part in this royal pageant, so having continued him still an actor,

now that all things were grown ripe for an end, made his folly the

instrument of revealing that which far greater cunning had sought to

conceal. For so it fell out that Dametas having spent the whole day in

breaking up the cumbersome work of the pastor Dorus, and feeling in

all his labour no pain so much as that his hungry hopes received any

stay, having with the price of much sweat and weariness gotten up the

huge stone, which he thought should have such a golden lining, the

good man in the great bed that stone had made, found nothing but these

two verses written upon a broad piece of vellum.

Who hath his hire, hath well his labour plac’d;

Earth thou didst seek, and store of Earth thou hast.

What an inward discontentment it was to master Dametas, to find his

hope of wealth turned to poor verses, for which he never cared much,

nothing can describe, but either the feeling in one’s self the state

of such a mind Dametas had, or at least the bethinking what was

Midas’s fancy, when after the great pride he conceived to be made

judge between the Gods, he was rewarded with the ornament of an ass’s

ears. Yet the deep apprehension he had received of such riches, could

not so suddenly lose the colour that had so thoroughly dyed his thick

brain, but that he turned and tossed the poor bowels of the innocent

earth, till the {524} coming on of the night, and the tediousness of

his fruitless labour made him content rather to exercise his

discontentation at home than there. But forced he was, his horse being

otherwise burdened with digging instruments, to return as he came,

most part of the way on foot, with such grudging lamentations as a

nobler mind would, but more nobly, make for the loss of his mistress.

For so far had he fed his foolish soul with the expectation of that

which he reputed felicity, that he no less accounted himself

miserable, than if he had fallen from such an estate his fancy had

embraced. So then home again went Dametas, punished in conceit, as in

conceit he had erred, till he found himself there from a fancied loss

fallen to essential misery: for entering into his house three hours

before night, instead of the lightsome countenance of Pamela, which

gave such an inward decking to that lodge, as proudest palaces might

have cause to envy it, and of the grateful conversation of Dorus,

whose witty behaviour made that loneliness to seem full of good

company, instead of the loud scolding of Miso, and the busy rumbling

up and down of Mopsa, which though they were so short, as quite

contrary to the others’ praiseworthiness, yet were they far before

them in filling of a house, he found nothing but a solitary darkness,

which as naturally it breeds a kind of irksome ghastfulness, so it was

to him a most present terror, remembering the charge he had left

behind, which he well knew imported no less than his life unto him.

Therefore lighting a candle, there was no place a mouse could have

dwelled in but that he with quaking diligence sought into. But when he

saw he could see nothing of that he most cared for, then became he the

right pattern of a wretch dejected with fear: for crying and howling,

knocking his head to the wall, he began to make pitiful complaints,

where nobody could hear him: and, with too much dread he should not

recover her, leave all consideration how to recover her. But at length

looking like a she-goat when she casts her kid, for very sorrow he

took in his own behalf, out of the lodge he went running as hard as he

could, having now received the very form of hanging into his

consideration. Thus running, as a man that would gladly have run from

himself, it was his foolish fortune to espy, by the glimmering light

the moon did then yield him, one standing aloft among the boughs of a

fair ash. He that would have asked counsel at that time of a dog, cast

up his face, as if his tooth had been drawing; and with much bending

his sight, perceived it was Mopsa, fitly seated there for her wit and

dignity. There, I will not say with joy, for how could he taste of

joy, whose imagination was fallen from a palace to the gallows? But

yet with some refreshing of comfort, in hopes he should learn better

tidings of her, he began to cry out, {525} “O Mopsa, my beloved

chicken, here am I thine own father Dametas, never in such a

towardness of hanging if thou canst not help me.” But never a word

could his eloquence procure of Mopsa, who indeed was there attending

for greater matters. This was yet a new burden to poor Dametas, who

thought all the world was conspiring against him, and therefore with a

silly choler he began another tune. “Thou vile Mopsa,” said he, “now

the vengeance of my fatherly curse overthwart thee if though do not

straightways answer me.” But neither blessing nor cursing could

prevail. Mopsa, who was now great with child with the expectation of

her may-game hopes did long to be delivered with the third time of

being named. Which by and by followed, for Dametas rubbing his elbow,

stamping and whining, seeing neither of these take place, he began to

throw stones at her, and withal to conjure her by the name of hellish

Mopsa. But when he had named her the third time, no chime can more

suddenly follow the striking of a clock, than she verily thinking it

was the god that used her father’s voice, throwing her arms abroad,

and not considering that she was muffled upon so high a tree, came

fluttering down like a hooded hawk, likely enough to have broken her

neck but that the tree full of boughs tossed her from one bough to

another, and lastly, well bruised, brought her to receive an

unfriendly salutation of the earth. Dametas, as soon as she was down,

came running to her, and finding her so close wrapt, pulled off the

scarlet cloak, in good time for her, for with the soreness of the

fall, if she had not had breath given her, she had delivered a foolish

soul to Pluto.

But when Dametas began afresh to desire his daughter not to forget the

pains he had taken for her in her childhood, which he was sure she

could remember, and to tell where Pamela was. “O good Apollo,” said

Mopsa, “if ever thou didst bear love to Phaeton’s mother let me have a

king to my husband.” “Alas, what speakest thou of Phaeton?” said

Dametas. “If by thy circumspect means I find not out Pamela, thy

father will be hanged to-morrow.” “It is no matter though he be

hanged,” answered Mopsa, “do but thou make Dorus a king, and let him

be my husband, good Apollo, for my courage doth much prick me toward

him.” “Ah Mopsa,” cried out Dametas, “where is thy wit? Dost thou not

know thy father? How hast thou forgotten thyself?” “I do not ask wit

of thee, mine own God,” said she, “but I see thou wouldst have me

remember my father, and indeed forget myself. No, no, a good husband.”

“Thou shalt have thy fill of husbands,” said Dametas, “and do but

answer me my question.” “O I thank thee,” said Mopsa, “with all my

heart heartily, but let them be all kings.” Dametas seeing no other

{526} way prevail, fell down on his knees, “Mopsa, Mopsa,” said he,

“do not thus cruelly torment me; I am already wretched enough, alas!

either help me, or tell me thou canst not.” She that would not be

behind Apollo in courtesy, kneeled down on the other side; “I will

never leave tormenting thee,” said Mopsa, “until thou hast satisfied

my longing; but I will proclaim thee a promise-breaker, that even

Jupiter shall hear it.” “Now by the fostering thou hast received in

this place, save my life,” said Dametas. “Now by the fair ash,”

answered Mopsa, “where thou didst receive so great a good turn, grant

post haste to my burning fancy.” “O where is Pamela?” said Dametas. “O

a lusty husband,” said Mopsa. Dametas, who now verily assured himself

his daughter was mad, began utterly to despair of his life; and

therefore amazedly catching her in his arms, to see whether he could

bring her to herself, he felt the weight of a great cudgel light upon

his shoulder, and for the first greeting he knew his wife Miso’s

voice, by the calling him ribald villain, and asking him whether she

could not serve his turn as well as Charita? For Miso having,

according to Dorus’s counsel, gone to Mantinea, and there harboured

herself in an old acquaintance’s house of hers, as soon as ten of the

clock had stricken (where she had remained closely all that while, I

think with such an amiable cheer, as when jealous Juno sat

cross-legged to hinder the child-birth of her husband’s love) with

open mouth she went to the magistrate appointed over such matters, and

there, with the most scolding invective, her rage rather than

eloquence could bring forth, she required his aid to take Dametas, who

had left his duty to the king and his daughter, to commit adultery in

the house of Charita’s uncle, in the Oudemian Street. But neither was

the name of Charita remembered, nor any such street known. Yet such

was the general mislike all men had of Dametas’s unworthy advancement,

that every man was glad to make himself a minister of that which might

redound to his shame; and therefore, with panic cries and laughters,

there was no suspected place in all the city but was searched for

under the title of Dametas, Miso ever foremost, encouraging them with

all the shameful blazings of his demeanour, increasing the sport of

hunting her husband, with her diligent barking, till at length, having

done both him and herself as much infamous shame as such a tongue in

such an action might perform, in the end not being able to find a

thing that was not, to her mare again she went, having neither

suspicion nor rage anything mitigated. But, leaving behind her a

sufficient comedy of her tragical fancies, away homeward she came,

imputing the not finding her husband, to any chance rather than to his

innocency. For her heart being apt to receive and nourish a bitter

thought, it had so swallowed {527} up a determinate condemnation, that

in the very anatomy of her spirits one should have found nothing but

devilish disdain, and hateful jealousy. In this sort grunting out her

mischievous spite, she came by the tree, even as Dametas was making

that ill-understood intercession to his foolish Mopsa. As soon as she

heard her husband’s voice, she verily thought she had her play; and

therefore stealing from her mare as softly as she could, she came

creeping and halting behind him, even as he (thinking his daughter’s

little wits had quite left her great noll) began to take her in his

arms, thinking perchance her feeling sense might call her mind’s parts

unto her. But Miso, who saw nothing but through the choler of

revengeful anger, established upon the fore-judgment of his trespass,

undoubtedly resolving that Mopsa was Charita, Dorus had told her of,

mumping out her hoarse chafe, she gave him the wooden salutation you

heard of; Dametas, that was not so sensible in anything as in blows,

turned up his blubbered face like a great lout new whipped: “Alas!

thou woman,” said he, “what hath thy poor husband deserved to have his

own ill luck loaden with displeasure? Pamela is lost, Pamela is lost.”

Miso still holding on the course of her former fancy, “What tellest

thou me, naughty varlet, of Pamela; Dost thou think that doth answer

me for abusing the laws of marriage? Have I brought thee children,

have I been a true wife unto thee, to be despised in mine old age?”

And ever among she would sauce her speeches with such bastinadoes,

that poor Dametas began now to think, that either a general madding

was fallen, or else that all this was but a vision. But as for visions

the smart of the cudgel put out of his fancy; and therefore again

turning to his wife, not knowing what in the world she meant, “Miso,”

said he, “hereafter thou mayest examine me, do but now tell me what is

become of Pamela.” “I will first examine this drab,” said she, and

withal let fall her staff as hard as she could upon Mopsa, still

taking her for Charita. But Mopsa that was already angry, thinking

that she had hindered her from Apollo, leaped up and caught her by the

throat, like to have strangled her, but that Dametas from a condemned

man was fain to become a judge, and part this fray, such a picture of

rude discord, where each was out with the other two. And then getting

the opportunity of their falling out to hold himself in surety, who

was indeed the veriest coward of the three, he renewed his earnest

demand of them.

But it was a sport to see, how the former conceits Dorus had printed

in their imaginations, kept still such dominion in them, that Miso,

though now she found and felt it was her daughter Mopsa, yet did

Charita continually pass through her thoughts, {528} which she uttered

with such crabbed questions to Dametas, that he not possibly

conceiving any part of her doubt, remained astonished, and the

astonishment increased her doubt. And as for Mopsa, as first she did

assuredly take him to be Apollo, and thought her mother’s coming did

but mar the bargain: so now much talking to and fro had delivered so

much light into the misty mould of her capacity, as to know him to be

her father. Yet remained there such footsteps of the foretaken opinion

that she thought verily her father and mother were hasted thither to

get the first wish. And therefore to whatsoever they asked of her, she

would never answer, but embracing the tree, as if she feared it had

been running away, “Nay,” says she, “I will have the first wish, for I

was here first;” which they understood no more than Dametas did what

Miso meant by Charita; till at length with much urging them, being

indeed better able to persuade both, than to meet hand to hand with

either, he prevailed so much with them, as to bring them into the

lodge to see what loss their negligence had suffered. Then indeed the

near neighbourhood they bare to themselves, made them leave other

toys, and look into what dangerous plight they were all fallen, as

soon as the king should know his daughter’s escape. And as for the

women, they began afresh to enter into their brawling, whether were in

the fault. But Dametas, who did fear that among his other evils, the

thunderbolt of that storm would fall upon his shoulders, slipped away

from them, but with so maugre a cheer, as might much sooner engender

laughter than pity. “O true Arcadia,” would he say (tearing his hair

and beard, and sometime for too much woe, making unwieldy

former-faults) “how darest thou bear upon thee such a felonious

traitor as I am? And, you false-hearted trees, why would you make no

noise to make her ungracious departure known? Ah Pamela, Pamela, how

often when I brought thee in fine poesies of all coloured flowers,

wouldst thou clap me on the cheek, and say thou wouldst be one day

even with me? Was this thy meaning, to bring me to an even pair of

gallows? ah ill-taught Dorus, that camest hither to learn good manners

of me? did I ever teach thee to make thy master sweat out his heart

for nothing, and in the meantime to run away with thy mistress? O my

dun cow, I did think some evil was towards me ever since the last day

thou didst run away from me, and held up thy tail so pitifully: did I

not see an eagle kill a cuckoo, which was a plain foretoken unto me,

Pamela should be my destruction? O wise Miso, if I durst say it to thy

face, why didst thou suspect thy husband that loveth a piece of cheese

better than a woman? and thou little Mopsa, that shall inherit the

shame of thy father’s death, was it time for thee to climb trees,

which should so shortly be my best burial? O that {529} I could live

without death, or die before I were aware! O heart, why hast thou no

hands at commandment to dispatch thee? O hands, why want you a heart

to kill this villain?” In this sort did he inveigh against everything,

sometimes thinking to run away, while it was yet night: but he that

had included all the world within his sheep-cote, thought that worse

than any death; sometime for dread of hanging he meant to hang

himself; finding, as indeed it is, that fear is far more painful to

cowardice, than death to a true courage.

But his fingers were nothing nimble in that action, and anything was

let enough thereto, he being a true lover of himself without any

rival. But, lastly, guided by a far greater constellation than his

own, he remembered to search the other lodge, where it might be Pamela

that night had retired herself. So thither with trembling hams he

carried himself; but employing his double key, which the king for

special credit had unworthily bestowed upon him, he found all the

gates so barred, that his key could not prevail, saving only one trap

door which went down into the vault by the cellar, which as it was

unknown of Pyrocles, so had he left it unregarded. But Dametas, that

ever knew the buttery better than any other place, got in that way,

and passing softly to Philoclea’s chamber, where he thought most

likely to find Pamela; the door being left open, he entered in, and by

the light of the lamp he might discern one on the bed by her; which

although he took to be Pamela, yet thinking no surety enough in a

matter touching his neck, he went hard to the bedside of these

unfortunate lovers, who at that time being not much before the break

of day (whether it were they were so divinely surprised, to bring this

whole matter to the destined conclusion, or that the unresistable

force of their sorrows had overthrown the wakeful use of their senses)

were as then possessed with a mutual sleep, yet not forgetting with

viny embracements to give any eye a perfect model of affection. But

Dametas looking with the lamp in his hand, but neither with such a

face nor mind upon these excellent creatures, as Psyche did upon her

unknown lover, and giving every way freedom to his fearful eyes, did

not only perceive it was Zelmane, and therefore much different from

the lady he sought: but that this same Zelmane did more differ from

the Zelmane he and others had ever taken her for, wherein the change

of her apparel chiefly confirmed his opinion; satisfied with that, and

not thinking it good to awake the sleeping lion, he went down again,

taking with him Pyrocles’s sword (wherewith upon his slight under-suit

Pyrocles came only apparelled thither) being sure to leave no weapon

in the chamber, and so making the doors as fast as he could on the

outside, hoping with the revealing of this, as he {530} thought

greater fault, to make his own the less, or at least that this injury

would so fill the king’s head, that he should not have leisure to

chastise his negligence (like a fool, not considering, that the more

rage breeds the crueller punishment), he went first into the king’s

chamber, and not finding him there, he ran down crying with open

mouth, the king was betrayed, and that Zelmane did abuse his daughter.

