbore:

He still hop’d well because I loved truth:

Till forc’d to part with heart and eyes e’en sore,

To worthy Corydon he gave me o’er,

But thus in oak’s true shade recounted be,

Which now in night’s deep shade sheep heard of me.

{516}

Such manner time there was (what time I not)

When all this earth, this dam or mould of ours

Was only won’d with such as beasts begot:

Unknown as then were they that builded towers:

The cattle wild, or tame, in nature’s bowers

Might freely roam, or rest, as seemed them:

Man was not man their dwellings in to hem.

The beasts had sure some beastly policy:

For nothing can endure where order n’is.

For once the lion by the lamb did lie,

The fearful hind the leopard did kiss.

Hurtless was tiger’s paw, and serpent’s hiss.

This think I well the beasts with courage clad,

Like senators a harmless empire had.

At which whether the others did repine,

For envy harb’reth most in feeblest hearts

Or that they all to changing did incline,

As e’en in beasts their dams leave changing parts

The multitude to Jove a suit imparts,

With neighing, blaying, braying, and barking,

Roaring and howling for to have a king.

A king, in language theirs they said they would:

(For then their language was a perfect speech)

The birds likewise with chirps, and puing could

Cackling, and chatt’ring that of Jove beseech.

Only the owl still warn’d them not to seech

So hastily that which they would repent;

But saw they would, and he to deserts went.

Jove wisely said (for wisdom wisely says)

O beasts, take heed what you of me desire.

Rulers will think all things made them to please,

And soon forget the swink due to their hire:

But since you will, part of my heav’nly fire,

I will you lend; the rest yourselves must give,

That it both seen and felt may with you live.

Full glad they were, and took the naked spright,

Which straight the earth clothed in his clay:

The lion heart; the ounce gave active might;

The horse, good shape; the sparrow, lust to play;

Nightingale, voice, enticing songs to say.

Elephant gave a perfect memory:

And parrot, ready tongue, that to apply.

{517}

The fox gave craft; the dog gave flattery:

Ass patience; the mole, a working thought;

Eagle, high look; wolf, secret cruelty:

Monkey, sweet breath; the cow, her fair eyes brought;

The ermine, whitest skin, spotted with nought;

The sheep, mild seeming face; climbing, the bear.

The stag did give the harm eschewing fear.

The hare, her sleights; the cat, his melancholy;

Ant, industry; and coney, skill to build;

Cranes, order; storks, to be appearing holy;

Chameleon, ease to change; duck, ease to yield:

Crocodile, tears, which might be falsely spill’d:

Ape, great thing gave, though he did mowing stand,

The instrument of instruments, the hand.

Each other beast likewise his present brings:

And but thy dread their prince they ought should want,

They all consented were to give him wings:

And aye more awe towards him for to plant,

To their own work this privilege they grant,

That from thenceforth to all eternity,

No beast should freely speak, but only he.

Thus man was made; thus man their lord became:

Who at the first, wanting, or biding pride,

He did to beasts’ best use his cunning frame

With water drink, herbs meat, and naked hide.

And fellow like let his dominion slide;

Not in his sayings, saying “I,” but “we”;

As if he meant his lordship common be.

But when his seat so rooted he had found,

That they now skill’d not how from him to wend;

Then gain in guiltless earth full many a wound,

Iron to seek, which ’gainst itself should bend,

To tear the bowels, that good corn should send,

But yet the common dam none did bemoan;

Because, though hurt, they never heard her groan.

Then ’gan the factions in the beasts to breed;

Where helping weaker sort, the nobler beasts

(As tigers, leopards, bears, and lions’ seed)

Disdain’d with this, in deserts sought their rests:

Where famine ravin taught their hungry chests,

That craftily he forc’d them to do ill,

Which being done, he afterwards would kill.

{518}

For murders done, which never erst was seen,

By those great beasts, as for the weaker’s good,

He chose themselves his guarders for to been.

