Pyrocles’s mind was all this while so fixed upon another devotion,

that he no more attentively marked his friend’s discourse than the

child that hath leave to play marks the last part of his lesson; or

the diligent pilot in a dangerous tempest doth attend the unskilful

words of a passenger: yet the very sound having imprinted the general

points of his speech in his heart, pierced with any mislike of so

dearly an esteemed friend, and desirous by degrees to bring him to a

gentler consideration of him, with a shame-faced look (witnessing he

rather could not help, than did not know his fault) answered him to

this purpose: “Excellent Musidorus! in the praise you gave me in the

beginning of your speech, I easily acknowledge the force of your good

will unto me; for neither could you have thought so well of me, if

extremity of love had not made your judgment partial, nor could you

have loved me so entirely if you had not been apt to make so great,

though undeserved, judgments of me; and even so much I say to those

imperfections to which, though I have ever through weakness been {42}

subject, yet you by the daily mending of your mind have of late been

able to look into them, which before you could not discern; so that

the change you speak of falls not out by my impairing, but by your

bettering. And yet under the leave of your better judgment, I must

needs say thus much (my dear cousin!) that I find not myself wholly to

be condemned because I do not with continual vehemency follow those

knowledges, which you call the bettering of my mind; for both the mind

itself must, like other things, sometimes be unbent, or else it will

be either weakened, or broken, and these knowledges, as they are of

good use, so are they not all the mind may stretch itself unto: who

knows whether I feed not my mind with higher thoughts? Truly, as I

know not all the particularities, so yet I see the bounds of all these

knowledges: but the workings of the mind I find much more infinite

than can be led unto by the eye, or imagined by any that distract

their thoughts without themselves. And in such contemplation, or, as

I think, more excellent, I enjoy my solitariness, and my solitariness

perchance is the nurse of these contemplations. Eagles we see fly

alone, and they are but sheep which always herd together; condemn not

therefore my mind sometimes to enjoy itself; nor blame not the taking

of such times as serve most fit for it. And alas, dear Musidorus! if I

be sad who knows better than you the just causes I have of sadness?”

And here Pyrocles suddenly stopped, like a man unsatisfied in himself,

though his wit might well have served to have satisfied another. And

so looking with a countenance as though he desired he should know his

mind without hearing him speak, and yet desirous to speak, to breathe

out some part of his inward evil, sending again new blood to his face,

he continued his speech in this manner: “And lord, dear cousin,” said

he, “doth not the pleasantness of this place carry in itself

sufficient reward for any time lost in it? do you not see how all

things conspire together to make this country a heavenly dwelling? do

you not see the grass, how in colour they excel the emeralds, every

one striving to pass his fellow, and yet they are all kept of an equal

height? and see you not the rest of these beautiful flowers, each of

which would require a man’s wit to know, and his life to express? do

not these stately trees seem to maintain their flourishing old age

with the only happiness of their seat, being clothed with a continual

spring, because no beauty here should ever fade? doth not the air

breathe health, which the birds, delightful both to ear and eye, do

daily solemnize with the sweet consent of their voices? is not every

echo thereof a perfect music? And these fresh and delightful brooks

how slowly they slide away, as loth to leave the company of so many

things united in perfection? and with how sweet a murmur they lament

their forced {43} departure? certainly, certainly, cousin, it must

needs be that some goddess inhabiteth this region, who is the soul of

this soil: for neither is any less than a goddess worthy to be shrined

in such a heap of pleasures, nor any less than a goddess could have

made it so perfect a plot of the celestial dwellings.” And so ended

with a deep sigh, ruefully[b1-03] casting his eyes upon Musidorus, as

more desirous of pity than pleading. But Musidorus had all this while

held his look fixed upon Pyrocles’s countenance; and with no less

loving attention marked how his words proceeded from him: but in both

these he perceived such strange diversities, that they rather

increased new doubts than gave him ground to settle any judgment: for

besides his eyes sometimes even great with tears, the oft changing of

his colour, with a kind of shaking unsteadiness over all his body, he

might see in his countenance some great determination mixed with fear;

and might perceive in him store of thoughts, rather stirred than

digested; his words interrupted continually with sighs, which served

as a burden to each sentence, and the tenour of his speech, though of

his wanted phrase, not knit together to one constant end, but rather

dissolved in itself, as the vehemency of the inward passion prevailed:

which made Musidorus frame his answer nearest to that humour, which

should soonest put out the secret. For having in the beginning of

Pyrocles’s speech, which defended his solitariness, framed in his mind

a reply against it in the praise of honourable action, in showing that

such a kind of contemplation is but a glorious title to idleness; that

in action a man did not only better himself, but benefit others; that

the gods would not have delivered a soul into the body which had arms

and legs, only instruments of doing, but that it were intended the

mind should employ them, and that the mind should best know his own

good or evil by practice; which knowledge was the only way to increase

the one, and correct the other; besides many other arguments, which

the plentifulness of the matter yielded to the sharpness of his wit.

When he found Pyrocles leave that, and fall into such an affected

praising of the place, he left it likewise, and joined with him

therein: because he found him in that humour utter more store of

passion; and even thus kindly embracing him, he said, “Your words are

such, noble cousin, so sweetly and strongly handled in the praise of

solitariness, as they would make me likewise yield myself up into it,

but that the same words make me know it is more pleasant to enjoy the

company of him that can speak such words than by such words to be

persuaded to follow solitariness. And even so do I give you leave,

sweet Pyrocles, ever to defend solitariness, so long as to defend it,

you ever keep company. But I marvel at the excessive {44} praises you

give to this country; in truth it is not unpleasant, but yet if you

would return into Macedon you should either see many heavens, or find

this no more than earthly. And even Tempe in my Thessalia (where you

and I, to my great happiness, were brought up together) is nothing

inferior unto it. But I think you will make me see that the vigour of

your wit can show itself in any subject: or else you feed sometimes

your solitariness with the conceits of the poets, whose liberal pens

can as easily travel over mountains as molehills, and so like

well-disposed men, set up everything to the highest note; especially,

when they put such words in the mouths of one of these fantastical,

mind-infected people, that children and musicians call ‘Lovers.’” This

word “Lover,” did no less pierce poor Pyrocles, than the right tune of

music toucheth him that is sick of the Tarantula.[b1-04] There was not

one part of his body that did not feel a sudden motion, while his

heart with panting seemed to dance to the sound of that word; yet

after some pause (lifting up his eyes a little from the ground, and

yet not daring to place them in the eyes of Musidorus) armed with the

very countenance of the poor prisoner at the bar, whose answer is

nothing but guilty: with much ado he brought forth this question. “And

alas,” said he, “dear cousin, what if I be not so much the poet (the

freedom of whose pen can exercise itself in any thing) as even that

miserable subject of his cunning whereof you speak?” “Now the eternal

gods forbid,” mainly cried out Musidorus, “that ever my ear should be

poisoned with so evil news of you. O let me never know that any base

affection should get any lordship in your thoughts.” But as he was

speaking more, Kalander came and brake off their discourse with

inviting them to the hunting of a goodly stag, which being harboured

in a wood thereby, he hoped would make them good sport, and drive away

some part of Daiphantus’s melancholy. They condescended, and so going

to their lodgings, furnished themselves as liked them, Diaphantus

writing a few words which he sealed in a letter against their return.

Then went they together abroad, the good Kalander entertaining them

with pleasant discoursing, how well he loved the sport of hunting when

he was a young man, how much, in the comparison thereof, he disdained

all chamber-delights, that the fun (how great a journey soever he had

to make) could never prevent him with earliness, nor the moon, with

her sober countenance, dissuade him from watching till midnight for

the deer feeding. “O,” said he, “you will never live to my age,

without you keep yourselves in breath with exercise, and in heart with

joyfulness. Too much {45} thinking doth consume the spirits, and oft

it falls out that while one thinks too much of his doing, he leaves to

do the effect of his thinking.” Then spared he not to remember how

much Arcadia was changed since his youth: activity and good fellowship

being nothing in the price it was then held in; but, according to the

nature of the old growing world, still worse and worse. Then would he

tell them stories of such gallants as he had known: and so with

pleasant company beguiled the time’s haste, and shortened the way’s

length, till they came to the side of the wood, where the hounds were

in couples staying their coming, but with a whining accent craving

liberty, many of them in colour and marks so resembling, that it

shewed they were of one kind. The huntsmen handsomely attired in their

green liveries as though they were children of summer, with staves in

their hands to beat the guiltless earth when the hounds were at a

fault, and with horns about their necks to sound an alarm upon a silly

fugitive: the hounds were straight uncoupled, and ere long the stag

thought it better to trust to the nimbleness of his feet than to the

slender fortification of his lodging: but even his feet betrayed him,

for howsoever they went, they themselves uttered themselves to the

scent of their enemies, who one taking it of another, and sometimes

believing the wind’s advertisement, sometimes the view of their

faithful counsellors, the huntsmen, with open mouths then denounced

war, when the war was already begun; their cry being composed of so

well-sorted mouths, that any man would perceive therein some kind of

proportion, but the skilful woodmen did find a music. Then delight,

and variety of opinion, drew the horsemen sundry ways, yet cheering

their hounds with voice and horn, kept still, as it were, together.

The wood seemed to conspire with them against his own citizens,

dispersing their noise through all his quarters, and even the nymph

Echo left to bewail the loss of Narcissus, and become a hunter. But

the stag was in the end so hotly pursued that, leaving his flight, he

was driven to make courage of despair, and so, turning his head, made

the hounds, with change of speech, to testify that he was at a bay, as

if from hot pursuit of their enemy, they were suddenly come to a

parley.

But Kalander, by his skill of coasting the country, was amongst the

first that came into the besieged deer; whom when some of the younger

sort would have killed with their swords, he would not suffer, but

with a cross-bow sent a death to the poor beast, who with tears showed

the unkindness he took of man’s cruelty.

But by the time that the whole company was assembled, and that the

stag had bestowed himself liberally among them that had killed him,

Daiphantus was missed, for whom Palladius carefully inquiring, no news

could be given him, but by one that said he {46} thought he was

returned home; for that he marked him in the chief of the hunting,

take a byway which might lead to Kalander’s house. That answer for the

time satisfying, and they having performed all duties, as well for the

stag’s funeral as the hounds’ triumph, they returned; some talking of

the fatness of the deer’s body; some of the fairness of his head; some

of the hounds’ cunning; some of their speed, and some of their cry;

till coming home, about the time that the candles begin to inherit the

sun’s office, they found Daiphantus was not to be found. Whereat

Palladius greatly marvelling, and a day or two passing, while neither

search nor inquiry could help him to knowledge, at last he lighted

upon the letter which Pyrocles had written before he went a-hunting,

and left in his study among other of his writings: The letter was

directed to Palladius himself, and contained these words:

My only friend! violence of love leads me into such a course, whereof

your knowledge may much more vex you, than help me. Therefore pardon

my concealing it from you, since, if I wrong you, it is in the respect

I bear you. Return into Thessalia, I pray you, as full of good fortune

as I am of desire; and if I live, I will in a short time follow you;

if I die, love my memory.

This was all, and this Palladius read twice or thrice over. “Ah,” said

he, “Pyrocles what means this alteration? what have I deserved of thee

to be thus banished of thy counsels? Heretofore I have accused the

sea, condemned the pirates, and hated my evil fortune that deprived me

of thee; but now thyself is the sea which drowns my comfort; thyself

is the pirate that robs thyself from me; thy own will becomes thy evil

fortune.” Then turned he his thoughts to all forms of guesses that

might light upon the purpose and course of Pyrocles, for he was not so

sure by his words that it was love, as he was doubtful where the love

was. One time he thought some beauty in Laconia had laid hold of his

eyes; another time he feared that it might be Parthenia’s excellency

which had broken the bands of all former resolution; but the more he

thought the more he knew not what to think, armies of objections

rising against any accepted opinion.

