Yet among the rebels there was a dapper fellow, a tailor by

occupation, who fetching his courage only from their going back, began

to bow his knees, and very fencer-like to draw near to Zelmane. But as

he came within her distance, turning his sword very nicely about his

crown, Basilius, with a side blow, struck off his nose, he (being

suitor to a seamster’s daughter, and therefore not a little grieved

for such a disgrace) stooped down, because he had heard that if it

were fresh put to, it would cleave on again. But as his hand was on

the ground to bring his nose to his head, Zelmane with a blow sent his

head to his nose. That saw a butcher, a butcherly chuff indeed, who

that day was sworn brother to him in a cup of wine, and lifted up a

great leaver, calling Zelmane all the vile names of a butcherly

eloquence. But she letting slip the blow of the leaver, hit him so

surely upon the side of the face that she left nothing but the nether

jaw, where the tongue still wagged, as willing to say more if his

master’s remembrance had served. “O!” said a miller that was half

drunk, “see the luck of a good-fellow,” and with that word ran with a

pitchfork at Dorus; but the nimbleness of the wine carried his head so

fast that it made it {256} over-run his feet, so that he fell withal

just between the legs of Dorus, who setting his foot on his neck,

though he offered two milch kine and four fat hogs for his life,

thrust his sword quite through, from one ear to the other; which took

it very unkindly, to feel such news before they heard of them, instead

of hearing, to be put to such feeling. But Dorus, leaving the miller

to vomit his soul out in wine and blood, with his two-hand sword

struck off another quite by the waist, who the night before had

dreamed he was grown a couple, and, interpreting it that he should be

married, had bragged of his dream that morning among his neighbours.

But that blow astonished quite a poor painter, who stood by with a

pike in his hands. This painter was to counterfeit the skirmish

between the Centaurs and Lapithes, and had been very desirous to see

some notable wounds, to be able the more lively to express them; and

this morning, being carried by the stream of this company, the foolish

fellow was even delighted to see the effect of blows. But this last,

happening near him, so amazed him that he stood stock still, while

Dorus, with a turn of his sword, struck off both his hands. And so the

painter returned, well skilled in wounds, but with never a hand to

perform his skill.

In this manner they recovered the lodge, and gave the rebels a face of

wood of the outside. But they then, though no more furious, yet more

outrageous when they saw no resister, went about with pickaxe to the

wall, and fire to the gate, to get themselves entrance. Then did the

two ladies mix fear with love, especially Philoclea, who ever caught

hold of Zelmane, so, by the folly of love, hindering the succour which

she desired. But Zelmane seeing no way of defence, nor time to

deliberate (the number of those villains still increasing, and their

madness still increasing with their number) thought it the only means,

to go beyond their expectation with an unused boldness, and with

danger to avoid danger, and therefore opened again the gates; and

Dorus and Basilius standing ready for her defence, she issued again

among them. The blows she had dealt before, though all in general were

hasty, made each of them in particular take breath, before they

brought them suddenly over-near her, so that she had time to get up to

the judgment-seat of the prince, which, according to the guess of that

country, was before the court gate. There she paused a while, making

sign with her hand unto them, and withal, speaking aloud that she had

something to say unto them that would please them. But she was

answered a while with nothing but shouts and cries; and some beginning

to throw stones at her, not daring to approach her. But at length a

young farmer, who might do most among the country sort, and was caught

in a little affection towards Zelmane, hoping by his kindness to have

some {257} good of her, desired them if they were honest men, to hear

the woman speak. “Fie fellows, fie,” said he, “what will all the maids

in our town say if so many tall men shall be afraid to hear a fair

wench? I swear unto you, by no little ones, I had rather give my team

of oxen than we should show ourselves so uncivil wights. Besides, I

tell you true, I have heard it of old men counted wisdom, to hear

much, and say little.” His sententious speech so prevailed, that the

most part began to listen. Then she, with such efficacy of

gracefulness, and such a quiet magnanimity represented in her face in

this uttermost peril, that the more the barbarous people looked, the

more it fixed their looks upon her, in this sort began unto them.

“It is no small comfort unto me,” said she, “having to speak something

unto you for your own behoofs, to find that I have to deal with such a

people, who show indeed in themselves the right nature of valour:

which as it leaves no violence unattempted, while the choler is

nourished with resistance, so when the subject of their wrath doth of

itself unlooked-for offer itself into their hands, it makes them at

least take a pause before they determine cruelties. Now then first,

before I come to the principal matter, have I to say unto you; that

your prince Basilius himself in person is within this lodge, and was

one of the three, whom a few of you went about to fight withal:” and

(this she said, not doubting but they knew it well enough, but because

she would have them imagine that the prince might think that they did

not know it) “by him I am sent unto you, as from a prince to his

well-approved subjects, nay as from a father to beloved children, to

know what it is that hath bred just quarrel among you, or who they be

that have any way wronged you; what it is with which you are

displeased, or of which you are desirous? This he requires, and

indeed, for he knows your faithfulness, he commands you presently to

set down and choose among yourselves, someone, who may relate your

griefs or demands unto him.”

This, being more than they hoped for from their prince, assuaged well

their fury, and many of them consented, especially the young farmer

helping on, who meant to make one of the demands that he might have

Zelmane for his wife, but when they began to talk of their griefs,

never bees made such a confused humming: the town dwellers demanding

putting down of imposts; the country fellows laying out of commons:

some would have the prince keep his court in one place, some in

another: all cried out to have new counsellors; but when they should

think of any new, they liked them as well as any other that they could

remember, especially they would have the treasure so looked unto, as

that he should never need to take any more subsidies. At length they

{258} fell to direct contrarieties. For the artisans they would have

corn and wine set at a lower price, and bound to be kept so still: the

ploughmen, vine-labourers, and the farmers would none of that. The

countrymen demanded that every man might be free in the chief towns;

that could not the burgesses like of. The peasants would have all the

gentlemen destroyed, the citizens, especially such as cooks, barbers,

and those other that lived most on gentlemen, would but have them

reformed. And of each side were like divisions, one neighbourhood

beginning to find fault with another; but no confusion was greater

than of particular men’s likings and dislikings: one dispraising such

a one, whom another praised, and demanding such a one to be punished,

whom the other would have exalted. No less ado was there about

choosing him, who should be their spokesman. The finer sort of

burgesses, as merchants, prentices, and cloth-workers, because of

their riches, disdaining the baser occupations; and they because of

their number, as much disdaining them; all they scorning the

countrymen’s ignorance, and the countrymen suspecting as much their

cunning: so that Zelmane (finding that their united rage was now

grown, not only to dividing, but to a crossing of one another, and

that the mislike grown among themselves did well allay the heat

against her) made tokens again unto them, as though she took great

care of their well-doing, and were afraid of their falling out, that

she would speak unto them. They now grow jealous one of another, the

stay having engendered division, and division having manifested their

weakness, were willing enough to hear, the most part striving to show

themselves willinger than their fellows: which Zelmane, by the

acquaintance she had had with such kind of humours soon perceiving,

with an angerless bravery, and an unabashed mildness, in this manner

spoke unto them.

“An unused thing it is, and I think not heretofore seen, O Arcadians,

that a woman should give public counsel to men, a stranger to the

country people, and that lastly in such a presence by a private

person, the regal throne should be possessed. But the strangeness of

your action makes that used for virtue, which your violent necessity

imposeth. For certainly a woman may well speak to such men, who have

forgotten all man-like government; a stranger may with reason instruct

such subjects that neglect due points of subjection; and is it marvel

this place is entered into by another, since your own prince, after

thirty years’ government, dare not show his face unto faithful people?

hear therefore, O Arcadians, and be ashamed; against whom hath this

zealous rage been stirred? whither have been bent those manful weapons

of yours? in this quiet harmless lodge there be harboured no Argians,

your ancient enemies; nor Laconians, your now {259} feared neighbours.

Here be neither hard landlords, nor biting usurers. Here lodge none,

but such, as either you have great cause to love, or no cause to hate:

here being none, besides your prince, princess, and their children,

but myself. Is it I then, O Arcadians, against whom your anger is

armed? am I the mark of your vehement quarrel? if it be so, that

innocency shall not be stopped for fury; if it be so, that the law of

hospitality, so long and holily observed among you, may not defend a

stranger fled to your arms for succour: if in fine, it be so, that so

many valiant men’s courages can be inflamed to the mischief of one

silly woman; I refuse not to make my life a sacrifice to your wrath.

Exercise on me your indignation, so it go no further; I am content to

pay the great favours I have received among you, with my life not

ill-deserving: I present here unto you, O Arcadians, if that may

satisfy you; rather than you, called over the world the wise and quiet

Arcadians, should be so vain, as to attempt that alone, which all the

rest of your country will abhor; than you shall show yourselves so

ungrateful as to forget the fruit of so many years peaceable

government; or so unnatural, as not to have with the holy name of your

natural prince, any fury overmastered. For such a hellish madness, I

know, did never enter into your hearts as to attempt anything against

his person; which no successor, though never so hateful, will ever

leave, for his own sake, unrevenged. Neither can your wonted valour be

turned to such a baseness, as instead of a prince, delivered unto you

by so many royal ancestors, to take the tyrannous yoke of your fellow

subject, in whom the innate means will bring forth ravenous

covetousness and the newness of his estate suspectful cruelty.

Imagine, what could your enemies more wish unto you than to see your

own estate with your own hands undermined? O what would your

forefathers say if they lived at this time, and saw their offspring

defacing such an excellent principality, which they with much labour

and blood so wisely have established? do you think them fools, that

saw you should not enjoy your vines, your cattle, no not your wives

and children without government? and that there could be no government

without a magistrate, and no magistrate without obedience, and no

obedience where everyone upon his own private passion may interpret

the doings of the rulers? let your wits make your present example a

lesson to you. What sweetness, in good faith, find you in your present

condition; what choice of choice find you, if you had lost Basilius?

under whose ensign would you go, if your enemies should invade you? if

you cannot agree upon one to speak for you, how will you agree upon

one to fight for you? but with this fear of I cannot tell what one is

troubled, and with that past wrong another is {260} grieved. And I

pray you did the sun ever bring you a fruitful harvest but that it was

more hot than pleasant? have any of you children that be not sometimes

cumbersome? have any of you fathers that be not sometimes wearish?

what, shall we curse the sun, hate our children, or disobey our

fathers--but what need I use those words, since I see in your

countenances, now virtuously settled, nothing else but love and duty

to him, by whom for your only sakes, the government is embraced. For

all that is done, he doth not only pardon you, but thank you; judging

the action by the minds, and not the minds by the action. Your griefs,

and desires whatsoever, and whensoever you list, he will consider of,

and to his consideration it is reason you should refer them. So then,

to conclude; the uncertainty of his estate made you take arms; now you

see him well; with the same love lay them down. If now you end, as I

know you will, he will make no other account of this matter, but as of

a vehement, I must confess, over vehement affection, the only

continuance might prove a wickedness. But it is not so, I see very

well, you began with zeal, and will end with reverence.”

