“And therefore I pray you let me be dressed as they be, and my heart

gives me I shall tumble him on the earth: for indeed he might as well

say that a cowslip is as white as a lily: or else I care not, let him

come with his great staff, and I with this in my hand, and you shall

see what I can do to him.” Basilius saw it was the fine shepherd

Lalus, whom once he had afore him in pastoral sports, and had greatly

delighted in his wit full of pretty simplicity, and therefore laughing

at his earnestness, he bade him be content, since he saw the pictures

of so great queens were fain to follow their champions’ fortune. But

Lalus, even weeping ripe, went among the rest, longing to see somebody

that would revenge Urania’s {83} wrong; and praying heartily for

everybody that ran against Phalantus, then beginning to feel poverty

that he could not set himself to that trial. But by and by, even when

the sun, like a noble heart, began to show his greatest countenance in

his lowest estate, there came in a knight, called Phebilus, a

gentleman of that country, for whom hateful fortune had borrowed the

dart of love, to make him miserable by the sight of Philoclea. For he

had even from her infancy loved her, and was stricken by her before

she was able to know what quiver of arrows her eyes carried; but he

loved and despaired, and the more he despaired, the more he loved. He

saw his own worthiness, and thereby made her excellency have more

terrible aspect upon him: he was so secret therein, as not daring to

be open, that to no creature he ever spoke of it, but his heart made

such silent complaints within itself that, while all his senses were

attentive thereto, cunning judges might perceive his mind, so that he

was known to love, though he denied, or rather was the better known,

because he denied it. His armour and his attire was for a sea colour;

his impresa, the fish called Sepia, which being in the net, casts a

black ink about itself, that in the darkness thereof it may escape:

his word was, “Not so.” Philoclea’s picture with almost an idolatrous

magnificence was borne in by him. But straight jealousy was a

harbinger for disdain in Zelmane’s heart, when she saw any but herself

should be avowed a champion for Philoclea, insomuch that she wished

his shame, till she saw him shamed. For at the second course he was

stricken quite from out of the saddle, so full of grief and rage

withal that he would fain with the sword have revenged it, but that

being contrary to the order set down, Basilius would not suffer: so

that wishing himself in the bottom of the earth, he went his way,

leaving Zelmane no less angry with his loss than she would have been

with his victory. For if she though before a rival’s praise would have

angered her, her lady’s disgrace did make her much more forget what

she then thought, while that passion reigned so much the more as she

saw a pretty blush in Philoclea’s cheeks betray a modest

discontentment. But the night commanded truce for those sports, and

Phalantus, though entreated, would not leave Artesia, who in no case

would come into the house, having, as it were, sucked of Cecropia’s

breath a mortal mislike against Basilius.

But the night, measured by the short ell of sleep, was soon passed

over, and the next morning had given the watchful stars leave to take

their rest, when a trumpet summoned Basilius to play his judge’s part,

which he did, taking his wife and daughters with him; Zelmane having

locked her door, so as they could not trouble her for that time: for

already there was a knight in the field, ready to prove Helen of

Corinth had received great injury, both by the {84} erring judgment of

the challenger, and the unlucky weakness of her former defender. The

new knight was quickly known to be Clitophon, Kalander’s son of

Basilius’s sister, by his armour which, all gilt, was so well handled

that it showed like a glittering sand and gravel interlaced with

silver rivers. His device he had put in the picture of Helen which he

defended; it was the Ermion with a speech that signified, “Rather dead

than spotted.” But in that armour since he had parted from Helen, who

would no longer his company, finding him to enter into terms of

affection, he had performed so honourable actions, still seeking for

his two friends by the names of Palladius and Daiphantus, that though

his face were covered, his being was discovered, which yet Basilius,

who had brought him up in his court, would not seem to do, but glad to

see the trial of him, of whom he had heard very well, he commanded the

trumpets to sound, to which the two brave knights obeying, they

performed their courses, breaking their six staves, with so good, both

skill in the hitting and grace in the manner, that it bred some

difficulty in the judgment. But Basilius in the end gave sentence

against Clitophon, because Phalantus had broken more staves, upon the

head, and that once Clitophon had received such a blow that he had

lost the reins of his horse with his head well-nigh touching the

crupper of the horse. But Clitophon was so angry with the judgment,

wherein he thought he had received wrong, that he omitted his duty to

his prince, and uncle, and suddenly went his way still in the quest of

them, whom as then he had left seeking, and so yielded the field to

the next comer.

Who, coming in about two hours after, was no less marked than all the

rest before, because he had nothing worth the marking. For he had

neither picture nor device, his armour of as old a fashion, besides

the rusty poorness, that it might better seem a monument of his

grandfather’s courage: about his middle he had, instead of bases, a

long cloak of silk, which as unhandsomely, as it needs must, became

the wearer, so that all that looked on, measured his length on the

earth already, since he had to meet one who had been victorious of so

many gallants. But he went on towards the shield, and with a sober

grace struck it, but as he let his sword fall upon it, another knight,

all in black, came rustling in, who struck the shield almost as soon

as he, and so strongly that he broke the shield in two: the

ill-apparelled knight, for so the beholders called him, angry with

that, as he accounted, insolent injury to himself, hit him such a

sound blow that they that looked on said it well became a rude arm.

The other answered him again in the same case, so that lances were put

to silence, the swords were so busy.

{85}

But Phalantus, angry of this defacing shield, came upon the black

knight, and with the pommel of his sword set fire to his eyes, which

presently was revenged, not only by the black, but the ill-apparelled

knight, who disdained another should enter into his quarrel, so as,

who ever saw a matachin dance to imitate fighting, this was a fight

that did imitate the matachin: for they being but three that fought,

everyone had two adversaries, striking him, who struck the third, and

revenging perhaps that of him which he had received of the other. But

Basilius rising himself came to part them, the stickler’s authority

scarcely able to persuade choleric hearers; and part them he did.

But before he could determine, comes in a fourth, halting on foot, who

complained to Basilius, demanding justice on the black knight, for

having by force taken away the picture of Pamela from him, which in

little form he wore in a tablet, and covered with silk had fastened it

to his helmet, purposing, for want of a bigger, to paragon the little

one with Artesia’s length, not doubting but even in that little

quantity, the excellency of that would shine through the weakness of

the other, as the smallest star doth through the whole element of

fire. And by the way he had met with this black knight, who had, as he

said, robbed him of it. The injury seemed grievous, but when it came

fully to be examined, it was found that the halting knight meeting the

other, asking the cause of his going thitherward, and finding it was

to defend Pamela’s divine beauty against Artesia’s, with a proud

jollity commanded him to leave that quarrel only for him, who was only

worthy to enter into it. But the black knight obeying no such

commandments, they fell to such a bickering that he got a halting, and

lost his picture. This understood by Basilius, he told him he was now

fitter to look to his own body than another’s picture, and so,

uncomforted therein, sent him away to learn of Aesculapius that he was

not fit for Venus. But then the question arising, who should be the

former against Phalantus, of the black or the ill-apparelled knight,

who now had gotten the reputation of some sturdy lout, he had so well

defended himself; of the one side, was alleged the having a picture

which the other wanted; of the other side, the first striking the

shield, but the conclusion was, that the ill-apparelled knight should

have the precedence, if he delivered the figure of his mistress to

Phalantus, who asking him for it, “Certainly,” said he, “her liveliest

picture, if you could see it, is in my heart, and the best comparison

I could make of her is of the sun and all the other heavenly beauties.

But because perhaps all eyes cannot taste the divinity of her beauty,

and would rather be dazzled than taught by the light, if it be not

clouded by some meaner thing, know ye then, that I defend that same

lady, whose image Phebilus so feebly lost {86} yesternight, and,

instead of another, if you overcome me, you shall have me your slave

to carry that image in your mistress’ triumph.” Phalantus easily

agreed to the bargain, which readily he made his own.

But when it came to the trial, the ill-apparelled knight, choosing out

the greatest staves in all the store, at the first course gave his

head such a remembrance that he lost almost his remembrance, he

himself receiving the encounter of Phalantus, without any

extraordinary motion; and at the second, gave him such a counterbuff,

that because Phalantus was so perfect a horseman, as not to be driven

from the saddle, the saddle with broken girths was driven from the

horse; Phalantus remaining angry and amazed, because now being come

almost to the last of his promised enterprise, that disgrace befell

him, which he had never before known.

But the victory being by the judges given, and the trumpets witnessed

to the ill-apparelled knight; Phalantus’ disgrace was ingrieved in

lieu of comfort of Artesia, who telling him she never looked for

other, bade him seek some other mistress. He excusing himself, and

turning over the fault to fortune, “Then let that be your ill fortune

too,” said she, “that you have lost me.”