Then as careful he was what to do himself: at length determined never

to leave seeking him till his search should be either by meeting

accomplished, or by death ended. Therefore (for all the unkindness

bearing tender respect that his friend’s secret determination should

be kept from any suspicion in others) he went to Kalander, and told

him that he had received a message from his friend, by which he

understood he was gone back again into Laconia about some matters

greatly importing the poor men, whose protection he had undertaken,

and that it was in any sort {47} fit for him to follow him, but in

such private wise, as not to be known, and that therefore he would as

then bid him farewell; arming himself in a black armour, as either a

badge, or prognostication of his mind, and taking only with him a good

store of money and a few choice jewels, leaving the greatest number of

them, and most of his apparel with Kalander, which he did partly to

give the more cause to Kalander to expect their return, and so to be

the less curiously inquisitive after them--and partly to leave those

honourable thanks unto him for his charge and kindness, which he knew

he would not other way receive. The good old man having neither reason

to dissuade nor hope to persuade, received the things with mind of a

keeper, not of an owner; but, before he went, desired he might have

the happiness fully to know what they were, which, he said, he had

ever till then delayed, fearing to be importune: but now he would not

be so much an enemy to his desires as any longer to imprison them in

silence. Palladius told him that the matter was not so secret but that

so worthy a friend deserved the knowledge, and should have it as soon

as he might speak with his friend, without whose consent (because

their promise bound him otherwise) he could not reveal it; but bade

him hold for most assured that if they lived but a while he should

find that they which bore the names of Diaphantus and Palladius would

give him and his cause to think his noble courtesy well employed.

Kalander would press him no further, but desiring that he might have

leave to go, or at least to send his son and servants with him:

Palladius brake off all ceremonies by telling him his case stood so

that his greatest favour should be in making least ado of his parting.

Wherewith Kalander knowing it to be more cumber than courtesy to

strive, abstained from further urging him, but not from hearty

mourning the loss of so sweet a conversation.

Only Clitophon by vehement importunity obtained to go with him to come

again to Diaphantus, whom he named and accounted his lord. And in such

private guise departed Palladius, though having a companion to talk

withal, yet talking much more with unkindness. And first they went to

Mantinea; whereof because Parthenia was, he suspected there might be

some cause of his abode. But, finding there no news of him, he went to

Tegea, Ripa, Enispae, Stimphalus, and Phineus, famous for the

poisonous Stygian water, and through all the rest of Arcadia, making

their eyes, their ears, and their tongues serve almost for nothing but

that inquiry. But they could know nothing but that in none of those

places he was known. And so went they, making one place succeed to

another in like uncertainty to their search, many times encountering

strange adventures worthy to be registered in the rolls of fame: but

this may not be omitted. As they passed {48} in a pleasant valley (on

either side of which high hills lifted up their beetle-brows, as if

they would overlook the pleasantness of their under-prospect) they

were by the daintiness of the place, and the weariness of themselves,

invited to light from their horses, and pulled off their bits that

they might something refresh their mouths upon the grass (which

plentifully grew, brought up under the care of those well-shading

trees), they themselves laid them down hard by the murmuring music of

certain waters which spouted out of the side of the hills, and in the

bottom of the valley made of many springs a pretty brook, like a

commonwealth of many families; but when they had a while hearkened to

the persuasion of sleep, they rose and walked onward in that shady

place till Clitophon espied a piece of armour, and not far off another

piece; and so the sight of one piece teaching him to look for more, he

at length found all, with head-piece and shield, by the device whereof

he straight knew it to be the armour of his cousin, the noble

Amphialus. Whereupon (fearing some inconvenience happened unto him) he

told both his doubt and cause of doubt to Palladius, who, considering

thereof, thought best to make no longer stay, but to follow on, lest

perchance some violence were offered to so worthy a knight, whom the

fame of the world seemed to set in balance with any knight living. Yet

with a sudden conceit, having long borne great honour to the name of

Amphialus, Palladius thought best to take that armour, thinking

thereby to learn by them that should know that armour some news of

Amphialus, and yet not hinder him in the search of Diaphantus too. So

he, by the help of Clitophon, quickly put on that armour, whereof

there was no one piece wanting, though hacked in some places,

betraying some fighting not long since passed. It was something too

great, but yet served well enough. And so, getting on their horses,

they travelled but a little way when in the opening of the mouth of

the valley into a fair field they met with a coach drawn with four

milk-white horses, furnished all in black with a black-a-moor boy upon

every horse, they all apparelled in white, the coach itself very

richly furnished in black and white. But before they could come so

near as to discern what was within, there came running upon them above

a dozen horsemen, who cried to them to yield themselves prisoners or

else they should die. But Palladius, not accustomed to grant over the

possession of himself upon so unjust titles, with sword drawn gave

them so rude an answer that divers of them never had breath to reply

again: for, being well backed by Clitophon, and having an excellent

horse under him, when he was overpressed by some he avoided them, and

ere the other thought of it, punished in him his fellow’s faults, and

so either with cunning or with force, or rather with a cunning {49}

force, left none of them either living or able to make his life serve

to others’ hurt. Which being done, he approached the coach, assuring

the black boys they should have no hurt, who were else ready to have

run away; and looking in the coach, he found in the one end a lady of

great beauty, and such a beauty as showed forth the beams both of

wisdom and good nature, but all as much darkened as might be, with

sorrow. In the other, two ladies (who by their demeanour showed well

they were but her servants) holding before them a picture in which was

a goodly gentleman whom he knew not, painted, having in their faces a

certain waiting sorrow, their eyes being infected with their

mistress’s weeping. But the chief lady having not so much as once

heard the noise of this conflict (so had sorrow closed up all the

entries of her mind, and love tied her senses to that beloved

picture), now the shadow of him falling upon the picture made her cast

up her eye, and seeing the armour which too well she knew, thinking

him to be Amphialus, the lord of her desires (blood coming more freely

into her cheeks, as though it would be bold, and yet there growing new

again pale for fear) with a pitiful look, like one unjustly condemned.

“My Lord Amphialus,” said she, “you have enough punished me; it is

time for cruelty to leave you, and evil fortune me; if not, I pray you

(and to grant my prayer fitter time nor place you cannot have)

accomplish the one even now, and finish the other.” With that, sorrow

impatient to be slowly uttered in her often staying speeches, poured

itself so fast into tears, that Palladius could not hold her longer in

error, but pulling off his helmet, “Madam,” said he, “I perceive you

mistake me; I am a stranger in these parts, set upon without any cause

given by me by some of your servants, whom, because I have in my just

defence evil intreated, I came to make my excuse to you, whom seeing

such as I do, I find greater cause why I should crave pardon of you.”

When she saw his face and heard his speech she looked out of the

coach, and seeing her men, some slain, some lying under their dead

horses and striving to get from under them, without making more

account of the matter; “Truly,” said she, “they are well served that

durst lift up their arms against that armour. But, Sir Knight,” said

she, “I pray you tell me, how came you by this armour? for if it be by

the death of him that owned it, then have I more to say unto you.”

Palladius assured her it was not so, telling her the true manner how

he found it. “It is like enough,” said she, “for that agrees with the

manner he hath lately used. But I beseech you, Sir,” said she, “since

your prowess hath bereft me of my company, let it yet so far heal the

wounds itself hath given as to guard me to the next town.” “How great

soever my business be, fair lady,” said he, “it shall willingly yield

to so noble a cause: {50} but first, even by the favour you bear to

the lord of this noble armour, I conjure you to tell me the story of

your fortune herein, lest, hereafter, when the image of so excellent a

lady in so strange a plight come before mine eyes, I condemn myself of

want of consideration in not having demanded thus much. Neither ask I

it without protestation that wherein my sword and faith may avail you

they shall bind themselves to your service.” “Your conjuration, fair

knight,” said she, “is too strong for my poor spirit to disobey, and

that shall make me (without any other hope, my ruin being but by one

unrelievable) to grant your will herein, and to say the truth, a

strange niceness were it in me to refrain that from the ears of a

person representing so much worthiness, which I am glad even to rocks

and woods to utter. Know you then that my name is Helen, queen by

birth, and hitherto possessed of the fair city and territory of

Corinth. I can say no more of myself but that I am beloved of my

people, and may justly say beloved, since they are content to bear

with my absence and folly. But I being left by my father’s death, and

accepted by my people in the highest degree that country could

receive; as soon, or rather, before that my age was ripe for it, my

court quickly swarmed full of suitors: some, perchance, loving my

estate, others my person; but once, I know all of them, however my

possessions were in their heart, my beauty, such as it is, was in

their mouths, many strangers of princely and noble blood, and all of

mine own country, to whom either birth or virtue gave courage to avow

so high a desire.

“Among the rest, or rather, before the rest, was the lord Philoxenus,

son and heir to the virtuous nobleman, Timotheus, which Timotheus was

a man both in power, riches, parentage, and, which passed all these,

goodness; and, which followed all these, love of the people, beyond

any of the great men of my country. Now, this son of his, I must say

truly, not unworthy of such a father, bending himself by all means of

serviceableness to me, and setting forth of himself to win my favour,

won thus far of me that in truth I less misliked him than any of the

rest, which, in some proportion, my countenance delivered unto him.

Though, I must confess, it was a very false ambassador if it delivered

at all any affection whereof my heart was utterly void, I as then

esteeming myself born to rule, and thinking foul scorn willingly to

submit myself to be ruled.

“But while Philoxenus in good sort pursued my favour, and perchance

nourished himself with overmuch hope, because he found I did in some

sort acknowledge his virtue; one time among the rest he brought with

him a dear friend of his.” With that she looked upon the picture

before her, and straight sighed, and straight tears flowed, as if the

idol of duty ought to be honoured with such oblations; and then her

speech stayed the tale, having {51} brought her to that look, but that

look having quite put her out of her tale.

But Palladius greatly pitying so sweet a sorrow in a lady, whom by

fame he had already known and honoured, besought for her promise sake

to put silence so long unto her moaning till she had recounted the

rest of this story. “Why,” said she, “this is the picture of

Amphialus: what need I say more unto you? What ear is so barbarous but

hath heard of Amphialus? Who follows deeds of arms, but everywhere

finds monuments of Amphialus? Who is courteous, noble, liberal, but he

hath the example before his eyes of Amphialus? Where are all heroical

parts but in Amphialus? O Amphialus, I would thou wert not so

excellent, or I would I thought thee not so excellent, and yet would

I not that I would so.” With that she wept again; till he again

soliciting the conclusion of her story: “Then you must,” said she,

“know the story of Amphialus, for his will is my life, his life my

history: and indeed in what can I better employ my lips than in

speaking of Amphialus.

“This knight, then, whose figure you see, but whose mind can be

painted by nothing but by their true shape of virtue, is brother’s son

to Basilius, King of Arcadia, and in his childhood esteemed his heir,

till Basilius, in his old years, marrying a young and fair lady, had

of her those two daughters, so famous for their perfection in beauty,

which put by their young cousin from that expectation. Whereupon his

mother (a woman of an haughty heart, being daughter to the King of

Argos) either disdaining or fearing that her son should live under the

power of Basilius, sent him to that lord Timotheus (between whom and

her dead husband there had passed straight bands of mutual

hospitality) to be brought up in company with his son Philoxenus.

“A happy resolution for Amphialus, whose excellent nature was by this

means trained on with as good education as any prince’s son in the

world could have, which otherwise it is thought his mother, far

unworthy of such a son, would not have given him: the good Timotheus

no less loving him than his own son. Well, they grew in years, and

shortly occasions fell aptly to try Amphialus, and all occasions were

but steps for him to climb fame by. Nothing was so hard but his valour

overcame; which yet still he so guided with true virtue that although

no man was in our parts spoken of but he for his manhood, yet, as

though therein he excelled himself, he was commonly called the

courteous Amphialus. An endless thing it were for me to tell how many

adventures, terrible to be spoken of, he achieved, what monsters, what

giants, what conquests of countries, sometimes using policy, sometimes

force, but always virtue well followed, and but followed by {52}

Philoxenus, between whom and him so fast a friendship by education was

knit that at last Philoxenus having no greater matter to employ his

friendship in than to win me, therein desired, and had his uttermost

furtherance: to that purpose brought he him to my court, where truly I

may justly witness with him that what his wit could conceive (and his

wit can conceive as far as the limits of reason stretch) was all

directed to the setting forward the suit of his friend Philoxenus:

mine ears could hear nothing from him but touching the worthiness of

Philoxenus, and of the great happiness it would be unto me to have

such a husband; with many arguments, which God knows I cannot well

remember, because I did not much believe. For why should I use many

circumstances to come to that where already I am, and ever while I

live must continue? in few words, while he pleaded for another, he won

me for himself: if at least,” with that she sighed, “he would account

it a winning, for his fame had so framed the way to my mind that his

presence, so full of beauty, sweetness and noble conversation, had

entered there before he vouchsafed to call for the keys. O lord, how

did my soul hang at his lips while he spake! O when he in feeling

manner would describe the love of his friend, how well, thought I,

doth love between those lips! when he would with daintiest eloquence

stir pity in me toward Philoxenus, ‘Why sure,’ said I to myself,

‘Helen, be not afraid, this heart cannot want pity:’ and when he would

extol the deeds of Philoxenus, who indeed had but waited of him

therein, alas, thought I, good Philoxenus, how evil doth it become thy

name to be subscribed to his letter? what should I say? nay, what

should I not say (noble knight! who am not ashamed, nay am delighted,

thus to express my own passions?