The noise he made, being a man of no few words, joined to the yelping

sound of Miso, and his unpleasant inheritrix, brought together some

number of the shepherds, to whom he without any regard of reserving it

for the king’s knowledge, spattered out the bottom of his stomach,

swearing by him that he never knew that Zelmane, whom they had taken

all the while to be a woman, was as arrant a man as himself was,

whereof he had seen sufficient signs and tokens, and that he was as

close as a butterfly with the lady Philoclea.

The poor men jealous of their prince’s honour, were ready with weapons

to have entered the lodge; standing yet in some pause, whether it were

not best, first to hear some news from the king himself, when by the

sudden coming of other shepherds, which with astonished looks ran from

the one cry to the other, their griefs were surcharged with the evil

tidings of the king’s death. Turning therefore all their minds and

eyes that way, they ran to the cave where they said he lay dead, the

sun beginning now to send some promises of coming light, making haste,

I think, to be a spectator of the following tragedies. For Basilius

having passed over the night more happy in contemplation than action,

having had his spirits sublimed with the sweet imagination of

embracing the most desired Zelmane, doubting lest the cave’s darkness

might deceive him in the day’s approach, thought it now season to

return to his wedlock-bed, remembering the promises he had made to

Zelmane, to observe true orders towards Gynecia. Therefore departing,

but not departing without bequeathing by a will of words, sealed with

many kisses, a full gift of all his love and life to his misconceived

bedfellow, he went to the mouth of the cave, there to apparel himself;

in which doing, the motion of his joy could not be bridled from

uttering such like words: “Blessed be thou, O night,” said he, “that

hast with thy sweet wings shrouded me in the vale of bliss, it is thou

that art the first gotten child of time, the day hath been but an

usurper upon thy delightful inheritance, thou invitest all living

things to comfortable rest, thou art the stop of strife, and the

necessary truce of approaching battles.” And therewith he sung these

verses to confirm his former praises.

{531}

O night, the ease of care, the pledge of pleasure,

Desire’s best mean, harvest of hearts affected,

The seat of peace, the throne which is erected,

Of human life to be the quiet measure.

Be victor still of Phoebus’ golden treasure,

Who hath our sight with too much sight infected,

Whose light is cause we have our lives neglected,

Turning all nature’s courses to self displeasure.

These stately stars in their now shining faces,

With senseless sleep, and silence wisdom’s mother,

Witness his wrong, which by the help is eased.

Thou art therefore of these our desert places

The sure refuge; by thee and by no other

My soul is blest, sense joy’d, and fortune raised.

And yet further would his joys needs break forth. “O Basilius,” said

he, “the rest of thy time hath been but a dream unto thee; it is now

only thou beginnest to live, now only thou hast entered into the way

of blissfulness. Should fancy of marriage keep me from this paradise?

or opinion of I know not what promise bind me from paying the right

duties to nature and affection? O who would have thought there could

have been such difference betwixt women? Be jealous no more, O

Gynecia, but yield to the pre-eminence of more excellent gifts,

support thyself with such marble pillars as she doth, deck thy breast

with those alabaster bowls that Zelmane doth; then accompanied with

such a title, perhaps thou mayest recover the possession of my

otherwise inclined love. But alas! Gynecia thou canst not show such

evidence, therefore thy plea is vain.” Gynecia heard all this he said,

who had cast about her Zelmane’s garment, wherein she came thither,

and had followed Basilius to the cave entry, full of inward vexation,

betwixt the deadly accusation of her own guiltiness, and the spiteful

doubt she had Zelmane had abused her. But because of the one side,

finding the king did think her to be Zelmane, she had liberty to

imagine it might rather be the king’s own unbridled enterprise, which

had barred Zelmane, than Zelmane’s cunning deceiving of her; and that

of the other, if she should headily seek a violent revenge, her own

honour might be as much interested, as Zelmane endangered; she fell to

this determination: First with fine handling of the king to settle in

him a perfect good opinion of her, and then as she should learn how

things had passed, to take into herself new devised counsel: but this

being her first action, having given unlooked for attendance to the

king, she heard with what partiality he did prefer her to herself, she

saw in him how much fancy doth {532} not only darken reason, but

beguile sense, she found opinion mistress of the lover’s judgment,

which serving as a good lesson to her good conceit, she went out to

Basilius, setting herself in a grave behaviour and stately silence

before him; until he (who at the first thinking her by so much shadow

as he could see to be Zelmane, was beginning his loving ceremonies)

did now being helped by the peeping light wherewith the morning did

overcome the night’s darkness, know her face and his error, which

acknowledging in himself with starting back from her, she thus with a

modest bitterness spoke unto him: “Alas! my Lord, well did your words

decipher your mind, and well be those words confirmed with this

gesture. Very loathsome must that woman be from whom a man hath cause

to go back; and little better liked is that wife, before whom the

husband prefers them he never knew. Alas! hath my faithful observing

my part of duty made you think yourself ever a whit the more exempted?

hath that which should claim gratefulness, been a cause of contempt?

Is the being mother of Pamela become an odious name unto you? if my

life hitherto led have not avoided suspicion, if my violated truth to

you be deserving of any punishment, I refuse not to be chastised with

the most cruel torment of your displeasure; I refuse not misery,

purchased by mine own merit. Hard I must needs say (although till now

I never thought I should have had cause to say) is the destiny of

womankind, the trial of whose virtue must stand upon the loving of

them that employ all their industry not to be beloved. If Zelmane’s

young years had not had so much gravity hidden under a youthful face,

as your gray hairs have been but the vizor of unfitting youthfulness,

your vicious mind had brought some fruits of repentance, and Gynecia

might then have been with much more right so basely despised.”

Basilius, that was more ashamed to see himself overtaken, than Vulcan

was, when with much cunning he proved himself a cuckold, began to make

certain extravagant excuses: but the matter in itself hardly brooking

any purgation, with the suddenness of the time, which barred any good

conjoined invention, made him sometimes allege one thing, to which by

and by, he would bring in a contrary, one time with flat denial,

another time with mitigating the fault; now brave, then humble, use

such a stammering defensive that Gynecia, the violence of whose sore

indeed ran another way, was content thus to fasten up the last stitch

of her anger. “Well, well, my Lord,” said she, “it shall well become

you to govern yourself, as you may be fit rather to direct me than to

be judged of me, and rather to be a wise master of me, that an

unskilful pleader before me. Remember the wrong you have done, is not

only to me, but to your children whom you {533} had of me: to your

country, when they shall find they are commanded by him that cannot

command his own indecent appetites: lastly, to yourself, since with

these pains you do but build up a house of shame to dwell in: if from

those movable goods of nature (wherewith, in my first youth my royal

parents bestowed me upon you) bearing you children, and increase of

years have withdrawn me, consider I pray you that as you are the cause

of the one, so in the other, time hath not left to work his

never-failing effects in you. Truly, truly, Sir, very untimely are

these fires in you; it is time for us both to let reason enjoy his due

sovereignty. Let us not plant anew those weeds, which by nature’s

course are content to fade.”

Basilius that would rather than his life the matter had been ended,

the best rhetoric he had, was flat demanding pardon of her, swearing

it was the very force of Apollo’s destiny which had carried him thus

from his own bias; but that now like as far travellers were taught to

love their own country, he had such a lesson without book, of

affection unto her, as he would repay the debt of this error with the

interest of a great deal more true honour than ever before he had done

her. “Neither am I to give pardon to you, my Lord,” said she, “nor you

to bear honour to me. I have taken this boldness for the unfeigned

love I owe unto you, to deliver my sorrow unto you; much more for the

care I have of your well-doing, than for any other self-fancy. For

well I know that by your good estate my life is maintained, neither,

if I would, can I separate myself from your fortune. For my part

therefore I claim nothing but that which may be safest for yourself;

my life, will, honour, and whatsoever else, shall be but a shadow of

that body.” How much Basilius’s own shame had found him culpable, and

had already even in soul read his own condemnation, so much did this

unexpected mildness of Gynecia captive his heart unto her, which

otherwise perchance would have grown to a desperate carelessness.

Therefore embracing her, and confessing that her virtue shined in his

vice, he did even with a true resolved mind vow unto her, that as long

as he, unworthy of her, did live, she should be the furthest and only

limit of his affection. He thanked the destinies that had wrought her

honour out of his shame, and that made his own striving to go amiss,

to be the best means ever after to hold him in the right path. Thus

reconciled to Basilius’s great contentation, who began something to

mark himself in his own doings his hard hap guided his eye to the cup

of gold wherein Gynecia had put the liquor meant for Zelmane, and

having failed of that guest, was now carrying it home again. But he

whom perchance sorrow, perchance some long disaccustomed pains, had

made extremely thirsty, took it out of her hands, although she {534}

directly told him both of whom she had it, what the effect of it was,

and the little proof she had seen thereof: hiding nothing from him,

but that she meant to minister it to another patient. But the king,

whose belly had no ears, and much drought kept from the desiring a

taster, finding it not unpleasant to his palate, drank it almost off,

leaving very little to cover the cup’s bottom. But within a while that

from his stomach the drink had delivered to his principal veins his

noisome vapours, first with a painful stretching, and forced yawning,

then with a dark yellowness dying his skin, and a cold deadly sweat

principally about his temples, his body by natural course longing to

deliver his heavy burden to his earthly dam, wanting force in his

knees, which utterly abandoned him, with a heavy fall gave some proof

whether the operation of that unknown potion tended. For, with

pang-like groans, and ghastly turning of his eyes, immediately all his

limbs stiffened, and his eyes fixed, he having had time to declare his

case only in these words: “O Gynecia, I die; have care.” Of what, or

how much further he would have spoken, no man can tell: For Gynecia

having well perceived the changing of his colour, and those other evil

signs, yet had not looked for such a sudden overthrow, but rather had

bethought herself what was best for him, when she suddenly saw the

matter come to that period, coming to him, and neither with any cries

getting a word of him, nor with any other possible means, able to

bring any living action from him; the height of all ugly sorrows did

so horribly appear before her amazed mind, that at the first it did

not only distract all power of speech from her, but almost wit to

consider, remaining as it were quick buried in a grave of miseries.

Her painful memory had straight filled her with the true shapes of all

the fore-past mischiefs; her reason began to cry out against the

filthy rebellion of sinful sense, and to tear itself with anguish for

having made so weak a resistance, her conscience a terrible witness of

the inward wickedness, still nourishing this debateful fire; her

complaint now not having an end to be directed unto, from something to

disburthen sorrow, but a necessary downfall of inward wretchedness.

She saw the rigour of the laws was like to lay a shameful death upon

her, which being for that action undeserved, made it the more

insupportable, and yet in depth of her soul most deserved, made it

more miserable. At length, letting her tongue go as dolorous thoughts

guided it, she thus with lamentable demeanour spoke:

“O bottomless pit of sorrow, in which I cannot contain myself, having

the firebrands of all furies within me, still falling, and yet by the

infiniteness of it never fallen. Neither can I rid myself, being

fettered with the everlasting consideration of it. For {535} whither

should I recommend the protection of my dishonored fall? to the earth?

it hath no life, and waits to be increased by the relics of my shamed

carcass: to men? who are always cruel in their neighbour’s faults, and

make others’ overthrow become the badge of their ill-masked virtue? to

the heavens? O unspeakable torment of conscience, which dare not look

unto them. No sin can enter there, O there is no receipt for polluted

minds. Whither then wilt thou lead this captive of thine, O snaky

despair! Alas, alas, was this the free-holding power that accursed

poison hath granted unto me, that to be held the surer it should

deprive life? was this the folding in mine arms promised, that I

should fold nothing but a dead body, O mother of mine what a dreadful

suck have you given me? O Philoclea, Philoclea, well hath my mother

revenged upon me my unmotherly hating of thee. O Zelmane, to whom yet,

lest any misery should fail me, remain some sparks of my detestable

love, if thou hast, as now alas! now my mind assures me thou hast,

deceived me, there is a fair stage prepared for thee, to see the

tragical end of thy hated lover.” With that word there flowed out two

rivers of tears out of her fair eyes, which before were dry, the

remembrance of her other mischiefs being dried up in a furious fire of

self detestation, love only, according to the tempter of it, melting

itself into those briny tokens of passion. Then turning her eyes again

upon the body, she remembered a dream she had had some nights before,

wherein thinking herself called by Zelmane, passing a troublesome

passage; she found a dead body which told her there should be her only

rest: This no sooner caught hold of her remembrance, than she

determined with herself, it was a direct vision of her fore-appointed

end, took a certain resolution to embrace death, as soon as it should

be offered unto her, and no way seek the prolonging of her annoyed

life. And therefore kissing the cold face of Basilius; “And even so

will I rest,” said she, “and join this faulty soul of mine to thee, if

so much the angry gods will grant me.”

As she was in this plight, the sun now climbing over the horizon; the

first shepherds came by, who seeing the king in that case, and hearing

the noise Dametas made of the Lady Philoclea, ran with the doleful

tidings of Basilius’s death unto him, who presently with all his

company came to the cave’s entry, where the king’s body lay; Dametas

for his part more glad for the hope he had of his private escape, than

sorry for the public loss of his country received for a prince not to

be misliked. But in Gynecia nature prevailed above judgment, and the

shame she conceived to be taken in that order, overcame for that

instant the former resolution; so that as soon as she saw the foremost

of the pastoral troop, the wretched princess ran to have hid her face

in the next woods; but with such {536} a mind, that she knew not

almost herself what she could wish to be the ground of her safety.

Dametas that saw her run away in Zelmane’s upper raiment, and judging

her to be so, thought certainly all the spirits in hell were come to

play a tragedy in these woods, such strange change he saw every way.

The king dead at the cave’s mouth; the queen, as he thought, absent;

Pamela fled away with Dorus; his wife and Mopsa in divers frenzies.

