“But as they were still fighting with weak arms and strong hearts, it

happened that one of the soldiers, commanded to go up after his

fellows against the princes, having received a light hurt, {166} more

wounded in his heart, went back with as much diligence as he came up

with modesty: which another of his fellows seeing, to pick a thank of

the king, struck him upon the face, reviling him that so accompanied,

he would run away from so few. But he, as many times it falls out,

only valiant, when he was angry, in revenge thrust him through: which

with his death was straight revenged by a brother of his, and that

again requited by a fellow of the others. There began to be a great

tumult amongst the soldiers: which seen, and not understood by the

people, used to fears, but not used to be bold in them, some began to

cry treason; and that voice straight multiplying itself, the king, O

the cowardice of a guilty conscience, before any man set upon him,

fled away. Where with a bruit, either by art or some well-meaning men,

or by some chance, as such things often fall out by, ran from one to

the other that the king was slain: wherewith certain young men of the

bravest minds, cried with a loud voice, ‘Liberty,’ and encouraging the

other citizens to follow them, set upon the guard and soldiers as

chief instruments of tyranny: and quickly aided by the princes, they

had left none of them alive, nor any other in the city, who they

thought had in any sort set his hand to the work of their servitude,

and, god knows, by the blindness of rage, killing many guiltless

persons, either for affinity to the tyrant, or enmity to the

tyrant-killers. But some of the wiser, seeing that a popular license

is indeed the many-headed tyranny, prevailed with the rest to make

Musidorus their chief: choosing one of them, because princes, to

defend them; and him, because elder and most hated of the tyrant, and

by him to be ruled: whom forthwith they lifted up, Fortune, I think

smiling at her work therein, that a scaffold of execution should grow

to a scaffold of coronation.

“But by and by there came news of more certain truth, that the king

was not dead, but fled to a strong castle of his near hand, where he

was gathering forces in all speed possible to suppress this mutiny.

But now they had run themselves too far out of breath, to go back

again to the same career; and too well they knew the sharpness of his

memory to forget such an injury; therefore learning virtue of

necessity, they continued resolute to obey Musidorus, who seeing what

forces were in the city, with them issued against the tyrant, while

they were in this heat, before practices might be used to deliver

them, and with them met the king, who likewise hoping little to

prevail by time, knowing and finding his people’s hate, met him with

little delay in the field where himself was slain by Musidorus, after

he had seen his only son, a prince of great courage and beauty, but

fostered up in blood by his naughty father, slain by the hand of

Pyrocles. This victory obtained with great and truly not undeserved

honour to the two {167} princes, the whole estates of the country with

one consent, gave the crown and all other marks of sovereignty to

Musidorus, desiring nothing more than to live under such a government

as they promised themselves of him.

“But he, thinking it a greater greatness to give a kingdom, than get a

kingdom, understanding that there was left of the blood royal, and

next to the succession, an aged gentleman of approved goodness, who

had gotten nothing by his cousin’s power but danger from him, and

odiousness for him, having passed his time in modest secrecy, and as

much from intermeddling in matters of government, as the greatness of

his blood would suffer him, did, after having received the full power

to his own hand, resign all to the nobleman; but with such conditions,

and cautions of the conditions, as might assure the people, with as

much assurance as worldly matters bear, that not only that governor,

of whom indeed they looked for of good, but the nature of the

government, should be no way apt to decline to tyranny.

“This doing set forth no less the magnificence than the other act did

his magnanimity; so that greatly praised of all, and justly beloved of

the new king, who in all both words and behaviour protested himself

their tenant and liegeman, they were drawn thence to revenge those two

servants of theirs, of whose memorable faith, I told you, most

excellent princess, in willingly giving themselves to be drowned for

their sakes: but drowned indeed they were not, but got with painful

swimming upon a rock, from whence, after being come as near famishing

as before drowning, the weather breaking up, they were brought to the

mainland of Bithynia, the same country upon which Musidorus also was

fallen, but not in so lucky a place.

“For they were brought to the king of the country, a tyrant also not

through suspicion, greediness or revengefulness, as he of Phrygia,

but, as I may term it, of a wanton cruelty: inconstant in his choice

of friends, or rather never having a friend but a play-fellow; of whom

when he was weary, he could not otherwise rid himself than by killing

them; giving sometimes prodigally, not because he loved them to whom

he gave, but because he lusted to give; punishing, not so much for

hate or anger, as because he felt not the smart of punishment;

delighted to be flattered, at first for those virtues which were not

in him, at length making his vices virtues worthy the flattering; with

like judgment glorying, when he had happened to do a thing well, as

when he had performed some notable mischief.

“He chanced at that time, for indeed long time none lasted with him,

to have next in use about him a man of the most envious disposition

that, I think, ever infected the air with his breath; {168} whose eyes

could not look right upon any happy man, nor ears bear the burden of

anybody’s praise; contrary to the natures of all other plagues,

plagued with others’ well being; making happiness the ground of his

unhappiness, and good news the argument of his sorrow: in sum, a man

whose favour no man could win, but by being miserable. And so because

those two faithful servants of theirs came in miserable sort to that

court, he was apt enough at first to favour them; and the king

understanding of their adventure, wherein they had showed so constant

a faith unto their lords, suddenly falls to take a pride in making

much of them, extolling them with infinite praises, and praising

himself in his heart, in that he praised them. And by and by where

they made great courtiers, and in the way of minions, when

advancement, the most mortal offence to envy, stirred up their former

friend to overthrow his own work in them; taking occasion upon the

knowledge, newly come to the court, of the late death of the king of

Phrygia destroyed by their two lords, who having been a near kinsman

to this prince of Pontus, by this envious counsellor, partly with

suspicion of practice, partly with glory of, in part, revenging his

cousin’s death, the king was suddenly turned, and every turn with him

was a down-fall, to lock them up in prison, as servants to his

enemies, whom before he had never known, nor, till that time one of

his own subjects had entertained and dealt for them, did ever take

heed of. But now earnest in every present humour, and making himself

brave in his liking, he was content to give them just cause of

offence, when they had power to make just revenge. Yet did the princes

send unto him before they entered into war, desiring their servants’

liberty. But he, swelling in their humbleness like a bubble blown up

with a small breath broken with a great, forgetting, or never knowing

humanity, caused their heads to be stricken off, by the advice of his

envious counsellor, who now hated them so much the more, as he foresaw

their happiness in having such, and so fortunate masters, and sent

them with unroyal reproaches to Musidorus and Pyrocles, as if they had

done traitorously, and not heroically in killing his tyrannical

cousin.

“But that injury went beyond all degree of reconcilement, so that they

making forces in Phrygia, a kingdom wholly at their commandment, by

the love of the people, and gratefulness of the king, they entered his

country; and wholly conquering it, with such deeds as at least fame

said were excellent, took the king, and by Musidorus’s commandment,

Pyrocles’s heart more inclining to pity, he was slain upon the tomb of

their two true servants; which they caused to be made for them with

royal expenses, and notable workmanship to preserve their dead lives.

For his wicked servant he should have felt the like, or worse, but

that his heart broke {169} even to death with the beholding the honour

done to their dead carcasses. There might Pyrocles quietly have

enjoyed that crown, by all the desire of that people, most of whom had

revolted unto him, but he finding a sister of the late king’s, a fair

and well esteemed lady, looking for nothing more, than to be oppressed

with her brother’s ruins, gave her in marriage to the nobleman his

father’s old friend, and endowed with them the crown of that kingdom.

And not content with those public actions of princely, and as it were,

governing virtue, they did, in that kingdom and some other near about,

divers acts of particular trials, more famous because more perilous.

For in that time those regions were full both of cruel monsters, and

monstrous men, all which in short time by private combats they

delivered the countries of.

“Among the rest, two brothers of huge both greatness and force,

therefore commonly called giants, who kept themselves in a castle

seated upon the top of a rock, impregnable, because there was no

coming unto it but by one narrow path where one man’s force was able

to keep down an army. Those brothers had a while served the king of

Pontus, and in all his affairs, especially of war, whereunto they were

only apt, they had showed, as unconquered courage, so a rude

faithfulness: being men indeed by nature apter to the faults of rage

than of deceit; not greatly ambitious, more than to be well and

uprightly dealt with; rather impatient of injury, than delighted with

more than ordinary courtesies; and in injuries more sensible of smart

or loss than of reproach or disgrace. Those men being of this nature,

and certainly jewels to a wise man, considering what indeed wonders

they were able to perform, yet were discarded by that worthy prince,

after many notable deserts, as not worthy the holding, which was the

more evident to them because it suddenly fell from an excess of

favour, which, many examples having taught them, never stopped his

race till it came to an headlong overthrow: they full of rage, retired

themselves unto this castle: where thinking nothing juster than

revenge, nor more notable than the effects of anger, that, according

to the nature, full of inward bravery and fierceness, scarcely in the

glass of reason, thinking itself fair but when it is terrible, they

immediately gave themselves to make all the country about them subject

to that king, to smart for their lord’s folly, not caring how innocent

they were, but rather thinking the more innocent they were, the more

it testified their spite, which they desired to manifest. And with use

of evil, growing more and more evil, they took delight in slaughter,

and pleased themselves in making others’ wrack the effect of their

power: so that where in the time that they obeyed a master, their

anger was a serviceable power of the mind to do public good, so now

unbridled, and blind judge of itself, it made wickedness {170}

violent, and praised itself in excellency of mischief, almost to the

ruin of the country, not greatly regarded by their careless and

loveless king. Till now those princes finding them so fleshed in

cruelty as not to be reclaimed, secretly undertook the matter alone:

for accompanied they would not have suffered them to have mounted; and

so those great fellows scornfully receiving them, as foolish birds

fallen into their net, it pleased the eternal justice to make them

suffer death by their hands: and so they were manifoldly acknowledged

the savers of that country.

“It were the part of a very idle orator to set forth the numbers of

well-devised honours done unto them, but as high honour is not only

gotten and born by pain and danger, but must be nursed by the like, or

else vanisheth as soon as it appears to the world, so the natural

hunger thereof, which was in Pyrocles suffered him not to account a

resting seat of that, which either riseth or falleth, but still to

make one occasion beget another, whereby his doings might send his

praise to others’ mouths to rebound again true contentment to his

spirit. And therefore having well established those kingdoms under

good governors, and rid them by their valour of such giants and

monsters, as before-time armies were not able to subdue, they

determined in unknown order to see more of the world, and to employ

those gifts, esteemed rare in them, to the good of mankind; and

therefore would themselves, understanding that the king Euarchus was

passed all the cumber of his war, go privately to seek exercises of

their virtue, thinking it not so worthy to be brought to heroical

effects by fortune or necessity, like Ulysses and Aeneas, as by one’s

own choice and working. And so went they away from very unwilling

people to leave them, making time haste itself to be a circumstance of

their honour, and one place witness to another of the truth of their

doings. For scarcely were they out of the confines of Pontus, but that

as they rode alone armed, for alone they went, one serving the other,

they met an adventure, which though not so notable for any great

effect they performed, yet worthy to be remembered for the unused

examples therein, as well of true natural goodness as of wretched

ungratefulness.

“It was in the kingdom of Galatia, the season being, as in the depth

of winter, very cold and as then suddenly grown to so extreme and foul

a storm, that never any winter, I think, brought forth a fouler child:

so that the princes were even compelled by the hail, that the pride of

the wind blew into their faces, to seek some shrouding place, which a

certain hollow rock offering unto them, they made it their shield

against the tempest’s fury. And so staying there, till the violence

thereof was passed, they heard the speech of a couple, who not

perceiving them, being hid within {171} that rude canopy, held a

strange and pitiful disputation, which made them step out, yet in such

sort as they might see unseen. There they perceived an aged man, and a

young, scarcely come to the age of a man, both poorly arrayed,

extremely weather-beaten; the old man blind, and the young man leading

him; and yet through all those miseries, in both there seemed to

appear a kind of nobleness, not suitable to that affliction. But the

first words they heard, were those of the old man. ‘Well Leonatus,’

said he, ‘since I cannot persuade thee to lead me to that which should

end my grief and my trouble, let me now entreat thee to leave me: fear

not, my misery cannot be greater than it is, and nothing doth become

me but misery: fear not the danger of my blind steps, I cannot fall

worse than I am: and do not I pray thee, do not obstinately continue

to infect thee with my wretchedness: but fly, fly from this region

only worthy of me.’ ‘Dear father,’ answered he, ‘do not take away from

me the only remnant of my happiness: while I have power to do you

service, I am not wholly miserable.’ ‘Ah my son,’ said he, and with

that he groaned, as if sorrow strove to break his heart, ‘how evil

fits it me to have such a son? and how much doth thy kindness upbraid

my wickedness?’ Those doleful speeches, and some others to like

purpose, well showing they had not been born to the fortune they were

in, moved the princes to go out unto them, and ask the younger what

they were? ‘Sirs,’ answered he with a good grace, and made the more

agreeable by a certain noble kind of piteousness, ‘I see well you are

strangers that know not our misery, so well here known that no man

dare know but that we must be miserable. Indeed our state is such, as

though nothing is so needful unto us as pity, yet nothing is more

dangerous unto us than to make ourselves so known as may stir pity:

but your presence promiseth that cruelly shall not over-run hate, and

if it did, in truth our state is sunk below the degree of fear.