“Days passed, his eagerness for his friend never decreased, my

affection to him ever increased. At length, in way of ordinary

courtesy, I obtained of him, who suspected no such matter, this his

picture, the only Amphialus, I fear, that I shall ever enjoy; and

grown bolder, or madder, or bold with madness, I discovered my

affection unto him. But lord, I shall never forget how anger and

courtesy at one instant appeared in his eyes when he heard that

motion; how with his blush he taught me shame. In sum, he left nothing

unassayed which might disgrace himself to grace his friend, in sweet

terms making me receive a most resolute refusal of himself. But when

he found that his presence did far more persuade for himself than his

speech could do for his friend, he left my court, hoping that

forgetfulness, which commonly waits upon absence, would make room for

his friend, to whom he would not utter thus much, I think, for a kind

fear not to grieve him, or perchance, though he cares little for me,

of a certain honourable {53} gratefulness, not yet to discover so much

of my secrets: but, as it should seem, meant to travel into far

countries, until his friend’s affection either ceased or prevailed.

But within a while, Philoxenus came to see how onward the fruits were

of his friend’s labour, when (as in truth I cared not much how he took

it) he found me sitting, beholding this picture, I know not with how

affectionate countenance, but I am sure with a most affectionate mind.

I straight found jealousy and disdain took hold of him, and yet the

froward pain of mine own heart made me so delight to punish him whom I

esteemed to be the chiefest let in my way; that when he with humble

gesture, and vehement speeches sued for my favour, I told him that I

would hear him more willingly if he would speak for Amphialus as well

as Amphialus had done for him: he never answered me, but pale and

quaking, went straight away; and straight my heart misgave me some

evil success: and yet, though I had authority enough to have stayed

him (as in these fatal things it falls out that the high-working

powers make second causes unwittingly accessory to their

determinations) I did no further, but sent a footman of mine (whose

faithfulness to me I well knew) from place to place to follow him and

bring me word of his proceedings, which (alas!) have brought forth

that which I fear I must ever rue.

“For he had travelled scarce a day’s journey out of my country, but

that, not far from this place, he overtook Amphialus, who, by

succouring a distressed lady, had been here stayed, and by and by

called him to fight with him, protesting that one of them two should

die. You may easily judge how strange it was to Amphialus, whose heart

could accuse itself of no fault but too much affection toward him,

which he, refusing to fight with him, would fain have made Philoxenus

understand, but, as my servant since told me, the more Amphialus went

back, the more he followed, calling him traitor and coward, yet never

telling the cause of this strange alteration. ‘Ah Philoxenus,’ said

Amphialus, ‘I know I am no traitor, and thou well knowest I am no

coward: but I pray thee content thyself with this much, and let this

satisfy thee that I love thee, since I bear thus much of thee.’ But

he, leaving words, drew his sword and gave Amphialus a great blow or

two, which, but for the goodness of his armour, would have slain him:

and yet so far did Amphialus contain himself, stepping aside, and

saying to him, ‘Well, Philoxenus, and thus much villainy am I content

to put up, not any longer for thy sake (whom I have no cause to love

since thou dost injure me, and wilt not tell me the cause) but for thy

virtuous father’s sake to whom I am so much bound, I pray thee go

away, and conquer thy own passions and thou shalt make me soon yield

to be thy servant.’ But he would not attend to his {54} words, but

still struck so fiercely at Amphialus that in the end (nature

prevailing above determination) he was fain to defend himself, and

withal so to offend him that by an unlucky blow the poor Philoxenus

fell dead at his feet, having had time only to speak some few words,

whereby Amphialus knew it was for my sake: which when Amphialus saw,

he forthwith gave such tokens of true-felt sorrow that, as my servant

said, no imagination could conceive greater woe. But that by and by an

unhappy occasion made Amphialus pass himself in sorrow: for Philoxenus

was but newly dead, when there comes to the same place the aged and

virtuous Timotheus; who (having heard of his son’s sudden and

passionate manner of parting from my court) had followed him as

speedily as he could, but alas not so speedily but that he found him

dead before he could overtake him. Though my heart be nothing but a

stage of tragedies, yet, I must confess, it is even unable to bear the

miserable representation thereof, knowing Amphialus and Timotheus as I

have done. Alas, what sorrow, what amazement, what shame was in

Amphialus when he saw his dear foster-father find him the killer of

his only son? In my heart, I know he wished mountains had lain upon

him to keep him from that meeting. As for Timotheus, sorrow for his

son, and, I think principally, unkindness of Amphialus so devoured his

vital spirits that, able to say no more, but ‘Amphialus, Amphialus,

have I?’ he sank to the earth, and presently died.

“But not my tongue, though daily used to complaints, no, nor if my

heart, which is nothing but sorrow, were turned to tongues, durst it

undertake to show the unspeakableness of his grief. But, because this

serves to make you know my fortune, he threw away his armour, even

this which you have now upon you, which at the first sight I vainly

hoped he had put on again; and then, as ashamed of the light, he ran

into the thickest of the woods, lamenting, and even crying out so

pitifully that my servant, though of a fortune not used to much

tenderness, could not refrain weeping when he told it me. He once

overtook him; but Amphialus drawing his sword, which was the only part

of his arms, God knows to what purpose, he carried about him,

threatened to kill him if he followed him, and withal bade him deliver

this bitter message, that he well enough found I was the cause of all

this mischief, and that if I were a man, he would go over the world to

kill me, but bade me assure myself that of all creatures in the world

he most hated me. Ah, Sir knight, whose ears I think by this time are

tired with the rugged ways of these misfortunes, now weigh my case, if

at least you know what love is. For this cause have I left my country,

putting in hazard how my people will in time deal by me, adventuring

what perils or dishonours might {55} ensue, only to follow him who

proclaimeth hate against me, and to bring my neck unto him, if that

may redeem my trespass, and assuage his fury. And now, Sir,” said she,

“you have your request, I pray you take pains to guide me to the next

town, that there I may gather such of my company again as your valour

hath left me.”

Palladius willingly condescended, but ere they began to go, there came

Clitophon who, having been something hurt by one of them, had pursued

him a good way: at length overtaking him, and ready to kill him,

understood they were servants to the fair queen Helen, and that the

cause of this enterprise was for nothing but to make Amphialus

prisoner, whom they knew their mistress sought; for she concealed her

sorrow, nor cause of her sorrow from nobody. But Clitophon, very sorry

for this accident, came back to comfort the queen, helping such as

were hurt in the best sort that he could, and framing friendly

constructions of this rashly undertaken enmity, when in comes another,

till that time unseen, all armed, with his beaver down, who first

looking round about upon the company, as soon as he espied Palladius,

he drew his sword, and making no other prologue, let fly at him. But

Palladius, sorry for so much harm as had already happened, fought

rather to retire and ward, thinking he might be someone that belonged

to the fair queen, whose case in his heart he pitied. Which Clitophon

seeing, stepped between them, asking the new-come knight the cause of

this quarrel, who answered him, that he would kill that thief who had

stolen away his master’s armour, if he did not restore it. With that

Palladius looked upon him and saw that he of the other side had

Palladius’s own armour upon him. “Truly,” said Palladius “if I have

stolen this armour, you did not buy that; but you shall not fight with

me upon such a quarrel; you shall have this armour willingly, which I

did only put on to do honour to the owner.” But Clitophon straight

knew by his words and voice that it was Ismenus, the faithful and

diligent page of Amphialus; and, therefore, telling him that he was

Clitophon, and willing him to acknowledge his error to the other, who

deserved all honour, the young gentleman pulled off his head-piece,

and, lighting, went to kiss Palladius’s hands, desiring him to pardon

his folly, caused by extreme grief, which easily might bring forth

anger. “Sweet gentleman,” said Palladius, “you shall only make me this

amends, that you shall carry this your lord’s armour from me to him,

and tell him from an unknown knight, who admires his worthiness, that

he cannot cast a greater mist over his glory than by being so unkind

to so excellent a princess as this queen is.” Ismenus promised he

would as soon as he durst find his master: and with that went to do

his duty to the queen, whom in all these encounters {56} astonishment

made hardy: but as soon as she saw Ismenus, looking to her picture,

“Ismenus,” said she, “here is my lord, where is yours? or come you to

bring me some sentence of death from him? if it be so, welcome be it.

I pray you speak, and speak quickly.” “Alas! Madam,” said Ismenus, “I

have lost my lord;” with that tears came into his eyes, “for as soon

as the unhappy combat was concluded, with the death both of father and

son, my master, casting off his armour, went his way, forbidding me

upon pain of death to follow him. Yet divers days I followed his

steps, till lastly I found him, having newly met with an excellent

spaniel belonging to his dead companion Philoxenus. The dog straight

fawned on my master, for old knowledge, but never was there thing more

pitiful than to hear my master blame the dog for loving his master’s

murderer, renewing afresh his complaints with the dumb counsellor, as

if they might comfort one another in their miseries. But my lord

having espied me, rose up in such rage that in truth I feared he would

kill me: yet as then he said only, if I would not displease him, I

should not come near him till he sent for me: too hard a commandment

for me to disobey: I yielded, leaving him only waited on by his dog,

and as I think seeking out the most solitary places that this or any

other country can grant him: and I, returning where I had left his

armour, found another instead thereof, and (disdaining I must confess

that any should bear the armour of the best knight living) armed

myself therein to play the fool, as even now I did.” “Fair Ismenus,”

said the queen, “a fitter messenger could hardly be to unfold my

tragedy, I see the end, I see my end.”

With that, sobbing, she desired to be conducted to the next town,

where Palladius left her to be waited on by Clitophon, at Palladius’s

earnest entreaty, who desired alone to take that melancholy course of

seeking his friend; and therefore changing armour again with Ismenus,

who went withal to a castle belonging to his master, he continued his

quest for his friend Daiphantus.

So directed he his course to Laconia, as well among the Helots, as

Spartans: there indeed he found his fame flourishing, his monuments

engraved in marble, and yet more durably in men’s memories; but the

universal lamenting his absented presence, assured him of his present

absence. Thence into the Elean province, to see whether at the

Olympian games there celebrated he might in such concourse bless his

eyes with so desired an encounter: but that huge and sportful assembly

grew to him a tedious loneliness, esteeming nobody found, since

Diaphantus was lost. Afterwards he passeth through Achaia and

Sicyonia, to the Corinthians, proud of their two seas, to learn

whether by the straight of that Isthmus it were possible to know of

his passage. {57} But finding every place more dumb than other to his

demands, and remembering that it was late-taken love which had wrought

this new course, he returned again, after two months travel in vain,

to make a fresh search in Arcadia; so much the more as then first he

bethought himself of the picture of Philoclea, which resembling her he

had once loved, might perhaps awake again that sleeping passion. And

having already passed over the greatest part of Arcadia, one day

coming under the side of the pleasant mountain Maenalus, his horse,

nothing guilty of his inquisitiveness, with flat tiring taught him,

that discreet stays make speedy journeys: and therefore lighting down,

and unbridling his horse, he himself went to repose himself in a

little wood he saw thereby. Where lying under the protection of a

shady tree, with intention to make forgetting sleep comfort a

sorrowful memory, he saw a sight which persuaded and obtained of his

eyes that they would abide yet a while open. It was the appearing of a

lady, who because she walked with her side toward him, he could not

perfectly see her face, but so much he might see of her, that was a

surety for the rest, that all was excellent.

