BOOK I

THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE’S

ARCADIA

BY

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY

WITH THE ADDITIONS OF SIR WILLIAM

ALEXANDER AND RICHARD BELING,

A LIFE OF THE AUTHOR,

AND AN

INTRODUCTION

BY

ERNEST A. BAKER, M.A.

LONDON

GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, Ltd.

New York: E. P. Dutton & Co.

CONTENTS

EDITOR’S INTRODUCTION

LIFE OF SIR PHILIP SIDNEY

TESTIMONIES CONCERNING THE AUTHOR

SIDNEY’S DEDICATION

ARCADIA

BOOK I

BOOK II

BOOK III

BOOK IV

BOOK V

BOOK VI (by R. B.)

NOTES

INTRODUCTION

{vii}

In a broad survey of the early history of English prose fiction

three periods mark themselves out with great distinctness. The later

centuries of the middle ages were the age of romance, when both poet

and proseman worked upon the same mass of legendary material,

expanding and embellishing the current stories in precisely the same

spirit, the difference between prose romance and metrical romance

being simply one of mechanical form. When in the Elizabethan age the

literature of tradition gave way to the literature of invention, a

decisive step in advance was made; but the novel still retained all

the essential features of its poetic ancestry. Then, with the

invention of a genuine prose, in the succeeding epoch, came a

revolution. Discarding the romantic spirit, as their predecessors had

abandoned the romantic legends, the first modern novelists turned

themselves to the portrayal and interpretation of actual life, and the

history of realism began. Sir Philip Sidney’s _Arcadia_ holds an

important place in these three stages of gradual evolution, as the

type and culmination of the middle period, the age of poetic

invention; how important in the long history of the genesis, the

successive transformations, and the final development of English

fiction, can be realised only by going back right to the beginnings,

when the earliest prose romances took their rise from the _chansons de

gestes_.

In the exordium of his _Apologie for Poetrie_, Sidney himself lays

stress on the priority of the poet in the history of literature.

Modern research has found that this rule holds good in the literatures

of many more races than Sidney was able to adduce as examples. From

free imagination to realism, from mythology to science, from sensuous

and passionate rhythms to cold, abstract prose--this is the natural

line of progression. And the same course of development is repeated in

the evolution of the various literary species. The first Hellenic

{viii} philosophers wrote in hexameters; history began with epos, and

went through the semi-poetic phase of Herodotus before it emerged in

the form of abstract prose and the generalising method of science with

Thucydides. Scientific and technical literature had its birth in

poetry and mythology; and even when it became practical and

experimental maintained for a while the fashions of poetry, and sought

the inspiration of the muse. In the same way, the novel, whose

evolution seems to have culminated in unpoetic days, must have its

origins sought in far-off times when authors wrote instinctively in

metre.

Narrative or dramatic poetry and the novel must always of course be

very nearly related together. A poem and a novel, it might be said,

are but two different sorts of fiction. But to make this statement

literally true, the word fiction would have to be interpreted in two

different senses. For the difference between poetry and prose is not

simply one of style, but lies in the circumstance that the imagination

of the poet, inspired with emotion and ideality, appeals directly to

imagination, whilst prose addresses the understanding. The poet merely

asks us to imagine; but the prose-writer has to reason and convince.

Writers of such prose fiction as the Elizabethan novels, and the Greek

and Latin novels that arose in the decadence of classical literature,

did not realise that the mind of the reader is reached in essentially

different ways by prose and poetry; that in the one case the

imagination is working on a higher plane, and responding to another

kind of stimulus. Both accordingly produced something that was really

neither prose nor poetry, and both had slight influence on the

subsequent development of the novel. It will be worth while a little

later to compare the Elizabethan novel with this curious product of an

earlier age of culture and decadence. For the novel of Sidney, Lyly,

Lodge, and Greene, though it belongs to the Elizabethan era in time,

was not a native growth of that age of great beginnings, but rather a

final and unproductive efflorescence of the romantic literature that

had its roots in times already ancient. Sidney the critic and

interpreter of letters looked back, not forward. He did not discern

the signs around him of the tremendous birth that was commencing, but

would have been proud to be compared with {ix} Heliodorus and Longus,

and with Sanazzaro and Montemayor, whom he acclaims as genuine poets,

preaching with seductive eloquence throughout his _Apologie_ the

fallacious doctrine that poetry is the name for all imaginative

literature.

The first English examples of fiction in prose were stories from the

great chivalric cycles of Arthur, of Charlemagne, and of Troy and

Alexander. Some of these were written in prose originally, but the

majority were translations, paraphrases, or recensions of metrical

narratives. Some were turned into verse again, and again in that form

were the material for further prose recensions. And throughout these

transformations the matter, the style, and the spirit of the stories

underwent hardly any change. It was only now and then that the

versifier gave a rein to imagination in his battles and pageants; or

was hurried by the swing of the metre into bursts of lyricism, or a

more dramatic curtness in the dialogue; or cut short the explication

of motive and plot, which the prose-writer was inclined to elaborate.

How well the prose sufficed to the minstrel converting it into his own

idiom may be seen by comparing such a metrical romance as the Scots

poem, _Lancelot of the Laik_, with the samples of the French prose

story from which it was translated, in the edition by the Early

English Text Society. There is very little poetical heightening except

where the minstrel tacks on a prologue of his own composing; the rest

is but the effect of the paraphraser’s occasional impulse to change

and invent.[i01] Certainly these {x} writers were not embarrassed by

any preconceptions of a strict boundary line between prose and the

language of poetry, and the uses for which either was especially

ordained. The traditional themes were handled, in both verse and

prose, in the same traditional manner, and were animated by the same

spirit of romantic adventure.

A change of style is almost invariably the result of a change of

thought and feeling; but no profound mental and moral revolution like

that which underlay the romantic movement of the nineteenth century,

was the occasion for turning the mediaeval romances into prose. When

all literary compositions were intended for singing and recitation,

they naturally took a metrical form; but when books were meant to be

read in bower and cloister, it was left to the writer to choose his

vehicle. Thus, while there were true poets like Chrestien de Troyes

and Wolfram von Eschenbach among those working upon the material of

legend, many arrayed themselves in the poetic vesture without having a

spark of divine fire; and the style of many of these metrical

narratives strikes one as too prosaic for the subject, especially if

we base our expectations on Malory, to us the chief exemplar of

mediaeval romance, whose prose, though not in the least resembling in

structure that bastard thing, prose poetry, is thoroughly epical in

its stark simplicity, its sensuous colour, and the haunting suggestion

of beauty and ideality. It was not an age of poetry in the way this

can be said of the early period of Greek literature, when

philosophers, historians, and lawgivers spoke in metre because the

muse was in them. Romance is the decadence of poetry; and while the

traditional forms survived, the poetic impulse grew weaker and weaker.

{xi}

By Caxton and his successors the prose romances of the age of chivalry

were multiplied and circulated among wider audiences than even those

who listened to the mediaeval jongleur: these were the first popular

novels of the Tudor age, yet they were already getting out of date,

inasmuch as they reflected the manners and the ideals of a bygone

period. But there had arisen on the continent two forms of romance

that represent another stage in the development of fiction; the

Spanish chivalric romance typified in _Amadis of Gaul_, and the

pastoral novel of Sanazzaro and Montemayor. The three great legendary

cycles, no matter how wild and fabulous their later excursions, always

claimed to be a reading of history; each writer was careful to state

his authorities, real or fictitious; and though he added life and

circumstance to his narrative, the substance was put forward and

accepted as history. In Spain romance had begun exactly as in Britain

with poetic chronicles of heroic periods, such as the story of the

Cid, round which gathered in the process of time a vast accretion of

anonymous legend. But in the _Amadis_, printed in 1508, but current in

oral or manuscript versions for two centuries at least, Spain gave

birth to a kind of romance in which such history even as that in the

legendary chronicles had no place. Amadis himself, it is true, was

connected with the Arthuriad by his lineage; but with this exception,

the author or authors let both history and historical tradition go,

and in the various knight-errantries of Amadis gave to their

imaginative powers their full fling. In the beauty of its ladies, the

size of its giants, the valour, constancy, and self-denial of its

heroes, the _Amadis_ eclipses all its rivals; and in the _Palmerins_

and _Esplandians_ that were the sequel, these exaggerations are

carried to even more ridiculous lengths. The older romances had

usually been localised in actual places and countries, though these

were often idealised out of all likeness to reality; but Amadis and

his successors met with their adventures and performed their feats of

arms in a region created by the fancy of their authors. Spenser’s

Fairy Land, and Sidney’s Arcadia were no doubt suggested by this

romantic geography.

Pastoral romance had a classical origin, for the _Eclogues_ of

Baptista Mantuanus, pastoral dialogues satirising allegorically the

social and moral vices of the fifteenth century in Italy {xii} were

avowedly inspired by the bucolic poetry of his countryman Virgil.

Longus also, one of the Greek novelists already alluded to, had in his

_Daphnis and Chloe_ depicted the life of pastoral simplicity. But if

Petrarch, Boccaccio, and others whose works contained germs of the new

movement are left out of account as of minor importance in this

respect, it is accurate enough to say that the modern pastoral novel

began its course with the _Arcadia_ of Jacopo Sanazzaro, a Neapolitan

whose aim it was to refresh the minds of his contemporaries, weary of

a sophisticated and artificial life, with pictures of a simple

existence in fields and woods, the felicities of truth and virtue, and

the sentiment of a pure and refined love. Prose and verse are

intermingled in his book, as they are in the only example of the style

accessible to the modern reader in an English translation, the

_Galatea_ of Cervantes. Sanazzaro was surpassed in interest by his

Portuguese imitator, Jorge de Montemayor, the author of _Diana_, who

added a pathos and a touch of real life to the pastoral, making a

deeper appeal to the imagination of his readers, and securing such a

popularity in England, that his novel was translated in 1583 by

Bartholomew Young. The pastoral novel and the Amadis cycle of romances

were the two direct progenitors of Sidney’s _Arcadia_, in which the

spirit of knightly heroism and the idyllic atmosphere of a sentimental

Utopia are blended in fairly equal parts.

The pastoral, however, was only a digression in the slow advance of

the English novel towards its goal; and though it furnished perhaps

half the inspiration of Sidney’s romance, it does not bear upon the

present theme, the significance of the Elizabethan novel as

represented by the _Arcadia_ in the evolution of English fiction. The

pastoral romance, it should nevertheless be noted, is more closely

allied to poetry than to prose fiction proper, not merely because it

mingles verse with a flowery and emotional prose, but chiefly because

it is an offspring of the free imagination and not of the study of

real life. The pastoral impulse has always been something factitious

and retrograde in the history of literature and art, something exactly

contrary to the return to nature to which Wordsworth gave the

strongest impetus, and which exercised such an enormous effect on the

advance of realism.

{xiii}

The Elizabethan novel, the general characteristics of which are

roughly summed up in the words “poetic invention,” came next to

mediaeval romance in a natural order of succession. It did not bring

fiction any nearer the type conditioned by the laws of expression in

strict prose, of the eighteenth century pattern. In an age of poetry

the novel had become more poetic in style and in attitude to life than

it had ever been. The _Arcadia_ and _Euphues_ have less than the

_Morte d’Arthur_ of the real world of men and women. A superficial

view, accordingly, might suggest that with a hybrid and unfruitful

type of art like the poetic novel one line of development came to an

end, especially as we see that Defoe, in the next age, makes an

entirely new beginning, abjuring romance and free imagination, turning

directly to actual experience for his material, and using a homespun

style, as close as he could make it to the speech of everyday life.

Yet the semi-poetic novel represents a definite stage of transition,

and it does contain elements that were to be developed later. The

masterpieces of Italian story-tellers had made their mark upon the

Elizabethans, who acquired the art of constructing a plot, and giving

their narratives a beginning, a middle, and an ending. They showed

also a more conscious effort to portray individual character; and by

Lyly the analysis of motive and feeling was carried to a point that

seems to anticipate Richardson. More than this, they came a good step

nearer to reality, although they failed so flagrantly to reproduce the

atmosphere of the real. They chose their subjects from the sphere of

human experience; and they rejected giants, fairies, and witchcraft,

together with the

“Forests and enchantments drear,

Where more is meant than meets the ear,”

which were stock features of the romantic literature; although, on the

other hand, they put wild improbabilities in the place of supernatural

marvels, and revelled in coincidences and disguises almost as

incredible as the Celtic magic of the _trouvère_.

Sidney the critic expounds in his _Apologie for Poetry_ his view that

the novel of his time and of all anterior times, together {xiv} indeed

with all literature having an imaginative and idealistic tendency, was

comprehended under his definition of poetry.

“For Xenophon,” says he, “who did imitate so excellently as to give us

the portraiture of a just Empire under the name of Cyrus, made therein

an absolute heroical poem. So did Heliodorus in his sugared invention

of that picture of love in _Theagines and Cariclea_. And yet both writ

in prose: which I speak to show, that it is not riming and versing

that maketh a poet, no more than a long gowne maketh an Advocate.”

What his theory of poetry was may be gathered from his description of

the poet, who,

“disdayning to be tied to any such subjection (as the natural rules of

things), lifted up with the vigor of his owne invention, dooth growe

in effect another nature, in making things either better than Nature

bringeth forth, or, quite anewe, formes such as never were in Nature,

as the _Heroes, Demigods, Cyclops, Chimeras, Furies_, and such like;

so as hee goeth hand in hand with Nature, not inclosed within the

narrow warrant of her gifts, but freely ranging onely within the

Zodiack of his owne wit. Nature never set the earth in so rich

tapestry, as divers Poets have done, neither with so pleasant rivers,

fruitful trees, sweet smelling flowers, nor whatsoever els may make

the too much loved earth more lovely. Her world is brasen, the Poets

only deliver a golden.”

This corresponds to Bacon’s famous account of the nature of poetry, in

the _Advancement of Learning_:--

“Poesy is a part of learning in measure of words for the most part

restrained, but in all other points extremely licensed, and doth truly

refer to the imagination; which, not being tied to the laws of matter,

may at pleasure join that which nature hath severed, and sever that

which nature hath joined; and so make unlawful matches and divorces of

things; _Pictoribus atque poetis, etc._ It is taken in two senses in

respect of words and matter. In the first sense it is but a character

of style, and belongeth to arts of speech, and is not pertinent for

the present. In the latter it is (as hath been said) one of the

principal parts of learning, and is nothing else but feigned history,

which may be styled as well in prose as in verse.

“The use of this feigned history hath been to give some shadow of

satisfaction to the mind of man in those points wherein the nature of

things doth deny it, the world being in proportion inferior to the

soul; by reason whereof there is, agreeable to the spirit of man, a

more ample greatness, a more exact goodness, and a more absolute

variety, than can be found in the nature of things. Therefore, {xv}

because the acts or events of true history have not that magnitude

which satisfieth the mind of man, poesy feigneth acts and events

greater and more heroical. Because true history propoundeth the

successes and issues of actions not so agreeable to the merits of

virtue and vice, therefore poesy feigns them more just in retribution,

and more according to revealed providence. Because true history

representeth actions and events more ordinary and less interchanged,

therefore poesy endueth them with more rareness, and more unexpected

and alternative variations. So as it appeareth that poesy serveth and

conferreth to magnanimity, morality, and to delectation. And therefore

it was ever thought to have some participation of divineness, because

it doth raise and erect the mind, by submitting the shows of things to

the desires of the mind; whereas reason doth buckle and bow the mind

unto the nature of things. And we see that by these insinuations and

congruities with man’s nature and pleasure, joined also with the

agreement and consort it hath with music, it hath had access and

estimation in rude times and barbarous regions, where other learning

stood excluded.”

These definitions are too broad for poetry, and too narrow for

imaginative literature in general, though that is what they aimed to

define. It was as difficult for Sidney and Bacon as for Aristotle to

propound a theory embracing literary forms that were not yet invented;

and furthermore it is probable that had they witnessed the birth of

naturalism in Defoe, or its ultimate developments in our own age, they

would have denied to it the name of literature or art. But there is no

place in such a definition for many works that neither Sidney nor

Bacon would have hesitated to admit, the novels of George Eliot, for

instance, or those of Fielding. Yet a modern explanation of poetry,

that of Newman, would not exclude even such prose works as these. He

says,

“Moreover, by confining the attention to one series of events and

scene of action, it bounds and finishes off the confused luxuriance of

real nature; while, by a skilful adjustment of circumstances, it

brings into sight the connexion of cause and effect, completes the

dependance of the parts one on another, and harmonises the proportions

of the whole.”

A stricter analysis, however, demands of poetry not only a distinctive

mode of conceiving its subject, but a distinctive mode of utterance.

If poetry is the fine art of words, and {xvi} its aim to give all the

sensuous, emotional, and intellectual delight of which words are

capable, it is clear that Sidney and Bacon gave full weight to only

one side of the truth, and that they included far too much. The poetic

novel, to which their definition applied so aptly, is a case in point,

since it was a hybrid and transitional form, a thing that was just

ceasing to be poetry, but had not yet become the new form of art to

which it was the harbinger.

The _Arcadia_, and the same may be said of the Elizabethan novel

generally, shows its near relationship to poetry in both ways, in its

style and in the purely imaginative nature of the story, the

characters, and the life depicted. In the introduction to Defoe’s

_Roxana_ and _Moll Flanders_, published in this series, I compared the

opening of Defoe’s stories, _Robinson Crusoe_, for instance, so

definite as to time and place, so particular in the mention of names

and the exact circumstances in which the events occur, with the

beginning of the _Arcadia_, which carries us at once away in

imagination to a flowery meadow in a land of Arcady that has no

existence save in the fancy of the poets and those under their spell.

There is no effort to make the story credible, or the characters real,

by attaching them with the bands of verisimilitude to the world of

familiar things. Musidorus and Pyrocles, Pamela and Philoclea, Zelmane

and Amphialus, are in no way studies from life, but embodiments of

Sidney’s chivalrous energy and thirst for action, and of the craving

for a life of pastoral simplicity and ideal love, strengthened by his

enforced existence amidst the pomps and unrealities of a court. While

he was living in retirement at Wilton, where the _Arcadia_ was begun,

he gave vent to this feeling in the following lines:--

“Well was I while under shade

Oaten reeds me music made,

Striving with my mates in song;

Mixing mirth our songs among.

Greater was the shepherd’s treasure

Than this false, fine, courtly pleasure.”

How strenuous in his nature was the heroic energy that gave the

chivalric strain to his romance, was shown pre-eminently in the

closing scenes of his life, when he roused his uncle {xvii} Leicester

out of his sloth, and sacrificed himself on the field to a sense of

knightly punctilio. It has been said of him that his whole life was “a

true poem, a composition, and pattern of the best and honourablest

things”; and not only in his shepherd Philisides, but in all the

idealisms of courage, knightly faith and honour, and self-denying

affection, that illumine the pages of his _Arcadia_, and in their

splendid deeds of valour and endurance, he poured out the riches of

his own nature, as the poet puts all that is best in himself into his

verse. His purpose in writing the _Arcadia_, according to the

testimony of his old schoolfellow at Shrewsbury, Fulke Greville, Lord

Brooke, was moral and didactic; but “in all these creatures of his

making his interest and scope was to turn the barren philosophic

precepts into pregnant images of life,” that is, to energize them with

poetry.