The action Zelmane used, being beautified by nature and apparelled

with skill, her gestures being such, that, as her words did paint out

her mind, so they served as a shadow to make the picture more lively

and sensible, with the sweet clearness of her voice, rising and

falling kindly as the nature of the word and efficacy of the matter

required, altogether in such an admirable person, whose incomparable

valour they had well felt, whose beauty did pierce through the thick

dullness of their senses, gave such a way unto her speech through the

rugged wilderness of their imaginations, who, besides they were

stricken in admiration of her, as of more than a human creature, where

cooled with taking breath, and had learned doubts out of leisure that

instead of roaring cries there was now heard nothing but a confused

muttering, whether her saying were to be followed: betwixt fear to

pursue, and loathness to leave, most of them could have been content

it had never been begun, but how to end it, each afraid of his

companion, they knew not, finding it far easier to tie, than to loose

knots. But Zelmane thinking it no evil way in such mutinies, to give

the mutinous some occasion of such service as they might think, in

their own judgment, would countervail their trespass, withal to take

the more assured possession of their minds, which she feared might

begin to waver.

“Loyal Arcadians,” said she, “now do I offer unto you the manifesting

of your duties: all those that have taken arms for the prince’s

safety, let them turn their backs to the gate, with their weapons bent

again such as would hurt his sacred person.” “O {261} weak trust of

the many-headed multitude, whom inconstancy only doth guide to

well-doing, who can set confidence there where company takes away

shame, and each may lay the fault on his fellow?” So said a crafty

fellow among them, named Clinias, to himself, when he saw the word no

sooner out of Zelmane’s mouth, but there were some shouts of joy,

with, “God save Basilius,” and divers of them with much jollity grown

to be his guard that but little before meant to be his murderers.

This Clinias in his youth had been a scholar so far as to learn rather

words than manners, and of words rather plenty than order; and often

had used to be an actor in tragedies, where he had learned, besides a

slidingness of language, acquaintance with many passions, and to frame

his face to bear the figure of them: long used to the eyes and ears of

men, and to reckon no fault but shamefac’dness in nature; a most

notable coward, and yet more strangely than rarely venturous in privy

practices.

This fellow was become of near trust to Cecropia, Amphialus’s mother,

so that he was privy to all the mischievous devices wherewith she went

about to ruin Basilius and his children, for the advancing of her son,

and though his education had made him full of tongue, yet his love to

be doing, taught him in any evil to be secret, and had by his mistress

been used ever since the strange retiring of Basilius, to whisper

rumours in the people’s ears: and this time, finding great aptness in

the multitude, was one of the chief that set them in the uproar,

though quite without the consent of Amphialus, who would not for all

the kingdoms of the world so have adventured the life of Philoclea.

But now perceiving the flood of their fury begun to ebb, he thought in

policy to take the first of the tide, so that no man cried louder than

he upon Basilius. And some of the lustiest rebels not yet agreeing to

the rest, he caused two or three of his mates that were at his

commandment to lift him up, and then as if he had a prologue to utter,

he began with nice gravity to demand audience. But few attending what

he said, with vehement gesture, as if he would tear the stars from the

skies he fell to crying out so loud that not only Zelmane, but

Basilius might hear him. “O unhappy men, more mad than the giants that

would have plucked Jupiter out of heaven, how long shall this rage

continue? why do you not all throw down your weapons and submit

yourselves to our good prince, our good Basilius, the Pelops of

wisdom, and Minos of all good government? when will you begin to

believe me, and other honest and faithful subjects, that have done all

we could to stop your fury.”

The farmer that loved Zelmane could abide him no longer. For as the

first he was willing to speak of conditions, hoping to have gotten

great sovereignties, and among the rest Zelmane; so now {262}

perceiving, that the people, once anything down the hill from their

fury, would never stay till they came to the bottom of absolute

yielding, and so that he should be nearer fears of punishment than

hopes of such advancement, he was one of them that stood most against

the agreement: and to begin withal, disdaining this fellow should play

the preacher, who had been one of the chiefest makebates, struck him a

great wound upon the face with his sword. The cowardly wretch fell

down, crying for succour, and, scrambling through the legs of them

that were about him, got to the throne, where Zelmane took him and

comforted him, bleeding for that was past, and quaking for fear of

more.

But as soon as the blow was given, as if Aeolus had broke open the

door to let all his winds out, no hand was idle, each one killing him

that was next, for fear he should do as much to him. For being divided

in minds, and not divided in companies, they that would yield to

Basilius were intermingled with them that would not yield. Those men

thinking their ruin stood upon it; those men to get favour of their

prince, converted their ungracious motion into their own bowels, and

by a true judgment grew their own punishers. None were sooner killed

than those that had been leaders in the disobedience: who by being so,

had taught them, that they did lead disobedience to the same leaders.

And many times it fell out that they killed them that were of their

own faction, anger whetting, and doubt hastening their fingers. But

then came down Zelmane; and Basilius with Dorus issued, and sometimes

seeking to draw together those of their party, sometimes laying

indifferently among them, made such havoc, among the rest Zelmane

striking the farmer to the heart with her sword, as before she had

done with her eyes, that in a while all they of the contrary side were

put to flight, and fled to certain woods upon the frontiers, where

feeding wildly, and drinking only water, they were disciplined for

their drunken riots: many of them being slain in the chase, about a

score only escaping. But when those late rebels, now soldiers, were

returned from the chase, Basilius calling them together, partly for

policy’s sake, but principally because Zelmane before had spoken it,

which was to him more than a divine ordinance, he pronounced their

general pardon, willing them to return to their houses, and hereafter

be more circumspect in their proceedings, which they did most of them

with sharp marks of their folly. But imagining Clinias to be one of

the chief that had bred this good alteration, he gave him particular

thanks, and withal willed him to make him know how this frenzy had

entered into the people.

Clinias purposing indeed to tell him the truth of all; saving what did

touch himself, or Cecropia, first dipping his hand in the {263} blood

of his wound: “Now by this blood,” said he, “which is more dear to me

than all the rest that is in my body, since it is spent for your

safety: this tongue, perchance unfortunate, but never false, shall not

now begin to lie unto my prince, of me most beloved.” Then stretching

out his hand, and making vehement countenances the ushers to his

speeches, in such manner of terms recounted this accident.

“Yesterday,” said he, “being your birthday, in the goodly green two

miles hence before the city of Enispus, to do honour to the day, where

four or five thousand people, of all conditions, as I think, gathered

together, spending all the day in dancing and other exercises, and

when night came under tents and bows making great cheer, and meaning

to observe a wassailing watch all that night for your sake. Bacchus,

the learned say, was begot with thunder: I think, that made him ever

since so full of stir and debate. Bacchus, indeed it was which sounded

the first trumpet to this rude alarm. For that barbarous opinion being

generally among them, to think with vice to do honour, and with

activity in beastliness to show abundance of love, made most of them

seek to show the depth of their affection in the depth of their

draught. But being once well chafed with wine, having spent all the

night, and some piece of the morning in such revelling, and emboldened

by your absented manner of living, there was no matter their ears had

ever heard of that grew not to be a subject of their winey conference.

I speak it by proof: for I take witness of the gods, who never leave

perjuries unpunished, that I often cried out against their impudency,

and, when that would not serve, stopped mine ears because I would not

be partaker of their blasphemies, till with buffets they forced me to

have mine ears and eyes defiled. Public affairs were mingled with

private grudges: neither was any man thought of wit, that did not

pretend some cause of mislike. Railing was counted the fruit of

freedom, and saying nothing had his uttermost praise in ignorance. At

the length, your sacred person, alas! why did I live to hear it? alas!

how do I breathe to utter it? But your commandment doth not only

enjoin obedience, but give me force; your sacred person I say, fell to

be their table-talk: a proud word swelling in their stomachs, and

disdainful reproaches against so great a greatness, having put on the

show of greatness in their little minds: till at length the very

unbridled use of words having increased fire in their minds, which God

wot thought their knowledge notable, because they had at all no

knowledge to condemn their own want of knowledge, they descended, O

never to be forgotten presumption, to a direct dislike of your living

from among them. Whereupon it were tedious to remember their

far-fetched constructions. But the sum was, you disdained them: and

what were the pomps of {264} your estate, if their arms maintained you

not? who would call you a prince, if you had not a people, when

certain of them of wretched estates, and worse minds, whose fortunes’

change could not impair, began to say that your government was to be

looked into; how the great treasures you had levied among them had

been spent; why none but great men and gentlemen could be admitted

into counsel, that the commons, forsooth, were too plain-headed to say

their opinions: but yet their blood and sweat must maintain all. Who

could tell whether you were not betrayed in this place where you

lived? nay whether you did live or no? therefore that it was time to

come and see; and if you were here, to know if Arcadia were grown

loathsome in your sight, why you did not rid yourself of the trouble?

there would not want those that would take so fair a cumber in good

part. Since the country was theirs, and the government an adherent to

the country, why should they not consider of the one as well as

inhabit the other? ‘Nay rather,’ said they, ‘let us begin that, which

all Arcadia will follow. Let us deliver our prince from danger of

practices, and ourselves from want of a prince. Let us do that which

all the rest think. Let it be said that we only are not astonished

with vain titles which have their force but in our force.’ Lastly, to

have said and heard so much was as dangerous as to have attempted: and

to attempt they had the glorious name of liberty with them. Those

words being spoken, like a furious storm, presently carried away their

well inclined brains. What I, and some other of the honester sort

could do was no more than if with a puff of breath, one should go

about to make a sail go against a mighty wind, or, with one hand, stay

the ruin of a mighty wall. So general grew this madness among them,

there needed no drum, where each man cried, each spoke to other that

spoke as fast to him, and the disagreeing sound of so many voices was

the chief token of their unmeet agreement. Thus was their banquet

turned to a battle, their winey mirths to bloody rages, and the happy

prayers for your life to monstrous threatening of your estate; the

solemnizing your birth-day, tended to have been the cause of your

funeral. But as a drunken rage hath, besides his wickedness, that

folly, that the more it seeks to hurt the less it considers how to be

able to hurt: they never weighed how to arm themselves, but took up

everything for a weapon that fury offered to their hands. Many swords,

pikes, and bills there were; others took pitchforks and rakes,

converting husbandry to soldiery: some caught hold of spits, things

serviceable for life, to be the instruments of death. And there was

some such one, who held the same pot wherein he drank your health, to

use it, as he could, to your mischief. Thus armed, thus governed,

forcing the unwilling, and heartening the {265} willing, adding fury

to fury, and increasing rage with running, they came headlong towards

this lodge: no man, I dare say, resolved in his own heart what was the

uttermost he would do when he came thither. But as mischief is of such

nature, that it cannot stand but with strengthening one evil by

another, and so multiply in itself, till it come to the highest and

then fall with his own weight: so to their minds one passed the bounds

of obedience, more and more wickedness opened itself, so that they,

who first pretended to preserve you, then to reform you (I speak it in

my conscience, and with a bleeding heart) now thought no safety for

them, without murdering you. So as if the gods, who preserve you for

the preservation of Arcadia, had not showed their miraculous power;

and that they had not used for instruments, both your own valour, not

fit to be spoken of by so mean a mouth as mine, and some, I must

confess, honest minds, whom alas! why should I mention, since what we

did, reached not to the hundredth part of our duty? our hands, I

tremble to think of it, had destroyed all that, for which we have

cause to rejoice that we are Arcadians.”