“Nay, truly madam,” said Phalantus, “it shall not be so, for I think

the loss of such a mistress will prove a great gain,” and so

concluded, to the sport of Basilius, to see young folks’ love, that

came in masked with so great pomp, go out with so little constancy.

But Phalantus first professing great service to Basilius for his

courteous intermitting his solitary course for his sake, would yet

conduct Artesia to the castle of Cecropia, whither she desired to go,

vowing in himself that neither heart nor mouth love should ever any

more entangle him, and with that resolution he left the company.

Whence all being dismissed (among whom the black knight went away

repining at his luck that had kept him from winning the honour, as he

knew he should have done to the picture of Pamela) the ill-apparelled

knight (who was only desired to stay, because Basilius meant to show

him to Zelmane) pull’d off his helmet, and then was known himself to

be Zelmane, who that morning, as she told, while the others were busy,

had stolen out of the prince’s stable, which was a mile off from the

lodge, had gotten a horse, they knowing it was Basilius’s pleasure she

should be obeyed, and borrowing that homely armour for want of a

better, had come upon the spur to redeem Philoclea’s picture, which,

she said, she could not bear, being one of that little

wilderness-company, should be in captivity, if the cunning she had

learned in her country of the noble Amazons, could withstand it; and

under that pretext fain she would have given a secret passport to her

affection. But this act painted at one instant redness in Philoclea’s

face, and paleness {87} in Gynecia’s, but brought forth no other

countenances but of admiration, no speeches but of commendations: all

those few, besides love, thinking they honoured themselves in

honouring so accomplished a person as Zelmane, whom daily they fought

with some or other sports to delight; for which purpose Basilius had,

in a house not far off, servants, who though they came not uncalled,

yet at call were ready.

And so many days were spent, and many ways used, while Zelmane was

like one that stood in a tree waiting a good occasion to shoot, and

Gynecia a blancher, which kept the dearest deer from her. But the day

being come, on which according to an appointed course, the shepherds

were to assemble and make their pastoral sports before Basilius,

Zelmane, fearing lest many eyes, and coming divers ways, might hap to

espy Musidorus, went out to warn him thereof.

But before she could come to the arbour, she saw walking from

her-ward, a man in shepherdish apparel, who being in the sight of the

lodge, it might seem he was allowed there. A long cloak he had on, but

that cast under his right arm, wherein he held a sheep hook so finely

wrought, that it gave a bravery to poverty, and his raiments though

they were mean, yet received they handsomeness by the grace of the

wearer, though he himself went but a kind of languishing pace, with

his eyes sometimes cast up to heaven as though his fancies strove to

mount higher; sometimes thrown down to the ground, as if the earth

could not bear the burden of his sorrows; at length, with a lamentable

tune, he sung those few verses.

Come shepherd’s weeds, become your master’s mind:

Yield outward show, what inward change he tries:

Nor be abash’d, since such a guest you find,

Whose strongest hope in your weak comfort lies.

Come shepherd’s weeds, attend my woeful cries:

Disuse yourselves from sweet Menalcas’ voice:

For other be those tunes which sorrow ties,

From those clear notes which freely may rejoice.

Then pour out plaint, and in one word say this:

Helpless is plaint, who spoils himself of bliss.

And having ended, he struck himself on the breast, saying, “O

miserable wretch, whither do thy destinies guide thee?” The voice made

Zelmane hasten her pace to overtake him, which having done, she

plainly perceived that it was her dear friend Musidorus; whereat

marvelling not a little, she demanded of him whether the goddess of

those woods had such a power to transform {88} every body, or whether,

as in all enterprises else he had done, he meant thus to match her in

this new alteration. “Alas,” said Musidorus, “what shall I say, who am

loth to say, and yet fain would have said? I find indeed, that all is

but lip-wisdom, which wants experience. I now, woe is me, do try what

love can do. O Zelmane, who will resist it must either have no wit, or

put out his eyes: can any man resist his creation? certainly by love

we are made, and to love we are made. Beasts only cannot discern

beauty, and let them be in the roll of beasts that do not honour it.”

The perfect friendship Zelmane bare him, and the great pity she, by

good trial, had of such cases, could not keep her from smiling at him,

remembering how vehemently he had cried out against the folly of

lovers; and therefore a little to punish him, “Why how now dear

cousin,” said she, “you that were last day so high in the pulpit

against lovers, are you now become so mean an auditor? remember that

love is a passion, and that a worthy man’s reason must ever have the

masterhood.” “I recant, I recant,” cried Musidorus, and withal falling

down prostrate, “O thou celestial or infernal spirit of love, or what

other heavenly or hellish title thou list to have, for effects of both

I find in myself, have compassion of me and let thy glory be as great

in pardoning them that be submitted to thee as in conquering those

that were rebellious.” “No, no,” said Zelmane, “I see you well enough;

you make but an interlude of my mishaps, and do but counterfeit thus

to make me see the deformity of my passions; but take heed, that this

jest do not one day turn to earnest.” “Now I beseech thee,” said

Musidorus, taking her fast by the hand, “even for the truth of our

friendship, of which, if I be not altogether an unhappy man, thou has

some remembrance, and by those secret flames which I know have

likewise nearly touched thee, make no jest of that which hath so

earnestly pierced me through, nor let that be light unto thee, which

is to me so burdenous, that I am not able to bear it.” Musidorus, both

in words and behaviour, did so lively deliver out his inward grief

that Zelmane found indeed he was throughly wounded: but there rose a

new jealousy in her mind, lest it might be with Philoclea, by whom, as

Zelmane thought, in right, all hearts and eyes should be inherited.

And therefore desirous to be cleared of that doubt, Musidorus shortly,

as in haste and full of passionate perplexedness, thus recounted his

case unto her.

“The day,” said he, “I parted from you, I being in mind to return to a

town from whence I came hither, my horse being before tired, would

scarce bear me a mile hence, where being benighted, the sight of a

candle, I saw a good way off, guided me to a young shepherd’s house,

by name Menalcas, who seeing me to be a {89} straying stranger, with

the right honest hospitality which seems to be harboured in the

Arcadian breasts, and, though not with curious costliness, yet cleanly

sufficiency entertained me; and having by talk with him found the

manner of the country something more in particular than I had by

Kalander’s report, I agreed to sojourn with him in secret, which he

faithfully promised to observe. And so hither to your arbour divers

times repaired, and here by your means had the fight, O that it had

never been so, nay, O that it might ever be so, of the goddess, who in

a definite compass can set forth infinite beauty.” All this while

Zelmane was racked with jealousy. But he went on, “For,” said he, “I

lying close, and in truth thinking of you, and saying thus to myself,

‘O sweet Pyrocles, how art thou bewitched? where is thy virtue? where

is the use of thy reason? how much am I inferior to thee in that state

of mind? and yet know I that all the heavens cannot bring me such a

thraldom.’ Scarcely, think I, had I spoken this word, when the ladies

came forth; at which sight, I think the very words returned back again

to strike my soul; at least, an unmeasurable sting I felt in myself

that I had spoken such words.” “At which sight,” said Zelmane, not

able to bear him any longer. “O,” said Musidorus, “I know your

suspicion; No, no, banish all such fear, it was, it is, and must be

Pamela.” “Then all is safe,” said Zelmane, “proceed dear Musidorus.”

“I will not,” said he, “impute it to my late solitary life, which yet

is prone to affections, nor to the much thinking of you (though that

called the consideration of love into my mind, which before I ever

neglected) not to the exaltation of Venus, nor revenge of Cupid, but

even to her, who is the planet, nay, the goddess, against which the

only shield must be my sepulchre. When I first saw her I was presently

stricken, and I (like a foolish child, that when anything hits him,

will strike himself again upon it) would needs look again, as though

I would persuade mine eyes, that they were deceived. But alas, well

have I found, that love to a yielding heart is a king; but to a

resisting, is a tyrant. The more with arguments I shaked the stake,

which he had planted in the ground of my heart, the deeper still it

sank into it. But what mean I to speak of the causes of my love, which

is as impossible to describe, as to measure the back-side of heaven?

let this word suffice, I love.

“And that you may know I do so, it was I that came in black armour to

defend her picture, where I was both prevented and beaten by you. And

so, I that waited here to do you service, have now myself most need of

succour.” “But whereupon got you yourself this apparel?” said Zelmane.

