BOOK II

{121}

In these pastoral times a great number of days were sent to follow

their flying predecessors, while the cup of poison (which was deeply

tasted of the noble company) had left no sinew of theirs without

mortally searching into it; yet never manifesting his venomous work,

till once, that the night (parting away angry that she could distil no

more sleep into the eyes of lovers) had no sooner given place to the

breaking out of the morning light, and the sun bestowed his beams upon

the tops of the mountains, but that the woeful Gynecia, to whom rest

was no ease, had left her loathed lodging, and gotten herself into the

solitary places, those deserts were full of going up and down with

such unquiet motions, as a grieved and hopeless mind is wont to bring

forth. There appeared unto the eyes of her judgment the evils she was

like to run into, with ugly infamy waiting upon them: she felt the

terrors of her own conscience; she was guilty of a long exercised

virtue, which made his vice the fuller of deformity. The uttermost of

the good she could aspire unto was a mortal wound to her vexed

spirits: and lastly, no small part of her evils was that she was wise

to see her evils. Insomuch, that having a great while thrown her

countenance ghastly about her (as if she had called all the powers of

the world to be witnesses of her wretched estate) at length casting up

her watery eyes to heaven: “O sun,” said she, “whose unspotted light

directs the steps of mortal mankind, art thou not ashamed to impart

the clearness of thy presence to such a dust-creeping worm as I am? O

ye heavens, which continually keep the course allotted unto you, can

none of your influences prevail so much upon the miserable Gynecia, as

to make her preserve a course so long embraced by her? O deserts,

deserts, how fit a guest am I for you, since my heart can people you

with wild ravenous beasts, which in you are {122} wanting? O virtue,

where dost thou hide thyself? what hideous thing is this which doth

eclipse thee? Or is it true that thou wert never but a vain name, and

no essential thing, which hast thus left thy professed servant, when

she had most need of thy lovely presence? O imperfect proportion of

reason which can too much foresee and too little prevent?” “Alas!

alas!” said she, “if there were but one hope for all my pains, or but

one excuse for all my faultiness! But wretch that I am, my torment is

beyond all succour, and my evil deserving doth exceed my evil fortune.

For nothing else did my husband take this strange resolution to live

so solitary: for nothing else have the winds delivered this strange

guest to my country: for nothing else have the destinies reserved my

life to this time, but that only I, most wretched I, should become a

plague to myself and a shame to womankind. Yet if my desire, how

unjust soever it be, might take effect, though a thousand deaths

followed it, and every death were followed with a thousand shames, yet

should not my sepulchre receive me without some contentment. But alas!

though sure I am that Zelmane is such as can answer my love, yet as

sure I am that this disguising must needs come for some foretaken

conceit: and then wretched Gynecia where canst thou find any small

ground-plot for hope to dwell upon? no, no, it is Philoclea his heart

is set upon; it is my daughter I have borne to supplant me. But if it

be so, the life I have given thee, ungrateful Philoclea, I will sooner

with these hands bereave thee of than my birth shall glory she hath

bereaved me of my desires: in shame there is no comfort, but to be

beyond all bounds of shame.”

Having spoken thus, she began to make a piteous war in her fair hair;

when she might hear, not far from her, an extremely doleful voice, but

so suppressed with a kind of whispering note that she could not

conceive the words distinctly. But, as a lamentable tune is the

sweetest music to a woeful mind, she drew thither near-way in hope to

find some companion of her misery; and as she paced on, she was

stopped with a number of trees, so thickly placed together that she

was afraid she should, with rushing through, stop the speech of the

lamentable party which she was so desirous to understand: and

therefore sitting her down as softly as she could, for she was now in

distance to hear, she might first perceive a lute excellently well

played upon, and then the same doleful voice accompanying it with

these verses:

In vain mine eyes you labour to amend

With flowing tears your fault of hasty sight:

Since to my heart her shape you did so send,

That her I see, though you did lose your light.

{123}

In vain my heart, now you with sight are burn’d,

With sighs you seek to cool your hot desire:

Since sighs, into mine inward furnace turn’d,

For bellows serve to kindle more the fire.

Reason in vain, now you have lost my heart,

My head you seek, as to your strongest fort:

Since there mine eyes have play’d so false a part,

That to your strength your foes have sure resort.

Then since in vain I find were all my strife,

To this strange death I vainly yield my life.

The ending of the song served but for a beginning of new plaints, as

if the mind, oppressed with too heavy a burden of cares, was fain to

discharge itself of all sides, and, as it were, paint out the

hideousness of the pain in all sorts of colours. For the woeful

person, as if the lute had evil joined with the voice, threw it to the

ground with such like words: “Alas, poor lute! how much art thou

deceived to think that in my miseries thou could’st ease my woes, as

in my careless times thou wast wont to please my fancies? The time is

changed, my lute, the time is changed; and no more did my joyful mind

then receive everything to a joyful consideration, than my careful

mind now makes each thing taste the bitter juice of care. The evil is

inward, my lute, the evil is inward; which all thou dost, doth serve

but to make me think more freely of. And alas! what is then thy

harmony, but the sweet meats of sorrow? the discord of my thoughts, my

lute, doth ill agree to the concord of thy strings, therefore be not

ashamed to leave thy master, since he is not afraid to forsake

himself.”

And thus much spoke, instead of a conclusion, was closed up with so

hearty a groaning that Gynecia could not refrain to show herself,

thinking such griefs could serve fitly for nothing but her own

fortune. But as she came into the little arbour of this sorrowful

music, her eyes met with the eyes of Zelmane, which was the party that

thus had indited herself of misery, so that either of them remained

confused with a sudden astonishment, Zelmane fearing lest she had

heard some part of those complaints, which she had risen up that

morning early of purpose to breathe out in secret to herself. But

Gynecia a great while stood still with a kind of dull amazement,

looking steadfastly upon her; at length returning to some use of

herself, she began to ask Zelmane what cause carried her so early

abroad? But, as if the opening of her mouth to Zelmane had opened some

great flood-gate of sorrow, whereof her heart could not abide the

violent issue, she sunk to the ground, with her hands over her face,

crying vehemently, “Zelmane help me, O Zelmane have pity on me.”

Zelmane ran to her, marvelling {124} what sudden sickness had thus

possessed her, and beginning to ask her the cause of her pain, and

offering her service to be employed by her; Gynecia opening her eyes

wildly upon her, pricked with the flames of love and the torments of

her own conscience; “O Zelmane, Zelmane,” said she, “dost thou offer

my physic, which art my only poison? or wilt thou do me service, which

hast already brought me into eternal slavery?” Zelmane then knowing

well at what mark she shot, yet loth to enter into it: “Most excellent

lady,” said she, “you were best retire yourself into your lodging that

you the better may pass this sudden fit.” “Retire myself?” said

Gynecia, “If I had retired myself into myself, when thou to me,

unfortunate guest, camest to draw me from myself, blessed had I been,

and no need had I had of this counsel. But now alas! I am forced to

fly to thee for succour, whom I accuse of all my hurt, and make thee

judge of my cause, who art the only author of my mischief.” Zelmane

the more astonished, the more she understood her; “Madam,” said she,

“whereof do you accuse me that I will not clear myself? or wherein may

I stead you that you may not command me?” “Alas!” answered Gynecia,

“what shall I say more? take pity on me, O Zelmane, but not as

Zelmane, and disguise not with me in words, as I know thou dost in

apparel.” Zelmane was much troubled with that word, finding herself

brought to this strait. But as she was thinking what to answer her,

they might see old Basilius pass hard by them without ever seeing

them, complaining likewise of love very freshly, and ending his

complaint with this song, love having renewed both his invention and

voice.

Let not old age disgrace my high desire;

O heavenly soul in human shape contain’d:

Old wood inflam’d doth yield the bravest fire,

When younger doth in smoke his virtue spend,

Nay let white hairs which on my face do grow

Seem to your eyes of a disgraceful hue,

Since whiteness doth present the sweetest show,

Which makes all eyes do homage unto you.

Old age is wise, and full of constant truth;

Old age well stayed, from ranging humour lives:

Old age hath known whatever was in youth:

Old age o’ercome, the greater honour gives.

And to old age since you yourself aspire,

Let not old age disgrace my high desire.

Which being done he looked very curiously upon himself, sometimes

fetching a little skip as if he had said his strength had not yet

forsaken him: but Zelmane having in this time {125} gotten some

leisure to think for an answer, looking upon Gynecia as if she thought

she did her some wrong: “Madam,” said she, “I am not acquainted with

those words of disguising, neither is it the profession of an Amazon,

neither are you a party with whom it is to be used: if my service may

please you, employ it, so long as you do me no wrong in misjudging of

me.” “Alas! Zelmane,” said Gynecia, “I perceive you know full little

how piercing the eyes are of a true lover: there is no one beam of

those thoughts you have planted in me but is able to discern a greater

cloud than you do go in. Seek not to conceal yourself further from me,

nor force not the passion of love into violent extremities.” Now was

Zelmane brought to an exigent, when the king turning his eyes that way

through the trees, perceived his wife and mistress together, so that

framing the most lovely countenance he could, he came straightway

towards them, and at the first word, thanking his wife for having

entertained Zelmane, desired her she would now return into the lodge,

because he had certain matters of estate to impart to the Lady

Zelmane. The queen, being nothing troubled with jealousy in that

point, obeyed the king’s commandment, full of raging agonies, and

determinately bent that as she would seek all loving means to win

Zelmane, so she would stir up terrible tragedies rather than fail of

her intent. And so went she from them to the lodge-ward with such a

battle in her thoughts, and so deadly an overthrow given to her best

resolutions that even her body, where the field was fought, was

oppressed withal, making a languishing sickness wait upon the triumph

of passion, which the more it prevailed in her, the more it made her

jealousy watchful, both over her daughter and Zelmane, having ever one

of them intrusted to her own eyes.

But as soon as Basilius was rid of his wife’s presence, falling down

on his knees, “O lady,” said he, “which hast only had the power to

stir up again those flames which had so long lain dead in me, see in

me the power of your beauty, which can make old age come to ask

counsel of youth, and a prince unconquered to become a slave to a

stranger: and when you see that power of yours, love that at least in

me, since it is yours, although of me you see nothing to be loved.”

“Worthy prince” (answered Zelmane, taking him up from his kneeling)

“both your manner and your speech are so strange unto me that I know

not how to answer it better than with silence.” “If silence please

you,” said the king, “it shall never displease me, since my heart is

wholly pledged to obey you, otherwise, if you would vouchsafe mine

ears such happiness as to hear you, they shall convey your words to

such a mind as will with the humblest degree of reverence receive

them.” “I disdain not to speak to you, mighty prince,” {126} said

Zelmane, “but I disdain to speak of any matter which may bring my

honour into question”: and therewith, with a brave counterfeited scorn

she departed from the king, leaving him not so sorry for his short

answer as proud in himself that he had broken the matter. And thus did

the king, feeding his mind with those thoughts, pass great time in

writing verses, and making more of himself than he was wont to do,

that, with a little help, he would have grown into a pretty kind of

dotage.

But Zelmane being rid of this loving, but little loved company,

“Alas!” said she, “poor Pyrocles, was there ever one, but I, that had

received wrong, and could blame nobody? that having more than I

desire, am still in want of what I would? truly, love, I must needs

say thus much on my behalf; thou hast employed my love there, where

all love is deserved; and for recompense hast sent me more love than

ever I desired. But what wilt thou do Pyrocles? which way canst thou

find to rid thee of thy intricate troubles? to her whom I would be

known to, I live in darkness; and to her am revealed from whom I would

be most secret. What shift shall I find against the diligent love of

Basilius? what shield against the violent passions of Gynecia? and if

that be done, yet how am I the nearer to quench the fire that consumes

me? Well, well, sweet Philoclea, my whole confidence must be builded

in thy divine spirit which cannot be ignorant of the cruel wound I

have received by you.”

But as sick folks when they are alone think company would relieve

them, and yet having company do find it noisome, changing willingly

outward objects, when indeed the evil is inward, so poor Zelmane was

no more weary of Basilius, than she was of herself when Basilius was

gone: and ever the more, the more she turned her eyes to become her

own judges. Tired therewith, she longed to meet her friend Dorus that

upon the shoulders of friendship she might lay the burden of sorrow,

and therefore went toward the other lodge, where among certain beeches

she found Dorus, apparelled in flannel, with a goat’s-skin cast upon

him and a garland of laurel mix’d with cypress leaves on his head,

waiting on his master Dametas, who at that time was teaching him how

with his sheep-hook to catch a wanton lamb, and how with the same to

cast a little clod at any one that strayed out of company. And while

Dorus was practising, one might see Dametas holding his hand under his

girdle behind him, nodding from the waist upwards, and swearing he

never knew man go more awkwardly to work, and that they might talk of

book-learning what they would, but for his part he never saw more

unfeaty fellows than great clerks were.