Well might he perceive the hanging of her hair in fairest quantity, in

locks some curled, and some as it were forgotten, with such a careless

care, and an art so hiding art, that she seemed she would lay them for

a pattern, whether nature simply, or nature helped by cunning, be the

more excellent: the rest whereof was drawn into a coronet of gold

richly set with pearl, and so joined all over with gold wires and

covered with feathers of divers colours that it was not unlike to an

helmet, such a glittering show it bare, and so bravely it was held up

from the head. Upon her body she wore a doublet of sky-coloured satin,

covered with plates of gold, and, as it were, nailed with precious

stones, that in it she might seem armed; the nether part of her

garment was full of stuff, and cut after such a fashion that though

the length of it reached to the ankles, yet in her going one might

sometimes discern the small of her leg, which with the foot was

dressed in a short pair of crimson velvet buskins, in some places

open, as the ancient manner was, to show the fairness of the skin.

Over all this she wore a certain mantle, made in such manner, that

coming under her right arm and covering most of that side, it had no

fastening on the left side, but only upon the top of her shoulder,

where the two ends met, and were closed together with a very rich

jewel: the device whereof, as he after saw, was this: a Hercules made

in little form, but set with a distaff in his hand, as he once was by

Omphale’s commandment, with a word in Greek, but thus to be

interpreted, “Never more valiant.” On the same side on her thigh she

wore a sword, which as it witnessed her to be an Amazon, {58} or one

following that profession, so it seemed but a needless weapon, since

her other forces were without withstanding. But this lady walked

out-right till he might see her enter into a fine close arbour: it was

of trees, whose branches so lovingly interlaced one the other that it

could resist the strongest violence of eye-sight, but she went into it

by a door she opened, which moved him, as warily as he could, to

follow her; and by and by he might hear her sing this song, with a

voice no less beautiful to his ears than her goodliness was full of

harmony to his eyes:

Transform’d in shew, but more transform’d in mind,

I cease to strive with double conquest foil’d:

For, woe is me, my powers all I find

With outward force, and inward treason, spoil’d.

For from without came to mine eyes the blow,

Whereto my inward thoughts did faintly yield:

Both these conspir’d poor reason’s overthrow;

False in myself, thus have I lost the field.

Thus are my eyes still captive to one sight,

Thus all my thoughts are slaves to one thought still:

Thus reason to his servants yields his right,

Thus is my power transformed to your will:

What marvel then, I take a woman’s hue,

Since what I see, think, know, is all but you?

This ditty gave him some suspicion, but the voice gave him almost

assurance who the singer was. And therefore boldly thrusting open the

door and entering into the arbour, he perceived indeed that it was

Pyrocles thus disguised; wherewith not receiving so much joy to have

found him as grief so to have found him, amazedly looking upon him (as

Apollo is painted when he saw Daphne suddenly turned into a laurel) he

was not able to bring forth a word. So that Pyrocles, (who had as much

shame as Musidorus had sorrow) rising to him, would have formed a

substantial excuse, but his insinuation being of blushing, and his

division of sighs, his whole oration stood upon a short narration what

was the cause of this metamorphosis. But by that time Musidorus had

gathered his spirits together, and yet casting a ghastful countenance

upon him, as if he would conjure some strange spirit, he thus spake

unto him:

“And is it possible that this is Pyrocles, the only young prince in

the world formed by nature, and framed by education to the true

exercise of virtue? or is it indeed some Amazon that hath

counterfeited the face of my friend in this sort to vex me? for

likelier sure I would have thought it that any outward face might have

been disguised than that the face of so excellent a mind could have

been thus blemished. O sweet Pyrocles, separate yourself a little, if

it {59} be possible, from yourself, and let your own mind look upon

your own proceedings; so shall my words be needless, and you best

instructed. See with yourself how fit it will be for you in this your

tender youth, born so great a prince, and of so rare not only

expectation, but proof, desired of your old father, and wanted of your

native country, now so near your home, to divert your thoughts from

the way of goodness, to lose, nay, to abuse your time. Lastly, to

overthrow all the excellent things you have done, which have filled

the world with your fame; as if you should drown your ship in the long

desired haven; or, like an ill player, should mar the last act of his

tragedy. Remember, for I know you know it, that if we will be men the

reasonable part of our soul is to have absolute commandment, against

which, if any sensual weakness arise, we are to yield all our sound

forces to the overthrowing of so unnatural a rebellion, wherein how

can we want courage, since we are to deal against so weak an adversary

that in itself is nothing but weakness? nay, we are to resolve that if

reason direct it we must do it; and if we must do it, we will do it:

for, to say ‘I cannot,’ is childish; and ‘I will not,’ womanish. And

see how extremely every way you can endanger your mind; for, to take

this womanish habit, without you frame your behavior accordingly, is

wholly vain: your behaviour can never come kindly from you, but as the

mind is proportioned unto it. So that you must resolve if you will

play your part to any purpose, whatsoever peevish imperfections are in

that sex to soften your heart to receive them, the very first

down-step to all wickedness: for do not deceive yourself, my dear

cousin, there is no man suddenly either excellently good or extremely

evil, but grows either as he holds himself up in virtue, or lets

himself slide to viciousness. And let us see what power is the author

of all these troubles; forsooth love, love, a passion, and the basest

and fruitlessest of all passions: fear breedeth wit; anger is the

cradle of courage; joy openeth and enableth the heart; sorrow, as it

closeth, so it draweth it inward to look to the correcting of itself;

and so all of them generally have power towards some good by the

direction of reason. But this bastard Love (for indeed the name of

love is most unworthily applied to so hateful a humour) as it is

engendered betwixt lust and idleness, as the matter it works upon is

nothing but a certain base weakness which some gentle fools call a

gentle heart; as his adjoined companions be unquietness, longings,

fond comforts, faint discomforts, hopes, jealousies, ungrounded rages,

causeless yielding, so is the highest end it aspires unto, a little

pleasure with much pain before and great repentance after. But that

end, how endless it runs into infinite evils, were fit enough for the

matter we speak of, but not for your ears, in whom, indeed, there is

so much true {60} disposition to virtue; yet this much of his worthy

effects in yourself is to be seen, that (besides your breaking laws of

hospitality with Kalander, and of friendship with me) it utterly

subverts the course of nature in making reason give place to sense,

and man to woman. And truly I think hereupon it first got the name of

love: for indeed the true love hath that excellent nature in it, that

it doth transform the very essence of the lover into the thing loved,

uniting, and as it were, incorporating it with a secret and inward

working. And herein do these kinds of loves imitate the excellent:

for, as the love of heaven makes one heavenly, the love of virtue,

virtuous, so doth the love of the world make one become worldly: and

this effeminate love of a woman doth so womanize a man, that, if he

yield to it, it will not only make him an Amazon, but a launder, a

distaff, a spinner, or whatsoever other vile occupation their idle

heads can imagine and their weak hands perform. Therefore to trouble

you no longer with my tedious, but loving words, if either you

remember what you are, what you have been, or what you must be, if you

consider what it is that moved you, or by what kind of creature you

are moved, you shall find the cause so small, the effect so dangerous,

yourself so unworthy to run into the one, or to be driven by the

other, that I doubt not I shall quickly have occasion rather to praise

you for having conquered it, than to give you further counsel how to

do it.”

But in Pyrocles this speech wrought no more but that he, who before he

was espied was afraid, after being perceived, was ashamed, now being

hardly rubbed upon, left both fear and shame, and was moved to anger.

But the exceeding goodwill he bore to Musidorus striving with it, he

thus partly to satisfy him, but principally to loose the reins to his

own motions, made him answer: “Cousin! whatsoever good disposition

nature hath bestowed upon me, or however that disposition hath been by

bringing up confirmed, this I must confess, that I am not yet come to

that degree of wisdom to think light of the sex of whom I have my

life, since if I be anything, which your friendship rather finds than

I acknowledge, I was, to come to it, born of a woman, and nursed of a

woman. And certainly, for this point of your speech doth nearest touch

me, it is strange to see the unmanlike cruelty of mankind, who, not

content with their tyrannous ambition to have brought the other’s

virtuous patience under them, like childish masters, think their

masterhood nothing without doing injury to them, who, if we will argue

by reason, are framed of nature with the same parts of the mind for

the exercise of virtue as we are. And for example, even this estate of

Amazons, which I now for my greatest honour do seek to counterfeit,

doth well witness that if generally the sweetness of their disposition

did not make them see the vainness {61} of these things which we

account glorious, they neither want valour of mind, nor yet doth their

fairness take away their force. And truly we men, and praisers of men,

should remember that if we have such excellencies, it is reason to

think them excellent creatures, of whom we are: since a kite never

brought forth a good flying hawk. But to tell you true, as I think it

superfluous to use any words of such a subject which is so praised in

itself as it needs no praises; so withal, I fear, lest my conceit, not

able to reach unto them, bring forth words which for their

unworthiness may be a disgrace to them I so inwardly honour. Let this

suffice that they are capable of virtue, and virtue, you yourselves

say, is to be loved, and I too, truly: but this I willingly confess,

that it likes me much better when I find virtue in a fair lodging than

when I am bound to seek it in an ill-favoured creature, like a pearl

in a dunghill. As for my fault of being an uncivil guest to Kalander,

if you could feel what an inward guest myself am host unto, ye would

think it were excusable, in that I rather perform the duties of an

host than the ceremonies of a guest. And for my breaking the laws of

friendship with you, which I would rather die than effectually do,

truly I could find it in my heart to ask you pardon for it, but that

your now handling of me gives me reason to confirm my former dealing.”

And here Pyrocles stayed, as to breathe himself, having been

transported with a little vehemency, because it seemed him Musidorus

had over-bitterly glanced against the reputation of womankind: but

then quieting his countenance, as well as out of an unquiet mind it

might be, he thus proceeded on: “And poor love,” said he, “dear

cousin, is little beholding unto you, since you are not content to

spoil it of the honour of the highest power of the mind which notable

men have attributed unto it; but you deject it below all other

passions, in truth somewhat strangely, since, if love receive any

disgrace, it is by the company of these passions you prefer before it.

For those kinds of bitter objections as that lust, idleness, and a

weak heart should be, as it were, the matter and form of love, rather

touch me, dear Musidorus, than love; but I am good witness of my own

imperfections, and therefore will not defend myself: but herein I must

say you deal contrary to yourself: for if I be so weak, then can you

not with reason stir me up as you did by remembrance of my own virtue;

or if indeed I be virtuous, then must ye confess that love hath his

working in a virtuous heart; and so no doubt hath it, whatsoever I be:

for, if we love virtue, in whom shall we love it but in a virtuous

creature? without your meaning be, I should love this word Virtue,

where I see it written in a book. Those troublesome effects you say it

breeds be not the faults of love, but of him that {62} loves, as an

unable vessel to bear such a liquor, like evil eyes not able to look

on the sun; or like a weak brain, soonest overthrown with the best

wine. Even that heavenly love you speak of is accompanied in some

hearts with hopes, griefs, longings, and despairs. And in that

heavenly love, since there are two parts, the one the love itself, the

other the excellency of the thing loved: I, not able at the first leap

to frame both in me, do now, like a diligent workman, make ready the

chief instrument and first part of that great work, which is love

itself; which when I have a while practised in this sort, then you

shall see me turn it to greater matters. And thus gently you may, if

it please you, think of me. Neither doubt ye, because I wear a woman’s

apparel, I will be the more womanish, since I assure you, for all my

apparel, there is nothing I desire more than fully to prove myself a

man in this enterprise. Much might be said in my defence, much more

for love, and most of all for that divine creature which hath joined

me and love together. But these disputations are fitter for quiet

schools than my troubled brains, which are bent rather in deeds to

perform than in words to defend the noble desire that possesseth me.”

“O lord,” said Musidorus, “how sharp-witted you are to hurt yourself.”