But of all other things Zelmane conquered his capacity, suddenly from

a woman grown to a man; and from a locked chamber gotten before him

into the fields, which he gave the rest quickly to understand; for

instead of doing anything as the exigent required, he began to make

circles, and all those fanatical defences that he had ever heard were

fortification against devils. But the other shepherds who hath both

better wits, and more faith, forthwith divided themselves, some of

them running after Gynecia, and esteeming her running away a great

condemnation of her own guiltiness: others going to their prince, to

see what service was left for them, either in recovery of his life, or

honouring his death. They that went after the queen, had soon

overtaken her, in whom now the first fears were staid, and the

resolution to die had repossessed his place in her mind. But when they

saw it was the queen, to whom besides the obedient duty they owed to

her state, they had always carried a singular love, for her courteous

liberalities, and other wise and virtuous parts, which had filled all

that people with affection and admiration. They were all suddenly

stopped, beginning to ask pardon for their following her in that sort;

and desiring her to be their good lady, as she had ever been. But the

queen, who now thirsted to be rid of herself, whom she hated above all

things; with such an assured countenance as they have, who already

have dispensed with shame and digested the sorrows of death, she thus

said unto them, “Continue, continue, my friends; your doing is better

than your excusing; the one argues assured faith, the other want of

assurance. If you loved your prince, when he was able and willing to

do you much good, which you could not then requite to him; do you now

publish your gratefulness, when it shall be seen to the world, there

are no hopes left to lead you unto it. Remember, remember you have

lost Basilius, a prince to defend you, a father to care for you, a

companion in your joys, a friend in your wants. And if you loved him,

show you hate the author of his loss. It is I, faithful Arcadians,

that have spoiled the country of their protector. I, none but I, was

the minister of his unnatural end. Carry therefore my blood in your

hands, to testify your own innocency, neither spare for my title’s

sake, but consider it was he that so entitled me. And if you think of

any benefits by my means, think {537} with it that I was but the

instrument and he the spring. What, stay ye, shepherds, whose great

shepherd is gone? you need not fear a woman, reverence your lord’s

murderer, nor hath pity of her, who hath no pity of herself.”

With this she presented her fair neck to some by name, others by

signs, desiring them to do justice to the world, duty to their good

king, honour to themselves, and favour to her. The poor men looked one

upon the other, unused to be arbiters in princes’ matters, and being

now fallen into a great perplexity, between a prince dead, and a

princess alive. But once for them she might have gone whither she

would, thinking it a sacrilege to touch her person, when she finding

she was not a sufficient orator to persuade her own death by their

hands; “Well,” said she, “it is but so much more time of misery; for

my part, I will not give my life so much pleasure from henceforward as

to yield to his desire of his own choice of death; since all the rest

is taken away, yet let me excel in misery. Lead me therefore whither

you will; only happy, because I cannot be more wretched.” But neither

so much would the honest shepherds do, but rather with many tears

bemoaned this increase of their former loss, till she was fain to lead

them with a very strange spectacle, either that a princess should be

in the hands of shepherds, or a prisoner should direct her guardians:

lastly, before either witness or accuser, a lady condemn herself to

death. But in such moanful march they went towards the other

shepherds, who in the meantime had left nothing unassayed to revive

the king, but all was bootless: and their sorrow increased the more

they had suffered any hopes vainly to arise. Among other trials they

made to know at least the cause of his end, having espied the unhappy

cup, they gave the little liquor that was left to a dog of Dametas, in

which within a short time it wrought the like effect; although Dametas

did so much to recover him, that for very love of his life he dashed

out his brains. But now altogether, and having Gynecia among them,

who, to make herself the more odious, did continually record to their

minds the access of their loss, they yielded themselves over to all

those forms of lamentation, that doleful images do imprint in the

honest, but over-tender hearts; especially when they think the rebound

of the evil falls to their own smart. Therefore after the ancient

Greek manner, some of them remembering the nobility of his birth,

continued by being like his ancestors; others his shape, which though

not excellent, yet favour and pity drew all things now to the highest

point; others his peaceable government, the thing which most pleaseth

men, resolved to live of their own; others his liberality, which

though it cannot light upon all men, yet all men naturally hoping it

may {538} be, they make it a most amiable virtue. Some calling in

question the greatness of his power, which increased the comparison to

see the present change, having a doleful memory how he had tempered it

with such familiar courtesy among them, that they did more feel the

fruits than see the pomps of his greatness, all with one consent

giving him the sacred titles of good, just, merciful, the father of

the people, the life of his country, they ran about his body, tearing

their beards and garments; some sending their cries to heaven, others

inventing particular howling music; many vowing to kill themselves at

the day of his funeral, generally giving a true testimony that men are

loving creatures when injuries put them not from their natural course:

and how easy a thing it is for a prince by succession, deeply to sink

into the souls of his subjects, a more lively monument than Mausolus’s

tomb. But as with such hearty lamentation, they dispersed among those

words their resounding shrieks, the sun, the perfectest mark of time,

having now gotten up two hours’ journey in his daily changing circle,

their voice helped with the only answering echo, came to the ears of

the faithful and worthy gentleman Philanax: who at that time was

coming to visit the king, accompanied with divers of the worthy

Arcadian lords, who with him had invited the place adjoining for the

more assurance of Basilius’s solitariness, a thing after the late

mutiny he had usually done: and since the princess’s return more

diligently continued; which having now likewise performed, thinking it

as well his duty to see the king, as of a good purpose, being so near,

to receive his further direction: accompanied as above-said he was

this morning coming unto him, when these unpleasant voices gave his

mind an uncertain presage of his near approaching sorrow. For by and

by he saw the body of his dearly esteemed prince, and heard Gynecia’s

lamenting: not such as the turtle-like dove is wont to make for the

over-soon loss of her only beloved mate, but with cursings of her

life, detesting her own wickedness, seeming only therefore not to

desire death, because she would not show a love of anything. The

shepherds, especially Dametas, knowing him to be the second person in

authority, gave forthwith relation unto him, what they knew and had

proved of this dolorous spectacle, besides the other accidents of his

children. But he principally touched with his master’s loss, lighting

from his horse with a heavy cheer, came and kneeled down by him,

where, finding he could do no more than the shepherds had for his

recovery, the constancy of his mind, surprised before he might call

together his best rules, could not refrain such like words. “Ah dear

master,” said he, “what change it hath pleased the Almighty justice to

work in this place. How soon, not to your loss, who having lived long

to nature, {539} and to time longer by your well-deserved glory, but

longest of all in the eternal mansion you now possess. But how soon I

say to our ruin, have you left the frail bark of your estate? O that

the words I in most faithful duty delivered unto you, when you first

entered this solitary course might have wrought as much persuasion in

you, as they sprang from truth in me, perchance your servant Philanax

should not now have cause in your loss to bewail his own overthrow.”

And therewith taking himself: “And indeed evil fitteth it me,” said

he, “to let go my heart to womanish complaints, since my prince being

undoubtedly well, it rather shows love of myself, which makes me

bewail mine own loss. No, the true love must be proved in the honour

of your memory, and that must be showed with seeking just revenge upon

your unjust and unnatural enemies, and far more honourable it will be

for your tomb to have the blood of your murderers sprinkled upon it

than the tears of your friends. And if your soul look down upon this

miserable earth, I doubt not it had much rather your death were

accompanied with well-deserved punishment of the causers of it, than

with the heaping on it more sorrows with the end of them, to whom you

vouchsafed your affection: let them lament that have woven the web of

lamentation; let their own deaths make them cry out for your death,

that were the authors of it.” Therewith carrying manful sorrow and

vindicative resolution in his face, he rose up, so looking on the poor

guiltless princess transported with an unjust justice, that his eyes

were sufficient heralds for him, to denounce a mortal hatred. She,

whom furies of love, firebrands of her conscience, shame of the world,

with the miserable loss of her husband, towards whom now the disdain

of herself bred more love; with the remembrance of her vision,

wherewith she resolved assuredly the gods had appointed that shameful

end to be her resting place, had set her mind to no other way but to

death, used such like speeches, to Philanax, as she had before to the

shepherds; willing him not to look upon her as a woman, but a monster;

not as a queen, but as a traitor to his prince; not as Basilius’s

wife, but as Basilius’s murderer. She told how the world required at

his hands, the just demonstration of his friendship; if he now forgot

his king, he should show he had never loved but his fortune: like

those vermin that suck of the living blood, and leave the body as soon

as it is dead; poor queen needlessly seeking to kindle him, who did

most deadly detest her, which he uttered in this bitter answer.

“Madam,” said he, “you do well to hate yourself, for you cannot hate a

worse creature; and though we feel enough your hellish disposition,

yet we need not doubt you are of counsel to yourself of much worse

than we know. But now fear not; {540} you shall not long be cumbered

with being guided by so evil a soul; therefore prepare yourself, that

if it be possible you may deliver up your spirit so much purer, as you

more wash your wickedness with repentance.” Then having presently

given order for the bringing from Mantinea, a great number of tents;

for the receipt of the principal Arcadians: the manner of that country

being, that where the king died, there should be orders taken for the

country’s government, and in the place any murder was committed, the

judgment should be given there, before the body was buried, both

concurring in this matter, and already great part of the nobility

being arrived, he delivered the queen to a gentleman of great trust;

and as for Dametas, taking from him the keys of both the lodges,

calling him the moth of his king’s estate, and only spot of his

judgment, he caused him, with his wife and daughter, to be fettered up

in as many chains and clogs as they could bear, and every third hour

to be cruelly whipped, till the determinate judgment should be given

of all these matters. That done, having sent already at his coming, to

all the quarters of the country to seek Pamela, although with small

hope of overtaking them, he himself went well accompanied to the

lodge, where the two unfortunate lovers were attending a cruel

conclusion of their long, painful, and late most painful affection.

Dametas’s clownish eyes, having been the only discoverers of

Pyrocles’s stratagem, had no sooner taken a full view of them, which

in some sights would rather have bred anything, than an accusing mind,

and locked the door upon these two young folks, now made prisoners for

love, as before they had been prisoners to love; but that immediately

upon his going down, whether with noise Dametas made, or with the

creeping in of the light, or rather that as extreme grief had procured

his sleep, so extreme care had measured his sleep, giving his senses

very early salve to come to themselves, Pyrocles awaked, and being up,

the first evil handful he had of the ill case wherein he was, was the

seeing himself deprived of his sword, from which he had never

separated himself in any occasion, and even that night first by the

king’s bed, and then there had laid it, as he thought safe: putting

great part of the trust of his well-doing in his own courage so armed.

For indeed the confidence in one’s self is the chief nurse of

magnanimity, which confidence notwithstanding doth not leave the care

of necessary furnitures for it: and therefore of all the Grecians,

Homer doth ever make Achilles the best armed. But that, as I say, was

the first ill token: but by and by he perceived he was a prisoner

before any arrest: for the door which he had left open was made so

fast of the outside, that for all the force he could employ unto it,

he could not undo Dametas’s doing; then {541} went he to the windows,

to see if that way there were any escape for him and his dear lady.

But as vain he found all his employment there, not having might to

break out but only one bar; wherein notwithstanding he strained his

sinews to the uttermost: and that he rather took out to use for other

service, than for any possibility he had to escape; for even then it

was that Dametas having gathered together the first coming shepherds,

did blabber out what he had found in the lady Philoclea’s chamber.

Pyrocles markingly hearkened to all that Dametas said, whose voice and

mind acquaintance had taught him sufficiently to know. But when he

assuredly perceived that his being with the Lady Philoclea was fully

discovered: and by the folly or malice, or rather malicious folly of

Dametas, her honour therein touched in the highest degree: remembering

withal the cruelty of the Arcadian laws, which without exception did

condemn all to death who were found, as Dametas reported of them, in

act of marriage, without solemnity of marriage, assuring himself,

besides the law, the king and the queen would use so much the more

hate against their daughter, as they had found themselves sotted by

him in the pursuit of their love. Lastly, seeing they were not only in

the way of death, but fitly incaged for death, looking with a hearty

grief upon the honour of love, the fellowless Philoclea, whose

innocent soul now enjoying his own goodness did little know the danger

of his ever fair, then sleeping harbour, his excellent wit

strengthened with virtue, but guided by love, had soon described to

himself a perfect vision of their present condition, wherein having

presently cast a resolute reckoning of his own part of the misery, not

only the chief but sole burden of his anguish consisted in the

unworthy case, which was like to fall upon the best deserving

Philoclea. He saw the misfortune, not the mismeaning of his work, was

like to bring that creature to end, in whom the world, as he thought,

did begin to receive honour: he saw the weak judgment of man would

condemn that as death deserving vice in her, which had in troth never

broken the bonds of a true living virtue: and how oft his eye turned

to his attractive adamant, so often did an unspeakable horror strike

his noble heart to consider so unripe years, so faultless a beauty,

the mansion of so pure goodness, should have her youth so untimely cut

off, her natural perfections so unnaturally consumed, her virtue

rewarded with shame: sometimes he would accuse himself of negligence,

that had not more curiously looked to all the house-entries, and yet

could he not imagine the way Dametas was gotten in: and to call back

what might have been, to a man of wisdom and courage, carries but a

vain shadow of discourse; sometimes he could not choose but with a

dissolution of his inward might lamentably {542} consider with what

face he might look upon his, till then, joy Philoclea, when the next

light waking should deliver unto her, should perchance be the last of

her hurtless life. And that the first time she should bend her

excellent eyes upon him, she should see the accursed author of her

dreadful end, and even this consideration more than any other, did so

set itself in his well-disposed mind, that dispersing his thoughts to

all the ways that might be of her safety, finding a very small

discourse in so narrow limits of time and place, at length in many

difficulties he saw none bear any likelihood for her life, but his

death. For then he thought it would fall out, that when they found his

body dead, having no accuser but Dametas, as by his speech he found

there was not, it might justly appear that either Philoclea in

defending her honour, or else he himself in despairing of achieving,

had left his carcass proof of his intent, but witness of her

clearness. Having a small while stayed upon the greatness of his

resolution, and looked to the furthest of it: “Be it so,” said the

valiant Pyrocles, “never life for better cause, nor to better end was

bestowed; for if death be to follow this doing, which no death of mine

could make me leave undone, who is to die so justly as myself? and if

I must die, who can be so fit executioners as mine own hands, which as

they were accessories to the doing, so in killing me they shall suffer

their own punishment?” but then arose there a new impediment; for

Dametas having carried away anything which he thought might hurt as

tender a man as himself, he could find no fit instrument which might

give him a final dispatch: at length making the more haste, least his

lady should awake, taking the iron bar, which being sharper somewhat

at the one end than the other, he hoped, joined to his willing

strength, might break off the feeble thread of mortality. “Truly,”

said he, “fortune thou hast well preserved mine enemy, that will grant

me no fortune but to be unfortunate, nor let me have an easy passage

now I am to trouble thee no more. But,” said he, “O bar blessed in

that thou hast done service to the chamber of the paragon of life,

since thou couldst not help me to make a perfecter escape, yet serve

my turn I pray thee, that I may escape from myself,” therewithal yet

once looking to fetch the last repass of his eyes, and now again

transported with the pitiful case he left her in, kneeling down he

thus prayed.