’Gainst those of might, of whom in fear they stood,

As horse, and dog, not great, but gentle blood:

Blithe were the common cattle of the field,

Tho’ when they saw their foe’n of greatness kill’d.

But they or spent, or made of slender might,

Then quickly did the meaner cattle find,

The great beams gone, the house on shoulder’s light:

For by and by the horse fair bits did bind:

The dog was in a collar taught his kind.

As for the gentle birds like case might rue,

When falcon they, and goss-hawk saw in mew.

Worst fell to smallest birds, and meanest herd,

Whom now his own, full like his own he used.

Yet first but wool, or feathers off he tear’d:

And when they were well us’d to be abused:

For hungry teeth their flesh with teeth he bruised:

At length for glutton taste he did them kill:

At last for sport their silly lives did spill.

But yet, O man, rage not beyond thy need:

Deem it not glory to swell in tyranny.

Thou art of blood, joy not to see things bleed:

Thou fearest death: think they are loth to die.

A plaint of guiltless hurt doth pierce the sky.

And you poor beasts in patience bide your hell,

Or know your strengths, and then you shall do well.

Thus did I sing and pipe eight sullen hours

To sheep, whom love, not knowledge, made to hear,

Now fancy’s fits, now fortune’s baleful flowers:

But then I homeward call’d my lambkins dear;

For to my dimmed eyes began to appear

The night grown old, her black head waxen grey,

Sure shepherd’s sign, that morn should soon fetch day.

According to the nature of divers ears, divers judgments soon

followed: some praising his voice, others his words fit to frame a

pastoral style, others the strangeness of the tale, and scanning what

he should mean by it. But old Geron, who had borne him a grudge ever

since in one of their eclogues he had taken him up over-bitterly, took

hold of this occasion to make his revenge, and said, he never saw a

thing worse proportioned, than to bring in a {519} tale of he knew not

what beasts at such a sport-meeting, when rather some song of love, or

matter for joyful melody was to be brought forth. “But,” said he,

“this is the right conceit of young men, who think then they speak

wiseliest, when they cannot understand themselves.” But little did the

melancholic shepherd regard either his dispraises, or the other’s

praises, who had set the foundation of his honour there, where he was

most despised. And therefore he returning again to the train of his

desolate pensiveness, Geron invited Histor to answer him in

eclogue-wise; who indeed having been long in love with the fair Kala,

and now by Lalus over-gone, was grown into a detestation of marriage.

But thus it was.

GERON and HISTOR

GERON

In faith, good Histor, long is your delay,

From holy marriage, sweet and surest mean:

Our foolish lust in honest rules to stay,

I pray you do to Lalus’ sample lean:

Thou seest how frisk, and jolly now he is,

That last day seem’d, he could not chew a bean.

Believe me man, there is no greater bliss,

Than is the quiet joy of loving wife:

Which whoso wants, half of himself doth miss.

Friend without change, playfellow without strife,

Food without fullness, counsel without pride,

Is this sweet doubling of our single life.

HISTOR

No doubt, to whom so good chance did betide,

As for to find a pasture strewed with gold,

He were a fool if there he did not bide.

Who would not have a Phoenix if he could:

The humming wasp if it had not a sting,

Before all flies the wasp accept I would;

But this bad world, few golden fields doth bring;

Phoenix but one, of crows we millions have.

The wasp seems gay, but is a cumbrous thing.

If many Kala’s our Arcadia gave,

Lalus’ example I would soon ensue,

And think, I did myself from sorrow save.

But of such wives we find a slender crew;

Shrewdness so stirs, pride so puffs up the heart,

They seldom ponder what to them is due.

With meagre looks, as if they still did smart

Puling or whimpering, or else scolding flat,

{520}

Make home more pain than following of the cart.

Either dull silence, or eternal chat;

Still contrary to what her husband says;

If he do praise the dog, she likes the cat.

Austere she is, when he would honest plays;

And gamesome then, when he thinks on his sheep,

She bids him go, and yet from journey stays,

She war doth ever with his kinsfolk keep,

And makes them fremb’d, who friends by nature are,

Envying shallow toys with malice deep.