The prose naturally begotten of such a poetical conception of the

novel is well illustrated in the following passage, one of those most

charged with humanity and most free from extravagance.

“But the headpiece was no sooner off but that there fell about the

shoulders of the overcome knight the treasure of fair golden hair,

which, with the face, soon known by the badge of excellency, witnessed

that it was Parthenia, the unfortunately virtuous wife of Argalus; her

beauty then, even in despite of the past sorrow, or coming death,

assuring all beholders that it was nothing short of perfection. For

her exceeding fair eyes having with continual weeping gotten a little

redness about them; her roundly, sweetly-smelling lips a little

trembling, as though they kissed her neighbour death; in her cheeks,

the whiteness striving, by little and little, to get upon the rosiness

of them; her neck--a neck indeed of alabaster--displaying the wound

which with most dainty blood laboured to crown his own beauties; so as

here was a river of purest red, there an island of perfectest white,

each giving lustre to the other, with the sweet countenance, God

knows, full of an unaffected languishing; though these things, to a

grossly conceiving sense, might seem disgraces, yet indeed were they

but apparelling beauty in a new fashion, which all looking upon

through the spectacles of pity, did even increase the lines of her

natural fairness, so as Amphialus was astonished with grief,

compassion, and shame, detesting his fortune that made him unfortunate

in victory.”

In the _Apologie for Poetry_, Sidney condemned Euphuism, {xviii}

Lyly’s new-fangled speech, which became fashionable in all cultivated

circles immediately upon the publication of _Euphues, or the Anatomie

of Wit_, in 1579; but his own affectations are equally alien from

purity of style. Both were striving after a prose having a richness, a

style of ornament, and an artistic structure, that would furnish some

equivalent for the charms to ear and mind of metrical language. In

this they were simply repeating the attempt of the late Greek and

Latin novelists, whose style anticipated many of the mannerisms of

Elizabethan prose, the false antitheses, the word-jingles, the

artificial cadences, and alliteration. Phrases like, “Sine pretio

pretiosae,” “Amores amare coerceas,” “Atra atria Proserpinae,” in the

_Golden Ass_ of Apuleius, are marvellously like the flowers of speech

affected by Sidney and Lyly. The scholiasts used to arrange the prose

of this author in iambic measures, and would no doubt have applied

similar tests to Sidney’s. And the fondness for involved, musical

periods, the love of sensuousness and splendour, are features common

to both schools of writers. Here are two sentences from Apuleius

showing precisely the same effort to maintain the glories of poetry,

and the same cloying rhetoric that is the result in Sidney and his

contemporaries:--

“Mirus prorsus homo, immo semideus, vel certe Deus, qui magnae artis

subtilitate tantum efferavit argentum … ut diem suum sibi domus

faciat, licet sole nolente: sic cubicula, sic porticus, sic ipsae

valvae fulgurant.”

“Namque saxum immani magnitudine procerum, et inaccessa salebritate

lubricum, mediis e faucibus lapidis fontes horridos evomebat: qui

statim proni foraminis lacunis editi, perque proclive delapsi, et

angusti canalis exerto contecti tramite, proximam convallem latenter

incidebant.”

Apuleius might very well have written such a sentence as this:--

“Yet the pitiless sword had such pity of so precious an object that at

first it did but hit flatlong. But little availed that, since the lady

falling down astonished withal, the cruel villain forced the sword

with another blow to divorce the fair marriage of the head and body.”

And in spite of Sidney’s strictures upon the conceits of {xix}

Euphuism, there was not much to choose between Lyly and such

extravagances as this:--

“Exceedingly sorry for Pamela, but exceedingly exceeding that

exceedingness in fear for Philoclea.”

The fact is, there are bound to be these freaks and extravagances

whilst a style is still in such an inchoate and experimental state as

English prose was in from the time of Malory and Berners, and the

other early architects of a style unfettered by metre, with whom, as

Mr John Dover Wilson has shown in his work on John Lyly, the germs of

Euphuism found their way into English long before Guevara was known in

this country, although the tendency is nearly always attributed to his

influence. The writers of this period could not evolve even a poetic

prose without falling into these pitfalls, for the simple reason that

they wrote a century before the principles of what may be called a

normal prose style had been determined. Mr Watts-Dunton has pointed

out that in the present age there is another kind of poetic prose in

process of evolution, a prose “which above all other kinds holds in

suspense the essential qualities of poetry.” Prose to be truly

poetical, he argues, must move far away from the “tremendous

perorations of De Quincey, or the sonorous and highly-coloured

descriptions of Ruskin,” and must no doubt be something very different

from what Sidney and other writers made of Elizabethan prose, noble as

their achievement was.

“It must, in a word, have all the qualities of what we technically

call poetry except metre. We have, indeed, said before that while the

poet’s object is to arouse in the listener an expectancy of caesuric

effects, the great goal before the writer of poetic prose is in the

very opposite direction; it is to make use of the concrete figures and

impassioned diction that are the poet’s vehicle, but at the same time

to avoid the expectancy of metrical bars.”

Such a prose as this must be the very latest product of literary

effort. Its difference from the poetic prose actually evolved in the

transitional age with which we are dealing, is the difference between

an art founded on long experience and many attempts and failures, and

above all on a sound philosophy of aesthetic causes and effects, and

the essays of {xx} men who were not yet clear as to the objects they

ought to aim at. So uncertain was Sidney even as to the true genius of

English poetry that he was one of the most ardent members of the

“Areopagus,” who endeavoured to reform English poetry on Italian and

classical principles, the results of which attempt may be appraised in

the verses inserted in the _Arcadia_. The indispensable basis for a

sound poetic prose, if such a thing is feasible, must be a

satisfactory norm of unpoetic prose.

Sidney’s romance did not escape ridicule in his own time; Ben Johnson

parodied Arcadianism in _Every Man out of his Humour_; Dekker poked

fun at Arcadian and Euphuised gentlewomen in the _Gul’s Horne-book_;

and the involved and careless construction of the story came in for

mild satire in one of the earliest burlesques of chivalrous and

pastoral romances, Sorel’s _Berger Extravagant_, which was translated

by John Davies of Kidwelly in a book that may be remembered by its

sub-title, the _Anti-Romance_. The criticism in the passage following

is not particularly acute, but is cited because few readers of Sidney

are likely to come across such a very rare work as this translation

(1648).

“Nor hath England wanted its _Arcadia_, whereof it is not long since

we have had the translation. I find no more order in that than in the

rest, and there are many things whereof I am not at all satisfied. At

the very beginning you have the complaints of the shepherds Strephon

and Claius upon the departure of Urania, without telling us who she

was, nor whither she went. Now an author ought never to begin his book

but he should mention the persons principally concerned in the history

whose actions he is to raise up beyond any of the rest; yet this man

makes afterward no more mention of these two shepherds than if he had

never named them; and though he bring them in again at some sports

before Basilius, yet that signifies nothing, since a man finds no

period of their adventures, and that those verses wherein they speak

of their loves are so obscure that they may be taken for the oracles

of a Sybill. It is true that Sir Philip dying young might have left

his work imperfect; but there’s no reason why we should suffer by that

misfortune, and be obliged to take a thing for perfect because it

might have been made so.”

… Thus Clarimond in his “Oration against Poetry, Fables, and

Romances”; Philiris in his “Vindication” replies:--

{xxi}

“As for Sidney’s _Arcadia_, since it hath crossed the sea to come and

see us, I am sorry Clarimond receives it with such poor compliments.

If he hears nothing of the loves of Strephon and Claius, he must not

quarrel with the author who hath made his book one of the most

excellent in the world. There are discourses of love and discourses of

state so generous and pleasant that I should never be weary to read

them. I should say much in his commendation were I not in haste to

speak of Astraea, which Clarimond brings in next, and I am very glad

to find that book generally esteemed, which should oblige him to

esteem it also.”

Sorel’s _Berger Extravagant_ appeared in 1628. Two French translations

of the _Arcadia_ had already been made, one by Baudoin in 1624, and a

second by D. Geneviefve, Chappelain, the year following. The book was

translated into German in 1629, by Valentinus Theocritus, whose

translation was revised by Martin Opitz, and appeared again in 1643

and 1646.

It would be rash to assert that the _Arcadia_, not published until

1590, though circulated widely in manuscript during the preceding

decade, had any influence on the pastorals of Greene and Lodge, who

boasted their adherence to the linguistic fashions set in 1579 by

Lyly’s _Euphues_. It is enough to observe that these and the _Arcadia_

have many close resemblances which are proofs of a common ancestry.

Robert Greene’s _Pandosto_ (1588), the original of Shakespeare’s

_Winter’s Tale_, his _Menaphon_ (1589), and _Philomela_ (1592); and

Lodge’s _Rosalynde: Euphues’ golden legacie_ (1590), whence _As you

like it_ was derived, have the Arcadian scenes and the atmosphere of

fairy-land, combined with the same strain of chivalrous adventure, and

the same complicated love-plots as Sidney’s romance. I venture to

quote from Professor Courthope’s History of English Poetry a passage

emphasising the strong feminine interest which was such a prominent

feature in Lyly, Lodge, and Greene, as well as in Sidney.

“But after all, the element in the _Arcadia_ which produced the

greatest effect upon contemporary taste, on account of the dramatic

tendencies of the age, was the one which Sidney derived from his study

of Montemayor. Perhaps the most noticeable feature in the story is the

complete elimination of the magical and supernatural machinery which

formed so important a part of the older romances. {xxii} In imitation

of Montemayor, Sidney now concentrated the main interest of his

narrative in the complications of the love-plots. The consequence of

this device was to bring the exhibition of female character into

greater prominence. In the old chivalric poetry and fiction no more

than three types of women are represented, the insipid idol of male

worship who shows ‘mercy’ and ‘pity’ to her lover, according to the

regulation pattern of the Cours d’Amour; the fickle mistress, like

Cressida, who is inconstant to one lover, and so violates the code of

chivalry; and the unfaithful wife of the class of Guinevere and

Iseult. The _Arcadia_, on the other hand, is full of feminine

heroines, martyrs, and monsters, each of whom plays her own distinct

part in the development of the action. There is the ideal maiden,

Pamela or Philoclea, type of lofty virtue, forerunner of the Clarissas

and Belindas of Richardson; the vicious Queen Cecropia recalling the

Phaedras and Sthenobaeas of Greek legend; Gynecia, the

passion-stricken wife of a respectable elderly husband, a favourite

figure in the modern French novel; the clownish Mopsa, the original,

perhaps, of Shakespeare’s Audrey; and, above all, the representative

of adventurous, unhappy, self-sacrificing love in its various aspects,

Helen, Queen of Corinth, Parthenia, and Zelmane, predecessors of

Shakespeare’s Viola, Helena, and Imogen.”

The popularity of the book, rivalling that of _Euphues_, is

illustrated by the number of editions, of which a list will be given

later. Sidney found writers eager to continue the story, and many

imitators. The argument of John Day’s _Ile of Guls_ (1606) was “a

little string or rivolet drawne from the full streme of the right

worthy gentleman, Sir Phillip Sydney’s well knowne Archadea.” Shirley

dramatised many episodes in his _Pastorall called the Arcadia_ (1640);

the story of the dispossessed king of Paphlagonia and his son is

probably the germ of Shakespeare’s episode of Gloucester and his sons

in _King Lear_, and Mr C. Crawford has found traces of copying in the

_Duchess of Malfi_ and other plays of Webster. The author of the

_Emblemes_, Francis Quarles, made a long poem out of the story of

Argalus and Parthenia (1622); and other writers linked their

compositions to the popularity and prestige of the _Arcadia_ by using

Sidney’s name as their advertisement, like the author of _Sir Philip

Sydney’s Ourania_ (1606), a philosophical poem dedicated to the

Countess of Pembroke, and the Lady Mary Wroath, a niece of Sidney, who

produced a slavish imitation in _The Countess of Montgomerie’s Urania_

{xxiii} (1621), and made great play with her pedigree on the

title-page. Excerpts and adaptations were published right down to the

late seventeenth century.

The first edition of the _Arcadia_ was published in 1590, four years

after the author’s death. He did not finish the book, which had been

begun for the amusement of his sister, the Countess of Pembroke, while

he was in exile from the court and living at Wilton House, the seat of

the Pembrokes. It was Sidney’s dying request that the manuscript

should be destroyed, and the dedicatory epistle to his sister

expresses how little he valued the book as a literary performance:--

“If you keep it to yourself, or to such friends who will weigh error

in the balance of good-will, I hope for the father’s sake it will be

pardoned, perchance made much of, though in itself it have

deformities. For indeed for severer eyes it is not, being a trifle,

and that triflingly handled.”

The _Arcadia_ was entered in the Register of the Stationer’s Company

in 1588, by William Ponsonbie, the publisher of Spenser’s _Fairie

Queene_; and the first edition saw the light in a thick quarto in

1590. A photo-lithographic reproduction of this handsome first edition

was published in 1891 by Dr Oskar Sommer, to whose scholarly

bibliographical introduction I am indebted for the following list of

the various editions. The fourth and fifth books, and a portion of the

third book (57 pages), were added in the second edition, in 1593, a

folio, by the same publisher. Beyond this, there are few variations in

the text of the two editions. The third edition (1598), also by

Ponsonbie, comprised Sidney’s _Sonnets_, _Astrophel and Stella_, and

the _Defence of Poesie_; and these works were again included in the

fourth edition (misdescribed as the third) by Robert Waldegrave, at

Edinburgh, in 1599.[i02] Mathew Lownes’ edition (1605), the fifth

(miscalled the fourth), is almost a facsimile reprint of the third;

but in the next edition, described on the title-page as the fourth

(1613), we get some new “additions,” but of small importance compared

with those in the seventh (described in the title as the fifth),

published in 1621 at Dublin, which included a “Supplement of a defect

in the third part {xxiv} of this History, by Sir W. Alexander,” which

had been printed separately at Dublin the same year. In the present

edition his supplement begins on page 428 and ends on page 451, where

Sir William’s apologie for the liberty taken is duly quoted. Sir

William Alexander of Menstrie, afterwards Earl of Stirling, was a poet

and dramatist, and a statesman of genius, who died in 1610. He was a

friend of Drummond of Hawthornden. The _Dictionary of National

Biography_ states wrongly that he published this continuation of the

third book of the _Arcadia_ in 1613, the date of the so-called fourth

edition, certain copies of which have extracts from this work

inserted. The first London edition, to which Sir William Alexander’s

supplement was added, was the eighth, published in 1623; but it is

doubtful whether the additional matter was really printed as a part of

the volume, or added from the 1621 edition, or some other of which

there is no trace, to the only copy of this issue known to Dr Sommer.

The pagination, at any rate, is in a confused state pointing to this.

The sixth book of the _Arcadia_ by Richard Beling (see _infra_ p.

631), first published at Dublin, in 1624, was added to the ninth

edition, miscalled the sixth, in 1627. It is not mentioned on the

title, but before this new supplement another title-page is inserted,

running as follows, “A Sixth Booke to the Countesse of Pembrokes

Arcadia: written by R. B. of Lincolnes Inne Esquire. (Sat, si bene; si

male, nimium.) London, printed by H. L. and R. Y. 1628,” thus dating a

year later than the title-page proper. After Beling’s continuation

come the _Sonnets_, the _Defence of Poesie_, _Astrophel_, etc. This

edition was reprinted in exact conformity, except that the new

title-page mentions the work of Beling, in 1629; and the five other

seventeenth-century editions, appearing in 1633, 1638, 1655, 1662, and

1674, corresponded exactly in all textual respects but the title-page,

except that in the twelfth, described as the ninth, edition (1638), an

alternative supplement to a defect in the third book is introduced by

Mr Ja. Johnstone, “Scoto-Brit,” and in addition to this the 1655

edition contained the forty-eight couplets entitled “A Remedie for

Loue,” and an alphabetical table, or clavis, forming an index to the

stories in the _Arcadia_.

Dr Sommer mentions only one edition in the eighteenth {xxv} century,

one in three volumes containing also the poetical works and the

_Defence of Poesy_, and described as the fourteenth edition, although

fifteen previous editions have now been enumerated. The title of the

first volume is dated 1725, but the other two volumes bear that of the

preceding year, the preliminary matter of the first not having,

apparently, been completed in 1724. This was a London edition, and Dr

Sommer was not aware of another seventeenth century edition, printed

at Dublin in 1739, which was a reproduction of this one: it bears the

imprint, “Dublin: printed by S. Powell, for T. Moore, at _Erasmus’s

Head_ in _Dame Street_, Bookseller, MDCCXXXIX”; and a copy has been

used in preparing the present edition.

The only edition of the _Arcadia_ in the nineteenth century, with the

exception of the photographic reproduction of the first edition by Dr

Sommer, was published by Sampson Low, Son, and Marston, in 1867, and

was preceded by an introductory essay by Hain Friswell, the author of

_The Gentle Life_, who says:--

“The principle on which this edition of the _Arcadia_ has been put

through the press perhaps needs some explanation. As the sheets of MS.

left the hands of Sidney, after the first book, or perhaps two, had

been completed, they were transmitted to his sister the Countess of

Pembroke, and some of them mislaid and lost. Hence one great _hiatus_

supplied by Sir William Alexander, others by R(ichard) B(eling) and Mr

Johnstone. It is also known that the Countess of Pembroke added to the

episodes, adventures, and strange turns, at least in all the later

books. Hence there is to be met with an Arcadian undergrowth which

needs much careful pruning; and this undertaken, with needful

compression, will leave the reader all that he desires of Sidney’s

own. Growing like certain fanciful parasites upon forest trees, on the

books of the _Arcadia_ are certain eclogues of laboriously-written and

fantastical poetry, some in Latin measures, against which Walpole was

right to protest, and anent which Pope said:--

‘And Sidney’s verse halts ill on Roman feet.’

“These have been boldly removed without any loss, it is believed, to

the romance; lastly, long episodes of no possible use to the book,

which we think have been supplied by other hands than Sidney’s have,

whilst using their very words and phrases, been cut down. {xxvi}

Tedious excrescences have thus been removed, but it is to be hoped

with judgment, so that the reader gets all we think is Sidney’s, and

without curb put upon his utterance.”

In the edition now offered to the student of Elizabethan literature an

opposite method has been adopted. Rather than run any risk of omitting

anything that is Sidney’s, it has been thought advisable to give the

whole _Arcadia_, excrescences and all, especially as the additions of

those who were fellow-spirits and admirers, and belonged to the same

great epoch, cannot be without their interest to readers in the

present age, who may, at any rate, skip the contributions of Alexander

and Beling if they are so minded. The example of Hain Friswell has

been followed, however, so far as the modernisation of the spelling

and punctuation is concerned. “A Continuation of Sir P. Sidney’s

Arcadia written by a young Gentlewoman” (Mrs A. W. Weames), and

published at London, in 1651, and James Johnstone’s “Supplement to a

defect in the Third Book,” which is merely an alternative to

Alexander’s, are not included.