But Zelmane’s coming saved Dorus from further chiding. {127} And so

she beginning to speak with him of the number of his master’s sheep,

and which province of Arcadia bare the finest wool, drew him on to

follow her in such country-discourses; till, being out of Dametas’s

hearing, with such vehemency of passion, as though her heart would

climb into her mouth to take her tongue’s office, she declared unto

him upon what briars the roses of her affections grew; how time still

seemed to forget her, bestowing no one hour of comfort upon her; she

remaining still in one plight of ill fortune, saving so much worse as

continuance of evil doth in itself increase evil. “Alas, my Dorus,”

said she, “thou seest how long and languishingly the weeks are passed

over since our last talking. And yet I am the same, miserable I, that

I was, only stronger in longing, and weaker in hoping.” Then fell she

to so pitiful a declaration of the insupportableness of her desires

that Dorus’s ears, not able to show what wounds that discourse gave

unto them, procured his eyes with tears to give testimony how much

they suffered for her suffering; till passion, a most cumbersome guest

to itself, made Zelmane, the sooner to shake it off, earnestly entreat

Dorus that he also, with like freedom of discourse, would bestow a map

of his little world upon her that she might see whether it were

troubled with such unhabitable climes of cold despairs and hot rages

as hers was.

And so walking under a few palm-trees (which being loving in her own

nature seemed to give their shadow the willinglier because they held

discourse of love) Dorus thus entered to the description of his

fortune.

“Alas,” said he, “dear cousin, that it hath pleased the high power to

throw us to such an estate as the only intercourse of our true

friendship must be a bartering of miseries: for my part, I must

confess, indeed, that from a huge darkness of sorrows I am crept, I

cannot say to a lightsomeness, but, to a certain dawning, or rather

peeping out of some possibility of comfort: but woe is me; so far from

the mark of my desires, that I rather think it such a light as comes

through a small hole to a dungeon that the miserable caitiff may the

better remember the light of which he is deprived, or, like a scholar

who is only come to that degree of knowledge to find himself utterly

ignorant: but thus stands it with me. After that by your means I was

exalted to serve in yonder blessed lodge, for a while I had, in the

furnace of my agonies, this refreshing that, because of the service I

had done in killing of the bear, it pleased the princess, in whom

indeed stateliness shines through courtesy, to let fall some gracious

look upon me: sometimes to see my exercise, sometime to hear my songs.

For my part, my heart would not suffer me to omit any occasion whereby

I might make the incomparable Pamela see how much extraordinary {128}

devotion I bare to her service: and withal strove to appear more

worthy in her sight, that small desert, joined to so great affection,

might prevail something in the wisest lady. But too well, alas! I

found that a shepherd’s service was but considered of as from a

shepherd, and the acceptation limited to no further proportion than of

a good servant. And when my countenance had once given notice that

there lay affection under it, I saw straight, majesty, sitting in the

throne of beauty, draw forth such a sword of just disdain that I

remained as a man thunderstruck, not daring, no not able to behold

that power. Now to make my estate known, seemed again impossible, by

reason of the suspiciousness of Dametas, Miso and my young mistress

Mopsa: for Dametas, according to the constitution of a dull head,

thinks no better way to show himself wise than by suspecting

everything in his way, which suspicion Miso, for the hoggish

shrewdness of her brain, and Mopsa (for a very unlikely envy she hath

stumbled upon against the princess’s unspeakable beauty) were very

glad to execute: so that I (finding my service by this means lightly

regarded, my affection despised, and myself unknown) remained no

fuller of desire than void of counsel how to come to my desire; which,

alas! if these trees could speak, they might well witness, for many

times have I stood here, bewailing myself unto them, many times have

I, leaning to yonder palm, admired the blessedness of it, that it

could bear love without sense of pain; many times, when my master’s

cattle came hither to chew their cud in this fresh place, I might see

the young bull testify his love? but how? with proud looks and

joyfulness. ‘O wretched mankind,’ said I then to myself, ‘in whom wit,

which should be the governor of his welfare, becomes the traitor to

his blessedness: these beasts, like children to nature, inherit her

blessings quietly; we like bastards are laid abroad, even as

fondlings, to be trained up by grief and sorrow. Their minds grudge

not at their bodies’ comfort, nor their senses are letted from

enjoying their objects; we have the impediments of honour, and the

torments of conscience.’ Truly in such cogitations I have sometimes so

long stood that methought my feet began to grow into the ground, with

such a darkness and heaviness of mind, that I might easily have been

persuaded to have resigned over my very essence. But love (which one

time lay burdens, another time giveth wings) when I was at the lowest

of my downward thoughts, pulled up my heart to remember, that nothing

is achieved before it be throughly attempted, and that lying still,

doth never go forward; and that therefore it was time, now or never,

to sharpen my invention, to pierce through the hardness of this

enterprise, never ceasing to assemble all my conceits, one after

another, how to manifest both my mind and {129} estate, till at last I

lighted and resolved on this way, which yet perchance you will think

was a way rather to hide it. I began to counterfeit the extremest love

towards Mopsa that might be; and as for the love, so lively it was

indeed within me, although to another subject, that little I needed to

counterfeit any notable demonstrations of it; and so making a

contrariety the place of my memory, in her foulness I beheld Pamela’s

fairness, still looking on Mopsa, but thinking on Pamela, as if I saw

my sun shine in a puddled water: I cried out of nothing but Mopsa, to

Mopsa my attendance was directed; to Mopsa the best fruits I could

gather were brought; to Mopsa it seemed still that mine eyes conveyed

my tongue: so that Mopsa was my saying; Mopsa was my singing; Mopsa

(that is only suitable in laying a foul complexion upon a filthy

favour, setting forth both in sluttishness) she was the load-star of

my life; she the blessing of mine eyes; she the overthrow of my

desires, and yet the recompense of my overthrow; she the sweetness of

my heart, even sweetening the death which her sweetness drew upon me.

In sum, whatsoever I thought of Pamela, that I said of Mopsa; whereby

as I got my master’s goodwill, who before spited me, fearing lest I

should win the princess’s favour from him, so did the same make the

princess the better content to allow me her presence: whether indeed

it were that a certain spark of noble indignation did rise in her not

to suffer such a baggage to win away anything of hers, how meanly

soever she reputed of it, or rather, as I think, my words being so

passionate, and shooting so quite contrary from the marks of Mopsa’s

worthiness, she perceived well enough whither they were directed; and

therefore being so masked, she was contented as a sport of wit to

attend them: whereupon one day determining to find some means to tell,

as of a third person, the tale of mine own love and estate, finding

Mopsa, like a cuckoo by a nightingale, alone with Pamela, I came in

unto them, and with a face, I am sure, full of cloudy fancies, took a

harp and sung this song:

Since so mine eyes are subject to your sight,

That in your sight they fixed have my brain:

Since so my heart is filled with that light,

That only light doth all my life maintain.

Since in sweet you, all goods so richly reign,

That where you are, no wished good can want

Since so your living image lives in me,

That in myself yourself true love doth plant:

How can you him unworthy then decree,

In whose chief part your worths implanted be?

{130}

“The song being ended, which I had often broken off in the midst with

grievous sighs which overtook every verse I sung, I let fall my harp

from me, and casting mine eye sometimes upon Mopsa, but settling my

sight principally upon Pamela. ‘And is it the only fortune, most

beautiful Mopsa,’ said I, ‘of wretched Dorus that fortune must be the

measure of his mind? am I only he, that because I am in misery more

misery must be laid upon me? must that which should be cause of

compassion become an argument of cruelty against me? alas! excellent

Mopsa, consider that a virtuous prince requires the life of his

meanest subject, and the heavenly sun disdains not to give light to

the smallest worm. O Mopsa, Mopsa, if my heart could be as manifest to

you, as it is uncomfortable to me, I doubt not the height of my

thoughts should well countervail the lowness of my quality. Who hath

not heard of the greatness of your estate? who seeth not that your

estate is much excelled with that sweet uniting of all beauties which

remaineth and dwelleth with you? who knows not that all these are but

ornaments of that divine spark within you which, being descended from

heaven, could not elsewhere pick out so sweet a mansion? but if you

will know what is the band that ought to knit all these excellencies

together, it is a kind mercifulness to such a one as is in his soul

devoted to those perfections.’ Mopsa, who already had had a certain

smackring towards me, stood all this while with her hands sometimes

before her face, but most commonly with a certain special grace of her

own, wagging her lips, and grinning instead of smiling: but all the

words I could get of her was, wrying her waist, and thrusting out her

chin, ‘in faith you jest with me: you are a merry man indeed.’

“But the ever pleasing Pamela (that well found the comedy would be

marred if she did not help Mopsa to her part), was content to urge a

little further of me. ‘Master Dorus,’ said the fair Pamela, ‘methinks

you blame your fortune very wrongfully, since the fault is not in

fortune but in you that cannot frame yourself to your fortune, and as

wrongfully do require Mopsa to so great a disparagement as to her

father’s servant, since she is not worthy to be loved that hath not

some feeling of her own worthiness.’ I stayed a good while after her

words, in hopes she would have continued her speech, so great a

delight I received in hearing her, but seeing her say no further, with

a quaking all over my body, I thus answered her: ‘Lady, most worthy of

all duty how falls it out that you, in whom all virtues shine, will

take the patronage of fortune, the only rebellious handmaid against

virtue; especially, since before your eyes you have a pitiful

spectacle of her wickedness, a forlorn creature, which must remain not

such as I am, but such as she makes me, since she must be {131} the

balance of worthiness or disparagement. Yet alas! if the condemned

man, even at his death, have leave to speak, let my mortal wound

purchase thus much consideration; since the perfections are such in

the party I love, as the feeling of them cannot come into any unnoble

heart, shall that heart, which doth not only feel them, but hath all

the working of his life placed in them, shall that heart, I say,

lifted up to such a height, be counted base? O let not an excellent

spirit do itself such wrong as to think where it is placed, embraced

and loved, there can be any unworthiness, since the weakest mist is

not easier driven away by the sun than that is chased away with so

high thoughts.’ ‘I will not deny,’ answered the gracious Pamela, ‘but

that the love you bear to Mopsa, hath brought you to the consideration

of her virtues, and that consideration may have made you the more

virtuous, and so the more worthy: but even that then, you must

confess, you have received of her, and so are rather gratefully to

thank her, than to press any further, till you bring something of your

own, whereby to claim it. And truly Dorus, I must in Mopsa’s behalf

say thus much to you, that if her beauties have so overtaken you, it

becomes a true lover to have your heart more set upon her good than

your own, and to bear a tenderer respect to her honour than your

satisfaction.’ ‘Now by my hallidame, madam,’ said Mopsa, throwing a

great number of sheep’s eyes upon me, ‘you have even touched mine own

mind to the quick, forsooth.’

“I finding that the policy that I had used had at leastwise produced

thus much happiness unto me, as that I might, even in my lady’s

presence, discover the sore which had deeply festered within me, and

that she could better conceive my reasons applied to Mopsa, than she

would have vouchsafed them, whilst herself was a party, thought good

to pursue on my good beginning, using this fit occasion of Pamela’s

wit, and Mopsa’s ignorance. Therefore with an humble piercing eye,

looking upon Pamela as if I had rather been condemned by her mouth

than highly exalted by the other, turning myself to Mopsa, but keeping

mine eye where it was: ‘Fair Mopsa,’ said I, ‘well do I find by the

wise knitting together of your answer that any disputation I can use

is as much too weak, as I unworthy. I find my love shall be proved no

love, without I leave to love, being too unfit a vessel in whom so

high thoughts should be engraven. Yet since the love I bear you hath

so joined itself to the best part of my life, as the one cannot depart

but that the other will follow, before I seek to obey you in making my

last passage, let me know which is my unworthiness, either of mind,

estate, or both?’ Mopsa was about to say, in neither; for her heart I

think tumbled with overmuch kindness, when {132} Pamela with a more

favourable countenance than before, finding how apt I was to fall into

despair, told me I might therein have answered myself, for besides

that it was granted me that the inward feeling of Mopsa’s perfections

had greatly beautified my mind, there was none could deny but that my

mind and body deserved great allowance. ‘But Dorus,’ said she, ‘you

must be so far master of your love, as to consider that since the

judgment of the world stands upon matter of fortune, and that the sex

of womankind of all other is most bound to have regardful eye to men’s

judgments, it is not for us to play the philosophers in seeking out

your hidden virtues, since that which in a wise prince would be

counted wisdom, in us will be taken for a light grounded affection: so

is not one thing, one done by divers persons.’