With that the fellow did wring his hands, and wrung out tears, so,

that Basilius, who was not the sharpest piercer into masked minds,

took a good liking to him; and so much the more as he had tickled him

with praise in the hearing of his mistress. And therefore pitying his

wound, willed him to get him home and look well into it, and make the

best search he could to know if there were any further depth in this

matter, for which he should be well rewarded. But before he went away,

certain of the shepherds being come, for that day was appointed for

their pastorals, he sent one of them to Philanax, and another to other

principal noblemen, and cities thereabouts, to make thorough inquiry

of this uproar, and withal to place such garrisons in all the towns

and villages near unto him, that he might thereafter keep his solitary

lodge in more security, upon the making of a fire, or ringing of a

bell, having them in readiness for him.

This Clinias, having his ear one way when his eye was another, had

perceived, and therefore hastened away with mind to tell Cecropia that

she was to take some speedy resolution, or else it were danger those

examinations would both discover and ruin her; and so went his way,

leaving that little company with embracements, and praising of

Zelmane’s excellent proceeding, to show, that no decking sets forth

anything so much as affection. For as, while she stood at the

discretion of those indiscreet rebels, every angry countenance any of

them made seemed a knife laid upon their own throats; so unspeakable

was now their joy that they saw, besides her safety and their own, the

same wrought, and safely wrought by her means, in whom they had placed

all their {266} delights. What examples Greece could ever allege of

wit and fortitude, were set in rank of trifles, being compared to this

action.

But as they were in the midst of those unfeigned ceremonies, a cittern

ill-played on, accompanied with a hoarse voice, who seemed to sing

maugre the Muses, and to be merry in spite of fortune, made them look

the way of the ill-noised song. The song was this

A hateful cure with hate to heal:

A bloody help with blood to save:

A foolish thing with fools to deal.

Let him be bob’d, that bobs will have,

But who by means of wisdom high

Hath sav’d his charge? it is even I.

Let others deck their pride with scars,

And of their wounds make brave lame shows:

First let them die, then pass the stars,

When rotten fame will tell their blows:

But eye from blade, and ear from eye;

Who hath sav’d all? it is even I.

They had soon found it was Dametas, who came with no less lifted up

countenance than if he had passed over the bellies of all his enemies:

so wise a point he thought he had performed in using the natural

strength of the cave. But never was it his doing to come so soon

thence till the coast were more assuredly clear: for it was a rule

with him, that after a great storm there ever fell a few drops before

it be fully finished. But Pamela, who had now experienced how much

care doth solicit a lover’s heart, used this occasion of going to her

parents and sister, indeed as well for that cause, as being unquiet,

till her eye might be assured how her shepherd had gone through the

danger.

But Basilius with the sight of Pamela, of whom almost his head,

otherwise occupied, had left the wanted remembrance, was suddenly

stricken into a devout kind of admiration, remembering the oracle,

which according to the fawning humour of false hope, he interpreted

now his own to his own best, and with the willing blindness of

affection, because his mind ran wholly upon Zelmane, he thought the

gods in their oracles did principally mind her.

But as he was thinking deeply of the matter, one of the shepherds told

him that Philanax was already come with an hundred horse in his

company. For having by chance rode not far off the little desert, he

had heard of this uproar, and so was come upon the spur, gathering a

company of gentlemen, as fast as he could, to the succour of his

master; Basilius was glad of it; but not willing to have him nor any

other of the noblemen, see his mistress, he {267} himself went out of

the lodge: and so giving order unto him of placing garrisons, and

examining those matters; and Philanax with humble earnestness

beginning to entreat him to leave off this solitary course, which

already had been so dangerous unto him, “Well,” said Basilius, “it may

be ere long I will condescend unto your desire. In the meantime, take

you the best order you can to keep me safe in my solitariness. But,”

said he, “do you remember, how earnestly you wrote unto me that I

should not be moved by that oracle’s authority, which brought me to

this resolution?” “Full well, Sir,” answered Philanax, “for though it

pleased you not as then to let me know what the oracle’s words were,

yet all oracles hold in, in my conceit, one degree of reputation, it

sufficed me to know it was but an oracle which led you from your own

course.” “Well,” said Basilius, “I will now tell you the words, which

before I thought not good to do, because when all the events fall out,

as some already have done, I may charge you with your incredulity.” So

he repeated in this sort.

Thy elder care shall from thy careful face

By princely mean be stolen, and yet not lost:

Thy younger shall with nature’s bliss embrace

An uncouth love, which nature hateth most;

Both they themselves unto such two shall wed,

Who at thy bear, as at a bar, shall plead;

Why thee, a living man, they had made dead.

In thine own seat a foreign state shall sit;

And ere that all those blows at thy head do hit,

Thou, with thy wife adultery shall commit.

“For you, forsooth,” said he, “when I told you that some supernatural

cause sent me strange visions, which being confirmed with presagious

chances, I had gone to Delphos, and there received this answer, you

replied unto me that the only supernatural causes were the humours of

my body, which bred such melancholy dreams, and that both they framed

a mind full of conceits, apt to make presages of things, which in

themselves were merely chanceable: and withal, as I say, you remember

what you wrote me touching the authority of the oracle: but now I have

some notable trial of the truth thereof, which hereafter I will more

largely communicate unto you. Only now, know that the thing I most

feared is already performed; I mean, that a foreign state should

possess my throne. For that hath been done by Zelmane, but not as I

feared, to my ruin, but to my preservation.” But when he had once

named Zelmane, that name was as good as a pulley, to make the clock of

his praises run on in such sort that Philanax found was more exquisite

than the only admiration of virtue breedeth: which his faithful {268}

heart inwardly repining at, made him shrink away as soon as he could

to go about the other matters of importance which Basilius had

enjoined unto him.

Basilius returned into the lodge, thus by himself construing the

oracle: that in that, he said, his elder care should by princely mean

be stolen away from him, and yet not lost, it was now performed, since

Zelmane had, as it were, robbed from him the care of his first

begotten child, yet was it not lost, since in his heart the ground of

it remained. That his younger should with nature’s bliss embrace the

love of Zelmane, because he had so commanded her for his sake to do,

yet should it be with as much hate of nature, for being so hateful an

opposite to the jealousy he thought her mother had of him. The sitting

in that seat he deemed by her already performed. But that which most

comforted him was his interpretation of the adultery, which he thought

he should commit with Zelmane, whom afterwards he should have to his

wife. The point of his daughter’s marriage, because it threatened his

death withal, he determined to prevent with keeping them while he

lived, unmarried. But having, as he thought, gotten thus much

understanding of the oracle, he determined for three days after to

perform certain rites to Apollo: and even then began with his wife and

daughters to sing this hymn, and by them yearly used.

Apollo great, whose beams the greater world do light,

And in our little world do clear our inward sight,

Which ever shine, though hid from earth by earthly shade,

Whose lights do ever live, but in our darkness fade;

Thou god, whose youth was decked with spoil of Python’s skin

(So humble knowledge can throw down the snakish sin)

Latona’s son, whose birth in pain and travail long

Doth teach, to learn the good what travails do belong:

In travail of our life, a short but tedious space,

While brittle hour glass runs, guide thou our panting pace:

Give us foresightful minds: give us minds to obey

What foresight tells; our thoughts upon thy knowledge stay.

Let so our fruits grow up that nature be maintain’d:

But so our hearts keep down, with vice they be not stain’d.

Let this assured hold our judgments overtake,

That nothing wins the heaven, but what doth earth forsake.

As soon as he had ended his devotion (all the privileged shepherds

being now come) knowing well enough he might lay all his care upon

Philanax, he was willing to sweeten the taste of this past tumult with

some rural pastimes. For which, while the shepherds prepared

themselves in the best manner, Basilius took his daughter Philoclea

aside, and with such haste, as if his ears hunted for words, {269}

desired to know how she had found Zelmane. She humbly answered him

according to the agreement betwixt them, that thus much for her sake

Zelmane was content to descend from her former resolution, as to hear

him whenever he would speak; and further than that she said, as

Zelmane had not granted, so she neither did nor ever would desire.

Basilius kissed her with more than fatherly thanks, and straight, like

a hard-kept ward new come to his lands, would fain have used the

benefit of that grant, in laying his sickness before his only

physician. But Zelmane, that had not yet fully determined with herself

how to bear herself toward him, made him in few words understand, that

the time, in respect of the company, was unfit for such a parley; and

therefore to keep his brains the busier, letting him understand what

she had learned of his daughters, touching Erona’s distress, whom in

her travel she had known and been greatly beholden to, she desired him

to finish the rest, for so far as Plangus had told him; because, she

said, and she said truly, she was full of care for that lady, whose

desert, only except an over-base choice, was nothing agreeable to

misfortune. Basilius glad that she would command him anything, but

more glad that in executing the unfitness of that time, she argued an

intention to grant a fitter, obeyed her in this manner.

“Madame,” said he, “it is very true that since years enabled me to

judge what is or is not to be pitied, I never saw anything that more

moved me to justify a vehement compassion on myself than the estate of

that prince, whom strong against all his own afflictions, which yet

were great as I perceive you have heard, yet true and noble love had

so pulled down, as to lie under sorrow for another. Insomuch as I

could not temper my long idle pen in that subject, which I perceive

you have seen. But then to leave that unrepeated, which I find my

daughters have told you, it may please you to understand, since it

pleaseth you to demand, that Antiphilus being crowned, and so left by

the famous princes Musidorus and Pyrocles (led thence by the challenge

of Anaxius, who is now in those provinces of Greece, making a

dishonourable inquiry after that excellent prince Pyrocles, already

perished) Antiphilus I say, being crowned and delivered from the

presence of those two, whose virtues, while they were present, like

good schoolmasters, suppressed his vanities, he had not strength of

mind enough in him to make long delay of discovering what manner of

man he was. But straight like one carried up to so high a place that

he loseth the discerning of the ground over which he is, so was his

mind lifted so far beyond the level of his own discourse, that

remembering only that himself was in the high seat of a king, he could

not perceive that he was a king of reasonable creatures who would

quickly scorn follies, and repine at injuries. But imagining {270} no

so true property of sovereignty as to do what he listed, and to list

whatsoever pleased his fancy, he quickly made his kingdom a

tennis-court, where his subjects should be the balls, not in truth

cruelly, but licentiously abusing them, presuming so far upon himself,

that what he did was liked of everybody: nay, that his disgraces were

favours, and all because he was a king. For in nature not able to

conceive the bounds of great matters, suddenly borne into an unknown

ocean of absolute power, he was swayed withal, he knew not how, as

every wind of passion puffed him. Whereto nothing helped him better

than that poisonous sugar of flattery, which some used, out of the

innate baseness of their heart, straight like dogs fawning upon the

greatest; others secretly hating him, and disdaining his great rising

so suddenly, so undeservedly, finding his humour, bent their exalting

him only to his overthrow, like the bird that carries the shell-fish

high, to break him the easier with his fall. But his mind, being an

apt matter to receive what form their amplifying speeches would lay

upon it, danced so pretty a measure to their false music, that he

thought himself the wisest and worthiest and best beloved that ever

gave honour to royal title. And being but obscurely born, he had found

out unblushing pedigrees that made him not only of the blood royal,

but true heir, though unjustly dispossessed by Erona’s ancestors. And

like the foolish bird, that when it so hides the head that it sees not

itself, thinks nobody else sees it, so did he imagine that nobody knew

his baseness, while he himself turned his eyes from it.