“I had forgotten to tell you,” said Musidorus, “though that were one

principal matter of my speech; so much am I now master of my own {90}

mind. But thus it happened: being returned to Menalcas’ house, full of

tormenting desire, after a while fainting under the weight, my courage

stirred up my wit to seek for some relief before I yielded to perish.

At last this came into my head, that every evening, that I had to no

purpose last used my horse and armour. I told Menalcas, that I was a

Thessalian gentleman, who by mischance having killed a great favourite

of the prince of that country, was pursued so cruelly, that in no

place but either by favour or corruption, they would obtain my

destruction, and that therefore I was determined, till the fury of my

persecutors might be assuaged, to disguise myself among the shepherds

of Arcadia, and, if it were possible, to be one of them that were

allowed the prince’s presence, because if the worst should fall that I

were discovered, yet having gotten the acquaintance of the prince, it

might happen to move his heart to protect me. Menalcas, being of an

honest disposition, pitied my case, which my face, thro’ my inward

torment, made credible; and so, I giving him largely for it, let me

have this raiment, instructing me in all particularities, touching

himself, or myself, which I desired to know; yet not trusting so much

to his constancy as that I would lay my life, and life of my life upon

it, I hired him to go into Thessalia to a friend of mine, and to

deliver him a letter from me; conjuring him to bring me as speedy an

answer as he could, because it imported me greatly to know whether

certain of my friends did yet possess any favour, whose intercessions

I might use for my restitution. He willingly took my letter, which

being well sealed, indeed contained other matter. For I wrote to my

trusty servant Calodoulus, whom you know as soon as he had delivered

the letter, he should keep him prisoner in his house, not suffering

him to have conference with any body, till he knew my further

pleasure, in all other respects that he should use him as my brother.

And is Menalcas gone, and I here a poor shepherd; more proud of this

estate than of any kingdom, so manifest it is, that the highest point

outward things can bring one unto, is the contentment of the mind,

with which no estate; without which, all estates be miserable. Now

have I chosen this day, because, as Menalcas told me, the other

shepherds are called to make their sports, and hope that you will with

your credit find means to get me allowed among them.” “You need not

doubt,” answered Zelmane, “but that I will be your good mistress:

marry, the best way of dealing must be by Dametas, who since his blunt

brain hath perceived some favour the prince doth bear unto me (as

without doubt the most servile flattery is lodged most easily in the

grossest capacity, for their ordinary conceit draweth a yielding to

their greater, and then have they not wit to discern the right degrees

of duty) is much more {91} serviceable unto me, than I can find any

cause to wish him. And therefore despair not to win him, for every

present occasion will catch his senses, and his senses are masters of

his silly mind; only reverence him, and reward him, and with that

bridle and saddle you shall well ride him.” “O heaven and earth,” said

Musidorus, “to what a pass are our minds brought that from the right

line of virtue are wried to these crooked shifts? but O love, it is

thou that doest it; thou changest name upon name; thou disguisest our

bodies, and disfigurest our minds. But indeed thou hast reason; for

though the ways be foul, the journey’s end is most fair and

honourable.”

“No more sweet Musidorus,” said Zelmane, “of these philosophies; for

here comes the very person of Dametas.” And so he did indeed, with a

sword by his side, a forest-bill on his neck, and a chopping-knife

under his girdle: in which well provided sort, he had ever gone since

the fear Zelmane had put him in. But he no sooner saw her, but with

head and arms he laid his reverence afore her, enough to have made any

man forswear all courtesy. And then in Basilius’s name he did invite

her to walk down to the place where that day they were to have the

pastorals.

But when he espied Musidorus to be none of the shepherds allowed in

that place he would fain have persuaded himself to utter some anger,

but that he durst not; yet muttering and champing, as though his cud

troubled him, he gave occasion to Musidorus to come near him, and

feign his tale of his own life: that he was a younger brother of the

shepherd Menalcas, by name Dorus, sent by his father in his tender age

to Athens, there to learn some cunning more than ordinary, that he

might be the better liked of the prince; and that after his father’s

death, his brother Menalcas lately gone thither to fetch him home, was

also deceased, where, upon his death, he had charged him to seek the

service of Dametas, and to be wholly and ever guided by him, as one in

whose judgment and integrity the prince had singular confidence. For

token whereof, he gave to Dametas a good sum of gold in ready coin:

which Menalcas had bequeathed unto him, upon condition he should

receive this poor Dorus into his service, that his mind and manners

might grow the better by his daily example. Dametas, that of all

manners of style could best conceive of golden eloquence, being withal

tickled by Musidorus’s praises, had his brain so turned, that he

became slave to that which he that sued to be his servant offered to

give him, yet, for countenance sake, he seemed very squeamish, in

respect of the charge he had of the princess Pamela. But such was the

secret operation of the gold, helped with the persuasion of the

Amazon, Zelmane (who said it was pity so handsome a young man should

be anywhere else than {92} with so good a master) that in the end he

agreed (if that day he behaved himself so to the liking of Basilius,

as he might be contented) that then he would receive him into his

service.

And thus went they to the lodge, where they found Gynecia and her

daughters ready to go to the field, to delight themselves there a

while until the shepherds coming: whither also taking Zelmane with

them, as they went, Dametas told them of Dorus, and desired he might

be accepted there that day instead of his brother Menalcas. As for

Basilius, he stayed behind to bring the shepherds, with whom he meant

to confer, to breed the better Zelmane’s liking, which he only

regarded, while the other beautiful band came to the fair field

appointed for the shepherdish pastimes. It was indeed a place of

delight; for through the midst of it there ran a sweet brook which did

both hold the eye open with her azure streams, and yet seek to close

the eye with the purling noise it made upon the pebble stones it ran

over: the field itself being set in some places with roses, and in all

the rest constantly preserving a flourishing green: the roses, added

such a ruddy show unto it, as though the field were bashful at his own

beauty: about it, as if it had been to enclose a theatre, grew such

sort of trees as either excellency of fruit, stateliness of growth,

continual greenness, or poetical fancies, have made at any time

famous. In most part of which there had been framed by art such

pleasant arbours, that, one answering another, they became a gallery

aloft from tree to tree almost round about, which below gave a perfect

shadow; a pleasant refuge then from the choleric look of Phoebus.

In this place while Gynecia walked hard by them, carrying many unquiet

contentions about her, the ladies sat them down, enquiring divers

questions of the shepherd Dorus; who keeping his eye still upon

Pamela, answered with such a trembling voice, and abashed countenance,

and oftentimes so far from the matter, that it was some sport to the

young ladies, thinking it want of education which made him so

discountenanced with unwonted presence. But Zelmane that saw in him

the glass of her own misery, taking the hand of Philoclea, and with

burning kisses setting it close to her lips (as if it should stand

there like a hand in the margin of a book, to note some saying worthy

to be marked) began to speak those words: “O love, since thou art so

changeable in men’s estates, how art thou so constant in their

torments?” when suddenly there came out of a wood a monstrous lion,

with a she-bear not far from him, of a little less fierceness, which,

as they guessed, having been hunted in forests far off, were by chance

come thither, where before such beast had never been seen. Then care,

not fear, or fear, not for themselves, altered something the

countenances of the two lovers; but so, as any man might perceive, was

rather an {93} assembling of powers, than dismayedness of courage.