“No,” answered he, “but it is the hurt you speak of which makes me so

sharp-witted.” “Even so,” said Musidorus, “as every base occupation

makes one sharp in that practice and foolish in all the rest.” “Nay

rather,” answered Pyrocles, “as each excellent thing once well-learned

serves for a measure of all other knowledges.” “And is that become,”

said Musidorus, “a measure for other things which never received

measure in itself?” “It is counted without measure,” answered

Pyrocles, “because the workings of it are without measure, but

otherwise, in nature it hath measure, since it hath an end allotted

unto it.” The beginning, being so excellent, I would gladly know the

end. “Enjoying,” answered Pyrocles, with a sigh, “I speak of the end

to which it is directed which end ends not, no sooner than the life.”

“Alas! let your own brain disenchant you,” said Musidorus. “My heart

is too far possessed,” said Pyrocles. “But the head gives you

direction, and the heart gives me life,” answered Musidorus.

But Musidorus was so grieved to see his well-beloved friend obstinate,

as he thought, to his own destruction, that it forced him with more

than accustomed vehemency to speak these words. “Well, well,” said he,

“you list to abuse yourself; it was a very white and red virtue, which

you could pick out of a painterly glose of a visage. Confess the

truth, and you shall find the utmost was but beauty, a thing, which

though it be in as great excellency in yourself as may be in any, yet

I am sure you make no further reckoning of it than of an outward

fading benefit nature {63} bestowed upon you. And yet such is your

want of a true grounded virtue, which must be like itself in all

points, that what you wisely account a trifle in yourself, you fondly

become a slave unto in another. For my part I now protest I have left

nothing unsaid which my wit could make me know, or my most entire

friendship to you requires of me. I do not beseech you, even for the

love betwixt us, if this other love hath left any in you towards me,

and for the remembrance of your old careful father (if you can

remember him that forgot yourself) lastly, for Pyrocles’ own sake, who

is now upon the point of falling or rising, to purge yourself of this

vile infection: otherwise give me leave to leave off this name of

friendship as an idle title of a thing which cannot be where virtue is

not established.”

The length of these speeches before had not so much cloyed Pyrocles,

though he were very impatient of long deliberations, as this last

farewell of him he loved as his own life did wound his soul. For

thinking himself afflicted, he was the apter to conceive unkindness

deeply, insomuch that shaking his head, and delivering some show of

tears, he thus uttered his grief: “Alas!” said he, “Prince Musidorus,

how cruelly you deal with me; if you seek the victory, take it; and,

if ye list, the triumph. Have you all the reason of the world, and

with me remain all the imperfections; yet such as I can no more lay

from me, than the crow can be persuaded by the swan to cast off all

his black feathers. But truly you deal with me like a physician who,

seeing his patient in a pestilent fever, should chide him instead of

ministering help, and bid him be sick no more; or rather like such a

friend, that visiting his friend condemned to perpetual prison, and

laden with grievous fetters, should will him to shake off his fetters,

or he would leave him. I am sick, and sick to the death; I am

prisoner, neither is there any redress but by her to whom I am a

slave. Now, if you list, leave him that loves you in the highest

degree: but remember ever to carry this with you, that you abandon

your friend in his greatest extremity.”

And herewith the deep wound of his love being rubbed afresh with this

new unkindness, began, as it were, to bleed again in such sort that he

was unable to bear it any longer, but gushing out abundance of tears,

and crossing his arms over his woeful heart, he sunk down to the

ground, which sudden trance went so to the heart of Musidorus, that

falling down by him, and kissing the weeping eyes of his friend, he

besought him not to make account of his speech, which if it had been

over-vehement, yet was it to be borne withal, because it came out of a

love much more vehement, that he had not thought fancy could have

received so deep a wound; but now finding in him the force of it, he

would {64} no further contrary it but employ all his service to

medicine it in such sort as the nature of it required. But even this

kindness made Pyrocles the more to melt in the former unkindness,

which his manlike tears well shewed, with a silent look upon

Musidorus, as who should say: “And is it possible that Musidorus

should threaten to leave me?” and this struck Musidorus’s mind and

senses so dumb, too, that for grief being not able to say anything,

they rested with their eyes placed one upon the other, in such sort as

might well paint out the true passion of unkindness to be never

aright, but betwixt them that most dearly love.

And thus remained they a time, till at length Musidorus embracing him,

said “And will you thus shake off your friend?” “It is you that shake

me off,” said Pyrocles, “being for my unperfectness unworthy of your

friendship.” “But this,” said Musidorus, “shows you more unperfect to

be cruel to him that submits himself unto you. But since you are

unperfect,” said he, smiling, “it is reason you be governed by us wise

and perfect men. And that authority will I begin to take upon me, with

three absolute commandments: the first, that you increase not your

evil with further griefs: the second, that you love her with all the

powers of your mind: and the last commandment shall be, you command me

to do what service I can towards the attaining of your desires.”

Pyrocles’s heart was not so oppressed with the two mighty passions of

love and unkindness but that it yielded to some mirth at this

commandment of Musidorus that he should love, so that something

clearing his face from his former shows of grief: “Well,” said he,

“dear cousin! I see by the well choosing of your commandments that you

are far fitter to be a prince than a counsellor, and therefore I am

resolved to employ all my endeavour to obey you, with this condition,

that the commandments ye command me to lay upon you shall only be,

that you continue to love me, and look upon my imperfections with more

affection than judgment.” “Love you,” said he, “alas! how can my heart

be separated from the true embracing of it without it burst by being

too full of it?” “But,” said he, “let us leave off these flowers of

new begun friendship: and now I pray you again tell me, but tell it me

fully, omitting no circumstance, the story of your affections, both

beginning and proceeding, assuring yourself, that there is nothing so

great which I will fear to do for you, nor nothing so small which I

will disdain to do for you. Let me, therefore, receive a clear

understanding, which many times we miss, while those things we account

small, as a speech or a look, are omitted, like as a whole sentence

may fail of his congruity by wanting one particle. Therefore between

friends all must be laid open, nothing being superfluous nor tedious.”

“You shall be obeyed,” said Pyrocles, “and here are {65} we in as fit

a place for it as may be; for this arbour nobody offers to come into

but myself, I using it as my melancholy retiring place, and therefore

that respect is borne unto it: yet if by chance any should come, say

that you are a servant sent from the queen of the Amazons to seek me,

and then let me alone for the rest.” So sat they down, and Pyrocles

thus said:

“Cousin!” said he, “then began the fatal overthrow of all my liberty

when, walking among the pictures in Kalander’s house, you yourself

delivered unto me what you had understood of Philoclea, who much

resembling (though I must say much surpassing) the lady Zelmane, whom

so well I loved: there were mine eyes, infected, and at your mouth did

I drink the poison. Yet alas! so sweet was it unto me, that I could

not be contented, till Kalander had made it more and more strong with

his declaration. Which the more I questioned, the more pity I

conceived of her unworthy fortune; and when with pity once my heart

was made tender, according to the aptness of the humour, it received

quickly a cruel impression of that wonderful passion, which to be

defined is impossible, because no words reach to the strange nature of

it: they only know it, which inwardly feel it; it is called love. Yet

did I not (poor wretch!) at first know my disease, thinking it only

such a wonted kind of desire to see rare sights, and my pity to be no

other but the fruits of a gentle nature. But even this arguing with

myself came of further thoughts, and the more I argued the more my

thoughts increased. Desirous I was to see the place where she

remained, as though the architecture of the lodges would have been

much for my learning, but more desirous to see herself, to be judge,

forsooth, of the painter’s cunning. For thus at the first did I

flatter myself, as though my wound had been no deeper: but when within

short time I came to the degree of uncertain wishes, and that those

wishes grew to unquiet longings, when I could fix my thoughts upon

nothing but that within little varying they should end with Philoclea;

when each thing I saw seemed to figure out some part of my passions;

when even Parthenia’s fair face became a lecture to me of Philoclea’s

imagined beauty; when I heard no word spoken, but that methought it

carried the sound of Philoclea’s name; then indeed, then I did yield

to the burden, finding myself prisoner, before I had leisure to arm

myself: and that I might well, like the spaniel, gnaw upon the chain

that ties him; but I should sooner mar my teeth, than procure liberty:

yet I take to witness the eternal spring of virtue, that I had never

read, heard, nor seen anything: I had never any taste of philosophy,

nor inward feeling in myself, which for a while I did not call to my

succour. But, alas! what resistance was there, when ere long my very

reason was, you will say, corrupted, I must {66} confess, conquered,

and that methought even reason did assure me that all eyes did

degenerate from their creation which did not honour such beauty?

nothing in truth could hold any plea with it but the reverend

friendship I bear unto you. For as it went against my heart to break

anyway from you, so did I fear, more than any assault, to break it to

you: finding, as it is indeed, that to a heart fully resolute, counsel

is tedious, but reprehension is loathsome: and that there is nothing

more terrible to a guilty heart, than the eye of a respected friend.

This made me determine with myself, thinking it a less fault in

friendship to do a thing without your knowledge, than against your

will, to take this secret course, which conceit was most builded up in

me the last day of my parting and speaking with you, when upon your

speech with me, and my but naming love, when else perchance I would

have gone further, I saw your voice and countenance so change, as it

assured me my revealing it should but purchase your grief with my

cumber, and therefore (dear Musidorus!) even ran away from my

well-known chiding: for having written a letter, which I know not

whether you found or no, and taking my chief jewels with me, while you

were in the midst of your sport, I got a time, as I think, unmarked by

any, to steal away I cared not whither, so I might escape you, and so

came I to Ithonia, in the province of Messenia, where, lying secret, I

put this in practice, which before I had devised. For remembering by

Philanax’s letter and Kalander’s speech, how obstinately Basilius was

determined not to marry his daughters, and therefore fearing lest any

public dealing should rather increase her captivity than further my

love; love (the refiner of invention) had put in my head thus to

disguise myself, that under that mask I might, if it were possible,

get access, and what access could bring forth commit to fortune and

industry, determining to bear the countenance of an Amazon. Therefore

in the closest manner I could, naming myself Zelmane, for that dear

lady’s sake, to whose memory I am so much bound, I caused this apparel

to be made, and bringing it near the lodges, which are hard at hand,

by night thus dressed myself, resting till occasion might make me to

be found by them whom I sought; which the next morning happened as

well as mine own plot could have laid it. For after I had run over the

whole pedigree of my thoughts, I gave myself to sing a little, which,

as you know, I ever delighted in, so now especially, whether it be the

nature of this clime to stir up poetical fancies, or rather as I

think, of love, whose scope being pleasure, will not so much as utter

his griefs, but in some form of pleasure.

“But I had sung very little, when (as I think, displeased with my bad

music) comes master Dametas with a hedging bill in his {67} hand,

chafing and swearing by the pantoffle of Pallas, and such other oaths

as his rustical bravery could imagine; and when he saw me, I assure

you, my beauty was no more beholding to him than my harmony; for

leaning his hands upon his bill, and his chin upon his hands, with the

voice of one that playeth Hercules in a play, but never had his fancy

in his head, the first word he spake unto me, was, ‘Am not I Dametas?

why am not I Dametas?’ He needed not to name himself, for Kalander’s

description had let such a note upon him as made him very notable unto

me; and therefore the height of my thoughts would not descend so much

as to make him answer, but continued on my inward discourses; which he

(perchance witness of his own unworthiness, and therefore the apter to

think himself contemned) took in so heinous a manner, that standing

upon his tiptoes, and staring as if he would have had a mote pulled

out of his eye. ‘Why,’ said he, ‘thou woman or boy, or both,

whatsoever thou be, I tell thee here is no place for thee, here is no

place for thee, get thee gone, I tell thee it is the prince’s

pleasure, it is Dametas’s pleasure.’ I could not choose but smile at

him, seeing him look so like an ape that had newly taken a purgation;

yet taking myself with the manner, spake these words to myself: ‘O

spirit,’ said I, ‘of mine, how canst thou receive any mirth in the

midst of thine agonies? and thou mirth, how darest thou enter into a

mind so grown of late thy professed enemy?’ ‘Thy spirit,’ said

Dametas, ‘dost thou think me a spirit? I tell thee I am Basilius’s

officer, and have charge of him and his daughters.’ ‘O only pearl,’

said I sobbing, ‘that so vile an oyster should keep thee?’ ‘By the

comb case of Diana,’ sware Dametas, ‘this woman is mad: oysters and

pearls? dost thou think I will buy oysters? I tell thee once again,

get thee packing,’ and with that lifted up his bill to hit me with the

blunt end of it; but indeed that put me quite out of my lesson; so

that I forgot all Zelmaneship, and drawing out my sword, the baseness

of the villain yet made me stay my hand, and he (who as Kalander told

me, from his childhood ever feared the blade of a sword) ran back,

backward, with his hands above his head at least twenty paces, gaping

and staring with the very grace, I think, of the clowns that by

Latona’s prayers were turned into frogs.