“Then vainness, a meagre friend to gratefulness, brought him so to

despise Erona, as of whom he had received no benefit, that within half

a year’s marriage he began to pretend barrenness, and making first an

unlawful law of having more wives than one, he still keeping Erona

under-hand, by messages sought Artaxia; who no less hating him than

loving as unlucky a choice, the naughty king Plexirtus, yet to bring

to pass what she purposed, was content to train him into false hopes,

till already his imagination had crowned him king of Armenia, and had

made that but the foundation of more and more monarchies, as if

fortune had only gotten eyes to cherish him. In which time a great

assembly of most part of all the princes of Asia, being to do honour

to the never sufficiently praised Pyrocles and Musidorus, he would be

one; not to acknowledge his obligation, which was as great as any of

the others, but looking to have been young-mastered among those great

estates as he was among his abusing underlings. But so many valorous

princes, indeed far nearer to disdain him than otherwise, he was

quickly, as standing upon no true ground, inwardly out of countenance

with himself, till his seldom comfortless {271} flatterers, persuading

him it was envy and fear of his expected greatness, made him haste

away from that company, and without further delay, appointed the

meeting with Artaxia, so incredibly blinded with the over-bright

shining of his royalty that he could think such a queen would be

content to be joined-patent with another to have such an husband. Poor

Erona to all this obeyed, either vehemency of affection making her

stoop to so over-base a servitude, or astonished with an unlooked-for

fortune, dull to any behoveful resolution, or, as many times it falls

out even in great hearts when they can accuse none but themselves,

desperately bent to maintain it. For so went she on in that way of her

love, that, poor lady, to be beyond all other examples of ill-set

affection, she was brought to write to Artaxia, that she was content,

for the public good to be a second wife, and yield the first place to

her; nay to extol him, and even woo Artaxia for him.

“But Artaxia, mortally hating them both for her brother’s sake, was

content to hide her hate till she had time to show it: and pretending

that all her grudge was against the two paragons of virtue, Musidorus

and Pyrocles, even met them half way in excusing her brother’s murder,

as not being principal actors; and of the other side, driven to what

they did by the ever-pardonable necessity; and so well handled the

matter, as though she promised nothing, yet Antiphilus promised

himself all that she would have him think. And so a solemn interview

was appointed; but, as the poets say, Hymen had not there his

saffron-coloured coat. For Artaxia laying men secretly, and easily

they might be secret, since Antiphilus thought she over-ran him in

love, when he came even ready to embrace her, showing rather a

countenance of accepting than offering, they came forth, and, having

much advantage both in number, valour, and fore-preparation, put all

his company to the sword, but such as could fly away. As for

Antiphilus, she caused him and Erona both to be put in irons,

hastening back towards her brother’s tomb, upon which she meant to

sacrifice them; making the love of her brother stand between her and

all other motions of grace from which by nature she was alienated.

“But great diversity in those two quickly discovered itself for the

bearing of that affliction: for Antiphilus, who had no greatness but

outward, that taken away, was ready to fall faster than calamity could

thrust him; with fruitless begging of life, where reason might well

assure him his death was resolved, and weak bemoaning his fortune, to

give his enemies a most pleasing music, with many promises and

protestations, to as little purpose as from a little mind. But Erona,

sad indeed, yet like one rather used, than new fallen to sadness, as

who had the joys of her heart already broken {272} seemed rather to

welcome than to shun that end of misery; speaking little, but what she

spoke was for Antiphilus, remembering his guiltiness, being at that

time prisoner to Tiridates, when the valiant princess slew him: to the

disgrace of men, showing that there are women both more wise to judge

what is to be expected, and more constant to bear it when it is

happened.

“But her wit endeared by her youth, her affliction by her birth, and

her sadness by her beauty, made this noble prince Plangus, who, never

almost from his cousin Artaxia, was now present at Erona’s taking, to

perceive the shape of loveliness more perfectly in woe than in

joyfulness, as in a picture which receive greater life by the darkness

of shadows than by more glittering colours, and seeing to like, and

liking to love, and loving straight to feel the most incident effects

of love, to serve and preserve. So borne by the hasty tide of short

leisure, he did hastily deliver together his affection, and

affectionate care. But she, as if he had spoken of a small matter,

when he mentioned her life, to which she had not leisure to attend,

desired him if he loved her, to show it, in finding some way to save

Antiphilus. For her, she found the world but a wearisome stage unto

her, where she played a part against her will: and therefore besought

him not to cast his love in so unfruitful a place, as could not love

itself: but for a testimony of constancy, and a suitableness to his

word, to do so much comfort to her mind, as that for her sake

Antiphilus were saved. He told me how much he argued against her

tendering him who had so ungratefully betrayed her and foolishly cast

away himself. But perceiving she did not only bend her very good wits

to speak for him against herself, but when such a cause could be

allied to no reason, yet love would needs make itself a cause, and bar

her rather from hearing, than yield that she should yield to such

arguments: he likewise, in whom the power of love, as they say of

spirits, was subject to the love in her, with grief consented, and

though backwardly, was diligent to labour the help of Antiphilus, a

man whom he not only hated as a traitor to Erona, but envied as a

possessor of Erona; yet love swore his heart, in spite of his heart,

should make him become a servant to his rival. And so did he, seeking

all the means of persuading Artaxia, which the authority of so near

and so virtuous a kinsman could give unto him. But she, to whom the

eloquence of hatred had given revenge the face of delight, rejected

all such motions: but rather the more closely imprisoning them in her

chief city, where she kept them, with intention at the birthday of

Tiridates, which was very near, to execute Antiphilus, and at the day

of his death, which was about half a year after, to use the same

rigour towards Erona. Plangus much grieved, because much loving,

attempted the {273} humours of the Lycians, to see whether they would

come in with forces to succour their princess. But there the next

inheritor to the crown, with the true play that is used in the game of

kingdoms, had no sooner his mistress in captivity, but he had usurped

her place, and making her odious to her people, because of the unfit

election she had made, and so left no hope there: but, which is worse,

had sent to Artaxia, persuading the justicing her, because that

unjustice might give his title the name of justice. Wanting that way,

Plangus practised with some dear friends of his, to save Antiphilus

out of prison, whose day because it was much nearer than Erona’s, and

that he well found she had twisted her life upon the same thread with

his, he determined first to get him out of prison; and to that end

having prepared all matters, as well as in such case he could, where

Artaxia had set many of Tiridates’s old servants to have well-marking

eyes, he conferred with Antiphilus, as, by the authority he had, he

found means to do, and agreed with him of the time and manner how he

should, by the death of some of his jailors, escape. But all being

well ordered, and Plangus willingly putting himself into the greatest

danger, Antiphilus, who like a bladder, swelled ready to break, while

it was full of the wind of prosperity, that being out, was so

abjected, as apt to be trod on by everybody, when it came to the

point, that with some hazard he might be in apparent likelihood to

avoid the uttermost harm, his heart fainted, and, weak fool, neither

hoping nor fearing as he should, got a conceit, that with betraying

this practice, he might obtain pardon: and therefore even a little

before Plangus should have come unto him, opened the whole practice to

him that had the charge, with unpitied tears idly protesting, he had

rather die by Artaxia’s commandment than against her will escape; yet

begging life upon any the hardest and wretchedest conditions that she

would lay upon him. His keeper provided accordingly, so that when

Plangus came, he was like himself to have been entrapped; but that

finding, with a lucky insight, that it was discovered, he retired;

and, calling his friends about him, stood upon his guard, as he had

good cause. For Artaxia, accounting him most ungrateful, considering

that her brother and she had not only preserved him against the malice

of his father, but ever used him much liker his birth than his

fortune, sent forces to apprehend him. But he among the martial men

had gotten so great love that he could not only keep himself from her

malice, but work in their minds a compassion of Erona’s adversity.

“But for the succour of Antiphilus he could get nobody to join with

him, the contempt of him having not been able to qualify the hatred,

so that Artaxia might easily upon him perform {274} her will, which

was (at the humble suit of all the women of that city) to deliver him

to their censure, who mortally hated him for having made a law of

polygamy, after many tortures, forced him to throw himself from a high

pyramid which was built over Tiridates’s tomb, and so to end his

false-hearted life, which had planted no strong thought in him, but

that he could be unkind.

“But Plangus well perceiving that Artaxia stayed only for the

appointed day that the fair Erona’s body, consumed to ashes, should

make a notorious testimony how deeply her brother’s death was engraven

in her breast, he assembled good numbers of friends, whom his virtue,

though a stranger, had tied unto him by force, to give her liberty.

Contrariwise, Artaxia, to whom anger gave more courage than her sex

did fear, used her regal authority, the most she could, to suppress

that sedition, and have her will, which, she thought, is the most

princely thing that may be. But Plangus, who indeed, as all men

witness, is one of the best captains, both for policy and valour, that

are trained in the school of Mars, in a conflict overthrew Artaxia’s

power, though of far greater number; and there took prisoner a base

son of her brother’s whom she dearly affected, and then sent her word,

that he should run the same race of fortune, whatsoever it was, that

Erona did; and happy was that threatening for her, for else Artaxia

had hastened the day of her death, in respect of those tumults.

“But now, some principal noblemen of that country interposing

themselves, it was agreed that all persons else fully pardoned, and

all prisoners, except Erona, delivered, she should be put into the

hands of a principal nobleman, who had a castle of great strength, by

oath, if by the day two years from Tiridates’s death, Pyrocles and

Musidorus did not in person combat and overcome two knights, whom she

appointed to maintain her quarrel against Erona and them, of having by

treason destroyed her brother, that then Erona should be that same day

burned to ashes: but if they came, and had the victory, she should be

delivered; but upon no occasion neither freed nor executed till that

day. And hereto of both sides, all took solemn oath, and so the peace

was concluded; they of Plangus’s party partly forcing him to agree,

though he himself the sooner condescended, knowing the courtesy of

those two excellent princes, not to refuse so noble a quarrel, and

their power such, as two more, like the other two, were not able to

resist. But Artaxia was more, and upon better ground, pleased with

this action; for she had even newly received news from Plexirtus that

upon the sea he had caused them both to perish, and therefore she held

herself sure of the match.