“There is no man in a burning fever feels so great contentment in cold

water greedily received (which as soon as the drink ceaseth, the rage

reneweth) as poor I found my soul refreshed with her sweetly

pronounced words; and newly and more violently again inflamed as soon

as she had enclosed up her delightful speech with no less well graced

silence. But remembering in myself that as well the soldier dieth

which standeth still as he that gives the bravest onset, and seeing

that to the making up of my fortune there wanted nothing so much as

the making known of mine estate, with a face well witnessing how

deeply my soul was possessed, and with the most submissive behaviour

that a thralled heart could express, even as my words had been too

thick for my mouth, at length spoke to this purpose: ‘Alas, most

worthy Princess,’ said I, ‘and do not then your own sweet words

sufficiently testify that there was never man could have a juster

action against filthy fortune than I, since all things being granted

me, her blindness is my only let? O heavenly God, I would either she

had such eyes as were able to discern my desires, or were blind not to

see the daily cause of my misfortune. But yet,’ said I, ‘most honoured

lady, if my miserable speeches have not already cloyed you, and that

the very presence of such a wretch become not hateful in your eyes,

let me reply thus much further against my mortal sentence, by telling

you a story which happened in this same country long since, for woes

make the shortest time seem long, whereby you shall see that my estate

is not so contemptible, but that a prince hath been content to take

the like upon him, and by that only hath aspired to enjoy a mighty

princess.’ Pamela graciously harkened, and I told my tale in this

sort.

“‘In the country of Thessalia (alas! why name I that accursed country

which brings forth nothing but matters of tragedy? but name it I must)

in Thessalia, I say, there was (well may I say {133} there was) a

prince, no, no prince, whom bondage wholly possessed, but yet

accounted a prince, and named Musidorus. O Musidorus, Musidorus! But

to what serve exclamations, where there are no ears to receive the

sound? This Musidorus being yet in the tenderest age, his worthy

father payed to nature, with a violent death, her last duties, leaving

his child to the faith of his friends, and the proof of time: death

gave him not such pangs as the foresightful care he had of his silly

successor. And yet if in his foresight he could have seen so much,

happy was that good prince in his timely departure which barred him

from the knowledge of his son’s miseries, which his knowledge could

neither have prevented nor relieved. The young Musidorus (being thus,

as for the first pledge of the destinies goodwill, deprived of his

principal stay) was yet for some years after, as if the stars would

breathe themselves for a greater mischief, lulled up in as much good

luck as the heedful love of his doleful mother, and the flourishing

estate of his country could breed unto him.

“‘But when the time now came that misery seemed to be ripe for him,

because he had age to know misery, I think there was a conspiracy in

all heavenly and earthly things to frame fit occasions to lead him

unto it. His people, to whom all foreign matters in foretime were

odious, began to wish in their beloved prince, experience by travel:

his dear mother, whose eyes were held open only with the joy of

looking upon him, did now dispense with the comfort of her widowed

life, desiring the same her subjects did, for the increase of her

son’s worthiness.

“‘And hereto did Musidorus’s own virtue, see how virtue can be a

minister to mischief, sufficiently provoke him; for indeed thus much

must I say for him, although the likeness of our mishaps makes me

presume to pattern myself unto him, that well-doing was at that time

his scope, from which no faint pleasure could withhold him. But the

present occasion which did knit all this together, was his uncle the

king of Macedon who, having lately before gotten such victories as

were beyond expectation, did at this time send both for the prince his

son (brought up together, to avoid the wars, with Musidorus); and for

Musidorus himself, that his joy might be the more full, having such

partakers of it. But alas! to what a sea of miseries my plaintful

tongue doth lead me?’ and thus out of breath, rather with that I

thought than that I said, I stayed my speech, till Pamela showing by

countenance that such was her pleasure, I thus continued it: ‘These

two young princes, to satisfy the king, took their way by sea, towards

Thrace, whether they would needs go with a navy to succour him, he

being at that time before Byzantium with a mighty army besieging it,

where at that time his court was. But when the conspired heavens had

{134} gotten this subject of their wrath upon so fit place as the sea

was, they straight began to breathe out in boisterous winds some part

of their malice against him, so that with the loss of all his navy, he

only with the prince his cousin, were cast aland far off from the

place whither their desires would have guided them. O cruel winds, in

your unconsiderate rages, why either began you this fury, or why did

you not end it in his end? but your cruelty was such, as you would

spare his life for many deathful torments. To tell you what pitiful

mishaps fell to the young prince of Macedon his cousin, I should too

much fill your ears with strange horrors; neither will I stay upon

those laboursome adventures, nor loathsome misadventures to which, and

through which his fortune and courage conducted him; my speech

hasteneth itself to come to the full point of Musidorus’s misfortunes.

For, as we find the most pestilent diseases do gather in themselves

all the infirmities with which the body before was annoyed, so did his

last misery embrace in extremity of itself all his former mischiefs.

Arcadia; Arcadia was the place prepared to be the stage of his endless

overthrow; Arcadia was, alas! well might I say it is, the charmed

circle where all his spirits for ever should be enchanted. For here,

and nowhere else, did his infected eyes make his mind know what power

heavenly beauty had to throw it down to hellish agonies. Here, here

did he see the Arcadian king’s eldest daughter, in whom he forthwith

placed so all his hopes of joy, and joyful parts of his heart that he

left in himself nothing but a maze of longing, and a dungeon of

sorrow. But alas! what can saying make them believe, whom seeing

cannot persuade? those pains must be felt before they can be

understood; no outward utterance can command a conceit. Such was as

then the state of the king, as it was no time by direct means to seek

her. And such was the state of his captivated will as he could delay

no time of seeking her.

“‘In this entangled cause, he clothed himself in a shepherd’s weed,

that under the baseness of that form, he might at last have free

access to feed his eyes with that which should at length eat up his

heart. In which doing, thus much without doubt he hath manifested that

this estate is not always to be rejected, since under that veil there

may be hidden things to be esteemed. And if he might with taking on a

shepherd’s look cast up his eyes to the fairest princess nature in

that time created, the like, nay the same desire of mine need no more

to be disdained, or held for disgraceful. But now alas! mine eyes wax

dim, my tongue begins to falter, and my heart to want force to help

either, with the feeling remembrance I have, in what heap of miseries

the caitiff prince lay at this time buried. Pardon therefore most

excellent princess, if I cut off the course of my dolorous tale,

since, if I be understood, {135} I have said enough for the defence of

my baseness, and for that which after might befall to that pattern of

ill fortune, the matters are too monstrous for my capacity, his

hateful destinies must best declare their own workmanship.’

“Thus having delivered my tale in this perplexed manner, to the end

the princess might judge that he meant himself, who spoke so

feelingly; her answer was both strange, and in some respect

comfortable. For would you think it? she hath heard heretofore of us

both by means of the valiant prince Plangus, and particularly of our

casting away, which she (following mine own style) thus delicately

brought forth: ‘You have told,’ said she, ‘Dorus, a pretty tale, but

you are much deceived in the latter end of it. For the Prince

Musidorus with his cousin Pyrocles did both perish upon the coast of

Laconia, as a noble gentleman called Plangus, who was well acquainted

with the history, did assure my father.’ O how that speech of hers did

pour joys in my heart! O blessed name, thought I, of mine, since thou

hast been in that tongue, and passed through those lips, though I can

never hope to approach them. ‘As for Pyrocles,’ said I, ‘I will not

deny it, but that he is perished:’ (which I said lest sooner suspicion

might arise of your being here than yourself would have it) and yet

affirmed no lie unto her, since I only said, I would not deny it. ‘But

for Musidorus,’ said I, ‘I perceive indeed you have either heard or

read the story of that unhappy prince; for this was the very objection

which that peerless princess did make unto him, when he sought to

appear such as he was before her wisdom: and thus I have read it fair

written in the certainty of my knowledge, he might answer her, that

indeed the ship wherein he came, by a treason was perished: and

therefore that Plangus might easily be deceived, but that he himself

was cast upon the coast of Laconia, where he was taken up by a couple

of shepherds, who lived in those days famous; for that both loving one

fair maid, they yet remained constant friends; one of whose songs not

long since was sung before you by the shepherd Lamon, and brought by

them to a nobleman’s house near Mantinea, whose son had, a little

before his marriage, been taken prisoner, and by the help of this

prince Musidorus, though naming himself by another name, was

delivered.’ Now these circumlocutions I did use, because of the one

side I knew the princess would know well the parties I meant; and of

the other, if I should have named Strephon, Claius, Kalander and

Clitophon, perhaps it would have rubb’d some conjecture into the heavy

head of mistress Mopsa.

“‘And therefore,’ said I, ‘most divine lady, he justly was thus to

argue against such suspicions, that the prince might easily by those

parties be satisfied, that upon that wreck such a one was {136} taken

up, and therefore that Plangus might well err, who knew not of any

one’s taking up: again that he that was so preserved brought good

tokens to be one of the two, chief of that wrecked company: which two,

since Plangus knew to be Musidorus and Pyrocles, he must needs be one

of them, although, as I said, upon a fore-taken vow, he was otherwise

at that time called. Besides, the princess must needs judge that no

less than a prince durst undertake such an enterprise, which, though

he might get the favour of the princess, he could never defend with

less than a prince’s power, against the force of Arcadia. Lastly, said

he, for a certain demonstration, he presumed to show unto the princess

a mark he had on his face, as I might,’ said I, ‘show this of my neck

to the rare Mopsa:’ and, withal, showed my neck to them both, where,

as you know, there is a red spot bearing figure, as they tell me, of a

lion’s paw, that she may ascertain herself, that I am Menalcas’

brother. ‘And so did he, beseeching her to send someone she might

trust into Thessalia, secretly to be advertised, whether the age, the

complexion, and particularly that notable sign, did not fully agree

with their prince Musidorus.’ ‘Do you not know further,’ said she,

with a settled countenance not accusing any kind of inward motion, ‘of

that story?’ ‘Alas, no,’ said I, ‘for even here the historiographer

stopped, saying, the rest belonged to astrology.’ And therewith,

thinking her silent imaginations began to work upon somewhat to

mollify them, as the nature of music is to do, and, withal, to show

what kind of shepherd I was, I took up my harp, and sang these few

verses:

My sheep are thoughts, which I both guide and serve,

Their pasture is fair hills of fruitless love:

On barren sweets they feed, and feeding starve:

I wail their lot, but will not other prove.

My sheep-hook is wan hope, which all upholds:

My weeds, desire, cut out in endless folds.

What wool my sheep shall bear, whiles thus they live,

In you it is, you must the judgment give.

“And then, partly to bring Mopsa again to the matter, lest she should

too much take heed to our discourses, but principally, if it were

possible to gather some comfort out of her answers, I kneeled down to

the princess, and humbly besought her to move Mopsa in my behalf, that

she would unarm her noble heart of that steely resistance against the

sweet blows of love: that since all her parts were decked with some

particular ornament; her face with beauty, her head with wisdom, her

eyes with majesty, her countenance with gracefulness, her lips with

loveliness, her tongue with victory, that she would make her heart the

throne of pity, being the most {137} excellent raiment of the most

excellent part. Pamela without show either of favour or disdain,

either of heeding or neglecting what I had said, turned her speech to

Mopsa, and with such a voice and action, as might show she spoke of a

matter which little did concern her; ‘Take heed to yourself,’ said

she, Mopsa, ‘for your shepherd can speak well: but truly, if he do

fully prove himself such as he saith, I mean, the honest shepherd

Menalcas’s brother and heir, I know no reason why you should think

scorn of him.’ Mopsa though, in my conscience, she were even then far

spent towards me, yet she answered her, that for all my quaint

speeches, she would keep her honesty close enough, and that, as for

the way of matrimony, she would step never a foot further till my

master, her father, had spoken the whole word himself, no she would

not. But ever and anon turning her muzzle towards me, she threw such

a prospect upon me as might well have given a surfeit to any weak

lover’s stomach. But, lord, what a fool am I, to mingle that drivel’s

speeches among my noble thoughts! but because she was an actor in this

tragedy, to give you a full knowledge, and to leave nothing that I can

remember, unrepeated.

“Now the princess being about to withdraw herself from us, I took a

jewel made in the figure of a crab-fish, which, because it looks one

way and goes another, I thought it did fitly pattern out my looking to

Mopsa, but bending to Pamela: the word about it was, ‘By force, not

choice;’ and still kneeling, besought the princess that she would

vouchsafe to give it Mopsa, and with the blessedness of her hand to

make acceptable unto her that toy which I had found following of late

an acquaintance of mine at the plough. ‘For,’ said I, ‘as the earth

was turned up, the ploughshare lighted upon a great stone; we pull’d

that up, and so found both that and some other pretty things which we

had divided betwixt us.’