“O great maker and great ruler of this world,” said he, “to Thee do I

sacrifice this blood of mine, and suffer, Lord, the errors of my youth

to pass away therein, and let not the soul by Thee made, and ever

bending unto Thee, be now rejected of Thee, neither be offended that I

do abandon this body, to the government of which Thou hadst placed me,

without Thy leave; since how can I know {543} but that Thy

unsearchable mind is I should so do, since Thou hast taken from me all

means longer to abide in it? and since the difference stands but in a

short time of dying, Thou that hast taken from me all means longer to

abide in it? and since the difference stands but in a short time of

dying, Thou that hast framed my soul inclined to do good, how can I in

this small space of mine benefit so much all the human kind, as in

preserving Thy perfectest workmanship, their chiefest honour? O

justice itself, howsoever thou determinest of me, let this excellent

innocency not be oppressed? let my life pay her loss, O Lord give me

some sign that I may die with this comfort.” (And paused a little as

if he had hoped for some token) “and whensoever to the eternal

darkness of the earth she doth follow me, let our spirits possess one

place, and let them be more happy in that uniting.” With that word

striking the bar upon his heart-side, with all the force he had, and

falling withal upon it to give the thorougher passage, the bar in

troth was too blunt to do the effect, although it pierced his skin,

and bruised his ribs very sore, so that his breath was almost past

him. But the noise of his fall drove away sleep from the quiet senses

of the dear Philoclea, whose sweet soul had an early salutation of a

deadly spectacle unto her, with so much more astonishment, as the

falling asleep but a little before she had retired herself from the

utmost point of woefulness, and saw now again before her eyes the most

cruel enterprise that human nature can undertake, without discerning

any cause thereof. But the lively print of her affection had soon

taught her not to stay long upon deliberation in so urgent a

necessity; therefore getting with speed her weak, though well accorded

limbs, out of her sweetened bed, as when jewels are hastily pulled out

of some rich coffer, she spared not the nakedness of her tender feet,

but I think borne as fast with desire as fear carried Daphne, she came

running to Pyrocles, and finding his spirits something troubled with

the fall, she put by the bar that lay close to him, and straining him

in her most beloved embracements: “My comfort, my joy, my life,” said

she, “what haste have you to kill your Philoclea with the most cruel

torment that ever lady suffered? Do you not yet persuade yourself that

any hurt of yours is a death unto me; and that your death should be my

hell. Alas! if any sudden mislike of me, for other cause I see none,

have caused you to loathe yourself; if any fault or defect of mine

hath bred this terrible rage in you, rather let me suffer the

bitterness of it, for so shall the deserver be punished, mankind

preserved from such a ruin, and I for my part shall have that comfort,

that I die by the noblest hand that ever drew sword.” Pyrocles,

grieved with his fortune, that he had not in one instant cut off all

such deliberation, thinking his life only reserved to be bound to be

the {544} unhappy newsteller: “Alas,” said he, “my only star, why do

you this wrong to God, yourself, and me, to speak of faults in you?

No, no, most faultless, most perfect lady, it is your excellency that

makes me hasten my desired end; it is the right I owe to the general

nature, that, though against private nature, makes me seek the

preservation of all that she hath done in this age, let me, let me

die. There is no way to save life, most worthy to be conserved, than

that my death be your clearing.” Then did he with far more pain and

backward loathness, than the so near killing himself was, but yet

driven with necessity to make her yield to that he thought was her

safety, make her a short but pithy discourse, what he had heard by

Dametas’s speeches, confirming the rest with a plain demonstration of

their imprisonment. And then sought he a new means of stopping his

breath; but that by Philoclea’s labour, above her force, he was stayed

to hear her. In whom a man might perceive what a small difference in

the working there is, betwixt a simple voidness of evil and a judicial

habit of virtue. For she, not with an unshaken magnanimity, wherewith

Pyrocles weighed and despised death, but with an innocent guiltiness,

not knowing why she should fear to deliver her unstained soul to God,

helped with the true loving of Pyrocles, which made her think no life

without him, did almost bring her mind to as quiet attending all

accidents, as the unmastered virtue of Pyrocles. Yet having with a

pretty paleness, which did leave milken lines upon her rosy cheeks,

paid a little duty to human fear, taking the prince by his hand, and

kissing the wound he had given himself: “O the only life of my life,

and if it fall out so, the comfort of my death,” said she, “far, far

from you be the doing of me such wrong as to think I will receive my

life as a purchase of your death, but well may you make my death so

much more miserable, as it shall anything be delayed after my only

felicity. Do you think I can account of the moment of death, like the

unspeakable afflictions my soul should suffer, so oft as I call

Pyrocles to my mind, which should be as oft as I breathed? Should

these eyes guide my steps, that had seen your murderer? Should these

hands feed me, that had not hindered such a mischief? Should this

heart remain within me, at every pant to count the continual clock of

my miseries? O no, if die we must, let us thank death, he hath not

divided so true a union. And truly, my Pyrocles, I have heard my

father and other wise men say that the killing of one’s self is but a

false colour of true courage, proceeding rather of a fear of a further

evil, either of torment or shame. For if it were not respecting the

harm, that would likewise make him not respect what might be done unto

him: and hope, being of all other the most contrary thing to fear;

this being an utter banishment of hope, it seems to {545} receive his

ground in fear. Whatsoever, would they say, comes out of despair,

cannot bear the title of valour, which should be lifted up to such a

height, that holding all things under itself, it should be able to

maintain his greatness even in the midst of miseries. Lastly, they

would say, God had appointed us captains of these our bodily forts,

which without treason to that majesty, were never to be delivered over

till they were re-demanded.”

Pyrocles, who had that for a law unto him, not to leave Philoclea in

anything unsatisfied, although he still remained in his former

purpose, and knew that time would grow short for it, yet hearing no

noise, the shepherds being as then run to Basilius, with settled and

humble countenance, as a man that should have spoken of a thing that

did not concern himself, bearing even in his eyes sufficient shows,

that it was nothing but Philoclea’s danger which did anything burden

his heart, far stronger than fortune, having with vehement embracings

of her got yet some fruit of his delayed end, he thus answered the

wise innocency of Philoclea. “Lady, most worthy not only of life, but

to be the very life of all things; the more notable demonstrations you

make of love so far beyond my desert, with which it pleaseth you to

overcome fortune, in making me happy: the more am I, even in course of

humanity, to leave that love’s force which I neither can nor will

leave, bound to seek requital’s witness, that I am not ungrateful to

do which, the infiniteness of your goodness being such as I cannot

reach unto it, yet doing all I can, and paying my life, which is all I

have, though it be far, without measure, short of your desert, yet

shall I not die in debt to mine own duty. And truly, the more

excellent arguments you made, to keep me from this passage, imagined

far more terrible than it is, the more plainly it makes me to see what

reason I have, to prevent the loss not only of Arcadia, but all the

face of the earth should receive, if such a tree, which even in his

first spring, doth not only bear most beautiful blossoms, but most

rare fruit, should be so untimely cut off. Therefore, O most truly

beloved lady, to whom I desire for both our goods that these may be my

last words, give me your consent even out of that wisdom which must

needs see, that, besides your unmatched betterness, which perchance

you will not see, it is fitter one die than both. And since you have

sufficiently showed you love me, let me claim by that love you will be

content rather to let me die contentedly than wretchedly, rather with

a clear and joyful conscience than with desperate condemnation in

myself, that I, accursed villain, should be the means of banishing

from the sight of men the true example of virtue. And because there is

nothing left me to be imagined, which I so much desire, as that the

memory of Pyrocles may ever have an allowed place in your wise

judgment, I am {546} content to draw so much breath longer, as by

answering the sweet objections you alleged, may bequeath, as I think,

a right conceit unto you, that this my doing is out of judgment, and

not sprung of passion. Your father, you say, was wont to say, that

this like action doth more proceed of fear of further evil or shame

than of a true courage: truly first, they put a very guessing case,

speaking of them who can never after come to tell with what mind they

did it. And as for my part, I call the immortal truth to witness that

no fear of torment can appal me; who know it is but diverse manners of

apparelling death; and have long learned to set bodily pain but in the

second form of my being. And as for shame, how can I be ashamed of

that for which my well meaning conscience will answer for me to God,

and your unresistable beauty to the world? But to take that argument

in his own force, and grant it done for avoiding of further pain or

dishonour: (for as for the name of fear, it is but an odious title of

a passion, given to that which true judgment performeth) grant, I say,

it is to shun a worse case, and truly I do not see but that true

fortitude, looking into all human things with a persisting resolution,

carried away neither with wonder of pleasing things, nor astonishment

of the unpleasant, doth not yet deprive itself of the discerning the

difference of evil, but rather is the only virtue, which with an

assured tranquility shuns the greater by valiantly entering into the

less. Thus for his country’s safety he will spend his life, for the

saving of a limb he will not niggardly spare his goods; for the saving

of all his body he will not spare the cutting off a limb, where indeed

the weak-hearted man will rather die than see the face of a surgeon,

who might with as good reason say, that the constant man abides the

painful surgery for fear of a further evil: but he is content to wait

for death itself, but neither is true; for neither had the one any

fear, but a well-chosen judgment: nor the other hath any contentment,

but only fear, and not having a heart actively to perform a matter of

pain, is forced passively to abide a greater damage. For to do,

requires a whole heart; to suffer falleth easiliest in the broken

minds. And if in bodily torment thus, much more in shame, wherein

since valour is a virtue, and virtue is ever limited, we must not run

so infinitely as to think the valiant man is willingly to suffer

anything, since the very suffering of some things is a certain proof

of want of courage. And if anything unwillingly, among the chiefest

may shame go; for if honour be to be held dear, his contrary is to be

abhorred, and that not for fear, but of a true election. For which is

the less inconvenient, either the loss of some years more or less

(when once we know our lives be not immortal) or the submitting

ourselves to each unworthy misery which the foolish world may {547}

lay upon us? as for their reason, that fear is contrary to hope,

neither do I defend fear, nor much yield to the authority of hope, to

either of which great inclining shows but a feeble reason which must

be guided by his servants; and who builds not upon hope, shall fear no

earthquake of despair. Their last alleging of the heavenly powers, as

it bears the greatest name, so it is the only thing that at all breeds

any combat in my mind, and yet I do not see but that if God had made

us masters of anything, it is of our own lives out of which, without

doing wrong to anybody, we are to issue at our own pleasure. And the

same argument would as much prevail to say we should for no necessity

lay away from us any of our joints, since they being made of Him,

without His warrant we should not depart from them; or if that may be,

for a greater cause we may pass to a greater degree. And if we be

lieutenants of God in this little castle, do you not think we must

take warning of Him to give over our charge when He leaves us

unprovided of good means to tarry in it?” “No certainly do I not,”

answered the sorrowful Philoclea, “since it is not for us to appoint

that mighty majesty what time He will help us; the uttermost instant

is scope enough for Him to revoke everything to one’s own desire. And

therefore to prejudicate His determination is but a doubt of goodness

in Him Who is nothing but goodness. But when indeed He doth either by

sickness, or outward force lay death upon us, then are we to take

knowledge that such is His pleasure, and to know that all is well that

He doth. That we should be masters of ourselves, we can show at all no

title nor claim; since neither we made ourselves, nor bought

ourselves, we can stand upon no other right but His gift, which He

must limit as it pleaseth Him. Neither is there any proportion betwixt

the loss of any other limb, and that, since the one bends to the

preserving of all, the other to the destruction of all; the one takes

not away the mind from the actions for which it is placed in the

world, the other cuts off all possibility of his working. And truly my

most dear Pyrocles, I must needs protest unto you, that I cannot think

your defence even in rules of virtue sufficient. Sufficient and

excellent it were, if the question were of two outward things, wherein

a man might by nature’s freedom determine, whether he would prefer

shame to pain; present smaller torment, to greater following, or no.

But to this, besides the comparison of the matter’s valour, there is

added of the one part a direct evil doing, which maketh the balance of

that side too much unequal; since a virtuous man without any respect,

whether the grief be less or more, is never to do that which he cannot

assure himself is allowable before the everliving rightfulness; but

rather is to think honours or shames which stand in other men’s true

or false judgments, pains or not pains, which {548} yet never approach

our souls, to be nothing in regard of an unspotted conscience. And

these reasons do I remember, I have heard good men bring in, that

since it hath not his ground in an assured virtue, it proceeds rather

of some other disguised passion.”

Pyrocles was not so much persuaded as delighted, by her well-conceived

and sweetly pronounced speeches: but when she had closed her pitiful

discourse, and as it were sealed up her delightful lips, with the

moistness of her tears, which followed still one another like a

precious rope of pearl, now thinking it high time: “Be it as you say,”

said he, “most virtuous beauty, in all the rest, but never can God

himself persuade me that Pyrocles’s life is not well lost, for to

preserve the most admirable Philoclea. Let that be, if it be possible,

written on my tomb, and I will not envy Codrus’s honour.” With that he

would again have used the bar, meaning if that failed, to leave his

brains upon the wall, when Philoclea now brought to that she most

feared, kneeled down unto him, and embracing so his legs, that without

hurting her (which for nothing he would have done) he could not rid

himself from her, she did with all the conjuring words, which the

authority of love may lay, beseech him he would not now so cruelly

abandon her, he would not leave her comfortless in that misery to

which he had brought her. That then indeed she would even in her soul

accuse him to have most foully betrayed her; that then she would have

cause to curse the time that ever the name of Pyrocles came to her

ears, which otherwise no death could make her do. “Will you leave me,”

said she, “not only dishonoured, as supposed unchaste with you, but as

a murderer of you? Will you give mine eyes such a picture of hell,

before my near approaching death, as to see the murdered body of him I

love more than all the lives nature can give?” With that she swore by

the highest cause of all devotions, that if he did persevere in that

cruel resolution, she would, though untruly, not only confess to her

father that with her consent this act had been committed, but if that

would not serve (after she had pulled out her own eyes made accursed

by such a sight) she would give herself so terrible a death, as she

might think the pain of it would countervail the never dying pain of

her mind. “Now therefore kill yourself to crown this virtuous action

with infamy: kill yourself to make me, whom you say you love, as long

as I after live, change my loving admiration of you to a detestable

abhorring your name. And so indeed you shall have the end you shoot

at: for instead of one death, you shall give me a thousand, and yet in

the meantime, deprive me of the help God may send me.” Pyrocles, even

over-weighed with her so wisely uttered affection, finding her

determination so fixed that his end should but deprive them both of a

present contentment, and not {549} avoid a coming evil (as a man that

ran not into it by a sudden qualm of passion, but by a true use of

reason, preferring her life to his own) now that wisdom did manifest

unto him that way would not prevail, he retired himself with as much

tranquility from it as before he had gone unto it. Like a man that had

set the keeping or leaving of the body as a thing without himself, and

so had thereof a freed and untroubled consideration. Therefore

throwing away the bar from him, and taking her up from the place,

where he thought the consummating of all beauties, very worthily lay,

suffering all his senses to devour up their chiefest food, which he

assured himself they should shortly after for ever be deprived of:

“Well,” said he, “most dear lady, whose contentment I prefer before

mine own, and judgment esteem more than mine own, I yield unto your

pleasure. The gods send you have not won your own loss. For my part

they are my witnesses that I think I do more at your commandment in

delaying my death than another would in bestowing his life. But now,”

said he, “as thus far I have yielded unto you, so grant me in

recompense thus much again, that I may find your love in granting, as

you have found your authority in obtaining. My humble suit is, you

will say I came in by force into your chamber, for so am I resolved

now to affirm, and that will be the best for us both, but in no case

name my name that, whatsoever come of me, my house be not

dishonoured.”