There was a modernised edition of the _Arcadia_ published in 1725,

under the title, “Sir Philip Sidney’s Arcadia, Moderniz’d by Mrs

Stanley, London, Printed in the Year MDCCXXV”; and there were extracts

from the book, like the abstract entitled, “The Famous History of

Heroick Acts or the Honour of Chivalry,” London, 1701; and two

versions of the episode of Argalus and Parthenia, the first, “The

Unfortunate Lovers: the History of Argalus and Parthenia” (fourth

edition, 1715), and “The History of Argalus and Parthenia. Being A

Choice Flower Gathered out of Sir Philip Sidney’s Rare Garden,” c.

1770 and 1780. Dr Grosart included all the poems occurring in the

_Arcadia_ in his edition of “The Complete Poems of Sir Philip Sidney,”

in three volumes, in 1877. Students of our old texts owe an immense

debt to Dr Sommer for the pains and industry lavished on his sumptuous

facsimile editions of Caxton’s _Malory_ and Sidney’s _Arcadia_, in

both of which the comparison of all the extant readings has been

carried out with microscopic thoroughness, and done once for all.

E. A. B.

_January_ 1907.

THE LIFE OF

Sir PHILIP SIDNEY, Kt.

{xxvii}

[_From the Dublin edition, 1739._]

This Marcellus of the English nation, Sir Philip Sidney, the

short-lived ornament of his noble family, hath deserved, and, without

dispute or envy, enjoyed, the most exalted praises of his own, and of

succeeding ages. The poets of his time, especially Spenser,

reverenced him, not only as a patron, but a master; and he was almost

the only person in any age, I will not except Mecaenas, that could

teach the best rules of poetry, and most freely reward the

performances of poets. He was a man of a sweet nature, of excellent

behaviour, of much, and, withal, of well-digested learning, so that

rarely wit, courage, breeding, and other additional accomplishments of

conversation, have met in so high a degree in any single person.[i03]

Sir Henry Sidney, his father, was a man of excellent natural wit,

large heart, sweet conversation; and such a governor as sought not to

make an end of the state in himself, but to plant his own ends in the

prosperity of his country. Witness his sound establishments, both in

Wales and Ireland, where his memory is worthily grateful unto this

day.

On the other side, his mother, as she was a woman, by descent, of

great nobility (the Lady Mary, eldest daughter of John Dudley,

Duke of Northumberland), so was she by nature of a large ingenious

spirit.[i04] He was born at Penshurst, in the county of Kent, on the

29th day of November, in the year 1554, and had his Christian name

given him by his {xxviii} father, from King Philip, then lately

married to Queen Mary. While he was very young, he was sent to

Christ Church College in Oxford to be improved in all sorts of

learning; where continuing till he was about seventeen years of age

under the tuition of Dr Tho. Thornton, canon of that house, he was,

in June 1572, sent to travel; for on the 24th of August following,

when the massacre fell out at Paris, he was then there, and at that

time, as I conceive, he, with other Englishmen, did fly to the house

of the ambassador from the Queen of England.[i05] Thence he went

through Lorraine, and by Strasburg and Heidelburg to Frankfort, in

September or October following, where he settles, is entertained agent

for the Duke of Saxony, and an underhand minister for his own king.

Lodged he was in Wechel’s house, the printer of Frankfort.[i06] Here

he was accompanied by the famous Hubert Languet; and in the next

spring, 1573, Languet removed to Vienna, where our author met him

again, and stayed with him till September, when he went into Hungary

and those parts. Thence he journeyed into Italy, where he continued

all the winter following, and most of the summer, 1574, and then he

returned into Germany with Languet; and the next spring he returned

by Frankfort, Heidelburg, and Antwerp, home into England, about May

1575.

In the year 1576 he was sent by the Queen to Rodolph, the Emperor,

to condole the death of Maximilian, and also to other princes of

Germany; at which time he caused this inscription to be written under

his arms, which he then hung up in all places where he lodged:--

“Illustrissimi et generosissimi viri

Philipi Sidnaei, Angli,

Pro-regis Hiberniae filii, Comitum Warwici

Et Leicestriae Nepotis, serenissimi

Reginae Angliae ad Caesarem legati.”

The next year, 1577, in his return, he saw that gallant Prince Don

John de Austria, Viceroy of the low countries for the King of Spain,

and William, Prince of Orange; by the former of which, though at

first he was lightly esteemed {xxix} upon the account of his youth,

yet, after some discourse, he found himself so stricken with him that

the beholders wondered to see what tribute that brave and high-minded

prince paid to his worth, giving more honour and respect to him, in

his private capacity, than to the ambassadors of mighty princes.

In the year 1579 he, though neither magistrate nor counsellor, did

show himself, for several weighty reasons, opposite to the Queen’s

matching with the Duke of Anjou, which he very pithily expressed by a

due address of his humble reasons to her, as may be fully seen in a

book called “Cabala” (Part III., p. 201). The said address was written

at the desire of some great personage--his Uncle Robert, I suppose,

Earl of Leicester, upon which a great quarrel happened between him and

Edward Vere, Earl of Oxford. This, as I conceive, might occasion his

retirement from Court next summer, 1580, wherein, perhaps, he wrote

that pleasant romance called “Arcadia.”[i07]

In 1581 the treaty of marriage was renewed, and our author, Sidney,

with Fulke Greville,[i08] were two of the tilters at the

entertainment of the French Ambassador; and at the departure of the

Duke of Anjou from England, in February of the same year, he attended

him to Antwerp.[i09]

On the 8th of January 1582 he, with Perigrine Bertie, received the

honour of knighthood from the Queen, and in the beginning of 1585 he

designed an expedition with Sir Francis Drake into America, but

being hindered by the Queen (in whose opinion he was so highly prized

that she thought the Court deficient without him) he was, in October

following, made Governor of Flushing--about that time delivered to the

Queen for one of the cautionary towns--and General of the Horse. In

both which places of great trust his carriage testified to the world

his wisdom and valour, with addition of honour to his country by them;

and especially the more, when in July 1586 he surprised Axil, and

preserved the lives and honour of the English army at the enterprise

of Gravelin: so that whereas (through the fame of his high {xxx}

deserts) he was then, or rather before, in election for the Crown of

Poland, the Queen of England refused to further his advancement, not

out of emulation, but out of fear to lose the jewel of her times. What

can be said more? He was a statesman, soldier, and scholar--a complete

master of matter and language, as his immortal pen shows. His pen and

his sword have rendered him famous enough: he died by the one, and by

the other he will ever live as having been hitherto highly extolled

for it by the pens of princes. This is the happiness of art, that

although the sword doth achieve the honour, yet the arts do record it,

and no pen hath made it better known than his own in that book called

“Arcadia.” Certain it is, he was a noble and matchless gentleman, and

it may be justly said, without hyperbole or fiction, as it was of

Cato Uticensis, that “he seemed to be born to that only which he

went about.” His written works are these:--

The Countess of Pembroke’s “Arcadia,”[i10] which being the most

celebrated romance that was ever written, was consecrated to his

noble, virtuous, and learned sister Mary, the wife of Henry, Earl

of Pembroke, who, having lived to a very fair age, died in her house

in Aldersgate Street, in London, the 25th of September 1621, whereupon

her body was buried in the cathedral church of Salisbury, among the

graves of the Pembrochian family. This “Arcadia,” though then, and

since, it was, and is, taken into the hands of all ingenious men, and

said by one living at, or near, the time when first published, to be

“a book most famous for rich conceits and splendour of courtly

expressions.” This work was first printed in the year 1613 in quarto;

it hath been translated into French, Dutch, and other languages in

1624.

Besides _Astrophel and Stella_,[i11] _A Remedy for Love_, _The Defence

of Poesy_,[i12] _Sonnets_, etc., Sir Philip also turned the _Psalms

of David_ into English verse, which are in manuscript in the library

of the Earl of Pembroke at Wilton, curiously bound in a crimson velvet

cover, left thereunto by his sister Mary, Countess of Pembroke.[i13]

{xxxi}

The following dialogue, composed by our author, was spoken between two

shepherds in a pastoral entertainment before several gentlemen and

ladies at the seat of the noble family above mentioned.

_Will._ Dick, since we cannot dance, come, let a cheerful voice

Show that we do not grudge at all, when others do rejoice.

_Dick._ Ah, Will, though I grudge not, I count it feeble glee,

With sight made dim with daily tears, another’s sport to see.

Whoever lambkins saw (yet lambkins love to play)

To play when that their loved dams are stoll’n or gone astray?

If this in them be true, as true in men, think I,

A lustless song, forsooth, thinks he, that hath more lust to cry.

_Will._ A time there is for all, my mother often says,

When she, with skirts tuck’d very high, with girls at stoolball plays.

When thou hast mind to weep, seek out some smoky room:

Now let those lightsome sights we see, thy darkness overcome.

_Dick._ What joy the joyful sun gives unto bleared eyes,

That comfort in these sports you like, my mind his comfort tries.

_Will._ What! is thy bagpipe broke? or are thy lambs miswent?

Thy wallet or thy tar-box lost? or thy new raiment rent?

_Dick._ I would it were but thus, for thus it were too well.

_Will._ Thou seest my ears do itch at it; good Dick, thy sorrow tell.

_Dick._ Hear then, and learn to sigh; a mistress I do serve,

Whose wages make me beg the more, who feeds me till I starve,

Whose livery is such, as most I freeze apparelled most,

And look! so near unto my cure, that I must needs be lost.

_Will._ What? these are riddles sure; art thou then bound to her?

_Dick._ Bound as I neither power have, nor would have power to stir.

_Will._ Who bound thee?

_Dick._ Love, my lord.

_Will._ What witnesses thereto?

_Dick._ Faith in myself, and worth in her, which no proof can undo.

_Will._ What seal?

_Dick._ My heart deep graven.

_Will._ What made the band so fast?

_Dick._ Wonder, that by two so black eyes the glittering stars be past.

_Will._ What keepeth safe thy band?

_Dick._ Remembrance is the chest

Lock’d fast with knowing that she is of worldly things the best.

_Will._ Thou late of wages ’plainst: what wages mayst thou have?

_Dick._ Her heav’nly looks, which more and more do give me cause to

crave.

_Will._ If wages make you want, what food is that she gives?

_Dick._ Tear’s drink, sorrow’s meat, wherewith, not I, but in me my

death lives.

_Will._ What living get you then?

_Dick._ Disdain; but just disdain:

So have I cause myself to plain, but no cause to complain.

_Will._ What care takes she for thee?

{xxxii}

_Dick._ Her care is to prevent

My freedom with show of her beams, with virtue my content.

_Will._ God shield us from such dames. If so our downs be sped

The shepherds will grow lean, I trow, their sheep will be ill fed;

But, Dick, my counsel mark: run from the place of woe;

The arrow being shot from far doth give the smaller blow.

_Dick._ Good Will, I cannot lack the good advice, before

That foxes leave to steal, because they find they die therefore.

_Will._ Then, Dick, let us go hence, lest we great folks annoy;

For nothing can more tedious be, than ’plaint in time of joy.

_Dick._ Oh, hence! O cruel word! which even dogs do hate;

But hence, even hence, I must needs go--such is my dogged fate.

To return again to Sir Philip.

In the year 1586,[i14] when that unfortunate stand was made against

the Spaniards before Zutphen, the 22nd of September, while he was

getting upon the third horse, having had two slain under him before,

he was wounded with a musket shot out of the trenches, which broke the

bone of his thigh. The horse he rode upon was rather furiously

choleric than bravely proud, and so forced him to forsake the field,

but not his back, as the noblest and fittest bier to carry a martial

commander to his grave. In which sad progress, passing along by the

rest of the army, where his uncle,[i15] the general, was, and, being

thirsty with excess of bleeding, he called for drink, which was

presently brought him; but, as he was putting the bottle to his mouth,

he saw a poor soldier carried along, who had eaten his last at the

same feast, ghastly casting up his eyes at the bottle, which Sir

Philip perceiving, took it from his head before he drank, and

delivered it to the poor man, with these words: “Thy necessity is yet

greater than mine.” And when he had pledged this poor soldier, he was

presently carried to Arnheim, where the principal surgeons of the camp

attended for him. When they began to dress his wounds, he, both by way

of charge and advice, told them that, while his strength was yet

entire, his body free from fever, and his mind able to endure, they

might freely use their art, cut, and search to the bottom; but if they

should neglect their art, and renew torments in the declination of

nature, their ignorance, or overtenderness, would prove a kind of

tyranny to their friend, and, {xxxiii} consequently, a blemish to

their reverend science. With love and care well mixed they began the

cure, and continued it some sixteen days, with such confidence of his

recovery as the joy of their hearts overflowed their discretion, and

made them spread the intelligence of it to the Queen, and all his

noble friends here in England, where it was received, not as

_private_, but _public_ good news.

At the same time Count Hollock was under the care of a most

excellent surgeon for a wound in his throat by a musket shot, yet did

he neglect his own extremity to save his friend, and to that end had

sent him to Sir Philip. This surgeon, notwithstanding, out of love

to his master, returning one day to dress his wound, the Count

cheerfully asked him how Sir Philip did? and he answered, with a

heavy countenance, that he was not well. At these words the worthy

prince, as having more sense of his friend’s wound than his own, cries

out: “Away, villain! never see my face again, till thou bring better

news of that man’s recovery, for whose redemption many such as I were

happily lost.”

Now, after the sixteenth day was passed, and the very shoulder-bones

of this delicate patient worn through his skin with constant and

obedient posturing of his body to the surgeon’s art, he, judiciously

observing the pangs his wound stang him with by fits, together with

many other symptoms of decay, few or none of recovery, began rather to

submit his body to these artists than any farther to believe in them.

He called the ministers unto him, who were all excellent men, of

divers nations, and before them made such a confession of Christian

faith as no book, but the heart, can truly and feelingly deliver.

Then, calling for his will, and settling his worldly affairs, the last

scene of this tragedy was the parting between the two brothers: the

weaker showing infinite strength in suppressing sorrow, and the

stronger, infinite weakness in expressing of it. And to stop the

natural torrent of affection in both, Sir Philip took his leave,

with these admonishing words: “Love my memory, cherish my friends;

their faith to me may assure you they are honest. But, above all,

govern your will and affections by the will and word of your Creator;

in me, beholding the end of this world, with all her vanities.” And

with this farewell, desired the company to lead him away.

{xxxiv}

After his death, which happened on the 16th of October, the states of

Zealand became suitors to her majesty and his noble friends, that they

might have the honour of burying his body at the public expense of

their government.[i16] This was not permitted; for soon after his body

was brought to Flushing, and, being embarked with great solemnity on

the 1st of November, landed at Tower Wharf on the 6th day of the same

month. Thence it was conveyed to the Minories without Aldgate, where

it lay in state for some time, till his magnificent funeral in St

Paul’s Cathedral, the 16th of February following, which, as many

princes have not exceeded in the solemnity, so few have equalled in

the sorrow for his loss. He was buried near to that place which his

father-in-law, Sir Francis Walsingham, had designed (as I have

heard) to be entombed in, without any monument or inscription. King

James honoured him with an epitaph of his composition, and the

Muses, both of Oxford and Cambridge, lamenting much for his loss,

composed verses to his memory. Besides, several private persons did

also exercise their fancies upon this occasion; for, so general was

the lamentation, that it was accounted a sin for any gentleman of

quality, for many months after, to appear at court or city in any

light or gaudy apparel.

No monument hath since been erected over him, whereof this reason is

assigned, that “He is his own monument, whose memory is eternised in

his writings, and who was born into the world to show unto our age a

sample of ancient virtues.”[i17]

He left behind him a daughter named Elizabeth, who was born in 1585.

She married Roger Mannours, Earl of Rutland, but died without

issue.[i18]

I confess it is commonly reported that Sir Philip,[i19] some hours

before his death, enjoined a near friend to consign these his works to

the flames, whereby posterity had been deprived of much pleasure and

profit accruing thereby. What promise his friend returned herein is

uncertain; but if he broke his word to be faithful to the public good,

posterity will absolve him, without doing any penance, for being

guilty of such a {xxxv} meritorious offence, wherewith he hath obliged

so many ages. Hear the excellent epigrammatist, Owen, hereon:--

“Ipse tuam moriens, vel conjuge teste, jubebas

Arcadiam saevis ignibus esse cibum.

Si meruit mortem, quia flammam accendit amoris;

Mergi, non Uri debuit iste liber.

In librum quaecunque cadat sententia; nullâ

Debuit ingenium morte perire tuum.”

As the ancient Egyptians presented secrets under their mystical

hieroglyphics, so that an easy figure was exhibited to the eye, and a

higher notion tendered under it to the judgment, so all the “Arcadia”

is a continual grove of morality, shadowing moral and politic results

under the plain and easy emblems of lovers, so that the reader may be

deceived, but not hurt thereby, when surprised on a sudden to more

knowledge than he expected.

I will not here endeavour to offer the reader a key to unfold what

persons were intended under the fictitious denominations: herein must

men shoot at the wild rovers of their own conjectures. And many have

forged keys of their own fancies, all pretended to be the right,

though unlike one to another. But, besides, it is an injury to impose

guesses for truths on any belief; such applications, rather made than

meant, are not without reflections on families, as may justly give

distaste. I dare confidently aver that the wards of this lock are

grown so rusty with time that a modern key will scarce unlock it,

seeing in above a hundred years many criticisms of time, place, and

person, wherein the life and lustre of this story did consist, are

utterly lost, and unknown in our age.

Vita Philippi Sidnei.

“Qui dignos ipsi vitâ scripsere libellos

Illorum vitam scribere non opus est.

Sidnei in tumulo est, corpus non vita: Philippi

Producit vitam gloria, longa brevem.”

--Owen.

TESTIMONIES CONCERNING THE

AUTHOR

{xxxvi}

Gulielmus Camdenus de Praelio inter Anglos et Hispanos

prope Zutphaniam in Geldriâ.

Anno Dom. 1586.

“Ex Anglis pauci desiderati; sed qui instar plurimorum, Sidneius,

equo perfosso dum alterum ascendit, glande femur trajectus,[i20]

vicesimo quinto post die, magno sui desiderio bonis relicto, in flore

aetatis exspiravit, vix quatuor menses patri superstes. Cui

Leicestrius avunculus in Angliam reversus, exequias, magno apparatu,

et militari ritu, in Templo Sti. Pauli Londini solvit, Jacobus Rex

Scotorum epitaphio parentavit: utraque Academia lacrymas consecravit,

et Novum Oxoniae Collegium elegantissimum[i21] Peplum contexuit. Haec

et ampliora viri virtus, ingenium splendidissimum, eruditio

politissima, moresque suavissimi meruerunt.”

Mr Carew, in his “Survey of Cornwall,” p. 102.

“Being a scholar at Oxford at fourteen years of age, and three years

standing upon a wrong-conceived opinion touching my sufficiency, I was

then called to dispute extempore with the matchless Sir Philip Sidney,

in presence of the Earls of Leicester and Warwick, and divers other

great personages.”[i22]

Dr Heylin, in his “Cosmography.”