“At length staying, finding himself without the compass of blows, he

fell to a fresh scolding, in such mannerly manner, as might well show

he had passed thro’ the discipline of a tavern; but seeing me walk up

and down without marking what he said, he went his way, as I perceived

after, to Basilius: for within a while he came unto me, bearing indeed

shows in his countenance of an honest and well-minded gentleman, and

with as much courtesy as Dametas with rudeness saluting me: ‘Fair

lady,’ said he, ‘it is {68} nothing strange that such a solitary place

as this should receive solitary persons, but much do I marvel how such

a beauty as yours is should be suffered to be thus alone.’ I, that now

knew it was my part to play, looking with a grave majesty upon him, as

if I found in myself cause to be reverenced. ‘They are never alone,’

said I, ‘that are accompanied with noble thoughts.’ ‘But those

thoughts,’ replied Basilius, ‘cannot in this your loneliness neither

warrant you from suspicion in others, nor defend you from melancholy

in yourself:’ I then showing a mislike that he pressed me so far; ‘I

seek no better warrant,’ said I, ‘than my own conscience, nor no

greater pleasure than my own contentation.’ ‘Yet virtue seeks to

satisfy others,’ said Basilius. ‘Those that be good,’ said I, ‘and

they will be satisfied as long as they see no evil.’ ‘Yet will the

best in this country,’ said Basilius, ‘suspect so excellent beauty

being so weakly guarded.’ ‘Then are the best but stark naught,’

answered I, ‘for open suspecting others, comes of secret condemning

themselves: but in my country, whose manners I am in all places to

maintain and reverence, the general goodness which is nourished in our

hearts makes every one think the strength of virtue in another,

whereof they find the assured foundation in themselves.’ ‘Excellent

lady,’ said he, ‘you praise so greatly, and yet so wisely, your

country that I must needs desire to know what the nest is out of which

such birds do fly.’ ‘You must first deserve it,’ said I, ‘before you

may obtain it.’ ‘And by what means,’ said Basilius, ‘shall I deserve

to know your estate?’ ‘By letting me first know yours,’ answered I.

‘To obey you,’ said he, ‘I will do it, although it were so much more

reason yours should be known first, as you do deserve in all points to

be preferred. Know you, fair lady, that my name is Basilius,

unworthily lord of this country: the rest, either fame hath already

brought to your ears, or (if it please you to make this place happy by

your presence) at more leisure you shall understand of me.’ I that

from the beginning assured myself it was he, but would not seem I did

so, to keep my gravity the better, making a piece of reverence unto

him; ‘Mighty prince,’ said I, ‘let my not knowing you serve for the

excuse of my boldness, and the little reverence I do you impute to the

manner of my country, which is the invincible land of the Amazons:

myself niece to Senicia, queen thereof, lineally descended of the

famous Penthesilea, slain by the bloody hand of Pyrrhus: I having, in

this my youth determined to make the world see the Amazons’

excellencies, as well in private as in public virtue, have passed some

dangerous adventures in divers countries, till the unmerciful sea

deprived me of my company; so that shipwreck casting me not far hence,

uncertain wandering brought me to this place.’ But Basilius (who now

{69} began to taste of that, which since he had swallowed up, as I

will tell you) fell to more cunning intreating my abode, than any

greedy host should use to well-paying passengers. I thought nothing

could shoot righter at the mark of my desires; yet had I learned

already so much, that it was against my womanhood to be forward in my

own wishes. And therefore he (to prove whether intercessions in fitter

mouths might better prevail) commanded Dametas to bring forthwith his

wife and daughters thither; three ladies, although of diverse, yet of

excellent beauty.

“His wife in grave matron-like attire, with countenance and gesture

suitable, and of such fairness, being in the strength of her age, as,

if her daughters had not been by, might with just price have purchased

admiration: but they being there, it was enough that the most dainty

eye would think her a worthy mother of such children. The fair Pamela,

whose noble heart I find doth greatly disdain that the trust of her

virtue is reposed in such a lout’s hands as Dametas, had yet, to show

an obedience, taken on shepherdish apparel, which was but of

russet-cloth cut after their fashion, with a straight body, open

breasted, the nether part full of plaits, with long and wide sleeves:

but believe me she did apparel her apparel, and with the preciousness

of her body made it most sumptuous. Her hair at the full length, wound

about with gold lace, only by the comparison to show how far her hair

doth excel in colour: betwixt her breasts (which sweetly rose like two

fair mountainets in the pleasant vale of Tempe) there hung a very rich

diamond set but in a black horn; the word I have since read is this,

‘Yet still myself.’ And thus particularly have I described them

because you may know that mine eyes are not so partial but that I

marked them too. But when the ornament of the earth, the model of

heaven, the triumph of nature, the life of beauty, the queen of love,

young Philoclea appeared in her nymph-like apparel, so near nakedness

as one might well discern part of her perfections, and yet so

apparelled as did show she kept best store of her beauty to herself:

her hair (alas too poor a word, why should I not rather call them her

beams) drawn up into a net, able to have caught Jupiter when he was in

the form of an eagle; her body (O sweet body!) covered with a light

taffeta garment, so cut as the wrought smock came through it in many

places, enough to have made your restrained imagination have thought

what was under it: with the cast of her black eyes, black indeed,

whether nature so made them, that we might be the more able to behold

and bear their wonderful shining, or that she, goddess-like, would

work this miracle with herself in giving blackness the price above all

beauty. Then, I say, indeed methought the lilies grew pale for envy;

the roses methought blushed to see sweeter roses in her cheeks; and

{70} the apples methought fell down from the trees to do homage to the

apples of her breast; then the clouds gave place, that the heavens

might more freely smile upon her, at the least the clouds of my

thought quite vanished, and my sight, then more clear and forcible

than ever, was so fixed there, that, I imagine, I stood like a

well-wrought image with some life in show but none in practice. And so

had I been like enough to have stayed long time but that Gynecia

stepping between my sight and the only Philoclea, the change of object

made me recover my senses, so that I could with reasonable good manner

receive the salutation of her, and of the Princess Pamela, doing them

yet no further reverence than one princess useth to another. But when

I came to the never enough praised Philoclea, I could not but fall

down on my knees, and taking by force her hand, and kissing it, I must

confess with more than womanly ardency, ‘Divine lady,’ said I, ‘let

not the world, nor those great princesses, marvel to see me, contrary

to my manner, do this special honour unto you, since all both men and

women, do owe this to the perfection of your beauty.’ But, she

blushing like a fair morning in May at this my singularity, and

causing me to rise, ‘Noble lady,’ said she, ‘it is no marvel to see

your judgment much mistaken in my beauty since you begin with so great

an error as to do more honour unto me than to them, to whom I myself

owe all service.’ ‘Rather,’ answered I, with a bowed down countenance,

‘that shows the power of your beauty which forced me to do such an

error, if it were an error.’ ‘You are so well acquainted,’ said she

sweetly, most sweetly smiling, ‘with your own beauty, that it makes

you easily fall into the discourse of beauty.’ ‘Beauty in me?’ (said

I, truly sighing) ‘alas! if there be any it is in my eyes, which your

blessed presence hath imparted unto them.’

“But then, as I think Basilius willing her so to do, ‘Well,’ said she,

‘I must needs confess I have heard that it is a great happiness to be

praised of them that are most praiseworthy: and well I find that you

are an invincible Amazon since you will overcome, though in a wrong

matter. But if my beauty be anything, then let it obtain thus much of

you, that you will remain some while in this company to ease your own

travel and our solitariness.’ ‘First let me die,’ said I, ‘before any

word spoken by such a mouth should come in vain.’ And thus with some

other words of entertaining was my staying concluded, and I led among

them to the lodge; truly a place for pleasantness, not unfit to

flatter solitariness, for, it being set upon such an unsensible rising

of the ground as you are come to a pretty height before almost you

perceive that you ascend, it gives the eye lordship over a good large

circuit, which according to the nature of the country, being

diversified between {71} hills and dales, woods and plains, one place

more clear, another more darksome, it seems a pleasant picture of

nature, with lovely lightsomeness and artificial shadows. The lodge is

of a yellow stone, built in the form of a star, having round about a

garden framed into like points; and beyond the garden ridings cut out,

each answering the angles of the lodge: at the end of one of them is

the other smaller lodge, but of like fashion, where the gracious

Pamela liveth; so that the lodge seemeth not unlike a fair comet,

whose tail stretcheth itself to a star of less greatness.

“So Gynecia herself bringing me to my lodging, anon after I was

invited and brought down to sup with them in the garden, a place not

fairer in natural ornaments than artificial inventions, where, in a

banqueting-house, among certain pleasant trees, whose heads seemed

curled with the wrappings about of vine branches, the table was set

near to an excellent water-works; for, by the casting of the water in

most cunning manner, it makes, with the shining of the sun upon it, a

perfect rainbow, not more pleasant to the eye than to the mind, so

sensibly to see the proof of the heavenly Iris. There were birds also

made so finely that they did not only deceive the sight with their

figure, but the hearing with their songs, which the watery instruments

made their gorge deliver. The table at which we sat was round, which

being fast to the floor whereon we sat, and that divided from the rest

of the buildings, with turning a vice, which Basilius at first did to

make me sport, the table, and we about the table, did all turn round

by means of water which ran under and carried it about as a mill. But

alas! what pleasure did it to me to make divers times the full circle

round about, since Philoclea, being also set, was carried still in

equal distance from me, and that only my eyes did overtake her? which,

when the table was stayed, and we began to feed, drank much more

eagerly of her beauty than my mouth did of any other liquor. And so

was my common sense deceived, being chiefly bent to her, that as I

drank the wine, and withal stole a look on her, meseemed I tasted her

deliciousness. But alas! the one thirst was much more inflamed than

the other quenched. Sometimes my eyes would lay themselves open to

receive all the darts she did throw; sometimes close up with

admiration, as if with a contrary fancy, they would preserve the

riches of that sight they had gotten, or cast my lids as curtains over

the image of beauty her presence had painted in them. True it is, that

my reason, now grown a servant to passion, did yet often tell his

master that he should more moderately use his delight. But he, that of

a rebel was become a prince, disdained almost to allow him the place

of a counsellor; so that my senses’ delights being too strong for any

other resolution, I did even loose the reins unto them, hoping that,

{72} going for a woman, my looks would pass either unmarked or

unsuspected.

“Now thus I had, as methought, well played my first act, assuring

myself that under that disguisement I should find opportunity to

reveal myself to the owner of my heart. But who would think it

possible, though I feel it true, that in almost eight weeks’ space I

have lived here, having no more company but her parents, and I being a

familiar, as being a woman, and watchful, as being a lover, yet could

never find opportunity to have one minute’s leisure of private

conference: the cause whereof is as strange as the effects are to me

miserable. And (alas!) this it is.