“Mopsa was benumbed with joy when the princess gave it her: but in the

princess I could find no apprehension of what I either said or did,

but with a calm carelessness letting each thing slide (just as we do

by their speeches who neither in matter nor person do anyway belong

unto us) which kind of cold temper, mix’d with that lightening of her

natural majesty, is of all others most terrible unto me: for yet if I

found she contemned me, I would desperately labour both in fortune and

virtue to overcome it; if she only misdoubted me I were in heaven; for

quickly I would bring sufficient assurance; lastly, if she hated me,

yet I should know what passion to deal with; and either with

infiniteness of desert I would take away the fuel from that fire; or

if nothing would serve, then I would give her my heart’s blood to

quench it. But this cruel quietness, neither retiring to mislike, nor

proceeding {138} to favour; gracious, but gracious still after one

manner; all her courtesies, having this engraven in them that what is

done, is for virtue’s sake, not for the parties, ever keeping her

course like the sun, who neither for our praises nor curses will spur

or stop his horses. This, I say, heavenliness of hers, for howsoever

my misery is, I cannot but so entitle it, is so impossible to reach

unto that I almost begin to submit myself to the tyranny of despair,

not knowing any way of persuasion, where wisdom seems to be

unsensible. I have appeared to her eyes like myself, by a device I

used with my master, persuading him that we two might put on certain

rich apparel I had provided, and so practice something on horseback

before Pamela, telling him, it was apparel I had gotten for playing

well the part of a king in a tragedy at Athens: my horse indeed was it

I had left at Menalcas’s house, and Dametas got one by friendship out

of the prince’s stable. But howsoever I show, I am no base body, all I

do is but to beat a rock and get foam.”

But as Dorus was about to tell further, Dametas (who came whistling,

and counting upon his fingers how many load of hay seventeen fat oxen

eat up in a year) desired Zelmane from the king that she would come

into the lodge where they stayed for her. “Alas!” said Dorus, taking

his leave, “the sum is this, that you may well find you have beaten

your sorrow against such a wall, which, with the force of a rebound,

may well make your sorrow stronger.” But Zelmane turning her speech to

Dametas, “I shall grow,” said she, “skilful in country matters if I

have often conference with your servant.” “In sooth,” answered Dametas

with a graceless scorn, “the lad may prove well enough, if he over

soon think not too well of himself, and will bear away that he heareth

of his elders.” And therewith as they walked to the other lodge, to

make Zelmane find she might have spent her time better with him, he

began with a wild method to run over all the art of husbandry,

especially employing his tongue about well dunging of a field, while

poor Zelmane yielded her ears to those tedious strokes, not warding

them so much as with any one answer, till they came to Basilius and

Gynecia, who attended for her in a coach to carry her abroad to see

some sports prepared for her. Basilius and Gynecia, sitting in the one

end, placed her at the other, with her left side to Philoclea. Zelmane

was moved in her mind to have kissed their feet for the favour of so

blessed a seat, for the narrowness of the coach made them join from

the foot to the shoulders very close together, the truer touch whereof

though it were barred by their envious apparel, yet as a perfect

magnet, though but in an ivory box, will through the box send forth

his embracing virtue to a beloved needle, so this imparadised

neighbourhood made Zelmane’s soul cleave unto her, both through {139}

the ivory case of her body and the apparel which did overcloud it. All

the blood of Zelmane’s body stirring in her, as wine will do when

sugar is hastily put into it, seeking to suck the sweetness of the

beloved guest: her heart like a lion new imprisoned, seeing him that

restrains his liberty before the grate, not panting, but striving

violently, if it had been possible, to have leaped into the lap of

Philoclea. But Dametas, even then proceeding from being master of a

cart, to be doctor of a coach, not a little proud in himself that his

whip at that time guided the rule of Arcadia, drove the coach, the

cover whereof was made with such joints that as they might, to avoid

the weather, pull it up close when they listed, so when they would

they might put each end down and remain as discovered and open sighted

as on horseback, till upon the side of the forest they had both

greyhounds, spaniels, and hounds, whereof the first might seem the

lords, the second the gentlemen, and the last the yeoman of dogs; a

cast of merlins there was besides, which, flying of a gallant height

over certain bushes, would beat the birds that rose down into the

bushes, as falcons will do wild-fowl over a river. But the sport which

for that day Basilius would principally show to Zelmane, was the

mounty at a heron, which getting up on his waggling wings with pain,

till he was come to some height (as though the air next to the earth

were not fit for his great body to fly through) was now grown to

diminish the sight of himself, and to give example to great persons

that the higher they be the less they should show; when a gyrfalcon

was cast off after her, who straight spying where the prey was, fixing

her eye with desire, and guiding her wing by her eye, used no more

strength than industry. For as a good builder to a high tower will not

make his stair upright, but winding almost the full compass about,

that the steepness be the more unsensible, so she, seeing the towering

of her pursued chase, went circling and compassing about, rising so

with the less sense of rising, and yet finding that way scantly serve

the greediness of her haste, as an ambitious body will go far out of

the direct way to win to a point of height which he desires; so would

she, as it were, turn tail to the heron, and fly out quite another

way, but all was to return in a higher pitch, which once gotten, she

would either beat with cruel assaults the heron, who now was driven to

the best defence of force, since flight would not serve, or else

clasping with him, come down together, to be parted by the

over-partial beholders.

Divers of which flights Basilius showing to Zelmane, thus was the

riches of the time spent, and the day deceased before it was thought

of, till night like a degenerating successor made his departure the

better remembered. And therefore, so constrained, they willed Dametas

to drive homeward, who, half sleeping, half {140} musing about the

mending of a wine-press, guided the horses so ill that the wheel

coming over a great stub of a tree, it overturned the coach. Which

though it fell violently upon the side where Zelmane and Gynecia sat,

yet for Zelmane’s part, she would have been glad of the fall which

made her bear the sweet burden of Philoclea, but that she feared she

might receive some hurt. But indeed neither she did, nor any of the

rest, by reason they kept their arms and legs within the coach, saving

Gynecia, who with the only bruise of the fall, had her shoulder put

out of joint, which, though by one of the falconers cunning it was set

well again, yet with much pain was she brought to the lodge; and pain,

fetching his ordinary companion, a fever, with him, drove her to

entertain them both in her bed.

But neither was the fever of such impatient heat, as the inward

plague-sore of her affection, nor the pain half so noisome, as the

jealousy she conceived of her daughter Philoclea, lest this time of

her sickness might give apt occasion to Zelmane, whom she misdoubted.

Therefore she called Philoclea to her, and though it were late in the

night, commanded her in her ear to go to the other lodge, and send

Miso to her, with whom she would speak, and she to lie with her sister

Pamela. The meanwhile Gynecia kept Zelmane with her, because she would

be sure she should be out of the lodge before she licensed Zelmane.

Philoclea, not skill’d in any thing better than obedience, went

quietly down, and the moon then full, not thinking scorn to be a

torch-bearer to such beauty, guided her steps, whose motions bear a

mind which bare in itself far more stirring motions. And alas! sweet

Philoclea, how hath my pen till now forgot thy passions, since to thy

memory principally all this long matter is intended? pardon the

slackness to come to those woes, which, having caused in others, thou

didst feel in thyself.

The sweet minded Philoclea was in their degree of well-doing, to whom

the not knowing of evil serveth for a ground of virtue, and hold their

inward powers in better form with an unspotted simplicity, than many

who rather cunningly seek to know what goodness is than willingly take

into themselves the following of it. But as that sweet and simple

breath of heavenly goodness is the easier to be altered because it

hath not passed through the worldly wickedness, nor feelingly found

the evil that evil carries with it, so now the lady Philoclea (whose

eyes and senses had received nothing, but according as the natural

course of each thing required; whose tender youth had obediently lived

under her parents behests, without framing out of her own will the

fore-choosing of any thing) when now she came to a point wherein her

judgment was to be practised in knowing faultiness by his first {141}

tokens, she was like a young fawn who, coming in the wind of the

hunters, doth not know whether it be a thing or not to be eschewed;

whereof at this time she began to get a costly experience. For after

that Zelmane had a while lived in the lodge with her, and that her

only being a noble stranger had bred a kind of heedful attention; her

coming to that lonely place, where she had nobody but her parents, a

willingness of conversation; her wit and behaviour a liking and silent

admiration; at length the excellency of her natural gifts, joined with

the extreme shows she made of most devout honouring Philoclea

(carrying thus, in one person, the only two bands of goodwill,

loveliness and lovingness) brought forth in her heart a yielding to a

most friendly affection; which when it had gotten so full possession

of the keys of her mind that it would receive no message from her

senses without that affection were the interpreter, then straight grew

an exceeding delight still to be with her, with an unmeasurable liking

of all that Zelmane did: matters being so turned in her, that where at

first liking her manners did breed goodwill, now goodwill became the

chief cause of liking her manners: so that within a while Zelmane was

not prized for her demeanour, but the demeanour was prized because it

was Zelmane’s. Then followed that most natural effect of conforming

herself to that which she did like, and not only wishing to be herself

such another in all things but to ground an imitation upon so much an

esteemed authority, so that the next degree was to mark all Zelmane’s

doings, speeches, and fashions, and to take them into herself as a

pattern of worthy proceeding. Which when once it was enacted, not only

by the commonality of passions, but agreed unto by her most noble

thoughts, and that reason itself, not yet experienced in the issues of

such matters, had granted his royal assent, then friendship, a

diligent officer, took care to see the statute thoroughly observed.

Then grew on that not only she did imitate the soberness of her

countenance, the gracefulness of her speech, but even their particular

gestures, so that as Zelmane did often eye her, she would often eye

Zelmane; and as Zelmane’s eyes would deliver a submissive, but

vehement desire in their look, she, though as yet she had not the

desire in her, yet should her eyes answer in like piercing kindness of

a look. Zelmane, as much as Gynecia’s jealousy would suffer, desired

to be near Philoclea; Philoclea, as much as Gynecia’s jealousy would

suffer, desired to be near Zelmane. If Zelmane took her hand, and

softly strained it, she also, thinking the knots of friendship ought

to be mutual, would, with a sweet fastness, show she was loth to part

from it. And if Zelmane sighed, she should sigh also; when Zelmane was

sad, she deemed it wisdom, and therefore she would be sad too. {142}

Zelmane’s languishing countenance with crossed arms, and sometimes

cast up eyes, she thought to have an excellent grace, and therefore

she also willingly put on the same countenance, till at the last, poor

soul, ere she were aware, she accepted not only the badge, but the

service; not only the sign, but the passion signified. For whether it

were that her wit in continuance did find that Zelmane’s friendship

was full of impatient desire, having more than ordinary limits, and

therefore she was content to second Zelmane, though herself knew not

the limits, or that in truth, true love, well considered, hath an

infective power, at last she fell in acquaintance with love’s

harbinger, wishing; first she would wish that they two might live all

their lives together, like two of Diana’s nymphs. But that wish she

thought not sufficient, because she knew there would be more nymphs

besides them, who also would have their part in Zelmane. Then would

she wish that she were her sister, that such a natural band might make

her more special to her, but against that, she considered, that,

though being her sister, if she happened to be married she should be

robbed of her. Then grown bolder she would wish either herself, or

Zelmane, a man, that there might succeed a blessed marriage between

them. But when that wish had once displayed his ensign in her mind,

then followed whole squadrons of longings, that so it might be with a

main battle of mislikings and repinings against their creation, that

so it was not. Then dreams by night began to bring more unto her than

she durst wish by day, whereout waking did make her know herself the

better by the image of those fancies. But as some diseases when they

are easy to be cured, they are hard to be known, but when they grow

easy to be known, they are almost impossible to be cured, so the sweet

Philoclea, while she might prevent it, she did not feel it, now she

felt it, when it was past preventing; like a river, no rampires being

built against it, till already it have overflowed. For now indeed love

pulled off his mask, and showed his face unto her, and told her

plainly that she was his prisoner. Then needed she no more paint her

face with passions, for passions shone through her face; then her rosy

colour was often increased with extraordinary blushing, and so another

time, perfect whiteness descended to a degree of paleness; now hot,

then cold, desiring she knew not what, nor how, if she knew what. Then

her mind, though too late, by the smart was brought to think of the

disease, and her own proof taught her to know her mother’s mind,

which, as no error gives so strong assault as that which comes armed

in the authority of a parent, so greatly fortified her desires to see

that her mother had the like desires. And the more jealous her mother

was, the more she thought the jewel precious which was with so many

locks guarded. {143} But that prevailing so far, as to keep the two

lovers from private conference, then began she to feel the sweetness

of a lover’s solitariness, when freely with words and gestures, as if

Zelmane were present, she might give passage to her thoughts, and so,

as it were, utter out some smoke of those flames, wherewith else she

was not only burned but smothered. As this night, that going from the

one lodge to the other, by her mother’s commandment, with doleful

gestures and uncertain paces, she did willingly accept the time’s

offer to be a while alone: so that going a little aside into the wood,

where many times before she had delighted to walk, her eyes were

saluted with a tuft of trees, so close set together, that, with the

shade the moon gave through it, it might breed a fearful kind of

devotion to look upon it: but true thoughts of love banished all vain

fancy of superstition. Full well she did both remember and like the

place, for there had she often with their shade beguiled Phoebus of

looking upon her: there had she enjoyed herself often, while she was

mistress of herself and had no other thoughts, but such as might arise

out of quiet senses.

But the principal cause that invited her remembrance was a goodly

white marble stone that should seem had been dedicated in ancient time

to the Sylvan gods, which she finding there a few days before

Zelmane’s coming, had written these words upon it as a testimony of

her mind against the suspicion her captivity made her think she lived

in. The writing was this.