Philoclea fearing lest refusal would turn him back again to his

violent refuge, gave him a certain countenance that might show she did

yield to his request, the latter part whereof indeed she meant for his

sake to perform. Neither could they spend more words together: for

Philanax with twenty of the noblest personages of Arcadia after him,

were come into the lodge, Philanax making the rest to stay below, for

the reverence he bare to womanhood, as stilly as he could came up to

the door, and opening it, drew the eyes of these two doleful lovers

upon him. Philoclea closing again for modesty’s sake, within her bed

the riches of her beauties, but Pyrocles took hold of his bar, minding

at least to die, before the excellent Philoclea should receive any

outrage. But Philanax rested a while upon himself, stricken with

admiration at the goodly shape of Pyrocles, whom before he had never

seen, and withal remembering, besides others, the notable act he had

done, when with his courage and eloquence, he had saved Basilius,

perchance the whole state from utter ruin, he felt a kind of relenting

mind towards him. But when that same thought came waited on with the

remembrance of his master’s death, which he by all probabilities

thought he had been of council unto with the queen, compassion turned

to hateful passion, and left in Philanax a strange medley, {550}

betwixt pity and revenge, betwixt liking and abhorring. “O lord,” said

he to himself, “what wonders doth nature in our time to set wickedness

so beautifully garnished? and that which is strangest, out of one

spring to make wonderful effects both of virtue and vice to issue?”

Pyrocles seeing him in such a muse, neither knowing the man, nor the

cause of coming, but assuring himself it was for no good, yet thought

best to begin with him in this sort. “Gentleman,” said he, “what is

the cause of your coming to my lady Philoclea’s chamber? is it to

defend her from such violence as I might go about to offer unto her?

if it be so, truly your coming is vain, for her own virtue hath been a

sufficient resistance; there needs no strength to be added to so

inviolate chastity, the excellency of her mind makes her body

impregnable. Which for my own part I had soon yielded to confess, with

going out of this place, where I found but little comfort being so

disdainfully received, had I not been, I know not by whom presently

upon my coming hither, so locked into this chamber that I could never

escape hence; where I was fettered in the most guilty shame that ever

man was, seeing what a paradise of unspotted goodness, my filthy

thoughts sought to defile. If for that therefore you come, already I

assure you your errand is performed; but if it be to bring me to any

punishment whatsoever, for having undertaken so inexcusable

presumption; truly I bear such an accuser about me in mine own

conscience, that I willingly submit myself unto it. Only thus much let

me demand of you, that you will be a witness unto the king what you

hear me say, and oppose yourself, that neither his sudden fury, nor

any other occasion may offer any hurt to this lady; in whom you see

nature hath accomplished so much that I am fain to lay mine own

faultiness as a foil of her purest excellency. I can say no more, but

look upon her beauty, remember her blood, consider her years, and

judge rightly of her virtues, and I doubt not a gentleman’s mind will

then be a sufficient instructor unto you, in this, I may term it

miserable chance, happened unto her by my unbridled audacity.”

Philanax was content to hear him out, not for any favour he owed him,

but to see whether he would reveal anything of the original cause and

purpose of the king’s death. But finding it so far from that, that he

named Basilius unto him, as supposing him alive, thinking it rather

cunning than ignorance: “Young man,” said he, “whom I have cause to

hate before I have mean to know, you use but a point of skill by

confessing the manifest smaller fault, to be believed hereafter in the

denial of the greater. But for that matter, all passeth to one end,

and hereafter we shall have leisure by torments to seek the truth, if

the love of the truth itself will not bring you unto it. As for my

Lady Philoclea, if it so fall {551} out as you say, it shall be the

more fit for her years, and comely for the great house that she is

come of, that an ill-governed beauty hath not cancelled the rules of

virtue. But howsoever it be, it is not for you to teach an Arcadian

what reverend duty we owe unto any of that progeny. But,” said he,

“come you with me without resistance, for the one cannot avail, and

the other may procure pity.” “Pity!” said Pyrocles, with a bitter

smiling, disdaining with so currish an answer, “no, no, Arcadian, I

can quickly have pity of myself, and would think my life most

miserable, which should be a gift of thine. Only I demand this

innocent lady’s security, which until thou hast confirmed unto me by

an oath, assure thyself the first that lays hands upon her shall leave

his life for a testimony of his sacrilege.” Philanax, with an inward

scorn, thinking it most manifest they were both, he at least, of

council with the king’s death: “Well,” said he, “you speak much to me

of the king: I do here swear unto you, by the love I have ever borne

him, she shall have no worse howsoever it fall out than her own

parents.” “And upon that word of yours I yield,” said the poor

Pyrocles, deceived by him that meant not to deceive him. Then did

Philanax deliver him into the hands of a nobleman in the company,

everyone desirous to have him in his charge, so much did his goodly

presence, wherein true valour shined, breed a delightful admiration in

all the beholders. Philanax himself stayed with Philoclea, to see

whether of her he might learn some disclosing of his former

conclusion. But she, sweet lady, whom first a kindly shamefulness had

separated from Pyrocles, having been left in a more open view than her

modesty would well bear, then the attending her father’s coming, and

studying how to behave herself towards him for both their safeties,

had called her spirits all within her; now that upon a sudden Pyrocles

was delivered out of the chamber from her, at the first she was so

surprised with the extreme stroke of the woeful sight, that, like

those that in their dreams are taken with some ugly vision, they would

fain cry for help but have no force, so remained she a while quite

deprived not only of speech but almost of any other lively action. But

when indeed Pyrocles was quite drawn from her eyes, and that her vital

strength began to return unto her, now not knowing what they did to

Pyrocles, but, according to the nature of love, fearing the worst,

wringing her hands, and letting abundance of tears be the first part

of her eloquence, bending her amber crowned head over her bedside to

the hard-hearted Philanax. “O Philanax, Philanax,” said she, “I know

how much authority you have with my father: there is no man whose

wisdom he so much esteems, nor whose face he so much reposes upon.

Remember how oft you have promised your service unto me, {552} how oft

you have given me occasion to believe that there was no lady in whose

favour you more desired to remain: and if the remembrance be not

unpleasant to your mind, or the rehearsal unfitting for my fortune,

remember there was a time when I could deserve it. Now my chance is

turned, let not your truth turn. I present myself unto you, the most

humble and miserable suppliant living, neither shall my desire be

great: I seek for no more life than I shall be found worthy of. If my

blood may wash away the dishonour of Arcadia, spare it not, although

through me it hath indeed never been dishonoured. My only suit is, you

will be a mean for me, that while I am suffered to enjoy this life, I

may not be separated from him, to whom the gods have joined me, and

that you determine nothing of him more cruelly than you do of me. If

you rightly judge of what hath passed, wherein the gods, that should

have been of our marriage, are witnesses of our innocencies, then

procure, we may live together. But if my father will not so conceive

of us, as the fault, if any were, was united, so let the punishment be

united also.” There was no man that ever loved either his prince, or

anything pertaining to him, with a truer zeal than Philanax did. This

made him, even to the depth of his heart, receive a most vehement

grief, to see his master made as it were more miserable after death.

And for himself, calling to mind in what sort his life had been

preserved by Philoclea, what time taken by Amphialus, he was like to

suffer a cruel death, there was nothing could have kept him from

falling to all tender pity but the perfect persuasion he had that all

this was joined to the pack of his master’s death, which the

misconceived speech of marriage made him the more believe. Therefore

first muttering to himself such like words: “The violence the

gentleman spoke of, is now turned to marriage: he alleged Mars, but

she speaks of Venus: O unfortunate master! this hath been that fair

devil Gynecia; sent away one of her daughters, prostituted the other,

impoisoned thee, to overthrow the diadem of Arcadia.” But at length

thus unto herself he said: “If your father, Madam, were now to speak

unto, truly there should nobody be found a more ready advocate for you

than myself. For I would suffer this fault, though very great, to be

blotted out of my mind, by your former led life, your benefit towards

myself, and being daughter to such a father. But since among

yourselves you have taken him away, in whom was the only power to have

mercy, you must be clothed in your own working, and look for none

other than that which dead pitiless laws may allot unto you. For my

part, I loved you for your virtue, but now where is that? I loved you

in respect of a private benefit, what is that in comparison of the

public loss? I loved you for your father, unhappy folks you have

robbed the world of him.” These {553} words of her father were so

little understood by the only well-understanding Philoclea, that she

desired him to tell her, what he meant to speak in such dark sort unto

her of her lord and father, whose displeasure was more dreadful unto

her than her punishment: that she was free in her own conscience, she

had never deserved evil of him, no not in this last fact: wherein, if

it pleased him to proceed with patience, he should find her choice had

not been unfortunate. He that saw her words written in the plain table

of her fair face, thought it impossible there should therein be

contained deceit: and therefore so much the more abashed: “Why,” said

he, “Madam, would you have me think, you are not of conspiracy with

the Princess Pamela’s flight, and your father’s death?” With that word

the sweet lady gave a pitiful cry, having straight in her face and

breast abundance of witnesses that her heart was far from any such

abominable consent. “Ah of all sides utterly ruined Philoclea,” said

she, “now indeed I may well suffer all conceit of hope to die in me.

Dear father, where was I that might not do you my last service before,

soon after miserably following you?” Philanax, perceived the

demonstration so lively and true in her that he easily acquitted her

in his heart of that fact, and the more was moved to join with her in

most hearty lamentation. But remembering him, that the burden of the

state, and punishment of his master’s murderers, lay all upon him:

“Well,” said he, “Madam, I can do nothing, without all the states of

Arcadia: what they will determine of you, I know not: for my part your

speeches would much prevail with me, but that I find not how to excuse

your giving over your body to him that for the last proof of his

treason lent his garments to disguise your miserable mother, in the

most vile fact she hath committed. Hard sure will it be to separate

your causes, with whom you have so nearly joined yourself.” “Neither

do I desire it,” said the sweetly weeping Philoclea: “Whatsoever you

determine of him, do that likewise to me, for I know from the fountain

of virtue nothing but virtue could ever proceed, only as you find him

faultless, let him find you favourable, and build not my dishonour

upon surmises.” Philanax, feeling his heart more and more mollifying

unto her, renewed the image of his dead master in his fancy, and using

that for the spurs of his revengeful choler, went suddenly without any

more speech from the desolate lady, to whom now fortune seemed to

threaten unripe death, and undeserved shame among her least evils. But

Philanax leaving good guard upon the lodge, went himself to see the

order of his other prisoners, whom even then as he issued, he found

increased by this unhoped means.

The noble Pamela having delivered over the burden of her fearful

cares, to the natural ease of a well-refreshing sleep, reposed {554}

both mind and body upon the trusted support of her princely shepherd,

when with the braying cries of a rascal company she was robbed of her

quiet, so that at one instant she opened her eyes, and the enraged

Musidorus rose from her, enraged betwixt the doubt, he had what these

men would go about, and the spite he conceived against their

ill-pleasing presence. But the clowns having with their hideous noise

brought them both to their feet, had soon knowledge what guests they

had found, for indeed these were the scummy remnants of those rebels,

whose naughty minds could not trust so much to the goodness of their

prince, as to lay their hangworthy necks upon the constancy of his

promised pardon. Therefore when the rest, who as sheep had but

followed their fellows, so sheepishly had submitted themselves, these

only committed their safety to the thickest part of these desert

woods, who as they were in the constitution of their minds little

better than beasts, so were they apt to degenerate to a beastly kind

of life, having now framed their gluttonish stomachs to have for food

the wild benefits of nature, the uttermost end they had being but to

draw out as much as they could the line of a tedious life. In this

sort vagabonding in those untrodden places, they were guided by the

everlasting justice, using themselves to be punishers of their faults,

and making their own actions the beginning of their chastisements,

unhappily both for him and themselves, to light on Musidorus. Whom as

soon as they saw turned towards them, they full well remembered it was

he, that, accompanied with Basilius, had come to the succour of

Zelmane, and had left among some of them bloody tokens of his valour.

As for Pamela, they had many times seen her. Thus first stirred up

with a rustical revenge against him, and then desire of spoil to help

their miserable wants, but chiefly thinking it was the way to confirm

their own pardon, to bring the princess back unto her father, whom

they were sure he would never have sent so far so slightly accompanied

without any other denouncing of war, set all together upon the worthy

Musidorus. Who being beforehand as much inflamed against them, gave

them so brave a welcome, that the smart of some made the rest stand

further off, crying and prating against him, but like bad curs, rather

barking than closing: he, in the meantime, placing his trembling lady

to one of the pine trees, and so setting himself before her, as might

show the cause of his courage grew in himself, but the effect was only

employed in her defence; the villains that now had a second proof, how

ill-wards they had for such a sword, turned all the course of their

violence into throwing darts and stones, indeed the only way to

overmaster the valour of Musidorus. Who finding them some already

touched, some fall so near his chiefest life Pamela, that in the end

some one or other {555} might hap to do an unsuccourable mischief,

setting all his hope in despair, ran out from his lady among them. Who

straight like so many swine when a hardy mastiff sets upon them,

dispersed themselves. But the first he overtook as he ran away,

carrying his head as far before him, as those manner of runnings are

wont to do, with one blow struck it so clean off, that it falling

betwixt the hands, and the body falling upon it, it made a show as

though the fellow had had great haste to gather up his head again.