“Arcadia in Greece is a country whose fitness for pasturage {xxxvii}

and grazing hath made it the subject of many worthy and witty

discourses, especially that of Sir Philip Sidney, of whom I cannot but

make honourable mention. A book, which, besides its excellent

language, rare contrivances, and delectable stories, hath in it all

the strains of poesy, comprehendeth the universal art of speaking,

and, to them who can discern, and will observe, affordeth notable

rules for demeanour, both private and public.”

Mr Lloyd, in his “State Worthies.”

“His romance was but policy played with Machiavel in jest, and state

maxims sweetened to a courtier’s palate. He writ men as exactly as he

studied them; and discerned humours in the court with the same deep

insight he described them in his book. All were pleased with his

‘Arcadia’ but himself, whose years advanced him so much beyond himself

as his parts did beyond others. He condemned his ‘Arcadia,’ in his

more retired judgment, to the fire, which wise men think will continue

to the last conflagration. It was he whom Queen Elizabeth called her

Philip,[i23] the Prince of Orange his master, and whose friendship my

Lord Brooks was so proud of that he would have no other epitaph on his

grave than this:--

‘Here lieth Sir Philip Sidney’s friend.’”

Sir William Temple, in his “Essay on Poetry.”

“The true spirit or vein of ancient poetry, under the name of romance,

seems to shine most in Sir Philip Sidney, whom I esteem both the

greatest poet and the noblest genius of any that have left writings

behind them, and published in ours, or any other modern language. A

person born capable, not only of forming the greatest ideas, but of

leaving the noblest examples, if the length of his life had been equal

to the excellence of his wit and his virtues.”

{xxxviii}

Mr Lee, in his “Dedication of Caesar Borgia.”

_To the Right Honourable Philip, Earl of Pembroke and Montgomery._

“My lord,--Your illustrious forefathers and, indeed, all your eminent

relations, have always been of the first-rate nobility, patrons of wit

and arms, magnificently brave, true old stampt Britons, and ever

foremost in the race of glory. Not to unravel half your honourable

records, I challenge all the men of fame to show an equal to the

immortal Sidney, even when so many contemporary worthies flourished.

I mean Sir Philip, true rival of your honour; one that could match

your spirit; so most extravagantly great that he refused to be a king.

He was at once a Caesar and a Virgil, the leading soldier, and the

foremost poet. All after this must fail: I have paid just veneration

to his name, and, methinks, the spirit of Shakespear pushed the

commendation.”

Mr Philips, in his “Sixth Pastoral.”

“Full fain, O blest Eliza! would I praise

Thy maiden rule, and Albion’s golden days.

Then gentle Sidney liv’d, the shepherd’s friend;

Eternal blessings on his shade attend!”

[SIDNEY’S DEDICATION]

{xxxix}

To

My Dear Lady and Sister,

THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE.

Here now have you (most dear, and most worthy to be most dear lady!)

this idle work of mine, which, I fear, like the spider’s web, will be

thought fitter to be swept away, than worn to any other purpose. For

my part, in very truth (as the cruel fathers among the Greeks were

wont to do to the babes they would not foster), I could well find in

my heart to cast out, in some desert of forgetfulness, this child,

which I am loth to father. But you desired me to do it, and your

desire to my heart is an absolute commandment. Now, it is done only

for you, only to you: if you keep it to yourself, or commend it to

such friends who will weigh errors in the balance of goodwill, I hope,

for the father’s sake, it will be pardoned, perchance, made much of,

though in itself it have deformities. For indeed, for severer eyes it

is not, being but a trifle, and that triflingly handled. Your dear

self can best witness the manner, being done in loose sheets of paper,

most of it in your presence; the rest by sheets sent unto you, as fast

as they were done. In sum, a young head, not so well stayed as I would

it were, and shall be when God will, having many fancies begotten in

it, if it had not been in some way delivered, would have grown a

monster, and more sorry might I be that they came in, than that they

gat out. But this chief safety shall be the not walking abroad; and

his chief protection, the bearing the livery of your name, which, if

much {xl} goodwill do not deceive me, is worthy to be a sanctuary for

a greater offender. This say I, because I know thy virtue so, and this

say I, because it may be ever so, or, to say better, because it will

be ever so. Read it, then, at your idle times, and the follies your

good judgment will find in it blame not, but laugh at. And so, looking

for no better stuff than as in a haberdasher’s shop, glasses, or

feathers, you will continue to love the writer, who doth exceedingly

love you, and most heartily prays you may long live to be a principal

ornament to the family of the Sidneys. Your loving brother,

PHILIP SIDNEY.

ARCADIA

BOOK I

{1}

It was in the time that the earth begins to put on her new apparel

against the approach of her lover, and that the sun, running a most

even course, becomes an indifferent arbiter between the night and the

day, when the hopeless shepherd Strephon was come to the sands, which

lie against the island of Cithera; where viewing the place with a

heavy kind of delight, and sometimes casting his eyes to the isleward,

he called his friendly rival the pastor Claius unto him; and setting

first down in his darkened countenance a doleful copy of what he would

speak, “O my Claius,” said he, “hither we are now come to pay the

rent, for which we are so called unto by over-busy remembrance,

remembrance, restless remembrance, which claims not only this duty of

us, but for it will have us forget ourselves. I pray you, when we were

amid our flock, and that of other shepherds some were running after

their sheep, strayed beyond their bounds; some delighting their eyes

with seeing them nibble upon the short and sweet grass; some

medicining their sick ewes; some setting a bell for an ensign of a

sheepish squadron; some with more leisure inventing new games of

exercising their bodies, and sporting their wits; did remembrance

grant us any holiday, either for pastime or devotion, nay either for

necessary food, or natural rest, but that still it forced our thoughts

to work upon this place, where we last (alas! that the word _last_

should so long last) did graze our eyes upon her ever-flourishing

beauty, did it not still cry within us? ‘Ah, you base-minded

wretches!--are your thoughts so deeply bemired in the trade of

ordinary worldings, as for respect of gain some paltry wool may yield

you, to let so much time pass without knowing perfectly her estate,

especially in so troublesome a season; to leave that shore unsaluted

from whence you may see to the island where she dwelleth; to leave

those steps unkissed wherein Urania printed the farewell of all

beauty?’

{2}

“Well, then, remembrance commanded, we obeyed, and here we find that

as our remembrance came ever clothed unto us in the form of this

place, so this place gives new heat to the fever of our languishing

remembrance. Yonder, my Claius, Urania lighted; the very horse,

methought, bewailed to be so disburdened: and as for thee, poor

Claius, when thou wentest to help her down, I saw reverence and desire

so divide thee, that thou didst at one instant both blush and quake,

and instead of bearing her wert ready to fall down thyself. There she

sat, vouchsafing my cloak (then most gorgeous) under her: at yonder

rising of the ground she turned herself, looking back towards her

wonted abode, and because of her parting, bearing much sorrow in her

eyes, the lightsomeness whereof had yet so natural a cheerfulness that

it made even sorrow seem to smile; at that turning she spake to us

all, opening the cherry of her lips, and Lord how greedily mine ears

did feed upon the sweet words she uttered! And here she laid her hand

over thine eyes, when she saw the tears springing in them, as if she

would conceal them from other, and yet herself feel some of thy

sorrow. But woe is me, yonder, yonder, did she put her foot into the

boat, at that instant, as it were, dividing her heavenly beauty

between the earth and the sea. But when she was embarked, did you not

mark how the winds whistled and the seas danced for joy, how the sails

did swell with pride, and all because they had Urania? O Urania,

blessed be thou Urania, the sweetest fairness, and fairest sweetness!”

With that word his voice brake so with sobbing, that he could say no

further; and Claius thus answered:

“Alas my Strephon,” said he, “what needs this score to reckon up only

our losses? What doubt is there, but that the sight of this place doth

call our thoughts to appear at the court of affection, held by that

racking steward remembrance? As well may sheep forget to fear when

they spy wolves, as we can miss such fancies when we see any place

made happy by her treading. Who can choose that saw her, but think

where she stayed, where she walked, where she turned, where she spoke?

But what is all this? truly no more, but as this place served us to

think of those things, so those things serve as places to call to

memory more excellent matters. No, no, let us think with

consideration, and consider with acknowledging, and acknowledge with

admiration, and admire with love, and love with joy in the midst of

all woes. Let us in such sort think, I say, that our poor eyes were so

enriched as to behold and our low hearts so exalted as to love a maid

who is such, that as the greatest thing the world can shew is her

beauty, so the least thing that may be praised in her is her beauty.

Certainly as her eye-lids are more pleasant to behold than two {3}

white kids climbing up a fair tree, and browsing on its tenderest

branches, and yet are nothing comparing to the day-shining stars

contained in them; and as her breath is more sweet than a gentle

south-west wind, which comes creeping over flowery fields and shadowed

waters in the extreme heat of summer; and yet is nothing, compared to

the honey-flowing speech that breath doth carry: no more all that our

eyes can see of her (though when they have seen her, what else they

shall ever see is but dry stubble after clover-grass) is to be matched

with the flock of unspeakable virtues laid up delightfully in that

best-builded fold. But indeed, as we can better consider the sun’s

beauty by marking how he gilds these waters and mountains than by

looking upon his own face, too glorious for our weak eyes: so it may

be our conceits (not able to bear her sun-staining excellency) will

better weigh it by her works upon some meaner subject employed. And

alas, who can better witness that than we, whose experience is

grounded upon feeling? Hath not the only love of her made us (being

silly ignorant shepherds) raise up our thoughts above the ordinary

level of the world, so that great clerks do not disdain our

conference? Hath not the desire to seem worthy in her eyes made us,

when others were sleeping, to sit viewing the course of the heavens;

when others were running at Base[b1-01], to run over learned writings;

when others mark their sheep, we to mark ourselves? Hath not she

thrown reason upon our desires, and, as it were, given eyes unto

Cupid? Hath in any but in her love-fellowship maintained friendship

between rivals, and beauty taught the beholders chastity?”

He was going on with his praises, but Strephon bade him stay and look:

and so they both perceived a thing which floated, drawing nearer and

nearer to the bank; but rather by the favourable working of the sea

than by any self-industry. They doubted a while what it should be till

it was cast up even hard before them, at which time they fully saw

that it was a man. Whereupon running for pity’s sake unto him, they

found his hands (as it should appear, constanter friends to his life

than his memory) fast gripping upon the edge of a square small coffer

which lay all under his breast: else in himself no show of life, so

that the board seemed to be but a bier to carry him to land to his

sepulchre. So drew they up a young man of goodly shape, and

well-pleasing favour, that one would think death had in him a lovely

countenance; and that, though he were naked, nakedness was to him an

apparel. That sight increased their compassion, and their compassion

called up their care; so that lifting his feet above his head, making

a great deal of salt water come out of his mouth, {4} they laid him

upon some of their garments, and fell to rub and chafe him, till they

brought him to recover both breath, the servant, and warmth, the

companion, of living. At length opening his eyes, he gave a great

groan (a doleful note, but a pleasant ditty, for by that they found

not only life but strength of life in him). They therefore continued

on their charitable office until, his spirits being well returned,

he--without so much as thanking them for their pains--gat up, and

looking round about to the uttermost limits of sight, and crying upon

the name of Pyrocles, nor seeing nor hearing cause of comfort, “What,”

said he, “and shall Musidorus live after Pyrocles’s destruction?”

Therewithal he offered wilfully to cast himself again into the sea: a

strange sight to the shepherds, to whom it seemed that before being in

appearance dead, had yet saved his life, and now coming to his life,

should be a cause to procure his death; but they ran unto him, and

pulling him back (then too feeble for them) by force stickled that

unnatural fray.

“I pray you,” said he, “honest men, what such right have you in me, as

not to suffer me to do with myself what I list, and what policy have

you to bestow a benefit where it is counted an injury?”

They hearing him speak in Greek (which was their natural language)

became the more tender-hearted towards him, and considering by his

calling and looking that the loss of some dear friend was great cause

of his sorrow, told him, they were poor men that were bound, by course

of humanity, to prevent so great a mischief; and that they wished him,

if opinion of some body’s perishing bred such desperate anguish in

him, that he should be comforted by his own proof, who had lately

escaped as apparent danger as any might be.

“No, no,” said he, “it is not for me to attend so high a blissfulness:

but since you take care of me, I pray you find means that some barque

may be provided, that will go out of the haven that if it be possible

we may find the body, far, far too precious food for fishes: and for

that hire I have within this casket of value sufficient to content

them.”

Claius presently went to a fisherman, and having agreed with him, and

provided some apparel for the naked stranger, he embarked, and the

shepherds with him: and were no sooner gone beyond the mouth of the

haven, but that some way into the sea they might discern, as it were,

a stain of the water’s colour, and by times some sparks and smoke

mounting thereout. But the young man no sooner saw it, but that

beating his breast he cried that there was the beginning of his ruin,

entreating them to bend their course as near unto it as they could;

telling, how that smoke was but a small relique of a great fire which

had driven both him and {5} his friend rather to commit themselves to

the cold mercy of the sea than to abide the hot cruelty of the fire;

and that therefore, though they both had abandoned the ship, that he

was (if any were) in that course to be met withal. They steered

therefore as near thitherward as they could: but when they came so

near that their eyes were full masters of the object, they saw a sight

full of piteous strangeness: a ship, or rather the carcase of the

ship, or rather some few bones of the carcase hulling there, part

broken, part burned, part drowned: death having used more than one

dart to that destruction. About it floated great store of very rich

things and many chests which might promise no less. And amidst the

precious things were a number of dead bodies, which likewise did not

only testify both elements’ violence, but that the chief violence was

grown of human inhumanity: for their bodies were full of grisly

wounds, and their blood had (as it were) filled the wrinkles of the

sea’s visage; which it seemed the sea would not wash away, that it

might witness that it is not always its fault when we do condemn its

cruelty. In sum, a defeat where the conquered kept both field and

spoil: a shipwreck without storm or ill-footing: and a waste of fire

in the midst of the water.

But a little way off they saw the mast, whose proud height now lay

along; like a widow having lost her mate of whom she held her honour:

but upon the mast they saw a young man (at least if he were a man)

bearing show of about eighteen years of age, who sat (as on

horse-back) having nothing upon him but his shirt, which being wrought

with blue silk and gold had a kind of resemblance to the sea: on which

the sun (then near his western home) did shoot some of his beams. His

hair (which the young men of Greece used to wear very long) was

stirred up and down with the wind, which seemed to have a sport to

play with it, as the sea had to kiss his feet; himself full of

admirable beauty, set forth by the strangeness both of his seat and

gesture. For, holding his head up full of unmoved majesty he held a

sword aloft with his fair arm, which often he waved about his crown,

as though he would threaten the world in that extremity. But the

fishermen, when they came so near him that it was time to throw out a

rope by which hold they might draw him, their simplicity bred such

amazement, and their amazement such superstition that (assuredly

thinking it was some God begotten between Neptune and Venus that had

made all this terrible slaughter), as they went under sail by him,

held up their hands and made their prayers. Which when Musidorus saw,

though he were almost as much ravished with joy as they with

astonishment, he leaped to the mariner, and took the cord out of his

hand, and (saying, “Dost thou live, and art thou well,” who answered,

“Thou canst tell best, {6} since most of my well-being stands in

thee,”) threw it out, but already the ship was passed beyond Pyrocles:

and therefore Musidorus could do no more but persuade the mariners to

cast about again, assuring them that he was but a man, although of

most divine excellencies, and promising great rewards for their pains.

And now they were already come upon the stays; when one of the sailors

descried a galley which came with sails and oars directly in the chase

of them; and straight perceived it was a well-known pirate who hunted

not only for goods but for bodies of men, which he employed either to

be his galley-slaves or to sell at the best market. Which when the

matter understood, he commanded forthwith to set on all the canvas he

could and fly homeward, leaving in that fort poor Pyrocles so near to

be rescued. But what did not Musidorus say, what did he not offer to

persuade them to venture to fight; but fear standing at the gates of

their ears, put back all persuasions: so that he had nothing whatever

to accompany Pyrocles but his eyes, nought to succour him but his

wishes. Therefore praying for him, and casting a long look that way,

he saw the galley leave the pursuit of them and turn to take up the

spoils of the other wreck: and lastly he might well see them lift up

the young man; and “alas,” said he to himself, “dear Pyrocles, shall

that body of thine be enchained, shall those victorious hands of thine

be commanded to base offices, shall virtue become a slave to those

that be slaves to viciousness, alas, better had it been thou hadst

ended nobly thy noble days: what death is so evil as unworthy

servitude?”

But that opinion soon ceased when he saw the galley setting upon

another ship, which held long and strong fight with her: for then he

began afresh to fear the life of his friend, and to wish well to the

pirates whom before he hated, lest in their ruin he might perish. But

the fishermen made such speed into the haven, that they absented his

eyes from beholding the issue: where being entered, he could not

procure neither them, or any other as then, to put themselves into the

sea: so that being so full of sorrow for being unable to do anything

as void of counsel how to do anything, besides that sickness grew

something upon him, the honest shepherds Strephon and Claius (who

being themselves true friends did the more perfectly judge the

justness of his sorrow) advise him that he should mitigate somewhat of

his woe, since he had gotten an amendment in fortune, being come from

assured persuasion of his death to have no cause to despair of his

life: as one that had lamented the death of his sheep should after

know they were but strayed would receive pleasure, though readily he

knew not where to find them.

{7}

“Now, Sir,” said they, “thus for ourselves it is; we are in profession

but shepherds, and in this country of Laconia little better than

strangers, and therefore neither in skill nor ability of power greatly

to stead you. But what we can present unto you is this: Arcadia, of

which country we are, is but a little way hence; and even upon the

next confines there dwelleth a gentleman, by name Kalander, who

vouchsafest much favour unto us: a man who for his hospitality is so

much haunted that no news stir but comes to his ears; for his upright

dealings so beloved of his neighbours, that he hath many ever ready to

do him their uttermost service; and by the great goodwill our prince

bears him may soon obtain the use of his name and credit, which hath

a principal sway, not only in his own Arcadia, but in all these

countries of Peloponnesus: and (which is worth all) all these things

give him not so much power, as his nature gives him will to benefit:

so that it seems no music is so sweet to his ears as deserved thanks.

To him we will bring you, and there you may recover again your health,

without which you cannot be able to make any diligent search for your

friend; and therefore you must labour for it. Besides, we are sure the

comfort of courtesy and ease of wise counsel shall not be wanting.”

Musidorus (who, besides he was merely unacquainted in the country, had

his wits astonished with sorrow) gave easy consent to that from which

he saw no reason to disagree: and therefore (defraying the mariners

with a ring bestowed upon them) they took their journey together

through Laconia; Claius and Strephon by course carrying his chest for

him, Musidorus only bearing in his countenance evident marks of a

sorrowful mind, supported with a weak body; which they perceiving, and

knowing that the violence of sorrow is not, at the first, to be

striven withal (being like a mighty beast, sooner tamed with following

than overthrown by withstanding), they gave way unto it, for that day

and the next; never troubling him, either with asking questions or

finding fault with his melancholy; but rather fitting to his dolour,

dolorous discourses of their own and other folks’ misfortunes. Which

speeches, though they had not a lively entrance to his senses shut up

in sorrow, yet like one half asleep he took hold of much of the matter

spoken unto him, for that a man may say, ere sorrow was aware, they

made his thoughts bear away something else beside his own sorrow,

which wrought so in him, that at length he grew content to mark their

speeches, then to marvel at such wit in shepherds, after to like their

company, and lastly to vouchsafe conference: so that the third day

after, in the time that the morning did strew roses and violets in the

heavenly floor against the coming of the sun, the nightingales

(striving one with the other {8} which could in most dainty variety

recount their wrong-caused sorrow) made them put off their sleep, and

rising from under a tree (which that night had been their pavilion)

they went on their journey, which by and by welcomed Musidorus’s eyes

(wearied with the wasted soil of Laconia) with delightful prospects.