Philoclea no sooner espied the lion, but, that obeying the commandment

of fear, she leaped up, and ran to the lodge-ward, as fast as her

delicate legs could carry her, while Dorus drew Pamela behind a tree,

where she stood quaking like a partridge on which the hawk is even

ready to seize. But the lion, seeing Philoclea run away, bent his race

to her-ward, and was ready to seize himself on the prey when Zelmane

(to whom danger then was a cause of dreadlessness, all the composition

of her elements being nothing but fiery) with swiftness of desire

crossed him, and with force of affection struck him such a blow upon

his chine, that she opened all his body: wherewith the valiant beast

turning her with open jaws, she gave him such a thrust through his

breast, that all the lion could do, was with his paw to tear off the

mantle and sleeve of Zelmane with a little scratch, rather than a

wound, his death-blow having taken away the effect of his force: but

therewithal he fell down, and gave Zelmane leisure to take off his

head, to carry it for a present to her lady Philoclea, who all this

while, not knowing what was done behind her, kept on her course like

Arethusa when she ran from Alpheus; her light apparel being carried up

with the wind, that much of those beauties she would at another time

have willingly hidden, was presented to the sight of the twice wounded

Zelmane. Which made Zelmane not follow her over-hastily, lest she

should too soon deprive herself of that pleasure, but carrying the

lion’s head in her hand, did not fully overtake her till they came to

the presence of Basilius. Neither were they long there, but that

Gynecia came thither also, who had been in such a trance of musing

that Zelmane was fighting with the lion, before she knew of any lion’s

coming: but then affection resisting, and the soon ending of the fight

preventing all extremity of fear she marked Zelmane’s fighting: and

when the lion’s head was off, as Zelmane ran after Philoclea, so she

could not find in her heart but run after Zelmane: so that it was a

new sight Fortune had prepared to those woods, to see those great

personages thus run one after the other, each carried forward with an

inward violence; Philoclea with such fear that she thought she was

still in the lion’s mouth; Zelmane with an eager and impatient

delight; Gynecia with wings of love, flying she neither knew nor cared

to know whither. But now being all come before Basilius, amazed with

this sight, and fear having such possession in the fair Philoclea that

her blood durst not yet come to her face to take away the name of

paleness from her most pure whiteness, Zelmane kneeled down and

presented the lion’s head unto her: “Only lady,” said she, “here see

you the punishment of that unnatural beast, which contrary to his own

kind would have wronged prince’s blood, guided with such traitorous

{94} eyes, as durst rebel against your beauty.” “Happy am I, and my

beauty both (answered the sweet Philoclea then blushing, for fear had

bequeathed his room to his kinsman bashfulness) that you, excellent

Amazon, were there to teach him good manners.” “And even thanks to

that beauty,” answered Zelmane, “which can give an edge to the

bluntest swords.”

There Philoclea told her father how it had happened; but as she had

turned her eyes in her tale to Zelmane she perceived some blood upon

Zelmane’s shoulder, so that starting with the lovely grace and pity

she showed it to her father and mother, who, as the nurse sometimes

with over-much kissing may forget to give the babe suck, so had they

with too much delighting, in beholding and praising Zelmane, left off

to mark whether she needed succour. But then they ran both unto her,

like a father and mother to an only child, and, though Zelmane assured

them it was nothing, would needs see it, Gynecia having skill in

chirurgery, an art in those days much esteemed because it served to

virtuous courage, which even ladies would, ever with the contempt of

cowards, seem to cherish. But looking upon it (which gave more inward

bleeding wounds to Zelmane, for she might sometimes feel Philoclea’s

touch while she helped her mother) she found it was indeed of no

importance; yet applied she a precious balm unto it of power to heal a

greater grief.

But even then, and not before, they remembered Pamela, and therefore

Zelmane, thinking of her friend Dorus, was running back to be

satisfied, when they might all see Pamela coming between Dorus and

Dametas, having in her hand the paw of a bear, which the shepherd

Dorus had newly presented unto her, desiring her to accept it, as of

such a beast, which though she deserved death for her presumption, yet

was her wit to be esteemed, since she could make so sweet a choice.

Dametas for his part came piping and dancing, the merriest man in a

parish: but when he came so near as he might be heard of Basilius, he

would needs break through his ears with this joyful song of their good

success.

Now thanked be the great god Pan,

Which thus preserves my loved life:

Thanked be I that keep a man,

Who ended hath this bloody strife:

For if my Man must praises have,

What then must I, that keep the knave?

For as the Moon the eye doth please,

With gentle beams not hurting sight:

Yet hath sir Sun the greatest praise,

Because from him doth come her light:

So if my man must praises have,

What then must I, that keep the knave?

{95}

Being all now come together, and all desirous to know each other’s

adventures, Pamela’s noble heart would needs gratefully make known the

valiant means of her safety, which, directing her speech to her

mother, she did in this manner: “As soon,” said she, “as ye were all

run away, and that I hoped to be in safety, there came out of the same

woods a horrible foul bear, which (fearing belike to deal while the

lion was present as soon as he was gone) came furiously towards the

place where I was, and this young shepherd left alone by me, I truly

(not guilty of any wisdom, which since they lay to my charge, because

they say it is the best refuge against that beast, but even pure fear

bringing forth that effect of wisdom) fell down flat on my face,

needing not counterfeit being dead, for indeed I was little better.

But this young shepherd with a wonderful courage, having no other

weapon but that knife you see, standing before the place where I lay,

so behaved himself that the first sight I had, when I thought myself

already near Charon’s ferry, was the shepherd showing me his bloody

knife in token of victory.” “I pray you (said Zelmane speaking to

Dorus, whose valour she was careful to have manifested) in what sort,

so ill weaponed, could you achieve this enterprise?” “Noble lady,”

said Dorus, “the manner of those beasts fighting with any man, is to

stand up upon their hinder feet, and so this did, and being ready to

give me a shrewd embracement, I think the god Pan, ever careful of the

chief blessing of Arcadia, guided my hand so just to the heart of the

beast that neither she could once touch me nor (which is the only

matter in this worthy remembrance) breed any danger to the princess.

For my part, I am rather, with all subjected humbleness, to thank her

excellencies, since the duty thereunto gave me heart to save myself

than to receive thanks for a deed which was her only aspiring.” And

this Dorus spoke, keeping affection as much as he could back from

coming into his eyes and gestures. But Zelmane, that had the same

character in her heart, could easily decipher it, and therefore to

keep him the longer in speech, desired to understand the conclusion of

the matter, and how the honest Dametas was escaped. “Nay,” said

Pamela, “none shall take that office from myself, being so much bound

to him as I am for my education.” And with that word, scorn borrowing

the countenance of mirth, somewhat she smiled, and thus spoke on:

“When,” said she, “Dorus made me assuredly perceive that all cause of

fear was passed, the truth is, I was ashamed to find myself alone with

this shepherd, and therefore looking about me, if I could see anybody,

at length we both perceived the gentle Dametas, lying with his head

and breast as far as he could thrust himself into a bush, drawing up

his legs as close unto him as he could: for, like a man of a very kind

nature, {96} soon to take pity on himself, he was fully resolved not

to see his own death. And when this shepherd pushed him, bidding him

to be of good cheer, it was a great while ere we could persuade him

that Dorus was not the bear, so that he was fain to pull him out by

the heels, and show him the beast as dead as he could wish it: which,

you may believe me, was a very joyful sight unto him. But then he

forgot all courtesy, for he fell upon the beast, giving it many a

manful wound, swearing by much, it was not well such beasts should be

suffered in a commonwealth. And then my governor, as full of joy, as

before of fear, came dancing and singing before, as even now you saw

him.” “Well, well,” said Basilius, “I have not chosen Dametas for his

fighting, nor for his discoursing but for his plainness and honesty,

and therein I know he will not deceive me.” But then he told Pamela

(not so much because she should know it, as because he would tell it)

the wonderful act Zelmane had performed, which Gynecia likewise spoke

of, both in such extremity of praising, as was easy to be seen, the

construction of their speech might best be made by the grammar rules

of affection. Basilius told with what a gallant grace she ran with the

lion’s head in her hand, like another Pallas with the spoils of

Gorgon. Gynecia swore she saw the very face of the young Hercules

killing the Nemean lion; and all with a grateful assent confirmed the

same praises; only poor Dorus (though of equal desert, yet not

proceeding of equal estate) should have been less forgotten, had not

Zelmane again with great admiration begun to speak of him; asking

whether it were the fashion or no in Arcadia that shepherds should

perform such valorous enterprises.

This Basilius, having the quick sense of a lover, took, as though his

mistress had given him a secret reprehension, that he had not showed

more gratefulness to Dorus; and therefore as nimbly as he could,

enquired of his estate, adding promise of great rewards, among the

rest, offering to him, if he would exercise his courage in soldiery,

he would commit some charge unto him under his lieutenant Philanax.

But Dorus, whose ambition climbed by another stair, having first

answered touching his estate that he was brother to the shepherd

Menalcas, who among other was wont to resort to the prince’s presence,

and excused his going to soldiery by the unaptness he found in himself

that way, he told Basilius that his brother in his last testament had

willed him to serve Dametas, and therefore, for due obedience

thereunto, he would think his service greatly rewarded if he might

obtain by that means to live in the sight of the prince and yet

practice his own chosen vocation. Basilius, liking well his goodly

shape and handsome manner, charged Dametas to receive him like a son

into his house, saying, that his valour, and Dametas’s truth would be

{97} good bulwarks against such mischiefs, as, he sticked not to say,

were threatened to his daughter Pamela.

Dametas, no whit out of countenance with all that had been said,

because he had no worse to fall into than his own, accepted Dorus; and

withal telling Basilius that some of the shepherds were come, demanded

in what place he would see their sports, who first was curious to know

whether it were not more requisite for Zelmane’s hurt to rest than sit

up at those pastimes: and she, that felt no wound but one, earnestly

desired to have the pastorals. Basilius commanded it should be at the

gate of the lodge, where the throne of the prince being, according to

the ancient manner, he made Zelmane sit between him and his wife

therein, who thought herself between drowning and burning, and the two

young ladies of either side the throne, and so prepared their eyes and

ears to be delighted by the shepherds.