“But poor Plangus knew not so much, and therefore seeing his {275}

party, as most times it falls out in like case, hungry of any

conditions of peace, accepted them: and then obtained leave of the

lord that indifferently kept her to visit Erona, whom he found full of

desperate sorrow, suffering neither his unworthiness, nor his wrongs,

nor his death, which is the natural conclusion of all worldly acts,

either to cover with forgetfulness, or diminish with consideration,

the affection she had borne him: but even glorying in affliction, and

shunning all comfort, she seemed to have no delight but in making

herself the picture of misery. So that when Plangus came to her, she

fell in deadly trances, as if in him she had seen the death of

Antiphilus, because he had not succoured him: and yet, her virtue

striving, she did at one time acknowledge herself bound, and profess

herself injured; instead of allowing the conclusion they had made, or

writing to the princes, as he wished her to do, craving nothing but

some speedy death to follow her, in spite of just hate, beloved

Antiphilus.

“So that Plangus having nothing but a ravished kiss from her hand at

their parting, went away toward Greece; whitherward he understood the

princes were embarked. But by the way it was his fortune to intercept

letters, written by Artaxia to Plexirtus, wherein she signified her

accepting him to her husband, whom she had ever favoured, so much the

rather, as he had performed the conditions of her marriage, in

bringing to their deserved end her greatest enemies: withal thanking

the sea, in such terms as he might well perceive it was by some

treason wrought in Plexirtus’s ship. Whereupon, to make more diligent

search, he took ship himself, and came into Laconia, inquiring, and by

his inquiry finding that such a ship was indeed with fight and fire

perished, none, almost, escaping. But for Pyrocles and Musidorus, it

was assuredly determined that they were cast away: for the name of

such princes, especially in Greece, would quickly else have been a

large witness to the contrary. Full of grief with that, for the loss

of such who left the world poor of perfection, but more sorry for

Erona’s sake, who now by them could not be relieved, a new

advertisement from Armenia overtook him, which multiplied the force of

his anguish. It was a message from the nobleman who had Erona in ward,

giving him to understand that since his departure, Artaxia, using the

benefit of time, had beseiged him in his castle, demanding present

delivery of her, whom yet for his faith given, he would not before the

day appointed, if possibly, he could resist; which he foresaw, long he

should not do for want of victual, which he had not so wisely

provided, because he trusted upon the general oath taken for two

years’ space: and therefore willed him to make haste to his succour,

and come with no small forces, for all they that were of his side in

Armenia were consumed, {276} and Artaxia had increased her might by

marriage of Plexirtus, who now crowned king there, sticked not to

glory in the murder of Pyrocles and Musidorus, as having just cause

thereto, in respect of the deaths of his sister Andromana, her son,

his nephew and his own daughter Zelmane: all whose loss he unjustly

charged them withal, and now openly sticked not to confess what a

revenge his wit had brought forth, Plangus much astonished herewith,

bethought himself what to do, for to return to Armenia was vain, since

his friends there were utterly overthrown. Then thought he of going to

his father; but he had already, even since the death of his stepmother

and brother, attempted the recovering of his favour, but all in vain.

For they that had before joined with Andromana to do him the wrong,

thought now no life for them if he returned; and therefore kept him

still, with new forged suspicions, odious to his father. So that

Plangus reserving that for a work of longer time, than the saving of

Erona could bear, determined to go to the mighty and good king

Euarchus; who lately having, to his eternal fame, fully, not only

conquered his enemies, but established good government in their

countries, he hoped he might have present succour of him, both for the

justness of the cause, and revenge of his children’s death, by so

heinous a treason murdered. Therefore with diligence he went to him,

and by the way (passing through my country) it was my hap to find him,

the most overthrown man with grief that ever I hope to see again. For

still it seemed he had Erona at a stake before his eyes, such an

apprehension he had taken of her danger, which in despite of all the

comfort I could give him, he poured out in such lamentations that I

was moved not to let him pass till he had made a full declaration,

which by pieces my daughters and I have delivered unto you. Fain he

would have had succour of myself, but the course of my life being

otherwise bent, I only accommodated him with some that might safely

guide him to the great Euarchus. For my part having had some of his

speeches so feelingly in my memory, that at an idle time, as I told

you, I set them down dialogue-wise, in such manner as you have seen.

And thus, excellent lady, I have obeyed you in this story; wherein if

it will please you to consider what is the strange power of love, and

what is due to his authority, you shall exercise therein the true

nobleness of your judgment, and do the more right to the unfortunate

historian.” Zelmane, sighing for Erona’s sake, yet inwardly comforted

in that she assured herself Euarchus would not spare to take in hand

the just delivering of her, joined with the just revenge of his

children’s loss, having now what she desired of Basilius, to avoid his

further discourses of affection, encouraged the shepherds to begin,

whom she saw already ready for them.

THE SECOND ECLOGUES

{277}

The rude tumult of the Enispians gave occasion to the honest

shepherds to begin their pastoral this day with a dance, which they

called the skirmish betwixt reason and passion. For seven shepherds,

which were named the reasonable shepherds, joined themselves, four of

them making a square, and other two going a little wide of either

side, like wings for the main battle, and the seventh man foremost,

like the forlorn hope, to begin the skirmish. In like order came out

the seven appassionated shepherds, all keeping the pace of their foot

by their voice, and sundry consorted instruments they held in their

arms. And first, the foremost of the reasonable side began to sing:

Reason. Thou rebel vile, come, to thy master yield.

And the other that met him answered:

Passion. No, tyrant, no; mine, mine shall be the field.

R. Can Reason then a tyrant counted be?

P. If Reason will that Passions be not free.

R. But Reason will, that Reason govern most.

P. And Passion will, that Passion rule the roast.

R. Your will is will, but Reason reason is.

P. Will hath his will, when Reason’s will doth miss.

R. Whom Passion leads, unto his death is bent.

P. And let him die, so that he die content.

R. By nature you to Reason faith have sworn.

P. Not so but fellow like together born.

R. Who Passion doth ensue, lives in annoy.

P. Who Passion doth forsake, lives void of joy.

R. Passion is blind, and treads an unknown trace.

P. Reason hath eyes to see his own ill case.

Then as they approached nearer, the two of reason’s side, as if they

shot at the other, thus sang:

R. Dare Passions then abide in Reason’s light?

P. And is not Reason dim with Passion’s might?

R. O foolish thing which glory doth destroy!

P. O glorious title of a foolish toy!

R. Weakness you are, dare you with our strength fight?

P. Because our weakness weakeneth all your might.

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R. O sacred Reason, help our virtuous toils.

P. O Passion, pass on feeble Reason’s spoils.

R. We with ourselves abide a daily strife.

P. We gladly use the sweetness of our life.

R. But yet our strife sure peace in end doth breed.

P. We now have peace, your peace we do not need.

Then did the two square battles meet, and instead of fighting, embrace

one another, singing thus:

R. We are too strong: but Reason seeks no blood.

P. Who be too weak, do fain they be too good.

R. Though we cannot o’ercome, our cause is just.

P. Let us o’ercome, and let us be unjust.

R. Yet Passions yield at length to Reason’s stroke.

P. What shall we win by taking Reason’s yoke?

R. The joys you have shall be made permanent.

P. But so we shall with grief learn to repent.

R. Repent indeed, but that shall be your bliss.

P. How know we that, since present joys we miss?

R. You know it not; of Reason therefore know it.

P. No Reason yet had ever skill to show it.

R. Then let us both to heavenly rules give place.

P. Which Passions kill, and Reason do deface.

Then embraced they one another, and came to the king, who framed his

praises of them according to Zelmane’s liking; whose unrestrained

parts, the mind and eye, had their free course to the delicate

Philoclea, whose look was not short in well requiting it, although she

knew it was a hateful sight to her jealous mother. But Dicus, that had

in this time taken a great liking of Dorus for the good parts he found

above his age in him, had a delight to taste the fruits of his wit,

though in a subject which he himself most of all other despised; and

so entered speech with him in the manner of this following eclogue.

DICUS and DORUS

DICUS

Dorus, tell me, where is thy wonted motion,

To make those woods resound thy lamentation?

Thy saint is dead, or dead is thy devotion.

For who doth hold his love in estimation,

To witness that he thinks his thoughts delicious,

Thinks to make each thing badge of his sweet passion.

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DORUS

But what doth make thee Dicus, so suspicious

Of my due faith, which needs must be immutable?

Who others’ virtues doubt, themselves are vicious:

Not so; although my metal were most mutable,

Her beams have wrought therein most fair impression,

To such a force some change were nothing suitable.

DICUS

The heart well set doth never shun confession;

If noble be thy bands, make them notorious;

Silence doth seem the mask of base oppression.

Who glories in his love, doth make love glorious:

But who doth fear, or bideth mute wilfully,

Shows, guilty heart doth deem his state opprobrious,

Thou then, that fram’st both words and voice most skilfully,

Yield to our ears a sweet and sound relation,

If love took thee by force, or caught thee guilefully.

DORUS

If sunny beams shame heavenly habitation,

If three-leav’d grass seem to the sheep unsavory;

Then base and sour is love’s most high vocation.

Or if sheep’s cries can help the sun’s own bravery,

Then may I hope, my pipe may have ability,

To help her praise, who decks me in her slavery.

No, no; no words ennoble self-nobility,

As for your doubts, her voice was it deceived me,

Her eye the force beyond all possibility.

DICUS

Thy words well voic’d, well grac’d, had almost heaved me,

Quite from myself, to love love’s contemplation;

Till of those thoughts thy sudden end bereaved me,

Go on therefore, and tell us by what fashion,

In thy own proof he gets so strange possession

And how possessed he strengthens his invasion.

DORUS

Sight is his root, in thought is his progression,

His childhood wonder, prenticeship attention,

His youth delight, his age the soul’s oppression,

Doubt is his sleep, he waketh in invention,

Fancy his food, his clothing is of carefulness;

Beauty his book, his play lover’s dissention:

His eyes are curious search, but veil’d with warefulness:

His wings desire, oft clipped with desperation.

Largess his hands could never skill of sparefulness:

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But how he doth by might, or by persuasion

To conquer, and his conquest how to ratify,

Experience doubts, and schools hold disputation.

DICUS

But so thy sheep may thy good wishes satisfy,

With large increase, and wool of fine perfection,

So she thy love, her eyes thy eyes may gratify,

As thou wilt give our souls a dear refection,

By telling how she was, how now she framed is

To help, or hurt in thee her own infection.

DORUS

Blest be the name wherewith my mistress named is:

Whose wounds are salves, whose yokes please more than pleasure doth:

Her stains are beams: virtue the fault she blamed is,

The heart, eye, ear, here only find his treasure doth.

All numbering arts her endless graces number not:

Time, place, life, wit, scarcely her rare gifts measure doth,

Is she in rage? so is the sun in summer hot,

Yet harvest brings: doth she (alas!) absent herself?

The sun is hid; his kindly shadows cumber not

But when to give some grace she doth content herself.