There were hills which garnished their proud heights with stately

trees; humble valleys whose base estate seemed comforted with the

refreshing of silver rivers; meadows, enamelled with all sorts of

eye-pleasing flowers; thickets, which, being lined with most pleasant

shade, were witnessed so too by the cheerful disposition of many

well-tuned birds; each pasture stored with sheep feeding with sober

security, while the pretty lambs with bleating oratory craved the

dams’ comfort; here a shepherd’s boy piping, as though he should never

be old; there a young shepherdess knitting, and withal singing, and it

seemed that her voice comforted her hands to work and her hands kept

time to her voice-music. As for the houses of the country (for many

houses came under their eye) they were all scattered, no two being one

by the other, and yet not so far off as that it barred mutual succour:

a show, as it were, of an accompanable solitariness and of a civil

wildness. “I pray you,” said Musidorus, then first unsealing his long

silent lips: “what countries be these we pass through, which are so

divers in show, the one wanting no store, the other having no store

but of want?”

“The country,” answered Claius, “where you were cast ashore and now

are passed through is Laconia, not so poor by the barrenness of the

soil (though in itself not passing fertile) as by a civil war, which

being these two years within the bowels of that estate, between the

gentlemen and the peasants (by them named Helots), hath in this fort

as it were disfigured the face of nature, and made it so unhospitable

as now you have found it: the towns neither of the one side nor the

other willingly opening their gates to strangers, nor strangers

willingly entering for fear of being mistaken.

“But this country where now you set your foot is Arcadia: and even

hard by is the house of Kalander, whither we lead you. This country

being thus decked with peace and (the child of peace) good husbandry,

these houses you see so scattered are of men, as we two are, that live

upon the commodity of their sheep; and therefore in the division of

the Arcadian estate are termed shepherds: a happy people, wanting

little, because they desire not much.”

“What cause then,” said Musidorus, “made you venture to leave this

sweet life, and put yourself in yonder unpleasant and dangerous

realm?” “Guarded with poverty,” answered Strephon, “and {9} guided

with love.” “But now,” said Claius, “since it hath pleased you to ask

anything of us, whose baseness is such as the very knowledge is

darkness, give us leave to know something of you, and of the young man

you so much lament, that at least we may be the better instructed to

inform Kalander, and he the better know how to proportion his

entertainment.”

Musidorus, according to the agreement between Pyrocles and him to

alter their names answered that he called himself Palladius and his

friend Daiphantus; “but till I have him again,” said he, “I am indeed

nothing, and therefore my story is of nothing; his entertainment

(since so good a man he is) cannot be so low as I account my estate;

and in sum, the sum of all his courtesy may be to help me by some

means to seek my friend.”

They perceived he was not willing to open himself further, and

therefore without further questioning brought him to the house; about

which they might see (with fit consideration both of the air, the

prospect, and the nature of the ground) all such necessary additions

to a great house as might well show Kalander knew that provision is

the foundation of hospitality and thrift the fuel of magnificence. The

house itself was built of fair and strong stone, not affecting so much

any extraordinary kind of fineness as an honourable representing of a

firm stateliness. The lights, doors and stairs rather directed to the

use of the guest than to the eye of the artificer; and yet as the one

chiefly heeded, so the other not neglected; each place handsome

without curiosity, and homely without loathsomeness; not so dainty as

not to be trod on, nor yet slubbered up with good fellowship; all more

lasting than beautiful, but that the consideration of the exceeding

lastingness made the eye believe it was exceeding beautiful. The

servants not so many in number as cleanly in apparel and serviceable

in behaviour, testifying even in their countenances that their master

took as well care to be served as of them that did serve. One of them

was forthwith ready to welcome the shepherds as men whom though they

were poor their master greatly favoured; and understanding by them

that the young man with them was to be much accounted of, for that

they had seen tokens of more than common greatness, howsoever now

eclipsed with fortune, he ran to his master, who came presently forth,

and pleasantly welcoming the shepherds, but especially applying him to

Musidorus, Strephon privately told him all what he knew of him, and

particularly that he found this stranger was loth to be known.

“No,” said Kalander speaking aloud, “I am no herald to inquire of

men’s pedigrees; it sufficeth me if I know their virtues; which (if

this young man’s face be not a false witness) do better apparel his

mind, than you have done his body.” While he was thus {10} speaking,

there came a boy in show like a merchant’s prentice, who, taking

Strephon by the sleeve delivered him a letter, written jointly both to

him and Claius, from Urania, which they no sooner had read but that

with short leave taking of Kalander (who quickly guessed and smiled at

the matter) and once again (though hastily) recommending the young man

unto him, they went away, leaving Musidorus even loth to part with

them, for the good conversation he had had of them and obligation he

accounted himself tied in unto them: and therefore, they delivering

his chest unto him, he opened it, and would have presented them with

two very rich jewels, but they absolutely refused them, telling him

that they were more than enough rewarded in the knowing of him, and

without hearkening unto a reply (like men whose hearts disdained all

desires but one) gat speedily away, as if the letter had brought wings

to make them fly. But by that sight Kalander soon judged that his

guest was of no mean calling; and therefore the more respectfully

entertaining him, Musidorus found his sickness (which the fight, the

sea and late travel had laid upon him) grow greatly, so that, fearing

some sudden accident, he delivered the chest to Kalander, which was

full of most precious stones gorgeously and cunningly set in divers

manners, desiring him he would keep those trifles, and if he died, he

would bestow so much of it as was needful, to find out and redeem a

young man, naming himself Daiphantus, as then in the hands of Laconian

pirates.

But Kalander seeing him faint more and more, with careful speed

conveyed him to the most commodious lodging in his house, where being

possessed with an extreme burning fever he continued some while with

no great hope of life; but youth at length got the victory of

sickness, so that in six weeks the excellency of his returned beauty

was a credible ambassador of his health, to the great joy of Kalander,

who, as in his time he had by certain friends of his that dwelt near

the sea in Messenia set forth a ship and a galley to seek and succour

Daiphantus, so at home did he omit nothing which he thought might

either profit or gratify Palladius.

For, having found in him (besides his bodily gifts beyond the degree

of admiration) by daily discourses, which he delighted himself to have

with him, a mind of most excellent composition, a piercing wit, quite

void of ostentation, high erected thought seated in a heart of

courtesy, an eloquence as sweet in the uttering as slow to come to the

uttering, a behaviour so noble as gave a majesty to adversity; and all

in a man whose age could not be above one and twenty years; the good

old man was even enamoured with a fatherly love towards him, or rather

became his servant by the bonds such virtue laid upon him; once, he

acknowledged himself so to be by the badge of diligent attendance.

{11}

But Palladius having gotten his health, and only staying there to be

in place where he might hear answer of the ships set forth, Kalander

one afternoon led him abroad to a well-arrayed ground he had behind

his house, which he thought to show him before his going as the place

himself more than in any other delighted in. The backside of the house

was neither field, garden nor orchard; or rather it was both field,

garden and orchard: for as soon as the descending of the stairs had

delivered them down, they came into a place cunningly set with trees

of the most taste-pleasing fruits: but scarcely they had taken that

into their consideration but that they were suddenly stept into a

delicate green; of each side of the green a thicket, and behind the

thickets again new beds of flowers, which being under the trees the

trees were to them a pavilion, and they to the trees a mosaical floor,

so that it seemed that Art therein would needs be delightful, by

counterfeiting his enemy Error and making order in confusion.

In the midst of all the place was a fair pond whose shaking crystal

was a perfect mirror to all the other beauties, so that it bare show

of two gardens; one in deed, the other in shadows. And in one of the

thickets was a fine fountain made thus: a naked Venus of white marble,

wherein the graver had used such cunning that the natural blue veins

of the marble were framed in fit places to set forth the beautiful

veins of her body. At her breast she had her babe Aeneas, who seemed,

having begun to suck, to leave that to look upon her fair eyes, which

smiled at the babe’s folly, meanwhile the breast running.

Hard by was a house of pleasure built for a summer-retiring place;

whither Kalander leading him he found a square room full of delightful

pictures made by the most excellent workmen of Greece. There was Diana

when Actaeon saw her bathing; in whose cheeks the painter had set such

a colour as was mixed between shame and disdain, and one of her

foolish nymphs, who weeping, and withal lowering, one might see the

workman meant to set forth tears of anger. In another table was

Atalanta, the posture of whose limbs was so lively expressed, that if

the eyes were only judges, as they be the only seers, one would have

sworn the very picture had run. Besides many more, as of Helena,

Omphale, Iole: but in none of them all beauty seemed to speak so much

as in a large table, which contained a comely old man, with a lady of

middle-age, but of excellent beauty, and more excellent would have

been deemed, but that there stood between a young maid, whose

wonderfulness took away all beauty from her, but that which it might

seem she gave her back again by her very shadow. And such difference

(being known that it did indeed counterfeit a person living) was there

between her and all the other, though {12} goddesses, that it seemed

the skill of the painter bestowed nothing on the other new beauty, but

that the beauty of her bestowed new skill on the painter. Though he

thought inquisitiveness an uncomely guest he could not choose but ask

who she was, that bearing show of one being indeed could with natural

gifts go beyond the reach of invention. Kalander answered, that it was

made by Philoclea, the younger daughter of his prince, who also with

his wife were contained in that table: the painter meaning to

represent the present condition of the young lady, who stood watched

by an over-curious eye of her parents; and that he would also have

drawn her eldest sister, esteemed her match for beauty, in her

shepherdish attire, but that rude clown her guardian would not suffer

it; neither durst he ask leave of the prince, for fear of suspicion.

Palladius perceived that the matter was wrapped up in some secrecy,

and therefore would, for modesty, demand no further; but yet his

countenance could not but with dumb eloquence desire it. Which

Kalander perceiving, “Well,” said he, “my dear guest, I know your

mind, and I will satisfy it: neither will I do it like a niggardly

answerer, going no further than the bounds of the question; but I will

discover unto you as well that wherein my knowledge is common with

others as that which by extraordinary means is delivered unto me;

knowing so much in you (though not long acquainted) that I shall find

your ears faithful treasurers.” So then sitting down in two chairs,

and sometimes casting his eye to the picture, he thus spake:

“This country Arcadia among all the provinces of Greece, hath ever

been had in singular reputation; partly for the sweetness of the air

and other natural benefits, but principally for the well-tempered

minds of the people who (finding that the shining title of glory, so

much affected by other nations, doth indeed help little to the

happiness of life) are the only people which, as by their justice and

providence give neither cause nor hope to their neighbours to annoy,

so are they not stirred with false praise to trouble others’ quiet,

thinking it a small reward for the wasting of their own lives in

ravening, that their posterity should long after say they had done so.

Even the Muses seem to approve their good determination by choosing

this country for their chief repairing place, and by bestowing their

perfections so largely here that the very shepherds have their fancies

lifted to so high conceits that the learned of other nations are

content both to borrow their names and imitate their cunning.

“Here dwelleth and reigneth this prince (whose picture you see) by

name Basilius; a prince of sufficient skill to govern so quiet a

country, where the good minds of the former princes had set down good

laws, and the well-bringing up of the people doth serve as a {13} most

sure bond to hold them. But to be plain with you, he excels in nothing

so much as the zealous love of his people, wherein he doth not only

pass all his own foregoers but, as I think, all the princes living.

Whereof the cause is, that though he exceed not in the virtues which

get admiration, as depth of wisdom, height of courage, and largeness

of magnificence, yet is he notable in those which stir affection, as

truth of word, meekness, courtesy, mercifulness, and liberality.

“He, being already well stricken in years, married a young princess,

named Gynecia, daughter to the king of Cyprus, of notable beauty, as

by her picture you see: a woman of great wit, and in truth of more

princely virtues than her husband; of most unspotted chastity; but of

so working a mind and so vehement spirits that a man may say, it was

happy she took a good course for otherwise it would have been

terrible.

“Of these two are brought into the world two daughters, so beyond

measure excellent in all the gifts allotted to reasonable creatures

that we may think they were born to show that nature is no stepmother

to that sex, how much soever some men (sharp-witted only in evil

speaking) have sought to disgrace them. The elder is named Pamela; by

many men not deemed inferior to her sister: for my part, when I marked

them both, methought there was (if at least such perfections may

receive the word of more) more sweetness in Philoclea but more majesty

in Pamela: methought love played in Philoclea’s eyes, and threatened

in Pamela’s; methought Philoclea’s beauty only persuaded, but so

persuaded as all hearts must yield; Pamela’s beauty used violence, and

such violence as no heart could resist. And it seems that such

proportion is between their minds: Philoclea so bashful, as though her

excellencies had stolen into her before she was aware; so humble, that

she will put all pride out of countenance; in sum, such proceeding as

will stir hope but teach hope good manners. Pamela of high thoughts

who avoids not pride with not knowing her excellencies, but by making

that one of her excellencies to be void of pride; her mother’s wisdom,

greatness, nobility, but (if I can guess aright) knit with a more

constant temper. Now then, our Basilius being so publicly happy as to

be a prince, and so happy in that happiness as to be a beloved prince;

and so in his private estate blessed as to have so excellent a wife

and so over-excellent children, hath of late taken a course which yet

makes him more spoken of than all these blessings. For having made a

journey to Delphos, and safely returned, within short space, he brake

up his court, and retired himself, his wife and children, into a

certain forest hereby which he called his desert; wherein (besides an

house appointed for stables and lodgings for certain {14} persons of

mean calling who do all household services) he hath builded two fine

lodges: in the one of them himself remains with his younger daughter

Philoclea (which was the cause they three were matched together in

this picture) without having any other creature living in that lodge

with him.

“Which though it be strange, yet not strange as the course he hath

taken with the princess Pamela whom he hath placed in the other lodge:

but how think you accompanied? Truly with none other but one Dametas,

the most arrant doltish clown that I think ever was without the

privilege of a bauble, with his wife Miso and daughter Mopsa, in whom

no wit can devise anything wherein they may pleasure her but to

exercise her patience and to serve for a foil of her perfections. This

loutish clown is such that you never saw so ill-favoured a vizor; his

behaviour such that he is beyond the degree of ridiculous; and for his

apparel, even as I would with him: Miso his wife so handsome a beldam,

that only her face and her splay-foot have made her accused for a

witch; only one good point she hath, that she observes decorum, having

a forward mind in a wretched body. Between these two personages (who

never agreed in any humour, but in disagreeing) is issued forth

mistress Mopsa, a fit woman to participate of both their perfections:

but because a pleasant fellow of my acquaintance set forth her praises

in verse, I will only repeat them, and spare mine own tongue, since

she goes for a woman. The verses are these, which I have so often

caused to be sung, that I have them without book.

What length of verse can serve, brave Mopsa’s good to show?

When virtues strange, and beauties such, as no man them may know:

Thus shrewdly burden’d then, how can my Muse escape?

The Gods must help, and precious things must serve, to shew her shape,

Like great God Saturn fair, and like fair Venus chaste:

As smooth as Pan, as Juno mild, like Goddess Iris fac’t,

With Cupid she forsees, and goes God Vulcan’s pace:

And for a taste of all these gifts, she steals God Momus’ grace.

Her forehead Jacinth-like, her cheeks of Opal hue,

Her twinkling eyes bedeck’d with Pearl, her lips a Sapphire blue:

Her hair like Crapal stone; her mouth O heav’nly wide!

Her skin like burnished gold, her hands like silver ore untry’d.

As for her parts unknown, which hidden sure are best:

Happy be they which will believe, and never seek the rest.

“Now truly having made these descriptions unto you, methinks you

should imagine that I rather feign some pleasant device than recount a

truth that a prince (not banished from his own wits) could possibly

make so unworthy a choice. But truly (dear guest) {15} so it is that

princes (whose doings have been often smoothed with good success)

think nothing so absurd, which they cannot make honourable. The

beginning of his credit was by the prince’s straying out of the way,

one time he hunted, where meeting this fellow, and asking him the way;

and so falling into other questions, he found some of his answers (as

a dog sure, if he could speak, had wit enough to describe his kennel)

not unsensible, and all uttered with such rudeness, which he

interpreted plainness (though there be great difference between them)

that Basilius, conceiving a sudden delight, took him to his court,

with apparent show of his good opinion: where the flattering courtier

had no sooner taken the prince’s mind, but that there were straight

reasons to confirm the prince’s doing, and shadows of virtues found

for Dametas. His silence grew wit, his bluntness integrity, his

beastly ignorance virtuous simplicity, and the prince (according to

the nature of great persons, in love with what he had done himself)

fancied that his weakness with his presence would much be mended. And

so like a creature of his own making, he liked him more and more; and

thus having first given him the office of principal herdsman; lastly,

since he took this strange determination, he hath in a manner put the

life of himself and his children into his hands. Which authority (like

too great a sail for so small a boat) doth so oversway poor Dametas,

that, if before he was a good fool in a chamber, he might be allowed

it now in a comedy, so as I doubt me (I fear me indeed) my master will

in the end (with his cost) find that his office is not to make men,

but to use men as men are, no more than a horse will be taught to

hunt, or an ass to manage. But in sooth I am afraid I have given your

ears too great a surfeit with gross discourses of that heavy piece of

flesh. But the zealous grief I conceive to see so great an error in my

lord hath made me bestow more words than I confess so base a subject

deserveth.

“Thus much now that I have told you is nothing more than in effect any

Arcadian knows. But what moved him to this strange solitariness hath

been imparted (as I think) but to one person living. Myself can

conjecture, and indeed more than conjecture by this accident that I

will tell you: I have an only son, by name Clitophon, who is now

absent, preparing for his own marriage, which I mean shortly shall be

here celebrated. This son of mine (while the prince kept his court)

was of his bed-chamber: now since the breaking up of thereof returned

home, and showed me (among other things he had gathered) the copy

which he had taken of a letter: which when the prince had read, he had

laid in a window, presuming nobody durst look in his writings: but my

son not only took a time to read it, but to copy it. In truth I {16}

blamed Clitophon for the curiosity which made him break his duty in

such a kind, whereby kings’ secrets are subject to be revealed, but

since it was done, I was content to take so much profit as to know it.

Now here is the letter that I ever since, for my good liking, have

carried about me: which before I read unto you, I must tell you from

whom it came. It is a nobleman of his country, named Philanax,

appointed by the prince regent, in this time of his retiring, and most

worthy so to be: for, there lives no man whose excellent wit more

simply embraceth integrity, beside his unfeigned love to his master,

wherein never yet any could make question, saving whether he loved

Basilius, or the prince better: a rare temper, while most men either

servilely yield to all appetites, or with an obstinate austerity

looking to that they fancied good, in effect neglect the prince’s

person. This then being the man, whom of all other (and most worthy)

the prince chiefly loves, it should seem (for more than the letter I

have not to guess by) that the prince upon his return from Delphos

(Philanax then lying sick) had written unto him his determination,

rising (as evidently appears) upon some oracle he had there received:

whereunto he wrote this answer:

Philanax’s letter to Basilius.