You living powers enclos’d in stately shrine

Of growing trees: you rural Gods that wield

Your scepters here, if to your ears divine

A voice may come, which troubled soul doth yield;

This vow receive, this vow, O Gods, maintain;

My virgin life no spotted thought shall stain.

Thou purest stone; whose pureness doth present

My purest mind; whose temper hard doth show

My temper’d heart; by thee my promise sent

Unto myself let after-livers know,

No fancy mine, nor others’ wrong suspect

Make me, O virtuous shame, thy laws neglect.

O chastity, the chief of heavenly lights,

Which mak’st us most immortal shape to wear,

Hold thou my heart, establish thou my sprites:

To only thee my constant course I bear;

’Till spotless soul unto thy bosom fly.

Such life to lead, such death I vow to die.

{144}

But now that her memory served as an accuser of her change, and that

her own handwriting was there to bear testimony against her fall; she

went in among those few trees, so closed in the tops together, that

they might seem a little chapel: and there might she, by the help of

the moon-light, perceive the goodly stone which served as an altar in

that woody devotion. But neither the light was enough to read the

words, and the ink was already foreworn, and in many places blotted,

which as she perceived, “Alas!” said she, “fair marble, which never

received’st spot but by my writing: well do these blots become a

blotted writer. But pardon her which did not dissemble then, although

she have changed since. Enjoy, enjoy the glory of thy nature, which

can so constantly bear the marks of my inconstancy.” And herewith,

hiding her eyes with her soft hand, there came into her head certain

verses, which if she had had present commodity, she would have

adjoined as a retraction to the other. They were to this effect.

My words, in hope to blaze a stedfast mind,

This marble chose, as of like tempter known:

But lo, my words defac’d my fancies blind,

Blots to the stone, shames to myself I find:

And witness am, how ill agree in one,

A woman’s hand with constant marble stone.

My words full weak, the marble full of might;

My words in store, the marble all alone;

My words black ink, the marble kindly white;

My words unseen, the marble still in sight,

May witness bear, how ill agree in one,

A woman’s hand with constant marble stone.

But seeing she could not see means to join as then this recantation to

the former vow, laying all her fair length under one of the trees, for

a while she did nothing but turn up and down, as if she had hoped to

turn away the fancy that had mastered her, and hid her face, as if she

could have hidden herself from her own fancies. At length with a

whispering note to herself: “O me unfortunate wretch,” said she, “what

poisonous heats be these which thus torment me? how hath the sight of

this strange guest invaded my soul? alas what entrance found this

desire, or what strength had it thus to conquer me?” Then a cloud

passing between her sight and the moon, “O Diana,” said she, “I would

either the cloud that now hides the light of my virtue would as easily

pass away as you will quickly overcome this let, or else that you were

for ever thus darkened to serve for an excuse of my outrageous folly.”

Then looking to the stars, which had perfectly as then beautified the

{145} clear sky: “My parents,” said she, “have told me that in those

fair heavenly bodies there are great hidden deities, which have their

working in the ebbing and flowing of our estates. If it be so, then, O

you stars! judge rightly of me, and if I have with wicked intent made

myself a prey to fancy, or if by any idle lusts I framed my heart fit

for such an impression, then let this plague daily increase in me,

till my name be made odious to womankind. But if extreme and

unresistable violence have oppressed me, who will ever do any of you

sacrifice, O you stars, if you do not succour me? No, no, you will not

help me. No, no, you cannot help me: sin must be the mother, and shame

the daughter of my affection. And yet are these but childish

objections, simple Philoclea, it is the impossibility that doth

torment me: for, unlawful desires are punished after the effect of

enjoying; but impossible desires are punished in the desire itself. O

then, O ten times unhappy that I am, since wherein all other hope

kindleth love, in me despair should be the bellows of my affection:

and of all despairs the most miserable, which is drawn from

impossibility. The most covetous man longs not to get riches out of a

ground which never can bear anything; why? because it is impossible.

The most ambitious wight vexeth not his wits to climb into heaven;

why? because it is impossible. Alas! then, O love, why dost thou in

thy beautiful sampler set such a work for my desire to take out, which

is as much impossible? and yet alas! why do I thus condemn my fortune

before I hear what she can say for herself? what do I, silly wench,

know what love hath prepared for me? do I not think my mother, as

well, at least as furiously as myself, love Zelmane? and should I be

wiser than my mother? either she sees a possibility in that which I

see impossible, or else impossible loves need not misbecome me. And do

I not see Zelmane, who doth not think a thought which is not first

weighed by wisdom and virtue, doth not she vouchsafe to love me with

like order? I see it, her eyes depose it to be true; what then? and if

she can love poor me, shall I think scorn to love such a woman as

Zelmane? away then all vain examinations of why and how. Thou lovest

me, most excellent Zelmane, and I love thee:” and with that, embracing

the very ground whereon she lay, she said to herself, for even to

herself she was ashamed to speak it out in words, “O my Zelmane,

govern and direct me, for I am wholly given over unto thee.”

In this depth of muses and divers sorts of discourses, would she

ravingly have remained, but that Dametas and Miso, who were round

about to seek her, understanding she was come to their lodge that

night, came hard by her; Dametas saying that he would not deal in

other body’s matters, but for his part he did not like that maids

should once stir out of their father’s houses, but if it {146} were to

milk a cow, or save a chicken from a kite’s foot, or some such other

matter of importance. And Miso swearing that if it were her daughter

Mopsa, she would give her a lesson for walking so late that should

make her keep within doors for one fortnight. But their jangling made

Philoclea rise, and pretending as though she had done it but to sport

with them, went with them, after she had willed Miso to wait upon her

mother to the lodge; where, being now accustomed by her parent’s

discipline as well as her sister to serve herself, she went alone up

to Pamela’s chamber, where, meaning to delight her eyes, and joy her

thoughts with the sweet conversation of her beloved sister, she found

her, though it were in the time that the wings of night doth blow

sleep most willingly into mortal creatures, sitting in a chair, lying

backward, with her head almost over the back of it, and looking upon a

wax-candle which burnt before her; in one hand holding a letter, in

the other her handkerchief, which had lately drunk up the tears of her

eyes, leaving instead of them crimson circles, like red flakes in the

element when the weather is hottest; which Philoclea finding, for her

eyes had learned to know the badges of sorrow, she earnestly entreated

to know the cause thereof that either she might comfort, or accompany

her doleful humour. But Pamela, rather seeming sorry that she had

perceived so much, than willing to open any further; “O my Pamela,”

said Philoclea, “who are to me a sister in nature, a mother in

counsel, a princess by the law of our country, and, which name

methinks of all other is the dearest, a friend by my choice and your

favour, what means this banishing me from your counsels? do you love

your sorrow so well as to grudge me part of it? or do you think I

shall not love a sad Pamela so well as a joyful? or be my ears

unworthy, or my tongue suspected? What is it, my sister, that you

should conceal from your sister, yea and servant Philoclea?” Those

words won no further of Pamela, but that telling her they might talk

better as they lay together, they impoverished their clothes to enrich

their bed, which for that night might well scorn the shrine of Venus:

and their cherishing one another with dear, though chaste

embracements, with sweet though cold kisses, it might seem that love

was come to play him there without dart, or that weary of his own

fires, he was there to refresh himself between their sweet breathing

lips.

But Philoclea earnestly again entreated Pamela to open her grief: who,

drawing the curtain that the candle might not complain of her

blushing, was ready to speak: but the breath, almost formed into

words, was again stopped by her and turned into sighs. But at last, “I

pray you,” said she, sweet Philoclea, “let us talk of some other

thing: and tell me whether you did ever see anything so amended as our

pastoral sports be since that Dorus came {147} hither?” O love, how

far thou seest with blind eyes? Philoclea had straight found her, and

therefore to draw out more: “Indeed,” said she, “I have often wondered

to myself how such excellencies could be in so mean a person, but

belike fortune was afraid to lay her treasures where they should be

stained with so many perfections, only I marvel how he can frame

himself to hide so rare gifts under such a block as Dametas.” “Ah,”

said Pamela, “if you knew the cause, but no more do I neither; and to

say the truth: but lord, how are we fallen to talk of this fellow? and

yet indeed if you were sometimes with me to mark him while Dametas

reads his rustic lecture unto him how to feed his beasts before noon,

where to shade them in the extreme heat, how to make the manger

handsome for his oxen, when to use the goad, and when the voice;

giving him rules of a herdman, though he pretend to make him a

shepherd, to see all the while with what a grace, which seems to set a

crown upon his base estate, he can descend to those poor matters,

certainly you would: but to what serves this? no doubt we were better

sleep than talk of those idle matters.” “Ah my Pamela,” said

Philoclea, “I have caught you; the constancy of your wit was not wont

to bring forth such disjointed speeches: you love, dissemble no

further.” “It is true,” said Pamela, “now you have it; and with less

ado should, if my heart could have thought those words suitable for my

mouth. But indeed, my Philoclea, take heed: for I think virtue itself

is no armour of proof against affection. Therefore learn by my

example.” Alas! thought Philoclea to herself, your shears come too

late to clip the bird’s wings that already is flown away. But then

Pamela, being once set in the stream of her love, went away amain,

withal telling her how his noble qualities had drawn her liking

towards him; but yet ever weighing his meanness, and so held

continually in due limits; till seeking many means to speak with her,

and ever kept from it, as well because she shunn’d it, seeing and

disdaining his mind, as because of her jealous jailors, he had at

length used the finest policy that might be in counterfeiting love to

Mopsa, and saying to Mopsa whatsoever he would have her know; and in

how passionate manner he had told his own tale in a third person,

making poor Mopsa believe, that it was a matter fallen out many ages

before. “And in the end, because you shall know my tears come not

neither of repentance nor misery, who, think you, is my Dorus fallen

out to be? even the Prince Musidorus, famous over all Asia for his

heroical enterprises, of whom you remember how much good the stranger

Plangus told my father; he not being drowned, as Plangus thought,

though his cousin Pyrocles indeed perished. Ah my sister, if you had

heard his words, or seen his gestures when he made me know what, and

{148} to whom his love was, you would have matched in yourself those

two rarely matched together, pity and delight. Tell me dear sister,

for the gods are my witnesses I desire to do virtuously, can I without

the detestable stain of ungratefulness abstain from loving him, who

(far exceeding the beautifulness of his shape with the beautifulness

of his mind, and the greatness of his estate with the greatness of his

acts) is content so to abase himself, as to become Dametas’s servant

for my sake? you will say, how know I him to be Musidorus, since the

handmaid of wisdom is slow of belief? that consideration did not want

in me; for the nature of desire itself is no easier to receive belief,

than it is hard to ground belief. For as desire is glad to embrace the

first show of comfort, so is desire desirous of perfect assurance, and

that have I had of him, not only by necessary arguments to any of

common sense, but by sufficient demonstrations. Lastly, he would have

me send to Thessalia, but truly I am not as now in mind to do my

honourable love so much wrong as so far to suspect him: yet poor soul,

knows he no other, but that I do both suspect, neglect, yea, and

detest him. For every day he finds one way or other to set forth

himself unto me, but all are rewarded with like coldness of

acceptation.

“A few days since, he and Dametas had furnished themselves very richly

to run at the ring before me. O how mad a sight it was to see Dametas,

like rich tissue furred with lamb-skins? but O how well it did with

Dorus, to see with what a grace he presented himself before me on

horseback, making majesty wait upon humbleness? how at the first,

standing still with his eyes bent upon me, as though his motions were

chained to my look, he so stayed till I caused Mopsa bid him do

something upon his horse: which no sooner said, but, with a kind

rather of quick gesture than show of violence, you might see him come

towards me, beating the ground in so due time that no dancer can

observe better measure. If you remember the ship we saw once when the

sea went high upon the coast of Argos, so went the beast. But he, as

if centaur-like he had been one piece with the horse, was no more

moved than one with the going of his own legs, and in effect so did he

command him as his own limbs; for tho’ he had both spurs and wand,

they seemed rather marks of sovereignty than instruments of

punishment, his hand and leg, with most pleasing grace, commanding

without threatening, and rather remembering than chastising; at least

if sometimes he did it was so stolen as neither our eyes could discern

it nor the horse with any change did complain of it: he ever going so

just with the horse, either forth-right or turning that it seemed he

borrowed the horse’s body, so he lent the horse his mind. In the

turning one might perceive the bridle-hand something gently stir: but

indeed {149} so gently that it did rather distil virtue than use

violence. Himself, which methinks is strange, showing at one instant

both steadiness and nimbleness; sometimes making him turn close to the

ground, like a cat, when scratchingly she wheels about after a mouse;

sometimes with a little more rising before, now like a raven leaping

from ridge to ridge, then like one of Dametas’s kids bound over the

hillocks, and all so done, as neither the lusty kind showed any

roughness, nor the easier any idleness; but still like a well-obeyed

master, whose beck is enough for a discipline, ever concluding each

thing he did with his face to me-wards, as if thence came not only the

beginning but ending of his motions. The sport was to see Dametas, how

he was tossed from the saddle to the mane of the horse, and thence to

the ground, giving his gay apparel almost as foul an outside as it had

an inside. But as before he had ever said, he wanted but horse and

apparel to be as brave a courtier as the best, so now bruised with

proof, he proclaimed it a folly for a man of wisdom to put himself

under the tuition of a beast, so as Dorus was fain alone to take the

ring. Wherein truly at least my womanish eyes could not discern, but

that taking his staff from his thigh, the descending it a little down,

the getting of it up into the rest, the letting of the point fall, and

taking the ring, was but all one motion, at least, if they were divers

motions, they did so stealingly slip one into another that the latter

part was ever in hand before the eye could discern the former was

ended. Indeed Dametas found fault that he showed no more strength in

shaking of his staff, but to my conceit the fine cleanness of bearing

it was exceeding delightful.