Another the speed he made to run for the best game, bare him full butt

against a tree, so that tumbling back with a bruised face, and a

dreadful expectation, Musidorus was straight upon him, and parting

with his sword one of his legs from him, left him to make a roaring

lamentation that his mortar-treading was marred for ever. A third

finding his feet too slow, as well as his hands too weak, suddenly

turned back, beginning to open his lips for mercy. But before he had

well entered a rudely compiled oration, Musidorus’s blade was come

between his jaws into his throat, and so the poor man rested there for

ever with a very evil mouth full of an answer. Musidorus in this

furious chase would have followed some other of these hateful

wretches, but that he heard his lady cry for help, whom three of this

villainous crew had, whilst Musidorus followed their fellows,

compassing about some trees, suddenly come upon and surprised,

threatening to kill her if she cried, and meaning to convey her out of

sight, whilst the prince was making his bloodthirsty chase. But she

that was resolved no worse thing could fall unto her than the being

deprived of him, on whom she had established all her comfort, with a

pitiful cry fetched his eyes unto her: who then thinking so many

weapons thrust into his eyes, as with his eyes he saw bent against

her, made all hearty speed to her succour. But one of them wiser than

his companions, set his dagger to her alabaster throat, swearing if he

threw not away his sword, he would kill her presently. There was never

poor scholar, that having instead of his book some playing toy about

him, did more suddenly cast it from him, at the child-feared presence

of a cruel schoolmaster, than the valiant Musidorus discharged himself

of his only defence, when he saw it stood upon the instant point of

his lady’s life. And holding up his noble hands to so unworthy

audience, “O Arcadians, it is I that have done you the wrong, she is

your princess,” said he, “she never had will to hurt you, and you see

she hath no power. Use your choler upon me that have better deserved

it, do not yourselves the wrong to do her any hurt, which in no time

or place will ever be forgiven you.”

They that yet trusted not to his courtesy, bid him stand further off

from his sword, which he obediently did. So far was love above all

other thoughts in him. Then did they call together the {556} rest of

their fellows, who though they were few, yet according to their

number, possessed many places. And then began these savage senators to

make a consultation what they should do: some wishing to spoil them of

their jewels and let them go on their journey, for that if they

carried them back, they were sure they should have least part of their

prey, others preferring their old homes to anything, desired to bring

them to Basilius as pledges of their surety. And there wanted not

which cried, the safest way was to kill them both; to such an unworthy

thraldom were these great and excellent personages brought. But the

most part resisted to the killing of the princes, foreseeing their

lives would never be safe after such a fact committed: and began to

wish rather the spoil than death of Musidorus: when the villain that

had his leg cut off came crawling towards them, and being helped to

them by one of the company, began with a groaning voice, and a

disfigured face, to demand the revenge of his blood, which since he

had spent with them in their defence, it were no reason he should be

suffered by them to die discontented. The only contentment he required

was, that by their help with his own hands he might put his murderer

to some cruel death: he would fain have cried more against Musidorus,

but that the much loss of blood helped on with this vehemency, choked

up the spirits of his life, leaving him to make betwixt his body and

soul an ill-favoured partition. But they seeing their fellow in that

sort die before their faces, did swell in new mortal rages: all

resolved to kill him, but now only considering what manner of terrible

death they should invent for him. Thus was a while the agreement of

his slaying broken by disagreement of the manner of it; and extremity

of cruelty. At length they were resolved every one to have a piece of

him, and to become all as well hangmen as judges: when Pamela tearing

her hair, and falling down among them, sometimes with all the sort of

humble prayers, mixed with promises of great good turns, which they

knew her state was able to perform, sometimes threatening them, that

if they killed him and not her, she would not only revenge it upon

them, but upon all their wives and children: bidding them consider

that though they might think she was come away in her father’s

displeasure, yet they might be sure he would ever show himself a

father; that the gods would never, if she lived, put her in so base

estate but that she should have ability to plague such as they were:

returning afresh to prayers and promises, and mixing the same again

with threatenings, brought them who were now grown colder in their

fellow’s cause, who was past aggravating the matter with his cries, to

determine with themselves there was no way, but either to kill them

both, or save them both, as for the killing, already they having

answered themselves {557} that that was a way to make them citizens of

the woods for ever, they did in fine conclude they would return them

back again to the king, which they did not doubt would be cause of a

great reward, besides their safety from their fore-deserved

punishment.

Thus having either by fortune or the force of these two lovers’ inward

working virtue, settled their cruel hearts to this gentler course,

they took the two horses, and having set upon them their princely

prisoners, they returned towards the lodge. The villains having decked

all their heads with laurel branches, as thinking they had done a

notable act, singing and shouting, ran by them, in hope to have

brought them the same day again to the king. But the time was so far

spent that they were forced to take up that night’s lodging in the

midst of the woods. Where while the clowns continued their watch about

them, now that the night, according to his dark nature, did add a kind

of desolation to the pensive hearts of these two afflicted lovers,

Musidorus taking the tender hand of Pamela, and bedewing it with his

tears, in this sort gave an issue to the swelling of his heart’s

grief. “Most excellent lady,” said he, “in what case think you am I

with myself, how unmerciful judgments do I lay upon my soul, now that

I know not what god hath so reversed my well-meaning enterprise, that,

instead of doing you that honour which I hoped, and not without reason

hoped, Thessalia should have yielded unto you, am now like to become a

wretched instrument of your discomfort? alas! how contrary an end have

all the inclinations of my mind taken: my faith falls out a treason

unto you, and the true honour I bear you is the field wherein your

dishonour is like to be sown! but I invoke that universal and only

wisdom, which examining the depth of hearts, hath not his judgment

fixed upon the event, to bear testimony with me that my desire, though

in extremest vehemency, yet did not so overcharge my remembrance, but

that as far as man’s will might be extended I sought to prevent all

things that might fall to your hurt. But now that all the evil

fortunes of evil fortune have crossed my best framed intent, I am most

miserable in that, that I cannot only not give you help, but, which is

worst of all, am barred from giving you counsel. For how should I open

my mouth to counsel you in that, wherein by my counsel you are most

undeservedly fallen?” The fair and wise Pamela, although full of cares

of the unhappy turning of this matter, yet seeing the grief of

Musidorus only stirred for her, did so tread down all other motions

with the true force of virtue that she thus answered him, having first

kissed him, which before she had never done, love commanding her,

which doubted how long they should enjoy one another, or of a lively

spark of nobleness, to descend in most favour to one when he is lowest

{558} in affliction. “My dear and ever dear Musidorus,” said she, “a

greater wrong do you to yourself, that will torment you thus with

grief for the fault of fortune. Since a man is bound no further to

himself than to do wisely: chance is only to trouble them that stand

upon chance. But greater is the wrong, at least, if anything that

comes from you may bear the name of wrong, you do unto me, to think me

either so childish as not to perceive your faithful faultlessness, or

perceiving it, so basely disposed as to let my heart be overthrown,

standing upon itself in so unspotted a pureness. Hold for certain,

most worthy Musidorus, it is yourself I love, which can no more be

diminished by these showers of evil hap than flowers are marred with

the timely rains of April. For how can I want comfort that have the

true living comfort of thy unblemished virtue? And how can I want

honour, as long as Musidorus, in whom indeed honour is, doth honour

me? Nothing bred from myself can discomfort me; and fools’ opinions I

will not reckon as dishonour.” Musidorus looking up to the stars, “O

mind of mine!” said he, “the living power of all things, which dost

with all these eyes behold our ever-varying actions, accept into thy

favourable ears this prayer of mine: if I may any longer hold out this

dwelling on the earth, which is called a life, grant me ability to

deserve at this lady’s hands the grace she hath showed unto me: grant

me wisdom to know her wisdom, and goodness so to increase my love of

her goodness, that all mine own chosen desires, be to myself but

second to her determination. Whatsoever I be let it be to her service:

let me herein be satisfied, that for such infinite favours of virtue I

have some way wrought her satisfaction. But if my last time

approacheth, and that I am no longer to be amongst mortal creatures,

make yet my death serve her to some purpose, that hereafter she may

not have cause to repent herself that she bestowed so excellent a mind

upon Musidorus.”

Pamela could not choose but accord the conceit of their fortune to

these passionate prayers, in so much that their constant eyes yielded

some tears, which wiping from her face with Musidorus’s hand, speaking

softly unto him, as if she had feared more anybody should be witness

of her weakness, than of anything else she had said, “You see,” said

she, “my prince and only lord, what you work in me by your too much

grieving for me. I pray you think I have no joy but in you, and if you

fill that with sorrow, what do you leave for me? What is prepared for

us we know not, but that with sorrow we cannot prevent it, we know.

Now let us turn from these things, and think you how you will have me

behave myself towards you in this matter.” Musidorus finding the

authority of her speech confirmed with direct necessity, the {559}

first care came to his mind was of his dear friend and cousin

Pyrocles; with whom long before he had concluded what names they

should bear, if upon any occasion they were forced to give themselves

out for great men, and yet not make themselves fully known. Now

fearing, lest if the princess should name him for Musidorus, the fame

of their two being together would discover Pyrocles; holding her hand

betwixt his hands a good while together: “I did not think, most

excellent princess,” said he, “to have made any further request unto

you, for having been already unto you so unfortunate a suitor, I know

not what modesty can bear any further demand. But the state of one

young man, whom, next to you, far above myself, I love more than all

the world, one worthy of all well-being for the notable constitution

of his mind, and most unworthy to receive hurt by me, whom he doth in

all faith and constancy love, the pity of him only goes beyond all

resolution to the contrary.” Then did he, to the princess’s great

admiration, tell her the whole story as far as he knew of it, and that

when they made the grievous disjunction of their long combination,

they had concluded Musidorus should entitle himself Palladius, prince

of Iberia, and Pyrocles should be Daiphantus of Lycia.

“Now,” said Musidorus, “he keeping a woman’s habit, is to use no other

name than Zelmane; but I that find it best of the one side for your

honour, you went away with a prince, and not with a shepherd; of the

other side, accounting my death less evil than the betraying of that

sweet friend of mine, will take this mean betwixt both, and using the

name of Palladius, if the respect of a prince will stop your father’s

fury, that will serve as well as Musidorus, until Pyrocles’s fortune

being some way established, I may freely give good proof that the

noble country of Thessalia is mine; and if that will not mitigate your

father’s opinion to me-wards, nature, I hope, working in your

excellency, will make him deal well with you: for my part the image of

death is nothing fearful unto me, and this good I shall have reaped by

it, that I shall leave my most esteemed friend in no danger to be

disclosed by me. And besides, since I must confess I am not without a

remorse of her case, my virtuous mother shall not know her son’s

violent death hid under the fame will go of Palladius. But as long as

her years, now of good number, be counted among the living, she may

joy herself with some possibility of my return.” Pamela promising him

upon no occasion ever to name him, fell into extremity of weeping, as

if her eyes had been content to spend all their seeing moistness, now

that there was a speech of the loss of that which they held as their

chiefest light. So that Musidorus was forced to repair her good

counsels with sweet consolations, {560} which continued betwixt them

till it was about midnight, that sleep having stolen into their heavy

senses, and now absolutely commanding in their vital powers, left them

delicately wound one in another’s arms, quietly to wait for the coming

of the morning; which as soon as she appeared to play her part, laden,

as you have heard, with so many well occasioned lamentations, their

lobbish guard, who all night had kept themselves awake, with prating

how valiant deeds they had done when they ran away; and how fair a

death their fellow had died, who at his last gasp sued to be a

hangman, awaked them, and set them upon their horses, to whom the very

shining force of excellent virtue, though in a very harrish subject,

had wrought a kind of reverence in them: Musidorus as he rode among

them, of whom they had no other hold but of Pamela, thinking it want

of a well-squared judgment to leave any means unassayed of saving

their lives, to this purpose spoke to his unseemly guardians, using a

plain kind of phrase to make his speech the more credible.

“My masters,” said he, “there is no man that is wise but hath, in

whatsoever he doth, some purpose whereto he directs his doings, which

so long he follows till he see that either that purpose is not worth

the pains, or that another doing carries with it a better purpose.

That you are wise in what you take in hand, I have to my cost learned;

that makes me desire you tell me what is your end in carrying the

princess and me back to her father.” “Pardon,” said one; “reward,”

cried another. “Well,” said he, “take both, although I know you are so

wise to remember that hardly they both will go together, being of so

contrary a making; for the ground of pardon is an evil, neither any

man pardons but remembers an evil done: the cause of reward is the

opinion of some good act, and whoso rewardeth, that holds the chief

place of his fancy. Now one man of one company, to have the same

consideration of good and evil, but that the conceit of pardoning, if

it be pardoned, will take away the mind of rewarding, is very hard, if

not impossible. For either even in justice will he punish the fault,

as well as reward the desert, or else in mercy balance the one by the

other: so that the not chastising shall be a sufficient satisfying.

Thus then you may see that in your own purpose rests great

uncertainty. But I will grant that by this your deed you shall obtain

your double purpose. Yet consider, I pray you, whether by another

means that may not better be obtained, and then I doubt not your

wisdom will teach you to take hold of the better. I am sure you know,

anybody were better have no need of a pardon than enjoy a pardon; for

as it carries with it the surety of a preserved life, so bears it a

continual note of a deserved death. This therefore, besides the danger

you may run into, my Lady {561} Pamela being the undoubted inheritrix

of this state, if she shall hereafter seek to revenge the wrong done

her shall be continually cast in your teeth, as men dead by the law:

the honester sort will disdain your company, and your children shall

be the more basely reputed of, and you yourselves in every slight

fault hereafter, as men once condemned, aptest to be overthrown. Now

if you will, I doubt not but you will, for you are wise, turn your

course, and guard my Lady Pamela thitherward, whither she was going:

first, you need not doubt to adventure your fortune where she goes,

and there shall you be assured in a country as good and rich as this

is, of the same manners and language to be so far from the conceit of

a pardon, as we both shall be forced to acknowledge we have received

by your means whatsoever we hold dear in this life. And so for reward,

judge you whether it be not more likely, you shall there receive it

where you have done no evil, but singular and undeserved goodness; or

here, where this service of yours shall be diminished by your duty,

and blemished by your former fault. Yes I protest and swear unto you,

by the fair eyes of that lady, there shall no gentleman in all that

country be preferred: you shall have riches, ease, pleasure, and that

which is best to such worthy minds, you shall not be forced to cry

mercy for a good fact. You only, of all the Arcadians shall have the

praise, in continuing in your late valiant attempt, and not be basely

brought under a halter for seeking the liberty of Arcadia.”