“‘This old man, whom I lead, was lately rightful prince of this

country of Paphlagonia, by the hard-hearted ungratefulness of a son of

his, deprived not only of his kingdom, whereof no foreign forces were

ever able to spoil him, but of his sight, the riches which nature

grants to the poorest creatures: whereby and by other his unnatural

dealings, he hath been driven to such griefs, as even now he would

have had me to have led him to the top of this rock, thence to cast

himself headlong to death, and so would have had me, who received my

life of him, to be the worker of his destruction. But noble

gentlemen,’ said he, ‘if either of you have a father, and feel what

dutiful affection is ingrafted in a son’s heart, let me entreat you to

convey this afflicted prince to some place of rest and security:

amongst your worthy acts it shall be {172} none of the least, that a

king of such might and fame, and so unjustly oppressed, is in any sort

by you relieved.’

“But before they could make him answer, his father began to speak. ‘Ah

my son,’ said he, ‘how evil an historian are you that leave out the

chief knot of all the discourse? my wickedness, my wickedness! and if

thou dost it to spare my ears, the only sense now left me proper for

knowledge, assure thyself thou dost mistake me: and I take witness of

that sun which you see,’ with that he cast up his blind eyes as if he

would hunt for light, ‘and wish myself in worse case than I do wish

myself, which is as evil as may be, if I speak untruly, that nothing

is so welcome to my thoughts as the publishing of my shame. Therefore

know, you gentlemen (to whom from my heart I wish that it may not

prove some ominous foretoken of misfortune to have met with such a

miser as I am) that whatsoever my son, O God, that truth binds me to

reproach him with the name of my son, hath said is true. But besides

those truths, this also is true, that having had, in lawful marriage,

of a mother fit to bear royal children, this son, such a one as partly

you see, and better shall know by my short declaration, and so enjoyed

the expectations in the world of him, till he was grown to justify

their expectations, so as I needed envy no father for the chief

comfort of mortality, to leave another one’s-self after me, I was

carried by a bastard son of mine, if at least I be bound to believe

the words of that base woman my concubine, his mother, first to

mislike, then to hate, lastly to destroy, or to do my best to destroy

this son, I think you think, undeserving destruction. What ways she

used to bring me to it, if I should tell you, I should tediously

trouble you with as much poisonous hypocrisy, desperate fraud, smooth

malice, hidden ambition, and smiling envy, as in any living person

could be harboured: but I list it not; no remembrance of naughtiness

delights me but mine own; and methinks, the accusing his traps might

in some manner excuse my fault, which certainly I loath to do. But the

conclusion is, that I gave order to some servants of mine, whom I

thought as apt for such charities as myself, to lead him out into a

forest, and there to kill him.

“‘But those thieves, better natured to my son than myself, spared his

life, letting him go to learn to live poorly which he did, giving

himself to be a private soldier in a country hereby: but as he was

ready to be greatly advanced for some noble pieces of service which he

did, he heard news of me, who drunk in my affection to that unlawful

and unnatural son of mine, suffered myself to be governed by him, that

all favours and punishments passed by him, all offices and places of

importance distributed to his favourites; so that, ere I was aware, I

had left myself nothing but the name {173} of a king, which he shortly

weary of too, with many indignities if anything may be called an

indignity which was laid upon me, threw me out of my seat, and put out

my eyes, and then, proud in his tyranny, let me go, neither

imprisoning, nor killing me, but rather delighting to make me feel my

misery; misery indeed, if ever there were any; full of wretchedness,

fuller of disgrace, and fullest of guiltiness. And as he came to the

crown by so unjust means, as unjustly he kept it, by force of stronger

soldiers in citadels, the nests of tyranny and murderers of liberty;

disarming all his own countrymen, that no man durst show himself a

well-willer of mine: to say the truth, I think, few of them being so,

considering my cruel folly to my good son, and foolish kindness to my

unkind bastard: but if there were any who felt a pity of so great a

fall, and had yet any sparks of unslain duty left in them towards me,

yet durst they not show it, scarcely with giving me alms at their

doors, which yet was the only sustenance of my distressed life, nobody

daring to show so much charity as to lend me a hand to guide my dark

steps, till this son of mine, God knows, worthy of a more virtuous,

and more fortunate father, forgetting my abominable wrongs, not

reckoning danger, and neglecting the present good way he was in of

doing himself good, came hither to do this kind office you see him

perform towards me, to my unspeakable grief; not only because his

kindness is a glass even to my blind eyes of my naughtiness, but that

above all griefs, it grieves me he should desperately adventure the

loss of his well-deserving life for mine that yet owe more to fortune

for my deserts, as if he would carry mud in a chest of crystal. For

well I know, he that now reigneth, how much soever, and with good

reason, he despiseth me, of all men despised; yet he will not let slip

any advantage to make away with him, whose just title, ennobled by

courage and goodness, may one day shake the seat of a never secure

tyranny. And for this cause I craved of him to lead me to the top of

this rock, indeed I must confess, with meaning to free him from so

serpentine a companion, as I am. But he finding what I purposed, only

therein since he was born, showed himself disobedient unto me. And now

gentlemen, you have the true story, which I pray you publish to the

world, that my mischievous proceedings may be the glory of his filial

piety, the only reward now left for so great a merit. And if it may

be, let me obtain that of you, which my son denies me: for never was

there more pity in saving any than in ending me, both because therein

my agony shall end, and so you shall perceive this excellent young

man, who else wilfully follows his own ruin.’

“The matter in itself lamentable, lamentably expressed by the old

prince, which needed not take to himself the gestures of pity, {174}

since his face could not put off the marks thereof, greatly moved the

two princes to compassion, which could not stay in such hearts as

theirs without seeking remedy. But by and by the occasion was

presented: for Plexirtus, so was the bastard called, came thither with

forty horse, only of purpose to murder his brother, of whose coming he

had soon advertisement, and thought no eyes of sufficient credit in

such a matter but his own, and therefore came himself to be actor and

spectator. And as soon as he came, not regarding the weak, as he

thought, guard but of two men, commanded some of his followers to set

their hands to his, in the killing of Leonatus. But the young prince,

though not otherwise armed but with a sword, how falsely soever he was

dealt with by others, would not betray himself, but bravely drawing it

out, made the death of the first that assailed him, warn his fellows

to come more warily after him. But then Pyrocles and Musidorus were

quickly become parties (so just a defence deserving as much as old

friendship) and so did behave them among that company, more injurious

than valiant, that many of them lost their lives for their wicked

master.

“Yet perhaps had the number of them at last prevailed, if the king of

Pontus, lately by them made so, had not come unlooked for to their

succour. Who (having had a dream which had fixed his imagination

vehemently upon some great danger, presently to follow those two

princes, whom he most dearly loved) was come in all haste, following

as well as he could their track, with a hundred horses in that

country, which he thought, considering who then reigned, a fit place

enough to make the stage of any tragedy.

“But then the match had been so ill made for Plexirtus that his

ill-led life and worse-gotten honour should have tumbled together to

destruction had there not come in Tydeus and Telenor, with forty or

fifty in their suite, to the defence of Plexirtus. These two were

brothers, of the noblest house of that country, brought up from their

infancy with Plexirtus, men of such prowess as not to know fear in

themselves, and yet to teach it in others that should deal with them,

for they had often made their lives triumph over most terrible

dangers, never dismayed, and ever fortunate; and truly no more settled

in valour, than disposed to goodness and justice, if either they had

lighted on a better friend, or could have learned to make friendship a

child, and not the father of virtue. But bringing up, rather than

choice, having first knit their minds unto him (indeed crafty enough,

either to hide his faults, or never to show them, but when they might

pay home) they willingly held out the course, rather to satisfy him

than all the world; and rather to be good friends, than good men: so

as though they did not like the evil he did, yet they liked him that

did the evil: and though {175} not counsellors of the offence, yet

protectors of the offender. Now they having heard of this sudden going

out with so small a company, in a country full of evil-wishing minds

towards him, though they knew not the cause, followed him; till they

found him in such case that they were to venture their lives, or else

he to lose his, which they did with such force of mind and body, that

truly I may justly say, Pyrocles and Musidorus had never till then

found any that could make them so well repeat their hardest lesson in

the feats of arms. And briefly so they did; that if they overcame not,

yet were they not overcome, but carried away that ungrateful master of

theirs to a place of security, howsoever the princes laboured to the

contrary. But this matter being thus far begun, it became not the

constancy of the princes so to leave it; but in all haste making

forces both in Pontus, and Phrygia, they had in few days left him but

only that one strong place where he was. For, fear having been the

only knot that had fastened his people unto him, that once united by a

greater force, they all scattered from him, like so many birds whose

cage had been broken.

“In which season the blind king, having in the chief city of his realm

set the crown upon his son Leonatus’s head, with many tears both of

joy and sorrow, setting forth to the whole people his own faults, and

his son’s virtue; after he had kissed him, and forced his son to

accept honour of him, as of his new-become subject, even in a moment

died, as it should seem, his heart broken with unkindness and

affliction, stretched so far beyond his limits with this access of

comfort that it was able no longer to keep safe his vital spirits. But

the new king, having no less lovingly performed all duties to him

dead, than alive, pursued on the siege of his unnatural brother, as

much for the revenge of his father as the establishing of his own

quiet. In which siege truly I cannot but acknowledge the prowess of

those two brothers, than whom the princes never found in all their

travel, two of greater ability to perform, nor of abler skill for

conduct.

“But Plexirtus finding that if nothing else, famine would at last

bring him to destruction, thought better by humbleness to creep, where

by pride he could not march. For certainly so had Nature formed him,

and the exercise of craft conformed him to all turningness of flights,

that, though no man had less goodness in his soul than he, no man

could better find the places whence arguments might grow of goodness

to another; though no man felt less pity, no man could tell better how

to stir pity; no man more impudent to deny, where proofs were not

manifest; no man more ready to confess with a repenting manner of

aggravating his own evil, where denial would but make the fault

fouler. Now he took this way, that having gotten a passport for one,

that pretended he {176} would put Plexirtus alive into his hands, to

speak with the king his brother, he himself (though much against the

minds of the valiant brothers, who rather wished to die in brave

defence) with a rope about his neck, bare-footed, came to offer

himself to the discretion of Leonatus. Where what submission he used,

how cunningly in making greater the fault, he made the faultiness the

less, how artificially he could set out the torments of his own

conscience, with the burdensome cumber he had found of his ambitious

desires, how finely seeming to desire nothing but death, as ashamed to

live, he begged life in the refusing it, I am not cunning enough to be

able to express; but so fell out of it, that though at first sight

Leonatus saw him with no other eye than as the murderer of his father,

and anger already began to paint revenge in many colours, ere long he

had not only gotten pity but pardon; and if not an excuse of the fault

past, yet an opinion of a future amendment: while the poor villains

(chief ministers of his wickedness, now betrayed by the author

thereof) were delivered to many cruel sorts of death; he so handling

it, that it rather seemed he had more come into the defence of an

unremediable mischief already committed than that they had done it at

first by his consent.