“But how delightful soever it was, my delight might well be in my

soul, but it never went to look out of the window to do him any

comfort. But how much more I found reason to like him, the more I set

all the strength of mine to suppress it, or at least to conceal it.

Indeed I must confess, that as some physicians have told me, that when

one is cold outwardly, he is not inwardly, so truly the cold ashes

laid upon my fire did not take the nature of fire from it. Full often

hath my breast swollen with keeping my sighs imprisoned; full often

have the tears I drove back from mine eyes, turned back to drown my

heart. But alas! what did that help poor Dorus? whose eyes, being his

diligent intelligencers, could carry unto him no other news, but

discomfortable. I think no day passed but by some one invention he

would appear unto me to testify his love. One time he danced the

matachin dance in armour, O with what a graceful dexterity! I think to

make me see that he had been brought up in such exercises: another

time he persuaded his master, to make my time seem shorter, in manner

of a dialogue, to play Priamus, while he played Paris. Think, {150}

sweet Philoclea, what a Priamus we had: but truly, my Paris was a

Paris, and more than a Paris: who, while in a savage apparel, with

naked neck, arms, and legs, he made love to Oenone, you might well see

by his changed countenance and true tears, that he felt the part he

played. Tell me, sweet Philoclea, did you ever see such a shepherd?

tell me, did you ever hear of such a prince? and then tell me if a

small or unworthy assault have conquered me. Truly I would hate my

life, if I thought vanity led me. But since my parents deal so cruelly

with me, it is time for me to trust something to my own judgment. Yet

hitherto have my looks been as I told you, which continuing after many

of those his fruitless trials, have wrought such change in him as I

tell you true,” with that word she laid her hand upon her quaking

side, “I do not a little fear him. See what a letter this is,” then

drew she the curtain, and took the letter from under her pillow,

“which to-day, with an afflicted humbleness, he delivered me,

pretending before Mopsa that I should read it unto her to mollify,

forsooth, her iron stomach.” With that she read the letter, containing

thus much:

Most blessed paper, which shalt kiss that hand, whereto all

blessedness is in nature a servant, do not yet disdain to carry with

thee the woeful words of a miser now despairing: neither be afraid to

appear before her, bearing the base title of the sender. For no sooner

shall that divine hand touch thee, but that thy baseness shall be

turned to most high preferment. Therefore mourn boldly my ink; for

while she looks upon you, your blackness will shine: cry out boldly my

lamentation; for while she reads you, your cries will be music. Say

then, O happy messenger of a most unhappy message, that the too soon

born, and too late dying creature, which dares not speak, no not look,

no not scarcely think, as from his miserable self, unto her heavenly

highness, only presumes to desire thee, in the time that her eyes and

voice do exalt thee, to say, and in this manner to say; not from him,

O no, that were not fit, but of him, thus much unto her sacred

judgment: O you, the only honour to women, to men the only admiration,

you that being armed by love, defy him that armed you, in this high

estate wherein you have placed me, yet let me remember him to whom I

am bound for bringing me to your presence; and let me remember him,

who, since he is yours, how mean soever he be, it is reason you have

an account of him. The wretch, yet your wretch, though with

languishing steps, runs fast to his grave; and will you suffer a

temple, how poorly built soever, but yet a temple of your deity, to be

razed? but he dieth: it is most true, he dieth: and he in whom you

live, to obey you, dieth. Whereof though he plain, he doth not

complain: for it is a harm, but no wrong, which he hath received. He

dies, because in woeful language all his senses tell him, that such is

your pleasure: since you will not that he live, alas, alas, what

followeth of the most ruined {151} Dorus, but his end? end then, evil

destined Dorus, end; and end thou woeful letter, end; for it sufficeth

her wisdom to know, that her heavenly will shall be accomplished.

“O my Philoclea, is he a person to write those words? and are those

words lightly to be regarded? but if you had seen when with trembling

hand he had delivered it how he went away, as if he had been but the

coffin that carried himself to his sepulchre. Two times, I must

confess, I was about to take courtesy into mine eyes, but both times

the former resolution stopped the entry of it, so that he departed

without obtaining any further kindness. But he was no sooner out of

the door; but that I looked to the door kindly, and truly the fear of

him ever since hath put me into such perplexity, as now you found me.”

“Ah my Pamela,” said Philoclea, “leave sorrow. The river of your tears

will soon lose his fountain; it is in your hand as well to stitch up

his life again, as it was before to rent it.” And so, though with

self-grieved mind, she comforted her sister, till sleep came to bathe

himself in Pamela’s fair weeping eyes.

Which when Philoclea found, wringing her hands, “O me,” said she,

“indeed the only subject of the destinies’ displeasure, whose greatest

fortunateness is more unfortunate than my sister’s greatest

unfortunateness. Alas! she weeps because she would be no sooner happy;

I weep, because I can never be happy; her tears flow from pity, mine

from being too far lower than the reach of pity: Yet do I not envy

thee, dear Pamela, I do not envy thee, only I could wish that being

thy sister in nature I were not so far off akin in fortune.”

But the darkness of sorrow overshadowing her mind, as the night did

her eyes, they were both content to hide themselves under the wings of

sleep, till the next morning had almost lost his name, before the two

sweet sleeping sisters awaked from dreams, which flattered them with

more comfort than their waking could, or would consent unto. For then

they were called up by Miso, who, having been with Gynecia, had

received commandment to be continually with her daughters, and

particularly not to let Zelmane and Philoclea have any private

conference but that she should be present to hear what passed: Miso

having now her authority increased, but came with scowling eyes to

deliver a slavering good morrow to the two ladies, telling them it was

a shame for them to mar their complexions, yea and conditions too,

with long lying abed; and that when she was of their age, she trowed,

she would have made a handkerchief by that time a-day. The two sweet

princesses with a smiling silence answered her entertainment, and,

obeying her direction, covered their dainty beauties with the glad

{152} clothes. But as soon as Pamela was ready, and sooner she was

than her sister, of the agony of Dorus’s giving a fit to herself,

which the words of his letter, lively imprinted in her mind, still

remembered her of, she called to Mopsa, and willed her to fetch Dorus

to speak with her; because, she said, she would take further judgment

of him before she would move Dametas to grant her in marriage unto

him: Mopsa, as glad as of sweetmeat to go of such an errand, quickly

returned with Dorus to Pamela, who intended both by speaking with him

to give some comfort to his passionate heart, and withal to hear some

part of his life past, which although fame had already delivered unto

her, yet she desired in more particular certainties to have it from so

beloved an historian. Yet the sweetness of virtue’s disposition,

jealous, even over itself, suffered her not to enter abruptly into

questions of Musidorus, whom she was half ashamed she did love so

well, and more than half sorry she could love no better, but thought

best first to make her talk arise of Pyrocles, and his virtuous

father: which thus she did.

“Dorus,” said she, “you told me the last day that Plangus was deceived

in that he affirmed the prince Musidorus was drowned, but, withal, you

confessed his cousin Pyrocles perished, of whom certainly in that age

there was a great loss, since, as I have heard, he was a young prince,

of whom all men expected as much as man’s power could bring forth, and

yet virtue promised for him their expectation should not be deceived.”

“Most excellent lady,” said Dorus, “no expectation in others, nor hope

in himself could aspire to a higher mark than to be thought worthy to

be praised by your judgment, and made worthy to be praised by your

mouth. But most sure it is, that as his fame could by no means get so

sweet and noble an air to fly in, as in your breath, so could not you,

leaving yourself aside, find in the world a fitter subject of

commendation; as noble as a long succession of royal ancestors, famous

and famous for victories, could make him; of shape most lovely, and

yet of mind more lovely, valiant, courteous, wise, what should I say

more? sweet Pyrocles, excellent Pyrocles, what can my words but wrong

thy perfections, which I would to God in some small measure thou

had’st bequeathed to him that ever must have thy virtues in

admiration, that, masked at least in them, I might have found some

more gracious acceptation?” With that he imprisoned his look for a

while upon Mopsa, who thereupon fell into a very wide smiling.

“Truly,” said Pamela, “Dorus I like well your mind that can raise

itself out of so base a fortune as yours is, to think of the imitating

so excellent a prince as Pyrocles was. Who shoots at the mid-day sun,

though he be sure he shall never hit the mark, yet as sure he is, he

shall shoot higher {153} than who aims but at a bush. But I pray you,

Dorus,” said she, “tell me, since I perceive you are well acquainted

with that story, what prince was that Euarchus father to Pyrocles, of

whom so much fame goes, for his rightly royal virtues, or by what ways

he got that opinion. And then so descend to the causes of his sending

first away from him, and then to him for that excellent son of his,

with the discourse of his life and loss: and therein you may, if you

list, say something of that same Musidorus his cousin, because they

going together, the story of Pyrocles, which I only desire, may be the

better understood.”

“Incomparable lady,” said he, “your commandment doth not only give me

the will, but the power to obey you; such influence hath your

excellency. And first, for that famous king Euarchus, he was, at this

time you speak of, king of Macedon, a kingdom, which in older time had

such a sovereignty over all the provinces of Greece that even the

particular kings therein did acknowledge, with more or less degrees of

homage, some kind of fealty thereunto: as among the rest, even this

now most noble, and by you ennobled, kingdom of Arcadia. But he, when

he came to his crown finding by his latter ancestors either

negligence, or misfortune that in some ages many of those duties had

been intermitted would never stir up old titles, how apparent soever,

whereby the public peace, with the loss of many not guilty souls,

should be broken; but contenting himself to guide that ship, wherein

the heavens had placed him, showed no less magnanimity in dangerless

despising than others in dangerous affecting the multiplying of

kingdoms: for the earth hath since borne enough bleeding witnesses

that it was no want of true courage. Who as he was most wise to see

what was best, and most just in the performing what he saw, and

temperate in abstaining from anything anyway contrary, so think I, no

thought can imagine a greater heart to see and contemn danger, where

danger would offer to make any wrongful threatening upon him. A

prince, that indeed especially measured his greatness by his goodness:

and if for anything he loved greatness it was because therein he might

exercise his goodness. A prince of a goodly aspect, and the more

goodly by a grave majesty, wherewith his mind did deck his outward

graces; strong of body, and so much the stronger, that he by a

well-disciplined exercise taught it both to do, and suffer. Of age so

as he was above fifty years, when his nephew Musidorus took on such

shepherdish apparel for the love of the world’s paragon, as I now

wear.

“This king left orphan both of father and mother, whose father and

grandfather likewise had died young, he found his estate, when he came

to the age which allowed his authority, so disjointed even in the

noblest and strongest limbs of government that the {154} name of a

king was grown even odious to the people, his authority having been

abused by those great lords and little kings, who in those

between-times of reigning, by unjust favouring those that were

partially theirs, and oppressing them that would defend their liberty

against them, had brought in, by a more felt than seen manner of

proceeding, the worst kind of Oligarchy; that is, when men are

governed indeed by a few, and yet are not taught to know what those

few be to whom they should obey.

“For they having the power of kings, but not the nature of kings, used

the authority as men do their farms, of which they see within a year

they shall go out; making the king’s sword strike whom they hated, the

king’s purse reward whom they loved; and, which is worst of all,

making the royal countenance serve to undermine the royal sovereignty.

For the subjects could taste no sweeter fruits of having a king than

grievous taxation to serve vain purposes; laws made rather to find

faults than to prevent faults: the court of a prince rather deemed as

a privileged place of the unbridled licentiousness than as the abiding

of him, who as a father should give a fatherly example unto his

people. Hence grew a very dissolution of all estates, while the great

men, by the nature of ambition never satisfied, grew factious among

themselves: and the underlings glad indeed to be underlings to them

they hated least, to preserve them from such they hated most. Men of

virtue suppressed, lest the shining should discover the others’

filthiness; and at length virtue itself almost forgotten, when it had

no hopeful end whereunto to be directed; old men long nusled in

corruption, scorning them that would seek reformation, young men were

fault-finding, but very faulty, and so given to new-fangleness both of

manners, apparel, and each thing else, by the custom of self-guilty

evil, glad to change, though oft for worse; merchandise abused, and so

towns decayed for want of just and natural liberty; offices even of

judging souls, sold; public defences neglected; and in sum, left too

long I trouble you, all awry, and, which wried it to the most wry

course of all, wit abused, rather to feign reason why it should be

amiss, than how it should be amended.