But, before all of them were assembled to begin their sports, there

came a fellow who being out of breath, or seeming so to be for haste,

with humble hastiness told Basilius, that his mistress, the lady

Cecropia, had sent him to excuse the mischance of her beast ranging in

that dangerous sort, being happened by the folly of the keeper, who

thinking himself able to rule them, had carried them abroad, and so

was deceived: whom yet, if Basilius would punish for it, she was ready

to deliver. Basilius made no other answer, but that his mistress, if

she had any more such beasts, should cause them to be killed: and then

he told his wife and Zelmane of it, because they should not fear those

woods, as though they harboured such beasts where the like had never

been seen. But Gynecia took a further conceit of it, mistrusting

greatly Cecropia, because she had heard much of the devilish

wickedness of her heart, and that particularly she did her best to

bring up her son Amphialus, being brother’s son to Basilius, to aspire

to the crown as next heir male after Basilius, and therefore saw no

reason but that she might conjecture, it proceeded rather of some

mischievous practice, than of misfortune. Yet did she only utter her

doubt to her daughters, thinking, since the worst was past, she would

attend a further occasion, lest overmuch haste might seem to proceed

of the ordinary mislike between sisters-in-law only they marvelled

that Basilius looked no further into it, who, good man, thought so

much of his late conceived commonwealth, that all other matters were

but digressions unto him. But the shepherds were ready, and with well

handling themselves, called their senses to attend their pastimes.

Basilius, because Zelmane so would have it, used the artificial day of

torches, to lighten the sports their invention could minister: and

because many of the shepherds were but newly come, he did {98} in a

gentle manner chastise their negligence, with making them, for that

night the torch bearers; and the others he willed with all freedom of

speech and behaviour to keep their accustomed method, which while they

prepared to do, Dametas, who much disdained, since his late authority,

all his old companions, brought his servant Dorus in good acquaintance

and allowance of them, and himself stood like a director over them,

with nodding, gaping, winking, or stamping, showing how he did like or

mislike those things he did not understand. The first sports the

shepherds showed were full of such leaps and gambols as being

according to the pipe which they bore in their mouths, even as they

danced, made a right picture of their chief god Pan, and his

companions the Satyrs. Then would they cast away their pipes, and

holding hand in hand dance as it were in a brawl, by the only cadence

of their voices, which they would use in singing some short couplets,

whereto the one half beginning, the other half should answer as the

one half, saying:

We love, and have our loves rewarded.

The other would answer,

We love, and are no whit regarded.

The first again,

We find most sweet affection’s snare.

With like tune it should be as in a choir sent back again,

That sweet, but sour, despairful care.

A third time likewise thus:

Who can despair, whom hope doth bear?

The answer,

And who can hope that feels despair?

Then joining all their voices, and dancing a faster measure, they

would conclude with some such words:

As without breath no pipe doth move,

No music kindly without love.

Having thus varied both their song and dances into divers sorts of

inventions, their last sport was, one of them to provoke another to a

more large expressing of his passions: which Thyrsis (accounted one of

the best singers amongst them) having marked in Dorus’s dancing, no

less good grace and handsome behaviour than extreme tokens of a

troubled mind, began first with his pipe, and then with his voice,

thus to challenge Dorus, and was by him answered in the under-written

sort.

THE FIRST ECLOGUES

{99}

THYRSIS and DORUS

THYRSIS

Come Dorus, come, let songs thy sorrows signify,

And if for want of use thy mind ashamed is,

That very shame with love’s high title dignify.

No style is held for base where love well named is:

Each ear sucks up the words a true-love scattereth,

And plain speech oft, than quaint phrase better framed is.

DORUS

Nightingales seldom sing, the pie still chattereth,

The wood cries most, before it thoroughly kindled be,

Deadly wounds inward bleed, each slight sore mattereth.

Hardly they heard, which by good hunters singled be:

Shallow brooks murmur most, deep, silent slide away,

Nor true-love, his love with others mingled be.

THYRSIS

If thou wilt not be seen, thy face go hide away,

Be none of us, or else maintain our fashion:

Who frowns at others’ feasts, doth better bide away.

But if thou hast a love, in that love’s passion,

I challenge thee by show of her perfection,

Which of us two deserveth most compassion.

DORUS

Thy challenge great, but greater my protection:

Sing then, and see (for now thou hast inflamed me)

Thy health too mean a match for my infection.

No, though the heaven’s for high attempts have blamed me,

Yet high is my attempt. O Muse historify

Her praise, whose praise to learn your skill hath framed me.

THYRSIS

Muse hold your peace, but thou my god Pan glorify

My Kala’s gifts, who with all good gifts filled is.

Thy pipe, O Pan, shall help, though I sing sorrily.

A heap of sweets she is, where nothing spilled is;

Who though she be no Bee, yet full of honey is:

A Lily-field, with plough of Rose which tilled is:

Mild as a lamb, more dainty than a coney is:

Her eyes my eye-sight is, her conversation

More glad to me than to a miser money is.

What coy account she makes of estimation?

How nice to touch? how all her speeches poised be?

A nymph thus turned, but mended in translation.

DORUS

Such Kala is: but ah my fancies raised be

In one, whose name to name were high presumption,

Since virtue’s all, to make her title pleased be.

{100}

O happy gods, which by inward assumption

Enjoy her soul, in body’s fair possession,

And keep it join’d, fearing your seat’s consumption.

How oft with rain of tears skies make confession,

Their dwellers wrapt with sight of her perfection,

From heav’nly throne to her heav’n use digression?

Of best things then what world shall yield confection

To liken her? deck yours with your comparison:

She is herself of best things the collection.

THYRSIS

How oft my doleful sire cry’d to me, “Tarry son,”

When first he spied my love! how oft he said to me,

“Thou art no soldier fit for Cupid’s garrison?

My son keep this, that my long toil hath laid to me:

Love well thine own, methinks wool’s whiteness passeth all:

I never found long love such wealth hath paid to me.”

This wind he spent: but when my Kala glasseth all

My sight in her fair limbs, I then assure myself,

Not rotten sheep, but high crowns she surpasseth all.

Can I be poor, that her gold hair procure myself?

Want I white wool, whose eyes her white skin garnished?

’Till I get her, shall I to keep inure myself?

DORUS

How oft, when reason saw, love of her harnessed

With armour of my heart, he cried, “O vanity!

To set a pearl in steel so meanly varnished?

Look to thyself, reach not beyond humanity.

Her mind, beams, state, far from the weak wings banished;

And love which lover hurts is inhumanity.”

Thus reason said: but she came, reason vanished;

Her eyes so mastering me, that such objection

Seem’d but to spoil the food of thoughts long famished.

Her peerless height my mind to high erection

Draws up; and if hope-failing end life’s pleasure,

Of fairer death how can I make election?

THYRSIS

Once my well-waiting eyes espy’d my treasure,

With sleeves turn’d up, loose hair, and breasts enlarged,

Her father’s corn, moving her fair limbs, measure.

“O,” cried I, “if so mean work be discharged:

Measure my case how by thy beauty’s filling,

With seed of woes my heart brim-full is charg’d.

Thy father bids thee save, and chides for spilling;

Save then my soul, spill not my thoughts well heap’d,

No lovely praise was ever got by killing.”

Those bold words she did bear, this fruit I reaped,

That she whose look alone might make me blessed,

Did smile on me, and then away she leaped.

DORUS

Once, O sweet once, I saw with dread oppressed

Her whom I dread, so that with prostrate lying

Her length, the earth in love’s chief clothing dressed,

{101}

I saw that riches fall, and fell a crying:

“Let not dead earth enjoy so dear a cover,

But deck therewith my soul for your sake dying:

Lay all your fear upon your fearful lover:

Shine eyes on me that both our lives be guarded;

So I your sight, you shall yourselves recover.”

I cry’d, and was with open eyes rewarded:

But straight they fled summon’d by cruel honour,

Honour, the cause desert is not regarded.

THYRSIS

This maid, thus made for joys, O Pan! bemoan her,

That without love she spends her years of love:

So fair a field would well become an owner.

And if enchantment can a hard heart move,

Teach me what circle may acquaint her sprite,

Affection’s charms in my behalf to prove.

The circle is my, round about her, sight,

The power I will invoke dwells in her eyes:

My charm should be, she haunt me day and night.