“In such sort the princes left these reconciled brothers (Plexirtus in

all his behaviour carrying him in far lower degree of service than the

ever-noble nature of Leonatus would suffer him) and taking likewise

their leaves of their good friend the king of Pontus, who returned to

enjoy some benefit, both of his wife and kingdom, they privately went

thence, having only with them the two valiant brothers, who would

needs accompany them through divers places, they four doing acts more

dangerous, though less famous, because they were but private

chivalries; till hearing of the fair and virtuous queen Erona of

Lycia, besieged by the puissant king of Armenia, they bent themselves

to her succour, both because the weaker, and weaker as being a lady,

and partly because they heard the king of Armenia had in his company

three of the most famous men living, for matters of arms, that were

known to be in the world. Whereof one was the prince Plangus whose

name was sweetened by your breath, peerless lady, when the last day it

pleased you to mention him unto me, the other two were two great

princes, though holding of him, Barzanes and Euardes, men of

giant-like both hugeness and force; in which two especially, the trust

the king had of victory was reposed. And of them, those brothers

Tydeus and Telenor, sufficient judges in warlike matters, spoke so

high commendations, that the two princes had even a youthful longing

to have some trial of their virtue. And therefore as soon as they were

entered into Lycia, they joined themselves with them that faithfully

served the poor queen, at that time besieged; and ere {177} long

animated in such sort their almost overthrown hearts, that they went

by force to relieve the town, though they were deprived of a great

part of their strength by the parting of the two brothers, who were

sent for in all haste to return to their old friend and master

Plexirtus, who, willingly hoodwinking themselves from seeing his

faults, and binding themselves to believe what he said, often abused

the virtue of courage to defend his foul vice of injustice. But now

they were sent for to advance a conquest he was about; while Pyrocles

and Musidorus pursued the delivery of the queen Erona.”

“I have heard,” said Pamela, “that part of the story of Plangus, when

he passed through this country, therefore you may, if you list, pass

over that war of Erona’s quarrel, lest if you speak too much of war

matters, you should wake Mopsa, which might happily breed a great

broil.” He looked, and saw that Mopsa indeed sat swallowing the sleep

with open mouth, making such a noise withal, as nobody could lay the

stealing of a nap to her charge. Whereupon, willing to use that

occasion, he kneeled down, and with humble heartedness, and hearty

earnestness printed in his graces; “Alas!” said he, “divine lady, who

have wrought such miracles in me, as to make a prince, none of the

basest, to think all principalities base in respect of the sheephook

which may hold him up in your sight; vouchsafe now at last to hear in

direct words my humble suit, while this dragon sleeps that keeps the

golden fruit. If in my desire I wish, or in my hopes aspire, or in my

imagination fain to myself anything which may be the least spot to

that heavenly virtue which shines in all your doings, I pray the

eternal powers, that the words I speak may be deadly poisons, while

they are in my mouth, and that all my hopes, all my desires, all my

imaginations may only work their own confusion. But if love, love of

you, love of your virtues, seek only that favour of you, which

becometh that gratefulness which cannot misbecome your excellency, O

do not--” He would have said further, but Pamela calling aloud Mopsa,

she suddenly started up, staggering, and rubbing her eyes, ran first

out of the door, and then back to them, before she knew how she went

out, or why she came in again: till at length, being fully come to her

little self, she asked Pamela why she had called her. For nothing said

Pamela, but that ye might hear some tales of your servant’s telling:

“and therefore now,” said she, “Dorus go on.”

But as he, who found no so good sacrifice as obedience, was returning

to the story of himself, Philoclea came in, and by and by after her,

Miso, so as for that time they were fain to let Dorus depart. But

Pamela delighted even to preserve in her memory the words of so well a

beloved speaker, repeated the whole {178} substance to her sister,

till their sober dinner being come and gone, to recreate themselves

something, even tired with the noisomeness of Miso’s conversation,

they determined to go, while the heat of the day lasted, to bathe

themselves, such being the manner of the Arcadian nymphs often to do,

in the river of Ladon, and take with them a lute, meaning to delight

them under some shadow. But they could not stir, but that Miso, with

her daughter Mopsa was after them: and as it lay in their way to pass

by the other lodge, Zelmane out of her window espied them, and so

stole down after them, which she might the better do, because that

Gynecia was sick, and Basilius, that day being his birth-day,

according to his manner, was busy about his devotions; and therefore

she went after, hoping to find some time to speak with Philoclea: but

not a word could she begin, but that Miso would be one of the

audience, so that she was driven to recommend thinking, speaking, and

all, to her eyes, who diligently performed her trust, till they came

to the river’s side, which of all the rivers of Greece had the praise

for excellent pureness and sweetness, insomuch as the very bathing in

it was accounted exceeding healthful. It ran upon so fine and delicate

a ground, as one could not easily judge whether the river did more

wash the gravel, or the gravel did purify the river; the river not

running forthright, but almost continually winding, as if the lower

streams would return to their spring, or that the river had a delight

to play with itself. The banks of either side seeming arms of the

loving earth that fain would embrace it, and the river a wanton nymph

which still would slip from it; either side of the bank being fringed

with most beautiful trees, which resisted the sun’s darts from

overmuch piercing the natural coldness of the river. There was among

the rest a goodly cypress, who bowing her fair head over the water, it

seemed she looked into it, and dressed her green locks by that running

river.

There the princesses determining to bathe themselves, though it was so

privileged a place, upon pain of death, as nobody durst presume to

come hither; yet for the more surety, they looked round about, and

could see nothing but a water-spaniel, who came down the river,

showing that he hunted for a duck, and with a snuffling grace,

disdaining that his smelling force could not as well prevail through

the water as through the air; and therefore waiting with his eye to

see whether he could espy the ducks getting up again, but then a

little below them failing of his purpose, he got out of the river, and

shaking off the water (as great men do their friends) now he had no

further cause to use it, inweeded himself so that the ladies lost the

further marking his sportfulness: and inviting Zelmane also to wash

herself with them, and she excusing {179} herself with having taken a

late cold, they began by piecemeal to take away the eclipsing of their

apparel.

Zelmane would have put to her helping hand, but she was taken with

such a quivering, that she thought it more wisdom to lean herself to a

tree, and look on, while Miso and Mopsa, like a couple of foreswat

melters, were getting the pure silver of their bodies out of the ure

of their garments. But as the raiments went off to receive kisses of

the ground, Zelmane envied the happiness of all, but of the smock was

even jealous, and when that was taken away too, and that Philoclea

remained, for her Zelmane only marked, like a diamond taken from out

of the rock, or rather like the sun getting from under a cloud, and

showing his naked beams to the full view, then was the beauty too much

for a patient sight, the delight too strong for a stayed conceit, so

that Zelmane could not choose but run, to touch, embrace and kiss her.

But conscience made her come to herself, and leave Philoclea, who

blushing, and withal smiling, making shamefacedness pleasant, and

pleasure shamefaced, tenderly moved her feet, unwonted to feel the

naked ground, till the touch of the cold water made a pretty kind of

shrugging come over her body, like the twinkling of the fairest among

the fixed stars. But the river itself gave way unto her, so that she

was straight breast high, which was the deepest that thereabout she

could be: and when cold Ladon had once fully embraced them, himself

was no more so cold to those ladies, but as if his cold complexion had

been heated with love, so seemed he to play about every part he could

touch.

“Ah sweet, now sweetest Ladon,” said Zelmane, “why dost thou not stay

thy course to have more full taste of thy happiness? but the reason is

manifest, the upper streams make such haste to have their part of

embracing, that the nether, though lothly, must needs give place unto

them. O happy Ladon, within whom she is, upon whom her beauty falls,

through whom her eye pierceth. O happy Ladon, which art now an

unperfect mirror of all perfection, can’st thou ever forget the

blessedness of this impression? if thou do, then let thy bed be turned

from fine gravel to weeds and mud; if thou do, let some unjust

niggards make wares to spoil thy beauty; if thou do, let some greater

river fall into thee, to take away the name of Ladon, O! Ladon, happy

Ladon, rather slide than run by her, lest thou should’st make her legs

slip from her, and then, O happy Ladon, who would then call thee, but

the most cursed Ladon?” But as the ladies played then in the water,

sometimes striking it with their hands, the water, making lines in his

face, seemed to smile at such beating, and with twenty bubbles not to

be content to have the picture of their face in large {180} upon him,

but he would in each of these bubbles set forth the miniature of them.

But Zelmane, whose sight was gain-said by nothing but the transparent

veil of Ladon (like a chamber where a great fire is kept, though the

fire be at one stay, yet with the continuance continually hath his

heat increased) had the coals of her affection so kindled with wonder,

and blown with delight, that now all her parts grudged, that her eyes

should do more homage, than they, to the princes of them. Insomuch

that taking up the lute, her wit began to be with a divine fury

inspired; her voice would in so beloved an occasion second her wit;

her hands accorded the lute’s music to the voice; her panting heart

danced to the music; while I think her feet did beat the time; while

her body was the room where it should be celebrated; her soul the

queen which should be delighted. And so together went the utterance

and invention, that one might judge, it was Philoclea’s beauty which

did speedily write it in her eyes; or the sense thereof, which did

word by word indite it in her mind, whereto she, but as an organ, did

only lend utterance. The song was to this purpose:

What tongue can her perfection tell,

In whose each part all tongues may dwell?

Her hair fine threads of finest gold,

In curled knots man’s thought to hold:

But that her forehead says, “in me

A whiter beauty you may see”;

Whiter indeed, more white than snow,

Which on cold winter’s face doth grow:

That doth present those even brows,

Whose equal line their angles bows;

Like to the moon when after change

Her horned head abroad doth range:

And arches be two heavenly lids,

Whose wink each bold attempt forbids.

For the black stars those spheres contain,

The matchless pair, even praise doth stain.

No lamp whose light by art is got,

No sun which shines, and seeth not,

Can liken them without all peer,

Save one as much as other clear:

Which only thus unhappy be,

Because themselves they cannot see.

Her cheeks with kindly claret spread,

Aurora-like new out of bed;

Or like the fresh queen-apple’s side,

Blushing at sight of Phoebus’ pride.

{181}

Her nose, her chin pure ivory wears:

No purer than the pretty ears.

So that therein appears some blood

Like wine and milk that mingled stood:

In whose incirclets if ye gaze,

Your eyes may tread a lover’s maze.

But with such turns the voice to stray,

No talk untaught can find the way.

The tip no jewel needs to wear;

The tip is jewel of the ear.

But who those ruddy lips can miss,

Which blessed still themselves to kiss?

Rubies, cherries, and roses new,

In worth, in taste, in perfect hue:

Which never part, but that they show

Of precious pearl the double row;

The second-sweetly fenced ward,

Her heavenly-dewed tongue to guard,

Whence never word in vain did flow.

Fair under those doth stately grow,

The handle of this precious work,

The neck in which strange graces lurk.

Such be I think the sumptuous towers,

Which skill doth make in princes’ bowers.

So good assay invites the eye,

A little downward to espy,

The lively clusters of her breasts,

Of Venus’ babe the wanton nests:

Like pommels round of marble clear;

Where azur’d veins well mix’d appear,

With dearest tops of porphyry.

Betwixt these two a way doth lie,

A way more worthy beauty’s fame,

Than that which bears the Milky name.

This leads into the joyous field,

Which only still doth lilies yield:

But lilies such whose native smell,

The Indians’ odors doth excel.

Waist it is called, for it doth waste

Men’s lives, until it be embrac’d.

There may one see, and yet not see

Her ribs in white all armed be,

More white than Neptune’s foamy face,

When struggling rocks he would embrace.

In those delights the wand’ring thought

Might of each side astray be brought,

But that her navel doth unite,

In curious circle busy sight;

{182}

A dainty seal of virgin-wax,

Where nothing but impression lacks.

Her belly their glad sight doth fill,

Justly entitled Cupid’s hill.

A hill most fit for such a master,

A spotless mine of alabaster.

Like alabaster fair and sleek,

But soft and supple, satin-like,

In that sweet seat the boy doth sport:

Loth, I must leave his chief resort.

For such a use the world hath gotten,

The best things still must be forgotten.

Yet never shall my song omit

Her thighs for Ovid’s song more fit;

Which flanked with two sugared flanks,

Lift up her stately swelling banks;

That Albion cliffs in whiteness pass;

With haunches smooth as looking-glass.

But bow all knees, now of her knees

My tongue doth tell what fancy sees.