Most redoubted and beloved prince! if as well it had pleased you at

your going to Delphos, as now, to have used my humble service, both I

should in better season, and to better purpose have spoken; and you

(if my speech had prevailed) should have been at this time, as no way

more in danger, so much more in quietness? I would then have said that

wisdom and virtue be the only destinies appointed to man to follow;

whence we ought to seek all our knowledge, since they be such guides

as cannot fail; which, besides their inward comfort, do lead so direct

a way of proceeding, as either prosperity must ensue; or, if the

wickedness of the world should oppress it, it can never be said that

evil happeneth to him who falls accompanied with virtue: I would then

have said the heavenly powers ought to be reverenced and searched

into, and their mercies rather by prayers to be fought than their

hidden counsels by curiosity. These kinds of sooth-sayings (since they

have left us in ourselves sufficient guides) be nothing but fancy,

wherein there must either be vanity, or infallibleness, and so either

not to be respected, or not to be prevented. But since it is weakness

too much to remember what should have been done, and that your

commandment stretched to know what is to be done, I do (most dear

Lord!) with humble boldness say that the manner of your determination

doth in no sort better please me than the cause of your going. These

thirty years you have so governed this region, that neither your

subjects have wanted justice in you, nor you obedience in them; and

your neighbours have found you so hurtlessly strong, that they thought

it {17} better to rest in your friendship, than to make new trial of

your enmity. If this then have proceeded out of the good constitution

of your state, and out of a wise providence generally to prevent all

those things which might encumber your happiness, why should you now

seek new courses, since your own example comforts you to continue, and

that it is to me most certain (though it please you not to tell me the

very words of the oracle) that yet no destiny nor influence whatsoever

can bring man’s wit to a higher point than wisdom and goodness: why

should you deprive yourself of government for fear of losing your

government, like one that should kill himself for fear of death? Nay,

rather, if this oracle be to be accounted of, arm up your courage the

more against it: for who will stick to him that abandons himself: let

your subjects have you in their eyes, let them see the benefits of

your justice daily more and more, and so much they needs rather like

of present sureties than uncertain changes. Lastly, whether your time

call you to live or die, do both like a prince. Now for your second

resolution, which is to suffer no worthy prince to be a suitor to

either of your daughters, but while you live to keep them both

unmarried, and, as it were, to kill the joy of posterity, which in

your time you may enjoy, moved perchance by a misunderstood oracle?

what shall I say, if the affection of a father to his own children

cannot plead sufficiently against such fancies? once, certain it is,

the God which is God of nature doth never teach unnaturalness; and

even the same mind hold I touching your banishing them from company,

lest I know not what strange loves should follow. Certainly, Sir, in

my ladies, your daughters, nature promiseth nothing but goodness, and

their education by your fatherly care hath been hitherto such as hath

been most fit to restrain all evil, giving their minds virtuous

delights, and not grieving them for want of well-ruled liberty. Now to

fall to a sudden straightening them, what can it do but argue

suspicion? a thing no more unpleasant than unsure for the preserving

of virtue. Leave women’s minds the most untamed that way of any: see

whether a cage can please a bird; or whether a dog grow not fiercer

with tying? what doth jealousy but stir up the mind to think what it

is from which are restrained? for they are treasures or things of

great delight, which men use to hide for the aptness they have to each

man’s fancy: and the thoughts once awaked to that, harder sure it is

to keep those thoughts from accomplishment than had been before to

have kept the mind (which being the chief part, by this means is

defiled) from thinking. Lastly, for the recommending of so principal a

charge of the princess Pamela (whose mind goes beyond the governing of

many thousand such) to such a person as Dametas is (besides that the

thing in itself is strange) it comes of a very ill ground that

ignorance should be the mother of faithfulness. Oh no, he cannot be

good that knows not why he is good; but stands so far good as his

fortune may keep him unassayed; but coming once to that, his rude

simplicity is either easily changed, or easily {18} deceived: and so

grows that to be the last excuse of his fault, which seemed to have

been the foundation of his faith. Thus far hath your commandment and

my zeal drawn me; which I, like a man in a valley that may discern

hills, or like a poor passenger that may spy a rock, so humbly submit

to your gracious consideration, beseeching you again to stand wholly

upon your own virtue, as the surest way to maintain you in that you

are, and to avoid any evil which may be imagined.

“By the contents of this letter you may perceive, that the cause of

all hath been the vanity which possesseth many who (making a perpetual

mansion of this poor baiting-place of man’s life) are desirous to know

the certainty of things to come, wherein there is nothing so certain

as our continual uncertainty. But what in particular points the oracle

was, in faith I know not, neither (as you may see by one place of

Philanax’s letter) he himself distinctly knew. But this experience

shews us that Basilius’s judgment, corrupted with a prince’s fortune,

hath rather heard than followed the wise (as I take it) counsel of

Philanax. For having left the stern of his government with much

amazement to the people, among whom many strange bruits are received

for current, with some appearance of danger in respect of the valiant

Amphialus his nephew, and much envying the ambitious number of the

nobility against Philanax, to see Philanax so advanced, though (to

speak simply) he deserve more than as many of us as there be in

Arcadia: the prince himself hath hidden his head, in such sort as I

told you, not sticking plainly to confess that he means not (while he

breathes) that his daughters shall have any husband, but keep them

thus solitary with him: where he gives no other body leave to visit

him at any time but a certain priest, who being excellent in poetry,

he makes him write out such things as he best likes, he being no less

delightful in conversation than needful for devotion, and about twenty

specified shepherds, in whom (some for eclogues) he taketh greater

recreation.

“And now you know as much as myself: wherein if I have held you

over-long, lay hardly the fault upon my old age, which in the very

disposition of it is talkative, whether it be (said he smiling) that

nature loves to exercise that part most, which is least decayed, and

that is our tongue, or, that knowledge being the only thing whereof we

poor old men can brag, we cannot make it known but by utterance: or,

that mankind by all means seeking to eternize himself so much the

more, as he is near his end, doth it not only by the children that

come of him, but by speeches and writings recommended to the memory of

hearers and readers. And yet thus much I will say for myself, that I

have not laid these matters either so openly or largely to any as to

yourself: so {19} much (if I much fail not) do I see in you which

makes me both love and trust you.”

“Never may he be old,” answered Palladius, “that doth not reverence

that age, whose heaviness, if it weigh down the frail and fleshly

balance, it as much lifts up the noble and spiritual part; and well

might you have alleged another reason, that their wisdom makes them

willing to profit others. And that have I received of you, never to be

forgotten, but with ungratefulness. But among many strange conceits

you told me, which have shewed effects in your prince, truly even the

last, that he should conceive such pleasure in shepherds’ discourses

would not seem the least unto me, saving that you told me at the first

that this country is notable in those wits, and that indeed myself

having been brought not only to this place, but to my life by Strephon

and Claius in their conference found wits as might better become such

shepherds as Homer speaks of, that be governors of people, than such

senators who hold their council in a sheep-cote.”

“For them two (said Kalander), especially Claius, they are beyond the

rest by so much as learning commonly doth add to nature: for, having

neglected their wealth in respect of their knowledge, they have not so

much impaired the meaner, as they bettered the better. Which all

notwithstanding, it is a sport to hear how they impute to love which

hath indued their thoughts (say they) with such a strength. But

certainly all the people of this country, from high to low, are given

to those sports of the wit, so as you would wonder to hear how soon

even children will begin to versify. Once, ordinary it is amongst the

meanest sort, to make songs and dialogues in metre, either love

whetting their brain, or long peace having begun it, example and

emulation amending it. Not so much, but the clown Dametas will stumble

sometimes upon some songs that might become a better brain: but no

sort of people are so excellent in that kind as the pastors, for their

living standing but upon the looking to their beasts, they have ease,

the nurse of poetry. Neither are our shepherds such as (I hear) they

be in other countries, but they are the very owners of the sheep, to

which either themselves look, or their children give daily attendance.

And then truly, it would delight you under some tree, or by some

river’s side (when two or three of them meet together) to hear their

rural muse, how prettily it will deliver out, sometimes joys,

sometimes lamentations, sometimes challengings one of the other,

sometimes under hidden forms, uttering such matters as otherwise they

durst not deal with. Then have they most commonly one who judgeth the

prize to the best doer, of which they are no less glad than great

princes are of triumphs: and his part is to set down in writing all

that is said, save that it may be {20} his pen with more leisure doth

polish the rudeness of an unthought-on song. Now the choice of all (as

you may well think) either for goodness of voice, or pleasantness of

wit, the prince hath: among whom also there are two or three

strangers, who, inward melancholies having made weary of the world’s

eyes, have come to spend their lives among the country people of

Arcadia, and their conversation being well approved, the prince

vouchsafeth them his presence, and not only by looking on, but by

great courtesy and liberality animates the shepherds the more

exquisitely to labour for his good liking. So that there is no cause

to blame the prince for sometimes hearing them; the blame-worthiness

is, that to hear them, he rather goes to solitariness than makes them

come to company. Neither do I accuse my master for advancing a

country-man, Dametas is, since God forbid, but where worthiness is as

truly it is among divers of that fellowship, any outward lowness

should hinder the highest rising; but that he would needs make

election of one, the baseness of whose mind is such, that it sinks a

thousand degrees lower than the basest body could carry the most base

fortune: which although it might be answered for the prince, that it

is rather a trust he hath in his simple plainness than any great

advancement, but being chief herdman; yet all honest hearts feel that

the trust of their lord goes beyond all advancement. But I am ever too

long upon him, when he crosseth the way of my speech, and by the

shadow of yonder tower I see it is a fitter time with our supper to

pay the duties we owe to our stomachs, than to break the air with my

idle discourses: and more wit I might have learned of Homer (whom even

now you mentioned) who never entertained either guests or hosts with

long speeches, till the mouth of hunger be thoroughly stopped.” So

withal he rose, leading Palladius through the garden again to the

parlour where they used to sup; Palladius assuring him that he had

already been more fed to his liking than he could be by the

skilfullest trencher-men of Media.

But being come to the supping-place, one of Kalander’s servants

rounded in his ear, at which (his colour changing) he retired himself

into his chamber, commanding his men diligently to wait upon

Palladius, and to excuse his absence with some necessary business he

had presently to dispatch: which they accordingly did, for some few

days forcing themselves to let no change appear: but, though they

framed their countenances never so cunningly, Palladius perceived

there was some ill-pleasing accident fallen out. Whereupon, being

again set alone at supper, he called to the steward, and desired him

to tell him the matter of his sudden alteration: who, after some

trifling excuses, in the end confessed unto him that his master had

received news that his {21} son before the day of his near marriage,

chanced to be at a battle which was to be fought between the gentlemen

of Lacedaemon and the Helots: who, winning the victory, he was there

made prisoner going to deliver a friend of his taken prisoner by the

Helots; that the poor young gentlemen had offered great ransom for his

life; but that the hate those peasants conceived against all gentlemen

was such that every hour he was to look for nothing but some cruel

death, which hitherto had only been delayed by the captain’s vehement

dealing for him, who seemed to have a heart of more manly pity than

the rest. Which loss had stricken the old gentleman with such sorrow,

that, as if abundance of tears did not seem sufficiently to witness

it, he was alone retired, tearing his beard and hair, and cursing his

old age, that had not made his grave to stop his ears from such

advertisements: but that his faithful servants had written in his name

to all his friends, followers, and tenants (Philanax the governor

refusing to deal in it as a private cause, but yet giving leave to

seek their best redress, so as they wronged not the state of

Lacedaemon) of whom there were now gathered upon the frontiers good

forces, that he was sure would spend their lives by any way to redeem

or revenge Clitophon. “Now Sir,” said he, “this is my master’s nature,

though his grief be such, as to live is a grief unto him, and that

even his reason is darkened with sorrow; yet the laws of hospitality

(long and holily observed by him) gave still such a sway to his

proceeding that he will no way suffer the stranger lodged under his

roof to receive (as it were) any infection of his anguish, especially

you, towards whom I know not whether his love or admiration be

greater.” But Palladius could scarce hear out his tale with patience,

so was his heart torn in pieces with compassion of the case, liking of

Kalander’s noble behaviour, kindness for his respect to him-ward, and

desire to find some remedy, besides the image of his dearest friend

Daiphantus, whom he judged to suffer either alike or worse fortune.

Therefore rising from the board, he desired the steward to tell him

particularly the ground and event of this accident, because by

knowledge of many circumstances, there might perhaps some way of help

be opened. Whereunto the steward easily in this sort condescended.

“My Lord,” said he, “when our good king Basilius, with better success

than expectation, took to wife (even in his more than decaying years)

the fair young princess Gynecia, there came with her a young lord,

cousin-german to herself, named Argalus, led hither partly with the

love and honour of his noble kinswoman, partly with the humour of

youth, which ever thinks that good, whose goodness he sees not. And in

this court he received so good increase of knowledge, that after some

years spent, he so {22} manifested a most virtuous mind in all his

actions, that Arcadia gloried such a plant was transported unto them,

being a gentleman indeed most rarely accomplished, excellently

learned, but without all vain glory: friendly without factiousness;

valiant, so as for my part I think the earth hath no man that hath

done more heroical acts than he; howsoever now of late the fame flies

of the two princes of Thessalia and Macedon, and hath long done of our

noble prince Amphialus, who indeed in our parts is only accounted

likely to match him: but I say for my part, I think no man, for valour

of mind, and ability of body, to be preferred, if equalled to Argalus;

and yet so valiant, as he never durst do anybody injury: in behaviour,

some will say, ever sad, surely sober, and somewhat given to musing,

but never uncourteous; his word ever led by his thought, and always

followed by his deed; rather liberal than magnificent, though the one

wanted not, and the other had ever good choice of the receiver; in sum

(for I perceive I shall easily take a great draught of his praises,

whom both I and all this country love so well) such a man was (and I

hope is) Argalus, as hardly the nicest eye can find a spot in, if the

over-vehement constancy of yet spotless affection may not in

hard-wrested constructions be counted a spot: which in this manner

began that work in him, which hath made both him, and itself in him,

over all this country famous. My master’s son Clitophon (whose loss

gives the cause to this discourse, and yet gives me cause to begin

with Argalus, since his loss proceeds from Argalus) being a young

gentleman as of great birth (being our king’s sister’s son) so truly

of good nature and one that can see good and love it, haunted more the

company of this worthy Argalus, than of any other; so as if there were

not a friendship (which is so rare, as it is to be doubted whether it

be a thing indeed, or but a word) at least there was such a liking and

friendliness as hath brought forth the effects which you shall hear.

About two years since, it so fell out that he brought him to a great

lady’s house, sister to my master, who had with her her only daughter,

the fair Parthenia, fair indeed (fame, I think, itself not daring to

call any fairer, if it be not Helena, queen of Corinth, and the two

incomparable sisters of Arcadia) and that which made her fairness much

the fairer was, that it was but a fair ambassador of a most fair mind;

full of wit, and a wit which delighted more to judge itself than to

shew itself: her speech being as rare, as precious; her silence

without fullness; her modesty without affectation; her shamefacedness

without ignorance: in sum, one that to praise well, one must first set

down with himself what it is to be excellent: for so she is.

“I think you think that these perfections meeting could not choose but

find one another, and delight in what they found; for likeness {23} of

manners is likely in reason to draw liking with affection; men’s

actions do not always cross with reason: to be short, it did so

indeed. They loved, although for a while the fire thereof (hope’s

wings being cut off) were blown by the bellows of despair upon this

occasion.

“There had been a good while before, and so continued, a suitor to

this same lady, a great noble man, though of Laconia, yet near

neighbour to Parthenia’s mother, named Demagoras; a man mighty in

riches and power, and proud thereof, stubbornly stout, loving nobody

but himself, and, for his own delight’s sake, Parthenia: and pursuing

vehemently his desire, his riches had so gilded over all his other

imperfections that the old lady (though contrary to my lord her

brother’s mind) had given her consent; and using a mother’s authority

upon her fair daughter had made her yield thereunto, not because she

liked her choice, but because her obedient mind had not yet taken upon

it to make choice. And the day of their assurance drew near, when my

young lord Clitophon brought this noble Argalus, perchance principally

to see so rare a sight, as Parthenia by all well-judging eyes was

judged.

“But though few days were before the time of assurance appointed, yet

love, that saw he had a great journey to make in short time, hasted so

himself that before her word could tie her to Demagoras, her heart

hath vowed her to Argalus with so grateful a receipt in mutual

affection that if she desired above all things to have Argalus,

Argalus feared nothing but to miss Parthenia. And now Parthenia had

learned both liking and misliking, loving and loathing, and out of

passion began to take the authority of judgment; insomuch that when

the time came that Demagoras (full of proud joy) thought to receive

the gift of herself; she, with words of resolute refusal (though with

tears showing she was sorry she must refuse) assured her mother she

would first be bedded in her grave than wedded to Demagoras. The

change was no more strange than unpleasant to the mother who being

determinately (lest I should say of a great lady, wilfully) bent to

marry her to Demagoras, tried all ways, which a witty and hard-hearted

mother could use upon so humble a daughter in whom the only resisting

power was love. But the more she assaulted, the more she taught

Parthenia to defend; and the more Parthenia defended, the more she

made her mother obstinate in the assault: who at length finding that

Argalus standing between them, was it that most eclipsed her affection

from shining upon Demagoras, she sought all means how to remove him,

so much the more as he manifested himself an unremovable suitor to her

daughter: first by employing him in as many dangerous enterprises as

ever the evil step-mother {24} Juno recommended to the famous

Hercules: but the more his virtue was tried, the more pure it grew,

while all the things she did to overthrow him, did set him up upon the

height of honour; enough to have moved her heart, especially to a man

every way so worthy as Argalus; but the struggling against all reason,

because she would have her will, and shew her authority in matching

her with Demagoras, the more virtuous Argalus was the more she hated

him, thinking herself conquered in his conquests, and therefore, still

employing him in more and more dangerous attempts: in the meanwhile

she used all extremities possible upon her fair daughter to make her

give over herself to her direction. But it was hard to judge whether

he in doing, or she in suffering, shewed greater constancy of

affection: for, as to Argalus the world sooner wanted occasions than

he valour to go through them: so to Parthenia malice sooner ceased

than her unchanged patience. Lastly, by treasons Demagoras and she

would have made away with Argalus, but he with providence and courage

so passed over all that the mother took such a spiteful grief at it

that her heart brake withal, and she died.