“At the first sight that Basilius had of me, I think Cupid having

headed his arrows with my misfortune, he was stricken, taking me to be

such as I profess, with great affection towards me, which since is

grown to such a doting love that till I was fain to get this place

sometimes to retire unto freely, I was even choked with his

tediousness. You never saw four score years dance up and down more

lively in a young lover; now, as fine in his apparel, as if he would

make me in love with a cloak, and verse for verse with the

sharpest-witted lover in Arcadia. Do you not think that is a sallet of

wormwood; while mine eyes feed upon the Ambrosia of Philoclea’s

beauty? but this is not all; no, this is not the worst: for he, good

man, were easy enough to be dealt with, but, as I think, love and

mischief having made a wager which should have most power in me, have

set Gynecia also on such a fire toward me, as will never, I fear, be

quenched but with my destruction. For, she being a woman of excellent

wit and of strong working thoughts, whether she suspected me by my

over-vehement shows of affection to Philoclea (which love forced me

unwisely to utter, while hope of my mask foolishly encouraged me) or

that she hath taken some other mark of me, that I am not a woman; or

what devil it is hath revealed it unto her, I know not: but so it is,

that all her countenances, words, and gestures are even miserable

portraitures of a desperate affection. Whereby a man may learn that

these avoidings of company do but make the passions more violent when

they meet with fit subjects. Truly it were a notable dumb show of

Cupid’s kingdom, to see my eyes, languishing with over-vehement

longing, direct themselves to Philoclea; and Basilius, as busy about

me as a bee, and indeed as cumbersome, making such vehement suits to

me, who neither could if I would, nor would if I could, help him,

while the terrible wit of Gynecia, carried with the beer of violent

love, runs through us all. And so jealous is she of my love to her

daughter that I could never yet begin to open my mouth to the

unevitable Philoclea but that her unwished presence gave my tale a

conclusion before it had a beginning. And surely, if I be not {73}

deceived, I see such shows of liking, and, if I be acquainted with

passions, of almost a passionate liking in the heavenly Philoclea

towards me, that I may hope her ears would not abhor my discourse. And

for good Basilius, he thought it best to have lodged us together, but

that the eternal hatefulness of my destiny made Gynecia’s jealousy

stop that, and all other my blessings. Yet must I confess that one way

her love doth me pleasure, for since it was my foolish fortune, or

unfortunate folly, to be known by her, that keeps her from betraying

me to Basilius. And thus, my Musidorus, you have my tragedy played

unto you by myself, which I pray the gods may not indeed prove a

tragedy.” And therewith he ended, making a full point of a hearty

sigh.

Musidorus recommended to his best discourse, all which Pyrocles had

told him. But therein he found such intricateness that he could see no

way to lead him out of the maze; yet perceiving his affection so

grounded that striving against it did rather anger than heal the

wound, and rather call his friendship in question than give place to

any friendly counsel: “Well,” said he, “dear cousin! since it hath

pleased the gods to mingle your other excellencies with this humour of

love, yet happy it is, that your love is employed upon so rare a

woman: for certainly a noble cause doth ease much a grievous case. But

as it stands now, nothing vexeth me, as that I cannot see wherein I

can be serviceable unto you.” “I desire no greater service of you,”

answered Pyrocles, “than that you remain secretly in this country, and

sometimes come to this place, either late in the night or early in the

morning, where you shall have my key to enter, because as my fortune

either amends or impairs, I may declare it unto you, and have your

counsel and furtherance: and hereby I will of purpose lead her, that

is the praise, and yet the stain of all womankind, that you may have

so good a view, as to allow my judgment; and as I can get the most

convenient time, I will come unto you; for, though by reason of yonder

wood you cannot see the lodge, it is hard at hand. But now,” said she,

“it is time for me to leave you, and towards evening we will walk out

of purpose hitherward, therefore keep yourself close till that time.”

But Musidorus, bethinking himself that his horse might happen to

betray him, thought it best to return for that day to a village not

far off, and dispatching his horse in some sort, the next day early to

come afoot thither, and so to keep that course afterward which

Pyrocles very well liked of. “Now farewell, dear cousin,” said he,

“from me, no more Pyrocles nor Daiphantus now, but Zelmane: Zelmane is

my name, Zelmane is my title, Zelmane is the only hope of my

advancement.” And with that word going out, and seeing that the coast

was clear, Zelmane dismissed Musidorus, who {74} departed as full of

care to help his friend as before he was to dissuade him.

Zelmane returned to the lodge, where (inflamed by Philoclea, watched

by Gynecia, and tired by Basilius) she was like a horse desirous to

run, and miserably spurred, but so short reined as he cannot stir

forward. Zelmane sought occasion to speak with Philoclea; Basilius

with Zelmane; and Gynecia hindered them all. If Philoclea happened to

sigh, and sigh she did often, as if that sigh were to be waited on,

Zelmane sighed also, whereto Basilius and Gynecia soon made up four

parts of sorrow. Their affection increased their conversation, and

their conversation increased their affection. The respect borne bred

due ceremonies, but the affection shined so through them, that the

ceremonies seemed not ceremonies. Zelmane’s eyes were (like children

before sweetmeat) eager, but fearful of their ill-pleasing governors.

Time, in one instant, seeming both short and long unto them: short, in

the pleasingness of such presence; long, in the stay of their desires.

But Zelmane failed not to entice them all many times abroad because

she was desirous her friend Musidorus, near whom of purpose she led

them, might have full sight of them. Sometimes angling to a little

river near hand, which, for the moisture it bestowed upon the roots of

flourishing trees, was rewarded with their shadow. There would they

sit down, and pretty wagers be made between Pamela and Philoclea,

which could soonest beguile silly fishes, while Zelmane protested that

the fit prey for them was hearts of princes. She also had an angle in

her hand, but the taker was so taken that she had forgotten taking.

Basilius in the meantime would be the cook himself of what was so

caught, and Gynecia sit still, but with no still pensiveness. Now she

brought them to see a seeled dove, who, the blinder she was, the

higher she strove. Another time a kite, which having a gut cunningly

pulled out of her, and so let fly, caused all the kites in that

quarter, who, as oftentimes the world is deceived, thinking her

prosperous when indeed she was wounded, made the poor kite find that

opinion of riches may well be dangerous.

But these recreations were interrupted by a delight of more gallant

show; for one evening, as Basilius returned from having forced his

thoughts to please themselves in such small conquest, there came a

shepherd who brought him word that a gentleman desired leave to do a

message from his lord unto him. Basilius granted, whereupon the

gentleman came, and after the dutiful ceremonies observed in his

master’s name, told him that he was sent from Phalantus of Corinth to

crave licence that, as he had done in many other courts, so he might

in his presence defy all Arcadian knights in the behalf of his

mistress’s beauty who would {75} besides herself in person be present

to give evident proof what his lance should affirm. The conditions of

his challenge were that the defendant should bring his mistress’s

picture, which being set by the image of Artesia, so was the mistress

of Phalantus named, who in six courses should have the better of the

other in the judgment of Basilius, with him both the honours and the

pictures should remain. Basilius (though he had retired himself into

that solitary dwelling, with intention to avoid, rather than to accept

any matters of drawing company, yet because he would entertain Zelmane

that she might not think the time so gainful to him loss to her)

granted him to pitch his tent for three days not far from the lodge,

and to proclaim his challenge that what Arcadian knight, for none else

but upon his peril was licensed to come, would defend what he honoured

against Phalantus, should have the like freedom of access and return.

This obtained and published, Zelmane being desirous to learn what this

Phalantus was, having never known him further than by report of his

good jousting, in so much as he was commonly called, “The fair man of

arms”; Basilius told her that he had had occasion by one very inward

with him to know in part the discourse of his life, which was, that he

was a bastard brother to the fair Helen queen of Corinth, and dearly

esteemed of her for his exceeding good parts, being honourably

courteous, and wronglessly valiant, considerately pleasant in

conversation, and an excellent courtier without unfaithfulness, who,

finding his sister’s unpersuadable melancholy, through the love of

Amphialus, had for a time left her court, and gone into Laconia,

where, in the war against the Helots, he had gotten the reputation of

one that both durst and knew. But as it was rather choice than nature

that led him to matters of arms, so as soon as the spur of honour

ceased, he willingly rested in peaceable delights, being beloved in

all companies for his lovely qualities, and, as a man may term it,

winning cheerfulness; whereby to the prince and court of Laconia, none

was more agreeable than Phalantus: and he not given greatly to

struggle with his own disposition, followed the gentle current of it,

having a fortune sufficient to content, and he content with a

sufficient fortune. But in that court he saw, and was acquainted with

this Artesia, whose beauty he now defends, became her servant, said

himself, and perchance thought himself her lover. “But certainly,”

said Basilius, “many times it falls out that these young companions

make themselves believe they love at their first liking of a likely

beauty; loving, because they will love for want of other business, not

because they feel indeed that divine power which makes the heart find

a reason in passion, and so, God knows, as inconstantly leave upon the

next chance that beauty casts before them. So {76} therefore taking

love upon him like a fashion, he courted this lady Artesia, who was as

fit to pay him in his own money as might be: for she thinketh she did

wrong to her beauty if she were not proud of it, called her disdain of

him chastity, and placed her honour in little setting by his honouring

her, determining never to marry but him whom she thought worthy of

her, and that was one in whom all worthinesses were harboured. And to

this conceit not only nature had bent her, but the bringing-up she

received at by her sister-in-law Cecropia had confirmed her, who

having in her widowhood taken this young Artesia into her charge,

because her father had been a dear friend of her dear husband’s, had

taught her to think that there is no wisdom but in including both

heaven and earth in oneself; and that love, courtesy, gratefulness,

friendship, and all other virtues are rather to be taken on than taken

in oneself. And so good a disciple she found of her that, liking the

fruits of her own planting, she was content if so her son could have

liked of it, to have wished her in marriage to my nephew Amphialus.

But I think that desire hath lost some of his heat since she hath

known that such a queen as Helen is, doth offer so great a price as a

kingdom, to buy his favour; for, if I be not deceived in my good

sister Cecropia, she thinks no face so beautiful, as that which looks

under a crown. But Artesia indeed liked well of my nephew Amphialus:

For I can never deem that love, which in haughty hearts proceeds of a

desire only to please, and, as it were, peacock themselves; but yet

she hath showed vehemency of desire that way, I think because all her

desires be vehement, insomuch that she hath both placed her only

brother, a fine youth, called Ismenus, to be his ’squire, and herself

is content to wait upon my sister till she may see the uttermost what

she may work in Amphialus; who being of a melancholy (though, I must

say, truly courteous and noble) mind, seems to love nothing less than

love, and of late, having through some adventure, or inward

miscontentment, withdrawn himself from anybody’s knowledge, where he

is; Artesia the easier condescended to go to the court of Laconia,

whither she was sent for by the king’s wife, to whom she is somewhat

allied.

“And there, after the war of the Helots, this knight Phalantus, at

least for tongue-delight, made himself her servant, and she, so little

caring as not to show mislike thereof, was content only to be noted to

have a notable servant. For truly one in my court, nearly acquainted

with him, within these few days made me a pleasant description of

their love, while he with cheerful looks would speak sorrowful words,

using the phrase of his affection in so high a style, that Mercury

would not have wooed Venus with more magnificent eloquence; but else,

neither in behaviour, nor action, accusing in himself any great

trouble in mind whether he sped or no. And {77} she, on the other

side, well finding how little it was, and not caring for more, yet

taught him that often it falleth out but a foolish witness to speak

more than one thinks.