The knots of joy, the gems of love,

Whose motion makes all graces move.

Whose bough incav’d doth yield such sight,

Like cunning painter shadowed white.

The gartring place with child-like sign,

Shows easy print in metal fine.

But then again the flesh doth rise

In her brave calves like crystal skies.

Whose Atlas is a smallest small,

More white than whitest bone of all.

Thereout steals out that round clean foot

This noble cedar’s precious root:

In show and scent pale violets,

Whose step on earth all beauty sets.

But back unto her back, my Muse,

Where Leda’s swan his feathers mews,

Along whose ridge such bones are met,

Like comfits round in marchpane set.

Her shoulders be like to white doves,

Perching within square royal rooves,

Which leaded are with silver skin,

Passing the hate-spot, emerlin.

And thence those arms derived are;

The Phoenix wings are not so rare

For faultless length, and stainless hue.

Ah woe is me, my woes renew.

Now course doth lead me to her hand

Of my first love the fatal band.

{183}

Where whiteness doth for ever sit:

Nature herself enamell’d it.

For therewith strange compact doth lie

Warm snow, moist pearl, soft ivory.

There fall those sapphire-coloured brooks,

Which conduit-like with curious crooks,

Sweet islands make in that sweet land,

As for the fingers of the hand,

The bloody shafts of Cupid’s war,

With amethysts they beaded are.

Thus hath each part his beauty’s part:

But how the graces do impart,

To all her limbs a special grace,

Becoming every time and place,

Which doth even beauty beautify,

And most bewitch the wretched eye.

How all this is but a fair inn

Of fairer guests, which dwell therein.

Of whose high praise, and praiseful bliss,

Goodness the pen, and Heaven paper is:

The ink immortal fame doth lend:

As I began, so must I end.

No tongue can her perfection tell,

In whose each part all tongues may dwell.

But as Zelmane was coming to the latter end of her song, she might see

the same water-spaniel which before had hunted, come and fetch away

one of Philoclea’s gloves, whose fine proportion, showed well what a

dainty guest was wont there to be lodged. It was a delight to Zelmane,

to see that the dog was therewith delighted, and so let him go a

little way withal, who quickly carried it out of sight among certain

trees and bushes, which were very close together. But by and by he

came again, and amongst the raiment. Miso and Mopsa being preparing

sheets against their coming out, the dog lighted of a little book of

four or five leaves of paper, and was bearing that away too. But when

Zelmane, not knowing what importance it might be of, ran after the

dog, who going straight to those bushes, she might see the dog deliver

it to a gentleman, who secretly lay there. But she hastily coming in,

the gentleman rose up, and with a courteous, though sad, countenance

presented himself unto her. Zelmane’s eyes straight willed her mind to

mark him, for she thought in herself, she had never seen a man of a

more goodly presence, in whom strong making took not away delicacy,

nor beauty fierceness: being indeed such a right man-like man, as

nature often erring, yet shows she would fain make. But when she had a

while, not without admiration, viewed him, she desired him to deliver

back the glove and paper, {184} because they were the lady

Philoclea’s, telling him withal, that she would not willingly let them

know of his close lying in that prohibited place, while they were

bathing themselves, because she knew they would be mortally offended

withal. “Fair lady,” answered he, “the worst of the complaint is

already passed, since I feel of my fault in myself the punishment. But

for these things, I assure you, it was my dog’s wanton boldness, not

my presumption. With that he gave her back the paper: but for the

glove,” said he, “since it is my lady Philoclea’s, give me leave to

keep it, since my heart cannot persuade itself to part from it. And I

pray you tell the lady, lady indeed of all my desires, that owns it,

that I will direct my life to honour this glove with serving her.” “O

villain,” cried out Zelmane, maddened with finding an unlooked-for

rival, and that he would make her a messenger, “dispatch,” said she,

“and deliver it, or by the life of her that owns it, I will make thy

soul, though too base a price, pay for it”: and with that drew out her

sword, which, Amazon-like, she ever wore about her. The gentleman

retired himself into an open place from among the bushes, and then

drawing out his too, he offered to deliver it unto her, saying,

withal, “God forbid I should use my sword against you, sith, if I be

not deceived, you are the same famous Amazon, that both defended my

lady’s just title of beauty against the valiant Phalantus, and saved

her life in killing the lion, therefore I am rather to kiss your

hands, with acknowledging myself bound to obey you.”

But this courtesy was worse than a bastinado to Zelmane: so that again

with rageful eyes she bade him defend himself, for no less than his

life should answer it. “A hard case,” said he, “to teach my sword that

lesson, which hath ever used to turn itself to a shield in a lady’s

presence.” But Zelmane hearkening to no more words, began with such

witty fury to pursue him with blows and thrusts, that nature and

virtue commanded the gentleman to look to his safety. Yet still

courtesy, that seemed incorporate in his heart, would not be persuaded

by danger to offer any offence, but only to stand upon the best

defensive guard he could; sometimes going back, being content in that

respect to take on the figure of cowardice; sometimes with strong and

well-met wards, sometimes cunning avoidings of his body; and sometimes

feigning some blows, which himself pull’d back before they needed to

be withstood. And so with play did he a good while fight against the

fight of Zelmane, who, more spited with that courtesy, that one that

did nothing should be able to resist her, burned away with choler any

motions which might grow out of her own sweet disposition, determined

to kill him if he fought no better and so redoubling her blows, drove

the stranger to no other shift than to {185} ward and go back; at that

time seeming the image of innocency against violence. But at length he

found, that both in public and private respects, who stands only upon

defence, stands upon no defence: for Zelmane seeming to strike at his

head, and he going toward it, withal stepped back as he was

accustomed: she stopped her blow in the air, and suddenly turning the

point, ran full at his breast, so as he was driven with the pommel of

his sword, having no other weapon of defence, to beat it down: but the

thrust was so strong that he could not so wholly beat it away, but

that it met with his thigh, through which it ran. But Zelmane retiring

her sword, and seeing his blood, victorious anger was conquered by the

before conquering pity; and heartily sorry, and even ashamed with

herself she was, considering how little he had done, who well she

found could have done more. Insomuch that she said, “Truly I am sorry

for your hurt, but yourself gave the cause, both in refusing to

deliver the glove, and yet not fighting as I know you could have done.

But,” said she, “because I perceive you disdain to fight with a woman,

it may be before a year come about, you shall meet with a near kinsman

of mine, Pyrocles prince of Macedon, and I give you my word, he for me

shall maintain this quarrel against you.” “I would” answered

Amphialus, “I had many more such hurts to meet and know that worthy

prince, whose virtue I love and admire, though my good destiny hath

not been to see his person.”

But as they were so speaking, the young ladies came, to whom, Mopsa,

curious in anything but her own good behaviour, having followed and

seen Zelmane fighting, had cried, what she had seen, while they were

drying themselves: and the water, with some drops, seemed to weep,

that it should pass from such bodies. But they careful of Zelmane,

assuring themselves that any Arcadian would bear reverence to them,

Pamela with a noble mind, and Philoclea with a loving, hastily, hiding

the beauties, whereof nature was proud, and they ashamed, they made

quick work to come to save Zelmane. But already they found them in

talk, and Zelmane careful of his wound. But when they saw him, they

knew it was their cousin-german, the famous Amphialus, whom yet with a

sweet graced bitterness they blamed for breaking their father’s

commandment, especially while themselves were in such sort retired.

But he craved pardon, protesting unto them that he had only been to

seek solitary places, by an extreme melancholy that had a good while

possessed him, and guided to that place by his spaniel, where while

the dog hunted in the river, he had withdrawn himself to pacify with

sleep his over watched eyes, till a dream waked him, and made him see

that whereof he had dreamed, and withal not obscurely signified, that

he felt the smart of his {186} own doings. But Philoclea, that was

even jealous of herself for Zelmane, would needs have her glove, and

not without so mighty a lower as that face could yield. As for Zelmane

when she knew it was Amphialus; “Lord Amphialus,” said she, “I have

long desired to know you heretofore, I must confess, with more

goodwill, but still with honouring your virtue, though I love not your

person: and at this time I pray you let us take care of your wound,

upon condition you shall hereafter promise that a more knightly combat

shall be performed between us.” Amphialus answered in honourable sort,

but with such excusing himself, that more and more accused his love to

Philoclea, and provoked more hate in Zelmane. But Mopsa had already

called certain shepherds not far off, who knew and well observed their

limits, to come and help to carry away Amphialus, whose wound suffered

him not without danger to strain it: and so he leaving himself with

them, departed from them, faster bleeding in his heart than at his

wound, which bound up by the sheets, wherewith Philoclea had been

wrapped, made him thank the wound, and bless the sword for that

favour.

He being gone, the ladies, with merry anger talking, in what naked

simplicity their cousin had seen them, returned to the lodge-ward; yet

thinking it too early, as long as they had any day, to break off so

pleasing a company with going to perform a cumbersome obedience,

Zelmane invited them to the little arbour, only reserved for her,

which they willingly did: and there sitting, Pamela having a while

made the lute in his language show how glad it was to be touched by

her fingers, Zelmane delivered up the paper which Amphialus had at

first yielded unto her, and seeing written upon the backside of it the

complaint of Plangus, remembering what Dorus had told her, and

desiring to know how much Philoclea knew of her estate, she took

occasion in presenting of it, to ask whether it were any secret or no.

“No truly,” answered Philoclea, “it is but even an exercise of my

father’s writing, upon this occasion: he was one day, somewhile before

your coming hither, walking abroad, having us two with him, almost a

mile hence, and crossing a highway, which comes from the city of

Megalopolis, he saw this gentleman, whose name is there written, one

of the properest and best graced men that ever I saw, being of middle

age and of a mean stature. He lay as then under a tree, while his

servants were getting fresh post-horses for him. It might seem he was

tired with the extreme travel he had taken, and yet not so tired that

he forced to take any rest, so hasty he was upon his journey: and

withal so sorrowful that the very face thereof was painted in his

face, which with pitiful motions, even groans, tears, and passionate

talking to himself, moved my {187} father to fall in talk with him,

who at first not knowing him, answered him in such a desperate phrase

of grief that my father afterward took a delight to set it down in

such a form as you see: which if you read, what you doubt of, my

sister and I are able to declare unto you, Zelmane willingly opened

the leaves, and read it being written dialogue-wise in this manner.”

PLANGUS and BASILIUS

PLANGUS

Alas, how long this pilgrimage doth last?

What greater ills have now the heavens in store,

To couple coming harms with sorrows past?

Long since my voice is hoarse, and throat is sore,

With cries to skies, and courses to the ground,

But more I plain, I feel my woes the more.

Ah, where was first that cruel cunning found,

To frame of earth, a vessel of the mind,

Where it should be to self-destruction bound?

What needed so high spirits, such mansions blind?

Or wrapped in flesh what do they here obtain.

But glorious name of wretched human kind?

Balls to the stars, and thralls to Fortune’s reign;

Turn’d from themselves, infected with their rage,

Where death is fear’d, and life is held with pain,

Like players plac’d to fill a filthy stage,

Where change of thoughts one fool to other shows,

And all but jests, save only sorrow’s rage.

The child feels that, the man that feeling knows,

Which cries first born, the presage of his life,

Where wit but serves, to have true taste of woes.

A shop of shame, a book where blots be rife,

This body is, this body so compos’d,

As in itself to nourish mortal strife:

So divers be the elements dispos’d.

In this weak work, that it can never be

Made uniform to any state repos’d.

Grief only makes his wretched state to see

(Even like a top which nought but whipping moves)

This man, this talking beast, this walking tree,

Grief is the stone which finest judgments proves:

For who grieves not, hath but a blockish brain,

Since cause of grief no cause from life removes.

BASILIUS

How long wilt thou with mournful music stain

The cheerful notes those pleasant places yield,

Where all good haps a perfect state maintain?

{188}

PLANGUS

Cursed be good haps, and cursed be they that build

Their hopes on haps, and do not make despair

For all those certain blows the surest shield.

Shall I that saw Erona’s shining hair,

Torn with her hands, and those same hands of snow

With loss of purest blood themselves to tear?

Shall I that saw those breasts, where beauties flow,

Swelling with sighs, made pale with mind’s disease,

And saw those eyes, those suns, such showers to show?