DORUS

Far other case, O Muse, my sorrow tries,

Bent to such one in whom myself must say,

Nothing can mend one point that in her lies.

What circle then in so rare force bears sway?

Whose sprite all sprites can foil, raise, damn, or save:

No charm holds her, but well possess she may,

Possess she doth, and makes my soul her slave,

My eyes the bands, my thoughts the fatal knot.

No thrall like them that inward bondage have.

THYRSIS

Kala, at length conclude my ling’ring lot:

Disdain me not, although I be not fair,

Who is an heir of many hundred sheep,

Doth beauties keep which never sun can burn,

Nor storms do turn: fairness serves oft to wealth,

Yet all my health I place in your good will:

Which if you will, O do, bestow on me

Such as you see; such still you shall me find,

Constant and kind, my sheep your food shall breed,

Their wool your weed, I will you music yield

In flow’ry field; and as the day begins

With twenty gins we will the small birds take,

And pastimes make, as nature things hath made.

But when in shade we meet of myrtle boughs,

Then love allows our pleasures to enrich,

The thought of which doth pass all worldly pelf.

DORUS

Lady yourself whom neither name I dare,

And titles are but spots to such a worth,

Here plaints come forth from dungeon of my mind,

The noblest kind rejects not others’ woes.

I have no shows of wealth: my wealth is you,

{102}

My beauties hue your beams, my health your deeds;

My mind for weeds your virtue’s livery wears.

My food is tears, my tunes lamenting yield,

Despair my field, the flowers spirit’s wars:

My day new cares, my gins my daily sight,

In which do light small birds of thoughts o’erthrown:

My pastimes none: time passeth on my fall:

Nature made all, but me of dolours made,

I find no shade, but where my sun doth burn:

No place to turn; without, within it fries:

Nor help by life or death, who living dies.

THYRSIS

But if my Kala thus my suit denies,

Which so much reason bears:

Let crows pick out mine eyes, which too much saw.

If she still hate love’s law,

My earthly mould doth melt in wat’ry tears.

DORUS

My earthly mould doth melt in wat’ry tears,

And they again resolve

To air of sighs, sighs to the heart fire turn,

Which doth to ashes burn.

Thus doth my life within itself dissolve.

THYRSIS

Thus doth my life within itself dissolve

That I grow like the beast,

Which bears the bit a weaker force doth guide,

Yet patient must abide.

Such weight it hath, which once is full possess’d.

DORUS

Such weight it hath, which once is full possess’d,

That I become a vision,

Which hath in others held his only being,

And lives in fancy’s seeing,

O wretched state of man in self-division!

THYRSIS

O wretched state of man in self-division!

O well thou say’st! a feeling declaration!

Thy tongue hath made, of Cupid’s deep incision.

But now hoarse voice, doth fail this occupation,

And others long to tell their loves’ condition:

Of singing thou hast got the reputation.

DORUS

Of singing thou hast got the reputation,

Good Thyrsis mine, I yield to thy ability;

My heart doth seek another estimation.

But ah, my Muse, I would thou had’st facility

To work my Goddess so by thy invention,

On me to cast those eyes where shine nobility:

Seen and unknown; heard, but without attention.

Dorus did so well in answering Thyrsis that everyone desired to hear

him sing something alone. Seeing therefore a lute lying under the

Princess Pamela’s feet, glad to have such an errand to {103} approach

her, he came, but came with a dismayed grace, all his blood stirred

betwixt fear and desire, and playing upon it with such sweetness, as

everybody wondered to see such skill in a shepherd, he sung unto it

with a sorrowing voice, these elegiac verses:

DORUS

Fortune, Nature, Love, long have contended about me,

Which should most miseries cast on a worm that I am,

Fortune thus gan say, “Misery and misfortune is all one,

And of misfortune, Fortune hath only the gift

With strong foes on land, on sea with contrary tempests,

Still do I cross this wretch, what so he taketh in hand.”

“Tush, tush,” said Nature, “this is all but a trifle, a man’s self

Gives haps or mishaps, even as he ordereth his heart.

But so his humour I frame, in a mould of choler adusted,

That the delights of life shall be to him dolorous.”

Love smiled, and thus said: “Want join’d to desire is unhappy:

But if he nought do desire, what can Heraclitus ail?

None but I work by desire: by desire have I kindled in his soul

Infernal agonies into a beauty divine:

Where thou poor nature left’st all thy due glory, to Fortune

Her virtue’s sovereign, Fortune a vassal of hers.”

Nature abash’d went back: Fortune blush’d: yet she replied thus:

“And even in that love shall I reserve him a spite.”

Thus, thus, alas! woeful by Nature, unhappy by Fortune,

But most wretched I am, now Love awakes my desire.

Dorus when he had sung this, having had all the while a free beholding

of the fair Pamela (who could well have spared such honour; and

defended the assault he gave unto her face with bringing a fair stain

of shamefacedness unto it) let fall his arms, and remained so fastened

in his thoughts as if Pamela had grafted him there to grow in

continual imagination. But Zelmane espying it, and fearing he should

too much forget himself, she came to him, and took out of his hand the

lute, and laying fast hold of Philoclea’s face with her eyes, she sung

these sapphics, speaking as it were to her own hope:

If mine eyes can speak to do hearty errand,

Or mine eyes’ language she do hap to judge of,

So that eyes’ message be of her received,

Hope we do live yet.

But if eyes fail then, when I most do need them,

Or if eyes’ language be not unto her known,

So that eyes’ message do return rejected,

Hope we do both die.

Yet dying, and dead, do we sing her honour;

So becomes our tombs monuments of our praise;

{104}

So becomes our loss the triumph of her gain;

Hers be the glory.

If the spheres senseless do yet hold a music,

If the swan’s sweet voice be not heard, but as death,

If the mute timber when it hath the life lost

Yieldeth a lute’s tune.

Are then human lives privileg’d so meanly,

As that hateful death can abridge them of power

With the vow of truth to record to all worlds

That we be her spoils?

Thus not ending, ends the due praise of her praise:

Fleshly veil consumes; but a soul hath his life,

Which is held in love; love it is, that hath join’d

Life to this our soul.

But if eyes can speak to hearty errand,

Or mine eyes’ language she doth hap to judge of,

So that eyes’ message be of her received

Hope we do live yet.

Great was the pleasure of Basilius, and greater would have been

Gynecia’s but that she found too well it was intended to her daughter.

As for Philoclea, she was sweetly ravished withal. When Dorus,

desiring in a secret manner to speak of their cases, as perchance the

parties intended might take some light of it, making low reverence to

Zelmane, began this provoking song in Hexameter verse unto her.

Whereunto she soon finding whether his words were directed, in like

tune and verse, answered as followeth:

DORUS ZELMANE

DORUS

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

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

Here you fully do find the strange operation of love,

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

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

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

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

ZELMANE

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

That to the sacred Muse my annoys somewhat be revealed,

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

But O happy be you, which safe from fiery reflection

Of Phoebus’ violence in shade of sweet Cyparissus,

Or pleasant myrtle, may teach the unfortunate Echo

In these woods to resound the renowned name of goddess.

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

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

{105}

Happy be those mishaps which justly proportion holding,

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

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

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

What skill salveth a sore of wrong infirmity judged?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That to thy advancement their wisdoms have thee abased.

DORUS

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

That to my advancement their wisdoms have me abased.

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

Which must frame contempt to the fittest purchase of honour.

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

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

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

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

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

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

May hope thereby to ease their inward horrible anguish,

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

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

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

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

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

Since outward pleasures be but halted helps to decayed Souls)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nature worketh enough with a small help for the revealing:

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

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

ZELMANE

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

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

First may a trusty greyhound transform himself to a tiger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

worth:

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

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

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

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

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

DORUS

O glittering miseries of man, if this be the fortune

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

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

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

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

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

Comfort into my soul, I do find what a blessing

Is chanced to my life, that from such muddy abundance

Of carking agonies, to states which still be adherent,

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

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

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

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

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

{107}

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

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

But perforce digest all bitter joys of horror

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

buds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

takes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Only jewel, O only jewel, which only deservest,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ZELMANE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And will pity the wound festered so strangely within me.

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

And for a sure sacrifice I do daily oblation offer

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

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

With mournful melodies; for enough our griefs be revealed,

If the parties meant our meanings rightly be marked,

And sorrows do require some respite unto the senses.

What exclaiming praises Basilius gave to this Eclogue any man may

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

their kindness towards her best loved friend. Much grieved was

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

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

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

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

which he did in this manner.