O then it shines, then are the heavens distributed,

And Venus seems to make up her, she spent herself.

Thus then, I say, my mischiefs have contributed

A greater good by her divine reflection,

My harms to me, my bliss to her attributed.

Thus she is framed: her eyes are my direction,

Her love my life, her anger my destruction:

Lastly, what so she is, that’s my protection.

DICUS

Thy safety sure is wrapped in destruction,

For that construction thine own words do bear.

A man to fear a woman’s moody eye,

Makes reason lie a slave to servile sense,

A weak defence where weakness is thy force:

So is remorse in folly dearly bought.

DORUS

If I had thought to hear blasphemous words,

My breast to swords, my soul to hell have sold

I rather would, than thus mine ear defile

With words so vile, which viler breath doth breed.

O herds take heed; for I a wolf have found,

Who hunting round the strongest for to kill,

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His breast doth fill with earth of others’ woe:

And loaden so pulls down, pull’d down destroys.

O shepherd boys, eschew those tongues of venom,

Which do envenom both the soul and senses;

Our best defences are to fly those adders.

O tongues like ladders made to climb dishonour,

Who judge that honour which hath scope to slander!

DICUS

Dorus you wander far in great reproaches,

So love encroaches on your charmed reason,

But it is season for to end our singing,

Such anger bringing: as for me, my fancy

In sick-man’s frenzy rather takes compassion,

Than rage for rage: rather my wish I send to thee,

Thou soon may have some help, or change of passion:

She oft her looks, the stars her favour bend to thee,

Fortune store, nature health, love grant persuasion.

A quiet mind none but thyself can lend to thee,

Thus I commend to thee all our former love.

DORUS

Well do I prove, error lies oft in zeal,

Yet it is zeal, though error of true heart.

Nought could impart such hates to friendly mind,

But for to find thy words did her disgrace,

Whose only face the little heaven is:

Which who doth miss, his eyes are but delusions,

Bar’d from their chiefest object of delightfulness,

Thrown on this earth, the chaos of confusions;

As for thy wish, to my enraged spitefulness,

The lovely blow, which rare reward, my prayer is:

Thou may’st love her, that I may see thy sightfulness.

The quiet mind (whereof myself impairer is,

As thou dost think) should most of all disquiet me.

Without her love, than any mind who fairer is:

Her only cure from surfeit woes can diet me.

She holds the balance of my contentation:

Her cleared eyes, nought else in storms can quiet me.

Nay rather than my ease discontentation

Should breed to her, let me for aye dejected be

From any joy, which might her grief occasion.

With so sweet plagues my happy arms infected be:

Pain wills me die, yet of death I mortify:

For though life irks, in life my loves protected be,

Thus for each change my changeless heart I fortify.

When they had ended, to the good pleasing of the assistants,

especially of Zelmane, who never forgot to give due commendations

{282} to her friend Dorus, Basilius called for Lamon to end his

discourse of Strephon and Claius, wherewith the other day he marked

Zelmane to have been exceedingly delighted. But him sickness had

stayed from that assembly; which gave occasion to Histor and Damon,

two young shepherds, taking upon them the two friendly rivals’ names,

to present Basilius with some other of their complaints eclogue-wise,

and first with this double Sestine.

STREPHON and CLAIUS

STREPHON

Ye goat-herd gods, that love the grassy mountains,

Ye nymphs that haunt the springs in pleasant valleys,

Ye satyrs joy’d with free and quiet forests,

Vouchsafe your silent ears to plaining music,

Which to my woes give still an early morning,

And draws the dolour on till weary evening.

CLAIUS

O Mercury, foregoer to the evening,

O heavenly huntress of the savage mountains,

O lovely star, entitled of the morning,

While that my voice doth fill those woeful valleys,

Vouchsafe your silent ears to plaining music,

Which oft hath echo tir’d in secret forests.

STREPHON

I that was once free burgess of the forests,

Where shade from sun, and sports I sought at evening,

I that was once esteem’d for pleasant music,

Am banish’d now among the monstrous mountains

Of huge despair, and foul affliction’s valleys

Am grown a screech-owl to myself each morning.

CLAIUS

I that was once delighted every morning,

Hunting the wild inhabiters of forests:

I that was once the music of those valleys

So darken’d am, that all my day is evening,

Heart-broken so, that mole hills seem high mountains,

And fill the vales with cries instead of music.

STREPHON

Long since, alas! my deadly swannish music

Hath made itself a crier of the morning:

And hath with wailing strength climb’d highest mountains.

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Long since my thoughts more desert be than forests:

Long since I see my joys come to their evening,

And state thrown down to over-trodden valleys.

CLAIUS

Long since the happy dwellers of those valleys

Have pray’d me leave my strange exclaiming music,

Which troubles their day’s work, and joys of evening:

Long since I hate the night, more hate the morning:

Long since my thoughts chase me like beasts in forests,

And make me wish myself laid under mountains.

STREPHON

Meseems I see the high and stately mountains,

Transform themselves to low dejected valleys

Meseems I hear in these ill-changed forests,

The Nightingales do learn of Owls their music:

Meseems I feel the comfort of the morning,

Turn’d to the mortal serene of an evening.

CLAIUS

Meseems I see a filthy cloudy evening,

As soon as sun begins to climb the mountains:

Meseems I feel a noisome scent, the morning

When I do smell the flowers of those valleys:

Meseems I hear, when I do hear sweet music,

The dreadful cries of murder’d men in forests.

STREPHON

I wish to fire the trees of all those forests,

I give the sun a last farewell each evening,

I curse the fiddling finders out of music:

With envy I do hate the lofty mountains:

And with despite despise the humble valleys:

I do detest night, evening, day and morning.

CLAIUS

Curse to myself my prayer is, the morning;

My fire is more than can be made with forests;

My state more base, than are the basest valleys:

I wish no evenings more to see, each evening;

Shamed I hate myself in sight of mountains,

And stop my ears lest I grow mad with music.

STREPHON

For she whose parts maintain’d a perfect music,

Whose beauty shin’d more than the blushing morning,

Who much did pass in state the stately mountains,

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In straightness pass’d the cedars of the forests,

Hath cast me wretch into eternal evening,

By taking her two suns from those dark valleys.

CLAIUS

For she, to whom compar’d, the alps are valleys,

She, whose least word brings from the spheres their music,

At whose approach the sun rose in the evening,

Who where she went bare in her forehead morning,

Is gone, is gone, from those our spoiled forests,

Turning to deserts our best pastur’d mountains.

STREPHON

Those mountains witness shall, so shall those valleys,

Those forests eke, made wretched by our music.

CLAIUS

Our morning hymn is this, and song at evening.

But as though all this had been but the taking of a taste of their

wailings, Strephon again began this Dizain which was answered unto him

in that kind of verse which is called the crown.

STREPHON and CLAIUS

STREPHON

I joy in grief, and do detest all joys;

Despise delight, am tir’d with thought of ease:

I turn my head to all forms of annoys,

And with the change of them my fancy please,

I study that which may me most displease,

And in despite of that displeasure’s might,

Embrace that most, that most my soul destroys;

Blinded with beams, fell darkness is my sight:

Dwell in my ruins, feed with sucking smart,

I think from me, not from my woes to part.

CLAIUS

I think from me not from my woes to part,

And loath the time call’d life, nay think that life

Nature to me for torment did impart;

Think, my hard haps have blunted death’s sharp knife,

Not sparing me, in whom his works be rife:

And thinking this, think nature, life and death

Place sorrow’s triumph on my conquered heart,

Whereto I yield, and seek none other breath,

But from the scent of some infectious grave:

Nor of my fortune ought, but mischief crave.

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STREPHON

Nor of my fortune ought but mischief crave,

And seek to nourish that, which now contains

All what I am: if I myself will save,

Then must I save, what in me chiefly reigns,

Which is the hateful web of sorrow’s pains.

Sorrow then cherish me, for I am sorrow:

No being now, but sorrow I can have:

Then deck me as thine own; thy help I borrow,

Since thou my riches art, and that thou hast

Enough to make a fertile mind lie waste.

CLAIUS

Enough to make a fertile mind lie waste,

Is that huge storm, which pours itself on me:

Hailstones of tears, of sighs a monstrous blast,

Thunders of cries; lightnings my wild looks be,

The darkened heav’n my soul, which nought can see,

The flying sprites which trees by roots uptear,

Be those despairs which have my hopes quite rased.

The difference is; all folks those storms forbear,

But I cannot; who then myself should fly,

So close unto myself my wrecks do lie.

STREPHON

So close unto myself my wrecks do lie,

But cause, effect, beginning, and the end

Are all in me: what help then can I try?

My ship, myself, whose course to love doth bend,

Sore beaten doth her mast of comfort spend:

Her cable reason, breaks from anchor’d hope:

Fancy, her tackling torn away doth fly:

Ruin, the wind, hath blown her from her scope:

Bruised with waves of cares, but broken is

On rock despair, the burial of my bliss.

CLAIUS

On rock despair, the burial of my bliss,

I long do plough with plough of deep desire:

The seed fast-meaning is, no truth to miss:

I harrow it with thoughts, which all conspire,

Favour to make my chief and only hire.

But woe is me, the year is gone about,

And now I fain would reap, I reap but this

Hatefully grown, absence new sprung out.

So that I see, although my sight impair,

Vain is their pain, who labour in despair.

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STREPHON

Vain is their pain, who labour in despair.

For so did I, when with my angle will,

I sought to catch the fish Torpedo fair,

Ev’n then despair did hope already kill:

Yet fancy would perforce employ his skill,

And this hath got; the catcher now is caught.

Lam’d with the angle, which itself did bear,

And unto death, quite drown’d in dolours, brought

To death, as then disguis’d in her fair face:

Thus, thus, alas, I had my loss in chase.

CLAIUS

Thus, thus, alas, I had my loss in chase,

When first that crowned Basilisk I knew;

Whose footsteps I with kisses oft did trace,

Till by such hap, as I must ever rue,

Mine eyes did light upon her shining hue,

And hers on me, astonish’d with that sight.

Since then my heart did lose his wonted place,

Infected so with her sweet poison’s might,

That, leaving me for dead, to her it went:

But ha! her flight hath her my dead reliques spent.

STREPHON

But ah! her flight hath my dead reliques spent,

Her flight, from me, from me, though dead to me,

Yet living still in her, while her beams lent

Such vital spark, that her mine eyes might see.

But now those living lights absented be,

Full dead before, now I to dust should fall,

But that eternal pains my soul have bent,

And keep it still within this body thrall,

That thus I must while in this death I dwell,

In earthly fetters feel a lasting hell.

CLAIUS

In earthly fetters feel a lasting hell,

Alas I do; from which to find release,

I would the earth, I would the heavens fell:

But vain it is to think those pains should cease,

Where life is death, and death cannot breed peace.

O fair, O only fair, from thee alas,

Those foul, most foul disasters to me fell;

Since thou from me, O me! O sun did’st pass.

Therefore esteeming all good blessings toys,

I joy in grief, and do detest all joys.