Shall I whose ears her mournful words did seize,

Her words in syrup laid of sweetest breath,

Relent those thoughts which then did so displease?

No, no: despair my daily lesson faith,

And faith, although I seek my life to fly,

Plangus must live to see Erona’s death.

Plangus must live some help for her to try

(Though in despair) for love so forceth me,

Plangus doth live, and shall Erona die?

Erona die? O heaven, if heaven there be,

Hath all thy whirling course so small effect?

Serve all thy starry eyes this shame to see?

Let dolts in haste some altars fair erect

To those high powers, which idly sit above,

And virtue do in greatest need neglect.

BASILIUS

O man, take heed, how thou the gods do move

To causeful wrath, which thou can’st not resist.

Blasphemous words the speaker vain do prove.

Alas while we are wrapped in foggy mist

Of our self-love, so passions do deceive,

We think they hurt, when most they do assist.

To harm us worms should that high justice leave

His nature? nay himself? for so it is.

What glory from our loss can he receive?

But still our dazzled eyes their way do miss,

While that we do at his sweet scourge repine,

The kindly way do beat us on to bliss.

If she must die then hath she passed the line

Of loathsome days, whose loss how can’st thou moan,

That dost so well their miseries define?

But such we are with inward tempest blown

Of winds quite contrary in waves of will:

We moan that lost, which had we did bemoan.

{189}

PLANGUS

And shall she die? shall cruel fire spill

Those beams that set so many hearts on fire?

Hath she not force even death with love to kill:

Nay, even cold death inflam’d with hot desire

Her to enjoy where joy itself is thrall,

Will spoil the earth of his most rich attire:

Thus death becomes a rival to us all,

And hopes with foul embracements her to get,

In whose decay virtue’s fair shrine must fall.

O virtue weak, shall death his triumph set

Upon thy spoils, which never should lie waste?

Let death first die; be thou his worthy let.

By what eclipse shall that sun be defac’d?

What mine hath erst thrown down so fair a tower?

What sacrilege hath such a saint disgrac’d?

The world the garden is, she is the flower

That sweetens all the place; she is the guest

Of rarest price, both heaven and earth her bower.

And shall, O me! all this in ashes rest?

Alas if you a Phoenix new will have

Burnt by the sun, she first must build her nest.

But well you know, the gentle sun would save

Such beams so like his own, which might have might

In him the thoughts of Phaeton’s dam to grave,

Therefore, alas, you use vile Vulcan’s spite,

Which nothing spares, to melt that virgin wax,

Which while it is, it is all Asia’s light.

O Mars, for what doth serve thy armed ax?

To let that wit-old beast consume in flames

Thy Venus child, whose beauty Venus lacks?

O Venus, if her praise no envy frames

In thy high mind, get her thy husband’s grace

Sweet speaking oft a currish heart reclaims.

O eyes of mine, where once she saw her face,

Her face which was more lively in my heart:

O brain, where thought of her hath only place;

O hand, which touch’d her hand when we did part;

O lips that kiss’d that hand with my tears spent;

O tongue, then dumb, not daring tell my smart;

O soul, whose love in her is only spent,

What ere you see, think, touch, kiss, speak, or love,

Let all for her, and unto her be bent.

BASILIUS

Thy wailing words do much my spirits move,

They uttered are in such a feeling fashion,

{190}

That sorrow’s work against my will I prove.

Methinks I am partaker of thy passion,

And in thy case do glass mine own debility:

Self-guilty folk most prone to feel compassion.

Yet reason faith, “Reason should have ability

To hold those worldly things in such proportion,

As let them come or go with even facility.”

But our desire’s tyrannical extortion

Doth force us there to set our chief delightfulness

Where but a baiting place is all our portion.

But still although we fail of perfect rightfulness,

Seek we to tame those childish superfluities:

Let us not wink though void of purest sightfulness

For what can breed more peevish incongruities,

Than man to yield to female lamentations:

Let us some grammar learn of more congruities.

PLANGUS

If through mine ears pierce any consolations,

By wise discourse, sweet tunes, or poets’ fiction;

If aught I cease those hideous exclamations;

While that my soul, she, lives in affliction;

Then let my life long time on earth maintained be,

To wretched me, the last worst malediction.

Can I that knew her sacred parts, restrained be

From any joy? know fortunes vile displacing her,

In mortal rules let raging woes contained be?

Can I forget, when they in prison placing her,

With swelling heart in spite and due disdainfulness

She lay for dead, till I help’d with unlacing her?

Can I forget from how much mourning painfulness

With diamond in window-glass she grav’d

“Erona die, and end this ugly painfulness”?

Can I forget in how strange phrase she crav’d

That quickly they would her burn, drown or smother,

As if by death she only might be sav’d?

Then let me eke forget one hand from other:

Let me forget that Plangus I am called:

Let me forget I am son to my mother:

But if my memory must thus be thralled

To that strange stroke which conquered all my senses.

Can thoughts still thinking, so rest unappalled?

BASILIUS

Who still doth seek against himself offences,

What pardon can avail? or who employs him

To hurt himself, what shields can be defences?

{191}

Woe to poor man; each outward thing annoys him

In divers kinds; yet as he were not filled,

He heaps in outward grief, that most destroys him.

Thus is our thought with pain for thistles tilled:

Thus be our noblest parts dried up with sorrow:

Thus is our mind with too much minding spilled.

One day lays up store of grief for the morrow:

And whose good haps do leave him unprovided,

Condoling cause of friendship he will borrow:

Betwixt the good and shade of good divided,

We pity deem that which but weakness is:

So are we from our high creation slided.

But Plangus, lest I may your sickness miss,

Or rubbing, hurt the sore, I here do end.

The ass did hurt when he did think to kiss.

When Zelmane had read it over, marvelling very much of the speech of

Erona’s death, and therefore desirous to know further of it, but more

desirous to hear Philoclea speak, “Most excellent lady,” said she,

“one may be little the wiser for reading this dialogue, since it

neither sets forth what this Plangus is, nor what Erona is, nor what

the cause should be which threatens her with death, and him with

sorrow; therefore I would humbly crave to understand the particular

discourse thereof, because, I must confess, something in my travel I

have heard of this strange matter, which I would be glad to find by so

sweet an authority confirmed.” “The truth is,” answered Philoclea,

“that after he knew my father to be prince of this country, while he

hoped to prevail something with him in a great request he made unto

him, he was content to open fully the estate both of himself, and of

that lady; which with my sister’s help,” said she, “who remembers it

better than I, I will declare unto you. And first of Erona, being the

chief subject of this discourse, this story, with more tears and

exclamations than I list to spend about it, he recounted.”

“Of late there reigned a king in Lydia, who had, for the blessing of

his marriage, this only daughter of his, Erona, a princess worthy for

her beauty, as much praise, as beauty may be praise-worthy. This

princess Erona, being nineteen years of age, seeing the country of

Lydia so much devoted to Cupid, as that in every place his naked

pictures and images were superstitiously adored (either moved

thereunto by the esteeming that it could be no god-head, which could

breed wickedness, or the shamefaced consideration of such nakedness)

procured so much of her father, as utterly to pull down, and deface

all those statutes and pictures: which how terribly he punished, for

to that the Lydians impute it, quickly after appeared.

{192}

“For she had not lived a year longer, when she was stricken with most

obstinate love to a young man but of mean parentage, in her father’s

court, named Antiphilus: so mean, as that he was but the son of her

nurse, and by that means, without other desert, became known of her.

Now so evil could she conceal her fire, and so wilfully persevered she

in it that her father offering her the marriage of the great

Tiridates, king of Armenia, who desired her more than the joys of

heaven, she for Antiphilus’s sake refused it. Many ways her father

sought to withdraw her from it, sometimes by persuasions, sometimes by

threatenings; once, hiding Antiphilus, and giving her to understand

that he was fled the country, lastly, making a solemn execution to be

done of another under the name of Antiphilus, whom he kept in prison.

But neither she liked persuasions, nor feared threatenings, nor

changed for absence: and when she thought him dead, she sought all

means, as well by poison as knife, to send her soul, at least to be

married in the eternal church with him. This so broke the tender

father’s heart, that, leaving things as he found them, he shortly

after died. Then forthwith Erona, being seized of the crown, and

arming her will with authority, sought to advance her affection to the

holy title of matrimony.

“But before she could accomplish all the solemnities, she was

overtaken with a war the King Tiridates made upon her, only for her

person, towards whom, for her ruin, love had kindled his cruel heart,

indeed cruel and tyrannous; for being far too strong in the field, he

spared no man, woman, nor child; but, as though there could be found

no foil to set forth the extremity of his love, but extremity of

hatred, wrote, as it were, the sonnets of his love in the blood, and

turned them in the cries of her subjects; although his fair sister

Artaxia, who would accompany him in the army, sought all means to

appease his fury: till lastly, he besieged Erona in her best city,

vowing to win her, or lose his life. And now had he brought her to the

point either of a woeful consent, or a ruinous denial, when there came

thither, following the course which virtue and fortune led them, two

excellent young princes, Pyrocles and Musidorus, the one prince of

Macedon, the other of Thessalia: two princes as Plangus said, and he

witnessed his saying with sighs and tears, the most accomplished both

in body and mind that the sun ever looked upon.” While Philoclea spoke

those words; O sweet words, thought Zelmane to herself, which are not

only a praise to me, but a praise to praise herself, which out of that

mouth issueth.

“Those two princes,” said Philoclea, “as well to help the weaker,

especially being a lady as to save a Greek people from being ruined by

such whom we call and count barbarous, gathering {193} together such

of the honestest Lycians as would venture their lives to succour their

princess; giving order by a secret message, they sent into the city

that they should issue with all force at an appointed time: they set

upon Tiridates’s camp with so well guided a fierceness that being on

both sides assaulted, he was like to be overthrown, but that this

Plangus, being general of Tiridates’s horsemen, especially aided by

the two mighty men Euardes and Barzanes, rescued the footmen, even

almost defeated: but yet could not bar the princes, with their

succours both of men and victual, to enter the city.

“Which when Tiridates found would make the war long, which length

seemed to him worse than a languishing consumption, he made a

challenge of three princes in his retinue, against those two princes

and Antiphilus: and that thereupon the quarrel should be decided, with

compact that neither side should help his fellow, but of whose side

the more overcame, with him the victory should remain. Antiphilus

(though Erona chose rather to bide the brunt of war, than venture him,

yet) could not for shame refuse the offer, especially since the two

strangers that had no interest in it, did willingly accept it: besides

that, he saw it like enough, that the people, weary of the miseries of

war, would rather give him up, if they saw him shrink, than for his

sake venture their ruin, considering that the challengers were of far

greater worthiness than himself. So it was agreed upon; and against

Pyrocles was Euardes king of Bithynia; Barzanes of Hyrcania against

Musidorus, two men, that thought the world scarce able to resist them;

and against Antiphilus he placed this same Plangus, being his own

cousin-german, and son to the king of Iberia. Now so it fell out, that

Musidorus slew Barzanes, and Pyrocles Euardes, which victory those

princes esteemed above all that ever they had: but of the other side

Plangus took Antiphilus prisoner: under which colour, as if the matter

had been equal, though indeed it was not, the greater part being

overcome of his side, Tiridates continued his war: and to bring Erona

to a compelled yielding, sent her word that he would the third morrow

after, before the walls of the town, strike off Antiphilus’s head,

without his suit in that space were granted, adding, withal, because

he had heard of her desperate affection, that, if in the meantime she

did herself any hurt, what tortures could be devised should be lain

upon Antiphilus.

“Then lo, if Cupid be a god, or that the tyranny of our own thoughts

seem as a god unto us: but whatsoever it was then it did set forth the

miserableness of his effects; she being drawn to two contraries by one

cause (for the love of him commanded her to yield to no other; the

love of him commanded her to {194} preserve his life); which knot

might well be cut, but untied it could not be. So that love in her

passions, like a right make-bate, whispered to both sides arguments of

quarrel. ‘What,’ said he, ‘of the one side, dost thou love Antiphilus,

O Erona! and shall Tiridates enjoy thy body? With what eyes wilt thou

look upon Antiphilus, when he shall know that another possesseth thee?

but if thou wilt do it, canst thou do it? canst thou force thy heart?

think with thyself, if this man have thee, thou shalt never have more

part of Antiphilus than if he were dead. But thus much more, that the

affectation shall be still gnawing, and the remorse still present.