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A shepherd’s tale no height of style desires,

To raise in words what in effect is low:

A plaining song plain singing voice requires,

For warbling notes from cheering spirit flow.

I then whose burd’ned breast but thus aspires

Of shepherds two the silly cause to show.

Need not the stately Muse’s help invoke,

For creeping rhymes, which often sighings choke.

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

To spend for harms, although they touch you not:

And deign to deem your neighbours’ mischief near,

Although they be of meaner parents got:

You I invite with easy ear’s to hear

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

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

Who share in woe, weigh others have as much.

There was (O seldom blessed word of was!)

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

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

In shine or storm must set the clouted shoe:

He, that the other in some years did pass,

And in those gifts that years distribute do,

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

The latter born, yet too soon Strephon height.

Epirus high was honest Claius’s nest,

To Strephon Aeoles’s land first breathing lent:

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

As Strephon’s ear and heart to Claius bent,

So Claius’s soul did in his Strephon rest.

Still both their flocks flocking together went,

As if they would of owners’ humour be,

As eke their pipes did well, as friends agree.

Claius for skill of herbs and shepherd’s art,

Among the wisest was accounted wise,

Yet not so wise, as of unstained heart:

Strephon was young, yet marked with humble eyes

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

So that the grave did not his words despise.

Both free of mind, both did clear dealing love,

And both had skill in verse their voice to move.

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

The honest sports of earthly lodging prove;

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

Now bolt and cudgel squirrels’ leap do move:

Now the ambitious lark with mirror clear

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

And now at keels they try a harmless chance,

And now their cur they teach to fetch and dance.

{110}

When merry May first early calls the morn,

With merry maids a maying they do go:

Then do they pull from sharp and niggard thorn

The plenteous sweets (can sweets so sharply grow?)

Then some green gowns are by the lasses worn

In chastest plays, ’till home they walk arow,

Whilst dance about the may-pole is begun,

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

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

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

With nature pleas’d, content with present case,

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

Of climb-fall court, the envy hatching place:

While those restless desires in great men rise,

To visit so low of folks did much disdain,

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

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

While they did ward sun-beams with shady bay,

And Claius taking for his youngling cark,

(Lest greedy eyes to them might challenge lay)

Busy with ochre did their shoulders mark,

(His mark a pillar was devoid of stay,

As bragging that free of all passions’ moan,

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

Strephon with leafy twigs of laurel tree,

A garland made on temples for to wear,

For he then chosen was, the dignity

Of village lord, that Whitsuntide to bear:

And full, poor fool, of boyish bravery,

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

But fore-accounting oft makes builders miss:

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

For ere that either had his purpose done,

Behold, beholding well it doth deserve,

They saw a maid who thitherward did run,

To catch her Sparrow which from her did swerve,

As she a black-silk cap on him begun

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

She chirping ran, he peeping flew away,

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

Well for to see, they kept themselves unseen,

And saw this fairest maid of fairer mind:

By fortune mean; in nature born a queen,

How well apaid she was her bird to find:

How tenderly her tender hands between

{111}

In ivory cage she did the micher bind:

How rosy moist’ned lips about his beak

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

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

The happy wretch she put into her breast,

Which to their eyes the bowels of Venus brought,

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

And that the bias of her blood was wrought.

Betwixt them two the peeper took his nest,

Where snugging well he well appear’d content,

So to have done amiss, so to be shent.

This done, but done with captive-killing grace,

Each motion seeming shot from beauty’s bow,

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

Proud grew the grass that under her did grow,

The trees spread out their arms to shade her face,

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

No grass, no trees, nor yet her sparrow might

The long-perplexed mind breed long delight.

She troubled was (alas that it might be!)

With tedious brawlings of her parents dear,

Who would have her in will and word agree

To wed Antaxius their neighbour near.

A herdman rich, of much account was he,

In whom no evil did reign, nor good appear.

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

Fain would be free, but dreadeth parents’ ire.

Kindly (sweet soul!) she did unkindness take

That bagged baggage of a miser’s mud,

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

But gold can gild a rotten piece of wood;

To yield she found her noble heart to ache,

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

Thus doubtings clouds o’ercasting heav’nly brain,

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

Cupid the wag, that lately conquer’d had

Wise counsellors, stout captains, puissant kings,

And tied them fast to lead his triumph had,

Glutted with them, now plays with meanest things:

So oft in feasts with costly changes clad

To crammed maws a sprat new stomach brings.

So lords with sport of stag and heron full,

Sometimes we see small birds from nests do pull.

So now for prey those shepherds two he took,

Whose metal stiff he knew he could not bend

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

With one good dance, or letter finely penn’d

That were in court a well proportion’d hook,

{112}

Where piercing wits do quickly apprehend,

Their senses rude plain objects only move,

And so must see great cause before they love.

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

Making her beams his bravery and might:

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

Were now his darts leaving his wonted fight.

Brave crest to him her scorn gold hair did yield,

His complete harness was her purest white.

But fearing lest all white might seem too good,

In cheeks and lips the tyrant threatens blood.

Besides this force, within her eyes he kept

A fire, to burn the prisoners he gains,

Whose boiling heart increased as she wept:

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

Thus proud and fierce unto the hearts he stepp’d

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

Made them his own before they had it wist.

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

Claius straight felt, and groaned at the blow,

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

Strephon, fond boy, delighted did not know

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

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

If him new learned manners had not stay’d.

For then Urania homeward did arise,

Leaving in pain their well-fed hungry eyes.

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

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

Claius indeed would fain have pull’d away

This mote from out his eye, this inward bur,

And now proud rebel ’gan for to gainsay

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

Meaning with absence to refresh the thought

To which her presence such a fever brought.

Strephon did leap with joy and jollity,

Thinking it just more therein to delight,

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

So have I seen trim-books in velvet dight,

With golden leaves, and painted babery

Of silly boys, please unacquainted sight:

But when the rod began to play his part,

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

He quickly learn’d Urania was her name,

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

He knew her haunt, and haunted in the same,

And taught his sheep her sheep in food to thwart,

Which soon as it did hateful question frame,

{113}

He might on knees confess his faulty part,

And yield himself unto her punishment,

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

Nay, even unto her home he oft would go,

Where bold and hurtless many play he tries,

Her parents liking well it should be so,

For simple goodness shined in his eyes.

There did he make her laugh in spite of woe,

So as good thoughts of him in all arise,

While into none doubt of his love did sink,

For not himself to be in love did think.

But glad desire, his late embosom’d guest

Yet but a babe, with milk of sight he nurst

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

Like dropsy-folk still drink to be a thirst,

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

Who then in lion’s cave did enter first,

By neighbours pray’d she went abroad thereby,

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

Never the earth on his round shoulders bare

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

That in her doings better could compare

Mirth with respect, from words with courtesy,

A careless comliness with comely care.

Self-guard with mildness, sport with majesty:

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

And still, believe me, Strephon was at hand.

Afield they go, where many lookers be,

And thou seek-sorrow Claius them among:

Indeed thou said’st it was thy friend to see

Strephon, whose absence seem’d unto thee long,

While most with her he less did keep with thee.

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

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

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

Then couples there, be straight allotted there,

They of both ends the middle two do fly,

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

Must strive with waiting foot, and watching eye

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

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

Like some which seek to salve their blotted name

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

There may you see, soon as the middle two

Do coupled towards either couple make,

They false and fearful do their hands undo,

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Brother his brother, friend doth friend forsake,

Heeding himself, cares not how fellow do,

But of a stranger mutual help doth take:

As perjur’d cowards in adversity

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

These sports shepherds devis’d such faults to show.

Geron, though old, yet gamesome, kept one end

With Cosma, for whose love Pas passed in woe.

Fair Nous with Pas the lot to hell did send:

Pas thought it hell, while he was Cosma fro.

At other end Uran did Strephon lend

Her happy making hand, of whom one look

From Nous and Cosma all their beauty took.

The play began: Pas durst not Cosma chase,

But did intend next bout with her to meet,

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

With whom to join, fast ran Urania sweet:

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

Geron strove hard, but aged were his feet,

And therefore finding force now faint to be,

He thought gray hairs afforded subtlety.

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

The fox on knees and elbows tumbled down;

Pas could not stay, but over him did rake,

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

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

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

So laughing all, yet Pas to ease some dell

Geron with Uran were condemn’d to hell.

Cosma this while to Strephon safely came,

And all to second Barley-break are bent:

The two in hell did toward Cosma frame;

Who should to Pas, but they would her prevent.

Pas mad with fall, and madder with the shame,

Most mad with beams which we thought Cosma sent,

With such mad haste he did to Cosma go,

That to her breast he gave a noisome blow.