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STREPHON

I joy in grief, and do detest all joys,

But now an end, O Claius, now an end:

For even the herbs our hateful music stroys,

And from our burning breath the trees do bend.

So well were those wailful complaints accorded to the passions of all

the princely hearers, while every one made what he heard of another

the balance of his own fortune, that they stood a long while stricken

in sad and silent consideration of them. Which the old Geron no more

marking than condemning in them, desirous to set forth what counsels

the wisdom of age had laid up in store against such fancies, as he

thought, follies of youth, yet so as it might not appear that his

words respected them, bending himself to a young shepherd, named

Philisides, who neither had danced nor sung with them, and had all

this time lain upon the ground at the foot of a Cypress tree, leaning

upon his elbow with so deep a melancholy, that his senses carried to

his mind no delight from any of their objects, he struck him upon the

shoulder with a right old man’s grace, that will seem livelier than

his age will afford him. And thus began unto him this eclogue.

GERON and PHILISIDES

GERON

Up, up, Philisides, let sorrows go,

Who yields to woe, but doth increase his smart.

Do not thy heart to plaintful custom bring:

But let us sing; sweet tunes do passions ease,

An old man hear who would thy fancies raise.

PHILISIDES

Who minds to please the mind drown’d in annoys

With outward joys, which inly cannot sink,

As well may think with oil to cool the fire:

Or with desire to make such foe a friend,

Who doth his soul to endless malice bend.

GERON

But sure an end to each thing time doth give,

Though woes now live, at length thy woes must die:

Then virtue try, if she can work in thee

That which we see in many time hath wrought,

And weakest hearts to constant temper brought.

PHILISIDES

Who ever taught a skilless man to teach,

Or stop a breach that never cannon saw?

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Sweet virtue’s law bars not a causeful moan.

Time shall in one my life and sorrows end,

And me perchance your constant temper lend.

GERON

What can amend where physick is refus’d?

The wit’s abus’d that will no counsel take.

Yet for my sake discover us thy grief.

Oft comes relief when most we seem in trap.

The stars thy state, fortune may change thy hap.

PHILISIDES

If fortune’s lap became my dwelling place,

And all the stars conspired to my good,

Still were I one, this still should be my case,

Ruin’s relique, care’s web, and sorrow’s food:

Since she fair fierce to such a state me calls,

Whose wit the stars, whose fortune, fortune thralls.

GERON

Alas what falls are fall’n unto thy mind?

That there where thou confessed thy mischief lies,

Thy wit dost use still more harms to find.

Whom wit makes vain, or blinded with his eyes;

What counsel can prevail, or light give light?

Since all his force against himself he tries.

Then each conceit that enters in his sight,

Is made, forsooth, a jurate of his woes:

Earth, sea, air, fire, heaven, hell, and ghastly spright.

Then cries to senseless things, which neither knows

What aileth thee, and if they knew thy mind,

Would scorn in man, their king, such feeble shows.

Rebel, rebel, in golden fetters bind

This tyrant love; or rather do suppress

Those rebel-thoughts, which are thy slaves by kind.

Let not a glittering name thy fancy dress

In painted clothes; because they call it love:

There is no hate that can thee more oppress.

Begin, and half the work is done, to prove

By rising up, upon thyself to stand,

And think she is a she, that doth thee move.

He water ploughs, and soweth in the sand,

And hopes the flickering wind with net to hold

Who hath his hopes laid upon woman’s hand.

What man is he that hath his freedom sold?

Is he a manlike man, doth not know, man

Hath power that sex with bridle to withhold?

A fickle sex, and true in trust to no man,

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A servant sex soon proud if they be coy’d:

And to conclude thy mistress is a woman.

PHILISIDES

O gods, how long this old fool hath annoy’d

My wearied ears! O gods, yet grant me this,

That soon the world of his false tongue be void.

O noble age who place their only bliss,

In being heard until the hearer die,

Uttering a serpent’s mind with a serpent’s hiss.

Then who will bear a well-authorized lie

(And patience hath) let him go learn of him

What swarms of virtues did in his youth fly

Such hearts of brass, wise heads, and garments trim

Were in his days: which heard, one nothing hears,

If from his words the falsehood he do skim.

And herein most their folly vain appears,

That since they still allege, when they were young,

It shows they fetch their wit from youthful years,

Like beast for sacrifice, where save the tongue

And belly nought is left: such sure is he,

This life-dead man in this old dungeon flung.

Old houses are thrown down for new we see:

The oldest rams are culled from the flock:

No man doth wish his horse should aged be.

The ancient oak well makes a fired block:

Old men themselves do love young wives to choose:

Only fond youth admires a rotten stock.

Who once a white long beard, well handle does

(As his beard him, he his beard did bare)

Though cradle-witted, must not honour lose,

O when will men leave off to judge by hair;

And think them old that have the oldest mind,

With virtue fraught, and full of holy fear!

GERON

If that thy face were hid, or I were blind,

I yet should know a young man speaketh now,

Such wandering reasons in thy speech I find,

He is a beast, that beasts use will allow.

For proof of man, who sprung of heav’nly fire

Hath strongest soul when most his reigns do bow.

But fondlings fond, know not your own desire

Loth to die young, and then you must be old.

Fondly blame that to which yourselves aspire.

But this light choler that doth make you bold,

Rather to wrong than unto just defence,

Is past with me, my blood is waxed cold,

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Thy words, though full of malapert offence,

I weigh them not, but still will thee advise

How thou from foolish love mayest purge thy sense.

First think they err, that think them gaily wise,

Who well can set a passion out to show:

Such sight have they that see with goggling eyes,

Passion bears high when puffing wit doth blow.

But is indeed a toy, if not a toy,

True cause of evils: and cause of causeless woe,

If once thou mayest that fancy gloss destroy

Within thyself, thou soon wilt be ashamed

To be a player of thine own annoy.

Then let thy mind with better books be tamed.

Seek to espy her faults as well as praise,

And let thine eyes to other sports be framed.

In hunting fearful beasts, do spend some days,

Or catch the birds with pit-falls or with lime,

Or train the fox that train so crafty lays.

Lie but to sleep, and in the early prime

Seek skill of herbs in hills, haunt brooks near night,

And try with bait how fish will bite sometime.

Go graft again and seek to graft them right,

Those pleasant plants, those sweet and fruitful trees

Which both the palate and the eyes delight.

Cherish the hives of wisely painful bees,

Let special care upon thy flock be stayed,

Such active mind but seldom passion sees.

PHILISIDES

Hath any man heard what this old man said?

Truly not I, who did my thoughts engage,

Where all my pains one look of her hath paid.

Geron was even out of countenance, finding the words, he thought were

so wise, win so little reputation at this young man’s hands; and

therefore sometimes looking upon an old acquaintance of his called

Mastix, one of the repiningest fellows in the world, and that beheld

nobody but with a mind of mislike, saying still the world was amiss,

but how it should be amended he knew not, sometimes casting his eyes

to the ground, even ashamed to see his grey hairs despised, at last he

spied his two dogs, whereof the elder was called Melampus, and the

younger Lelaps (indeed the jewels he ever had with him) one brawling

with another; which occasion he took to restore himself to his

countenance, and rating Melampus, he began to speak to his dogs, as if

in them a man should find more obedience, than in unbridled young men.

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GERON and MASTIX

GERON

Down, down Melampus, what? your fellow bite?

I set you o’er the flock I dearly love,

Them to defend, not with yourselves to fight.

Do you not think this will the wolves remove

From former fear, they had of your good minds,

When they shall such divided weakness prove?

What if Lelaps a better morsel find

Than you erst knew? rather take part with him

Than jarl: lo, lo, even those how envy blind,

And then Lelaps let not pride make thee brim;

Because thou hast thy fellow overgone,

But thank the cause, thou seest where he is dim.

Here Lelaps, here indeed, against the foe

Of my good sheep, thou never truce him took:

Be as thou art, but be with mine at one.

For though Melampus like a wolf do look

(For age doth make him of a wolfish hue)

Yet have I seen, when like a wolf he shook.

Fool that I am, that with my dogs speak grew:

Come near good Mastix, ’tis now full twa score

Of years, alas, since I good Mastix knew.

Thou heard’st even now a young man snub me sore,

Because I read him, as I would my son.

Youth will have will; age must to age therefore.

MASTIX

What marvel if in youth such fault be done,

Since that we see our saddest shepherds out,

Who have their lesson so long time begun?

Quickly secure, and easily in doubt,

Either asleep be all, if not assail,

Or all abroad if but a cub start out.

We shepherds are like them that under sail

Do speak high words, when all the coast is clear,

Yet to a passenger will bonnet vail.

I con thee thank to whom thy dogs be dear,

But commonly like curs we them treat,

Save when great need of them perforce appear,

Then him we kiss, whom late before we beat

With such intemperance, that each way grows

Hate of the first, contempt of latter feat.

And such discord ’twixt greatest shepherds flows,

That sport it is to see with how great art,

By justice work they their own faults disclose:

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Like busy boys to win their tutor’s heart.

One saith, “he mocks;” another saith “he plays,”

The third his lesson missed, till all do smart.

As for the rest, how shepherds spend their days,

At blow-point, hot-cockles, or else at keels,

While, “let us pass our time,” each shepherd says,

So small account of time the shepherd feels,

And doth not feel, that life is not but time,

And when that time is past, death holds his heels;

To age thus do they draw their youthful prime,

Knowing no more, than what poor trial shows,

As fish sure trial hath of muddy slime.

This pattern good, unto our children goes,

For what they see their parents love or hate,

Their first-caught sense prefers to teachers’ blows.

Those cocklings cocker’d we bewail too late,

When that we see our offspring gaily bent,

Women man-wood, and men effeminate.

GERON

Fie man, fie man: what words hath thy tongue lent?

Yet thou art mickle worse, than e’er was I,

Thy too much zeal, I fear thy brain hath spent,

We oft are angrier than the feeble fly

For business, where it appertains him not,

Than with the poisonous toads that quiet lie.

I pray thee what hath e’er the Parrot got?

And yet they say he talks in great men’s bowers;

A cage, gilded perchance, is all his lot,

Who of his tongue the liquor gladly pours,

A good fool call’d with pain perhaps may be:

But even for that shall suffer mighty lowers.

Let swan’s example siker serve for thee,

Who once all birds, in sweetly singing passed,

But now to silence turn’d his minstrelsy,

For he could sing: but others were defac’d,

The Peacock’s pride, the Pie’s pil’d flattery,

Cormorant’s glut, Kite’s spoil, Kingfisher’s waste,

The Falcon’s fierceness, Sparrow’s lechery,

The Cuckoo’s shame, the Goose’s good intent,

Even Turtle touch’d he with hypocrisy,

And worse of other more, till by assent

Of all the birds, but namely those were grieved,

Of fowls there call’d was a Parliament:

There was the Swan of dignity deprived,

And statute made he never should have voice:

Since when, I think, he hath in silence lived.

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I warn thee therefore (since thou may’st have choice)

Let not thy tongue become a fiery match;

No sword so bites, as that evil tool annoys.