Death perhaps will cool the rage of thy affection: where thus, thou

shalt ever love, and ever lack. Think this beside, if thou marry

Tiridates, Antiphilus is so excellent a man that long he cannot be

from being in some high place married; can’st thou suffer that too? if

another kill him, he doth him the wrong; if thou abuse thy body, thou

dost him the wrong. His death is a work of nature, and either now, or

at another time he shall die. But it shall be thy work, thy shameful

work, which is in thy power to shun, to make him live to see thy faith

falsified, and his bed defiled.’ But when love had well kindled that

party of her thoughts, then went he to the other side. ‘What,’ said

he, ‘O Erona, and is thy love of Antiphilus come to that point, as

thou dost now make it a question whether he shall die, or no? O

excellent affection, which for too much love will see his head off.

Mark well the reasons of the other side, and thou shalt see it is but

love of thyself which so disputeth. Thou can’st not abide Tiridates:

this is but love of thyself; thou shalt be ashamed to look upon him

afterwards; this is but fear of shame, and love of thyself; thou shalt

want him as much then; this is but love of thyself: he shall be

married; if he be well, why should that grieve thee, but for love of

thyself? no, no, pronounce these words if thou can’st, “let Antiphilus

die.”’ Then the images of each side stood before her understanding;

one time she thought she saw Antiphilus dying, another time she

thought Antiphilus saw her by Tiridates enjoyed; twenty times calling

for a servant to carry message of yielding, but before he came the

mind was altered. She blushed when she considered the effect of

granting; she was pale, when she remembered the fruits of denying. For

weeping, sighing, wringing her hands, and tearing her hair, were

indifferent of both sides. Easily she would have agreed to have broken

all disputations with her own death, but that the fear of Antiphilus’s

further torments, stayed her. At length, even the evening before the

day appointed for his death, the determination of yielding prevailed,

especially, growing upon a message of Antiphilus, who with all the

conjuring terms he could devise, besought her to save {195} his life,

upon any conditions. But she had no sooner sent her messenger to

Tiridates, but her mind changed, and she went to the two young

princes, Pyrocles and Musidorus, and falling down at their feet,

desired them to try some way for her deliverance, showing herself

resolved not to over-live Antiphilus, nor yet to yield to Tiridates.

“They that knew not what she had done in private, prepared that night

accordingly: and as sometimes it falls out that what is inconstancy

seems cunning, so did this change indeed stand in as good stead as a

witty dissimulation. For it made the king as reckless as them

diligent, so that in the dead time of the night, the princes issued

out of the town; with whom she would needs go, either to die herself,

or rescue Antiphilus, having no armour, or weapon, but affection. And

I cannot tell you how, or by what device, though Plangus at large

described it, the conclusion was, the wonderful valour of the two

princes so prevailed, that Antiphilus was succoured, and the king

slain. Plangus was then the chief man left in the camp; and therefore

seeing no other remedy, conveyed in safety into her country Artaxia,

now Queen of Armenia, who with true lamentations, made known to the

world that her new greatness did no way comfort her in respect of her

brother’s loss, whom she studied by all means possible to revenge upon

every one of the occasioners, having, as she thought, overthrown her

brother by a most abominable treason. Insomuch, that being at home she

proclaimed great rewards to any private man, and herself in marriage

to any prince that would destroy Pyrocles and Musidorus. But thus was

Antiphilus redeemed, and, though against the consent of all her

nobility, married to Erona; in which case the two Greek princes, being

called away by another adventure, left them.

“But now methinks, as I have read some poets, who when they intend to

tell some horrible matter, they bid men shun the hearing of it, so if

I do not desire you to stop your ears from me, yet may I well desire a

breathing time, before I am to tell the execrable treason of

Antiphilus that brought her to this misery, and withal wish you all,

that from all mankind indeed you stop your ears. O most happy were we,

if we did set our loves one upon another.” And as she spake that word,

her cheeks in red letters writ more than her tongue did speak. “And

therefore since I have named Plangus, I pray you, sister,” said she,

“help me with the rest, for I have held the stage long enough; and if

it please you to make his fortune known, as I have done Erona’s, I

will after take heart again to go on with his falsehood; and so

between us both, my Lady Zelmane shall understand both the cause and

parties of this lamentation.” “Nay, I beshrew me then,” said Miso,

{196} “I will none of that, I promise you, as long as I have the

government, I will first have my tale, and then my Lady Pamela, my

Lady Zelmane, and my daughter Mopsa (for Mopsa was then returned from

Amphialus) may draw cuts, and the shortest cut speak first. For I tell

you, and this may be suffered, when you are married, you will have

first and last word of your husbands.”

The ladies laughed to see with what an eager earnestness she looked,

having threatened not only in her ferret eyes, but while she spoke her

nose seeming to threaten her chin, and her shaking limbs one to

threaten another. But there was no remedy, they must obey, and Miso,

sitting on the ground with her knees up, and her hands upon her knees,

tuning her voice with many a quavering cough, thus discoursed unto

them. “I tell you true,” said she, “whatsoever you think of me, you

will one day be as I am; and I, simple though I sit here, thought once

my penny as good silver, as some of you do: and if my father had not

played the hasty fool, it is no lie I tell you, I might have had

another-gains husband than Dametas. But let that pass, God amend him;

and yet I speak it not without good cause. You are full in your

tittle-tattlings of Cupid, here is Cupid and there is Cupid. I will

tell you now what a good old woman told me, what an old wise man told

her, what a great learned clerk told him, and gave it him in writing:

and here I have it in my prayer-book.” “I pray you,” said Philoclea,

“let us see it and read it.” “No haste, but good,” said Miso, “you

shall first know how I came by it. I was a young girl of seven and

twenty years old, and I could not go through the street of our

village, but I might hear the young men talk: O the pretty little eyes

of Miso: O the fine thin lips of Miso: O the goodly fat hands of Miso:

besides, how well a certain wrying in my neck became me. Then the one

would wink with one eye, and the other cast daisies at me. I must

confess, seeing so many amorous, it made me set up my peacock’s tail

with the highest. Which when this good old woman perceived, O the good

old woman, well may the bones rest of the good old woman, she called

me to her into her house. I remember full well it stood in the lane as

you go to the barber’s shop; all the town knew her, there was a great

loss of her: she called me to her, and taking first a sop of wine to

comfort her heart, it was of the same wine that comes out of Candia,

which we pay so dear for now-a-days, and in that good world was very

good cheap, she called me to her: ‘Minion,’ said she, indeed I was a

pretty one in those days, though I say it, ‘I see a number of lads

that love you, well,’ said she, ‘I say no more; do you know what love

is?’ With that she brought me into a corner, where there was painted a

foul fiend I trow, for he had a pair of horns like a bull, his feet

cloven, as many {197} eyes upon his body as my grey mare hath dapples,

and for all the world so placed. This monster sat like a hangman upon

a pair of gallows; in his right hand he was painted holding a crown of

laurel; in his left hand a purse of money; and out of his mouth hung a

lace of two fair pictures of a man and a woman, and such a countenance

he showed as if he would persuade folks by those allurements to come

thither and be hanged. I, like a tender-hearted wench, shrieked out

for fear of the devil: ‘Well,’ said she, ‘this same is even love;

therefore do what thou list with all those fellows one after another,

and it recks not much what they do to thee, so it be in secret; but

upon my charge, never love none of them.’ ‘Why mother,’ said I, ‘could

such a thing come from the belly of fair Venus? for a few days before,

our priest, between him and me, had told me the whole story of Venus.’

‘Tush,’ said she, ‘they are all deceived;’ and therewith gave me this

book which she said a great maker of ballads had given to an old

painter, who, for a little pleasure, had bestowed both book and

picture of her. ‘Read there,’ said she, ‘and thou shalt see that his

mother was a cow, and the false Argus his father.’ And so she gave me

this book, and there now you may read it.” With that the remembrance

of the good old woman, made her make such a face to weep, as if it

were not sorrow, it was the carcass of sorrow that appeared there. But

while her tears came out, like rain falling upon dirty furrows, the

latter end of her prayer-book was read among these ladies, which

contained this:

Poor Painters oft with silly Poets join,

To fill the world with strange but vain conceits:

One brings the stuff, the other stamps the coin,

Which breeds nought else but glosses of deceits.

Thus painters Cupid paint, thus poets do

A naked god, blind, young, with arrows two.

Is he a god that ever flies the light:

Or naked he, disguis’d in all untruth?

If he be blind, how hitteth he so right?

How is he young that tam’d old Phoebus’ youth?

But arrows two, and tipped with gold or lead?

Some hurt, accuse a third with horny head.

No, nothing so; an old false knave he is,

By Argus got on Io, then a cow:

What time for her Juno her Jove did miss,

And charge of her to Argus did allow.

Mercury kill’d his false sire for this act,

His dam a beast was pardon’d beastly fact.

With father’s death and mother’s guilty shame,

With Jove’s disdain of such a rival’s seed:

{198}

The wretch compell’d a runagate became,

And learn’d what ill a miser-state doth breed:

To lie, to steal, to pry, and to accuse,

Nought in himself each other to abuse.

Yet bears he still his parents’ stately gifts,

A horned head, cloven feet, and thousand eyes,

Some gazing still, some winking wily shifts,

Whose long large ears, where never rumour dies.

His horned head doth seem the heaven to spite,

His cloven foot doth never tread aright.

Thus half a man, with man he daily haunts,

Cloth’d in the shape which soonest may deceive:

Thus half a beast, each beastly vice he plants,

In those weak hearts that his advice receive.

He prowls each place still in new colours decked,

Sucking one’s ill, another to infect.

To narrow breasts, he comes all wrapped in gain:

To swelling hearts he shines in honour’s fire:

To open eyes all beauties he doth rain;

Creeping to each with flattering of desire.

But for that love is worst which rules the eyes,

Thereon his name, there his chief triumph lies.

Millions of years this old drivel Cupid lives,

While still more wretch, more wicked he doth prove.

Till now at length that Jove him office gives

(At Juno’s suit, who much did Argus love)

In this our world a hangman for to be

Of all those fools, that will have all they see.

The ladies made sport at the description and story of Cupid. But

Zelmane could scarce suffer those blasphemies, as she took them, to be

read, but humbly besought Pamela she should perform her sister’s

request of the other part of the story. “Noble lady,” answered she,

beautifying her face with a sweet smiling, and the sweetness of her

smiling with the beauty of her face, “since I am born a prince’s

daughter, let me not give example of disobedience. My governess will

have us draw cuts, and therefore I pray you let us do so: and so

perhaps it will light upon you to entertain this company with some

story of your own; and it is reason our ears should be willinger to

hear, as your tongue is abler to deliver.” “I will think,” answered

Zelmane, “excellent princess, my tongue of some value if it can

procure your tongue thus much to favour me.” But Pamela pleasantly

persisting to have fortune their judge, they set hands, and Mopsa

(though at the first for squeamishness going up and down with her head

like a boat in a storm,) put to her golden gols[b2-01] among them, and

blind fortune, that saw not the colour of them, gave her the

pre-eminence: and so being her time {199} to speak, wiping her mouth,

as there was good cause, she thus tumbled into her matter.

“In time past,” said she, “there was a king, the mightiest man in all

his country, that had by his wife the fairest daughter that ever ate

pap. Now this king did keep a great house, that everybody might come

and take their meat freely. So one day as his daughter was sitting in

her window, playing upon a harp as sweet as any rose, and combing her

head with a comb all of precious stones, there came in a knight into

the court, upon a goodly horse, one hair of gold, and the other of

silver; and so the knight casting up his eyes to the window, did fall

into such love with her, that he grew not worth the bread he ate; till

many a sorry day going over his head, with daily diligence and griefly

groans, he won her affection, so that they agreed to run away

together. And so in May, when all true hearts rejoice, they stole out

of the castle without staying so much as for their breakfast. Now

forsooth, as they went together, often fall to kissing one another,

the knight told her, he was brought up among the water-nymphs, who had

so bewitched him that if he were ever ask’d his name, he must

presently vanish away, and therefore charged her upon his blessing,

never to ask him what he was, not whether he would. And so a great

while she kept his commandment; till once, passing through a cruel

wilderness, as dark as pitch, her mouth so watered, that she could not

choose but ask him the question. And then, he making the grievousest

complaints that would have melted a tree to have heard them, vanish’d

quite away: and she lay down, casting forth as pitiful cries as any

shriek-owl. But having lain so, wet by the rain, and burnt by the sun,

five days and five nights, she got up and went over many a high hill,

and many a deep river, till she came to an aunt’s house of hers, and

came and cried to her for help: and she for pity gave her a nut, and

bid her never open her nut till she was come to the extremest misery

that ever tongue could speak of; and so she went, and she went, and

never rested the evening, where she went in the morning, till she came

to a second aunt, and she gave her another nut.”