“But then Demagoras assuring himself that now Parthenia was her own

she would never be his, and receiving as much by her own determinate

answer, not more desiring his own happiness, than envying Argalus,

whom he saw with narrow eyes, even ready to enjoy the perfection of

his desires, strengthening his conceit with all the mischievous

counsels which disdained love and envious pride could give unto him,

the wicked wretch (taking a time that Argalus was gone to his country

to fetch some of his principal friends to honour the marriage, which

Parthenia had most joyfully consented unto) the wicked Demagoras, I

say, desiring to speak with her, with unmerciful force (her weak arms

in vain resisting) rubbed all over her face a most horrible poison:

the effect whereof was such, that never leper looked more ugly than

she did: which done, having his men and horses ready, departed away in

spite of her servants, as ready to revenge as could be, in such an

unexpected mischief. But the abominableness of this fact being come to

my L. Kalander, he made such means, both by our king’s intercession

and his own, that by the king and senate of Lacedaemon, Demagoras was,

upon pain of death, banished the country: who hating the punishment,

where he should have hated the fault, joined himself, with all the

power he could make, unto the Helots, lately in rebellion against that

state: and they (glad to have a man of such authority among them) made

him their general, and under him have committed divers the most

outrageous villanies that a base multitude (full of desperate revenge)

can imagine.

{25}

“But within a while after this pitiful fact committed upon Parthenia,

Argalus returned (poor Gentleman!) having her fair image in his heart,

and already promising his eyes the uttermost of his felicity when they

(nobody else daring to tell it him) were the first messengers to

themselves of their own misfortune. I mean not to move passion with

telling you the grief of both, when he knew her, for at first he did

not; nor at first knowledge could possibly have virtue’s aid so ready,

as not even weakly to lament the loss of such a jewel, so much the

more, as that skilful men in that art assured it was unrecoverable:

but within a while, truth of love (which still held the first face in

his memory) a virtuous constancy, and even a delight to be constant,

faith given, and inward worthiness shining through the foulest mists,

took so full hold of the noble Argalus, that not only in such comfort

which witty arguments may bestow upon adversity, but even with the

most abundant kindness that an eye-ravished lover can express, he

laboured both to drive the extremity of sorrow from her, and to hasten

the celebration of their marriage: whereunto he unfeignedly shewed

himself no less cheerfully earnest than if she had never been

disinherited of that goodly portion which nature had so liberally

bequeathed unto her; and for that cause deferred his intended revenge

upon Demagoras, because he might continually be in her presence,

shewing more humble serviceableness and joy to content her than ever

before.

“But as he gave this rare example, not to be hoped for of any other,

but of another Argalus, so of the other side, she took as strange a

course in affection: for where she desired to enjoy him more than to

live yet did she overthrow both her own desire and his, and in no sort

would yield to marry him: with a strange encounter of love’s affects

and effects; that he by an affection sprung from excessive beauty

should delight in horrible foulness; and she of a vehement desire to

have him should kindly build a resolution never to have him; for truth

it is, that so in heart she loved him, as she could not find in her

heart he should be tied to what was unworthy of his presence.

“Truly, Sir, a very good orator might have a fair field to use

eloquence in, if he did but only repeat the lamentable, and truly

affectionate speeches, while he conjured her by remembrance of her

affection, and true oaths of his own affection, not to make him so

unhappy, as to think he had not only lost her face, but her heart;

that her face, when it was fairest, had been but a marshal to lodge

the love of her in his mind, which now was so well placed that it

needed no further help of any outward harbinger; beseeching her, even

with tears, to know that his love was not so superficial as to go no

further than the skin, which yet now to him was most {26} fair since

it was hers: how could he be so ungrateful as to love her the less for

that which she had only received for his sake; that he never beheld

it, but therein he saw the loveliness of her love towards him;

protesting unto her that he would never take joy of his life if he

might not enjoy her, for whom principally he was glad he had life. But

(as I heard by one that overheard them) she (wringing him by the hand)

made no other answer but this. ‘My Lord,’ said she, ‘God knows I love

you; if I were princess of the whole world, and had, withal, all the

blessings that ever the world brought forth, I should not make delay

to lay myself and them under your feet; or if I had continued but as I

was, though (I must confess) far unworthy of you, yet would I (with

too great a joy for my heart now to think of) have accepted your

vouchsafing me to be yours, and with faith and obedience would have

supplied all other defects. But first let me be much more miserable

than I am ere I match Argalus to such a Parthenia. Live happy, dear

Argalus, I give you full liberty, and I beseech you to take it; and I

assure you I shall rejoice (whatsoever become of me) to see you so

coupled, as may be fit both for your honour and satisfaction.’ With

that she burst out crying and weeping, not able longer to control

herself from blaming her fortune, and wishing her own death.

“But Argalus, with a most heavy heart still pursuing his desire, she

fixed of mind to avoid further intreaty, and to fly all company which

(even of him) grew unpleasant unto her, one night she stole away: but

whither as yet it is unknown or indeed what is become of her.

“Argalus sought her long, and in many places; at length (despairing to

find her, and the more he despaired, the more enraged) weary of his

life, but first determining to be revenged of Demagoras, he went alone

disguised into the chief town held by the Helots, where coming into

his presence, guarded about by many of his soldiers, he could delay

his fury no longer for a fitter time, but setting upon him, in despite

of a great many that helped him, gave him divers mortal wounds, and

himself (no question) had been there presently murdered, but that

Demagoras himself desired he might be kept alive: perchance with

intention to feed his own eyes with some cruel execution to be laid

upon him; but death came sooner than he looked for; yet having had

leisure to appoint his successor, a young man, not long before

delivered out of the prison of the king of Lacedaemon, where he should

have suffered death for having slain the king’s nephew, but him he

named, who at that time was absent, making inroads upon the

Lacedaemonians; but being returned, the rest of the Helots, for the

great liking they conceived of that young man, {27} especially because

they had none among themselves to whom the others would yield, were

content to follow Demagoras’s appointment. And well hath it succeeded

with them, he having since done things beyond the hope of the youngest

heads; of whom I speak the rather, because he hath hitherto preserved

Argalus alive, under pretence to have him publicly, and with exquisite

torments executed after the end of these wars, of which they hope for

a soon and prosperous issue.

“And he hath likewise hitherto kept my young lord Clitophon alive, who

(to redeem his friend) went with certain other noble men of Laconia,

and forces gathered by them, to besiege this young and new successor:

but he issuing out (to the wonder of all men) defeated the Laconians,

slew many of the noblemen, and took Clitophon prisoner, whom with much

ado he keepeth alive, the Helots being villainously cruel; but he

tempereth them so, sometimes by following their humour, sometimes by

striving with it, that hitherto he hath saved both their lives, but in

different estates; Argalus being kept in a close and hard prison,

Clitophon at some liberty. And now, Sir, though (to say the truth) we

can promise ourselves little of their safeties while they are in the

Helots’ hands, I have delivered all I understand touching the loss of

my lord’s son, and the cause thereof: which though it was not

necessary to Clitophon’s case, to be so particularly told, yet the

strangeness of it made me think it would not be unpleasant unto you.”

Palladius thanked him greatly for it, being even passionately

delighted with hearing so strange an accident of a knight so famous

over the world as Argalus, with whom he had himself a long desire to

meet: so had fame poured a noble emulation in him towards him.

But then (well bethinking himself) he called for armour, desiring them

to provide him of horse and guide, and armed all saving the head, he

went up to Kalander, whom he found lying upon the ground, having ever

since banished both sleep and food as enemies to the mourning, which

passion persuaded him was reasonable. But Palladius raised him up,

saying unto him: “No more, no more of this, my L. Kalander; let us

labour to find, before we lament the loss: you know myself miss one,

who though he be not my son, I would disdain the favour of life after

him: but while there is a hope left, let not the weakness of sorrow

make the strength of it languish: take comfort, and good success will

follow.” And with those words, comfort seemed to lighten in his eyes,

and in his face and gesture was painted victory. Once, Kalander’s

spirits were so revived withal, that (receiving some sustenance, and

taking a little rest) he armed himself and those {28} few of his

servants he had left unsent, and so himself guided Palladius to the

place upon the frontiers, where already there were assembled between

three and four thousand men, all well disposed (for Kalander’s sake)

to abide any peril: but like men disused with a long peace, more

determinate to do than skilful how to do: lusty bodies, and braver

armours; with such courage as rather grew of despising their enemies,

whom they knew not, than of any confidence for anything which in

themselves they knew: but neither cunning use of their weapons, nor

art showed in their marching or encamping. Which Palladius soon

perceiving, he desired to understand (as much as could be delivered

unto him) the estate of the Helots.

And he was answered by a man well acquainted with the affairs of

Laconia, that they were a kind of people who, having been of old

freemen and possessioners, the Lacedaemonians had conquered them, and

laid not only tribute, but bondage upon them, which they had long

borne, till of late the Lacedaemonians, through greediness growing

more heavy than they could bear, and through contempt growing less

careful how to make them bear, they had with a general consent (rather

springing by the generalness of the cause than of any artificial

practice) set themselves in arms, and whetting their courage with

revenge, and grounding their resolution upon despair, they had

proceeded with unlooked-for success, having already taken divers towns

and castles, with the slaughter of many of the gentry: for whom no sex

nor age could be accepted for an excuse. And that although at the

first they had fought rather with beastly fury than any soldiery

discipline, practice had now made them comparable to the best of the

Lacedaemonians, and more of late than ever; by reason, first of

Demagoras, a great lord, who had made himself of their party, and

since his death, of another captain they had gotten, who had brought

up their ignorance, and brought down their fury to such a mean of good

government, and withal led them so valorously that (besides the time

wherein Clitophon was taken) they had the better in some other great

conflicts: in such wise that the estate of Lacedaemon had sent unto

them, offering peace with most reasonable and honourable conditions.

Palladius having gotten this general knowledge of the party against

whom, as he had already of the party for whom he was to fight, he went

to Kalander, and told him plainly that by plain force there was small

appearance of helping Clitophon; but some device was to be taken in

hand, wherein no less discretion than valour was to be used.

Whereupon, the counsel of the chief men was called, and at last this

way Palladius (who by some experience, but especially by {29} reading

histories, was acquainted with stratagems) invented, and was by all

the rest approved, that all the men there should dress themselves like

the poorest sort of the people in Arcadia, having no banners, but

bloody shirts hanged upon long staves, with some bad bag-pipes instead

of drum and fife: their armour they should, as well as might be,

cover, or at least make them look so rustily and ill-favouredly as

might well become such wearers, and this the whole number should do,

saving two hundred of the best chosen gentlemen for courage and

strength, whereof Palladius himself would be one, who should have

their arms chained, and be put in carts like prisoners. This being

performed according to the agreement, they marched on towards the town

of Cardamila where Clitophon was captive; and being come two hours

before sunset within view of the walls, the Helots already descrying

their number, and beginning to sound the alarm, they sent a cunning

fellow (so much the cunninger as that he could mask it under rudeness)

who with such a kind of rhetoric as weeded out all flowers of

rhetoric, delivered unto the Helots assembled together, that they were

country-people of Arcadia, no less oppressed by their lords, and no

less desirous of liberty than they, and therefore had put themselves

in the field, and had already (besides a great number slain) taken

nine or ten score gentlemen prisoners, whom they had there well and

fast chained. Now because they had no strong retiring place in

Arcadia, and were not yet of number enough to keep the field against

the prince’s forces, they were come to them for succour; knowing that

daily more and more of their quality would flock unto them, but that

in the meantime, lest their prince should pursue them, or the

Lacedaemonian king and nobility (for the likeness of the cause) fall

upon them, they desired that if there were not room enough for them in

the town, that yet they might encamp under the walls, and for surety

have their prisoners (who were such men as were able to make their

peace) kept within the town.

The Helots made but a short consultation, being glad that their

contagion had spread itself into Arcadia, and making account that if

the peace did not fall out between them and their king, that it was

the best way to set fire in all the parts of Greece; besides their

greediness to have so many gentlemen in their hands, in whose ransoms

they already meant to have a share; to which haste of concluding, two

things well helped; the one, that their captain, with the wisest of

them, was at that time absent about confirming or breaking the peace

with the state of Lacedaemon: the second, that over-many good fortunes

began to breed a proud recklessness[b1-02] in them; therefore sending

to view the camp, and {30} finding that by their speech they were

Arcadians, with whom they had had no war, never suspecting a private

man’s credit could have gathered such a force, and that all other

tokens witnessed them to be of the lowest calling (besides the chains

upon the gentlemen) they granted not only leave for the prisoners, but

for some others of the company, and to all, that they might harbour

under the walls. So opened they the gates, and received in the carts,

which being done, and Palladius seeing fit time, he gave the sign, and

shaking off their chains (which were made with such art, that though

they seemed most strong and fast, he that wore them might easily loose

them) drew their swords hidden in the carts, and so setting upon the

ward, made them to fly either from the place, or from their bodies,

and so give entry to all the force of the Arcadians before the Helots

could make any head to resist them.

But the Helots, being men hardened against dangers, gathered (as well

as they could) together in the market-place, and thence would have

given a shrewd welcome to the Arcadians, but that Palladius (blaming

those that were slow, heartening them that were forward, but

especially with his own example leading them) made such an impression

into the squadron of the Helots that at first the great body of them

beginning to shake and stagger, at length every particular body

recommended the protection of his life to his feet. Then Kalander

cried to go to the prison where he thought his son was; but Palladius

wished him (first scouring the streets) to house all the Helots, and

make themselves masters of the gates.

But ere that could be accomplished, the Helots had gotten new heart,

and with divers sorts of shot from corners of streets and

house-windows, galled them; which courage was come unto them by the

return of their captain; who, though he brought not many with him

(having dispersed most of his companies to other of his holds) yet

meeting a great number running out of the gate, not yet possessed by

the Arcadians, he made them turn face, and with banners displayed, his

trumpet giveth the loudest testimony he could of his return; which

once heard, the rest of the Helots, which were otherwise scattered,

bent thitherward with a new life of resolution, as if their captain

had been a root, out of which (as into branches) their courage had

sprung. Then began the fight to grow most sharp, and the encounters of

more cruel obstinacy: the Arcadians fighting to keep what they had

won; the Helots to recover what they had lost; the Arcadians as in an

unknown place, having no succour but in their hands; the Helots as in

their own place, fighting for their lives, wives, and children. There

was victory and courage against revenge and despair: safety of both

besides being no otherwise to be gotten, but by destruction.

{31}

At length, the left wing of the Arcadians began to lose ground; which

Palladius feeling, he straight thrust himself with his choice band

against the throng that oppressed them with such an overflowing of

valour that the captain of the Helots (whose eyes soon judged of that

wherewith themselves were governed) saw that he alone was worth all

the rest of the Arcadians: which he so wondered at, that it was hard

to say whether he more liked his doings, or misliked the effects of

his doings: but determining that upon that cast the game lay, and

disdaining to fight with any other, fought only to join with him:

which mind was no less in Palladius, having easily marked that he was

the first mover of all the other hands. And so their thoughts meeting

in one point, they consented (though not agreed) to try each other’s

fortune: and so drawing themselves to be the uttermost of the one

side, they began a combat, which was so much inferior to the battle in

noise and number, as it was surpassing it in bravery of fighting, and,

as it were, delightful terribleness. Their courage was guided with

skill, and their skill was armed with courage; neither did their

hardiness darken their wit, nor their wit cool their hardiness: both

valiant, as men despising death, both confident, as unwonted to be

overcome: yet doubtful by their present feeling, and respectful by

what they had already seen. Their feet steady, their hands diligent,

their eyes watchful, and their hearts resolute. The parts either not

armed, or weakly armed, were well known, and according to the

knowledge should have been sharply visited, but that the answer was as

quick as the objections. Yet some lightning, the smart bred rage, and

the rage bred smart again: till both sides beginning to wax faint, and

rather desirous to die accompanied, than hopeful to live victorious,

the captain of the Helots with a blow, whose violence grew of fury,

not of strength, or of strength proceeding of fury, struck Palladius

upon the side of the head, that he reeled astonished: and withal the

helmet fell off, he remaining bare-headed, but other of the Arcadians

were ready to shield him from any harm might rise of that nakedness.

But little needed it, for his chief enemy, instead of pursuing that

advantage, kneeled down, offering to deliver the pommel of his sword,

in token of yielding; withal speaking aloud unto him, that he thought

it more liberty to be his prisoner, than any other’s general.

Palladius standing upon himself, and misdoubting some craft, and the

Helots that were next their captain, wavering between looking for some

stratagem, or fearing treason; “What,” said the captain, “hath

Palladius forgotten the voice of Daiphantus?”

By that watch-word Palladius knew that it was his only friend

Pyrocles, whom he had lost upon the sea, and therefore both most full

of wonder so to be met, if they had not been fuller of joy than {32}

wonder, caused the retreat to be sounded, Diaphantus by authority, and

Palladius by persuasion, to which helped well the little advantage

that was of either side: and that of the Helots’ party, their

captain’s behaviour had made as many amazed as saw or heard of it: and

of the Arcadian side the good old Kalander, striving more than his old

age could achieve, was newly taken prisoner. But indeed the chief

parter of the fray was the night, which with her black arms pulled

their malicious sights one from the other. But he that took Kalander,

meant nothing less than to save him, but only so long, as the captain

might learn the enemies’ secrets, towards whom he led the old

gentleman, when he caused the retreat to be sounded; looking for no

other delivery from that captivity, but by the painful taking away of

all pain: when whom should he see next to the captain (with good

tokens how valiantly he had fought that day against the Arcadians) but

his son Clitophon? But now the captain had caused all the principal

Helots to be assembled, as well to deliberate what they had to do, as

to receive a message from the Arcadians, among whom Palladius’s virtue

(besides the love Kalander bare him) having gotten principal

authority, he had persuaded them to seek rather by parley to recover

the father and the son, than by the sword; since the goodness of the

captain assured him that way to speed, and his value (wherewith he was

of old acquainted) made him think any other way dangerous. This

therefore was done in orderly manner, giving them to understand that

as they came but to deliver Clitophon, so offering to leave the

footing they already had in the town, to go away without any further

hurt, so that they might have the father and the son without ransom

delivered. Which conditions being heard and conceived by the Helots,

Diaphantus persuaded them without delay to accept them. “For first,”

said he, “since the strife is within our own home, if you lose, you

lose all that in this life can be dear unto you: if you win, it will

be a bloody victory with no profit, but the flattering in ourselves

that same bad humour of revenge. Besides, it is like to stir Arcadia

upon us, which now, by using these persons well, may be brought to

some amity. Lastly, but especially, lest the king and nobility of

Laconia (with whom now we have made a perfect peace) should hope by

occasion of this quarrel to join the Arcadians with them, and so break

off the profitable agreement already concluded: in sum, as in all

deliberations (weighing the profit of the good success with the harm

of the evil success) you shall find this way most safe and

honourable.”