“For she made earnest benefit of his jest, forcing him in respect of

his profession to her such services as were both cumbersome and costly

unto him, while he still thought he went beyond her because his heart

did not commit the idolatry. So that lastly, she, I think, having mind

to make the fame of her beauty an orator for her to Amphialus

(persuading herself, perhaps, that it might fall out in him as it doth

in some that have delightful meat before them, and have no stomach to

it, before other folks praise it) she took the advantage one day, upon

Phalantus’s unconscionable praising of her, and certain cast-away vows

how much he would do for her sake, to arrest his word as soon as it

was out of his mouth, and by the virtue thereof to charge him to go

with her thro’ all the courts of Greece, and with the challenge now

made to give her beauty the principality over all other. Phalantus was

entrapped, and saw round about him, but could not get out. Exceedingly

perplexed he was, as he confessed to him that told me the tale, not

for doubt he had of himself (for indeed he had little cause, being

accounted, with his lance especially, whereupon the challenge is to be

tried as perfect as any that Greece knoweth) but because he feared to

offend his sister Helen, and withal, as he said, he could not so much

believe his love but that he must think in his heart, whatsoever his

mouth affirmed, that both she, my daughters, and the fair Parthenia

(wife to a most noble gentleman, my wife’s near kinsman) might far

better put in their claim for that prerogative. But his promise had

bound him prentice, and therefore it was now better with willingness

to purchase thanks than with a discontented doing to have the pain and

not the reward; and therefore went on as his faith, rather than love,

did lead him. And now hath he already passed the courts of Laconia,

Elis, Argos, and Corinth: And, as many times it happens that a good

pleader makes a bad cause to prevail, so hath his lance brought

captives to the triumph of Artesia’s beauty, such, as though Artesia

be among the fairest, yet in that company were to have the

pre-eminence: For in those courts many knights that had been in other

far countries defended such as they had seen and liked in their

travel: But their defence had been such that they had forfeited the

pictures of their ladies to give a forced false testimony to Artesia’s

excellency. And now, lastly, is he come hither, where he hath leave to

try his fortune. But I assure you, if I thought it not in due and true

consideration an injurious service and churlish courtesy to put the

danger of so noble a title in the deciding of such a dangerless

combat, I would make young master {78} Phalantus know that your eyes

can sharpen a blunt lance, and that age, which my gray hairs, only

gotten by the loving care of others, makes seem more than it is, hath

not diminished in me the power to protect an undeniable verity.” With

that he bustled up himself, as though his heart would fain have walked

abroad. Zelmane with an inward smiling gave him outward thanks,

desiring him to reserve his force for worthier causes.

So passing their time according to their wont, they waited for the

coming of Phalantus, who the next morning having already caused his

tents to be pitched near to a fair tree hard by the lodge, had upon

the tree made a shield to be hanged up, which the defendant should

strike that would call him to the maintaining his challenge. The

impresa in the shield was a heaven full of stars, with a speech

signifying that it was the beauty which gave the praise. Himself came

in next after a triumphant chariot made of carnation-velvet, enriched

with purple and pearl, wherein Artesia sat, drawn by four winged

horses with artificial flaming mouths and fiery wings, as if she had

newly borrowed them of Phoebus. Before her marched, two after two,

certain footmen pleasantly attired, who between them held one picture

after another of them, that by Phalantus’ well running had lost the

prize in the race of beauty, and at every pace they stayed, turned the

pictures to each side so leisurely that with perfect judgment they

might be discerned. The first that came in, following the order of the

time wherein they had been won, was the picture of Andromana, queen of

Iberia, whom a Laconian knight, having some time, and with special

favour, served, though some years since returned home, with more

gratefulness than good fortune defended. But therein Fortune had

borrowed wit; for indeed she was not comparable to Artesia, not

because she was a good deal older, for time had not yet been able to

impoverish her store thereof, but an exceeding red hair with small

eyes, did, like ill companions, disgrace the other assembly of most

commendable beauties.

Next after her was borne the counterfeit of the Princess of Elis, a

lady that taught the beholders no other point of beauty, but this:

That as liking is not always the child of beauty, so whatsoever liketh

is beautiful; for in that visage there was neither majesty, grace,

favour, nor fairness; yet she wanted not a servant that would have

made her fairer than the fair Artesia. But he wrote her praises with

his helmet in the dust, and left her picture to be a true witness of

his overthrow, as his running was of her beauty.

After her was the goodly Artaxia, great queen of Armenia, a lady upon

whom nature bestowed and well placed her most delightful colours, and,

withal, had proportioned her without any fault, quickly to be

discovered by the senses, yet altogether seemed not to make {79} up

that harmony that Cupid delights in, the reason whereof might seem a

mannish countenance, which overthrew that lovely sweetness, the

noblest power of womankind, far fitter to prevail by parley than by

battle.

Of a far contrary consideration was the representation of her that

next followed, which was Erona queen of Lycia, who though of so brown

a hair as no man should have injured it to have called it black, and

that in the mixture of her cheeks the white did so much overcome the

red, tho’ what was, was very pure, that it came near to paleness, and

that her face was a thought longer than the exact Symetrians perhaps

would allow; yet love played his part so well in every part that it

caught hold of the judgment before it could judge, making it first

love, and after acknowledge it fair; for there was a certain delicacy,

which in yielding conquered, and with a pitiful look made one find

cause to crave help himself.

After her came two ladies, of noble, but not of royal birth: The

former was named Baccha, who though very fair, and of a fatness rather

to allure, than to mislike, yet her breasts overfamiliarly laid open,

with a made countenance about her mouth, between simpering and

smiling, her head bowed somewhat down, seemed to languish with

over-much idleness, and with an inviting look cast upward, dissuaded

with too much persuading, while hope might seem to over-run desire.

The other, whose name was written Leucippe, was of a fine daintiness

of beauty, her face carrying in it a sober simplicity, like one that

could do much good and meant no hurt, her eyes having in them such a

cheerfulness as nature seemed to smile in them, though her mouth and

cheeks obeyed to that pretty demureness which the more one marked the

more one would judge the poor soul apt to believe, and therefore the

more pity to deceive her.

Next came the queen of Laconia, one that seemed born in the confines

of beauty’s kingdom: For all her lineaments were neither perfect

possessioners thereof, nor absolute strangers thereto: But she was a

queen, and therefore beautiful.

But she that followed, conquered indeed with being conquered, and

might well have made all the beholders wait upon her triumph, while

herself were led captive. It was the excellently fair queen Helen,

whose jacinth-hair curled by nature, but intercurled by art, like a

fine brook through golden sands, had a rope of fair pearl, which now

hiding, now hidden by the hair, did as it were play at fast and loose

each with other, mutually giving and receiving richness. In her face

so much beauty and favour expressed as, if Helen had not been known,

some would rather have judged it the painter’s exercise to show what

he could do than the counterfeiting of any living pattern; for no

fault the most fault-finding wit could {80} have found, if it were not

that to the rest of the body the face was somewhat too little, but

that little was such a spark of beauty as was able to inflame a world

of love; for everything was full of a choice fineness, that if we

wanted anything in majesty it supplied it with increase in pleasure;

and if at the first it struck not with admiration, it ravished with

delight. And no indifferent soul there was, which if it could resist

from subjecting itself to make it his princess, that would not long to

have such a playfellow. As for her attire, it was costly and curious,

though the look, fixed with more sadness than it seemed nature had

bestowed to any that knew her fortune, betrayed that as she used those

ornaments not for herself, but to prevail with another, so she feared

that all would not serve. Of a far differing, though esteemed equal,

beauty, was the fair Parthenia, who next waited on Artesia’s triumph,

tho’ far better she might have sat on the throne. For in her

everything was goodly and stately, yet so that it might seem that

great-mindedness was but the ensign-bearer to the humbleness. For her

great grey eye, which might seem full of her own beauty; a large and

exceedingly fair forehead, with all the rest of her face and body cast

in the mould of nobleness, was yet so attired as might show the

mistress thought it either not to deserve, or not to need any

exquisite decking, having no adorning but cleanliness; and so far from

all art, that it was full of carelessness, unless that carelessness

itself, in spite of itself, grew artificial. But Basilius could not

abstain from praising Parthenia as the perfect picture of a womanly

virtue and wifely faithfulness, telling withal Zelmane how he had

understood that when in the court of Laconia her pictures maintained

by a certain Sicyonian knight, was lost through want rather of valour

than justice, her husband, the famous Argalus, would in a chafe have

gone and redeemed it with a new trial. But she, more sporting than

sorrowing for her undeserved champion, told her husband she desired to

be beautiful in nobody’s eye but his, and that she would rather mar

her face as evil as ever it was than that it should be a cause to make

Argalus put on armour. Then would Basilius have told Zelmane that

which he already knew, of the rare trial of that coupled affection:

but the next picture made their mouths give place to their eyes.

It was of a young maid which sat pulling out a thorn out of a lamb’s

foot, with her look so attentive upon it, as if that little foot could

have been the circle of her thoughts; her apparel so poor, as it had

nothing but the inside to adorn it; a sheep-hook lying by her with a

bottle upon it. But with all that poverty, beauty played the prince

and commanded as many hearts as the greatest queen there did. Her

beauty and her estate made her quickly to be known to be the fair

shepherdess Urania, whom a rich {81} knight called Lacemon, far in

love with her, had unluckily defended.

The last of all in place, because last in the time of her being

captive, was Zelmane, daughter to the King Plexirtus, who at the first

sight seemed to have some resembling of Philoclea, but with more

marking, comparing it to the present Philoclea, who indeed had no

paragon but her sister, they might see it was but such a likeness as

an unperfect glass doth give, answerable enough in some features and

colours, but erring in others. But Zelmane sighing, turning to

Basilius, “Alas! Sir,” said she, “here be some pictures which might

better become the tombs of their mistresses than the triumph of

Artesia.” “It is true sweetest lady,” said Basilius, “some of them be

dead, and some other captive; but that hath happened so late, as it

may be the knights that defended their beauty knew not so much:

without we will say, as in some other hearts I know it would fall out,

that death itself could not blot out the image which love hath

engraven in them. But divers besides those,” said Basilius, “hath

Phalantus, won, but he leaves the rest, carrying only such who either

for greatness of estate, or of beauty, may justly glorify the glory of

Artesia’s triumph.”

Thus talked Basilius with Zelmane, glad to make any matter subject to

speak of with his mistress, while Phalantus, in this pompous manner,

brought Artesia with her gentlewoman into one tent, by which he had

another, where they both waited who would first strike upon the

shield, while Basilius the judge appointed sticklers and trumpets, to

whom the other should obey. But none that day appeared, nor the next,

till already it had consumed half his allowance of light; but then

there came in a knight, protesting himself as contrary to him in mind,

as he was in apparel. For Phalantus was all in white, having in his

bases and caparison embroidered a waving water, at each side whereof

he had nettings cast over, in which were divers fishes naturally made,

and so prettily that as the horse stirred, the fishes seemed to strive

and leap in the net.

But the other knight, by name Nestor, by birth an Arcadian, and in

affection vowed to the fair shepherdess, was all in black, with fire

burning both upon his armour and horse. His impresa in his shield was

a fire made of juniper, with this word, “More easy and more sweet.”

But this hot knight was cooled with a fall, which at the third course

he received of Phalantus, leaving his picture to keep company with the

other of the same stamp; he going away remedilessly chafing at his

rebuke. The next was Polycetes, greatly esteemed in Arcadia for deeds

he had done in arms, and much spoken of for the honourable love he had

long borne to Gynecia, which Basilius himself was content not only to

{82} suffer, but to be delighted with, he carried it in so honourable

and open plainness, setting to his love no other mark than to do her

faithful service. But neither her fair picture, nor his fair running,

could warrant him from overthrow, and her from becoming as then the

last of Artesia’s victories, a thing Gynecia’s virtues would little

have reckoned at another time, nor then, if Zelmane had not seen it.

But her champion went away as much discomforted, as discomfited. Then

Telamon for Polixena, and Eurileon for Elpine, and Leon for Zoana, all

brave knights, all fair ladies, with their going down, lifted up the

balance of his praise for activity, and hers for fairness.

Upon whose loss, as the beholders were talking, there comes into the

place where they ran, a shepherd stripling (for his height made him

more than a boy, and his face would not allow him a man) brown of

complexion, whether by nature or by the sun’s familiarity, but very

lovely withal, for the rest so perfect proportioned that nature showed

she doth not like men who slubber up matters of mean account. And well

might his proportion be judged, for he had nothing upon him but a pair

of slops, and upon his body a goat skin which he cast over his

shoulder, doing all things with so pretty a grace that it seemed

ignorance could not make him do amiss, because he had a heart to do

well; holding in his right hand a long staff, and so coming with a

look full of amiable fierceness, as in whom choler could not take away

the sweetness, he came towards the king, and making a reverence (which

in him was comely, because it was kindly). “My liege lord,” said he,

“I pray you hear a few words, for my heart will break if I say not my

mind to you: I see here the picture of Urania, which I cannot tell how

nor why these men when they fall down, they say is not so fair as

yonder gay woman. But pray God I may never see my old mother alive, if

I think she be any more matched to Urania, than a goat is to a fine

lamb; or than the dog that keeps our flock at home, is like your white

greyhound that pulled down the stag last day.