“In this, and a much worse plight than it is fit to trouble your

excellent ears withal, did the king Euarchus find his estate when he

took upon him the regiment, which, by reason of the long stream of

abuse, he was forced to establish by some even extreme severity, not

so much for the very faults themselves, which he rather sought to

prevent than to punish, as for the faulty ones, who, strong even in

their faults, scorned his youth, and could not learn to digest that

the man which they so long had used to mask their own appetites,

should now be the reducer of them into order. But so soon as some few,

but indeed notable examples, had thundered a duty into {155} the

subjects’ hearts, he soon showed, no baseness of suspicion, nor the

basest baseness of envy, could any whit rule such a ruler. But then

shined forth indeed all love among them, when an awful fear engendered

by justice, did make that love most lovely: his first and principal

care being to appear unto his people such as he would have them be,

and to be such as he appeared; making his life the example of his

laws, and his laws as it were his axioms arising out of his deeds. So

that within small time he won a singular love in his people, and

ingraffed singular confidence. For how could they choose but love him,

whom they found so truly to love them? he even in reason disdaining,

that they that have charge of beasts, should love their charge and

care for them; and that he that was to govern the most excellent

creature, should not love so noble a charge. And, therefore, where

most princes, seduced by flattery to build upon false grounds of

government, make themselves, as it were, another thing from the

people, and so count it gain what they get from them and, as it were

two counter-balances, that their estate goes highest when the people

goes lowest, by a fallacy of argument thinking themselves most kings

when the subject is most basely subjected, he contrariwise, virtuously

and wisely acknowledging that he with his people made all but one

politic body, whereof himself was the head, even so cared for them as

he would for his own limbs, never restraining their liberty, without

it stretched to licentiousness, nor pulling from them their goods,

which they found were not employed to the purchase of a greater good;

but in all his actions showing a delight in their welfare, brought

that to pass, that, while by force he took nothing, by their love he

had all. In sum, peerless princess, I might as easily set down the

whole art of government as to lay before your eyes the picture of his

proceedings. But in such sort he flourished in the sweet comfort of

doing much good, when, by an occasion of leaving his country, he was

forced to bring forth his virtue of magnanimity, as before he had done

of justice.

“He had only one sister, a lady, least I should too easily all to

partial praises of her, of whom it may be justly said, that she was no

unfit branch to the noble stock whereof she was come. Her he had given

in marriage to Dorilaus prince of Thessalia, not so much to make a

friendship, as to confirm the friendship between their posterity,

which between them, by the likeness of virtue, had been long before

made: for certainly, Dorilaus could need no amplifier’s mouth for the

highest point of praise.” “Who hath not heard,” said Pamela, “of the

valiant, wise, and just Dorilaus, whose unripe death doth yet, so many

years since, draw tears from virtuous eyes; and indeed, my father is

wont to speak of nothing with greater admiration, than of the notable

friendship, a rare thing {156} in princes, more rare between princes,

that so holily was observed to the last of those two excellent men.

But,” said she, “go on I pray you.”

“Dorilaus,” said he, “having married his sister, had his marriage in

short time blest, for so are folk wont to say, how unhappy soever the

children after grow, with a son, whom they named Musidorus, of whom I

must needs first speak before I come to Pyrocles, because as he was

born first, so upon his occasion grew, as I may say accidentally, the

other’s birth. For scarcely was Musidorus made partaker of this

oft-blinding light, when there were found numbers of soothsayers who

affirmed strange and incredible things should be performed by that

child; whether the heavens at that time listed to play with ignorant

mankind, or that flattery be so presumptuous as even at times to

borrow the face of divinity. But certainly, so did the boldness of

their affirmation accompany the greatness of what they did affirm,

even descending to particularities, what kingdoms he should overcome,

that the king of Phrygia, who over-superstitiously thought himself

touched in the matter, sought by force to destroy the infant, to

prevent his after expectations: because a skilful man, having compared

his nativity with the child, so told him. Foolish man, either vainly

fearing what was not to be feared, or not considering that if it were

a work of the superior powers, the heavens at length are never

children. But so he did, and by the aid of the kings of Lydia and

Crete, joining together their armies, invaded Thessalia, and brought

Dorilaus to some behind-hand of fortune, when his faithful friend and

brother Euarchus came so mightily to his succour, that with some

interchanging changes of fortune, they begat of a just war, the best

child, Peace. In which time Euarchus made a cross marriage also with

Dorilaus’s sister, and shortly left her with child of the famous

Pyrocles, driven to return to the defence of his own country, which in

his absence, helped with some of the ill-contented nobility, the

mighty king of Thrace, and his brother king of Pannonia, had invaded.

The success of those wars was too notable to be unknown to your ears,

to which it seems all worthy fame hath glory to come unto. But there

was Dorilaus, valiantly requiring his friend’s help, in a great battle

deprived of life, his obsequies being no more solemnized by the tears

of his partakers than the blood of his enemies; with so piercing a

sorrow to the constant heart of Euarchus that the news of his son’s

birth could lighten his countenance with no show of comfort, although

all the comfort that might be in a child, truth itself in him

forthwith delivered. For what fortune only soothsayers foretold of

Musidorus, that all men might see prognosticated in Pyrocles, both

heavens and earth giving tokens of the coming forth of an heroical

virtue. The {157} senate house of the planets was at no time so set

for the decreeing of perfection in a man, as at that time all folks

skilful therein did acknowledge: only love was threatened, and

promised to him, and so to his cousin, as both the tempest and haven

of his best years. But as death may have prevented Pyrocles, so

unworthiness must be the death of Musidorus.

“But the mother of Pyrocles, shortly after her childbirth dying, was

cause that Euarchus recommended the care of his only son to his

sister, doing it the rather because the war continued in cruel heat,

betwixt him and those ill neighbours of his. In which meantime those

young princes, the only comforters of that virtuous widow, grew on so

that Pyrocles taught admiration to the hardest conceits: Musidorus,

perchance because among his subjects, exceedingly beloved; and by the

good order of Euarchus, well performed by his sister, they were so

brought up that all the sparks of virtue which nature had kindled in

them were so blown to give forth their uttermost heat, that, justly it

may be affirmed, they inflamed the affections of all that knew them.

For almost before they could perfectly speak, they began to receive

conceits not unworthy of the best speakers; excellent devices being

used, to make even their sports profitable; images of battles and

fortifications being then delivered to their memory, which after,

their stronger judgments might dispense, the delight of tales being

converted to the knowledge of all the stories of worthy princes, both

to move them to do nobly, and teach them how to do nobly; the beauty

of virtue still being set before their eyes, and that taught them with

far more diligent care than grammatical rules, their bodies exercised

in all abilities, both of doing and suffering, and their minds

acquainted by degrees with dangers; and in sum, all bent to the making

up of princely minds: no servile fear used towards them, nor any other

violent restraint, but still as to princes: so that a habit of

commanding was naturalized in them, and therefore the further from

tyranny: nature having done so much for them in nothing, as that it

made them lords of truth, whereon all the other goods were builded.

“Among which nothing I so much delight to recount, as the memorable

friendship that grew betwixt the two princes, such as made them more

like than the likeness of all other virtues, and made them more near

one to the other than the nearness of their blood could aspire unto;

which I think grew the faster, and the faster was tied between them by

reason that Musidorus being older by three or four years, it was

neither so great a difference in age as did take away the delight in

society, and yet by the difference there was taken away the occasion

of childish contentions, till they had both passed over the humour of

such contentions. For {158} Pyrocles bare reverence full of love to

Musidorus, and Musidorus had a delight full of love in Pyrocles.

Musidorus, what he had learned either for body or mind, would teach it

to Pyrocles; and Pyrocles was so glad to learn of none as of

Musidorus: till Pyrocles, being come to sixteen years of age, he

seemed so to over-run his age in growth, strength, and all things

following it, that not Musidorus, no nor any man living, I think,

could perform any action, either on horse, or foot, more strongly, or

deliver that strength more nimbly, or become the delivery more

gracefully, or employ all more virtuously. Which may well seem

wonderful: but wonders are no wonders in a wonderful subject.

“At which time, understanding that the king Euarchus, after so many

years of war, and the conquest of all Pannonia, and almost Thrace, had

now brought the conclusion of all to the siege of Byzantium, to the

raising of which siege, great forces were made, they would needs fall

to the practice of those virtues which they before learned. And

therefore the mother of Musidorus nobly yielding over her own affects

to her children’s good, for a mother she was in affect to them both,

the rather that they might help her beloved brother, they break off

all delays, which Musidorus for his part thought already had devoured

too much of his good time, but that he had once granted a boon, before

he knew what it was, to his dear friend Pyrocles, that he would never

seek the adventures of arms until he might go with him, which having

fast bound his heart, a true slave to faith, he had bid a tedious

delay of following his own humour for his friend’s sake, till now

being both sent for by Euarchus, and finding Pyrocles able every way

to go through with that kind of life, he was as desirous for his sake

as for his own, to enter into it. So therefore preparing a navy, that

they might go like themselves, and not only bring the comfort of their

presence, but of their power, to their dear parent Euarchus, they

recommended themselves to the sea, leaving the shore of Thessalia full

of tears and vows, and were received thereon with so smooth and

smiling a face, as if Neptune had as then learned falsely to fawn on

princes. The wind was like a servant, waiting behind them so just,

that they might fill the sails as they listed; and the best sailors

showing themselves less covetous of his liberality, so tempered it

that they all kept together like a beautiful flock, which so well

could obey their master’s pipe: without sometimes, to delight the

princes’ eyes, some two or three of them would strive, who could,

either by the cunning of well spending the wind’s breath, or by the

advantageous building of their moving houses, leave their fellows

behind them in the honour of speed: while the two princes had leisure

to see the practice of that, which before they had learned by books:

to consider the art of catching the {159} wind prisoner, to no other

end, but to run away with it; to see how beauty and use can so well

agree together, that of all the trinkets, wherewith they are attired,

there is not one but serves to some necessary purpose. And, O lord! to

see the admirable power and noble effects of love, whereby the seeming

insensible loadstone, with a secret beauty, holding the spirit of iron

in it, can draw that hard-hearted thing unto it, and like a virtuous

mistress, not only make it bow itself, but with it make it aspire to

so high a love as of the heavenly poles, and thereby to bring forth

the noblest deeds that the children of the earth can boast of. And so

the princes delighting their conceits with confirming their knowledge,

seeing wherein the sea-discipline differed from land-service, they had

for a day, and almost a whole night, as pleasing entertainment as the

falsest heart could give to him he means worst to.

“But by that the next morning began a little to make a gilded show of

a good meaning, there arose even with the sun, a veil of dark clouds

before his face, which, shortly, like ink poured into water, had

blacked over all the face of heaven, preparing as it were a mournful

stage for a tragedy to be played on. For forthwith the winds began to

speak louder, and, as in a tumultuous kingdom, to think themselves

fittest instruments of commandment; and blowing whole storms of hail

and rain upon them, they were sooner in danger, than they could almost

bethink themselves of change. For then the traitorous sea began to

swell in pride against the afflicted navy, under which, while the

heaven favoured them, it had lain so calmly, making mountains of

itself, over which the tossed and tottering ship should climb, to be

straight carried down again to a pit of hellish darkness; with such

cruel blows against the sides of the ship that, which way soever it

went, was still in his malice, that there was left neither power to

stay nor way to escape. And shortly had it so dissevered the loving

company, which the day before had tarried together, that most of them

never met again, but were swallowed up in his never satisfied mouth.

Some indeed, as since was known, after long wandering, returned into

Thessalia, others recovered Byzantium, and served Euarchus in his war.

But in the ship wherein the princes were, now left as much alone as

proud lords be when fortune fails them, though they employed all

industry to save themselves, yet what they did was rather for duty to

nature than hope to escape so ugly a darkness as if it would prevent

the night’s coming, usurped the day’s right: which accompanied

sometimes with thunders, always with horrible noises of the chafing

winds, made the masters and pilots so astonished that they knew not

how to direct, and if they knew, they could scarcely, when they

directed, hear their own whistle. For the sea strove with the winds

which should be louder, {160} and the shrouds of the ship, with a

ghastful noise to them that were in it, witnessed that their ruin was

the wager of the others’ contention, and the heaven roaring out

thunders the more amazed them, as having those powers for enemies.