“Now good Mopsa,” said the sweet Philoclea, “I pray thee at my request

keep this tale till my marriage-day, and I promise thee that the best

gown I wear that day shall be thine.” Mopsa was very glad of that

bargain, especially that it should grow a festival tale: so that

Zelmane, who desired to find the uttermost what these ladies

understood touching herself, and having understood the danger of

Erona, of which before she had never heard, purposing with herself, as

soon as this pursuit she now was in was brought to any effect, to

succour her, entreated again, that she might know as well the story of

Plangus, as of Erona. Philoclea referred it to {200} her sister’s

perfecter remembrance, who with so sweet a voice, and so winning a

grace, as in themselves were of most forcible eloquence to procure

attention, in this manner to their earnest request soon condescended.

“The father of this prince Plangus as yet lives, and is king of

Iberia: a man, if the judgment of Plangus may be accepted, of no

wicked nature, nor willingly doing evil, without himself mistake the

evil, seeing it disguised under some form of goodness. This prince

being married at the first to a princess, who both from her ancestors,

and in herself was worthy of him, by her had this son Plangus. Not

long after whose birth, the queen, as though she had performed the

message for which she was sent into the world, returned again unto her

maker. The king, sealing up all thoughts of love under the image of

her memory, remained a widower many years after; recompensing the

grief of that disjoining from her, in conjoining in himself both a

fatherly and motherly care toward her only child Plangus, who being

grown to man’s age, as our own eyes may judge, could not but fertilely

requite his father’s fatherly education.

“This prince, while yet the errors in his nature were excused by the

greenness of his youth which took all the fault upon itself, loved a

private man’s wife of the principal city of that kingdom, if that may

be called love, which he rather did take into himself willingly than

by which he was taken forcibly. It sufficeth that the young man

persuaded himself he loved her: she being a woman beautiful enough, if

it be possible, that the only outside can justly entitle a beauty. But

finding such a chase as only fled to be caught, the young prince

brought his affection with her to that point, which ought to engrave

remorse in her heart, and to paint shame upon her face. And so

possessed he his desire without any interruption; he constantly

favouring her, and she thinking that the enamelling of a prince’s

name, might hide the spots of a broken wedlock. But as I have seen one

that was sick of a sleeping disease could not be made wake, but with

pinching of him, so out of his sinful sleep his mind, unworthy so to

be lost, was not to be called to itself, but by a sharp accident. It

fell out, that his many times leaving of the court, in undue times,

began to be noted; and, as prince’s ears be manifold, from one to

another came unto the king, who, careful of his only son, sought and

found by his spies, the necessary evil servants to a king, what it

was, whereby he was from his better delights so diverted. Whereupon,

the king, to give his fault the greater blow, used such means by

disguising himself, that he found them, her husband being absent, in

her house together, which he did to make them the more feelingly

ashamed of it. And that way he took, laying threatenings upon her, and

upon him {201} reproaches. But the poor young prince, deceived with

that young opinion, that if it be ever lawful to lie, it is for one’s

lover, employed all his wit to bring his father into a better opinion.

And because he might bend him from that, as he counted it, crooked

conceit of her, he wrested him, as much as he could possibly, to the

other side, not sticking with prodigal protestations to set forth her

chastity; not denying his own attempt, but thereby the more extolling

her virtue. His sophistry prevailed, his father believed, and so

believed, that ere long, though he were already stepped into the

winter of his age, he found himself warm in those desires which were

in his son far more excusable. To be short, he gave himself over unto

it, and, because he would avoid the odious comparison of a young

rival, sent away his son with an army, to the subduing of a province

lately rebelled against him, which he knew could not be less work than

of three or four years. Wherein he behaved himself so worthily, as

even to this country the fame thereof came, long before his own

coming: while yet his father had a speedier success, but in a far more

unnobler conquest. For while Plangus was away, the old man, growing

only in age and affection, followed his suit with all means of

unhonest servants, large promises, and each thing else that might help

to countervail his own unloveliness.

“And she, whose husband about that time died, forgetting the absent

Plangus, or at least not hoping of him to obtain so aspiring a

purpose, left no art unused, which might keep the line from breaking,

whereat the fish was already taken, not drawing him violently, but

letting him play himself upon the hook which he had so greedily

swallowed. For, accompanying her mourning garments with a doleful

countenance, yet neither forgetting handsomeness in her mourning

garments, nor sweetness in her doleful countenance, her words were

ever seasoned with sighs, and any favour she showed, bathed in tears,

that affection might see cause of pity, and pity might persuade cause

of affection. And being grown skilful in his humours, she was no less

skilful in applying his humours; never suffering his fear to fall to

despair, nor his hope to hasten to an assurance: she was content he

should think that she loved him; and a certain stolen look should

sometimes, as though it were against her will, betray it: but if

thereupon he grew bold, he straight was encountered with a mask of

virtue. And that which seemeth most impossible unto me, for as near as

I can repeat it, as Plangus told it, she could not only sigh when she

would, as all can do, and weep when she would, as, they say, some can

do; but, being most impudent in her heart, she could when she would,

teach her cheeks blushing, and make shamefacedness the cloak of

shamelessness. In sum, to leave out many particularities, which he

recited, she did not only use so the spur {202} that his desire ran

on, but so the bit, that it ran on even in such a career as she would

have it; that within a while the king, seeing with no other eyes but

such as she gave him, and thinking on no other thoughts but such as

she taught him; having at first liberal measures of favours, then

shortened of them, when most his desire was inflamed, he saw no other

way but marriage to satisfy his longing, and her mind, as he thought,

loving, but chastely loving: so that by the time Plangus returned from

being notably victorious over the rebels, he found his father not only

married, but already a father of a son and a daughter by this woman.

Which though Plangus, as he had every way just cause, was grieved at;

yet did his grief never bring forth either contemning of her or

repining at his father. But she, who besides that was grown a mother,

and a step-mother, did read in his eyes her own fault, and made his

conscience her guiltiness, thought still that his presence carried her

condemnation; so much the more, as that she, unchastely attempting his

wonted fancies, found, for the reverence of his father’s bed, a bitter

refusal, which breeding rather spite than shame in her, or if it were

a shame, a shame not of the fault, but of the repulse, she did not

only, as hating him, thirst for a revenge, but, as fearing harm from

him, endeavoured to do harm unto him. Therefore did she try the

uttermost of her wicked wit, how to overthrow him in the foundation of

his strength, which was in the favour of his father: which because she

saw strong both in nature and desert, it required the more cunning how

to undermine it. And therefore, shunning the ordinary trade of

hireling Sycophants, she made her praises of him to be accusations;

and her advancing him to be his ruin. For first, with words, nearer

admiration than liking, she would extol his excellencies, the

goodliness of his shape, the power of his wit, the valiantness of his

courage, the fortunateness of his successes, so as the father might

find in her a singular love towards him: nay she shunned not to kindle

some few sparks of jealousy in him: thus having gotten an opinion in

his father that she was far from meaning mischief to the son, then

fell she to praise him with no less vehemency of affection, but with

much more cunning of malice. For then she sets forth the liberty of

his mind, the high flying of his thoughts, the fitness in him to bear

rule, the singular love the subjects bear him, that it was doubtful

whether his wit were greater in winning their favours, or his courage

in employing their favours; that he was not born to live a subject

life, each action of his bearing in it majesty; such a kingly

entertainment, such a kingly magnificence, such a kingly heart for

enterprises; especially remembering those virtues, which in a

successor are no more honoured by the subjects than suspected of the

princes. Then would she, by putting off objections, bring {203} in

objections to her husband’s head, already infected with suspicion.

‘Nay,’ would she say, ‘I dare take it upon my death, that he is no

such son, as many like might have been, who loved greatness so well as

to build their greatness upon their father’s ruin. Indeed ambition,

like love, can abide no lingering, and ever urgeth on his own

successes; hating nothing, but what may stop them. But the gods

forbid, we should ever once dream of any such thing in him, who

perhaps might be content that you and the world should know what he

can do: but the more power he hath to hurt, the more admirable is his

praise, that he will not hurt.’ Then ever remembering to strengthen

the suspicion of his estate with private jealousy of her love, doing

him excessive honour when he was in presence, and repeating his pretty

speeches and graces in his absence, besides, causing him to be

employed in all such dangerous matters, as either he should perish in

them, or, if he prevailed, they should increase his glory, which she

made a weapon to wound him; until she found that suspicion began

already to speak for itself, and that her husband’s ears were grown

hungry of rumours, and his eyes prying into every accident.

“Then took she help to her of a servant near about her husband, whom

she knew to be of a hasty ambition, and such a one, who, wanting true

sufficiency to raise him, would make a ladder of any mischief. Him she

useth to deal more plainly in alleging causes of jealousy, making him

know the fittest times when her husband already was stirred that way.

And so they two, with divers ways, nourished one humour, like

musicians, that singing divers parts, make one music. He sometimes

with fearful countenance would desire the king to look to himself, for

that all the court and city were full of whisperings and expectation

of some sudden change, upon what ground himself knew not. Another time

he would counsel the king to make much of his son, and hold his

favour, for that it was too late now to keep him under. Now seeming to

fear himself, because, he said, Plangus loved none of them that were

great about his father. Lastly, breaking with him directly, making a

sorrowful countenance, and an humble gesture bear false witness for

his true meaning, that he found not only soldiery, but people weary of

his government, and all their affection bent upon Plangus; both he and

the queen concurring in strange dreams, and each thing else, that in a

mind already perplexed might breed astonishment: so that within a

while, all Plangus’s actions began to be translated into the language

of suspicion. Which though Plangus found, yet could he not avoid, even

contraries being driven to draw one yoke of argument. If he were

magnificent, he spent much with an aspiring intent, if he spared, he

heaped much with an aspiring intent; if he spoke courteously, he

angled the people’s {204} hearts; if he were silent, he mused upon

some dangerous plot. In sum, if he could have turned himself to as

many forms as Proteus, every form should have been made hideous.

“But so it fell out, that a mere trifle gave them occasion of further

proceeding. The king one morning, going to a vineyard that lay along

the hill whereupon his castle stood: he saw a vine-labourer, that

finding a bough broken, took a branch of the same bough for want of

another thing and tied it about the place broken. The king asking the

fellow what he did, ‘Marry,’ said he, ‘I make the son bind the

father.’ This word, finding the king already superstitious through

suspicion, amazed him straight, as a presage of his own fortune, so

that, returning and breaking with his wife how much he misdoubted his

estate; she made such gainsaying answers as while they strove, strove

to be overcome. But even while the doubts most boiled, she thus

nourished them.

“She under-hand dealt with the principal men of that country, that at

the great parliament, which was then to be held, they should in the

name of all the estates persuade the king, being now stepped deeply

into old age, to make Plangus his associate in government with him,

assuring them that not only she would join with them, but that the

father himself would take it kindly, charging them not to acquaint

Plangus withal, for that perhaps it might be harmful unto him, if the

king should find that he were a party. They (who thought they might do

it, not only willingly, because they loved him; and truly, because

such indeed was the mind of the people; but safely, because she who

ruled the king, was agreed thereto) accomplished her counsel; she

indeed keeping promise of vehement persuading the same: which the more

she and they did, the more she knew her husband would fear, and hate

the cause of his fear. Plangus found this, and humbly protested

against such desire or will to accept. But the more he protested, the

more his father thought he dissembled, accounting his integrity to be

but a cunning face of falsehood: and therefore delaying the desire of

his subjects, attended some fit occasion to lay hands upon his son,

which his wife brought thus to pass.