These words in their minds, who did nothing for any love of goodness,

but only as their senses presented greater shows of profit, began to

make them waver, and some to clap their hands and scratch their heads,

and swear it was the best way. Others that would seem wiser than the

rest, to capitulate what tenements they should have, what subsidies

they should pay; others to talk of their wives, in doubt whether it

were best to send for them, or to take new where they went: most, like

fools, not readily thinking what was next to be done, but imagining

what cheer they would make when they came there, one or two of the

last discoursers beginning to turn their faces towards the woods which

they had left. But being now come within the plain, near to the

lodges, unhappily they espied a troop of horsemen. But then their

false hearts had quickly, for the present fear, forsaken their last

hopes: and therefore keeping on the way toward the lodge, with songs

and cries of joy, the horsemen, who were some of them Philanax had

sent out to the search of Pamela, came galloping unto them, marvelling

who they were that in such a general mourning durst sing joyful tunes,

and in so public a ruin wear the laurel token of victory. And that

which seemed strangest, they might see two among them unarmed like

prisoners, but riding like captains. {562} But when they came nearer,

they perceived the one was a lady, and the Lady Pamela. Then glad they

had by hap found that which they so little hoped to meet withal,

taking these clowns, who first resisted them, for the desire they had

to be the deliverers of the two excellent prisoners, learning that

they were of those rebels which had made the dangerous uproar, as well

under colour to punish that, as this their last withstanding them, but

indeed their principal cause being, because they themselves would have

the only praise of their own quest, they suffered not one of them to

live. Marry three of the stubbornest of them they left their bodies

hanging upon the trees, because their doing might carry the likelier

form of judgment. Such an unlooked-for end did the life of justice

work for the naughty-minded wretches, by subjects to be executed, that

would have executed princes: and to suffer that without law, which by

law they had deserved. And thus these young folks twice prisoners,

before any due arrest, delivered of their jailors, but not of their

jail, had rather change than respite of misery; these soldiers that

took them with very few words of entertainment, hasting to carry them

to their lord Philanax, to whom they came, even as he, going out of

the Lady Philoclea’s chamber, had overtaken Pyrocles, whom before he

had delivered to the custody of a nobleman of that country. When

Pyrocles, led towards his prison, saw his friend Musidorus, with the

noble Lady Pamela in that unexpected sort returned, his grief, if any

grief were in a mind which had placed everything according to his

natural worth, was very much augmented; for besides some small hope he

had, if Musidorus had once been clear of Arcadia, by his dealing and

authority to have brought his only gladsome desires to a good issue:

the hard estate of his friend did no less, nay rather more vex him

than his own. For so indeed it is ever found, where valour and

friendship are perfectly coupled in one heart; the reason being that

the resolute man having once digested in his judgment the worst

extremity of his own case, and having either quite expelled or at

least repelled all passion which ordinarily follows an overthrown

fortune, not knowing his friend’s mind so well as his own, nor with

what patience he brooks his case, which as it were the material cause

of making a man happy or unhappy, doubts whether his friend accounts

not himself more miserable, and so indeed be more lamentable. But as

soon as Musidorus was brought by the soldiers near unto Philanax,

Pyrocles not knowing whether ever after he should be suffered to see

his friend, and determining there could be no advantage by dissembling

a not-knowing of him, leaped suddenly from their hands that held him,

and passing, with a strength strengthened with a true affection,

through them that encompassed Musidorus, he embraced {563} him as fast

as he could in his arms. And kissing his cheeks, “O my Palladius,”

said he, “let not our virtue now abandon us; let us prove our minds

are no slaves to fortune, but in adversity can triumph over

adversity.” “Dear Daiphantus,” answered Musidorus, seeing by his

apparel his being a man was revealed, “I thank you for this best care

of my best part: but fear not, I have kept too long company with you

to want now a thorough determination of these things; I well know,

there is nothing evil but within us, the rest is either natural or

accidental.” Philanax, finding them of so near acquaintance, began

presently to examine them apart: but such resolution he met with in

them, that by no such means he could learn further than it pleased

them to deliver. So that he thought best to put them both in one

place, with espial of their words and behaviour, that way to sift out

the more of these surpassed mischiefs. And for that purpose gave them

both unto the nobleman, who before had the custody of Pyrocles, by

name Sympathus, leaving a trusty servant of his own to give diligent

watch to what might pass betwixt them. No man that hath ever passed

through the school of affection, needs doubt what a tormenting grief

it was to the noble Pamela, to have the company of him taken from her,

to whose virtuous company she had bound her life. But weighing with

herself, it was fit for her honour, till her doings were clearly

manifested, that they should remain separate, kept down the rising

tokens of grief; showing passion in nothing but her eyes, which

accompanied Musidorus even unto the tent, whither he and Pyrocles were

led. Then, with a countenance more princely than she was wont,

according to the wont of highest hearts, like the palm tree striving

most upwards, when he is most burdened, she commanded Philanax to

bring her to her father and mother, that she might render them an

account of her doings. Philanax showing a sullen kind of reverence

unto her, as a man that honoured her as his master’s heir, but much

misliked her for her, in his conceit, dishonourable proceedings, told

her what was past, rather to answer her, than that he thought she was

ignorant of it. But her good spirit did presently suffer a true

compassionate affliction of those hard adventures, which, with

crossing her arms, looking a great while upon the ground, with those

eyes which let fall many tears, she well declared. But in the end,

remembering how necessary it was for her, not to lose herself in such

an extremity, she strengthened her well-created heart, and stoutly

demanded Philanax, what authority then they had to lay hands on her

person, who being the undoubted heir, was then the lawful princess of

that kingdom? Philanax answered, her grace knew the ancient laws of

Arcadia bare, she was to have no sway of government till she came to

one and twenty years of {564} age, or were married. “And married I

am,” replied the wise princess, “therefore I demand your due

allegiance.” “The gods forbid,” said Philanax, “Arcadia should be a

dowry of such marriages.” Besides, he told her all the states of her

country were evil satisfied touching her father’s death, which

likewise according to the statutes of Arcadia, was even that day to be

judged of, before the body were removed to receive his princely

funeral. After that passed, she should have such obedience, as by the

laws were due unto her, desiring God she would show herself better in

public government than she had done in private. She would have spoken

to the gentlemen and people gathered about her, but Philanax fearing

lest thereby some commotion might arise, or at least a hinderance of

executing his master’s murderers, which he longed after more than

anything, hasted her up to the lodge, where her sister was, and there

was a chosen company of soldiers to guard the place, left her with

Philoclea, Pamela protesting they laid violent hands on her, and that

they entered into rebellious attempts against her. But high time it

was for Philanax so to do, for already was all the whole multitude

fallen into confused and dangerous divisions.

There was a notable example, how great dissipations monarchical

government is subject unto. For now their prince and guide had left

them, they had not experience to rule, and had not whom to obey.

Public matters had ever been privately governed, so that they had no

lively taste what was good for themselves. But everything was either

vehemently desireful, or extremely terrible. Neighbours’ invasions,

civil dissention, cruelty of the coming prince, and whatsoever in

common sense carries a dreadful show, was in all men’s heads, but in

few how to prevent: hearkening on every rumour, suspecting everything,

condemning them whom before they had honoured, making strange and

impossible tales of the king’s death, while they thought themselves in

danger, wishing nothing but safety; as soon as persuasion of safety

took them, desiring further benefits, as amendment of fore-passed

faults, which faults notwithstanding none could tell either the

grounds or effects of, all agreeing in the universal names of liking

or misliking, but of what in especial points, infinitely disagreeing.

Altogether like a falling steeple, the parts whereof, as windows,

stones, and pinnacles were well, but the whole mass ruinous. And this

was the general cause of all, wherein notwithstanding was an extreme

medley of diversified thoughts, the great men looking to make

themselves strong by factions, the gentlemen some bending to them,

some standing upon themselves, some desirous to overthrow those few

which they thought were over them; the soldiers desirous of trouble,

as the nurse of spoil, and not much unlike to {565} them though in

another way, were all the needy sort, the rich fearful, the wise

careful. This composition of conceits brought forth a dangerous

tumult, which yet would have been more dangerous, but that it had so

many parts that nobody well knew against whom chiefly to oppose

themselves. For some there were that cried to have the state altered,

and governed no more by a prince; marry, in the alteration, many would

have the Lacedaemonian government of a few chosen senators, others the

Athenian, where the people’s voice held the chief authority. But these

were rather the discoursing sort of men, than the active, being a

matter more in imagination than practice. But they that went nearest

to the present case, as in a country that knew no government without a

prince, were they that strove whom they should make. Whereof a great

number there were that would have the Princess Pamela presently to

enjoy it: some disdaining that she had as it were abandoned her own

country, inclining more to Philoclea; and there wanted not of them,

which wished Gynecia were delivered, and made regent till Pamela were

worthily married. But great multitudes there were, which having been

acquainted with the just government of Philanax, meant to establish

him as lieutenant of the state; and these were the most popular sort,

who judged by the commodities they felt. But the principal men in

honour and might, who had long before envied his greatness with

Basilius, did much more spurn against any such preferment of him. For

yet before their envy had some kind of breathing out his rancour, by

laying his greatness as a fault to the prince’s judgment, who showed

in Dametas he might easily be deceived in men’s value: but now if the

prince’s choice, by so many mouths should be confirmed, what could

they object to so rightly esteemed an excellency, they therefore were

disposed sooner to yield to any thing than to his raising; and were

content, for to cross Philanax, to stop those actions, which otherwise

they could not but think good. Philanax himself as much hindered by

those that did immoderately honour him, which brought both more envy

and suspicion upon him, as by them that did manifestly resist him:

but, standing only upon a constant desire of justice, and a clear

conscience went forward stoutly in the action of his master’s revenge,

which he thought himself particularly bound to. For the rest, as the

ordering of the government, he accounted himself but as one wherein

notwithstanding he would employ all his loyal endeavour.

But among the noblemen, he that most openly set himself against him

was named Timautus, a man of middle age, but of extreme ambition, as

one that had placed his uttermost good in greatness, thinking small

difference by what means he came by it. {566} Of commendable wit, if

he had not made it a servant to unbridled desires. Cunning to creep

into men’s favours, which he prized only as they were serviceable unto

him. He had been brought up in some soldiery, which he knew how to set

out with more than deserved ostentation. Servile, though envious, to

his betters: and no less tyrannically minded to them he had advantage

of. Counted revengeful, but indeed measuring both revenge and reward,

as the party might either help or hurt him. Rather shameless than

bold, and yet more bold in practice than in personal adventures. In

some, a man that could be as evil as he listed, and listed as much as

any advancement might thereby be gotten. As for virtue he counted it

but a school-name. He even at the first assembling together, finding

the great stroke Philanax carried among the people, thought it his

readiest way of ambition to join with him: which though his pride did

hardly brook, yet the other vice carrying with it a more apparent

object prevailed over the weaker, so that with those liberal

protestations of friendship, which men that care not for their word

are wont to bestow, he offered unto him the choice in marriage of

either the sisters, so he would likewise help him to the other, and

make such a partition of the Arcadian estate. Wishing him that since

he loved his master, because he was his master, which showed the love

began in himself, he should rather now occasion was presented seek his

own good substantially than affect the smoke of a glory by showing an

untimely fidelity to him that could not reward it: and have all the

fruit he could get, in men’s opinions, which would be as divers as

many; few agreeing to yield him due praise of his true heart. But

Philanax, who had limited his thoughts in that he esteemed good, to

which he was neither carried by the vain tickling of uncertain fame,

nor from which he would be transported by enjoying anything, whereto

the ignorant world gives the excellent name of goods, with great

mislike of his offer, he made him so peremptory an answer, not without

threatening, if he found him foster any such fancy, that Timautus went

with an inward spite from him, whom before he had never loved: and

measuring all men’s marches by his own pace, rather thought it some

further fetch of Philanax, as that he would have all to himself alone,

than was any way taken with the lovely beauty of his virtue, whose

image he had so quite defaced in his own soul that he had left himself

no eyes to behold it, but stayed waiting fit opportunity to execute

his desires both for himself and against Philanax, which by the

bringing back of Pamela, the people being divided into many motions,

which both with murmuring noises, and putting themselves in several

troops, they well showed, he thought apt time was laid before him, the

waters being, as the proverb saith, {567} troubled, and so the better

for his fishing. Therefore going among the chiefest lords, whom he

knew principally to repine at Philanax, and making a kind of

convocation of them, he inveighed against his proceeding, drawing

everything to the most malicious interpretation, that malice itself

could instruct him to do. He said, it was season for them to look to

such a weed, that else would over-grow them all. It was not now time

to consult of the dead, but of the living: since such a sly wolf was

entered among them, that could make justice the cloak of tyranny, and

love of his late master the destruction of his now being children. “Do

you not see,” said he, “how far his corruption hath stretched, that he

hath such a number of rascals’ voices to declare him lieutenant, ready

to make him prince, but that he instructs them, matters are not yet

ripe for it? as for us, because we are too rich to be bought, he

thinks us the fitter to be killed. Hath Arcadia bred no man but

Philanax? is she become a stepmother to all the rest, and hath given

all her blessings to Philanax? or if there be men amongst us, let us

show we disdain to be servants to a servant. Let us make him know we

are far worthier not to be slaves than he to be a master. Think you he

hath made such haste in these matters to give them over to another

man’s hand? think you he durst become the jailor of his princess, but

either meaning to be her master, or her murderer? and all this for the

dear goodwill, forsooth, he bears to the king’s memory, whose

authority as he abused in his life, so he would now persevere to abuse

his name after his death. O notable affection, for the love of the

father to kill the wife and disinherit the children! O single-minded

modesty, to aspire to no less than to the princely diadem, no, no, he

hath veered all this while, but to come the sooner to his affected

end. But let us remember what we be, in quality his equals, in number

far before him: let us deliver the queen and our natural princesses,

and leave them no longer under his authority, whose proceedings would

rather show that he himself had been the murderer of the king, than a

fit guardian of his posterity.”

These words pierced much into the minds already inclined that way,

insomuch that most part of the nobility confirmed Timautus’s speech,

and were ready to execute it: when Philanax came among them, and with

a constant, but reverent behaviour, desired them they would not

exercise private grudges in so common a necessity. He acknowledged

himself a man, and a faulty man: to the clearing or satisfying of

which, he would at all times submit himself; since his end was to

bring all things to an upright judgment, it should evil fit him to fly

the judgment. “But,” said he, “my lords, let not Timautus’s railing

speech, who whatsoever he finds evil in his own soul can with ease lay

it upon another, make me lose {568} your good favour. Consider that

all well-doing stands so in the middle betwixt his two contrary evils

that it is a ready matter to cast a slanderous shade upon the most

approved virtues. Who hath an evil tongue, can call severity cruelty,

and faithful diligence, diligent ambition. But my end is not to excuse

myself, nor to accuse him: for both those hereafter will be time

enough. There is neither of us, whose purging or punishing may so much

import to Arcadia. Now I request you, for your own honour’s sake, and

require you by the duty you owe to this estate, that you do presently,

according to the laws, take in hand the chastisement of our master’s

murderers, and laying order for the government by whomsoever it be

done, so it be done, and justly done, I am satisfied. My labour hath

been to frame things so that you might determine; now it is in you to

determine. For my part, I call the heavens to witness, the care of my

heart stands to repay that, wherein both I and most of you were tied

to that prince, with whom all my love of worldly action is dead.”