Let our unpartial eyes a little watch

Our own demean, and soon we wonder shall,

That hunting faults, ourselves we did not catch.

Into our minds let us a little fall,

And we shall find more spots than Leopard’s skin.

Then who makes us, such Judges over all?

But farewell now, thy fault is no great sin,

Come, come my curs, ’tis late I will go in.

And away with his dogs straight he went, as if he would be sure to

have the last word, all the assembly laughing at the lustiness of the

old fellow, who departed muttering to himself he had seen more in his

days than twenty of them. But Basilius, who never before had heard

Philisides, though having seldom appeared to be at those meetings,

desired him he would begin some eclogue with some other of the

shepherds, according to the accustomed guise. Philisides, though very

unwilling, at the king’s commandment offered to sing with Thyrsis. But

he directly refused him, seeing he should within few days be married

to the fair Kala, and since he had gotten his desire he would sing no

more. Then the king willed Philisides to declare the discourse of his

own fortunes, unknown to them, as being a stranger in that country;

but he prayed the king to pardon him, the time being far too joyful to

suffer the rehearsal of his miseries. But to satisfy Basilius some

way, he began an eclogue betwixt himself and the Echo, framing his

voice so in those desert places, as what words he would have the Echo

reply unto, those he would sing higher than the rest; and so kindly

framed a disputation betwixt himself and it, which with those

Hexameters in the following order he uttered.

PHILISIDES and ECHO

Fair rocks, goodly rivers, sweet woods, when shall I see peace?

_Peace._

Peace? what bars me my tongue? who is it that comes me so nigh? _I._

Oh! I do know what guest I have met, it is echo. _’Tis Echo._

Well met echo, approach: then tell me thy will too. _I will too._

Echo, what do I get yielding my spirit to my griefs? _Griefs._

What medicine may I find for a grief that draws me to death? _Death._

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O poisonous medicine! what worse to me can be than it? _It._

In what state was I then, when I took this deadly disease? _Ease._

And what manner a mind which had to that humour a vein? _Vain._

Hath not reason enough vehemence the desire to reprove? _Prove._

Oft prove I: but what salve, when reason seeks to be gone? _One._

Oh! what is it? what is it that may be a salve to my love? _Love._

What do lovers seek for, long seeking for to enjoy? _Joy._

What be the joys, which for to enjoy they went to the pains? _Pains._

Then to an earnest love what doth best victory lend? _End._

End? but I can never end, love will not give me leave? _Leave._

How be the minds dispos’d that cannot taste thy physick? _Sick._

Yet say again thy advice for the evils that I told thee? _I told

thee._

Doth th’ infected wretch of his harm th’ extremity know? _No._

But if he know not his harms, what guides hath he while he be blind?

_Blind._

What blind guides can he have that leans to fancy? _A fancy._

Can fancies want eyes, or he fall that sleepeth aloft? _Oft._

What causes first made those torments on me to light? _Light._

Can then a cause be so light that forceth a man to go die? _Aye._

Yet tell what light thing I had in me to draw me to die? _Eye._

Eye-sight made me to yield, but what first pierc’d to my eyes? _Eyes._

Eyes’ hurters, eyes hurt; but what from them to me falls? _Falls._

But when I first did fall, what brought most fall to my heart? _Art._

Art? what can be that art thou dost mean by thy speech? _Speech._

What be the fruits of speaking art? what grows by the words? _Words._

O much more than words: those words serv’d more me to bless. _Less._

Oh when shall I be known, where most to be known I do long? _Long._

Long be thy woes for such news, but how reck’s she my thoughts?

_Oughts._

Then then what I do gain, since unto her will I do wind? _Wind._

Wind, tempests, and storms, yet in end what gives she desire? _Ire._

Silly reward! yet among women hath she of virtue the most. _Most._

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What great name may I give to so heav’nly a woman? _A Wo-man._

Woe, but seems to me joy, that agrees to my thoughts so. _I thought

so._

Think so, for of my desired bliss it is only the course. _Curse._

Curs’d be thyself for cursing that which leads me to joys. _Toys._

What be the sweet creatures where lowly demands be not heard? _Hard._

What makes them be unkind? speak for th’ hast narrow pry’d? _Pride._

Whence can pride come there, since springs of beauty be thence?

_Thence._

Horrible is this blasphemy unto the most holy. _O lie._

Thou liest false echo, their minds as virtue be just. _Just._

Mock’st thou those diamonds which only be match’d by the gods? _Odds._

Odds? what an odds is there since them to the heav’ns I prefer? _Err._

Tell yet again me the names of those fair form’d to do evils?

_Devils._

Devil? if hell such devils do abide, to the hells I do go. _Go._

Philisides was commended for the place of his echo; but little did he

regard their praises, who had set the foundations of his honour there

where he was most despised: and therefore returning again to the train

of his desolate pensiveness. Zelmane seeing nobody offer to fill the

stage, as if her long restrained conceits did now burst out of prison,

she thus, desiring her voice should be accorded to nothing but to

Philoclea’s ears, threw down the burden of her mind in Anacreon’s kind

of verses.

My muse, what ails this ardor

To blaze my only secrets?

Alas it is no glory

To sing mine own decayed state.

Alas it is no comfort,

To speak without an answer,

Alas it is no wisdom

To show the wound without cure.

My muse, what ails this ardor?

Mine eyes be dim, my limbs shake,

My voice is hoarse, my throat scorch’d,

My tongue to this my roof cleaves,

My fancy amaz’d, my thoughts dull’d,

My heart doth ache, my life faints,

My soul begins to take leave.

So great a passion all feel,

To think a sore so deadly

I should so rashly rip up.

My muse, what ails this ardor?

If that to sing thou art bent,

Go sing the fall of old Thebes,

The wars of ugly centaurs,

The life, the death of Hector:

So may the song be famous:

Or if to love thou art bent,

Recount the rape of Europa,

Adonis’ end, Venus’ net,

The sleepy kiss the moon stale:

So may the song be pleasant.

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My muse, what ails this ardor?

To blaze my only secrets?

Wherein do only flourish

The sorry fruits of anguish.

The song thereof a last will,

The tunes be cries, the words plaints,

The singer is the song’s theme,

Wherein no ear can have joy.

Nor eye receive due object

Ne pleasure here, ne fame gat.

My muse, what ails this ardor?

“Alas,” she saith “I am thine,

So are thy pains my pains too.

Thy heated heart my seat is

Wherein I burn: thy breath is

My voice, too hot to keep in.

Besides, lo here the author

Of all thy harms: lo here she,

That only can redress thee,

Of her will I demand help.”

My muse I yield, my muse I sing,

But all thy song herein knit.

The life we lead is all love:

The love we hold is all death,

Nor ought I crave to feed life,

Nor ought I seek to shun death,

But only that my goddess,

My life my death do count hers.

Basilius, when she had fully ended her song, fell prostrate upon the

ground, and thanked the gods they had preserved his life so long as to

hear the very music they themselves used in an earthly body. And then

with like grace to Zelmane, never left entreating her, till she had,

taking a lyre Basilius held for her, sung those Phaleuciacks:

Reason, tell me thy mind, if here be reason

In this strange violence, to make resistance,

Where sweet graces erect the stately banner

Of virtue’s regiment, shining in harness

Of fortune’s diadems, by beauty mustered:

Say then reason; I say, what is thy counsel?

Her loose hairs be the shot, the breasts the pikes be

Scouts each motion is, the hands be horsemen,

Her lips are the riches the wars to maintain,

Where well couched abides a coffer of pearl,

Her legs carriage is of all the sweet camp:

Say then reason; I say, what is thy counsel?

Her cannons be her eyes, mine eyes the walls be,

Which at first volley gave too open entry,

Nor rampier did abide; my brain was up blown,

Undermin’d with a speech, the piercer of thoughts.

Thus weakened by myself, no help remaineth;

Say then reason: I say, what is thy counsel?

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And now fame the herald of her true honour,

Doth proclaim with a sound made all by men’s mouths,

That nature sovereign of earthly dwellers,

Commands all creatures to yield obeisance

Under this, this her own, her only darling.

Say then reason; I say what is thy counsel?

Reason sighs, but in end he thus doth answer:

“Nought can reason avail in heavenly matters.”

Thus nature’s diamond receive thy conquest,

Thus pure pearl, I do yield my senses and soul,

Thus sweet pain, I do yield whate’er I can yield,

Reason look to thyself, I serve a goddess.

Dorus had long he thought kept silence, from saying somewhat which

might tend to the glory of her, in whom all glory to his seeming was

included, but now he broke it, singing those verses called

Asclepiadiks.

O sweet woods the delight of solitariness!

O how much I do like your solitariness!

Where man’s mind hath a freed consideration

Of goodness to receive lovely direction.

Where senses do behold th’ order of heav’nly host,

And wise thoughts do behold what the creator is:

Contemplation here holdeth his only seat:

Bounded with no limits, borne with a wing of hope,

Climbs even unto the stars, nature is under it.

Nought disturbs thy quiet, all to thy service yields,

Each sight draws on a thought, thought mother of science:

Sweet birds kindly do grant harmony unto thee,

Fair trees’ shade is enough fortification,

Nor dangers to thyself, if ’t be not in thyself.

O sweet woods the delight of solitariness!

O how much do I like your solitariness!

Here nor treason is hid, veiled in innocence,

Nor envy’s snaky eye finds any harbour here,

Nor flatterers’ venomous insinuations,

Nor coming humourists’ puddled opinions,

Nor courteous ruin of proffered usury,

Nor time prattled away, cradle of ignorance,

Nor causeless duty, nor cumber of arrogance,

Nor trifling title of vanity dazzleth us,

Nor golden manacles stand for a paradise.

Here wrong’s name is unheard; slander a monster is,

Keep thy spirit from abuse, here no abuse doth haunt,

What man grafts in a tree dissimulation?

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O sweet woods the delight of solitariness!

O how well I do like your solitariness!

Yet dear soil, if a soul clos’d in a mansion

As sweet as violets, fair as a lily is,

Strait as a cedar, a voice strains the canary birds,

Whose shade safely doth hold, danger avoideth her;

Such wisdom, that in her lives speculation:

Such goodness, that in her simplicity triumphs:

Where envy’s snaky eye, winketh or else dieth,

Slander wants a pretext, flattery gone beyond:

Oh! if such a one have bent to a lonely life,

Her steps, glad we receive, glad we receive her eyes.

And think not she doth hurt our solitariness,

For such company decks such solitariness.

The other shepherds were offering themselves to have continued the

sports, but the night had so quietly spent the most part of herself

among them that the king for that time licensed them to depart. And so

bringing Zelmane to her lodging, who would much rather have done the

same for Philoclea; of all sides they went to counterfeit a sleep in

their beds, for a true one their agonies could not afford them. Yet

there they lay, so might they be most solitary for the food of their

thoughts, till it was near noon the next day, after which Basilius was

to continue his Apollo devotions, and the other to meditate upon their

private desires.

[End of Book II]

ARCADIA