“She caused the same minister of hers to go unto Plangus, and,

enabling his words with great show of faith, and endearing them with

desire of secrecy, to tell him, that he found his ruin conspired by

his stepmother, with certain of the noblemen of that country, the king

himself giving his consent, and that few days should pass before the

putting it in practice; withal discovering the very truth indeed, with

what cunning his step-mother had proceeded. This agreeing with Plangus

his own opinion, made him give the better credit; yet not so far, as

to fly out of his country, according to the naughty fellow’s

persuasion, but to attend, and to see further. {205} Whereupon the

fellow, by the direction of his mistress, told him one day, that the

same night, about one of the clock, the king had appointed to have his

wife, and those noblemen together to deliberate of their manner of

proceeding against Plangus, and therefore offered him, that if himself

would agree, he would bring him into a place where he should hear all

that passed and so have the more reason both to himself and to the

world, to seek his safety. The poor Plangus, being subject to that

only disadvantage of honest hearts, credulity, was persuaded by him;

and arming himself, because of his late going, was closely conveyed

into the place appointed. In the meantime, his step-mother, making all

her gestures cunningly counterfeit a miserable affliction, she lay

almost grovelling on the floor of her chamber, not suffering anybody

to comfort her, until they calling for her husband, and he held off

with long enquiry, at length she told him, even almost crying out of

every word, that she was weary of her life, since she was brought to

that plunge, either to conceal her husband’s murder, or accuse her

son, who had ever been more dear than a son unto her. Then with many

interruptions and exclamations she told him, that her son Plangus,

soliciting her in the old affection between them, had besought her to

put to her helping hand to the death of the king, assuring her that,

though all the laws in the world were against it, he would marry her

when he were king.

“She had not fully said thus much, with many pitiful digressions, when

in comes the same fellow that brought Plangus: and running himself out

of breath, fell at the king’s feet, beseeching him to save himself,

for that there was a man with a sword drawn in the next room. The king

affrighted, went out, and called his guard, who entering the place,

found indeed Plangus with his sword in his hand, but not naked, yet

standing suspiciously enough to one already suspicious. The king,

thinking he had put up his sword because of the noise, never took

leisure to hear his answer, but made him prisoner, meaning the next

morning to put him to death in the market-place.

“But the day had no sooner opened the eyes and ears of his friends and

followers, but that there was a little army of them who came, and by

force delivered him; although numbers on the other side, abused with

the fine framing of their report, took arms for the king. But Plangus,

though he might have used the force of his friends to revenge his

wrong, and get the crown, yet the natural love of his father, and hate

to make their suspicion seem just, caused him rather to choose a

voluntary exile than to make his father’s death the purchase of his

life: and therefore went he to Tiridates, whose mother was his

father’s sister, living in his court eleven or twelve years, ever

hoping by his intercession, and his {206} own desert, to recover his

father’s grace. At the end of which time, the war of Erona happened,

which my sister, with the cause thereof, discoursed unto you.

“But his father had so deeply engraven the suspicion in his heart that

he thought his flight rather to proceed of a fearful guiltiness than

of an humble faithfulness, and therefore continued his hate with such

vehemency that he did even hate his nephew Tiridates, and afterwards

his niece Artaxia, because in his court he received countenance,

leaving no means unattempted of destroying his son; among other,

employing that wicked servant of his, who undertook to empoison him.

But his cunning disguised him not so well but that the watchful

servants of Plangus did discover him, whereupon the wretch was taken,

and, before his well-deserved execution, by tortures forced to confess

the particularities of this, which in general I have told you.

“Which confession authentically set down, though Tiridates with solemn

embassage sent to the king, wrought no effect. For the king having put

the reins of the government into his wife’s hand, never did so much as

read it, but sent it straight by her to be considered. So as they

rather heaped more hatred on Plangus, for the death of their servant.

And now finding, that his absence, and their reports, had much

diminished the wavering people’s affection towards Plangus, with

advancing fit persons for faction, and granting great immunities to

the commons, they prevailed so far as to cause the son of the second

wife, called Palladius, to be proclaimed successor, and Plangus quite

excluded: so that Plangus was driven to continue his serving

Tiridates, as he did in the war against Erona, and brought home

Artaxia, as my sister told you; when Erona by the treason of

Antiphilus----”

But at that word she stopped. For Basilius, not able longer to abide

their absence, came suddenly among them, and with smiling countenance,

telling Zelmane he was afraid she had stolen away his daughters,

invited them to follow the sun’s counsel in going then to their

lodging, for indeed the sun was ready to set. They yielded, Zelmane

meaning some other time to understand the story of Antiphilus’s

treason, and Erona’s danger, whose cause she greatly tendered. But

Miso had no sooner espied Basilius, but as spitefully as her rotten

voice could utter, she set forth the sauciness of Amphialus. But

Basilius only attended what Zelmane’s opinion was, who though she

hated Amphialus, yet the nobility of her courage prevailed over it,

and she desired he might be pardoned that youthful error, considering

the reputation he had to be one of the best knights in the world; so

as hereafter he governed himself, as one remembering his fault.

Basilius giving the infinite terms of praises to Zelmane’s both valour

in conquering, and pitifulness in {207} pardoning, commanded no more

words to be made of it, since such he thought was her pleasure.

So brought he them up to visit his wife, where, between her and him,

the poor Zelmane received a tedious entertainment; oppressed with

being loved, almost as much, as with loving. Basilius not so wise in

covering his passion, could make his tongue go almost no other pace,

but to run into those immoderate praises which the foolish lover

thinks short of his mistress, though they reach far beyond the

heavens. But Gynecia, whom womanly modesty did more outwardly bridle,

yet did sometimes use the advantage of her sex in kissing Zelmane, as

she sat upon her bed-side by her, which was but still more and more

sweet incense to cast upon the fire wherein her heart was sacrificed.

Once Zelmane could not stir, but that, as if they had been poppets,

whose motion stood only upon her pleasure, Basilius with serviceable

steps, Gynecia with greedy eyes, would follow her. Basilius’s mind

Gynecia well knew, and could have found in her heart to laugh at, if

mirth could have born any proportion with her fortune. But all

Gynecia’s actions were interpreted by Basilius, as proceeding from

jealously of his amorousness. Zelmane betwixt both, like the poor

child, whose father, while he beats him, will make him believe it is

for love; or like the sick man, to whom the physician swears the

ill-tasting wallowish medicine he proffers is of a good taste: their

love was hateful, their courtesy troublesome, their presence cause of

her absence thence, where not only her light, but her life consisted.

Alas! thought she to herself, dear Dorus, what odds is there between

thy destiny and mine? For thou hast to do, in thy pursuit but with

shepherdish folks, who trouble thee with a little envious care, and

affected diligence; but I, besides that I have now Miso, the worst of

thy devils, let loose upon me, am waited on by princes, and watched by

the two wakeful eyes of love and jealousy. Alas! incomparable

Philoclea, thou ever seest me, but dost never see me as I am: thou

hearest willingly all that I dare say, and I dare not say that which

were most fit for thee to hear. Alas! who ever but I was imprisoned in

liberty, and banished being still present? to whom but me have lovers

been jailors, and honour a captivity?

But the night coming on with her silent steps upon them, they parted

each from other, if at least they could be parted, of whom every one

did live in another, and went about to flatter sleep in their beds,

that disdained to bestow itself liberally upon such eyes, which by

their will would ever be looking, and in least measure upon Gynecia.

Who, when Basilius after long tossing was gotten asleep, and the

cheerful comfort of the lights removed from her, kneeling up in her

bed, began with a soft voice, and swollen heart, to renew the curses

of her birth; and then in a manner embracing {208} her bed: “Ah

chastest bed of mine,” said she, “which never heretofore could’st

accuse me of one defiled thought, how can’st thou now receive this

disastered changeling? happy, happy, be they only which be not; and

thy blessedness only in this respect thou mayest feel that thou hast

no feeling.” With that she furiously tore off great part of her fair

hair: “Take care, O forgotten virtue,” said she, “this miserable

sacrifice; while my soul was clothed with modesty, that was a comely

ornament: now why should nature crown that head, which is so wicked,

as her only desire is she cannot be enough wicked?” more she would

have said, but that Basilius, awaked with the noise, took her in his

arms, and began to comfort her, the good man thinking it was all for a

jealous love of him, which humour if she would a little have

maintained, perchance it might have weakened his new-conceived

fancies. But he, finding her answers wandering from the purpose, left

her to herself (glad the next morning to take the advantage of a

sleep, which a little before day overwatched with sorrow, her tears

had as it were sealed up in her eyes) to have the more conference with

Zelmane, who baited on this fashion by those two lovers, and ever kept

from any mean to declare herself, found in herself a daily increase of

her violent desires; like a river, the more swelling, the more his

current is stopped.

The chief recreation she could find in her anguish, was sometime to

visit that place, where first she was so happy as to see the cause of

her unhap. There would she kiss the ground, and thank the trees, bless

the air, and do dutiful reverence to everything that she thought did

accompany her at their first meeting: then return again to her inward

thoughts; sometimes despair darkening all her imaginations, sometimes

the active passion of love cheering and clearing her invention, how to

unbar that cumbersome hindrance of her two ill-matched lovers. But

this morning Basilius himself gave her good occasion to go beyond

them. For having combed and tricked himself more curiously than any

time forty winters before, coming where Zelmane was, he found her

given over to her musical muses, to the great pleasure of good old

Basilius, who retired himself behind a tree, while she with a most

sweet voice did utter those passionate verses.

Loved I am, and yet complain of love:

As loving not, accus’d in love I die.

When pity most I crave, I cruel prove:

Still seeking love, love found, as much I fly.

Burnt in myself, I muse at other’s fire;

What I call wrong, I do the same and more:

Barr’d of my will, I have beyond desire;

I wail for want, and yet am chok’d with store.

{209}

This is thy work, thou god for ever blind:

Though thousands old, a boy entitled still.

Thus children do the silly birds they find,

With stroking hurt, and too much cramming kill.

Yet thus much love, O love, I crave of thee:

Let me be lov’d, or else not loved be.

Basilius made no great haste from beyond the trees, till he perceived

she had fully ended her music. But then loth to lose the precious

fruit of time, he presented himself unto her, falling down upon both

his knees, and holding up his hands, as the old governess of Danae is

painted, when she suddenly saw the golden shower, “O heavenly woman,

or earthly goddess,” said he, “let not my presence be odious unto you,

nor my humble suit seem of small weight in your ears. Vouchsafe your

eyes to descend upon this miserable old man, whose life hath hitherto

been maintained but to serve as an increase of your beautiful

triumphs. You only have overthrown me, and in my bondage consists my

glory. Suffer not your own work to be despised of you, but look upon

him with pity, whose life serves for your praise.” Zelmane, keeping a

countenance askance she understood him not, told him it became her

evil to suffer such excessive reverence of him, but that it worse

became her to correct him, to whom she owed duty; that the opinion she

had of his wisdom was such as made her esteem greatly of his words;

but that the words themselves sounded so, that she could not imagine

what they might intend. “Intend,” said Basilius, proud that that was

brought in question, “what may they intend but a refreshing of my

soul, and assuaging of my heart, and enjoying those your excellencies,

wherein my life is upheld, and my death threatened?” Zelmane lifting

up her face as if she had received a mortal injury of him, “and is

this the devotion your ceremonies have been bent to?” said she: “is it

the disdain of my estate, or the opinion of my lightness that have

emboldened such base fancies towards me? enjoying quoth you? now

little joy come to them that yield to such enjoying.”

Poor Basilius was so appalled that his legs bowed under him; his eyes

looked as though he would gladly hide himself, and his old blood going

to his heart, a general shaking all over his body possessed him. At

length, with a wan mouth, he was about to give a stammering answer,

when it came into Zelmane’s head by this device, to make her profit of

his folly; and therefore with a relented countenance, thus said unto

him, “Your words, mighty Prince, were unfit either for me to hear, or

you to speak, but yet the large testimony I see of your affection

makes me willing to suppress a great number of errors. Only thus much

I think good {210} to say, that the same words in my lady Philoclea’s

mouth, as from one woman to another, so as there were no other body

by, might have had a better grace, and perchance have found a gentler

receipt.”