Certainly there is no danger carries with it more horror than that

which grows in those floating kingdoms. For that dwelling place is

unnatural to mankind, and then the terribleness of the continual

motion, the desolation of the far-being from comfort, the eye and the

ear having ugly images ever before it, doth still vex the mind, even

when it is best armed against it. But thus the day passed, if that

might be called day, while the cunningest mariners were so conquered

by the storm that they thought it best with stricken sails to yield to

be governed by it: the valiantest feeling inward dismayedness, and yet

the fearfullest ashamed fully to show it, seeing that the princes, who

were to part from the greatest fortunes, did in their countenances

accuse no point of fear, but encouraging them to do what might be

done, putting their hands to every most painful office, taught them at

one instant to promise themselves the best, and yet to despise the

worst. But so were they carried by the tyranny of the wind, and the

treason of the sea all that night, which the older it was, the more

wayward it showed itself towards them: till the next morning, known to

be a morning better by the hour-glass than by the day’s clearness,

having run fortune so blindly, as itself ever was painted, lest the

conclusion should not answer to the rest of the play, they were driven

upon a rock, which, hidden with those outrageous waves, did, as it

were, closely dissemble his cruel mind, till with an unbelieved

violence, but to them that have tried it, the ship ran upon it, and

seeming willinger to perish than to have her course stayed, redoubled

her blows, till she had broken herself in pieces, and as it were,

tearing out her own bowels to feed the sea’s greediness, lest nothing

within it but despair of safety and expectation of a loathsome end.

There was to be seen the divers manner of minds in distress: some sat

upon the top of the poop weeping and wailing, till the sea swallowed

them; some one more able to abide death than fear of death, cut his

own throat to prevent drowning; some prayed: and there wanted not of

them which cursed, as if the heavens could not be more angry than they

were. But a monstrous cry begotten of many roaring voices, was able to

infect with fear a mind that had not prevented it with the power of

reason.

“But the princes, using the passions of fearing evil, and desiring to

escape only to serve the rule of virtue, not to abandon one’s self,

leaped to a rib of the ship, which broken from his fellows, floated

with more likelihood to do service than any other limb of that ruinous

body; upon which they had gotten already two brethren {161} well known

servants of theirs; and straight they four were carried out of sight,

in that huge rising of the sea, from the rest of the ship. But the

piece they were on sinking by little and little under them, not able

to support the weight of so many, the brethren, the elder whereof was

Leucippus, the younger Nelsus, showed themselves right faithful and

grateful servants unto them: grateful, I say, for this cause: those

two gentlemen had been taken prisoners in the great war the king of

Phrygia made upon Thessalia, in the time of Musidorus’s infancy, and

having been sold into another country, though peace fell after between

those realms, could not be delivered because of their valour known,

but for a far greater sum than either all their friends were able, or

the dowager willing to make, in respect of the great expenses herself

and people had been put to in those wars, and so had they remained in

prison about thirteen years, when the two young princes, hearing

speeches of their good deserts, found means both by selling all the

jewels they had of a great price, and by giving under their hands

great estates when they should come to be kings, which promises their

virtue promised for them should be kept, to get so much treasure as

redeemed them from captivity. This remembered, and kindly remembered

by those two brothers, perchance helped by a natural duty to their

princes’ blood, they willingly left hold of the board, committing

themselves to the sea’s rage, and even when they meant to die,

themselves praying for the princes’ lives. It is true, that neither

the pain nor danger, so moved the princes’ hearts as the tenderness of

that loving part, far from glory, having so few lookers on; far from

hope of reward, since themselves were sure to perish.

“But now of all the royal navy they lately had, they had left but one

little piece of one ship, whereon they kept themselves, in all truth

having interchanged their cares, while either cared for other, each

comforting and counselling how to labour for the better, and to abide

the worse. But so fell it out, that as they were carried by the tide

which there, seconded by the storm, ran exceeding swiftly, Musidorus

seeing, as he thought, Pyrocles not well upon the board, as he would

with his right hand have helped him on better, he had no sooner

unfastened his hold but that a wave forcibly spoiled his weaker hand

of hold, and so for a time parted those friends, each crying to the

other; but the noise of the sea drowned their farewell. But Pyrocles,

then careless of death, if it had come by any means but his own, was

shortly brought out of the sea’s fury to the land’s comfort, when in

my conscience I know that comfort was but bitter unto him: and bitter

indeed it fell out even in itself to be unto him.

“For being cast on land much bruised and beaten both with the {162}

sea’s hard farewell, and the shore’s rude welcome; and even almost

deadly tired with the length of his uncomfortable labour, as he was

walking up to discover somebody, to whom he might go for relief, there

came straight running unto him certain, who, as it was after known, by

appointment watched, with many others, in divers places along the

coast, who laid hands on him, and without either questioning with him,

or showing will to hear him, like men fearful to appear curious, or

which was worse, having no regard to the hard plight he was in, being

so wet and weak, they carried him some miles thence to a house of a

principal officer of that country. Who with no more civility (though

with much more business than those under fellows had showed) began in

captious manner to put interrogatories unto him. To which, he unused

to such entertainment, did shortly and plainly answer, what he was and

how he came thither. But that no sooner known, with numbers of armed

men to guard him (for mischief, not from mischief) he was sent to the

king’s court, which as then was not above a day’s journey off, with

letters from that officer, containing his own serviceable diligence in

discovering so great a personage, adding withal more than was true of

his conjectures, because he would endear his own service.

“This country whereon he fell was Phrygia, and it was to the king

thereof to whom he was sent, a prince of a melancholy constitution

both of body and mind; wickedly sad, ever musing of horrible matters,

suspecting, or rather condemning all men of evil, because his mind had

no eye to spy goodness: and therefore accusing Sycophants, of all men,

did best sort to his nature; but therefore not seeming Sycophants,

because of no evil they said, they could bring any new or doubtful

thing unto him, but such as already he had been apt to determine, so

as they came but as proofs of his wisdom: fearful, and never secure,

while the fear he had figured in his own mind had any possibility of

event. A toad-like retiredness, and closeness of mind; nature teaching

the odiousness of poison, and the danger of odiousness. Yet while

youth lasted in him, the exercises of that age, and his humour, not

yet fully discovered, made him something the more frequentable, and

less dangerous. But after that years began to come on with some,

though more seldom, shows of a bloody nature, and that the prophecy of

Musidorus’s destiny came to his ears (delivered unto him, and received

of him with the hardest interpretation, as though his subjects did

delight in the hearing thereof). Then gave he himself indeed to the

full current of his disposition, especially after the war of

Thessalia, wherein, though in truth wrongly, he deemed his unsuccess

proceeded of their unwillingness to have him prosper: and then

thinking himself contemned {163} (knowing no countermine against

contempt, but terror) began to let nothing pass which might bear the

colour of a fault without sharp punishment: and when he wanted faults,

excellency grew a fault! and it was sufficient to make one guilty,

that he had power to be guilty. And as there is no humour, to which

impudent poverty cannot make itself serviceable, so were there enough

of those of desperate ambition, who would build their houses upon

others’ ruins, which after should fall by like practices. So as a

servitude came mainly upon that poor people, whose deeds were not only

punished, but words corrected, and even thoughts by some mean or other

pulled out of them; while suspicion bred the mind of cruelty, and the

effects of cruelty stirred up a new cause of suspicion. And in this

plight, full of watchful fearfulness, did the storm deliver sweet

Pyrocles to the stormy mind of that tyrant; all men that did such

wrong to so rare a stranger, whose countenance deserved both pity and

admiration, condemning themselves as much in their hearts, as they did

brag in their faces.

“But when this bloody king knew what he was, and in what order he and

his cousin Musidorus (so much of him feared) were come out of

Thessalia, assuredly thinking, because ever thinking the worst, that

those forces were provided against him; glad of the perishing, as he

thought, of Musidorus, determined in public sort to put Pyrocles to

death. For having quite lost the way of nobleness, he strove to climb

to the height of terribleness; and thinking to make all men adread, to

make such one an enemy who would not spare, not fear to kill so great

a prince; and lastly, having nothing in him why to make him his

friend, he thought he would take him away from being his enemy. The

day was appointed, and all things prepared for that cruel blow, in so

solemn an order, as if they would set forth tyranny in most gorgeous

decking. The princely youth, of invincible valour, yet so unjustly

subjected to such outrageous wrong, carrying himself in all his

demeanour, so constantly abiding extremity, that one might see it was

the cutting away of the greatest hope of the world, and destroying

virtue in his sweetest growth.

“But so it fell out, that his death was prevented by a rare example of

friendship in Musidorus, who, being almost drowned, had been taken up

by a fisherman belonging to the kingdom of Bithynia: and being there,

and understanding the full discourse (as fame was very prodigal of so

notable an accident) in what case Pyrocles was: learning withal that

his hate was far more to him than to Pyrocles, he found means to

acquaint himself with a nobleman of that country, to whom largely

discovering what he was, he found him a most fit instrument to

effectuate his desire. For this nobleman had been one, who in many

wars had served Euarchus, {164} and had been so mind-stricken by the

beauty of virtue in that noble king that, though not born his subject,

he ever professed himself his servant. His desire therefore to him was

to keep Musidorus in a strong castle of his, and then to make the king

of Phrygia understand, that if he would deliver Pyrocles, Musidorus

would willingly put himself into his hands, knowing well, that how

thirsty soever he was of Pyrocles’s blood, he would rather drink that

of Musidorus.

“The nobleman was loth to preserve one by the loss of another, but

time urging resolution, the importunity of Musidorus, which showed a

mind not to over-live Pyrocles, with the affection he bare to

Euarchus, so prevailed, that he carried this strange offer of

Musidorus, which by the tyrant was greedily accepted.

“And so upon security of both sides, they were interchanged: where I

may not omit the work of friendship in Pyrocles, who both in speech

and countenance to Musidorus, well showed that he thought himself

injured and not relieved by him; asking him what he had ever seen in

him, why he could not bear the extremities of mortal accidents as well

as any man? and why he should envy him the glory of suffering death

for his friend’s cause, and, as it were, rob him of his own

possession? but in that notable contention (where the conquest must be

the conqueror’s destruction, and safety the punishment of the

conquered) Musidorus prevailed because he was a more welcome prey to

the unjust king; and a cheerfully going towards, as Pyrocles went

frowardly fromward his death, he was delivered to the king, who could

not be enough sure of him, without he fed his own eyes upon one whom

he had begun to fear, as soon as the other began to be.

“Yet because he would in one act both make ostentation of his own

felicity, into whose hands his most feared enemy was fallen, and

withal cut off such hopes from his suspected subjects, when they

should know certainly he was dead, with much more skilful cruelty, and

horrible solemnity he caused each thing to be prepared for his triumph

of tyranny. And so the day being come, he was led forth by many armed

men who often had been the fortifiers of wickedness, to the place of

execution, where coming with a mind comforted in that he had done such

service to Pyrocles, this strange encounter he had.

“The excelling Pyrocles was no sooner delivered by the king’s servants

to a place of liberty than he bent his wit and courage, and what would

they not bring to pass? how either to deliver Musidorus, or to perish

with him. And finding he could get in that country no forces

sufficient by force to rescue him to bring himself to die with him,

little hoping of better event, he put himself in poor raiment, and by

the help of some few crowns he took of {165} that nobleman, who full

of sorrow, though not knowing the secret of his intent, suffered him

to go in such order from him, he, even he, born to the greatest

expectation, and of the greatest blood that any prince might be,

submitted himself to be servant to the executioner that should put to

death Musidorus: a far notabler proof of his friendship, considering

the height of his mind, than any death could be. That bad officer not

suspecting him, being arrayed fit for such an estate, and having his

beauty hidden by many foul spots he artificially put upon his face,

gave him leave not only to wear a sword himself, but to bear his sword

prepared for the justified murder. And so Pyrocles taking his time,

when Musidorus was upon the scaffold, separated somewhat from the

rest, as allowed to say something, he stepped unto him, and putting

the sword into his hand, not bound, a point of civility the officers

used towards him because they doubted no such enterprise, ‘Musidorus,’

said he, ‘die nobly.’ In truth never man between joy before knowledge

what to be glad of, and fear after considering his case, had such a

confusion of thoughts, as I had, when I saw Pyrocles so near me.” But

with that Dorus blushed, and Pamela smiled, and Dorus the more blushed

at her smiling, and she the more smiled at his blushing, because he

had, with the remembrance of that plight he was in, forgotten in

speaking of himself to use the third person.

But Musidorus turned again her thoughts from his cheeks to his tongue

in this sort: “But,” said he, “when they were with swords in hands,

not turning backs one to the other, for there they knew was no place

of defence, but making it a preservation in not hoping to be

preserved, and now acknowledging themselves subject to death, meaning

only to do honour to their princely birth, they flew amongst them all,

for all were enemies, and had quickly either with flight or death,

left none upon the scaffold to annoy them, wherein Pyrocles, the

excellent Pyrocles, did such wonders beyond belief, as was able to

lead Musidorus to courage, though he had been born a coward. But

indeed just rage and desperate virtue did such effects, that the

popular sort of the beholders began to be almost superstitiously

amazed, as at effects beyond mortal power. But the king with angry

threatenings from out a window, where he was not ashamed the world

should behold him a beholder, commanded his guard and the rest of his

soldiers to hasten their death. But many of them lost their bodies to

lose their souls, when the princes grew almost so weary, as they were

ready to be conquered with conquering.