As Philanax was speaking his last words there came one running to him

with open mouth and fearful eyes, telling him that there was a great

number of the people which were bent to take the young men out of

Sympathus’s hands, and as it should seem by their acclamations, were

like enough to proclaim them princes. “Nay,” said Philanax, speaking

aloud, and looking with a just anger upon the noblemen, “it is no

season to hear Timautus’s idle slanders while strangers become our

lords, and Basilius’s murderers sit in his throne. But whosoever is a

true Arcadian let him follow me.” With that he went toward the place

he heard of, followed by those that had ever loved him, and some of

the noblemen. Some other remaining with Timautus, who in the meantime

was conspiring by strong hands to deliver Gynecia, of whom the weakest

guard was had. But Philanax, where he went found them all in an

uproar, which thus was fallen out. The greatest multitude of people

that were come to the death of Basilius, were the Mantineans, as being

the nearest city to the lodges. Among these the chief man both in

authority and love was Kalander, he that not long before had been host

to the two princes; whom though he knew not so much as by name, yet

besides the obligation he stood bound to them in for preserving the

lives of his son and nephew, their noble behaviour had bred such love

in his heart towards them that both with tears he parted from them

when they left him, under promise to return, and did keep their jewels

and apparel as the relics of two demi-gods. Among others he had

entered the prison and seen them, which forthwith so invested his

soul, both with sorrow and desire to help them, whom he tendered as

his children, that calling his neighbours the Mantineans unto {569}

him, he told them all the praises of these two young men, swearing he

thought the gods had provided for them better than they themselves

could have imagined. He willed them to consider that when all was done

Basilius’s children must enjoy the state, who since they had chosen,

and chosen so that all the world could not mend their choice, why

should they resist God’s doing, and their princess’s pleasure? this

was the only way to purchase quietness without blood, where otherwise

they should at one instant crown Pamela with a crown of gold, and a

dishonoured title? which whether ever she would forget, he thought it

fit for them to weigh: “Such,” said he, “heroical greatness shines in

their eyes, such an extraordinary majesty in all their actions, as

surely either fortune by parentage, or nature in creation, hath made

them princes. And yet a state already we have, we need but a man, who

since he is presented unto you by the heavenly providence, embraced by

our undoubted princess, worthy for their youth of compassion, for

their beauty of admiration, for their excellent virtue to be monarchs

of the world; shall we not be content with our own bliss? shall we put

out our eyes because another man cannot see? or rather like some men,

when too much good happens unto them, they think themselves in a dream

and have not spirits to taste their own goods? No, no, my friends,

believe me, I am so impartial, that I know not their names, but so

overcome with their virtue that I shall then think the destinies have

ordained a perpetual flourishing to Arcadia, when they shall allot

such a governor unto it.”

This spoken by a grave man in years, great in authority, near allied

to the prince, and known honest, prevailed so with all the Mantineans,

that with one voice they ran to deliver the two princes. But Philanax

came in time to withstand them, both sides standing in arms, and

rather wanting a beginning than minds to enter into a bloody conflict.

Which Philanax foreseeing, thought best to remove the prisoners

secretly, and if need were, rather without form of justice to kill

them, than against justice, as he thought, to have them usurp the

state. But there again arose a new trouble. For Sympathus, the

nobleman that kept them, was so stricken in compassion with their

excellent presence, that as he would not falsify his promise to

Philanax to give them liberty so yet would he not yield them to

himself, fearing he would do them violence. Thus tumult upon tumult

arising, the sun, I think, weary to see their discords had already

gone down to his western lodging. But yet to know what the poor

shepherds did, who were the first discriers of these matters, will not

to some ears perchance be a tedious digression.

THE FOURTH ECLOGUES

{570}

The shepherds finding no place for them in these garboils, to which

their quiet hearts, whose highest ambition was in keeping themselves

up in goodness, had at all no aptness, retired themselves from among

the clamorous multitude: and as sorrow desires company, went up

together to the western side of an hill, whose prospect extended it so

far that they might well discern many of Arcadia’s beauties. And there

looking upon the sun’s as then declining race, the poor men sat

pensive of their present miseries, as if they found a weariness of

their woeful words: till at last good old Geron, who as he had longest

tasted the benefits of Basilius’s government, so seemed to have a

special feeling of the present loss, wiping his eyes and long white

beard, bedewed with great drops of tears, began in this sort to

complain: “Alas! poor sheep,” said he, “which hitherto have enjoyed

your fruitful pasture in such quietness, as your wool among other

things hath made this country famous, your best days are now past: now

you must become the victual of an army, and perchance an army of

foreign enemies, you are now not only to fear home-wolves, but alien

lions: now, I say, now that our right Basilius is deceased. Alas!

sweet pastures, shall soldiers that know not how to use you, possess

you? shall they that cannot speak the Arcadian language be lords over

your shepherds? for alas with good cause may we look for any evil,

since Basilius our only strength is taken from us.”

To that all the other shepherds present uttered pitiful voices,

especially the very born Arcadians. For as for the other, though

humanity moved them to pity human cases, especially in a prince under

whom they had found a refuge of their miseries, and justice equally

administered, yet could they not so naturally feel the lively touch of

sorrow. Nevertheless, of that number one Agelastus notably noted among

them as well for his skill in poetry as for an austerely maintained

sorrowfulness, wherewith he seemed to despise the works of nature,

framing an universal complaint in that universal mischief, uttered it

in this Sestine.

Since wailing is a bud of causeful sorrow,

Since sorrow is the follower of evil fortune,

Since no evil fortune equals public damage;

Now prince’s loss hath made our damage public,

Sorrow pay we to thee the rights of nature,

And inward grief seal up with outward wailing.

{571}

Why should we spare our voice from endless wailing,

Who justly make our hearts the seat of sorrow?

In such a case where it appears that nature

Doth add her force unto the sting of fortune:

Choosing alas, this our theatre public,

Where they would leave trophies of cruel damage.

Then, since such powers conspired unto our damage

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

Yet let us leave a monument in public

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

For lost, lost is by blow of cruel fortune

Arcadia’s gem, the noblest child of nature.

O nature doting old, O blind dead nature,

How hast thou torn thyself, sought thine own damage

In granting such a scope to filthy fortune,

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

Cast thy step-mother eyes, upon our sorrow,

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

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

Seas in our eyes, and brazen tongues by nature,

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

Breath made of flames, wits knowing naught but damage,

Our sports murd’ring ourselves, our musics wailing,

Our studies fixed upon the falls of fortune.

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

That private pains cannot breathe out in public

The furious inward griefs with hellish wailing:

But forced are to burden feeble nature

With secret sense of our eternal damage,

And sorrow feed, feeding our souls with sorrow.

Since sorrow then concluded all our fortune,

With all our deaths show we this damage public:

His nature fears to die who lives still wailing.

It seemed that this complaint of Agelastus had awaked the spirits of

the Arcadians, astonished before with the exceedingness of sorrow. For

he had scarcely ended when divers of them offered to follow his

example in bewailing the general loss of that country which had been

as well a nurse to strangers as a mother to Arcadians. Among the rest

one accounted good in that kind, and made the better by the true

feeling of sorrow, roared out a song of lamentation, which, as well as

might be, was gathered up in this form:

{572}

Since that to death is gone the shepherd high,

Who most the silly shepherd’s pipe did prize,

Your doleful tunes sweet Muses now apply.

And you O trees, if any life there lies

In trees, now through your porous barks receive

The strange resound of these my causeful cries:

And let my breath upon your branches cleave,

My breath distinguished into words of woe,

That so I may signs of my sorrow leave.

But if among yourselves some one tree grow,

That aptest is to figure misery,

Let it embassage bear your griefs to show,

The weeping myrrh I think will not deny

Her help to this, this justest cause of plaint.

Your doleful tunes sweet Muses now apply.

And thou, poor earth, whom fortune doth attaint,

In nature’s name to suffer such a harm,

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

Upon thy face let coaly ravens swarm:

Let all the sea thy tears accounted be;

Thy bowels will all killing metals arm.

Let gold now rust, let diamonds waste in thee:

Let pearls be wan with woe their dam doth bear!

Thyself henceforth the light do never see,

And you, O flowers, which sometimes princes wear,

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

Of princes’ loss yourselves for tokens rear.

Lily in mourning black thy whiteness die:

O Hyacinth let “Ai” be on thee still,

Your doleful tunes sweet Muses now apply.

O Echo, all these woods with roaring fill,

And do not only mark the accents last,

But all, for all reach out my wailful will:

One Echo to another Echo cast

Sound of my griefs, and let it never end,

Till that it hath all words and waters passed,

Nay to the heav’ns your just complaining send,

And stay the stars’ inconstant constant race,

Till that they do unto our dolours bend:

And ask the reason of that special grace,

That they which have no lives should live so long,

And virtuous souls so soon should lose their place?

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

That he for want of elbow-room must die?

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

{573}

Did Wisdom this our wretched time espy

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

Your doleful tunes sweet Muses now apply.

And if that any counsel you to measure

Your doleful tunes, to them still plaining say,

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

O light of sun, which is entitled day:

O well thou dost that thou no longer bidest;

For mourning night her black weeds may display,

O Phoebus with good cause thy face thou hidest,

Rather than have thy all-beholding eye

Fouled with this sight, while thou thy chariot guidest,

And well methinks becomes this vaulty sky

A stately tomb to cover him deceased.

Your doleful tunes sweet Muses now apply.

O Philomela with thy breast oppressed

By shame and grief, help, help me to lament

Such cursed harms as cannot be redressed.

Or if thy mourning notes be fully spent,

Then give a quiet ear unto my plaining:

For I to teach the world complaint am bent.

You dimmy clouds, which well employ your staining.

This cheerful air with your obscured cheer,

Witness your woeful tears with daily raining.

And if, O sun, thou ever didst appear,

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

Virtue is dead, now set thy triumph here.

Now set thy triumph in this world, bereaved

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

And by the pomp our loss will be conceived,

O notes of mine yourselves together tie:

With too much grief methinks you are dissolved.

Your doleful tunes sweet Muses now apply.

Time ever old, and young is still revolved

Within itself, and never tasteth end:

But mankind is for aye to nought resolved,

The filthy snake her aged coat can mend,

And getting youth again, in youth doth flourish:

But unto man age ever death doth send,

The very trees with grafting we can cherish,

So that we can long time produce their time:

But man which helpeth them, helpless must perish.

Thus, thus the minds which over all do climb,

When they by years’ experience get best graces,

Must finish then by death’s detested crime.

{574}

We last short while, and build long lasting places:

Ah let us all against foul nature cry:

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

For how can nature unto this reply:

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

Your doleful tunes sweet Muses now apply.

Alas methinks my weakened voice but spilleth

The vehement course of his just lamentation:

Methinks, my sound no place with sorrow filleth.

I know not I, but once in detestation

I have myself, and all what life containeth,

Since death on virtue’s fort hath made invasion

One word of woe another after traineth:

Nor do I care how rude by my invention,

So it be seen what sorrow in me reigneth.

O elements, by whose, men say, contention,

Our bodies be in living power maintained,

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

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

Approach of death, alas, thou helpest meagrely,

When once one is for Atropos distrained,

Great be physicians’ brags, but aid is beggarly,

When rooted moisture fails or groweth dry,

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

They are but words therefore that men do buy

Of any, since god Aesculapius ceased,

Your doleful tunes sweet Muses now apply.

Justice, justice is now, alas, oppressed:

Bountifulness hath made his last conclusion:

Goodness for best attire in dust is dressed.

Shepherds bewail your uttermost confusion;

And see by this picture to you presented,

Death is our home, life is but a delusion,

For see, alas, who is from you absented,

Absented? nay I say for ever banished

For such as were to die for him contented?

Out of her sight in turn of hand is vanished

Shepherd of shepherds, whose well settled order

Private with wealth, public with quiet garnished

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

Example more prevailing than direction,

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

His life a law, his look a full correction:

As in his health we healthful were preserved,

So in his sickness grew our sure infection.

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

{575}

For such deep plaint as should such woes descry,

Which he of us for ever hath deserved.

The style of heavy heart can never fly

So high, as should make such a pain notorious:

Cease Muse therefore: thy dart O death apply,

And farewell prince, whom goodness hath made glorious.

Many were ready to have followed this course, but the day was so

wasted, that only this rhyming Sestine delivered by one of great

account among them, could obtain favour to be heard.

Farewell, O sun, Arcadia’s clearest light:

Farewell, O pearl, the poor man’s plenteous treasure.

Farewell, O golden staff, the weak man’s might:

Farewell, O joy, the joyful’s only pleasure.

Wisdom, farewell, the skill-less man’s direction:

Farewell with thee, farewell all our affection.

For what place now is left for our affection,

Now that of purest lamp is quench’d the light.

Which to our darkened minds was best direction?

Now that the mine is lost of all our treasure?

Now death hath swallowed up our worldly pleasure,

We orphans made, void of all public might?

Orphans indeed, depriv’d of father’s might:

For he our father was in all affection,

In our well-doing placing all his pleasure,

Still studying how to us to be a light.

As well he was in peace a safest treasure:

In war his wit and word was our direction.

Whence, whence, alas, shall we seek our direction?

When that we fear our hateful neighbours’ might,

Who long have gap’d to get Arcadian’s treasure.

Shall we now find a guide of such affection,

Who for our sakes will think all travel light,

And make his pain to keep us safe, his pleasure?

No, no, for ever gone is all our pleasure;

For ever wand’ring from all good direction;

For ever blinded of our clearest light;

For ever lamed of our sured might;

For ever banish’d from well-plac’d affection;

For ever robb’d of all our royal treasure.

Let tears for him therefore be all our treasure,

And in our wailing naming him our pleasure:

{576}

Let hating of ourselves be our affection,

And unto death bend still our thoughts’ direction:

Let us against ourselves employ our might,

And putting out our eyes seek we our light.

Farewell our light, farewell our spoiled treasure:

Farewell our might, farewell our daunted pleasure:

Farewell direction, farewell all affection.

The night began to cast her dark canopy over them, and they, even

weary with their woes, bended homewards, hoping by sleep, forgetting

themselves, to ease their present dolours, when they were met with a

troop of twenty horse, the chief of which asking them for the king,

and understanding the hard news, thereupon stayed among them expecting

the return of a messenger, whom with speed he dispatched to Philanax.

[End of Book IV]

ARCADIA