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

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

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

Thus Pas did kiss her hand with little grace,

And each way luckless, yet in humble guise

Did hold her fast for fear of more disgrace,

While Strephon might with pretty Nous have met,

But all this while another course be set.

For as Urania after Cosma ran;

He ravished with sight how gracefully

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

{115}

Left Nous to coast the loved beauty nigh:

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

’Till Uran seeing Pas to Cosma fly,

And Strephon single, turn’d after him:

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

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

More marking her, than how himself did go,

Like Numid lions by the hunters chas’d,

Though they do fly, yet backwardly do glow

With proud aspect, disdaining greatest haste:

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

But God gives them instinct the man to shun,

And he by law of Barley-break must run.

But as his heat with running did augment,

Much more his sight increas’d his hot desire:

So is in her the best of nature spent,

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

Her feet be pursuivants from Cupid sent,

With whose fine steps all loves and joys conspire.

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

To down proud hearts that would not willing die.

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

Still shunning Nous to lengthen pleasing race,

’Till that he spied old Geron could no more,

Than did he stack his love-instructed pace.

So that Uran, whose arm old Geron bore,

Laid hold on him with most lay-holding grace.

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

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

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

Nous sware it was no right; for his default

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

But so she must. And now the third assault

Of Barley-break among the six befell,

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

The other end Geron with guard:

I think you think Strephon bent thitherward.

Nous counsell’d Strephon Geron to pursue,

For he was old, and easy would be caught:

But he drew her as love his fancy drew,

And so to take the gem Urania sought,

While Geron old came safe to Cosma true,

Though him to meet at all she stirred nought.

For Pas, whether it were for fear or love,

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

So they three did together idly stay,

While dear Uran, whose course was Pas to meet,

(He staying thus) was fain abroad to stray

{116}

With larger round, to shun the following feet.

Strephon, whose eyes on her back parts did play,

With love drawn on so fast with pace unmeet,

Drew dainty Nous, that she not able so

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

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

Who nothing earthly, but of fire and air,

Though with soft legs did run as fast as he.

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

He hopes, with dainty turns she doth him flee.

So on the Downs we see, near Wilton fair,

A hasten’d hare from greedy greyhound go,

And past all hope his chaps to frustrate so.

But this strange race more strange conceits did yield;

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

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

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

She have I heard to pierce pursuing shield,

By parents train’d the Tartars wild are taught,

With shafts shot out from their back-turned bow.

But ah! her darts did far more deeply go.

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

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

Doth on her wings her utmost swiftness prove,

Finding the gripe of Falcon fierce not furr:

So did Uran: the nar, the swifter move,

(Yet beauty still as fast as she did stir)

’Till with long race dear she was breathless brought,

And then the Phoenix feared to be caught.

Among the rest that there did take delight

To see the sports of double shining day:

And did the tribute of their wond’ring sight

To nature’s heir, the fair Urania pay,

I told you Claius was the hapless wight,

Who earnest found what they accounted play.

He did not there do homage of his eyes,

But on his eyes his heart did sacrifice.

With gazing looks, short sighs, unsettled feet,

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

His fancies still did her in half-way meet,

His soul did fly as she was seen to run.

In sum, proud Boreas never ruled fleet

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

With greater power, than she did make them wend

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

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

And surely taught by his love-open eye,

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

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That she would fain the catch of Strephon fly,

Giving his reason passport for to pass

Whither it would, so it would let him die;

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

Now runs, and takes her in his clipping arms.

For with pretence from Strephon her to guard,

He met her full, but full of warefulness,

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

When Strephon cursing his own backwardness,

Came to her back, and so with double ward

Imprison’d her who both them did possess

As heart-bound slaves: and happy then embrace

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

Her race did not her beauty’s beams augment,

For, they were ever in the best degree,

But yet a setting forth it someway lent,

As rubies lustre when they rubbed be.

The dainty dew on face and body went

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

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

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

Happy, O happy! if they so might bide

To see their eyes, with how true humbleness,

They looked down to triumph over pride:

With how sweet sauce she blam’d their sauciness,

To feel the panting heart, which through her side,

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

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

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

But never did Medea’s golden weed

On Creon’s child his poison sooner throw,

Than those delights through all their sinews breed,

A creeping serpent like of mortal woe,

’Till she broke from their arms (although indeed

Going from them, from them she could not go)

And fare-welling the flock, did homeward wend,

And so that even the Barley-break did end.

It ended, but the other woe began,

Began at least to be conceiv’d as woe,

For then wise Claius found no absence can

Help him who can no more her sight forego.

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

And part must follow where whole man doth go.

He found that reason’s self now reasons found

To fasten knots, which fancy first had bound.

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

Not knowing who did draw with him therein;

Strephon, poor youth, because he saw no smoke,

{118}

Did not conceive what fire he had within:

But after this to greater rage it broke,

’Till of his life it did full conquest win,

First killing mirth, then banishing all rest,

Filling his eyes with tears, with sighs his breast,

Then sports grow pains, all talking tedious:

On thoughts he feeds, his looks their figure change,

The day seems long, but night is odious,

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

’Till finding still his evil increasing thus,

One day he with his flock abroad did range:

And coming where he hop’d to be alone,

Thus on a hillock set, he made his moan:

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

I am as dull as winter-starved sheep,

Tir’d as a jade in over-laden cart,

Yet thoughts do fly, though I can scarcely creep.

All visions seem, at every bush I start:

Drowsy am I, and yet can rarely sleep.

Sure I bewitched am, it is even that,

Late near a cross, I met an ugly cat.

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

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

Those eyes, which nothing like themselves can see,

Of fair Urania, fairer than a green,

Proudly bedeck’d in April’s livery,

A shot unheard gave me a wound unseen;

He was invincible that hurt me so,

And none invisible, but spirits can go.

When I see her, my sinews shake for fear,

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

Amid my flock with woe my voice I tear,

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

Her cherry lips, milk hands, and golden hair

I still do see, though I be still alone.

Now make me think that there is not a fiend,

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

The sports wherein I wonted to do well,

Come she, and sweet the air with open breast,

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

That at my so amaz’d my fellows jest:

Sometimes to her news of myself to tell

I go about, but then is all my best

Wry words, and stammering, or else doltish dumb;

Say then, can this but of enchantment come?

Nay each thing is bewitched to know my case:

The Nightingales for woe their songs refrain:

In river as I look’d my pining face,

{119}

As pin’d a face as mine I saw again,

The courteous mountains griev’d at my disgrace

Their snowy hair tear off in melting pain.

And now the dropping trees do weep for me,

And now fair evenings blush my shame to see.

But you my pipe whilom my chief delight,

’Till strange delight, delight to nothing wear,

And you my flock, care of my careful sight,

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

And thou my dog, whose truth and valiant might

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

Go you not from your master in his woe,

Let it suffice that he himself forego.

For though like wax this magic makes me waste,

Or like a lamb, whose Dam away is set,

(Stolen from her young by Thieves’ unchosing haste)

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

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

Of all the games that here ere now I met,

Do you remember still you once were mine,

’Till mine eyes had their curse from blessed eye.

Be you with me while I unheard do cry,

While I do score my losses on the wind,

While I in heart my will write ere I die.

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

Still to be hers, about her aye to fly.

As this same sprite about my fancies blind

Doth daily haunt, but so, that mine become

As much more loving, as less cumbersome.

Alas! a cloud hath overcast mine eyes:

And yet I see her shine amid the cloud.

Alas! of ghosts I hear the ghastly cries:

Yet there, meseems, I hear her singing loud.

This song she sings in most commanding wise:

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

To make itself to my least look a slave:

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

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

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

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

Our shrieking pipe, made of some witched tree:

Go bawling cur, thy hungry maw go fill

On your foul flock, belonging not to me.”

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

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

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

With heart as careful, as with careless grace,

With shrinking legs, but with a swelling breast,

{120}

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

Fearing the worst, not knowing what were best,

And giving to his sight a wand’ring race,

He saw behind a bush where Claius sat:

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

Claius the wretch, who lately yielden was

To bear the bonds which time nor wit could break,

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

While guilty thoughts accus’d his reason weak)

This morn alone to lovely walk did pass,

Within himself of her dear self to speak,

’Till Strephon’s plaining voice him nearer drew,

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

For hearing him so oft with words of woe

Urania name, whose force he knew so well,

He quickly knew what witchcraft gave the blow,

Which made his Strephon think himself in hell.

Which when he did in perfect image show

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

Breeding huge storms within his inward part,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[End of Book I]

ARCADIA