And if forsooth there come some new found ware,

The little coin his sweating brows have got,

Must go for that if for her lowers he care:

Or else; Nay faith, mine is the luckiest lot,

That ever fell to honest woman yet:

No wife but I hath such a man, god wot:

Such is their speech, who be of sober wit:

But, who do let their tongues show well their rage,

Lord, what bywords they speak, what spite they spit?

The house is made a very loathsome cage,

Wherein the bird doth never sing, but cry.

With such a will as nothing can assuage.

Dearly their servants do their wages buy,

Revil’d for each small fault, sometimes for none:

They better live that in a jail do lie

Let other fouler sports away be blown,

For I seek not their shame, but still methinks

A better life it is to live alone.

GERON

Who for such fickle fear from virtue shrinks,

Shall in his life embrace no worthy thing:

No mortal man the cup of surety drinks.

The heav’ns do not good haps in handfuls bring,

But let us pick our good from out much bad:

That still our little world may know his king.

But certainly so long we may be glad,

While that we do what nature doth require,

And for th’ event we never ought be sad.

Man oft is plagu’d with air, is burnt with fire,

In water drown’d, in earth his burial is:

And shall we not therefore their use desire?

Nature above all things requireth this,

That we our kind do labour to maintain:

Which drawn-out line doth hold all human bliss.

Thy father justly may of thee complain

If thou do not repay his deeds for thee,

In granting unto him a grandsire’s gain.

{521}

Thy Commonwealth may rightly grieved be,

Which must by this immortal be preserved,

If thus thou murder thy posterity.

His very being he hath not deserved,

Who for a self-conceit will that forbear,

Whereby that being, aye must be, conserved.

And God forbid women such cattle were

As you paint them: but well in you I find,

No man doth speak aright who speaks in fear,

Who only sees the ill is worse than blind.

These fifty winters married have I been;

And yet find no such faults in womankind.

I have a wife worthy to be a queen,

So well she can command, and yet obey:

In ruling of a house so well she’s seen.

And yet in all this time betwixt us twa,

We wear our double yoke of such content,

That never passed foul word, I dare well say:

But these are your love toys, which still are spent

In lawless games, and love not as you should,

But with much study learn late to repent.

How well last day before our prince you could

Blind Cupid’s works with wonder testify?

Yet now the root of him abase you would.

Go to, go to, and Cupid now apply,

To that where thou thy Cupid may’st avow,

And thou shalt find in women virtues lie,

Sweet supple minds which soon to wisdom bow

Where they by wisdom’s rule directed are,

And are not forc’d fond thraldom to allow.

As we to get are fram’d, so they to spare:

We made for pain, our pains they made to cherish:

We care abroad, and they of home have care,

O Histor, seek within thyself to flourish:

Thy house by thee must live, or else be gone:

And then who shall the name of Histor nourish?

Riches of children pass a prince’s throne;

Which touch the father’s heart with secret joy,

When without shame he saith, “These be mine own.”

Marry therefore, for marriage will destroy

Those passions which to youthful head do climb,

Mothers and nurses of all vain annoy.

HISTOR

Perchance I will, but now methinks it time

To go unto the bride, and use this day,

To speak with her while freely speak we may.

{522}

He spoke these words with such affection, as a curious eye might

easily have perceived he liked Thyrsis’ fortune better than he loved

his person. But then indeed did all arise, and went to the women,

where spending all the day, and good part of the night in dancing,

carolling and wassailing; lastly, they left Thyrsis, where he long

desired to be left, and with many unfeigned thanks returned every man

to his home. But some of them having to cross the way of the two

lodges, might see a lady making doleful lamentation over a body which

seemed dead unto them. But methinks Dametas cries unto me, if I come

not the sooner to comfort him, he will leave off his golden work, that

hath already cost him so much labour and longing.

[End of Book III]

ARCADIA