The Helots, as much moved by his authority, as persuaded by his

reasons, were content therewith. Whereupon Palladius took order that

the Arcadians should presently march out of town, {33} taking with

them their prisoners, while the night with mutual diffidence might

keep them quiet, and ere day came, they might be well on their way,

and so avoid those accidents which in late enemies, a look, a word, or

a particular man’s quarrel might engender. This being on both sides

concluded on, Kalander and Clitophon, who now with infinite joy did

know each other, came to kiss the hands and feet of Daiphantus:

Clitophon telling his father how Daiphantus, not without danger to

himself, had preserved him from the furious malice of the Helots: and

even that day going to conclude the peace (lest in his absence he

might receive some hurt) he had taken him in his company, and given

him armour, upon promise he should take the part of the Helots; which

he had in this fight performed, little knowing that it was against his

own father; “But,” said Clitophon, “here is he, who as a father, hath

now begotten me, and, as a god, hath saved me from many deaths which

already laid hold on me,” which Kalander with tears of joy

acknowledged, besides his own deliverance, only his benefit. But

Daiphantus, who loved doing well for itself and not for thanks, broke

off those ceremonies, desiring to know how Palladius, for so he called

Musidorus, was come into that company, and what his present estate

was; whereof receiving a brief declaration of Kalander, he sent him

word by Clitophon that he should not as now come unto him, because he

held himself not so sure a master of the Helots’ minds that he would

adventure him in their power, who was so well known with an unfriendly

acquaintance; but that he desired him to return with Kalander, whither

also he within few days, having dispatched himself of the Helots,

would repair. Kalander would needs kiss his hand again for that

promise, protesting he would esteem his house more blessed than a

temple of the gods, if it had once received him. And then desiring

pardon for Argalus, Diaphantus assured them that he would die but he

would bring him (though till then kept in close prison, indeed for his

safety, the Helots being so animated against him as else he could not

have lived) and so taking their leave of him, Kalander, Clitophon,

Palladius, and the rest of the Arcadians swearing that they would no

further in any sort molest the Helots, they straightway marched out of

the town, carrying both their dead and wounded bodies with them; and

by morning were already within the limits of Arcadia.

The Helots of the other side shutting their gates, gave themselves to

bury their dead, to cure their wounds, and rest their wearied bodies;

till (the next day bestowing the cheerful use of the light upon them)

Daiphantus, making a general convocation spake unto them in this

manner: “We are first,” said he, “to thank the gods, that (further

than we had either cause to hope, {34} or reason to imagine) have

delivered us out of this gulf of danger, wherein we were already

swallowed. For all being lost (had they not directed my return so just

as they did), it had been too late to recover that, which being had,

we could not keep. And had I not happened to know one of the principal

men among them, by which means the truce began between us, you may

easily conceive what little reason we have to think but that either by

some supply out of Arcadia, or from the nobility of this country, (who

would have made fruits of wisdom grow out of this occasion) we should

have had our power turned to ruin, our pride to repentance and sorrow.

But now, the storm as it fell, so it ceased: and the error committed,

in retaining Clitophon more hardly than his age or quarrel deserved,

becomes a sharply learned experience, to use, in other times, more

moderation.

“Now have I to deliver unto you the conclusion between the kings with

the nobility of Lacedaemon and you; which is in all points as

ourselves desired: as well for that you would have granted, as for the

assurance of what is granted. The towns and forts you presently have,

are still left unto you, to be kept either with, or without garrison,

so as you alter not the laws of the country, and pay such duties as

the rest of the Laconians do; yourselves are made, by public decree,

freemen, and so capable both to give and receive voice in election of

magistrates. The distinction of names between Helots and

Lacedaemonians to be quite taken away, and all indifferently to enjoy

both names and privileges of Laconians. Your children to be brought up

with theirs in the Spartan discipline: and so you (framing yourselves

to be good members of that estate) to be hereafter fellows and no

longer servants.

“Which conditions you see, carry in themselves no more contention than

assurance; for this is not a peace which is made with them; but this a

piece by which you are made of them. Lastly a forgetfulness decreed of

all what is past, they showing themselves glad to have so valiant men

as you are joined with them, so that you are to take minds of peace,

since the cause of war is finished; and as you hated them before like

oppressors, so now to love them as brothers; to take care of their

estate, because it is yours; and to labour by virtuous doing, that

posterity may not repent your joining. But now one article only they

stood upon, which in the end I with your commissioners have agreed

unto that I should no more tarry here, mistaking perchance my humour,

and thinking me as seditious as I am young; or else it is the king

Amiclas procuring, in respect that it was my ill hap to kill his

nephew Eurileon, but howsoever it be, I have condescended.” “But so

will not we,” cried almost the whole assembly, counselling one {35}

another rather to try the uttermost event than lose him by whom they

had been victorious. But he as well with general orations as

particular dealing with the men of most credit, made them see how

necessary it was to prefer such an opportunity before a vain

affection; but could not prevail till openly he sware that he would

(if at any time the Lacedaemonians brake this treaty) come back again,

and be their captain.

So, then, after a few days, setting them in perfect order, he took his

leave of them, whose eyes bade him farewell with tears, and mouths

with kissing the places where he stepped, and after making temples

unto him, as to a demi-god, thinking it beyond the degree of humanity

to have a wit so far over-going his age, and such dreadful terror

proceed from so excellent beauty. But he for his sake obtained free

pardon for Argalus, whom also (upon oath never to bear arms against

the Helots) he delivered; and taking only with him certain principal

jewels of his own, he would have parted alone with Argalus (whose

countenance well showed, while Parthenia was lost, he counted not

himself delivered, but that the whole multitude would needs guard him

into Arcadia, where again leaving them all to lament his departure, he

by enquiry got to the well-known house of Kalander. There was he

received with loving joy of Kalander, with joyful love of Palladius,

with humble, though doleful, demeanour of Argalus (whom specially both

he and Palladius regarded with grateful serviceableness of Clitophon)

and honourable admiration of all. For being now well viewed to have no

hair on the face, to witness him a man, who had done acts beyond the

degree of a man, and to look with a certain almost bashful kind of

modesty, as if he feared the eyes of men, who was unmoved by the sight

of the most horrible countenances of death; and as if nature had

mistaken her work to have a Mars’s heart in a Cupid’s body: all that

beheld him (and all that might behold him, did behold him) made their

eyes quick messengers to their mind, that there they had seen the

uttermost that in mankind might be seen. The like wonder Palladius had

before stirred, but that Diaphantus, as younger and newer come, had

gotten now the advantage in the moist and fickle impression of

eye-sight. But while all men, saving poor Argalus, made the joy of

their eyes speak for their hearts towards Daiphantus; fortune (that

belike was bid to that banquet, and meant to play the good-fellow)

brought a pleasant adventure among them. It was that as they had newly

dined, there came in to Kalander a messenger, that brought him word, a

young noble lady, near kinswoman to the fair Helen, queen of Corinth,

was come thither, and desired to be lodged in his house. Kalander

(most glad of such an occasion) went out, and all his other worthy

guests with {36} him, saving only Argalus, who remained in his

chamber, desirous that this company were once broken up, that he might

go in his solitary quest after Parthenia. But when they met this lady,

Kalander straight thought he saw his niece Parthenia, and was about in

such familiar sort to have spoken unto her, but she, in grave and

honourable manner, giving him to understand that he was mistaken; he,

half ashamed, excused himself with the exceeding likeness was between

them, though indeed it seemed that this lady was of the more pure and

dainty complexion, she said, it might very well be, having been many

times taken one for another. But as soon as she was brought into the

house, before she would rest her, she desired to speak with Argalus

publicly, who she heard was in the house. Argalus came hastily, and as

hastily thought as Kalander had done, with sudden change of to sorrow.

But she, when she had stayed her thoughts with telling them her name

and quality, in this sort spake unto him. “My Lord Argalus,” said she,

“being of late left in the court of queen Helen of Corinth, as chief

in her absence, she being upon some occasion gone thence, there came

unto me the lady Parthenia, so disfigured, as I think Greece hath

nothing so ugly to behold. For my part, it was many days, before, with

vehement oaths, and some good proofs, she could make me think that she

was Parthenia. Yet at last finding certainly it was she, and greatly

pitying her misfortune, so much the more as that all men had even told

me, as now you do, of the great likeness between us, I took the best

care I could of her, and of her understood the whole tragical history

of her undeserved adventure: and therewithal of that most noble

constancy in you my lord Argalus, which whosoever loves not, shows

himself to be a hater of virtue, and unworthy to live in the society

of mankind. But no outward cherishing could salve the inward sore of

her mind; but a few days since she died; before her death earnestly

desiring, and persuading me to think of no husband but of you, as of

the only man in the world worthy to be loved. Withal she gave me this

ring to deliver you, desiring you, and by the authority of love

commanding you that the affection you bare her, you should turn to me;

assuring you, that nothing can please her soul more than to see you

and me matched together. Now my lord, though this office be not,

perchance, suitable to my estate nor sex, who should rather look to be

desired; yet, an extraordinary desert requires an extraordinary

proceeding, and therefore I am come, with faithful love built upon

your worthiness, to offer myself, and to beseech you to accept the

offer: and if these noble gentlemen present will say it is great

folly, let them withal say, it is great love.” And then she stayed,

earnestly attending Argalus’s answer; who, first {37} making most

hearty sighs, doing such obsequies as he could to Parthenia, thus

answered her.

“Madame,” said he, “infinitely am I bound to you, for this no more

rare than noble courtesy; but much bound for the goodness I perceive

you showed to the lady Parthenia (with that the tears ran down his

eyes, but he followed on) and as much as so unfortunate a man, fit to

be the spectacle of misery, can do you a service; determine you have

made a purchase of a slave, while I live, never to fail you. But this

great matter you propose unto me, wherein I am not so blind as not to

see what happiness it should be unto me, excellent lady, know that if

my heart were mine to give, you before all others should have it; but

Parthenia’s it is, though dead: there I began, there I end all matter

of affection: I hope I shall not long tarry after her, with whose

beauty if I only had been in love, I should be so with you, who have

the same beauty; but it was Parthenia’s self I loved, and love, which

no likeness can make one, no commandment dissolve, no foulness defile,

nor no death finish.” “And shall I receive,” said she, “such disgrace

as to be refused?” “Noble lady,” said he, “let not that hard word be

used; who know your exceeding worthiness far beyond my desert? but it

is only happiness I refuse, since of the only happiness I could and

can desire, I am refused.”

He had scarce spoken those words, when she ran to him and embracing

him, “Why then Argalus,” said she, “take thy Parthenia:” and Parthenia

it was indeed. But because sorrow forbade him too soon to believe, she

told him the truth, with all circumstances: how being parted alone,

meaning to die in some solitary place, as she happened to make her

complaint, the queen Helen of Corinth (who likewise felt her part of

miseries) being then walking alone in that lovely place, heard her,

and never left, till she had known the whole discourse. Which the

noble queen greatly pitying, she sent to her a physician of hers, the

most excellent man in the world, in hope he could help her: which in

such sort as they saw he had performed, and the taking with her one of

the queen’s servants, thought yet to make this trial, whether he would

quickly forget his true Parthenia, or no. Her speech was confirmed by

the Corinthian gentlemen, who before had kept her counsel, and Argalus

easily persuaded to what more than ten thousand years of life he

desired: and Kalander would needs have the marriage celebrated in his

house, principally the longer to hold his dear guest, towards whom he

was now, besides his own habits of hospitality, carried with love and

duty: and therefore omitted no service that his wit could invent and

power minister.

But no way he saw he could so much pleasure them as by {38} leaving

the two friends alone, who being shrunk aside to the banqueting-house,

where the pictures were; there Palladius recounted unto him, that

after they had both abandoned the burning ship (and either of them

taking something under him, the better to support him to the shore) he

knew not how, but either with over-labouring in the fight, and sudden

cold, or the too much receiving of salt-water, he was past himself:

but yet holding fast, as the nature of dying men is to do, the chest

that was under him, he was cast on the sands, where he was taken up by

a couple of shepherds, and by them brought to life again, and kept

from drowning himself, when he despaired of his safety. How after

having failed to take him into the fisher-boat, he had by the

shepherds’ persuasion come to this gentleman’s house; where being

dangerously sick, he had yielded to seek the recovery of health, only

for that he might the sooner go seek the delivery of Pyrocles; to

which purpose Kalander by some friends of his in Messenia, had already

set a ship or two abroad, when this accident of Clitophon’s taking had

so blessedly procured their meeting. Then did he set forth unto him

the noble entertainment and careful cherishing of Kalander towards

him, and so upon occasion of the pictures present, delivered with the

frankness of a friend’s tongue, as near as could be, word by word what

Kalander had told him touching the strange story, with all the

particularities belonging, of Arcadia; which did in many sorts so

delight Pyrocles to hear, that he would needs have much of it again

repeated, and was not contented till Kalander himself had answered him

divers questions.

But first at Musidorus’s request, though in brief manner, his mind

much running upon the strange story of Arcadia, he did declare by what

course of adventures he was come to make up their mutual happiness in

meeting. “When, cousin,” said he, “we had stripped ourselves, and were

both leaped into the sea, and swam a little towards the shore, I

found, by reason of some wounds I had, that I should not be able to

get the land, and therefore returned back again to the mast of the

ship, where you found me, assuring myself, that if you came alive to

shore, you would seek me; if you were lost, as I thought it as good to

perish as to live, so that place as good to perish in as another.

There I found my sword among some of the shrouds, wishing, I must

confess, if I died, to be found with that in my hand, and withal

waving it about my head, that sailors by might have the better glimpse

of me. There you missing me, I was taken up by pirates, who putting me

under board prisoner, presently set upon another ship and maintaining

a long fight, in the end put them all to the sword. Amongst whom I

might hear them greatly praise one young man, who fought most

valiantly, who (as love is careful, and misfortune {39} subject to

doubtfulness) I thought certainly to be you. And so holding you as

dead, from that time to the time I saw you, in truth I sought nothing

more than a noble end, which perchance made me more hardy than

otherwise I would have been. Trial whereof came within two days after;

for the kings of Lacedaemon having set out some galleys under the

charge of one of their nephews, to scour the sea of the pirates, they

met with us, where our captain wanting men, was driven to arm some of

his prisoners, with promise of liberty for well fighting: among whom I

was one; and being boarded by the admiral, it was my fortune to kill

Eurileon the king’s nephew: but in the end they prevailed, and we were

all taken prisoners, I not caring much what became of me (only keeping

the name of Daiphantus, according to the resolution you know is

between us:) but being laid in the jail of Tenaria, with special hate

to me for the death of Eurileon, the popular sort of that town

conspired with the Helots, and so by night opened them the gates;

where entering and killing all of the genteel and rich faction, for

honesty-sake brake open all prisons, and so delivered me: and I, moved

with gratefulness, and encouraged with carelessness of life, so

behaved myself in some conflicts they had within few days, that they

barbarously thinking unsensible wonders of me, as they heard I was

hated of the king of Lacedaemon, their chief captain being slain, as

you know, by the noble Argalus (who helped thereunto by his

persuasion) having borne a great affection unto me, and to avoid the

dangerous emulation which grew among the chief, who should have the

place, and also affected, as rather to have a stranger than a

competitor, they elected me (God wot little proud of that dignity;)

restoring unto me such things of mine as being taken first by the

pirates, and then by the Lacedaemonians, they had gotten in the sack

of the town. Now being in it, so good was my success with many

victories, that I made a peace for them, to their own liking, the very

day that you delivered Clitophon, whom I, with much ado, had

preserved. And in my peace the king Amiclas of Lacedaemon would needs

have me banished, and deprived of the dignity, whereunto I was

exalted: which (and you may see how much you are bound to me) for your

sake I was content to suffer, a new hope rising in me, that you were

not dead: and so meaning to travel over the world to seek you; and now

here, my dear Musidorus! you have me.” And with that, embracing and

kissing each other, they called Kalander, of whom Daiphantus desired

to hear the full story, which before he had recounted to Palladius,

and to see the letter of Philanax, which he read and well marked.

But within some days after, the marriage between Argalus and the fair

Parthenia being to be celebrated, Daiphantus and Palladius, {40}

selling some of their jewels, furnished themselves of very fair

apparel, meaning to do honour to their loving host, who, as much for

their sakes as for the marriage, set forth each thing in most gorgeous

manner. But all the cost bestowed did not so much enrich, nor all the

fine decking so much beautify, nor all the dainty devices so much

delight, as the fairness of Parthenia, the pearl of all the maids of

Mantinea, who as she went to the temple to be married, her eyes

themselves seemed a temple, wherein love and beauty were married. Her

lips, though they were kept close with modest silence, yet with a

pretty kind of natural swelling, they seemed to invite the guests that

looked on them; her cheeks blushing, and withal, when she was spoken

unto, a little smiling, were like roses when their leaves are with a

little breath stirred; her hair being laid at the full length down her

back, bare she was, if the voward failed, yet that would conquer.

Daiphantus marking her, “O Jupiter! (quoth he speaking to Palladius)

how happens it, that beauty is only confined to Arcadia?” But

Palladius not greatly attending his speech, some days were continued

in the solemnizing the marriage, with all conceits that might deliver

delight to men’s fancies.

But such a change was grown in Daiphantus that (as if cheerfulness had

been tediousness, and good entertainment were turned to discourtesy)

he would ever get himself alone, though almost when he was in company,

he was alone, so little attention he gave to any that spake unto him:

even the colour and figure of his face began to receive some

alteration, which he shewed little to heed: but every morning early

going abroad, either to the garden, or to some woods towards the

desert, it seemed his only comfort was to be without a comforter. But

long it could not be hid from Palladius, whom true love made ready to

mark, and long knowledge able to mark; and therefore being now grown

weary of his abode in Arcadia, having informed himself fully of the

strength and riches of the country, of the nature of the people, and

manner of their laws; and seeing the court could not be visited,

prohibited to all men, but to certain shepherdish people, he greatly

desired a speedy return to his own country, after the many mazes of

fortune he had trodden. But perceiving this great alteration in his

friend, he thought first to break with him thereof, and then to hasten

his return; whereto he found him but smally inclined: whereupon one

day taking him alone with certain graces and countenances, as if he

were disputing with the trees, began in this manner to say unto him.

“A mind well trained and long exercised in virtue, my sweet and worthy

cousin doth not easily change any course it once undertakes, but upon

well-grounded and well-weighed causes; for {41} being witness to

itself of its own inward good, it finds nothing without it of so high

a price for which it should be altered. Even the very countenance and

behaviour of such a man doth shew forth images of the same constancy,

by maintaining a right harmony betwixt it and the inward good, in

yielding itself suitable to the virtuous resolution of the mind. This

speech I direct to you, noble friend Pyrocles, the excellency of whose

mind and well chosen course in virtue, if I do not sufficiently know,

having seen such rare demonstrations of it, it is my weakness, and not

your unworthiness: but as indeed I know it, and knowing it, most

dearly love both it and him that hath it, so must I needs say that

since our late coming into this country, I have marked in you, I will

not say an alteration, but a relenting truly, and a slacking of the

main career you had so notably begun and almost performed, and that in

such sort, as I cannot find sufficient reason in my great love toward

you how to allow it: for (to leave off other secreter arguments which

my acquaintance with you makes me easily find) this in effect to any

man may be manifest, that whereas you were wont in all places you came

to give yourself vehemently to the knowledge of those things which

might better your mind, to seek the familiarity of excellent men in

learning and soldiery, and lastly, to put all these things in

practice, both by continual wise proceeding, and worthy enterprises as

occasion fell for them; you now leave all these things undone: you let

your mind fall asleep: beside your countenance troubled, which surely

comes not of virtue; for virtue, like the clear heaven, is without

clouds: and lastly, you subject yourself to solitariness, the sly

enemy that doth most separate a man from well doing.”